AWD #205: Math and Humanities
Math and Humanities
Summary: In which various Vipers get in touch with their college major while at home.
Date: 30/07/2013 (OOC Date)
Related Logs: Various mission chatter, but none specifically
Atalanta Bennett Phin Taylor Warren 
Viper Berths — Deck 2 — Battlestar Orion
The berthings for the Orion's Air Wing are the same as what one would find on any other Mercury-class Battlestar, though they are distinctly different from the rest of the bunks on the ship. These bunks are separated not into sections of sixty, but by squadron. That means that there is a little more room to move around with only twenty to twenty-five pilots in one bunkhouse. Some officers have brought a small rug to sit in front of their bunks, but the tables and chairs are standard military issue. At the rear is a small couch that was probably new when the ship left anchorage and seems to have been kept carefully clean. The crest of the Lucky Strikes has been painted onto the wall behind the couch, as well.
AWD #205

Taylor lays in his bunk silently, half-dressed in his flight suit, the jacket rolled down around his waist. His head is propped up on a pillow, and he flips through a small notebook while eying a set of pictures propped up against his raisd legs. At the sound of a voice, he freezes. No way, that couldn't be… Shoving off the pictures and notepad, he swings to face the hatch, his legs dangling off the top bunk. He sees Toast, then watches the door slam. "Uh… Toast… Did you just shut the door on the DCAG? Or am I freaking out?"

Warren glances up from what he was looking at as he finishes unbuttoning his jaket. "Hrm, what?" he says a moment before glancing back to the bulkhead. Well frak, thats going to go over great. "Ahem, well then…" he says shifting a bit before he moves over to the door and pushes it open again, "Ah certainly Major. Glad to hold the door for you. My pleasure really."

The smile which she's plastered against her face never falters — not once. It's mildly exasperated, of course, but it's entirely unyielding, even in the face of having a door inadvertently shut in her, well…. face. "Thank you, Lieutenant," she replies gently. She is, after all, weighted down by not only her bag, but her usual clipboard, notebook, and tablet. As such, her hands are quite full.

Phin comes striding down the corridors, Viper berths-ward. He's wearing sweats, which are damp in a way that suggested he just pulled them on after a dip in the pool. Or the showers, though the smell of chlorine on him suggests the former rather than the latter. He's aware enough of where he's going to slow and avoid running into the DCAG. Though he frowns, with a twinge of exasperation, when he sees her standing outside the hatch. "Gods…" Muttered. "Did someone…uh, lock the berths again, sir?"

No? It couldn't just be no? The color drains from his face as the LadyCAG steps forward into the berth. He drops from his bunk, whether on purpose to greet her or by accident of his body giving out. "Even Major." What in the Lords of Kobol was she doing here? So much for the new guy lying low. "What brings you to the dugout?" He eyes her full hands, and both chivalry and military subordination kick in. "Do you need some help, sir?"

Warren glances to Phin as he trots up. "Well you know, gun cam footage makes me all hot and bothered," he says deadpan as he holds the door open to make sure Phin can slip in after the DCAG as well. Afterall he's already let the door shut infront of one person, lets try not to make it two for two. On the table near where he was before he reopened the door is a pile of papers, and notes and fanned out guncam pics and other such.

As Warren seems to have already answered Phin's question, however facetiously, Atalanta focuses her attention on Taylor's. One brown brow arches upwards in surprise; the closer it gets to her flaxen hair, the more obvious the disparity in coloring is. "Thank you, Ensign, it's a kind offer, but I'm quite used to carrying and folding my own laundry by now." A choice of words that indicates she wasn't always. A single slender finger points to her locker — one at the end of a row, labelled 'Franklin'. "It isn't as though it's a long trek to my quarters, either."

"It wouldn't be the first time, Toast, is all I'm saying," Phin says, striding in behind Atalanta. He angles toward his bunk but pauses by the table, where those guncam pictures are spread. "Hey, Wheels." The new callsign isn't said with any particular humor, though there's maybe a touch of rueful empathy. Atalanta's bundle of stuff is also eyed kind of curiously, but he tries not to gawk at whatever the DCAG is carting around.

