| Storks |
| Summary: | Baby Raiders don't come from them. Skinjobs probably don't either. |
| Date: | 03 Jan 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Gift Giving (encrypted transmission, aka pr0n) & Raiders of the Lost Raider (Cylon foundry) |
| Players: |
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| News Room - Deck 3 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #311 |
| This room isn't huge by any means, but it does have all the updated equipment and a small news staff that runs the area. |
| Condition Level: 2 - Danger Close |
It must be laundry day. It's not often that Sawyer lounges around the office/living space in her sleep clothes during what one would deem 'normal' hours but there she is slightly canted back in her chair wearing her pink plaid pajama pants and a dark purple t-shirt that looks a few sizes too large for the woman. With feet propped up on her desk, and arm slung over her eyes, she seems to be catching what could be termed a 'cat nap'.
It really isn't possible to sneak in anywhere a closed hatch is involved. So even though Trask doesn't verbally announce his presence, his arrival would be audible from that metal on metal creaking sound. Oh, and the weft of oh so fine tobacco smoke. For the nonce, he stands near the entry, considering whether or not Sawyer is actually asleep and whether or not he should wake her if she is.
Sleep is relative, hatches are loud, and Sawyer is still a little wary after that whole Pallas interaction. At least no fake plastic firearms are pulled this time. She lifts her arm slightly to peek out and see if she can tell whomever it is to bugger off. It falls away completely when she realizes it's Trask. No wireless call to warn her of his whereabouts this time. "You know," Sawyer says in a drawl that sounds on the verge of a yawn. "It occurred to me today that the number of times I've seen you outside of this room, I can probably count on one hand. Planet ops not withstanding."
"And about one an' a half of those times you saw me outside of this room, you saw me outta my clothes." That day in the berthing with the postcard and hand turkey drawing rendered in magic markers. Then that one time in the head when he wasn't the most receptive audience for her life story. Neither instance is something he lingers upon. "Speaking of things that get you all hot an' bothered, I brought you more porn." That said, he and the high quality cigar he was smoking before he began speaking start to advance.
"We'll have to work on that." Though which /part/ of that remains rather ambiguous. The man always assumes what he wants, anyways. Sawyer kicks down her feet, leaning forward expectantly for whatever 'treat' he's brought her this time. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that last dirty mag you gave me didn't do the trick. I was up all night with no pay-off. It left me frustrated and unfulfilled."
Unzipping one of the flightsuit pockets, he reaches inside to retrieve a data stick that he offers to Sawyer. A few puffs of the cigar and then, "You must be rarin' to go." Which is also a somewhat ambiguous statement, but no less innuendo because of it. Not with that mischievous way Bootstrap smiles.
Sawyer mutters underneath her breath as she takes the little drive he offers her. "It's been eight months, you have no idea." Flicking the protector cap off the end of the data stick, she pops it in the waiting port, mousing over to get the party started. "The best gifts come in the smallest packages."
"Wouldn't know. I'm a size queen," Kal quips about small packages. He also does not elaborate. Not really. "In this case, I'd say Corsair is big enough." Things might only start to make more sense when those files are fired up — image upon image upon image upon image upon ad nauseam of the exterior of the Cylon facility scuttlebutt's been murmuring about. It's a safe bet that it's as large as the aforementioned Flak Frigate.
"Oy." Sawyer apparently knows the meaning of that phrase, whether or not that's how Trask means to apply it in the current conversation. "There are some things I'd just rather not know about you. And that's saying something." Click click clickity click. Sawyer leans closer to the screen and squints before she remembers that she has something to rectify that. A hand feels around for her reading glasses and she slips them onto her nose. "Oh. Oh my." Click. "So this is what you found."
Smiling a small, amused smile, the man replies, "And here I thought only women were supposed to possess mystique." As for what he found, it's most certainly unlike anything the Colonials had ever seen before. "Look at that," Trask remarks about the hourglass shaped facility, "wide hips for breeding. And all through here," he indicates the pair of cavernous doors, "far as the eyes could see: row upon row of red lights, an' not the kind professional sex workers use to attract business." It's not really evident in the images, but there's no reason to make it up.
