| Very Satisfied |
| Summary: | Trask and Sawyer get to another level (sorta), and Rejn hits rock bottom (definitely). |
| Date: | 20 Dec 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Pressure Points - Air Wing (Trask is not dead) & Riled (Sawyer's boo-boo is made worse) |
| Players: |
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| Hangar Deck - Starboard - Midship - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #297 |
| This Hangar Bay is filled with boxes, crates and other various supplies that are needed throughout the ship. Most have been moved to one end and lashed with tarps to keep them out of the way. The place has gone from extra ship storage on one end and the ability to house over 450 people on the other end. Marines guard this area 24/7. One area has been tarped off to the side, that holds canvas showers and sinks. As a small improvement in the standard of living and sanitation, the Head, showers, and sinks have been hooked up to running water and sewage. Cots still fill the area formerly occupied by the Fleet's civilians, but with Sickbay out of commission they now serve as beds for patients with minor and moderate injuries. Medical staff have taken over the place and tend to those here at all hours, aided by volunteers who perform simple caretaker tasks, bring food down from the galley for patients, or simply lend an ear to those cooped up here for the duration. |
| Condition Level: 2 - Danger Close |
Well, it's not quite as cramped as it once was seeing how most of the civilians have made the transfer over to the Elpis. Now, however, it houses the makeshift sickbay for the non-critical patients. Cots are filled with minor burn patients, those that suffer from lacerations, or things as simple as smoke inhalation. Civilians have been asked to volunteer to fill in the dwindled ranks of the medical personnel, so uniformed and street clothed individuals are walking the aisles and tending to the injured. Sawyer herself is seated on the end of a cot, a roll of gauze in her hand that she's slowly winding but it's clear her mind is elsewhere. In a business suit, at least she's wearing combat boots instead of ridiculous heels. A thin butterfly bandage is causing an odd part in her hair, but otherwise she looks to be one of the volunteers instead of a patient.
Condition Two always puts more hustle in the bustle of Air Wing. Perhaps it's a good thing that Trask ordinarily has a 16-hour work day. As such, he's really not working all that much overtime. Fueled by copious amounts of caffeine, adrenaline, and sheer resilience, when he finally gets around to crashing, only his internal alarm or klaxons blaring is bound to rouse him. This applies even when said racktime is in a cot and not his bunk — and that's been the case since the Cylon assault. When he needs to be at the Portside hangar at a moment's notice, it's simply easier to sleep in his flightsuit on the Starboard deck. Judging by the crinkles of weariness around his eyes, the man is due for a power nap. "You here to tuck me in?" he scampishly smiles, having noticed, thus approached, the distracted journalist.
The Journalist isn't exactly known for sleeping during times of stress, and the last 72 hours haven't exactly been a picnic. She looks up to meet that scampish smile with a sort of blank expression of one that needs a little extra time to process things. Probably a good thing she's not a first responder to anything, or someone might be seriously screwed. Her fingers open, and the guaze that she's been winding slips from her grasp to bounce on the deck and unravel during its roll to the ECO's feet. She finds herself standing and then closing the distance between them, and if Trask isn't quick to dodge, he's getting a full force embrace. "You're okay."
Those big brown eyes drop to follow the folly of the roll, a small smirk tugging one corner of his mouth. "All outta handkerchiefs?" For a moment, he considers picking it up, but then he's blindsided by arms wrapping around him, followed by soft womanly bits pressed against his antipode of a chest. "Whoa," comes out, caught off-guard, but Trask manages to not drop his helmet. Reflexively, his proverbial pythons slink around Sawyer. "Relatively speaking," he quips about being okay. It's all relative in this day and age, after all. "You likewise are not dead, which is a good thing, non-relatively speaking."
Sawyer holds him for a moment longer than prudent, as if needing that contact to prove to herself that he is in fact standing there. In the non-dead flesh. Pulling away to arm's length, she still retains a clasp of her hands into the material of his sleeves. Eyes search his face for any markers of duress or injury, and before she can think on it further, she rocks up on her tip-toes as if damn well meaning to kiss him.
If he's somehow injured, there are no apparent visual indicators. No cuts, scrapes or bruises. No bandages, stitches, casts or splints. At full-body contact, there is no wince of pain, nor even the hint of a grimace. He merely looks a bit haggard with his tired eyes and onset of stubble. There's also no mistaking that he could most certainly do with a long shower involving a lot of soap. It gets hot in that flightsuit, don'cha know? As for duress, that should be expected of a squadron leader at a time like this, but Kal continues to carry his heavy load with his usual aplomb.