Taylor nods slightly, turning his head to follow her finger. He freezes in mid nod, and it's possible one of his knees may have buckled since he stoops every so slightly. He didn't have to turn far to look, because her locker… was right next to his own bunk. Which means her bunk was right next to his own. Somehow the FNG had landed the amazing good fortune to bunk right next to the DCAG. He just kind of stood there, staring at the locker for gods only know how long before turning back, a grim smile on his face. He only barely manages to raise a hand to Dolly.

With everyone in, Warren lets the door close. "You mean there are other people who love pouring over guncam footage in their bunks? Who woulda guessed…" he says as he moves back to his piled assorted notes, charts, photos etc. He splays some of them out again and grabs his pen, and notebook taking a few more notes. "Oh Wheels, while I was looking at the last asteroid run, you were about ten degrees too high on most of your attack passes. Bring your nose down just a hair and you'd have them lined up better," he comments as he moves one photo off to the side to look at another.

Gods help her, her lips twitch despite all her efforts to conceal her expression. Her laughter she has a much easier time choking back than the smile; there's only a slight huff of air that comes from nostrils that flare for only a moment, before her features resume their usual placid neutrality. Being as Warren has taken up the nearest table with his belongings, Atalanta elects to drop her armload of paperwork onto her own bunk and her laundry bag onto the empty bunk beneath hers — easier to fold that way. "Don't let me keep you, Ensign. It seems I've already interrupted," she murmurs to him, a nod in Warren's direction indicating the conversation she apparently stepped in on.

"Are these from Ouranos?" Phin asks with interest. He looks over them again, trying to pick out his own Viper in the spread. If it's there. It's enough to occupy his attention so that he doesn't have to look at Atalanta and Taylor again. Though he can't quite hide a grin as he listens to that exchange.

Taylor glances between Toast and the DCAG, face reddening. "Oh, no si- I was jus-" he half turns and points at his bunk, opens his mouth a couple more times, then just stops. No use in driving himself in a bigger hole. Looking back at Toast, he takes the opportunity to attempt to duck out of the fire, taking a step over to look at the picture. "Can you hand me that picture?"

Warren appears to have photos of all the gun cam footage here and there. Not just from his viper, but from everyones who was there. He does grab the picture, and without looking at Taylor hands it up towards him. "Yeah. Been going over it. When you're rolling to avoid fire, try going two maybe three more degrees, you would have avoided a few hits that way," he says as he makes a note with his other hand. He pushes a few photos to let him look at the chart of the belt a bit more. He makes a few more notes there on his pad, and makes a mark on the chart he has there.

The more Taylor blushes, the harder it is for Atalanta not to laugh. Fortunately, she has some long overdue unpacking to do, which provides a convenient distraction. The bag of freshly laundered clothes is emptied out as she begins sorting it carefully — a few missing pieces from the standard uniform, which have since been relaced by supply. Mmm. Duplicates. Several pieces of civilian clothing; surely, rhe Fleet doesn't issue anything that comes in cashmere. Or in a pale shade of petal pink.

"You're really into the angles and stuff, huh?" Phin asks Warren, putting a finger on a picture that shows his own Viper and scooting it toward him, so he can get a better look. "You notice anything about me?" He's quite curious, after the comments to Taylor. A look over his shoulder at the major unpacks. Because who wouldn't be curious about the content of their boss's luggage?

Taylor furrows his brow, taking the picture and examining it. His blush disappates as he kicks into tactical mode. He lowers the picture so Toast can see it and points at the side of his bird. "But evasion is exactly the point. If I angle here, aren't I going to get pinged with a round?" He focuses entirely on the picture, trying to push the fact that the DCAG is standing pretty much right behind him, unloading all her private luggage.

Warren doesn't glance up from his notes or photos, "Yes Dolly, roll two to three more degrees and you won't be quite as much swiss cheese." Another note made as he looks over one of his photos and frowning a bit, "What can I say I like math. Simple, uncomplicated, pure." He hmmms a moment picking up another one of taylors showing him, and the raptor he was going bearing down on at the time and frowns again. "And apparently I need to push down another five degrees, no wonder I missed that fraking toaster," he pushes the photo away and sighs before making a few more notes.

"I'm quite sure that with only a very little bit of effort, Lieutenant," she interrupts, directing her statement at Warren with a glance. There are, after all, more than a few Lieutenants who bunk down here. "The sims could be adjusted to display the vectors of all participants, if you'd care to make a demonstration. Some people are less mathematical and more… visual." With that word of advice uttered, Atalanta pulls the door of her locker open and begins to rearrange what very few things she'd had with her, until now. A moment spent fingering the sleeve of a well-worn leather bomber jacket, before she slides it to the far side to make space for the missing pieces from her standard issue.

