| White Flag |
| Summary: | A family feud is laid to rest. |
| Date: | 21 Sep 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None, really. Random acts of snippiness between Leyla and Bran do apply. |
| Players: |
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| Observation Deck |
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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: #207 |
There are few places, these days, that the Cerberus is truly quiet. Even the Obs Deck seemed to be perpetually filled with the flotsam and jetsam of the crew. Tonight is no different, as a few people here and there mill about. But up in what, if this were a theatre would be considered the nosebleed seats, Leyla is settled with a whiteboard in her lap, using the back of the chair in front of her to support it, as she scratches away with a dry erase marker.
Bran dusts off the front of his torso has he steps into the observation deck, giving a slow and measured look over the chamber before stepping in deeper. He doesn't get too far in not noticing where Leyla has placed herself and he takes another moment's pause but this time it is to breathe and run his idea back over in his head. So, without further adieu, he meanders his way in the pilot's direction and clears his throat when he's nearer to her.
Squeak, squeak, squeak goes her pen, as she draws and grids out a hand drawn map of somewhere, well, one would imagine it was Aerilon. She's dressed in her service uniform, though she's taken her jacket off and tossed it over the seat next to her. Shorthand marks are all over the board. Her voice rises, just above the sound of the marker, "Bran."
"Aydin," is commented in reply by Bran before he aims to take a seat next to her rather than interject further while she works. He leans back somewhat and takes a look at the board in better lighting and an easier angle, and simply responds to the note-taking and map-making with a thoughtful tremor from the depths of his chest. He's off-duty from flight detail: duty greens. "So, what's this? Clearly it's not a love letter."
"Don't cry, Bran. Someone will write you one eventually." What she is working on, seems to be a map of the starport locations, with the ones tourists usually use marked in bold. The ones with the most damage are marked as well, in addition to landmarks of note in the area. "Working out the next few places I'd like to look at when I go out. See if we can find something salvageable to get these civilians onto. Before they start picking the rest of us off."
"I'll try not to, but I ain't making promises," Bran keeps quiet upon that sharp-tongued response and he instead presses his mouth into a curt little smile. Business is much more appreciated over pleasure right now, with her, so he tilts his head to the side while she talks of the whiteboard. He folds his arms over his chest sooner or later. "Well, I'll help." There's not an ounce of hesitation and he continues to speak up in quieted tones, "But, on that note, I've been meaning to talk to you."
"You never do." Leyla finishes the last of the landmarks and then starts in on a grid, marking out long and latitude and search parameters. "Well, it'd be appreciated. We've got a lot of ground to cover here, and I intend to make our intake much better than what we got on Sagitarron." Not that the survivor tally was bad. but two hundred or so out of the millions that were alive there, well…"What were you meaning to talk to me about?"
Bran lifts his brows while his gaze wanders off with rolling his eyes, albeit briefly, since he has come here for business and would rather enjoy getting this off of his chest. He unfurls his arms and places his hands at his knees, gripping lightly and somewhat sitting up and forward. Upon sparing the rest of the room a mild glance, he speaks up in reply. "I've been thinking," most likely in the Chapel to play with his resounding faith in the Gods, "And as much as you would enjoy not having me around, I think I'm going to apologize on my family's behalf - or lack thereof. If we're to really serve together, well, uh." He trails off as his mind doubles back and tries to figure out how to perfectly word all of this. "Not that it's my fault, or my ancestors, I don't know, but."
"You're assuming I don't like having you around, Bran." Not that Leyla has ever, in all of the years she's known and worked with Sam Bran, ever given any indication that she's like to do anything other than airlock him at the first opportunity. "And we've really served together for over three years now. Slept together too." What a fraktastic three month experience that was. Getting bunked with him on the Stussy in an attempt to make them 'play nice'. "You're all that's left of your clan. I'm all that's left of mine. We have to carry on for the dead."
"I'm just trying to, well," Bran once again falters at things and he lifts up his right hand in trying to gesture and ease things over. However, that is not working as awesome as he thought it would go - which, in the end, has him stiffening up somewhat and lowering his hand. "You like having me around?" He owlishly blinks upon that and then further speaks up on what he had originally meant. "I'm making amends. That's not something I want to carry around anymore, clan's past. I mean: what good is it going to do anyone?"
Leyla sets aside the marker, snicking the top back onto the pen, before she sets the board aside and turns to actually look at the man sitting next to her. "For good or ill, Sam, you're all I have left of my life that was. The only bit of home that's not burned and smoked to ash." Not that there aren't other Taurians left in the remnants of humanity now orbiting Aerilon, but Sam is a Bran. Someone she knew, or rather, from a family she knew. And so, not so much a stranger as the others. And not that she's actually walked through the ashes of Derry to be sure, but Leyla is nothing if not a realist. "I accept your apology." A beat, "And you have mine."
