AWD #284: Pillows Are Myths
AWD #284: Pillows Are Myths
Summary: Warren drops off some paperwork for the CAG and discusses several pressing issues
Date: 17/10/2013 (OOC Date)
Related Logs: Various
Warren Atalanta 
CAG's Office
AWD #284

Bang. Bang. Bang. Goes the knock on the bulkhead door before the groan of it opening slowly and the newest captain of the wing pokes his head in, "Major? Spare a moment? I have the last repair logs, after action reports, requisitions and such sir. And also if you have a few moments wouldn't mind talking to you about an observation of mine, and perhaps some direction on what I can do about it. If you have the time of course sir."

That is an awfully, awfully long list of things to deal with all at once, which is readily obvious when he steps through the door — she's sort of hovering over her paperwork, slumped forward, trying to keep her eyes open as she slogs through all of it. It's no wonder why the CAG is so exhausted. She's still in her flightsuit, with a sort of greasy sheen to her skin — recent missions flown, and no sleep or shower in between it and the next one. Her reaction is a delayed one. She blinks twice, then nods to an empty seat across from her. "Would you like something to drink, Captain?"

Warren is actually out of his flight suit for the first time since they've arived on Picon. No ones spotted him in his blues before now really. Best he's managed so far has been his flightsuit pulled around his waist, but he's actually in his blues to appear for the CAG tonight. "Since we're still on condition 2 sir, if you have it, and its not too much trouble, tea would be wonderful," he says with a tired smile as he moves over to take a seat. "And sorry to add to your paperwork sir. Keeping up with this pace, has been hell paperwork wise," he says shaking his head, "I mean Frak, I get one set done and I have two more in front of me. And then the gun cam footage. I swear I've spent more time in the ready room and viper seat than I have my rack. Hell not sure if I'd recognize my rack at this point."

"I've been told it's the flat thing in that room a few doors down the hall, with fabric wrapped around it," she replies dryly before reaching up to rub the palm of one hand into the hollow of her eye socket. She rubs, and rubs, and rubs, until the skin goes from milk-white to a rough, pinkish-red. Stims. They make some people twitchy, other people itchy, and the withdraw is even worse. "And someone said something to me about something called a pillow. Personally, I think it's a myth." There's another awkward pause, like she doesn't know what to do with her own joke, before pushing herself up to her feet to fuss with the electric kettle that she keeps on the shelf.

Warren smirks a bit, "See now I know you're just making things up Sir. Pillows? Flat things with fabric? I'm pretty sure those things aren't real. Is this what you do to all new captains? Make up fantasy tales about beds and mythical soft things people lay their heads on?" He smirks a bit tiredly and chuckles a bit.

"At least I haven't sent you to go find the helmet stretcher — yet," she says wryly, one corner of her mouth twisting upwards. Atalanta peeks inside the kettle, checking to make sure that there's still water in it. The exhaustion is readily visible on her face and, if she didn't stop to make sure, it's entirely possible that they'd be sitting there for twenty minutes, waiting for Warren's tea without quite realizing what was wrong. "Have a seat."

Warren smirks a bit at the comment as he slips into a seat, "Thank you sir." He reaches down, adjusting the fit of his jacket a moment as he gets comfortable there, not too comfortable as well that may very well lead to falling asleep. "A lots changed since we got here sir. We've got more ground missions. We're either in the air or on alert. People are tired, or wired up with stims. We've got bloodied marines coming back and forth from the surface," he says as he leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees. "We're really in the thick of it now. And thats I'm concerned sir, worried even," theres a pause as if trying to find the best way of saying it, "It seems sometimes when we're out there, that some of the ECO's and such care more about getting up there on the kill board than making sure our people are safe."

Warren may be smirking, but the CAG's wry smile has swiftly turned into a frown. "…It's one of the things I was most concerned about when I transferred here, actually. I'd said as much to Major Holtz, though…," she pauses, electing to take care in her particular choice of words here. "It took some time for him to recognize what I'd been saying — that in comparison to some of the other crews that joined up with the Fleet, the Orion's people had it relatively easy. A comfortable planet below, a secure hiding spot from the Cylons. An impressive amount of missions run and combat seen given their circumstances, but it's not the same thing as what the personnel we've pulled off of Picon have been through since the war started." A beat and then, tersely, "What's the trouble with the ECOs? And have you spoken to Captain St. Clair about it?"

There's a nod to the first part, "The Orion was certainly not like back on the Rubaul when we were still out there. Frak this almost feels /easy/ in comparison." He shakes his head, "I've talked to Captain St. Clair about it as well. She's noted much the same thing. The ECO's? They want on the kill board, like being on there matters. Why jam raiders when you can be shooting missiles at non priority targets? Then also ran into a raptor pilot ensign, frak what was her name again? You know the one who used to be a knuckledragger?" He shrugs and shakes his head, "It'll come to me…but she was upset at how far down the kill board she was. How she didn't know how else to measure how everyone was doing outside of the kill board." He leans back in his chair, "I think people are starting to loose sight that the mission comes first, then our people, then getting non essential kills. And I think we're going to see viper jocks starting to forget that soon too. Maybe its the exhaustion, maybe the stims, maybe blind rage…I don't know. I think a briefing is in order, remind people that kills aren't what make pilots and ECO's."