"That's cool," Phin says, head tilting as he tries to apply geometry to his captured flight pattern. "I always figured that might make it easier. Guys who had a head for the engineering stuff'd maybe have a smoother time in the air. I always did better in my humanities classes, though." Half-sheepish smile. "I tend to fly more on feel, instinct, y'know? I think about the angles and mechanics more when I'm shooting." Which doesn't seem to exactly help, in his case. He's not an awful gunner, but it's fairly plain that he's a better stick than shot.

Taylor cocks his head slightly, listening to the commentary even if his own question is brushed off. He nods to Dolly in agreement. "Thinking about degrees and angles in the air too much always makes me lost. I'm fine on paper or doing other works, but up in the air? Can't do it." He winces at the DCAG speaks, but begins breathing easily again when he realizes he's not the target.

Bennett arrives from the Squadron Berthings.

Warren nods at all of that but mutters to himself, "I must have been the only one to get a math degree at the Accademy." He nods again starts speaking mostly to himself, "If we can get the sims to show the vectors as a heads up display as they're flying so they can see how it feels and the angles at the same time. That might work." He does finally glance up from his notes and gun cam footage up at Phin and Taylor, "Its not hard, its really a half second there, a nother slight push of the stick, etc. Its all about where you end up putting your viper in relation to everything else." He then looks to Phin and grins, "First rule is not to try to catch all the bullets with your hull."

"History myself," the DCAG chimes in, from her place in front of her locker. "Though not from the Academy. I never went." It's a statement that must come as a surprise, given both her demeanor and the Franklin family history, which is hardly a secret. She presses her lips together as she inspects her dopp kit; the supplies are slowly dwindling, despite her best efforts. "Ahh, well," she mumbles to herself — more space in her locker for other things, then.

Bennett nudges open the hatch and slinks into viper berthings like a cat in the hen house. Soft-footed and remarkably nonchalant given she's in enemy territory, the bus driver looks very much to be hunting for something. At least it's unlikely to be the coffee. Layered tanks, shoddily-laced boots and her unruly hair left unbound suggest she's off duty in the extreme.

Phin gets a rueful chuckle out of Warren's comment. "Better than catching them on the other side of the hull. But yeah. Point. I prefer bringing the Viper home clean. I'm not sure how much I could keep in my head in the moment, honestly. All the vectors and equations you'd need to account for. But it'd be cool if the sims could be rigged up so we could at least see it." He looks up and over at Atalanta, grin widening. "Me, too. History, that is. I came up through the Academy branch on Leonis. Really?" That is a touch of surprise at her lack of Academy creds, though he quickly adds to try and cover, "Where'd you study?" The new entrant into the berths makes him half-turn in that direction. "Hey, Butch."

Taylor grunts his own major somewhat quietly, "Military science," not loud enough to intrude. He glancing back at the DCAG, finally taking his own turn to raise an eyebrow at her. He remains quiet, though, turning to look at the bus driver entering the snake pit.

Warren raises an eyebrow at the Major's admission and then gives a nod. He glances to Phin, "Enough runs in the sims and it'll start becoming second nature, it'll just feel right and you won't be thinking about it. Thats the whole point of practice, to make it so you don't think about it. Just natural to pull out in the middle of a real fire fight." And then theres the crazy haired bus driver slipping into the births which Warren looks to. He smirks a moment just watching her.

"I attend the University of Delphi, on Caprica, as my mother and all of my sisters did before me." All, as in plural. Not even 'both', implying she has several. "I completed OCS there, too, before beginning flight training at CFAB ''Nike''." The statement paints a rather entertaining picture — Atalanta Franklin, the last scion of a line of decorated officers, bunking down with the enlisted being pulled up from the ranks. One hand comes to rest on her hips and her eyes narrow slightly. Why is it that there still seems to be something missing from her belongings?

"Good evening," Bennett returns politely as her presence is inevitably noted. The greeting is accompanied by a dazzling smile, as if to distract from the fact that her eyes are skirting the floor in front of one of the rows of bunks. "Please don't mind me." She steps over someone's discarded boots without breaking her stride, dogtags chinking softly as she ducks down to peek under a bunk. For the perceptive, she does appear to be missing the ritualistic earring she usually wears in her left ear. "You know," she murmurs, "I did my flight training at Nike as well." She's still peering under the bunks. "Perhaps we were in classes together."