For all his hyperawareness while on CAP, the ECO really is on the verge of slumping into sleep, which means it takes him a few seconds to register and process that he's been wrangled into a liplock. It then takes a moment more for him to decide 'why the hells not?' before responding with an amalgam of ardency and exhaustion. The helmet even gets idly dropped on the nearest cot because he is a very hands-on kind of guy.
Sawyer seems afraid to loosen her grip on his arms, hands fisted as they are to keep him right where she pleases or maybe to keep her from fleeing herself. She likely didn't expect the kiss to be returned, for when it is there's a soft sigh of relief and odd contentment before she finally eases back. You know, lest this become really awkward, especially for the people around them. There's sort of a pinched smile she offers him as she rocks back on her heels and her hands smooth down his arms to press out the wrinkles she caused. "Yup. All your parts are still working." What else is she supposed to say?
It's possible that Trask is too tired to do other than go with the flow — metaphorically and that pertaining to blood rushing to certain body parts. Sawyer would now be acutely aware of what his stale cigarette smoke tinged saliva infused with the large mint he sucked on during CAP tastes like. Such things happen when tongues are involved. No slobbering, though. Sloppy isn't his style. "I wasn't plannin' on rubbin' one out before I hit the hay, but they do have showers here…" He may or may not be serious about the prospect. At the very least, he's starting to unzip his flightsuit, which reveals just how sweaty (and stinky) he is. "So, how concussed are you?" Can it be that he's writing off this incident as brain trauma? Perhaps, considering his wry smile.
Sawyer didn't seem so concerned with things like bad breath a moment ago, but now she's clearly covering up some self-conciousness as she turns and catches sight of the gauze. All the better to busy yourself with, m'dear. Stooping, she plucks it up and begins winding it again into a tight roll. "You know, it's a shame you became an ECO. I think you really missed your calling as a greeting card writer. Good thing about those showers is they have cold water too." Beating herself up for that slip in light of his making light (and crass)? Probably. "As much as the marines took great joy in waking me up every half hour on the nose, I think the worst of the damage was Sergeant Constin making me bleed /more/ when he begrudgingly tended to me."
The civilians may have since left, but the starboard hangar isn't lacking residents. Amongst the resting injured, the medical personnel, and the various volunteers are one Kal Trask and one Sawyer Averies, who are standing by a row of makeshift beds lining a wall. While the journalist busies herself with rolling some gauze, the ECO is unwrapping himself and remarking, "Crabcake ain't no delicate creature." As if the bull is. Back to the subject of showers, the Taurian elucidates, "I also have two hands." Stripping out of his flightsuit stops at the halfway mark, capped off with the tying-off of the sleeves around his waist. Clambering into the cot containing his helmet, said helmet is set aside within arms' reach but out of the way. "So, you're totally tuckin' me in, right? I'm kinda tired, so if you'd like to untuck somethin' else, I won't protest. Lieutenant Winslow likely will, though."
Sawyer reaches to the end of the bed where a blanket has been folded in preparation for the next individual to occupy the cot. That individual seems to be Trask, who's headed for some rack time before his next shift instead of crawling all the way back up to the Pilots' berthing. When she yanks the wool cover out, it's with a crisp snap that's all in the wrist. And the /only/ wrist action Trask'll be receiving from the Reporter. She pulls the blanket up over him, leaving out the tuck maneuver. "As you've said, you have two hands. And when that line actually works on a self-respecting woman, let me know, and I'll gladly publish the ground-breaking news." Her palm brushes back the short locks of hair from his sweaty forehead. "I'm glad you're okay." And then she turns to leave.
When you're as drunk as Allan Rejn, Medical's the last place you want to be. Dress shirt unbuttoned, cufflinks undone, the former Special Rapporteur of QUODEL Cerberus has completed his fall from grace with reckless abandon. The faint crisp smell of alcohol rises from his breath and sweat, tinged with the gut-wrenching stench of vomit — drops from which are splattered in a nice mottled pattern over his left sleeve. Bits and pieces of processed protein bar cling to his moustache as he stumbles forward, propelled by a Very Not Amused Captain Nikephoros. She's confiscated his flask and his wrinkled beige jacket, both of which she's placed in a plastic baggie so as to reduce the risk of contamination.
"Gods in heaven," murmurs a clearly repulsed MP.
"Love shots," Rejn sputters. "Shots and survey data. Drink once if you're Very Satisfied. Twice if you're Satisfied. Kill the bottle if you think shit Needs Frakking Improvement." And the story of his night unfolds just like that.
