| Spars and Barters |
| Summary: | In which there is very little (actually no) sparring, but a fair bit of bartering. |
| Date: | 9 July 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Athletics Area |
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| Room desc goes here! |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #NUMBER |
Half-yoga, half-warmup, all impatient. Tisiphone moves through her warm-up regimen with the sort of grudging determination of someone who's learned the hard way, several times, what happens if she scrimps on it. "If they're not canvas, I like a chance of making them bleed," she notes as she twists, looking toward Shiner and Constin. A point of her chin at the Marine. "You've gotta be, what, two-fifty? Two-sixty?"
Shiner holds up his hands. "I'm staying out of this," he decides, heading for the mats again and tossing down his towel before settling in to start doing situps. Hey, ladies, you don't get abs like these through sitting on your ass all day.
"Two fifty," Constin confirms Tisiphone's guess as he throws the top of the duffel closed, and reaches down to pick the bag up, rapid fire drops of sweat falling from face to floor as he bends over. Shiner has, by far, the best abs in the room. "Think ah'm a bit out of your weight class, sir. Wright," Shiner is given a word in parting, before the big man, foul temper settling over him anew, starts toward the hatchway out.
Speaking of abs, Devlin wanders in, looking around at the room curiously. He gives Shiner a chin-up of greeting, and Tisiphone a wave, though she seems distracted by… challenging a giant marine? The civilian looks mildly confused, but curious, stepping out of Constin's way as he passes and heading towards the pilot and asking teasingly, "Scaring him off?"
Constin leaves, heading towards the Deck 12 [Out].
Constin has left.
Odd though it may seem, as often as Tisiphone itches for a fight, there's never been a gauntlet thrown down at Constin's feet. Perhaps it's the ten inches of height he has on her, or the fact he's literally twice her weight. She might have a better chance making the canvas bag bleed, after all. She sinks down to the mat and stretches her leg out, bending over to torment her hamstring. "Scaring /him/ off?" Cue one very dubious snort. "Yeah."
"Sure as frak I wouldn't pick a fight with you, sir," Shiner points out, crunching. The situp type, not the old-woman-with-boiled-sweets-in-the-queue-at-the-bank type.
Devlin chuckles at Tisiphone's reply and her snort, wanders a step or two away to set down his gym bag, smaller than a duffle, and then wander back onto the mat to begin stretching, bouncing back and forth between side lunges. "She dangerous?" he asks Shiner, hooking a thumb towards the pilot, apparently full of good humor and oblivious to the possibility of pissing her off.
"I'm a softie," says Tisiphone, moving her tendon-torment to the other leg. She's got a bit of the look of a marathon-runner to her — someone who's sworn a grudgematch against their own body fat. It would explain why the deckies are always confusing her for one of the male pilots until she gets her helmet off. "Honest." Her words are clipped and flat, attention not raising from her stretches.
"Dunno," Shiner tells Devlin, pausing to catch his breath between reps. "But I do know… that she's got tea… so I don't want… to piss her off."
"Yeah, I bet," Devlin replies with a grin and a chuckle, before asking Shiner, "Tea? What sort?" He's too bulky to be a marathoner, but not so huge as Constin's hulking brawler, either, somewhere in the gym rat/athlete middle ground from the looks of it. He picks up one foot and catches the toe behind him, pulling his quad tight in a stretch. "So what do you do, then?" he asks the pilot, "Box, or martial arts or something?"
Tisiphone slaps her hands down against the mat and pushes up to her feet, wiggling bare toes against the padded surface. She rubs her right forearm a couple times, along a surgically-straight scar, then briskly shakes her arms out. "'s Earl Grey. Bergamot blossoms in it." Her brows furrow for a moment, poor mood seeming to deepen at the thought. "Bet you don't have smokes to trade, do you?" She looks over toward the rack of gloves, curling and uncurling her fingers. "Boxing," she answers, distractedly.
Shiner continues to do situps with no sign of stopping, hands clasped behind his head. "I don't smoke, sir. You want something else in trade instead?"
"What's bergamot?" Devlin asks, switching legs and stretching the other for a bit before jogging in place a little and then bouncing on his toes, shaking his arms out. He's got one of those surgical scars too, but it's right down the center of his left knee, and he doesn't touch it or anything as he stretches. "Boxing," he echoes, nodding, "I've done a little of that. Pretty good time."