"It just seemed like an interesting thing to study. It still kind of blows my mind, if I sit down and really think about it," Phin says to Atalanta. "Like, everywhere else in the classes it was, like, we're all going to be one Fleet. We're all the Colonial Military. Twelve Worlds as one. But you go back and look at it and, like, that's barely been true for a generation. Like, the Quorum was unified but you go to Scorpia or Leonis or Sagittaron or Virgon or Caprica or…anywhere, and that's how everybody still thinks of themselves. Thought of themselves." He seems aware he kind of went off on a tangent that nobody asked for, and the last part brings him back down. He clears his throat and shrugs. "Anyway, it just seemed interesting. How we'd gotten to that, and whether or not we actually were…that." He watches Bennett's travels through the bunks. He might notice the missing earring. But he says nothing for the moment.

Taylor just watches the strange bus driver, though he categorizes them all under 'strange', with mild curiousity. He still says nothing, keeping himself out of the conversation as he takes the time to glance at the photos occasionally.

Warren smirks a moment at Bennett's searchings watching her there a moment. As he glances back to Phin and company he points for just a moment as he rejoins the conversation, "Ah flight school…soooooooooooooooooo fun to go through twice." He mutters a moment pushing another photo to the side to look at another, "So Major any hints on what we'll be up against in the sims tomorrow? Oh and someone remind me to talk to Storm about thoughts on scouting the O belt in the future."

"I'm afraid not," Atalanta answers Warren, ruefully, before slipping into a moment of silent contemplation. It's true — Phin did go off on a tangent, and something of a rambling one. Still, she doesn't seem to mind. On the contrary, it brings the ghost of a smile to her face. "While I agree with your queries, Lieutenant McBride, I'm afraid that I cannot possibly agree with your conclusions. If there is one thing that I've learned from my survey of the histories of the Colonies, it's this: Despite what we tell ourselves about our time and our circumstances, despite whatever jingoist nonsense may have been drilled into us by our parents and our government and our culture, all human experience is fundamentally the same. The details differ, of course, as does the severity of the situations which we find ourselves in. But there is a common thread — an essential unifier, inherent in all human experience. Something which we all share." A pause. "Of course, that could also all be a bunch of liberal nonsense." A tinge of her father's voice, there. "But that doesn't make me believe it any less." She steps back, slipping out of Bennett's way. "Captain St. Clair," Atalanta offers, with a touch of a smile.

"Human is human, but I think there is nothing more human than to create factions and tribes and develop distinct cultures based around those ideologies," murmurs St. Clair, on her hands and knees as she fishes something out from under a bunk. "I mean, just consider pyramid for a— ah!" She beams, dusts off the earring on her fatigue trousers, and slides the hook into her earlobe. "What was I saying?" She climbs back to her feet gracefully, and brushes off the palms of her hands on her thighs.

"You're Caprican, right?" Phin says it a little wryly to Atalanta, but not exactly challenging. He's kind of enjoying talking about this stuff. Tangent or not. "No offense. I'm not trying to be…jingoistic. I just think it's easier to look at it like that if that's where you're sitting. I mean, not that it matters so much now. Which also kind of messes with me, if I stop and think about it. We built all of that just in the time since the First Cylon Wars and now…" Shrug. He is not sure. His neck bends some, trying to follow Bennett's search. "Something about Pyramid. You, uh, find what you were looking for, Butch?"

Warren nods to Atia as she says she's not giving any clues even if she had them. He smirks a moment as Bennet pops the earring back in and glance, "Looks like you found your earring hmm?" He glances back over towards Atia again, "Actually Major let me run this by you before Storm yells at me for talking about leaving sections of the belt unscouted. We've scouted the belt twice, and met resistance. The cylons seem to be moving along the belt in the same direction as us, and we keep running into them, its slow going. What if we jumped to the other side and started scouting that way back to where we first scouted? We might get more done if the cylons aren't there. And if theres something to find we might find it quicker than if we keep jumping in right after the cylons and running into them and having to repair afterwards. I mean if they're not there, and we're moving back towards where we've already scouted, and we're ahead of them, we'd cover more ground in a shorter amount of time hopefully. Sure we'd run into them eventually but…then we could switch back to the other side and come in behind them and have the whole belt scouted in less time than limping along constantly running into their raiders."

