PWD #24: Private Viewing
Private Viewing
Summary: Cole commandeers the Ready Room for personal use, ends up sharing a smoke and a story or two with Thaddeus.
Date: 21/12/2012 (OOC Date)
Related Logs: None.
Cole Thaddeus 
Ready Room
Capable of seating every member of the wing with space to spare in its stadium organization, the Ready Room has more than two hundred seats and is the largest room on the ship dedicated to single briefings. Sections of desks were manufactured specifically for this and wrap the width of each level of seating, rolling leather seats positioned at even points through each row. The walls have the tenant squadrons' patches painted on individual panels as well as a Kill Board up to the left side of the dais and podium, the Training Board on the other side to log progress. At the rear hatch, on a barren section of wall, is the framed and cased photo of 'Bad Dog' Ruegger.
December 21, 2004

The Ready Room is dark, the only light cast by the flickering of images that are playing off the digital projector to the large screen at the front of the room. Cole picked a time as such that it was in between shift changes so the room is empty besides the man sitting in one of the rolling chairs with is feet propped up on the table in front of him. The remote to control the projector is resting against his lips, a finger poised on the set of buttons as he watches the silent film on the screen. Anyone familiar with roller derby would easily identify the oval track on the screen and the helmeted women screaming around corners and generally trying to cause each other havoc. As one particular girl - Scrape Suzette, by the name that is imposed over the bottom part of the image - comes racing around the bend, Ari and his remote snap to life, and he hits pause. The woman is frozen in time, tongue poised on her top lip with a wicked grin on her face. And so he sits and just studies that frame for a long time.

Dark, lit only by the reflection of the flash-frozen derbygrrl — until a brief swath of light marks someone's entrance. Bootsoles scuff the floor in a brisk stride, and a mostly-on-tune whistle accompanies the steps for two or three steps before stopping short. It's Thaddeus's voice that drifts down the aisle, scratchy and a little amused: "Looks like trouble."

Instinctively, Ari presses the stop button and the image goes from devilish looking brunette to the blue screen saver with the BS Orion emblem bouncing around in a random pattern. (Can it be random if it's a pattern?) With the cease of the digital recording, the auditorium lights start to transition back to lit, and Cole pulls his legs down off the table with a heavy plop of each boot as it hits the floor. "Hell on wheels." He responds in a voice that's a little hoarse. Clearing his throat, "Sorry, thought I had the room, sir." He's in his duty blues, but the front flap has been released of its buttons so it lays down in an off-duty fashion.

"Don't sweat it," says Thaddeus, as his footsteps pick up again. "Just here with some dotted i's and crossed t's for the Ragman." He raps his knuckles against the folder tucked under his arm as he tromps down the aisle toward the front. "Say," he muses, glancing over to Cole as he moves past his table. "You consider yourself much of a people person?"

Cole is on his feet, even as Thaddeus ensures there is nothing to perspire over. He gives a tug of his pants legs to settle them back around his boots, that are so shiny he could pass inspection with flying colors. "Guess so. Moreso than you, Dubs, that's for sure." A smile breaks the fog of his previous, and much more serious, expression. "We all have our moments." He's rounding out of the row he was on, legs eating up the ground quickly as he moves to retrieve his digital file from the projector. Wouldn't do to have that popping up at a briefing.

"Any friendlier and I'd rot my own teeth," mutters Thaddeus, his smirk aimed down at the briefing lecturn as he sets his folder amongst the other collected papers, jots a couple quick notes on the label. "Keep an ear out, if you could- for anyone sounding sore that they're stuck here for the next year and a half. Heard a couple little birds whispering to each other that someone's trying to find a way to turn this circus around." It's a pretty serious claim — top secret missions don't just turn around and head home — but it's delivered with a mild twitch of shoulders, as if it's No Big Deal.

"With all due respect, they knew what they signed up for. And this is a helluva lot better than deep space mining, if you ask me. At least we have a bar, right?" Though it's one that Cole isn't really known to inhabit. "But sure, yeah, if I hear of such a thing I'll spank the little cry babies and then send them your way. As long as it won't be construed as frat." He gives a little laugh at his own joke, fingers coming up to scrub at the short hair on the back of his neck. He pops out his disc, putting it back into the little plastic protective case and it gets tucked away in the open flap of his blues. Nope, nothing to see here. It was all just a figment of imagination. "What about you. Are you sore?"