"Maybe I'm just calling you a girly man." Despite her glasses, Sawyer still leans closer to the screen again, maybe trying to make out those very details he's speaking of. "So the rumors are it's some sort of production facility. What do you think the lights indicate? Production bays? How many units do you think they can churn out?" With a wrinkle of her nose that has the glasses rising and falling, Sawyer's sitting back to fidget with some of the settings to see if she can sharpen the image.
"Don't hate me because I'm beautiful," is bantered back with a flutter of his lashes. This is followed with more premium cigar smoking. "That'd be my guess," he soon enough relays about the lights. As for numbers, "I'd say take the top end numbers of a Viper assembly line and make 'em more awesome, then factor in that production is likely 24/7, and that's how many." The blonde can do the math. "The significant thing is that we now have evidence that baby Raiders don't come from storks." Unzipping and reaching into one of the front pockets of his flightsuit, the ECO pulls out another high-quality Allegheny cigar and offers it to Sawyer. "Congratulations. It's a foundry."
"I don't have enough fingers and toes to do the multiplication." Fingers nudge up her glasses, and Sawyer pinches the bridge of her nose. "I don't know about the stork, but I was always a fan of the cross-pollination image when it came to the humanoid models." Something gives her pause, and she glances up to pluck the cigar from his fingers with a thoughtful expression on her face. "How /do/ they make the humanoid models? If this is a foundry for the ships, could it be for the fleshy models as well? We need to get inside." Sure, she has her own cigar now, but she's reaching for the one he's already lit.
Indeed. How /do/ they? "Maybe it's like pod people." That probably is not serious. One can never really tell with Kal. "I recall that one Eleven saying they couldn't reproduce like we do." 'We' being human beings. "Dunno if that's true or not. That one facility above Sag, though… I'd have to re-read the report, but I recall somethin' about that one Eleven — the one that got fried in my bird — resurrecting in a vat of goo." As far as /needing/ to get inside the foundry, he wryly remarks, "Intel that cannot be relayed is of no use." Which is his way of saying that well and truly would be a suicide mission. "If we could figure out how to operate that Heavy," the one he and Cidra recently towed back, "maybe we could manage. That won't be happenin' any time soon, though." Much to his displeasure.
Then, seeing the approaching hand, he merely observes Sawyer with a faint hint of amusement and slooooowly (but still quickly enough) pulls the cigar away. If she wants it, she'll have to work for it. "So. The bootleg I gave you last time had all the good bits scrambled, eh?"
The journalist is standing up as the cigar retreats, following it with a lean and scissoring fingers. Maybe she's just too lazy to snip her own, but somehow /this/ is less effort. "It was like watching a cam rip where someone stands up right in the middle of the film. I got the general gist, but unless I learn how to speak Cylon, it's just a bunch of garbled code to me. I ran it through every cypher I had, but without a key, there is no way to break it. But it's clear," she makes a lunge for his hand, "They sent something to CIC."
Sometimes Trask is too impertinent for his own good. This happens to be one of those times. With an increasingly impish smile, he starts to taunt the journalist by wiggling the cigar. "Well then," wiggle-wiggle, "we'll just have to find a— hey!" Damnit. Wench managed to snatch his stogie. For a moment, there is a wide-eyed look of 'holy frak oh no she didn't oh yes she did oh hells no'. Then those eyes narrow a bit peevishly. The way his lips vaguely purse, he might well be plotting revenge. "You must really savor the taste of my saliva. I wasn't planning on hot make-outs, but I could possibly be persuaded." Oh, how he smiles in that way that is both adorably endearing and utterly insufferable.
Sawyer twists once she has the prized cigar in her hands, walking backwards a step or two. "I'm just interested in instant gratification," retorts the blonde, leaning against a spare desk as primly as she would were she bedecked in her normal suited attire. "Did you miss the whole part about me saying you might have been right about the mole angle? Or are you just /that/ interested in my oral fixation? Do you think they're aware that Abbot has been taken out of authority? Could it have been him?" There's a lot of question marks in there before she tokes triumphantly on the stolen prize.
"You have an oral fixation?" he impishly asks, commandeering a seat so he can prop his elbows on the desk and cup his face in said hands, only to then stare at her with those big brown eyes and all the intense interest of a child finding something extremely interesting.