Asking if Atalanta is Caprican is a bit like asking if water is, in fact, wet. No wonder she laughs at the question; even she's aware of how painfully obvious her accent and her mannerisms are. "Speak to Major Holtz about it," she says to Warren, before reaching up and brushing a few stray curls back from her face. It allows her to smooth her expression, too. "It sounds like an idea worth considering, at least." And then, after a brief pause, she looks past Warren's shoulders to Phin. "I assure you, Lieutenant, it would be far easier to look at Unification as a gift — spreading our intellectualism, acheivements, and culture among all the poor, backwater Colonies clinging to the edge of the Cyrannus star system. How very ''lucky'' they are, to be the recipients of the capital's benevolence and generosity." Both of her brows arch upwards. "I mean, that is the general perception, isn't it? Of Capricans, and how they think. Wouldn't it be so much easier for me to decry Tom Zarek as a blood-thirsty madman and nothing more, than it would be to try to understand, to consider what I would've done, if I'd been born Sagittaran?"

"I did, thank you, Lieutenant for your concern." That's Bennett's breezy reply to Warren, lips curving into that sly smile she favours. "As to the Ouranos belt, I can think of a few more efficient ways you could tackle it." She's already wandering off for the hatch though, perhaps so as not to overstay her welcome.

Taylor shifts slightly at the mention of Raptors in the belt, glancing at Butch a couple times but trying to keep his eyes on the photos in front of him.

"We've also got to worry about running into mines, depending on what sections we scout," Phin says, after Warren speaks about the Ouranos belt. He looks up at Bennett as she goes. "We're still good to meet about possible Raptor support on that the day after tomorrow, yeah, Butch?" Though, really, he's more focused on nerding it up with Atalanta at the moment. So he doesn't really wait for an answer to that before going on another tangent. "Tom Zarek is a blood-thirsty terrorist. I mean, his book made some interesting points…" The implication is he's read it, banned at the Academy though it is. "…but he still blew up a government building. Being Sagittaran's not an excuse. But, I mean, that's part of what I think is interesting. You read about the old Sagittaron tribes, and a lot of them are hard-core pacifists. But now a lot of us think of them as people who blow stuff up, all because of how some of them are reacting to what's come out of Unification. I mean, don't get me wrong." He says very quickly. "I joined the Fleet because I wanted to be a part of something more than…that kind of thinking back on-world. In part, anyway. It's just weird to think…we weren't really there yet, and now I don't know where we are, y'know?"

"Absolutely, Doll," replies St. Clair warmly, with a wink at the mildly discomfited-looking Taylor, and a brief, largely unreadable glance sent Warren's way before she slips out. She'll happily leave Atalanta and Phin to their nerding out, and book it back to raptor land before she turns into a pumpkin.

Bennett leaves, heading toward the Squadron Berthings [SB].

Warren smirks at the ideolgical conversation going on as he starts packing up his notes and photos. He gives a nod towards Phin, "Of course, there is always the mines, but we're going to run into them either way. Just trying to figure out how to scout as much as quickly as possible, with a minimum of casualties, to see if we can find anyone who might be out there still." Notes packed up he moves over to his locker packing it away as he pulls off his jacket. He gives a nod towards Bennett as she heads out as he seems to be getting ready for some rack time.

"By that argument, Lieutenant, we'll become terrorists ourselves — when we assassinate a legally elected president and bring down the Colonial government, in the name of our own freedom and continued survival, independent of the tyranny of the Cylon invaders," she says, calmly. There's no passion in the argument. No fire. No personal investment. It would seem she's player Hades' advocate. "It is exactly those oversimplified explanations that make ignorance of history so dangerous. I read, once, that a people without a history is like a tree without roots," Frankling murmurs. "I'm personally inclined to agree."

"Maybe we will be," Phin says with a shrug. "I mean, that's definitely how it'll be written if we lose. I'm hoping we're the ones who'll get to pen whatever comes out of that, though. Anyway, yeah. I agree on that. And if you don't learn from mistakes you're just doomed to repeat them, which is the worst kind of eternal return." He angles toward his own bunk, smiling slightly. "Sorry about getting off on that. It's not the kind of thing I get to talk about much, since I've been out of Academy classes."

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