PHD #450: Wagers and Decrees
Wagers and Decrees
Summary: Both are made down on the shooting range.
Date: 22 May 2042 AE
Related Logs: None. A few are referenced, though. A Major Setback (Cameron is attacked); With Friends Like These (Sawyer kills a man); Moment of Understanding (the conversation Khloe and Trask had)
Khloe 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.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear
Post-Holocaust Day: #450

It's been five (5) weeks since the Kepner mutiny, and Bootstrap is still off the flight line. Not one to ever really wallow, he instead gets pissed-off, mouths-off, and eventually finds something constructive to do. In lieu of CAP and Alert Status shifts, he's been hitting the piloting sims extra hard and spending more time at the shooting range. More than just the standard practice required to maintain his firearm qualifications, the man is looking to improve his handling of his handgun.

A certain other reluctant Captain also tends to get pissy, snarl at someone, and then find constructive outlets for her energy. But lately, Khloe has been trending more towards the even-keel and mellow than her usual sharp self. Despite her newfound Zen, though, she still finds time to put in extra hours simming, working out, or in the shooting range. Tonight is the shooting range, and she's going through the pre-firing firearms check.

This may be what qualifies as 'date night' to the not-quite couple, because something more traditional doesn't really fit within their typical purview. The reporter, being one of the few civilians allowed to check out a firearm, is in one of the stalls, currently fiddling with her protective earwear. "These damn things…" Sawyer huffs a piece of hair out of her eyes, still not having donned the plastic visor-like glasses. "So. Care to put a wager on this?"

In the lane left of the blonde's, Trask is further along in the process of prepping. "Seeing how I've never killed someone with a firearm, either accidentally or otherwise, I'd say that I'm at a disadvantage." When it comes to questionable quips that verge on (and more than often full-on trot into) insensitive and inappropriate, though, he is a true champion. Casting a sidelong glance at Sawyer, he blithely decrees, "Your tits better be part of this wager."

With a click, Khloe slaps together the last sections of her Five-seveN and begins pushing in practice ammunition into her clip. Already wearing her protective eye-gear, but not yet for her ears, the Viper jock is casually eavesdropping in on the banter between Trask and Sawyer - not because she's a particularly nosy person, mind you, but because of the strange chemistry the two share.

There's a gasp from Sawyer, a sudden intake of breath that is purely theatrical judging by the hand that also flutters to her heart. "Is nothing to you sacred!" But of course the answer is 'no', and it's something that Sawyer has no doubt come to terms with in the span of time she's known Trask. Still, the murder of Jelly in self-defense is something that plagues the Reporter, and her eyes pinch at the corners and she averts gaze back to her preparations. It is an odd dance, but they both seem to know the steps. "Alright. If I empty my clip with more accuracy, you figure out a way that I can get a real proper bath. With bubbles. You fare better, and… make up something involving my boobs." She flashes Khloe a smile before she slides her eyewear on.

Seeing how the firing range only consists of ten (10) lanes, seven (7) of which are currently unoccupied, it's not difficult to hear what's being said. Not that the prospect of an audience ever has made the man any better behaved. "Anything involving your boobs?" One brow arches in a mingling of curiosity and dubiousness. When Sawyer smiles at the new arrival, his eyes tick in the opposite direction, alighting on Khloe. "Pops," he greets with an upward tilt of his chin in the universal sign of 'sup?'. "You want in on this bet? Although I'm pretty sure the tits are off the table for you." A full head turn to regard the journalist, complete with a quizzical canting, as befits a smartass.

Khloe doesn't shy away from Sawyer's smile or Trask's verbal greeting. "Captain. Miss Averies," she replies, still thumbing rounds into her clip. "I'm afraid, like most things you would consider 'fun', I don't bet. And no, I'm not interested in Miss Averies' chest. No offense, ma'am." Clip gets slapped into the grip of her pistol and she checks the chamber one last time. Safety in place, she holsters the gun and reaches for her ear protection. She pauses. "And no, Bootstrap, my chest isn't available for betting, either."

"Ah, don't beat him to the punch. He hates that." Sawyer's smile widens as Khloe takes her chest out of the betting pool that she has no interest in even betting in. The reporter goes about inserting her clip of rubber bullets into her borrowed Picon Five-seveN. "Boobs. Within reason. And within privacy. And without camera equipment involved. Better yet, can you find something that doesn't require anatomy that would make me blush?"

"Captain." Something about being addressed such tickles him, for some reason. Probably because it means he now is gonna bug the ever-loving frak out of his fellow SL. "So formal," Kal merrily needles, the bridge of his nose crinkling with the onset of a grin, emphasized with a shrug of his shoulders. As if what he really were saying is 'Tee-hee! How cute!' "For the record, though, Vakos: I'm not interested in seeing your tits, and not because I've already seen them, like, a kajillion times." Naked military people in the head and berths. Fancy that.