Pale blue eyes flick over, track the plastic case as it vanishes into Cole's jacket, then slide away to re-read the note he just finished scrawling. "Sore? Not one bit," he answers, slouching one hand down into his pocket to retrieve his cigarette case. "Pissed we missed our reservation. Pissed I missed Marie. But sore? Nah." There's no sound of deception in his voice, no tension in his frame as he lights up, offers the case out to Cole with lifted brows. "If I'm gonna be honest? Out here feels more like home than the Anchorage did. You? Any regrets?"

"Marie?" Ari lofts the question, while holding up his own left hand to show the ring he rubs affectionately with his thumb, "Magnola." Assuming, of course, the Captain speaks also of a wife he left behind. But you know what they say about assuming. "I'm exactly where I belong." The answer is a bit cryptic but that's all he offers in response to the question of his chosen deployment. Approaching closer, fingers snake out, coiling around one of the offered cigarettes. He lofts it up before he tucks it between his smile, muttering a thanks around the filter. "Light?"

A practiced — and maybe a little showy — slap and snap flares the zippo back to life for Cole, then shuts it again with a crisp click once the cancer-stick's lit. "Sister," Thaddeus clarifies, mouth twisted higher at one corner than the other as he eyes Cole's ring. "Kid sister." He looks almost /fond/ for a moment, perilously close to smiling, then half-turns to point his chin toward the blank projection screen, instead. "So that was your girl? Still say she looks like trouble." /Now/ he grins, sly and conspiratorial.

Cole leans into the flame, pausing there in the ether long enough puff a cherry on to the end of his cigarette before he leans back. A huff and pucker of his lips has him exhaling a perfect smoke circle. How's that for showy? The grey loop elongates and gets wavy before it's dissipated entirely by the life support system. "I missed out on that joy. Siblings." His thumb scratches his bottom lip, the nail catching and tugging. "Pure handful, and I'm talking these two." His large lanky hands fan out, cigarette saved by being propped between his lips for that moment. "Makes life interesting."

Thaddeus must not be able to blow smoke-rings, considering the sour look he shoots at the one slowly drifting to pieces; in fact, with his next lungful of smoke, he exhales into the air where it once floated, like some sort of priest of cancer sanctifying desecrated ground. "Old man liked to spread his seed like he'd gotten pointers from Zeus Himself," he says with a smirk. "Made for a big family." He glances to the door for a second, as if mulling something over, then parks his ass on a corner of the table. "How long you been together? Putting the double-plus isolation pay toward a pretty little house with a pretty little fence, two-point-three kids in the back yard?"

"We met July Third, in Ninety-five. I've been lucky enough to call her mine ever since." Ari contimplates the end of his cigarette more than his conversation partner, holding it out to watch the paper burn for a moment before he continues. "After this eighteen month stint, I'm out. It's the end of my jacket, and I'm retiring from the service. Plan was always to pack her up and move her to some sweet little spot with lots of sun. All that matters is that I'll be with my wife when all this is over." Kids? No mention. "You? Returning to civilization to sow your seed like your Pops? Dozens of stern faced little Dublings?"

"Scorpia," Thaddeus immediately suggests. "Tiny swimsuits, coconut suntan oil, and climbing trees to get your own pineapples." He looks wistful for a moment, eyes focussed off on some middle distance, then blinks back into the here and now. "Marie sent me some pictures when she was stationed there. Half up a tree in a climbing harness, frakking machete as long as her arm…" He looks up at the ceiling, blowing his smoke up toward the fans and watching it vanish. "I'm here until they kick me to the curb, man," he says, giving Theo a sudden and very wry grin. "Two more years and I've been in the service half my life. I can't even imagine having more than a bunk to call my own anymore."

"I'm, uh…" Ari gives a little laugh, "I'm from there, man." And suddenly the man breaks out in a string of heavily accented words that sounds rather melodical, returning to his natural tongue of a dialect commonly associated with Yparana. Soon the words break into an /actual/ sounding song, if the little cha-cha like dance he's doing didn't already give it away. "My mom still lives there." His dancing dies away, "So what do you do with the dough? Send it to your family?"

"Hell of a place. Spent some leave there." Thaddeus scratches at his cheek, keeping his lopsided grin in check. "Good times." He doesn't expand upon the memory, though — instead he parks his butt on the edge of a nearby table, looking up at the high ceiling as he exhales smoke at it. "Sit on it, mostly," he says, jostling his shoulders with a shrug. "Blow it on leave. Marie tears into me if I send any to her. Few of my old Marine buddies and I time-share a place in Caprica City so we can crash off-base when we've got leave, but… that's it." He blinks at himself, seeming faintly surprised by his own statement.