Cidra arrives from the Deck 12.
Cidra has arrived.
"What, you don't get enough aggression out shooting cylons?" Shiner queries, not breaking his rhythm. "And yeah, sure I drink. When I got it. You like strawberries, sir?"
Devlin is stretching near Tisiphone and the canvas punching bag, talking to Shiner nearby as the deckie does sit-ups. "I don't know," he replies of his boxing skills with a shrug, "Never had any real training at it, or anything, so probably not. I just mess around. Wouldn't mind doing some more of it, though?" At Shiner's question about strawberries he glances back at him, lifting a brow.
Tisiphone is padding over toward one of the man-height punching bags, barefoot and bare-knuckled. "Should spar sometime," she says, glancing back to Devlin. "Just- not tonight." No explanations are given; she just narrows her eyes for a second at Shiner, curious, and says, "Yeah. I like strawberries. I'm listening." She puts a hand against the punching-bag, rubbing her knuckles against the rough fabric, then squares off against it.
Shiner stops, mid crunch, holding it there. "Six strawberries. Fresh ones. For one box of tea. We got a deal?"
Into the athletics area marches Cidra. Sweats on, dark hair tied back in a painfully tight sort of ponytail. She has a grimly purposeful sort of air about her. The first thing she does is fill up a bottle she's brought along with water from one of the convenient fountains by the changing rooms. As full as it'll get. She's in this for the long haul today.
"Sure," Devlin agrees with Tisiphone easily enough, "Whenever." His smile is easy, and then he gestures at the bag, asking, "You want me to hold it?" He glances back at Shiner as he claims he can get strawberries, brows rising again, and then he cocks a finger at the younger man and grins, "We should talk." Cidra's arrival earns a friendly wave, despite looking as if she's all business.
Shiner grins, flopping back on the mat and shaking his head at Devlin. "Nuh uh. My supply is my business, pal. And it goes to getting tea and/or getting laid. And you're not my type." Looking back to Tisiphone, he admits, "It'll be a month or two yet, though. They're still growing. I got dibs on them, though, so they're mine to trade. Take an IOU?"
Tisiphone starts bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, about to put harm to the punching-bag, when Shiner's words stop her short. BouncebounceSTOP. Her head turns. "Real strawberries." She prods one of her teeth with her tongue, as if it's her Magical Truth-Sensing Tooth, then scowls at the caveat. "Tea in two months, then," she says. Back to the punching-bag she turns, immediately laying into it with a vengeance. It's the canvas's fault she doesn't get strawberries TONIGHT.
Cidra has just entered the athletics area, gotten herself some water, and ventured properly into the exercise area. A quick drink is taken from her bottle, first and foremost. Then she stakes out a spot on a mat and begins to stretch. Arms-behind-head first. The wave is noted from her peripheral vision, and she turns her head to Devlin to acknowledge it. It's returned with a polite inclination of her head. Shiner and Tisiphone are also spotted and nodded at. "Apostolos." That's the only name she knows, so that's the only verbal greeting that's offered.
Devlin shakes his head at Shiner, saying, "Alright, but if you decide you want to collaborate…" He shrugs, and grins, "I'm a damn good wingman." He turns back to watch Tisiphone pound on that bag and then Cidra stretch, and then around the area in general, considering what form of exercise he's going to choose, clearly, as he curls an arm up over his head as well.
Shiner pulls himself up into another situp, pausing there to hold it. "Limited supply, pal," he tells Devlin. "Any leftover from the tea are going to that pretty blonde chick on the starboard hangar deck. I bet she'd do anything for fresh strawberries."
Paff. PaffPAFF. Paff! After every other flurry of punches, Tisiphone bounces back as if the punching-bag shouted, 'Break!' before shuffling in again. Eyes narrowed and flinty, mouth set. Maybe it called her a root-gnawer, the last time she fought it. Her attention snaps over at the sound of Cidra's voice, and she bounces back from the bag again to nod to her. "Sir," she puffs, already somewhat winded. Smoking: great for staying in shape.