To what Sawyer says, though, "Why the frak would I wanna do that?" That's a lotta anatomy she's requesting not be required. Target clipped, he hits the button to start sending it reeling down the range. Scoffing, he points out to everyone within earshot, "As if your penchant for blushing has ever stopped you from eyeball frakking me." Could that even be a hint of petulance? "Y'know what? Forget it. I've gone this long without seeing you naked." The target clicks into place. "A'right. New wager. Instead of your tits, you watch Kalli long enough that Maggie and Sam can have a date night. Dinner, whatever, and a bunch of frakking." Because if /he's/ not going to get any action, the least he can do is help his best friend get laid.

"If you wanted to see me naked, I sure as Hades hope that it wouldn't require you using a bet as an opener. I think I'd even settle for 'hey Sawyer, nice shoes. Wanna frak?' from you at this point." The reporter huffs a little breath of laughter at her own joke as she reaches for her button and sends her target skimming out there with the others. "I'm already the swing shift sitter, but I could do a date night for them, sure. I could even lend her some clothes, so she really feels the part. The frakking, though, that'll be up to them. With prophylactics, I hope."

As she waits for her target to snap-to, Khloe catches the last part of Trask's altruistic wager. She wrinkles her nose. "The woman just gave birth. I'm sure she's not interested in chancing another year off the flight line. And if Pens knocks her up, I'll cut his thing off." Her target buzzer sounds, and at that point the Viper Captain draws her pistol and sends ten or so rounds at her target.

An eyeroll and a 'pffft' are prompted by Poppy's comment. "No, but she sure as frak would like some sexy fun times. Besides, she's on the pill." Unlike the last time. "And Bran's /mine/, so you'll just have to take a number to get a shot at whatever remains." A bit of a pun, perhaps, because it's then that Trask starts unloading his clip. That done, he wryly remarks to Sawyer, "Nothin' else's worked. Although, admittedly, I never did compliment your shoes." Button pressed, the target starts to retract. "Your move."

Khloe's target sheet retracts before Trask's and Sawyer's, and the Canceran makes a little face. Not nearly as good a grouping as she had hoped. Still, she takes a moment to study the results before loading another sheet. "I wouldn't know about 'sexy fun times'," offers the Viper jock, eyes going over her target. "And before Bran was yours, I beat him up regularly on the Stussy. Did he ever give you a straight response to the 'marker' story?" Poppy gets a bit of a malicious grin, at that.

"My dear? It's all about the shoes." At least the blonde isn't wearing heels to the range, opting for the utilitarian boots that the marine's issued her back in the days of Leonis. Before any marker story can come to light, Sawyer is squeezing off her clip in the noisy racket conducive of an indoor firing range, peppering the little black silhouetted man in an imprecise perforation. As the ringing dies down, she nudges the ear piece back off of one ear so she can hear again. "What's this about a marker?" Just because the reporter doesn't peddle in gossip doesn't mean she's not interested in hearing it.

Opposed Roll — Trask:Firearms vs Sawyer:Firearms
Trask: Good Success Sawyer: Success
Net Result: Trask wins.

Not long after Poppy's reviewed her results, Bootstrap's sheet arrives. Five-seveN holstered, he takes the paper and examines his groupings. Quite good, actually. He does not linger on this, though. "Quit stalling," he tells Averies, wanting to compare. Idly, his two forefingers rap-a-tap-tap against the top of the metal divider, waiting for the silhouette. "That's nice," is the off-handed reply to Khloe. "Doesn't change the fact that he's mine now and that you still need to take a number." And for the sake of being thorough, he tacks on, "Oh, and sexy fun times is a period of time dedicated to fun sexual activities. You should try it."

"Bran didn't believe that I have considerable hand-to-hand skills. So I picked up a highlighter and told him I'd kick his ass with it," Khloe explains to Sawyer, sending her fresh target down the line, and re-checking her firearm. Meticulous, this one is. "I scored three kill-shots on him before he laid a hand on me. Well, killing marks, really. Left side, underneath fifth rib, right side, underneath fourth rib, and then his right kidney. Had it been a knife, he'd been dead before he hit the floor." Click, she aims her gun down range. But before she pulls more shots, she offers to Trask, "Didn't we have this conversation months ago? Get out of my business, Boots." Blam blam blam, but not at Trask.

"Kal, you have a wireless call. Something about the kettle returning your call. He said he missed your call about being black?" Sawyer hits the button to recall her paper, but she's already frowning at it. She can tell from here that her shots hit but are spread far apart. With a flourish, she unclips it and presents it to Trask.