In a way, it already has, hasn't it, Averies? The amused way Bootstrap smiles suggests as much. Truly, though, he's beat, and every moment of sleep he can knock out before his next CAP shift is coveted. Gently, though, he grasps Sawyer's hand before she can completely depart. "I'm glad that you won't be suffering any permanent brain damage." There's a more heartfelt sentiment buried beneath the facetiousness. "And oh sweet ever lovin' frak, someone give that asshole a solid conk to the head." Aforementioned asshole being Allan Rejn.
Medical has always owned some small portion of the Bunny's soul, since he flew his first two tours under the aegis of the CEC Marsyas. And so, straight off of his boat and the last of the post-flighting, here's where he heads, a moistened hand towel over his shoulder which he'd just recently used to give himself a wipedown about the ears and neck. Though there's a dull grimness to his features as he heads across the threshold, he brightens without fail for Soybean and Boots, shifting his course to stop by and shower them with a regularly chipper smile. "Hey, guys!" Go, magic pills, go. "What's— " he trails off, eyes narrowing and squinting across the way at the big beige disturbance. "— going on?" he finishes up.
Very Not Amused barely begins to cover it, though thankfully for Rejn, Cora appears to've escaped the vomiting incident unscathed, or at least unsplattered. This does not, unfortunately, seem to've done much to temper her mood. The plastic bag is thrust at the first MP she spots, the revulsion passed on without remorse. "Get. Him. Away from me," she directs the corpsman nearby, "Strap him down and sober him up, or toss him in the brig with an IV, I honestly don't care, but I refuse to deal with this for a moment longer." And the job of directing (and perhaps supporting and gods know what else) Allan Rejn is passed on to some hapless other.
Quinn steps into the chaos of the starboard hangar deck, having come earlier but all of the medical staff were quite busy, so she kindly ducked out. Her daily vitals check, one of the promises she had to make to be relieved from bedrest at all and put back on duty, is still needed for today. But since the chaos of the attack, she hasn't really wanted to -bother- staff with a not very important person like herself. So she's almost creeping up mousily on the side of the medical area, staying out of the way as much as a nearly 8 month pregnant woman can do.
"Blondie hates me," Rejn observes, allowing himself to be transferred away from the frosty woman by the two corpsmen required to support his bulk. "Cause see, Blondie lives a life of quiet — " A loud hiccup rings like a gunshot in the cavernous hangar deck. "Quiet. Frakking. Desperation, which is to say no frakking and lots of desperation. I told her that in the survey." His second hiccup turns into a too-loud laugh. "It's all her fault!" he roars, lunging forward in a sudden motion to retrieve his flask from the MP's grasp. "She wouldn't help me with that hooch. Had to do it all myself. Know what I mean?"
Sawyer's fingers squeeze Trask's in some sort of awkward acknowledgement that yes, whatever just transpired actually happened. For good or for bad. But the way this evening is going…? Trask's words bring her attention to Rejn, and the Reporter seems downright crestfallen. Her hand unthreads from Trask's and she slips around Bunny with a murmured, "Excuse me, Evan." It seems some things Sawyer just isn't prepared to deal with, which includes the resting ECO's knowing smile and seeing your self-proclaimed mentor, Rejn, apparently hitting rock bottom.
Evandreus' mouth twists out of the grasp of that drug-fueled grin and contorts into a tight-pressed purse settled crooked amongst his features, dark green eyes settled in a steady stare across the way, pity twisted with a gnawing anxiety. He pops his brows upward for Soybean, a kind of apologetic glance slid in her direction as she goes.
The squeeze is returned but doesn't linger, tired eyes flitting to Evan. "Tryin' to get some shut-eye but that drunken dickhead won't shut the frak up." Sawyer may be crestfallen, but Trask is downright sour. So much so that he calls out to the MPs, "I vote for the brig. K, thanks." Then back to the Raptor pilot, "I'm gonna swing by the Praet when I wake up. You wanna come along?" To visit Stavrian, presumably.
Quinn looks over the area, getting the feeling this isn't the time -either- to be bugging med staff, but she also can't draw her eyes way from the total scene of horror that is Allen Rejn. Holy shite. How the mighty have fallen. She just watches, her jaw slightly hanging open.
Rejn doesn't quite make it to the MP, who dances out of the way to avoid being splashed by the droplets of spittle flying forth from his mouth as he struggles out of the corpsmen's clutches. Landing on a heap on the floor behind the departing Sawyer, he gets a good look at her fatigues — and grins a sloppy little grin. "Liked the pencil skirt better!" he calls.
