| Uncharted Waters |
| Summary: | What happens when you throw a reporter into Viper Berthings. |
| Date: | 18 Feb 2014 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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Viper Squadron
Viper berthings. Midday. Shift change. The deck's still damp in places where the most recent patrol trooped in and out of the head, and engaged in a brief wet towel slap-fight. But it is, at the moment, blessedly quiet save for the occasional thump and rustle of.. yes, someone unpacking. Four days after Cerberus set out of drydock, bound for Picon. Dressed in sweats and layered tank tops, and a bevy of ink sprawling from left shoulderblade to fingers, the pilot wears no sign of rank on his person. Though the bunk he's tossing the occasional item into bears a strip of masking tape with the callsign 'Shiv' scrawled on it messily.
Evan was potentially the wrong person to pick for this particular chore, but he bears his beast's burden with a warm grin to match the warming ruddiness of his cheeks as, loaded down with a locker's worth of luggage, he trudges his way into Viper berthings. He hasn't even been in here, yet, and so the details of the room catch up his attention for the moment after he's gotten the largest of the pieces over the lip of the hatch, making him arc a brow in wonder at how… indistinguishable it is from the berthings one over. But the moment passes, and he spots the Captain, lifting up his voice as he moves from the hatchway to let the owner of the baggage come on in: "Hey, Shiv!" he calls, grin growing bright. "Hey, looks like we're about set for a housewarming party. Meet your new roomie. Again. Shiv, Magsie," he tells her, "Magsie, you remember Shiv, yah?" he goes on.
Sawyer moves in after Evan, her head on a permanent swivel as she looks around with mild curiousity on her features. Maybe what she was expecting Jock Country to be like, differed from her opinion of the rest of the ship. "I told they were sending a private. I appreciate you taking the time to come and help me…" As she steps through the hatch, there's the click of high heels on the decking, tempting fate and a broken neck by navigating a Battlestar in such ridiculous footwear, but at least her tootsies look pretty. As Evan is weighted down with a hard sided rolling case and an overstuffed garment bag, Sawyer just totes a small leather cube that looks like a make-up case. "Yes of course." A pleasant smile is given to Sitka as she steps around to offer her hand to the Captain. "Sawyer Averies, Acropolis Monthly." Because her name really isn't Magsie, you see. "Let's see. I was assigned to top bunk, row nine…well. Look at that. Seems we're bunk mates, Mister Shiv."
Sitka is just in the process of taping up a photograph on his locker door, when a grind of the hatch presages the patter of two sets of feet on deck. He glances over his shoulder, finishes ripping off the piece of tape with his teeth (it's the type used to wrap knuckles for bag practice), and flashes the raptor driver a small smile. Which fades considerably when he sees who's accompanying Evan. Or maybe it was her pretty tootsies, tucked into high heels. In viper country. "Pleasure," he grunts, gripping her hand firmly after a protracted pause, and giving it a distracted shake. Then, when she adds that little tidbit about her bunk assignment, "I'm sure there's been some mistake. Two and three are still clear."
Evandreus is, sorrowfully, not going to wait for a discussion of bunk assignments to be finishes before he goes and drapes the hefty garment bag over the back of a chair. "Do you have a dead body in there or what?" he wonders at Magsie with a flash of grin to let her know he's just kidding. All the same he stretches his burdened back out again, standing up strighter than often in the meanwhile. "Oh, c'mon, Shivers," he adds, "If the Lady wants to be on top, it's the least a gentleman can do, right? Let it never be said that Shivalry is dead," he adds, eyes all impish for a moment with the force of the punnage.
Sawyer's smile never falters, "Surely a big tough guy such as yourself, Captain, isn't intimidated by one harmless little girl like myself. I write mostly fluff pieces that housewives read over their morning tea." Of course, any that have actually read her column know that she used to delve into the grim underbelly of crime. Fluff, indeed. She looks back at Shiv, instantly amused. Surely a writer can appreciate word play. "Like the man said. Let a lady be on top."