"No? Don't care about the…?" Big bad Cylon code infestation. Sawyer ticks up an eyebrow in a vaguely bemused expression. "I'm sorry, were you expecting a performance?" The Reporter's cheeks hollow out and then she's leaning precariously forward to close the distance between them. Out comes a whooosh of air, a steady stream of the heavy scented smoke aimed right for his face.
Surely, he does care about such a thing. It's just taking a backseat to his penchant for mischief. Still with that same manner, he blithely inquires, "So, is it limited to giving or does it extend to receiving, this… oral fixation of yours?" With utter aplomb, he remains where he is, merely closing his eyes as smoke is blown in his face. Appreciatively, he inhales the aroma. As it dissipates, he bats his lashes at the blonde.
Sawyer does a little jerk of her hips to pull her out of her lean so she can stand in front of him, her free hand raking through his dark locks that never quite seem to be tamed while her right hand dangles at her side with the stub of the cigar protruding from between forefinger and middle. "My dear, sweet Kal. Thank you. Thank you for reminding me precisely why it has been eight long, dry months."
At the touch of fingertips through that short tousle of dark hair, his eyes briefly hood and he muses, "No one should go that long without a premium cigar." It's not so much innuendo as it is cheeky glibness. "An' there's no frakkin' way they're not aware that Abbot's in the brig." Leaning a little now, one hand moves to idly snag back the cigar while the other remains put to cradle his jaw and cheek.
Sawyer's fingers easily release the cigar from their grasp, giving it back to its rightful owner. Her other hand still remains toying with his hair. "Then who are they trying to reach up in CIC? The thought of anyone else turns my stomach." Really, she meant to step away, but she's too busy watching dark hair as it slides through her threaded fingers.
Smirking a little, Trask replies, "A currently unidentified skinjob." Har. Har. A single finger taps the cigar, letting ash fall. He seems unbothered by the prolonged contact and content to savor the stogie. Letting out a long stream of fragrant smoke, he continues, "Could be anyone. No way of knowin' if the frakker's been there all along or if we picked it up somewhere." Once more, eyes close, for the first time the tiredness at the edges being evident. "If what that Eleven said is true, there's a Two an' a Four in the fleet. The former a guy and the latter of the tits an' clit variety." So nonchalant in the vulgarity, he might as well have said 'female'. "Nosy bitch that you are," spoken as a term of endearment, "I imagine you have a list of suspects." Lids lift to regard the reporter through a veil of partially parted lashes.
"Everyone is a suspect. Don't forget for a moment there, I even had my own name on the list." Her long fingers graze down the side of his face before Sawyer offers. "You want the hammock tonight? I won't bother you with pesky snoring or drooling." No, he's given her more pr0n to look at tonight, it's unlikely she'll be getting any decent sleep.
As the fingers drift further down, his nose reflexively crinkles, which then prompts him to move to a more upright position so the hand not holding the cigar can lightly pinch the bridge of aforementioned nose. The offer, though seemingly appreciated, merely garners a wry, "Shit. My bunk is closer to the hangar." And he hasn't slept there since the fleet's been on Condition Two. Even so, "Maybe I'll take you up on it when we're back to Three." That said, he pushes away from the desk, squeaky chair wheels and all, and starts to prepare for his egress. "Maggie's due soon, so I might as well get used to being drooled on." Uncle Kal. Fear.
"Maggie? Of course." Maybe there's a hint of jealousy in the woman's voice, but then again, maybe Sawyer is just tired given the hour. Affectionate fingers earlier now pinch his cheeks. "Get some rest."
"Yup." Maggie. "Cinnabun's due to pop that mini-bun outta her oven within the next few weeks, I imagine." Not that he looks excited or thrilled. That would be Evandreus or even Bran. Bootstrap merely is the not at all keen about it but still supportive best friend. At the order and pinching of his cheeks, he facetiously replies, "Yes, mom." Lightly, he tugs a forelock of Sawyer's hair then turns to depart. Just before he exits, though, he calls out, "Try touching yourself, this time. It might help." With that, the blonde is left with her pr0n.
Sawyer slumps into her chair once he's left, and the room is once more quiet save the hum of the fan in her laptop. "I've tried right clicking, and left clicking, and mousing over repeatedly. Trust me. It's just not the same." It's said to the empty room in a tone of 'you're such an idiot, Sawyer' before she's tucking away that fancy cigar he gave her in lieu of her pack of smokes. Back to the computer.