"Wescott," the CAG fills in quickly. She is, apparently, well aware of the girl — whether that's a good thing or a bad thing for her is entirely debatable. "She was pulled up from the deck by Shephard, and trained personally by him." There's no comment or opinion offered in addition to the statement. Does there really need to be? She presses her lips into a thin line, letting what little color is currently left in them drain away. "I'll have a conversation with Captain St. Clair about it first. I appreciate the head's up, Captain, and it does speak well of you that you can see the bigger picture, but frankly, you're not the Ghosts' SL, and it isn't up to you to handle."

Theres a bit of a frown at the mention of Shephard but Warren nods, "Of course sir. I'm most certainly not. When last Captain St. Clair and I spoke on the matter she wasn't sure what to do, I told her I would bring it up with you sir." He shifts a bit in his seat, "I do want to at least get the strikes together and give them a talking to about the same thing. 'Sides need to remind them about communication as well. Regardless I'd rather be pro-active about things than wait for them to become a undisciplined mess before saying something."

That makes both of her brows shoot upwards, arching so high they threaten to bolt for the safety of her hairline. "While I'm glad that the two of you can work well together, she ought to be broaching the subject of her ECOs with me herself, Captain." The words are firm, immutable, and the expression which comes across her face is an expectant one. "I wouldn't expect to find her in here expressing your concerns about the Strikes, any more than I'd be prepared to go march into the old man's office and tell him all about some specialist the Chief has issues with."

"With all due respect sir I believe she plans to, she said as much. She didn't seem to take issue with me speaking with you on the matter," Warren says sitting up a bit straighter. "Sir I think she just needs options on how best to deal with it. I have no authority over there. I'd hope if the roles were reversed she'd voice her concerns too. I'm not looking to say she's a bad squad leader. Frak she's great at it sir. I just don't think we have time to play politics. It our asses out there to. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't raise the issue that puts my pilots in danger."

"No, you wouldn't be. But if she weren't planning to come talk to me herself — if she were asking you to do her job — then that would also be something I'd need to know, because it'd be even more concerning than the problem with the ECOs," she says, before finally producing his cup of tea. Normally, she's got a bit of variety on hand but, at the moment, is depending on the cheap stock from the mess hall to keep everyone caffeinated and running. So she thrusts it out at him and says, crisply, "What else?"

Warren takes the offered teacup, "Thank you sir, and I can understand that." He takes a sip of the tea as he relaxes a bit in his seat. "Well aside from asking the question of 'whats coming next' to which I know the answer is 'you'll find out when you need to know'…thats all buisness wise. On another note, how're you holding up sir? You look tired. Then again cut down the meals, start hot bunking and it'll almost feel like we're back on the Rubaul again," he says with a slight smirk and shakes his head before taking a sip from his tea once more, "Course I hear the CAG here is much more pleasant to deal with."

There's a pause. And then there's a laugh from her — it's this bright, airy sound that doesn't belong in a battlestar. It belongs in a ballroom, at a charity gala. "Careful, Smythe. You keep that up, and the rest of the wing won't be able to help but stare at that big brown spot on your nose." The comment is something of a shock, when paired with her crisp, upperclass Caprican accent. Of course, she's never really lacked a sense of humor. She just doesn't often show it in front of her men. With a soft sigh, she sinks down into her chair again and rests her hands on her stomach, made possible by the way she leans back ever so sliiiiiiightly. "We won't be leaving Picon until the planet is firmly ours, I don't think. Once we do, I have my eye on a few places we need to clear up and clean up, so we can finally put them to rest. I don't like the ambiguity of Minos, or the resources we've left sitting unclaimed at Hebe. In the meantime, I'm going to need to pull one of your Lieutenants for a project that's come down from Captain Grey; I'll be putting the bulk of it on one of the new recruits that I can't put in a cockpit yet, because I don't want to waste a pilot spending days in the dark reviewing gun cam footage, looking for a needle in a haystack. But once she's found some possibilities, I'll need someone to review our potential options. You and Major Holtz can have your pick of who you "volunteer" for the job."

A chuckle slips from the captain, "Well if I have to wash my face a few more times a day to get rid of that brown spot because I get you to laugh? Well I'd say its worth it. With everything being so damn serious now we could use something to laugh about now and then." He relaxes there a moment as he listens to whats coming up and he nods thinking on that a moment as he takes a sip of his tea once more. "Understood. I'll get with the major and get you your volunteer. Any idea of when you might need them? So I know when and where to make the flight and alert schedules flexible enough to allow for them being pulled for this?" he asks.