"They say you can't take it with you." The matter of money seems to draw some gravel back into Cole's voice, but a quick draw on his cigarette has that obfuscated nicely. A dab at the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue proceeds the next, "So. Do you give a frak if I ask you a personal question?"

"Lack of anything to spend it on, man." Thaddeus shrugs broadly and gives a scratchy chuckle. "New upholstery for my bunk? Maybe a cashmere landing gear cozy?" His brows furrow up at that last one. "Bet they sell those somewhere on Virgon." He snorts and shakes his head to clear the idea from it. Blue eyes slide sidelong to Cole at the question, and the furrowed brows shoot upward, intrigued. "/You/ give a frak if I do?" he counters, a sudden grin flashing wide across his face. "Go ahead. Ask." He double-dog dares.

There is a half step taken to move into Thaddeus' bubble. The question must be so personal that the viper jock lowers his voice to speak of it, lest someone overhear and he even leans down towards the table-perched Raptor driver. "Just what…" Spoken so lightly it's barely an exhale. "…in all the Gods' name, is Dubstep?"

Something so personal that /Cole/ would lower his voice and lean in? Thaddeus's pale eyes are intent, even a touch wary — maybe he's about to be taken up on that dare, and a question he doesn't /want/ to answer is incoming — as he waits for it. Wa-a-aits for it-
-and gets sucker-punched with Cole's question, of course. Blink. He all but has /that's IT?!/ floating above his head in a little bubble. He barks out a smoke-scratchy laugh, gives the other pilot a /you gotta be kidding me/ smirk, and says, "Cocksucker. I thought it was going to be something serious." But he answers all the same: "You want the generic answer or the personal answer?"

Cole flops his ass down on the desk next to Thaddeus, cigarette touched to his lips again as his gaze wanders up the ascending rows of seats. Smoke twines out his nostrils before he fully releases the grey cloud from his lungs. "Not in ages." Is the quip to the epithet given to him by his fellow airwinger. He glances sidelong with a smirk, "My wife does this thing…nevermind. Give me the personal, why not."

/Nevermind,/ he says. Thaddeus is sorely tempted to ask anyway, if that half-amused, half-lewd expression has anything to say about it. He chuckles low in his throat, leans over with one foot lifted to grind the dregs of his cigarette out against his bootsole, then immediately sets to lighting another. "White noise," he mumbles around the filter. "It's like white noise. Tried everything- Aquarian whale singing, even Gemenese temple chanting- nothing works as well. Just… reaches in there, rattles all the crap loose, sets everything back in order."

"White…noise." The term sounds as foreign as the original term 'dubstep' and Ari is snorting slightly. "Not to say I don't believe you, man. To each their own. You'll have to let me have a listen some time, so I can form my own opinion. And that's where you got your callsign? Most people earn theirs in the most spectacular way they've ever frakked up."

"Used to try to spread the love," says Thaddeus, grinning lopsidedly at the ceiling as he blows smoke toward one of the fans. "Best music in the history of ever- you know. Annoying shit like that. Bunch of us were on leave, I was drunk, guess I wouldn't stop trying to change the music over. Got us kicked out of the party. Been Dub ever since." The lopsided grin goes a touch thoughtful. "Guess these days it's a reminder I was young and stupid like the rest of 'em."

"I don't know about you, but I'm //still/ young and stupid." Ari hoists himself back to his feet, reaching to Thaddeus' side to grind out his cigarette in the ashtray sporting the Orion symbol. "Or at least the Gods tend to remind me, as often as they can." Forefinger and thumb pinch his bottom lip, tugging it away from teeth. Eyes flick back to find the Captains. "Thanks for the smokes."

"Stupid? Yeah. Some things never change. Young?" Thaddeus's smirk is as cocksure as ever, but his eyes are more serious. "Don't know when I left it behind, but… sure as hell feels like I did. Gone like… frak, whatever." He barks out a laugh, hops up to his feet. Evasive maneuvers. "Media room in the library's got a projector," he says. "Smaller, but less likely someone's gonna walk in while you're rubbing one out." How he knows this is left a mystery of the ages.

Cole looks a little chastened, but the color only shows just above his collar. "With all due respect, sir." The viper stick clears his throat so it sounds more jockular in nature and rings maybe a little less truthful. "If I'm going to jerk off to a video of Mags? You damn well bet it will be the one I have of her doing Aerial Silks." His hand slips in the flap of his jacket where that data disc disappeared to earlier. Fingers tucked inside, he begins to thump them against his chest in a cartoonish version of a heartbeat. "Wowza."

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