The garment bag is eyed for a second or two, though the Captain's apparently polite enough not to ask what's in it. The hell does a woman need with all those clothes, anyway? "You ever say that again, Evan, I'll be forced to smother you in your sleep. Wiseass." He might've smiled a little, though. Because it was kind of funny. Withdrawing from the pair, he finishes slapping on the piece of tape that plasters photograph to locker door. At least it isn't pornographic. Looks like some kind of group picture, of about twenty people in civilian flight gear, arranged in about three rows. There's a man that resembles himself off to one side, dark hair askew, with tinted sunglasses on. "I'll take it up with the CAG," is all he has to say on the matter of sleeping arrangements.
Evandreus looks terribly contrite. Too contrite to be honestly contrite, in fact, but: "Aye, Cap'n," he tells the man, in a faux-grave tone, "It was a momentary lapse into the most terribly demeaning stereotypes of conventional gender relations," he adds, sounding just a hint more serious, as if behind the jest was a cause he truly believed in. "Won't happen again," he seals with a nod. "But you can't leave her without a place to stay 'til you can CAGgify all up on the situation," he points out, less cheekily, more practically. "Unless you wanna come stay with me, Magsie. I'll even let you take top bunk, if you want," he notes, after a spirit of hospitality.
Sawyer stands just a hint straighter when he says he'll take it up with the CAG. "Well. I can't say I expected a warm reception." She says simply, turning her attention away from Shiv, though no doubt she took a good long gander at that picture he's taping up in there. "Room temperature would have been nice." That gets directed more at Evan, and her smile stays firmly in place helped when Evan offers her a bunk over in Raptor territory. "See? That's the spirit. Unfortunately, I too have a boss and that boss has a boss and that boss says the angle they want is in here. So lucky me." She turns to eye Shiv over her shoulder, starting low and ending high. "Lucky you."
"Sounds like that boss' boss' boss is playing a practical frakking joke on the wing," Shiv mutters, smoothing out a crease in the photo with his thumb, then abandoning it finally to take another gander at his half-full pack. "Did I miss a boss?" He might've. His eyes flick sidelong over Evan briefly, and he cracks another lopsided smile at the 'promise' made. It even sticks around long enough for Sawyer to get a glimmer of it. "Look, Miss Averies, I don't have anything against reporters or newsies. Dealt with more than a few, in my line of work. Just don't get underfoot around here, all right?"
Evandreus wrinkles up his nose a little bit as his invitation's declined, but just plants a boot on a chair and sits on the edge of the table, unzipping just a little of the garment bag for a curious peer at what's inside while Shivers lays down the law of the land. Ooh. Civvieclothes. "So what -is- your angle, anyhow?" he wonders aloud, when there's sufficient pause to do so, probably after whatever reply Sawyer gives. "You'd better give us fair warning so we can make sure to act up and fit into the narrative," he adds with a bright grin, jestful, once more. Smile fades, though; brows draw together, "You're not going to use peoples' names or anything, are you?" he wonders.
Sawyer looks momentarily aghast, but the way she puts her hand over her heart, it seems just the tiny bit insincere. "Why, Mister Shiv, I wouldn't dream of it." She reaches over as Evan starts to fiddle with her bag to unzip it the rest of the way. Unzipping it with a little more zeal then it really requires, a momentary flicker of frustration in that one little movement. "I'm merely an observer who has a question from time to time, and no doubt I'll have a few for you, Captain." She starts pulling hangars out of the bag, an assortment of suits and dress pants and respectable skirts in there, though there is the occasional flash of red or glimmer of shimmery fabric in the mix. "I assume you got the memo about potential interviews. We should go ahead and set one up." Oh yes, she's going to be thorn in everyone's side, but Shiv gave her an excuse to single him out. Figuring out which locker coincides with her bunk, she flicks it open and starts hanging the clothes on the bar. "Names, ranks, and departments can and will be used when I feel it warrants it. It's my understanding that I'm here, gentleman, to ensure the Quorum's money is being well aportioned. There's rumors of budgetary cuts in the works."
It's a question Ibrahim, himself, has probably had simmering in the back of his mind for some time, but Evandreus just up and asks it. The Captain's distracted for a few seconds by a flash of something sparkly and sequined in the woman's clothing bag, and then he turns away and resumes unpacking his own. Another carton of cigarettes goes sailing into his bunk. A pack of basra cards. The latter's knocked open, and spills some of its contents onto the deck. "I'm busy tonight," he tells Sawyer, a little gruffly. "You might see if Captain Abbascia has a scoop to give you. He's the Black Knights' squad leader here. I'm just a visitor, myself."