"That's going to depend on how long it takes to clear this girl for training and how sharp her eyes are — which, really, is one of the reasons I'm putting her onto the task, aside from making sure no one else gets bogged down it it. Captain Grey is looking to pick up a few Raiders that we left dead in the air — preferably ones that are as close to "intact" as they can be, after being shot down in a dog fight — for study and reconstruction." There's a shrug from her. Apparently, she's not yet jumping for joy at the idea, and likely won't until they actually see some useful results for the air wing. "Hopefully, it will only take a few hours, if the brunt of the work can be handled by our new midshipman. Conducting the actual salvage ops will take up more of our time, because we're going to have to fly guard for a cargo hauler, and even the ones with guns aren't fit to spend any substantial amount of time in a combat zone."

Warren gives a nod at that, "Fair enough sir. I have someone in mind, I'll get with the major and see what he thinks." Theres a sip of his tea again before he sets his teacup down before some idea pops in his head. There's a pause, as if unsure if he should mention it outloud, "Sir, I know its not really my business but any word about your family over on caprica?"

"I gave the name of one of my cousins to Spree, to pass on to Jankovic on Caprica. Before the bombing run, to see if there was any hope of turning local government representatives against the occupation forces," she says, tersely. "But no, I haven't heard anything back from them about him, or anyone else. Two of my sisters and their families likely died with Virgon. I'm not foolish enough to hold out hope there, or to think that my parents or any of the others would've abandoned the capital." A pause, and her voice hardens. "This is what the Franklins do, Captain. And have for two hundred years."

"Well I'm sure if they're even half what you say you'll see em again. Anyone family that stubborn is too stubborn to die," he says with a bit of a grin. "Mines probably dead, unless you've heard of any lieutenant colonel smythes or commanders for that matter popping up here on Picon. Not holding out much hope, for as long as we've been here fighting and no word?" He shrugs, "Well one way or the other we'll kick the damn canners off this planet."

"I am sorry, Captain," she says. Though neither her voice nor her face softens, both are earnest and entirely sincere. "And if I do hear anything of either, I'll be certain to let you know as soon as I do. But so far? Nothing." She sighs softly, running her thumb along the edge of her desk, right over the center drawer. Staring at it for a moment, as though the contents may somehow make any difference to either of them.

Warren theres a nod and a bit of a shrug, "Thank you sir. I doubted you had heard anything so far." He shifts for a moment and nods a little, "Well, when we get back to the big P we'll just have to stop by charlies and have a drink or two for our families then yeah?" Theres a slight smile on his face at that, "Course I think that whole leave thing is a myth too, just like those mystical pillows you were talking about earlier"

"When we get back to Piraeus, I plan on giving the entire Wing as much leave as a possibly can, and then setting up a dance down below deck for everyone to blow off steam." The corner of her mouth caves inwards, as she chews on the edges of her lips thoughtfully for a second or two. "Between what I've heard from you, what I expect to hear from Captain St. Clair, my own assessment of some of our junior pilots, and how most of our personnel from Picon is going to be feeling after finding out that even after retaking the planet, there's not much hope for their homes or their families? People are going to need to blow off steam." A beat. "If the old man allows it, of course."

"Well as long as you save me a dance again I think thats a great idea. Letting people blow off a bit of steam would be good once we get back. Take their minds off things for a bit, let them celebrate a moment," Warren says with a hint of a smile, "Though I'd suggest waiting a day or two after we get back, let people rest back up, and come down from the stims. Then again, that would be the most amusing dancing…everyone all jittery trying to dance. Can you imagine?"

The CAG blinks a few times, and then she starts to laugh. Again. It's that same bright, bubbly laughter, the sort that has no place in the dimly lit corridors of a warship in the middle of a combat zone. "No, no, Captain. Not a dance — a "dance". Set up a proper ring for it, give as many of the crew as we can the night off, and let them work their frustrations out blow by blow. Toss your tags in the box and rank doesn't matter. Toss your tags in the box and you're fair game." Honestly, it doesn't seem like the sort of thing she'd arrange. Especially not in comparison to a real dance… but then again, she was quite, ahhhh, enthusiastic ringside, at the Armilustrium.

Warren -OH's- and then laughs himself, "Ah that kind of dance. Well then, you don't have to save me a dance. Though if you want to I certainly won't stop you sir." He smirks and shakes his head, "Point still stands about letting everyone rest up first. It'll be good though, tensions between some are certainly high at times. Maybe I'll get to bet on shackelton again and win more free drinks from the marines."

"You stepped into the ring with Major Holtz and managed to survive," she says, shaking her head — though it's hard to say whether she's shaking her head at Holtz's temper or the question of Warren's sanity. "I think I'll pass, and keep all of my teeth in my head, thank you. I dread to think what the dental staff aboard would try to pass off as an acceptable replacement. I'll be spending my evening ringside, watching in appreciation. Distant appreciation."

"And yet you still promoted me even after you saw how breathtakingly brilliant I was to block his fist with my face over and over," he says with a chuckle, "As for your distant admiration of the fights? Still bet your the loudest voice in the room." Warren smirks a bit and shakes his head a bit, "Medical staff is going to hate us afterwards I bet."

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