Cidra braces her right palm against the wall to limber up her long legs, once she deems her arms stretched enough. Foot of one leg into her left and then…stretch. Bending it up and her body a little over. She repeats this process with the other leg, doing it a few times for posterity. She still has that grimly determined look about her, though something in the conversation catches her ears. "Strawberries?" Oh, she's intrigued.
"The pretty blonde chick in the third row?" Devlin asks, "The one with the three earrings?" He taps his left earlobe illustratively, and then grins at Shiner, shaking his head as he heads past the deckhand, offering, "She's already done everything for a bottle of perfume. But knock yourself out." He winks, and then picks out a stationary bike nearby enough to not be cut out of the conversation and begins to pedal at a quick pace.
Tisiphone leaves, heading towards the Deck 12 [Out].
Tisiphone has left.
"Yeah, that's the one," Shiner agrees, wrinkling his nose. "Dude, you beat me to the punch already? That is so not cool. I need some perfume sharpish, then." He glances to Cidra, giving an apologetic grin. "No strawberries yet, sir. In a couple of months, and I've got my name on 'em."
"Hydroponics, I presume?" Cidra asks, heading over to an adjacent treadmill once she's properly limbered. Tisiphone is glanced at, but left to her bag abuse. Upon the treadmill goes Cidra. She kicks it off promptly into a steady jog. Taking a second to adjust herself to the pace before asking anything further. "Gods. I have not had fresh fruit in months."
"Already?" Devlin laughs at Shiner, shaking his head, "Months ago. I live down there, man, remember?" He pedals away for a few minutes, just warming up, it seems, and then climbs off and leans against the handlebars to stretch his legs out further. "There's hydroponics aboard?" he asks Cidra curiously, brows rising, "Wow, that's pretty neat. Could do all sorts of stuff with that." He heads towards the treadmill beside hers, punching it up to speed and beginning to jog as well.
"The big greenhouse project on 8 deck, yeah," Shiner agrees, disgruntled. "But the strawberries are mine, okay? I got dibs on them with that purple eyed marine woman, on account of I'm tending them in my spare time." He does another couple of vigorous situps, before asking, "Did you get her name, Alex, mate? Introduce us, yeah? Tell her I'm some kind of big shot or something."
Cidra's pace on the treadmill only increases, from steady jog to dogged run once she's fallen into a rhythm. She adjusts the speed with the aim more of a woman determined to reduce herself to exhaustion in short order, rather than one of proper exercise. "We all take what pleasures we can," she mutters, getting her breathing into a rhythm as well as her pace ups. A slightly more indepth look at Shiner. "You are familiar, a bit. You…work on the Deck, yes?"
"You introduce me to the greenhouse woman and I'll set you up with earrings girl," Devlin offers, tossing Shiner a grin, "I know just what to tell her about you, too. And I know her name. Deal?" He glances sideways at Cidra as she ratchets up the pace of her treadmill, and his own gets punched up a few notches as well, long legs letting him lope along at a slightly easier pace despite the speed.
Shiner considers this for a moment, running one hand through his hair. "I get my end of the deal first. If I don't get tail, then I'm going to need the strawberries for my original plan to get her, and that means if I introduce you to the greenhouse woman I'm shooting myself in the foot. If you come through for me, /then/ you get to meet greenhouse woman." He nods firmly, glancing back to Cidra at her question. "Sir? Yes, sir. Aircraft Handler, sir. Wright. All the guys call me Shiner."
Cidra isn't trying to race. Just run. Eyes now locked straight ahead, occasionally plucking the water bottle now stored at her hip up for a sip. The speed she's picked is a punishing one. At least for her. She's in decent shape but she's no marathoner. "Wright. Cidra Hahn. Pleasure. You do not have to 'sir' me, here. Neither of us are, I hope, on duty." Without looking at Devlin she inquires, "And yourself?"
Devlin seems more curious than competitive, like he wants to see whether he can keep up with her pace. He punches his machine up another notch until it matches hers, and then turns back to Shiner, nodding, "Alright, but you better keep up your end." It takes him a minute to realize he's being addressed, but he shoots a glance Cidra's way, and then another with a friendly smile as he offers, "Alex Devlin. Civilian, helping out with the work crew, so they let me wander around some. Nice to meet you, Cidra."
