AWD #086: Fight Until We're Dead
Fight Until We're Dead
Summary: Phin and Calanthia philosophize.
Date: 02/04/2013
Related Logs: None
Phin Calanthia 
Observation Deck - Deck 3 - Battlestar Orion
The Obs Deck is one of the more quiet areas on the Orion where people can come to get away from the hustle and bustle that goes with of the rest of duty on the ship. The front of the room is a very large armored glass window to allow a dominating view of whatever is out ahead of the battlestar. Seats rise up at even levels, plush chairs and couches provided for the crew to relax in. During Condition One an armored plate is lowered down to cover the view and prevent the room from becoming a hazard and seal tight.
AWD #86

The Obs Deck, while rarely empty, is one of the ship's quieter corners. Which may be why Phin is killing his off-time here. He's slouched down in a chair with a decent view of the starfield, earbuds in, flipping through a paperback novel. It's unclear how much attention he's paying to the story, but the pages are turning.

The weird thing about being a pilot is that, while you have to have soem inspiration to blast through the stars in a rocket ship, you hardly get to see them…unless you're in the cockpit or on the observation deck. Life is just funny that way; live in the stars, don't even have a porthole to see them. For Calanthia, the stars have always been a window into, literally, other worlds. No surprise then that, when stressed or in turmoil, she find herself drawn to the view here.

Phin's eyes drift up from his book, which can't manage to hold his attention. Out to the stars, and what they can see of the planet of Piraeus below from the current angle of the battlestar. "I keep figuring I'm going to get used to the way it looks. Haven't quite yet, though." The comment is off-hand. More to Calanthia than anyone else, since she's proximate.

"It's definitely a lot better than looking at a slagged ball of dirt." Rather than take a seat on any of the couches or chairs, she chooses to be directly at the window, standing in front of the view with her arms crossed. When she talks to Phin, she doesn't turn her head or take her eyes off the planet. Rather, she just talks.

Phin's own blues look more at the stars than at Calanthia. And he, also, just keeps talking. "I still remember when I first came aboard this boat, back at Virgon. Thinking I was bound for a tour doing barrel rolls around a 'deep space mining convoy.'" He snorts. "Even after they briefed us on what was really up, all the guys who'd been on the first tour kept saying how quiet it was. Weird sometimes, to think that was only a few months ago." The Obs Deck is, while not empty, relatively quiet. Phin's folded into a chair with a good view of the starfield, a paperback book in his lap that he's neglecting. Instead he's stargazing, and kind of talking with Calanthia.

"The quiet calm before the storm, or something like that. It would've been nice to do barrel rolls around a mining colony and still have non-occupied homes to return to." That likely implies she actually does have a home left worth returning to, sans occupying forces. "Or before we knew one of the flyers watching our frakking backs is a damn machine," she concludes by growling out.

"True that, Medusa. True that," Phin agrees firmly, though he sounds more tired than growly about it all. He uses the pilot's callsign without much familiarity. He's gotten to know most of the faces he flies with, but there are still many he's only acquainted with in professional passing. A pause and he asks, "You talked to her since it came out? The skinjob we winged with, I mean." 'The skinjob' is an easier thing to call her than Ceres, or any other name he once used.

"I have not. I don't much know if I want to. I don't know what to think about it all, truth be told. Depends on how much you trust the info they're telling us." When she finally turns around to target the conversation at Phin, the other pilot likely gets a hint at a possible origin of her callsign: when she stares, she stares, and her eyes are a bit crazy.

Phin meets her eyes, as best he can. The crazy eyes do make his own far milder blue ones widen a touch, though he manages at least not to look away. "I serve at the pleasure of the CAG and the commanders of this ship." He recites it like it's rote. "I trust in the chain of command." How much he believes that is an open question. But it's the thing you're supposed to say. He sighs. "I don't know either, truth be told. It's all just…" He searches for some eloquent way to sum up the situation. "Frakked up beyond all recognition." Best he can do.

"Seems like the CAG didn't take your objections so well, huh? He seems pretty convinced that it's fine and dandy to fly with a skinjob as a wingman. Think he'd take it too personal if someone requests to be on a different CAP? Not that there's any actual evidence to suggest that…whatever the frak it is would turn traitor now, but…better safe than sorry, huh?" She's really getting deep now!

"The CAG received my stated objections for the record, as is my right as an officer of the Colonial Fleet." That also sounds rote as Phin recites it. "That was…a misunderstanding. It's resolved now." How he feels about how it resolved is unclear, but he volunteers nothing else about it. As for her question, he shrugs. "I'd recommend talking to Captain Holtz about it. I mean, he's our direct CO. He's got first pass over our patrol schedules. And he's a little less ready than some of the higher-ups to…" Pause, as he modulates whatever it is he wanted to say. "…he seems like he's got his head on straight about what the situation is. I trust him to deal with it better than most."

"Duly noted," Calanthia nods. A lot of these folks have flown together for a while, but Calanthia was a mid-term reinforcement on Virgon. It's occasionally hard to ask for concessions like that when one is trying ingratiate oneself and prove oneself to a new squadron."

Phin came aboard mid-mission at Virgon, himself. Though he's been forced to de-Rook at a rapid pace, end of the worlds and all. "Can't say I'm keen to fly with her, either. We'll do what we've got to do, though." He tilts his head at her, pausing a moment before asking, "You ever imagine it'd be like this?" It might be unclear what he means. War? The return of the Cylons? Synthetic pilots amongst us? Maybe all of it.

"No, I never imagined it would be quite like this. Though, what did we do all the training for if not for this? It's a hell of thing. Things." All the things. War. The Cylons. Skinjobs. "But, at least we still have plenty of frakking ammunition, huh?" A twisted little grin starts to tug at the corners of her mouth, but before it blossoms into a full-on crazy smile, she turns back to the glass window.

"Right. This is what we all signed up for." Phin says it firm, but also like it's something he's trying to remind himself of. He cracks a half-smile at her comment about ammunition. It's not quite a crazy smile, and it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "We're girded for war, no doubt. And there're still people back on the colonies. Don't really see an end to it but…we can still fight."

"Fight until we're dead," she agrees with a tiny nod of her head. In all of the conversation thus far, her voice hasn't seemed to rise or fall in volume or intensity. She simply talks, flat, level, rather emotionless.

"Fight until we're dead. Yeah." Phin says it low, more to himself than her, and it's unclear whether it's as much a call to action from him. Or just something he accepts.

With the conversation seeming to wind down a little bit, Calanthia seems to have gotten enough philosophizing on for the day. One more time she spins around from the window, but starts towards the exit. "Just think Dolly. Either we'll find out if that skinjob really is with us when she…it knocks a raider off our six, or if it's against us by blowing us out of the sky." When she walks towards the exit, she claps him once on the shoulder, and, as far as she's concerned, that's that!

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