Evandreus's brain doesn't often afford much space between wondering something and asking it aloud. The answer doesn't quite seem to satisfy him, but Magsie's looking upset, now, so for the time being he stows it, just jerking his hand back as she reaches to unzip her bag, and watching the clothes head into the locker with an unabashed interest in the shinier pieces, watching them as they move. Not quite Magpie status, he's too chill for that, just admiring the colors as a change of pace from all of the green he's wearing. He hops down and bends to one knee on deck, beginning to gather up some of the spilled cards. "Well, that's fair enough. Not like we're at war or anything. And there are probably a lot of other good government programs hurting for cashfunds," he comments musefully.
Sawyer abandons her unpacking for a moment as she squats down on her haunches, because that's safer to do in heels then bending over and risking toppling. Her long tapered fingers start gathering the cards with Evan that spilled, "For a reservist unit. I know." The way she says that to Sitka might be a little daunting. If the government was going to trim some fat, you'd think they'd start with the inactive units. At least, that's the implication that hangs on the useage of her tone. As she straightens up to hand Shiv the cards she gathered, her volume lowers. "You should make time to speak to me Captain." The corners of her lips lift once more, "At least give me a chance to find out how you got that callsign."
The cards depict a variety of pictographs, in place of the usual triad symbols. A sceptre, a cathedral, a partridge, an ornate dagger. Amongst others. The cards are glossy and clearly quite new; Evandreus gets an understated "thanks" from the viper stick as he bends to help pick them up. Sawyer, for her astute observation — and what it implies — a long look. And finally a soft "mmhmm" in apparently acquiescence. He slides a pack of smokes out of his bag, along with a lighter, before reaching for the handful of cards Sawyer's managed to round up. There's a ring on his left hand. "Like I said, I'm busy tonight. Maybe tomorrow."
Evandreus looks briefly to Mags as she unsheathes her metaphorical claws on the Cap'n, cheerish features falling a little as she resorts to that, growing a little bit more reserved, as if she'd taken the swipe at him, instead. He hands up his own little collection of tidied cards to Shivers, along with a look of warm-hearted sympathy, before he stands and clears his throat. "Let's leave the shop talk in the shop, huh?" he finally suggests. "What's this card cape, Shivers?" he wonders, "I don't recognize it."
Sawyer's smile is once more brilliant as the Captain seems to relent. "Of course. Whenever it's convenient." Cigarettes. Wedding ring. All that gets quickly cataloged. As to Evandreus droopy puppy impersonation, she can't even afford to flinch. She's here for a job. And it happens to be one she's damn good at. The woman drifts back to attend to her unpacking. "I believe it's a Sagittaron game, if I'm not mistaken? I learned how to play in prison." With the hanging bag emptied, she leans down to pop open the hard sided case, which has more standard jeans and underthings and tshirts in it. See? Sawyer has casual clothes as well. And it looks like she packed for the long haul. Poor pilots. Pulling out a flat iron and a carton of high dollar fumarella packs, those get shoved on the shelf in her open locker.
The wattage of Sawyer's smile doesn't really seem to have any effect on the Captain's own, considerably more reserved expression. It's not quite dour, but he does seem to have the proverbial hackles up. Reporters. Sneaky little weasels. "It is," he confirms, of the game. And after letting his eyes linger on her a good while, they shift back to Evandreus, from whom he relinquishes another stack of the cards. "Basra." That would be the name. Or maybe he just swore at the guy. Most of what people say, in that colony's abrasive sounding language, come off as dirty words. "I can show you how to play, a little later, if you want." The smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, but it is genuine. As is the undisguised curiosity with which he's now observing Sawyer. Huh.
"Sure, hey, sounds good, guy," Evan agrees, brightening a little again as the conversation moves away from people getting fired or written about in magazines. "It looksinwhatnow?" Yep, that's the Bunny, his brain finally having caught up to what Mags had said. "In jail? As in… in jail, in jail? What, were you undercover esposing some sort of prisoner abuse scandal?" he wonders, brows both having already veered precipitously upward, one just a hint higher than its twin, a crooked look of surprise and curiosity.
