PHD #240: Taking Aim
Taking Aim
Summary: A run-in at the shooting range results in a few jocular potshots between Sawyer and Trask.
Date: 24 Oct 2041 AE
Related Logs: Stress Test is referenced
Sawyer Trask 
Shooting Range - Deck 12 - Battlestar Cerberus
This nearly soundproof room has ten shooting booths in a straight line that face the target field. The ranges move out to thirty yards, each booth using its own track to take targets out to the desired distance vial a simple dial at the booth. Behind the firing line is a long bench that runs the width of the room where crewmembers can load magazines and compare targets. At one end is a huge stack of paper targets that has either Cylons or a few different types of human targets on them. A large sign hangs from the ceiling that details out the rules such as wearing eye and ear protection and watching where weapons are pointed at all times.
Post-Holocaust Day: #240

Although it's not something he particularly enjoys, Trask still shows up for mandatory practice time at the shooting range. All officers are issued a Picon Five-seveN semi-automatic pistol, and it's his very own that he's brought to the party. Waiting in line to check-in, acquire the necessary eye and ear protection, as well as practice rounds, he stares at nothing in particular, as often is his wont when he's engrossed in some manner of thought.

Sawyer has to sleep at some point, right? But when that actually happens is a mystery. If Kal has checked out his handiwork, there has been a pillow and a blanket added to the hammock, but it's always neatly arranged and it never looks disturbed unless Trask himself has been in to nap. Every day is full of twenty-four usable hours, and Sawyer seems determined to make the best out of as many of them as possible. At least one seems to be set aside today for shooting practice, as the reporter steps into the range dressed for the part in her marine-esque gear of black combat cargo pants and a set of dual tank tops. She might even pass for a member of the fleet, save instead of dog tags around her neck, she wears her security clearances and press credentials on a lanyard. She seems freshly out of the shower, for her hair still holds a dampness to it and is starting to curl into a loose wave as it dries. Stepping past the booths, she falls in behind Trask to sign out a weapon. "Fancy meeting you here."

If that hammock has been used, it's not been by the man who installed it. Whether or not that is because he has not visited the news room since that day remains an unanswered question. Dressed in duty green fatigues, for mandatory target practice is not an off-duty endeavor, Bootstrap appears to have been awake for some time. At the very least, he smells of sweat acquired over the course of working hours, the residual scent of tobacco recently and not so recently smoked, and a tinge of sage that may or may not be recognized beneath those other aromas.

Seeing how the sound of discharging rounds doesn't disturb his seeming contemplative state, Sawyer's voice might actually not be heard. If anything, it's more a matter of instinct and sensing someone nearing his personal space that rouses his attention. Blink. Recognition. "Oh, hey." Idly, Trask scratches the back of his head with his right hand — his left resting atop his holstered gun — before moving to lightly pinch the bridge of his nose betwixt thumb and forefinger. A quick glance checks on the advancement of the line and he take a backward step to a more forward position. "You look like you actually slept." Faintly, he smirks, looking a little tired around the eyes even though his gaze isn't at all bleary. "That depends on whether or not you're stalkin' me," is quipped about it being fancy that he is met here, proving that he's mentally alert despite whatever weariness he shoulders.

A smirk touches Sawyer's lips, just enough to give them little parentheses at the corners. "What I have access to would keep you up at night, so it's best not too think too hard about whether or not I'm stalking you. Besides, I'm told deep thought gives you wrinkles." Her head tilts slightly askew, like a curious bird examining something shiny. "I might have slept, but you don't look as if you have. Do you need another turn in the hammock? I promise not to do anything untoward while you sleep. I can even lock you in, if you need a touch of privacy."

There is an undeniable dichotomy about Kal Trask that goes beyond the ambivalence he has a knack for inspiring. Somehow, he manages to seem both weathered and spry, and in possession of a certain boyish charm and a soul that has seen some serious mileage. "I'm an anomaly," is declared with the kind of nonchalant temerity of someone who is excessively cheeky, as though to say that his immense mental prowess has not managed to tarnish his good looks or some such thing. As for the hammock, "I actually /use/ my bed." Unlike a certain journalist slash possible stalker. Blithely, he cracks about the promise of propriety, "Good thing I'm perfectly capable of being untoward toward myself even while asleep." Another glance over the shoulder at the line follows.

Sawyer combs her fingers back through her hair at the temple, tucking some back behind her ear to keep it out of her eyes. "Sleeping near my desk was more efficient." Near, not at. "When I have the time to, I eventually find myself back at berthings. Besides, what sort of stalker would I be, if I didn't watch you eerily while you slept once in a while? I take pride in a job well done." She glances up at the chronometer on the wall, growing silent as she chews on the inner pad of her cheek. "That's quite a feat. Untowarding yourself. Lot of practice?"

