| Sweetness and Light |
| Summary: | Tisiphone returns Pallas's thrown items. It could have gone better. |
| Date: | 2041.04.01 |
| Related Logs: | Sound and Fury |
| Players: |
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| Viper Squadron - Naval Deck - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post Holocaust Day: #34 |
| Viper Squadron pilots call this home. Berthings line the walls with grey curtains to cover their sleeping areas. Lockers sit between each stack of berths and a round table sits in the center with chairs around it. A hatch at the end leads to the communal Head that the Raptor pilots share. |
| Condition Level: 3 — All Clear |
Tisiphone is sitting at the table nearest her bunk, playing a game of dice against…herself, apparently. She's got a steaming mug of tea at her (casted) elbow, and a smouldering cigarette caught between her fingertips.
Pallas arrives from the Deck 4.
Pallas has arrived.
It doesn't rain inside a Battlestar, but that doesn't mean there aren't rainclouds that hover about. Pallas is dark and stormy as per usual, and some have learned to become meteorologists after a fashion to avoid him as much as possible. Others aren't quite so lucky. He comes in to the bunks, taking off the sling the second he's past the hatch, and starts unbuttoning his jacket. "You're losing," he says to Tisiphone as he passes.
"And you're full of shit," comes Tisiphone's prompt response, sleety eyes coming up to flash a wide and rather insincere smile at Pallas. Nice to see you too, Sir! A glance back to the table as he continues onward, and another throw of her dice. Five of them, somewhat irregular and made of bone, they skitterclick across the tabletop with a hollow sound.
Pallas tosses the sling onto his bunk, glancing back over as he shrugs off his jacket and lets it just fall over onto the floor. So professional. "Don't worry, the head's my next stop," he says, sitting down on the edge of his bunk to start unlacing his boots. "Then I'll be running on empty until the morning." He kicks one boot off, right across and into Bell's bunk, and pries the other one off with his heel.
"Good to know." Tisiphone considers the dice, pushing two of them away and collecting the remaining three back into her hand. She's starting to shake them when she watches the boot land in Bell's bunk. There's a flash of resentment, then; rather than roll the dice, she sets them down on the table and pushes up to cross over to the reservist's bunk. "The frak is that? Show a little respect." She teaches by demonstration — by tossing the boot back over at Pallas's bunk, of course.
The old man's got some reflexes left in him, at least. Pallas snags the boot mid-air as it sails toward him. "What the frak do you care, Pearl Necklace?" he snaps, letting the boot fall. On top of his jacket. "He ain't even here." Without missing a beat, he's already done pulling off his socks and undoing his pants. There's no such thing as modesty or timidity in the bunks.
"Mother of the gods, you're impossible." Tisiphone's mouth curls up for a moment like she's considering spitting at Pallas. She keeps her inner llama in check, however, and chooses instead to stalk back over to the table, scooping her dice up and away. "What does it matter if he's here or not?" she retorts, turning back after tossing her dice-bag onto her bunk. "How you act toward someone when they're not there is more telling than when they /are/ there." She slaps irritably at her combination lock, yanking her locker open.
"See, that's the beauty of not being ashamed," Pallas says with a smile. A smug, satisfied smile that he must have practiced for years in front of a mirror to get it to an ingratiating shine. "I'd kick the frakkin' boot into his bunk even if Doc were there, sleeping like a baby." Pants off, shirt off, there's now a forty-three year old man standing there in his boxers. Hawt. He rummages through his locker to find his off-duty clothing. "Don't you have flight footage to review and pilots to lecture? Besides me, of course?"
Tisiphone pauses halfway through her locker-rummaging to look back at Pallas, properly irritated, now. "Keep your panties on, Princess. I won't be sharing your air much longer." She closes her locker hard enough that it bounces once before she leans on it to lock it again. Turning around, she's got a familiar sheaf of papers and a flask. Neither are flung across at the older pilot — instead they're tossed onto the nearby table. "Here's the crap you left behind last night. Grab a remedial calc text out of the library some time, eh? Your derivations were all wrong." She seems about to say more, then decides against it — instead, she's exercising the better part of valour and heading out the hatch, digging her smokes out as she goes.
A flash of recognition in Pallas' eyes. "That's my pad, you little bitch," he snarls. He snatches it jealously from the table, flipping through the pages one by one, eyes scanning each one methodically. "My derivations don't need to be right," he says distractedly. It's said without any thought - but is it significant? Why doesn't he care about his math, if he's gone through the trouble of page after page of doing it? "My conclusions always are." That's… not how math works. He sits down on the edge of his bunk again, the flask left behind on the table. But he doesn't check the final few pages until Tisiphone has left the room. Oh, petty pride.