Daphne enters relatively fresh from the showers, wearing a robe and holding a bag of her things. A towel is wrapped around her hair like a great white turban, which it basically is. She pads across the berthing floor and goes for her locker, nodding politely to Evandreus and Sitka, though she doesn't say anything just yet. Instead, she pulls out her fatigues.
Sawyer gives a grin over her shoulder to Evan, some of that reporter edge knocked off of her demeanor enough to make her at least /look/ like a human being for a moment, instead of a blood hungry shark. "Would I have gotten security clearance to come on board were I actually in jail-jail? I mean. I've been in lock up a few times, but none of those charges ever stuck." Kidding? Maybe. But there's an underlying thread of truth there. Sawyer is currently in the process of unpacking, seems this particular civilian got stuck in with the Viper jocks. Her eyes trail Daphne for a moment, before she goes back to her task. "The prisoners prefer to have something to do while you interview them. The more distracted they are, the more they talk. And learning to play a card game is hell of a lot less messier then offering conjugal visits."
Sitka, for his part, looks bemused at Sawyer's explanation. Or maybe it's the thought of the prim reporter doing conjugal visits with hardened criminals. Either way, he clears his throat quietly, slides a smoke between his lips, and lights up. The recently-showered Daphne's spotted in the periphery of his vision, and given a curt nod in wordless hello as he bangs his locker door shut. Judging by the file folder's he's tucked beneath his arm, and the trajectory he's taking toward his bunk, he's planning on getting some work done. Yes, even Reservists have to earn their keep.
"M'unnuno," come the three slurred-together syllables (short for 'Hm- I don't know') from the Bunny, along with a shrug upward of a shoulder, "You might have -reformed- yourself, after all," he grins. Now he's just teasing at her, of course. "Yeah, getting the scoop? Not the right reason to marry someone," Evan gives his consiered opinion. "Daffy," he adds, as the other wanders in, "Hey, guy. What's up?" he asks of her.
A hand appears at the entryway, tugging the door open and a dark haired head sticks into the room. "Huh. Sorry, I must have the wrong berths." Juno peers around at the collective, noting, "Raptors are next door down, yeah?"
Daphne slips into her fatigues one leg at a time. She's fresh from the showers, complete with robe and turban-like towel helmet around her head, "Hi. Did someone say scoop?" The ensign grins to herself, nodding towards Evandreus now that she's got something a little more substantial on. She pulls a shirt over her torso and turns her head towards Juno. "Hera's Edge, I did the same thing last week." A ready grin is flashed, "Yeah. Really hard to tell if you approach in from the opposite side, isn't it? Looks just about the same."
Sawyer pulls a feather pillow out of her hard case, the thing so flat it's hardly serviceable anymore but it looks like the reporter packed to be comfortable and that's a piece of home. It gets flung up into the bunk directly above the one the Captain is heading towards and that marks the last of her unpacking for the moment. No doubt she'll spread out more when she has the chance. "Thank you again for the help, Lieutenant Doe." She takes up the empty suitcases, now much lighter once empty. "I better go see about getting these stowed. Gentlemen. A pleasure. Ladies." She greets and says her farewell to the latter in one fail swoop.
Evandreus is here, which might be a little baffling for the other Raptor Driver, since she's probably seen him around in the other berthings up 'til this point. He lifts a hand and tosses a warm smile at the other Harrier, "Yup. I've crossed the line, dude," he notes, "Just don't tell Juggles," he adds with a sly grin. "See you later, Magsie. No problem," he notes, as to her thanks, "Any time, yah?"
"Mmhmm," is the Captain's sole contribution, once again, to the subject of Sawyer's departure. His eyes follow her for a moment or two after she's tossed in the pancake pillow and turned to depart, and he shakes his head a little as he drops into his own bunk. Frak's sake. "Across the hall and on the left," he tells Juno without even looking up, right on the heels of Daphne's comment. "Stick around if you want, though. Don't suppose you've ever played basra?"