Sawyer raises a hand over her shoulder to give a curt little fan of fingers in a parting wave to Rejn without really looking back at him. He had to be addressing her, right? "Liked you sober and useful better." And then into the stairwell she goes.
"The hate part is certainly true," Cora replies through tight-grit teeth as she stalks away, "What a miserable waste of resources." She passes Sawyer, though it takes too long to recognize the reporter through the haze of irritation, and by the time she's registered her presence, she's gone. Quinn and Evan are noted instead, and then she hears the resounding thump — one that seems almost to echo even in the busy hangar — of Rejn hitting the deck. She wheels and glares hard at the MP who is not dealing with the situation as promptly (and air-locking-ly) as she might desire.
Evandreus feels bad for Rejn, of course, tender-hearted little creature that he is. He looks down to where Boots is laid out for sleep, forehead momentarily clouded in a 'be nice' sort of expression as his dear friend calls for Rejn's imprisonment. All he says, though, aloud, at least, is, "Sure, okay. I'll give you a ride," he offers, sweet-voiced, unable to stay angry, if he ever was actually angry at the outburst rather than simply dismayed and a little hurt.
It's Cora's statement, on the other hand, that makes Evan's head snap up and around, eyes flashing with a manifest hurt and more than a little wariness. To hear someone say that about another human being— whoever it may be— it rankles the peaceful-and-fair-hearted Leontinian fabric in which the Bunny's been cast. Stepping forward as if to confront her on this point, he loses whatever force of anger might have sparked in him at her words, and instead simply looks from her to Rejn and the MPs, then back. "Let me take care of him," he tells her, more than asks, though in all technicality it is a request. "He'll be alright with me." Well… it's always been true in the past, at least. And Evan can't help but think Rejn might do well in the company of someone who doesn't in particular want to see him dead or in jail.
The MP quails before Cora's glare, raising his shoulders in something like helplessness. "You want to touch him?" he says, fluted voice suffused with muted distaste. "I just washed these blacks."
And from the ground, with a gut-busting chortle: "Hey Blondie," Rejn says, rolling over to rest on his back. "I think this guy pitches for the other team." Spoken in a stage whisper that really, really isn't. "If you know what I mean. Not that I — that I'm prejudiced or bigoted or anything, I seriously love people like that — I've got lots of friends like that." His moustache quivers slightly as his upper lip begins to twitch. Danger, Evandreus: feel lucky you're just greeted with a belch. "It's the boy genius."
Oo. Someone is insulting her son. Maggie's dander is up now. The red head steps forward a few more paces, a touch of anger crossing her freckled features as she looks between Rejn, Evandreus, and the few others still watching. "I suggest you be a touch kinder to the only man who seems to be kind to you on this ship, lest you find yourself with no friends what so ever." Maggie's hands rest upon her non-existant waist, but even carrying 8 months of baby on her she has an easier time getting around that Rejn, it seems. She gives a brief nod of greeting to Cora.
"Psst. Could someone get her to stop talking so loud?" Rejn wonders airily, even as corpsmen drag him to an unoccupied cot. "Frakking harridan." A meaty fist swings upward toward Evandreus' shoulder in an attempt at a fatherly arm-bump before it collapses onto his bulging stomach, causing him to loose a yelp of pain. That's what happens when you stab yourself with a cufflink. "Missed you, dude," he says when he recovers, a fond and loopy smile causing his not insubstantial cheeks to rise beneath the rims of his glasses.
Unsurprisingly, Trask doesn't feel any semblance of sympathy for anyone sauced. Contempt, however, doth overflow. Irate and in need of rest, it's possible he doesn't catch Bunny's mildly chastising look. It's also possible that he did and simply doesn't care. It doesn't even matter that the drunk is being a dick to Cora, whom he most certainly doesn't like. The inebriation obliterates that bit of awesome. Once more, he calls out to the MPs, "Puke will be the least of your bodily fluid problems if you don't handle it so we airy fairies can sleep." Beat. "Magpie, tell me a bedtime story." He'd know Quinn's voice anywhere.
Evandreus has been burped at and barfed on and peed on and pooped on with nigh-alarming frequency since the birth of the Evans. Rejn is going to have to come up with some new material to get a rise out of the Tallest Evan. When Rejn swings for his arm, he simply slips beneath and goes to stabilize the great wavering creature in his intoxicated wobble, aiding the Corpsmen in getting the fellow to the cot and safely timbered into place. "Not that it's any of your business," he lets the drunken man know, "But I don't play pyramid anymore." He gives his mum a tender little smile for her sticking up for him, letting her know with a degree or so of a slothful nod that he'll be fine. "Missed me? That's sweet of you to say. Why don't I get you some water," he tells the Dionysus-soaked man, keeping his voice substantially muted.
