PHD #120: The Game
The Game
Summary: Two old warriors meet and plot.
Date: 26 Jun 2041 AE
Related Logs: None.
Rejn Kincaid 
Guest Quarters — Deck 3 — Battlestar Cerberus
The area here has been spiffed up for the Delegates. Bunks are kept neat as a pin, the lockers are brand new and have a beautiful shine on the fake wood. A table sits in the center with a vase of fake flowers resting in the middle. The deck has been mostly covered with a round, braided rug of multiple colors. To the back of the area, there is a private shower area. This is just one of five separate areas along Deck 3.
Post-Holocaust Day: #120

It's morning — or as close to morning as one gets aboard a battlestar — and Allan Rejn is awake. From the private showers in the back comes the sound of running water, scrubbing teeth, an electric shaver, gargled mouthwash: those standard implements of a male's morning ritual, put to use by someone still not quite alert enough to realize he's left the hatch open to expose every detail of that ritual to any potential voyeurs. Not that most voyeurs would appreciate the sight of Rejn in a towel and a crumpled white undershirt, but — well. The point remains.

Kincaid makes his way slowly, slowly, slowly into the Guest Quarters. The wild Allan Rejn lurks here. Caution is advised. And then it happens; Rejn is seen. Kincaid wrinkles his nose and turns his head away. Modesty, and well, human nature, requires it. "Good morning, Mister Secretary!" calls out the former reporter, loud enough — hopefully — to be heard in the bathroom.

"Gods — frak. Avert your eyes or shut the hatch," grunts Rejn, spitting out a wad of toothpaste into the sink and wiping his lips with the back of a hand. The sound of running water grows even louder as he cranks both knobs to the left — and soon enough he's waddling out, having changed from towel to a pair of boring briefs while Kincaid presumably turns away. "Frak." Even the smell of aftershave can't hide the stench of whiskey that rises up from the crumpled beige suit in the hamper he carries in his free hand.

"I would never deign to gaze upon the king out of his robes, Mister Secretary!" calls out Kincaid in the same loud, faux-deferential voice. And yes, his eyes are averted. He rolls his eyes heavenwards. But at least Rejn can't see that part.

"I don't believe in kings, Mister Kincaid," snorts Rejn. No suit for him: just a pair of (very relaxed) slacks and a casual grey t-shirt bearing the logo of the University of Phoibe and Koios, extra-extra-large. "And even if I did, I damn well don't believe in being one myself, because that'd make Mary a queen, and if you think she was insufferable before — well." A harsh laugh comes from his side of the bunk. "So what brings you around? Figured you'd be too busy training to make your way up here. Learning to shoot, to salute, to goose-step."

Kincaid shrugs his shoulders and purses his lips, taking a look around. "Figured I would come about and visit the old sets of quarters. Clearly, I didn't join the Marines because the accommodations were superior." His voice has a wry sound to it. "As for goose-stepping? I don't know. I'm old. Think I'd pull something around my calf. You down here continuing to rail against about how the military is so militaristic?"

"Too tired for that." Rejn grunts, sitting himself down on his mattress. It promptly bends up around him, responding to his not insignificant weight. "I leave that to the young, the naive — the stupid. Me, I don't mind the uniform. Keeps me safe so I don't have to." His grunt turns into a short, quick laugh. "Just think we should make them — you, now, I suppose — fight as little as possible, is all. Can't afford to charge headlong into the lions with the numbers we've got."

Kincaid elects to stand. It's just safer that way. "No. Probably not. But we got in and out of Leonis with minimal casualties and took down a Basestar for our trouble." He folds his arms over his chest. "Besides, the 'rush headlong' strategy was Michael Abbott's, and you know what folks are saying about him."

"Yeah." At that, Rejn actually laughs that gut-wrenching laugh for which he's known. "Mikey. Admiral Onward Dear Friends, Onward. Who could have imagined." Momentary mirth vanishes as he puts on one of his shoes. "I just always thought he was a moron, but, well. Not mutually exclusive." Rejn stabs the air with his other shoe to punctuate his statement. "And we did, didn't we. So easy. Just in and out, right under their unsuspecting noses." Disdain enters his voice as he leans back into his pillow. "Or, maybe the Cylons let you go. Ever thought about that?"

"I think about a lot of things, Mister Secretary," replies the former reporter. "That the Cylons let us go is one of them." But then Kincaid, ever the reporter, turns around the question. "But so what? What's your plan, Allan?" He drops the formality. "What are you going to do to make things happen? You've got a vision up there in your head. You going to drink and bitch until this whole tin can finally goes up, or are you going to do something about what you're thinking about?"

