| What a Trial's For |
| Summary: | Kincaid and Sawyer wonder what the point of Admiral Abbot's trial is. |
| Date: | 29 October 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Civic Virtue. |
| Players: |
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| Observation Deck - Deck 9 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| With a quiet view to the stars, this tends to be one of the more popular 'quiet areas' of the Cerberus. Up front is a small-unseated area for ceremonies or other activities while the seating rises up behind it. Each level rises up behind the one before it, comfortable chairs and couches set up for crewmembers to relax, get some work done or even take a nap. A large armored plate is lowered during Condition One to protect the interior against a breach in the glass. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #245 |
Kincaid is crashed on one of the couches in the Observation Deck. He might be in front of a fabulous view of Aerilon, but his attention is on the steno pad in front of him. His scrawl is all across the page, and he taps his ballpoint pen against it. Writer's block? Maybe. Or maybe just lost in thought.
Being on the same deck, occasionally the Observation Deck becomes an extension for the News Room when Sawyer needs a slight change of pace in her work environment. Such seems the case tonight, when she waltzes in with her own stack of papers tucked underneath her arm. She's about to head up front like she usually does, but sidetracks when she notices Kincaid occupying one of the couches. Pausing an appropriate distance away as to hopefully not startle him, her voice is soft as she addresses him. "Mind some company?"
Kincaid turns his head over his shoulder to notice the newswoman there. "Not when it comes in a white blouse and a nice set of pearls." He scoots over on the couch and pats the place next to him. "How are you doing? Hanging in there? Have a name for the civilian freighter yet?" He flashes her a grin.
"I wouldn't dare presume it was mine to name." Sawyer manages a smile at the veiled compliment, the expression sitting softly on her lips as she slips onto a cushion next to him. "Besides, anything I come up with seems trite or cliche. Garbage about New Hope or Horizons or…silver lining. I don't know." She huffs a breath of exasperated air before toeing off her high heels and pulling her legs up on the couch, tucking her feet beneath her. "Working on your opening statement? Do they even have opening statements at these things?"
"Oh, yeah. It's like a regular trial. Opening statement. Closing statement. Rules of evidence." Kincaid scratches something out on his pad, drawing a circle around something else and moving it over to a spot on his page. "I don't even know if he is or isn't. It's not even about that in the end." A pause. "Right?"
"Is or isn't guilty of being an abomination of machine and man? It's well beyond that now, I think. All the hours I spend with him, it's not even about saving his own hide anymore. I want you to prepare yourself for the inevitable, Daniel. You're going to lose, if only because Michael doesn't want to win." Sawyer shifts her stack of papers aside, work obviously can wait for now, as she's found something more important to occupy her time: Kincaid.
"It's not about winning or losing. It's about — due process of law and not jumping to conclusions and not blowing away Lauren Coll on a whim and thinking that the person who does it is a hero." Kincaid's voice trails off and he looks down at his pad. "It's about — not letting our fear overtake us. It's about getting a grip and realizing that each and every person in the world is precious and we can't just turn on each other without good cause."
"It's hard to get due process on a man who is intent on martyring himself. But of course I couldn't agree more. What pisses me off the most…" Sawyer pauses mid sentence, looking over her shoulder to see who if anyone is in hearing distance. "Sorry. What upsets me the most," she's quick to correct herself, "is that people operate on false assumptions instead of any modicum of truth. They're believing what they want to believe whether it's born out of fear or hatred or any combination thereof. It's why I was confronted. It's why Sofia's belongings were torched. If you can educate, if you can shed some light into the darkness of these depraved minds, well, you'll be my hero."
Kincaid makes some more scribbles on his pad. "Well, of course. When you don't know, it's easier to assume. I'm not sure if I can educate anyone. I'm not a teacher. But I can ask some questions. And maybe I can get them to think a bit instead of just reacting. Act on something more than sheer impulse." He glances over at Sawyer. "Can I be your hero then?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to do better than a public service announcement. Like, say, convince command to release you from your commission so you can come help me out full time?" Big brown eyes round out, a fan of lashes bat-batting with a smile edging vaguely towards cheesy. Sawyer lays it on thick.
"Okay. One, it's not my commission. Only officers have commissions. It's my enlistment contract. Two." Kincaid takes the end of his pen — the side you don't write with — and taps it against her nose. "Every time you want me to work with you full time, remember who is the one that's feeding you information from the Marines and Security side of things, hmm?"
Sawyer raises her hand to pinch her nose, thumb and forefinger digging in hard. "Right. Enlisted. I know that. Sorry, I've just been having these…headaches." Sawyer shakes off the mistake, like water off the proverbial duck's back. "I told you to find a lackey, someone you can trust like I do you. The more you protest, the more I think you like it there. Must be the coffee."
"I'll see about the lackey. A lot of the new knuckle-heads are oo-rah rifle types from the regular Marines." And judging from the tone of his voice, that doesn't sit well with Kincaid, a MP's MP. He's a detective first, a rifleman second. "Headaches? You all right? You need to rest sometime, you know." It's like he's actually concerned about her.
Sawyer mms quietly, sinking down deeper into the sofa like a melting puddle of snow. "Just a headache. I suppose I have spent a little too much time working, but it's better than the alternative. Maybe once I facilitate the formation of these committees…then I'll take some time off." Another sigh, then she looks aside to Kincaid, "Don't underestimate the value of a jar-head. Sometimes the less they think, the better."
"Yeah. Well. Maybe." Maybe. Kincaid abruptly switches topics. "Hey. Sawyer. I've got to get back to work soon, but …" His voice trails. Wait for it. "— but can I take you out for a crappy, reprocessed dinner in that place we call a Mess Hall sometime?" Is he asking her out on a DATE?
Sawyer gives him a tired smile, "Sure, I tend to take my meals at my desk, so that'd be a nice change of pace. I believe I'm going to be serving as the court reporter for the trial, so this may be one of the last chances we get to talk." Maybe Sawyer assumes his motives are rather innocuous, and the word 'date' hasn't even hit her radar. "Have a day in mind?"
"I'll drop by and find you in the News Room when I get hungry." Abort. Abort. Perhaps. Or perhaps he's just treating a bit more lightly. Kincaid leans over and kisses her forehead. "You take care of yourself, Sawyer. The future leader of what remains of the free world is going to need to be clear-headed when she takes over."
Sawyer lifts a hand to lightly cup the back of his neck when he leans over to kiss her forehead. "I like how you keep talking as if that's me. Don't wait too long for those hunger pains, hmm? You're a growing boy and all that." She pats him once and then releases him to whatever duty he's off to.