"I am certainly not touching him," Cora replies to the MP, with a cold: "Do your job and then your laundry." As for the sexuality of… the MP? Evan? the TACCO seems neither sure who is being discussed nor interested, just eyeing Rejn for a long moment and then shaking her head in obvious disgust. As Quinn and Evan insert themselves into the fray, she takes the opportunity to slip out of it, returning the LSO's nod and then slipping away through the hangar, out of vomit range.
Quinn looks over to Trask, giving him a half smile. She's still worried about Evan and Rejn, but the two men seem to -almost- get along, and the older guy is so pathetic Maggie just can't even rag on him any more. She reaches out, stroking her fingertips against the ECO's shoulder for just a moment. "Sure. Then I gotta track down someone about a blood pressure cuff." She mutters gently as she settles back, considering. "…hmm… " She then grins a bit, rattling off a half story, half joke: "A girl of seven walked into her mother's bedroom and asked her to tell her a bedtime story. The mother wasn't thrilled with the request. She said, "It's almost two in the morning." "I know, Mommy, but I'd love to hear a story." The mother said, "Lie down in bed with me. We'll wait for your father and he'll tell us both one!"" She winks at Trask then, not the best, but it's all she had on short notice. "You get some rest…"
"I was talking about the guy with the gun over there," Rejn observes, waving beefy fingers at the MP who's still got his flask. "Big boy over here — " One hand moves to swat Evandreus on his not exactly bountiful rear: behold these locker room antics from a man upwards of fifty years old. "Woo! Bet big boy over here's nailed plenty of ladies in his time, that's what I'm talking about over here. As opposed to over there. Yeah!" The last few words are muffled by the fact that he's just landed face-down on a pillow. "Survey," he mutters after a while. "Aphrodite's droopy tits, they're still doing surveys. Hey Blondie!" Up goes his head as he stares down a woman he thinks is Cora. "Yeah, you — I'm really frakking NOT FRAKKING SATISFIED." This woman he stares down is a brunette.
Mission accomplished, although the ECO nodded off before the punchline. And apart from klaxons blaring or being physically assaulted, Bootstrap will be soundly snoozing for the next few hours.
"Ow," Evan remarks, much more gently than the word would imply. "Please don't hit me," he goes on to request ever-so-politely of Rejn. "I almost spilled," he explains the practical implications of not being smacked around while trying to pour a cup of water. A cup which he then lowers himself to the floor to be able to offer to Rejn sort of on his level, there, on the cot. "Drink this for me?"
"M'boy's growing up," Rejn murmurs, as fully ninety percent of the proffered water ends up not in his mouth but on his unbuttoned shirt. Little droplets cling tightly to the chest hair revealed by his curious sartorial choices. "Lemme take you out next time. Know a girl you'd like over at Pete's, she's got the absolutely most gorgeous — " Another sloppy smile. "Eyes. Yeah, eyes. Just like my Mary." Dangerously close to passing out, he is.
Evandreus takes the handtowel, already moist as it is, that had been draped over his shoulder from his earlier scrub-up, and he dabs up the better part of the moisture from Rejn's chest, moving the towel along his neck and to cool his cheeks and ears and clean his facial hair of any extraneous… ick. "I'm sure she's a very nice young lady," he concedes to Rejn's intoxication while he tidies him up.
"Love you, m'boy." Rejn's voice can barely be heard underneath Evan's gentle ministrations. And before he drifts off to sleep: "M'sorry the Cylons keep on trying to kill you, y'know." There's fuzzy fondness in his squinting blue eyes, which have lost nearly all of their usual penetrating light. "Put me — put me in one of them Viper thingies and I'll — I'll — " Snore them to death, most likely. Look. He's demonstrating.
"Somebody take this crap to decontamination," the MP orders in the distance, shaking his head in resigned distaste. "Don't think anybody'll care if we accidentally incinerate it."
Aww. Rejn's little bit of fighting spirit there right before his descent into sleep calls a smile back to Evan's face almost without having to lean on the massive doses of mood stabilizers he's managed to scrounge for himself. He pulls back the damp portions of the man's shirt and gets him covered in a military-grade blanket— rough, but definitely warm. He even tucks the fellow in. Then, eyes growing focused almost to the point of sharpness, he looks to the MPs, and, standing, "I'll take care of it," he procures the items from those who might so easily 'lose' it along the way, and takes it off with him.