Shiner grins, giving Devlin a nod. "I'm a man of my word, mate. You get me some sweet blonde ass and I'll hold up my end of the deal. And no, sir. I'm not on duty. You can tell when I'm on duty, because I'm mostly covered in shit."
He likely can. He's younger than Cidra and in better shape for what she's doing. It's not a particularly comfortable pace to try and match, however. "Devlin. Civilian. Ah." She says that between breaths. As if jotting the information down in her head. "One of those off Leonis?" The questions are kept short, eyes still fixed dead ahead. Run, run, run, run, run. She takes the sir'ing in stride now, since it does not seem Shiner will stop. "Are you now? Well, I do suppose most are. In a figurative sense, if not a literal one."
Devlin snorts at Shiner and nods, "Alright, mate, deal." He focuses on the running for a minute or so, arms swinging at his sides. He shakes his head at the question, replying, "No. Been here since Picon." There's a break before he continues, explaining, " Was delivering a frieghter full of booze for the party." Then he's back to running. He's not making it look easy, but he's definitely in good shape for the moment.
Shiner looks up at that. "You're from Picon, mate? Whereabouts? I thought I knew your face from somewhere."
Cidra is getting winded, for her part. She likely shares those smokers' lungs that were giving Tisiphone trouble a moment ago. But she keeps at it. Winded and beyond is her goal. "Picon? Ah." Run, run, run. "Spent some time there myself. Last assignment was at Fleet Headquarters. And I used to have a house there. In the Four Lakes country. Sold it a long time ago, however."
Devlin shakes his head, "Nah, not from there," he clarifies, "Just working there in February. From Libran, originally." And has some Tauron connection, says his tattoo, unless he's one of those that thinks it's fun to get a copy without having the heritage to match it. He's also either not a smoker, or has made up for it somehow, sweating, but not much winded just yet.
Shiner grunts, pulling himself upright and heading back over to his kitbag. He gives himself a quick rub down with the towel, then hooks the sweats top over his shoulders, tying the arms together. "Probably just seen you around on the deck, then. Especially if you've been hanging with that blonde chick. I'm going for a shower, but when I'm done, I'll meet you and we can go get me some of that, 'kay?"
"You have gotten around," Cidra observes to Devlin. She doesn't sound like a Picon native, either. Accent is pure Gemenon, if a little softened by years off-world. "Freighter work, you said?" A short nod is offered to Shiner. Truncated by the work she's doing on the treadmill. She's worked up a good sweat already.
"Yeah, I've been all over, more or less," Devlin agrees with Cidra. His own accent is Libran, not particularly noticeable, though there are a few words here and there that someone familiar with Libran inflections would say don't quite fit. He nods at Shiner, "Yeah, probably something like that. And sure. I'll meet you in the hangar in an hour or two, say. Wear the nicest uniform you got," he says with a grin. He turns back to Cidra and nods again, "Yeah, drove frieghters for a bit, here and there."
"You fly, then?" The questions are getting shorter as she gets near the end of her wind. Cidra still does not slow. Her plan to work herself to exhaustion is going along nicely.
"Just freighters," Devlin replies, "Never got around to getting my hands on anything more fun." His answers are a bit more broken up than they were, and he ducks his head a little so he can swipe the neck of his shirt over his face to dry it, continuing on.
"I am commander of the air group here," Cidra informs Devlin shortly, without looking for him. "Have you given any thought to joining up?"
"Are you?" Devlin shoots a quick glance to the major, surprised, and then he's silent for a minute, either conserving breath or thinking, "Not really?" he says, another long pause intervening before he adds, "Just frieghters. Didn't think it applied."
"I am, for better or worse," is Cidra's short reply. Make of that what you will. Run, run, run. Her breathing is getting more labored. She has to slow down the treadmill to continue. Still, she does not stop. "Right now, everything applies. Most fly nothing. Freighters, at least, are not nothing. We have nothing left but slim pickings."
Devlin listens as he continues to run, or at least he doesn't say anything further until Cidra's finished and he says, "Huh." It would be easy to get the feeling that this isn't something he's ever really considered. "Dunno," he says finally, "I mean…" Run, run, run for him, too, that top speed maintained still. Brows draw together as he considers. "Guess couldn't hurt t'try it," he says finally.