Bran glances down to the marker and then to the whiteboard as well but instead of failing at being frank and honest about things, whether or not he's succeeded or not, he turns somewhat in his chair and looks to Leyla in turn. He's quiet. He listens. For a moment thereafter he casts his gaze downwards and brings up his right hand to gently rub over the back of his neck, a sort of anxious tick of his, but he ends up turning his attention back to her and smiling in turn. The hand's lowered in the middle of him speaking up. So, he questions, "You sure that's not a love letter?"
If there's one thing a person can say about Leyla Aydin, is that duplicity really is not in her nature. She might be able to fudge things now and then, even gloss over tiny and inconsequential details, but bold faced lies are simply not her cup of tea. So if nothing else, Sam can be assured that she's honest in her words. An answering smile, which might or might not be a victory in the battle of the Aydins and the Brans, and Leyla looks back down to the whiteboard, "Only if you love tartan print."
There, a weight has been lifted from Sam Bran's shoulders and now he can sleep more easily. The smile sharpens at her response and the man then turns to sit back in his claimed seat and look off into the distance. He tilts his head to the side and looks at the whiteboard. "Anyone claims I don't and I'll set them straight about it," there's something in his tone of voice, teasing maybe, or just amusement, and the smile lingers no matter what. It fades into the background though with, "You know, I never really hated you." He has, however, found her company quite unpleasant at times - which he has commented on before, a lot - but that's life.
"Good, because I think I found a place we might want to look into. One of those tourist outlets they take the buses to, when they hit ground to come up with their little keepsakes. I'm not hopeful about what we'll find there being the latest fashion, but it's clothes, and we definitely need it. We keep giving away everything we own, and we're all going to be running around naked. "I did really hate you." Oh, the woes of honesty, "But after a while, I sort of got used to having you around, so then I didn't."
"Well hey, good cause aside, you might be two shades from evil frakkin' bitch, bless your heart, but you're a looker. I'm not sure if that helps your cause, or sucks from it, with this naked clause." That is Bran's own dose of honesty but he tries to compliment Leyla. The effort is nice enough in his opinion. He simply is never sure if it actually ends up as one or not but the ECO is then closing his eyes for a time and a half while solely listening to her voice. He can hear himself throatily laughing at her words, for really hating him, but he quiets fairly quickly. The man opens an eye and looks to her. "We can hide the secret love affair and keep up the witty cracks. I don't mind. You're good at hating me, Aydin."
"Well, the upside to being good looking," and Leyla says that with the same simplicity that she might say, 'I'm female, or I wear size six shoes', a statement of fact rather than a declaration of ego, "Is that you can usually get someone to loan you something of theirs. Especially shirts." What is it with men liking to see women in men's clothes? "So I don't think that's going to be a problem." It's also probably not anything new, either. Given that they've shared a head for all of the years they've worked together. Though, truth to tell, decorum does dictate that you don't actually look. Or at least you act like you're not looking. "Everyone has to have a skill. That just happens to be one of mine."
"Mmhm," starts Sam as he listens to her speak up. The corners of his mouth upturn and it's just nearly enough for expressive dimples to begin showing. To the least, it's never been a real problem between the two of them; so, he feels a lot better about things, even if that means he has to walk around shirtless. He clears his throat a bit and opens both eyes around this time for a brief grin to accent his features. "I'm not going to complain this time around, promise. Go figure, you're all I've got left from my past too, so I'm going to appreciate it. So. So, well. I'm clearly rusting on my communication skills."
"I wouldn't say that. I'd say, instead, that we've simply said everything that needs saying." Conversations come and go, and they all have their beginnings and their ends. And with a truce declared, what else is there to say about the past, which is now, firmly, mostly, in the past. "Now, let me get you opinion on this search grid. if I can't get Flasher out with me, you're next in the pipeline." Just how the cookie crumbles. Always go out with your assigned partner first.
"Alright, alright," murmurs Bran quietly, enjoying the idea of that turn of events over him trying to come up with something inherently good to say. He leans over in her direction and holds out a hand for that board of hers, so that he can help coordinate everything with her. Feud or not, truce or not, no matter what, he will always be able to work with her; they're just that good when working side by side. "It looks nice, but over here I'd suggest…" And that is how things work out between the two of them, Taurian pilot and ECO, for better rather than for worse. "So - you sleeping with anyone lately?"