"Okay, (1)," he begins with Sawyer in that slightly snippy, smartass way of his, "I know what sexy fun times are." Then, to Khloe, "(2) no, we have /not/ had this conversation before." Which is true, even if the claim is one of semantics. "And (3)," the journalist's sheet is snatched, "I'll tell Maggie the good news." For the record, his face scrunches with an all-too-pleased bit of gloating because he won the bet, complete with crinkles at the corners of his eyes and a mirthful gleam within. Oh, but then back to Poppy and the marker, "Then why the frak aren't you instructing my peeps in hand-to-hand combat, you frakkin' slacker? You get off on me bugging the CMC only to get nowhere?"

Zip! comes Poppy's sheet, this time with a much better grouping. She seems pleased. She begins the post-firing check of her Five-seveN, beginning with the ejection and inspection of her magazine. "Because you never asked, Captain," is Khloe's honest answer, without snip. "I'd be glad to assist in training your men. Do I need to take a number, as you said?" She sets her half-disassembled pistol down, and turns to face both Trask and Sawyer. There's a hint of a grin directed towards Averies, but her attention's mainly on Bootstrap. "Maybe you should fill out a WF-1: Hurt Feelings Report?" Hand resting on her hip for a brief, cocky moment, the Knights SL goes back to disassembling and reassembling her pistol in her thorough safety check. "If you'll excuse me, you two, I have a date." Gun holstered, she walks past Trask, gives Sawyer a quick and private wink, and makes for the hatch.

"There is a military form for hurt feelings?" Sawyer tilts her head in a 'huh' expression before she shakes it away with the toss of her ponytail. "So, point three I'll concede to, at their earliest convenience. Maggie and I can even dig through my wardrobe and giggle and have girl talk while Evan paints our toe nails some whorish version of red." She nods towards the sheet he holds, verifying that she indeed lost the bet. "Guess it's a good thing we came down here. Looks like I need the practice, and with Doc Adair…" You know, being assaulted.

Pwnt! Peevishly, Bootstrap watches Poppy. "I'll be sure to fill it out in triplicate and have a copy on your desk by the start of next shift." Knowing him, he probably will… with some modifications. If the vim in his voice is any indication, it would seem that the WF-1: Hurt Feelings Report does, in fact, exist. With a wee bit of residual sourness, he shifts tacks and notes, "Not sure if he has whorish red. Light pink and some shade of blue, yeah. Unless he's used it all. Definitely not lavender with sparkles." It might be best to not ask how he knows these things.

And while Khloe's comments pricked his pride, what happened to Cameron spawns a genuinely bothered mood. "Frakkin' Cam." A frown forms, another target sheet brusquely pinned in place and rolled back. For a moment, he just remains silent, his mood somewhere between boiling and brooding. Then, abruptly, he turns to Averies and decrees with dark humor, "You're not allowed to be comatose. I forbid it."

Sawyer eyes Kal up and down for a long pace of time, though there's a softness in her gaze. "Likewise, hotstuff." Somehow, the way it's said sounds suspiciously like he just decreed that he loved her and she likewise was returning the sentiment. She prods her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue before her eyebrow creeps up. "So shall we go another round? This time for boobies and baths?" Regardless of Trask's answer, she's already reaching for another clip of practice ammunition.

In his own screwed-up way he /does/ care. And if he's aware just how what he has said has been interpreted, Kal gives no indication. Instead, he simply smirks. "Good thing I'm not all hugs and kisses like the Doc." Some of that is bravado, the whole notion that he would never be caught off-guard. After all, part of why he joined the military was to escape that kind of thing. It took him many years to stop walking around like he was going to get jumped at any moment. That this assault has happened upsets and unnerves him more than he cares to acknowledge, made worse by the fact that he considers Cameron a buddy of sorts.

So, true to form, he deflects with jesting. "Another round? Frakking slacker. I'm here for at least another /hour/." Gear readjusted, he unholsters, undoes the safety, aims, and opens fire.

"Such a pity, because you're a damn fine kisser." Sawyer reaches up and pluck at her ear protection, snapping it back into place as she sends another target out. She lacks the proper training of the military, though it's clear she's gotten some instruction that's been nurtured along the way by whatever friends she retains in the marines. Firearm is raised and the blonde takes better aim this time. On an exhale, she squeezes the trigger again.

It's an observation that is lost among the sound of gunfire. Perhaps it's better that way.

As the hour passes, more ammo is unleashed and more banter lobbed. Although nowhere near the level of skill he now aspires to possess, Trask is overall pleased with his performance. At the end of the session, the assorted protective gear and the empty cartridges are returned, and the used target sheets are disposed of in the proper receptacles.

Except for those first two. Beaming, impish snot that he is, Bootstrap is totally going to have those framed and hung in Quinn's quarters.

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