"Careful. More than Jugs' jugs are gettin' huge. Loiter on my bunk ladder too long and you run the risk of gettin' rolled on. Pancaked by the preggo who dwells down below." Yes, he just referred to his best friend in such a manner. Without missing a beat, Kal quips at the latter question, "It's unbecoming for a prodigy to be lazy." Winsomely, he smiles, looking at the blonde just long enough to do so, only to mostly turn around since the one guy in front of him in the line is just about finished.

"Oh, I don't have to get so close. Binoculars, you know. But thanks for being worried about my safety. One step closer to stockholm syndrome." Sawyer bites back a smile to try and keep a straight face, but the humor is laced in her voice as well as the fine creases at the corners of her eyes. As the one guy in front of Trask steps away with his safety equipment and rubber rounds, Sawyer ducks ahead of Kal and grabs up the pen to start scribbling on the next line. Elbows are involved if need be.

"I-R lenses are one way to determine whether or not I'm hot an' bothered behind the curtain." That must be something like a Triple Pun Score, right? What does Trask win? Sawyer jumping the line. The impertinence doesn't appear to bother him, perhaps because he himself is inclined to perform such silly bits of mischief. Also, he gets to brazenly study Scoop's ass insofar as a woman's derriere can be discerned when said woman is wearing combat fatigues.

Hey, have you been working out? Why, yes… yes, Sawyer has. It may be evident in the bare arms that are usually clad in some sort of business attire, or even the in the way she wears those combat fatigues. "Sadly, there are some things that are better left to the imagination. Discerning whether it's one or two head signatures on the infrared display is more information than even /I/ need to know." All this is muttered down at the paper while she fills out her line of information including a long twenty digit identification number she seems to have memorized.

Odds are Kal would've cracked some joke about how there should always be two head signatures for a man (haha!) if he had heard what Averies said. Perhaps between the sounds of discharging rounds and the amount of physical distance needed to get a good gander at the blonde's behind means he's missed her words. Or maybe he's just frakkin' with her by feigning such ignorance. Either way, there is no comment. Not even about how she likely meant to say 'heat' and not 'head'.

What is for certain is that a young PFC who can't be much older than nineteen (19), from his spot behind Trask in the line, is very much ogling the reporter's rear with all the enthusiasm one would expect of his age and vocation.

Sawyer spins around, maybe because she feels two sets of eyes on her posterior or maybe because she's finished with her required paperwork. She holds the pen up as if about to use it to make a point, but the PFC isn't fast nor subtle about covering up his gawking. Sawyer just peaks an eyebrow in silent statement to the man, then focuses back on Trask. The pen gets extended towards the ECO. "All yours. Though I would suggest coming back another day. Your mind seems preoccupied." And she doesn't mean with her ass. As she steps away, it becomes apparent she's not checking out gear currently, but rather signing up for a time slot in a booth for tomorrow. Maybe she, too, is preoccupied.

The PFC's sheepish smile is a bit too wolfish to qualify as contrite despite getting caught. Perhaps it's because he realizes that he's been mentally 'tapping' the ass of someone who doesn't outrank him. No blood, no foul, right? And, hey, the blonde looks good from the front, too, as far as the Marine is concerned, which is just bonus. "Ma'am," he nods, like a good little grunt trying to be respectful like he'd been taught. Then the hormones kick in again and those baby blues dart to Sawyer's bust even though there is no way he won't get busted for looking. Oh, to be a teenager teeming with testosterone.

As for Bootstrap, he appears to be in no rush to conceal what he's been doing. Granted, that might be the point. Such impish impudence tends to get a rise out of most people. Regardless, he carries on as if nothing is at all amiss, as is the wont of a scamp. "Is it now?" All his, that is, leaving plenty to be read in the insinuating curve of mischief in his mouth. The gleam in those big brown eyes is certainly a mirthful kind. Plucking the pen, he remarks, "I'm a resourceful sort," stepping to the counter, "capable of all kinds of multi-tasking," unholstering the gun and sliding it to the clerk for inspection while he himself starts doling out his signature.

Sawyer reaches out to pat the PFC on the cheek as she passes (the one above the equator, mind). Everyone needs to feel pretty every once in a while, so no harm no foul, but that's all the engaging with the young marine that she does. "Have a good session, Lieutenant Trask. Try not to shoot yourself in the foot, hmm?" Damn. She used his rank. Something got knocked off kilter during their short repartee, but she doesn't seem intent on sticking around for whatever it is to get sorted out. Ah, the joys of women.

The joy of being a man is multifold. Being ignorant. Feigning ignorance. Blithe insensitivity. The list goes on and on, so there is no real way of knowing whether or not the Lieutenant is unaware or simply does not care… or if he's fronting in one of those many ways men have been known to front. On go the goggles and then the ear gear. "Careful Private," he offhandedly quips to the excited lad, while reclaiming his Picon Five-seveN and nabbing the offered ammo, "lest you discharge your pocket rocket without authorization." Ready to hit the range, Bootstrap bids the blonde adieu with, "See ya, Scoop. Keep your nose clean, yeah?" Never mind all the permutations of what /that/ could possibly mean.

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