PHD #097: The Obituary Beat
The Obituary Beat
Summary: Sawyer would rather not write obituaries. Trask would rather not need one written about Evandreus, who would rather not be wearing his combat gear. Two out of three get what they want.
Date: 03 Jun 2041 AE
Related Logs: Assorted Operation Cobra Talon logs
Evandreus Sawyer Trask 
Sagittaron House - Grounds - Leonis
This was a beautiful place, once upon a time. Grounds that were once expansive and lush with vegetation in the forms of planned gardens, walking paths, and sitting areas are now dead and barren; trees devoid of leaves, bark charred, grass dead and brown. A 10-foot tall wrought iron fence with spiked tops and thick brownstone joiners every 20 feet surrounds the consulate and the grounds. In several places the bars, normally 8-10 inches apart, have been separated enough for a person to slip through sideways.
Post-Holocaust Day: #97

The afternoon sun will soon be giving way to evening, so Sawyer's taking advantage of the remaining light as she sits on the back steps leading into the Embassy. Well enough away from the swing of the door, she's tucked up against the railing with her head tilted to rest on a baluster. There's a pad of paper in her lap, though currently her pen is idle as she gazes off into nothing, to the decrepit gardens and beyond. Her expression is somber, her eyes thoughtful.

Since they're all waiting on the edge of their seats for their cylon contact, Evan's taken some time today to relax out in the sun, lounging up on a sturdy concrete balcony overlooking the garden, flightsuit set out to dry with his tank tops, his fatigues trousers unzipped to mid-calf and rolled up to his knobby knees, legs dangling from between the thick concrete beams holding up the balcony railing, kicking softly when his toes get tickled by the breeze, arms behind his head as he lays out on his back in the sun.

If Trask is on the edge of his seat, it's not readily evident. True enough, his typical facetiousness has taken an acerbic edge that is uncharacteristically corrosive. Time in a razed, irradiated wasteland full of Centurions, clones that may or may not be cybernetic, and all-around stupid will do that to someone who possesses a personality prone to sass, snark, sardonicism, and cheek. At least he has the refuge of throwing himself into his work, which is more or less limited to sentinel duty these days. Spotting Bunny being more bare than he ought to be, the ECO, his armor, and his rifle mosey towards Sawyer. "Heya, Scoop. You're not lookin' to cover the obituary beat, are ya?"

Sawyer should be used to answering to Scoop now, so Trask's voice must have to fight through some serious haze occupying the reporter's mind because it takes a moment for her to lift her eyes and focus on Kal with an ineloquent, "Huh?" Her brain kicks in and plays his words back so she can answer shortly thereafter. "Obituaries are typically written by family and friends, they don't really have a reporter designated to that section of the newspaper, more just an overseer like in the classifieds. Besides. Our obituaries are all going to be short. No 'so and so is survived by' as there are no survivors."

There are people talking below, and Bunny's knees brace against the concrete props, helping him execute a sit-up until his torso twists and he peeks his head out between two of the props and peers down. "You're writing up obituaries, Soybean?" he calls down. "Cool. What's Bootsies' say?" No, he didn't pay attention to a word she said, besides 'obituary.'

Sawyer totally missed Trask's point. He picks it up and keeps on rolling. "Yeah, well, I'd kinda like to avoid one that reads: Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Evandreus "Bunny" Doe was killed on a balcony of Sagittaron House, in the totaled city of Kythera, located on the Cylon frak factory that once was Leonis. LTJG Doe died from wounds inflicted by Centurion machine gun fire. If only he had worn his issued armor, he might not have had his internal organs repeatedly and fatally perforated. He is survived by his best friends and squadmates Captain Margaret "Jugs" Quinn and Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Kal "Bootstrap" Trask." And since raising his voice to chastise the pilot wouldn't be prudent, the ECO smirks a little and very nicely asks the reporter, "So, think you could spare a sheet of paper for the composing of an admonishing note?"

Sawyer has the audacity to form a vaguely bemused smirk at Trask. "For you? Not a chance in Hades." She raises her pen, using the capped end to swirl in an arc around her ear to tuck some hair back away. Her attention drops from the LT back to her previously ignored paper, under the guise of writing again. "Sextus Evandreus Doe, are you up there without your armor on?" She can't precisely see him, as she's positioned rather underneath him. And some where along the line, she's ferretted out his full name. Fear. "Don't make me come up there and strap you into it myself…" Which would be a threat, but c'mon. It's coming from Sawyer.

Evandreus wraps an arm around the concrete post as he squints downward, as if that'd help him hear a little better. Then, once he's got the gist, he rolls his eyes, one of them nice and dark underneath with that beauty he got yesterday. "Gods, fine, fine, just… don't call me Sextus," Evan grimaces, flinging his arms up and grabbing the top of the railing, dragging himself up to his feet and stretching. At least his shoulder's feeling better, today. And he's now trending a nice warm tan. It suits him better than his usual pasty complexion. He gathers up the flight suit hung out on the balcony, snatches up his boots and heads inside to… find armor. Somewhere.

Without missing a beat or lacking any aplomb, Trask blithely notes, "If he dies, mention of your refusing to facilitate a life-saving memo is definitely gonna be in that obituary." Why, with one gloved finger, he even emphasizes his point by tapping on the journalist's notepad. "Besides, we're not in Hades, even if we're running dangerously low on chocolate." Oh, but then Evan hops off like a good widdle bunny.

Sawyer smirks deeper, but still doesn't make eye contact with Trask. "There. You happy? Now everyone is going to be fully clothed and buttoned up all nice and tidy in their reinforced flak vests." The last two words are punctuated with a double tap of her pen against her own armored chest, which she may have dubbed erroneously as a 'flak vest' but Trask can take that up with her editor if it ever goes to print. Finally she glances up, her eyes ticking over Trask's face. "No longer any need to soil my good name. Besides. I need my paper."

"Is anyone ever really happy?" Now he's being a cheeky, existential ass. See that gleam in his big brown eyes and the way his smiles like a naughty little boy who tends to get away with his naughtiness. It well suits him, which may be why people just tend to groan, snort, roll their eyes and say that Trask is just being Trask. "I do, however, thank you for doing your part to ensure that everyone keeps there innards inside their bodies. Much appreciated." The hand that tapped her pad lifts for a two-figured, scout-style salute.

"Well. I do what I can." Sawyer says drily, crooking one finger in a little half-hearted wave at his departure. She huffs out some air after he turns, causing a strand of hair to waft away her face. Her bemusement quickly fades away, her features falling back into their somber expression but at least she's back to working.

Evandreus elbows out of the door— carefully, of course— now all done up proper like a soldier and looking none too pleased about it, walking as if the gear were giving him a wedgie, with a moderately uncomfortable look on his face. "This stuff's heavy," he mumbles. "Boots, can you do this back part?" he wonders, shuffling out onto the back porch. "Not too tight, it makes my shoulder ache."

Were he still around, Bootstrap would certainly oblige Bunny. Alas, by the time Evan returns, Kal has already resumed his rounds.

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