"Well. I shall tell you what we do, then," Cidra starts off, breathing hard, though her tone is clipped with something more than simply being winded. "We launch ourselves bodily out of this ship in Vipers and Raptors and pray each patrol we do not see a flock of Raiders jump in upon us. Sometimes our prayers are not answered. In those cases, we launch our bodies and our ships at these Raiders and try to kill them before they kill us. Sometimes we come out the better. Sometimes we do not. Then the next day we do it again. And again. And again." Worst recruiting pitch ever. He's caught her on a lousy day, that's clear.
It is, all things considered, a pretty horrible recruiting pitch. Something in it, though, seems to strike the young man on the treadmill, because though she's too busy running to likely notice it, his brow furrows, and jaw tightens, and he picks up his pace, fixes his gait just a bit right around the time she mentions killing raiders before they kill humans. He's silent for a minute or two, and then the neck of his shirt is lifted to swipe at his face again and as it drops his head bobs in a nod. "Alright," he says simply.
Cidra has to slow the treadmill even more, to gulp some water. Her legs are getting sore to the point where they can't keep pumping anymore. Face and sweats drenched. She slows it gradually, then stops, glugging a long drink and then just holding herself against the treadmill bars. Panting. "If you can hack it, speak to Personnel. And we shall see what we can make of you. If you do not think you can, do not. It is not a thing that can break a man even if gunfire does not touch his hull." Deep breath. "But we protect this ship. And today, we remain. I pray we shall remain tomorrow."
Devlin keeps running as she stops, but begins to slow to a gradual halt, lengthening his stride further as the speed drops, stretching already. When he gets to a walk, he lifts the hem of his shirt almost over his head, drying off before nodding to Cidra. "I'll do it," he clarifies his answer this tiem, and then asks, "Who's Personnel?"
"Personnel is a department that handles intake of new recruits," is Cidra's reply. "From there, interested parties are sent to the Marines for a background check. If they do not find anything amiss with you…well. We shall see what you shall make of yourself." She blinks, seeming a little surprised at his affirmation. "I would give this some more consideration were I you."
"I've had a background check," Devlin informs her, swiping at his forehead with his sleeve again, and stepping away from the treadmill. He grabs a mouthful of water, and then moves towards a weight bench, racking plates as he explains, "Had to to get clearance to be on the volunteer workforce thing. That's why they let me up here." As for giving it more consideration, he looks up as he sits down, shaking his head. "Cylons tried to annihilate us. If I can help try to stop them from winning, and avenge a few of us, I'm going to do it."
Cidra gulps some more water, eyeing Devlin more seriously now. Like she's weighing him with her cloudy blue gaze. It's hard to make anything, particularly, of her expression. Mostly at the moment she just looks a little sad. And there's a hint of reproach at herself. A nod as to the background check, however. "Give it a couple of days and think about it. If you feel the same way then, I shall assist you with beginning the enlistment process." A pause and she adds, extending an open-palmed hand to him, "My callsign is Toast."
Devlin looks, just at this moment, mostly like he's used to hard workouts, as the weight he's loaded on the bar is no easy cool-down weight. He doesn't seem to mark her scrutiny, glancing up once but otherwise just going about setting himself up, rising again as she offers her hand. "I couldn't feel any other way," he informs her as he steps over to place his open palm (broad, callused) in hers for the handshake he thinks she's offering.
Cidra clasps Devlin's hand but does not shake it, properly. Rather she clasps and holds it, not too hard but firmly in her long-fingered hand. Trying to lock eyes with him as she does so. This lasts longer than a proper handshake would but, after a long beat, she does release him.
Devlin might not have expected this sort of handshake, but he doesn't seem entirely unfamiliar with it, either, reacting with recognition rather than confusion. His eyes, a warm shade of brown, meet hers, and he keeps his grip steadily firm until she releases.
"I should shower," is all Cidra says next. "I shall see you later, then." She seems less-than-thrilled to have picked him up. If anything, her gaze has a note of apology in it.
Devlin seems faintly bemused at her mood, but just nods, smile returning as he takes a seat on that weight bench again. "Alright. Have a good evening, Toast. Thanks for that run." He grins a little, and then lies back to begin his set.