"Drinking and bitching sounds good, doesn't it." The other shoe is chucked back onto the floor from whence it came, accompanied by its pair. Somebody evidently doesn't feel like getting up and about any time soon. "Yeah, I've got a plan. Bet you already know what it is, too, but I'll humor you: we figure out where the Cylons are and then — " Rejn burps, the smell of whiskey and mint mouthwash mixing strangely in his breath. "And then, we jump this frakking ship the other frakking way as fast as we can. But that doesn't mean shit coming from me." Narrow, canny gaze locks onto the other man's face. "Won't mean shit till it comes from them." His hand waves vaguely in the direction of the hatch. "Or, I should say. You."

"Well, with your glad-handing, charming personality, I can't see why we're not making a break for the exits." Kincaid has the dead-pan down pat, the wry smirk that goes along with it. "A lot of people agree with you, you know. No one wants to fight Cylons all the time. We don't do so great when we do that. Even now, the shining jewel of the Fleet is turning into a patchwork doll. Question is how we get it across to 'them.'"

"Hah." The jab is taken in good humor, though those eyes narrow further beneath his glasses' yellow-tinted lenses — as if evaluating the other man before him. "Grow some double-Ds, find some depilatory for those legs, borrow one of Averies' pencil skirts, and I think we'll be well on our way." Rejn's wide face breaks into a sardonic smile. "But really. It's not how I say it." His expression turns serious. "It's the fact that I'm saying it. Anti-nuke, anti-waste Secretary of Defense who made a living cutting budgets like a serial killer does women or a sad-sack teen does wrists? Just some old, fat radical off his frakking rocker."

Kincaid snorts at that. "Averies? You think so? I thought the Ex-Oh's tastes ran more — Aerilonian." Because what is the point of being men if you can't talk about women when it's just men around? Exactly. Kincaid can't help but not at that, though. "Yeah. Fair. But here's the question: Where do we go? Jump out past the Red Line? No supplies out there. We're not self-sustaining. Just play hide-and-seek in Colonial Space forever?" He sighs. "Believe it or not, Allan, I think you're one of the smartest men on this ship, gods help us all."

"Going to massage my balls, too? Don't have any more classified shit for you, Danny. Only thing I leak these days is Barrister Ten." Whiskey: as evinced by the fondness that seeps into Rejn's gruff tone as his favorite distillery is mentioned. Doing his damnedest to deflect flattery. "Tell you the truth, I don't know, but we've got supplies enough for a five-year tour, Fleet made sure of that, and — frak. If we can't figure this shit out in five years, we deserve whatever we get. And if you ask me — which you did — I'd rather we figure this shit out without the frakking toasters taking a mechanical dump on our collective face every time we turn around."

Kincaid purses his lips. "Five years on war footing, or five years tooling around shooting lasers and pretending to play soldier?" But still, that seems to have made a point with Kincaid. He makes a mental note. "Fair enough though, Mister Secretary. Fair enough."

"Damn well better be war footing," Rejn half-snarls, half-chuckles. "Cause that's how they justified half their line-item spends in the budget. I still have it if you want to take a look between your yes-sirs and your no-sirs."

"And you and I both know that the Admiralty would never overstate its readiness or massage its budgets, so I'm sure I can just take their word on it. If only we had some sort of organization dedicated to looking into this stuff." Kincaid's voice trails off, but there it is. A small nod, no matter HOW small, that they might just be on the same side. "I'll take a look at it."

"If only," Rejn agrees lightly. "I'll have someone run it down to you. Secret signals, maybe. When that flowerpot on that table moves over six inches to the left, you've got a dead-drop waiting for you beneath the lunch counter at DeMarino's. Just like the old days." But when his eyes rise again, there's no hint at all of levity — just recognition, if you can call it that. "Someone else has got to say this shit," the man observes at length. "But you know that."

"I'm just 'Lance Corporal' these days. But it doesn't mean I've forgotten how to play the game, Allan." Kincaid smiles, but it's not a humorous smile, at the Defense Secretary. "I'm looking forward to it. Need to keep my brain cells active between background checks. I'm like a frakkin' census-taker down there, not a police officer." He nods. "Good luck with the head-ache, huh? I've got some people to oppress."

"Good thing there's no such thing as class action, right? Hey. Nice to see you." Rejn does his damnedest to pull himself to his feet, nearly bumping his head against the top of his bunk as he does it. "Oh, and Danny." Beat. "Just make sure you're playing for the right team." And with that hanging in the air he flops back down onto his pillow, t-shirt crumpling beneath him.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License