PWD #08: The Science of Pickles
The Science of Pickles
Summary: The Raptor Berthings are full of it.
Date: 28/12/2012 (OOC Date)
Related Logs: None
Thaddeus Gwen Lennox Ygraine Zander 
Raptor Squadron - 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 Gentlemen Ghosts has been painted onto the wall behind the couch, as well.
PWD #08

It's late morning in Chez Raptor, and the bustle of pilots and ECOs coming and going from the next round of CAPs has died down to a dull roar.

Part of that dull roar is Captain Kostopolous, who stands at the little counter over by the couch, grumbling a steady stream of profanity at the electric kettle he's trying — apparently unsuccessfully — to clean in the sink. The cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth bobs in an agitated tempo as he mutters to himself.

Peek-A-Boo. That's probably the best way to describe the way Zander's head pops over the bottom of his bunk. He kinda' smirks a bit while looking in the direction of the Captain. "Need a hand, Sir?" comes the amused tone. Zander is not trying to laugh. Really, he's not. But he's finding this whole situation to be somewhat on the amusing side of things.

There's a faint flick as the newest-arrived of Team ECO lights her own cigarette, having woke from a lovely nap to the sad and clanky sound of men failing at dishes. She stretches out a slender leg, hooking the privacy curtain with a toe and sliding it open. From there, she has a fairly good view of the debacle. A hand is raked through the mess of her hair and she reaches up for her guitar. Soon, there's a droll little 'farmer chases chicken in the barnyard' tune accompanyung the Captain's efforts. Woo-hoo! Ain't everyone a commedian?

"Milk," mutters Thaddeus, looking over at Zander. It's an angry, flinty look, blue eyes like shards of ice. The peevishness isn't directed at his fellow raptorfolk, naturally, but the good Captain doesn't always remember to put his Happy Face back on in time. "Top secret mission, you'd think they'd winnow out the ones with syphilitic-rotten brains. Who the frak puts milk in a kettle? My mother beat my ass with a wooden spoon if I ever set foot in the kitchen and even /I/ know you don't put milk in the frakking kettle." Mutter, mutter, mutter. He rinses out another load of soapy water and starts drying the inside of the electric kettle. Gwen's, ahem, pastoral tune pairs well with talk of angry mamas and wooden spoon punishment; well enough that Thaddeus's grumpiness edges toward amusement.

"My immediate thoughts are to blame Milkshake, Sir." Not that he's telling the Captain to do that, but he's just kind of mentioning things. It only takes him another moment to look down below and spot the guitar playing that's coming from Gwen. "Can't you give him something a little more funky?" If they're going to take this entire Kettle Incident as Hilariously Serious as they are, they might as well have some more fun music to jam to. "Maybe you should put your hips into it, Sir." Oh, this is going to get weird and awkward quite swiftly. But at least, for once, Zander isn't playing that damn game.

Gwen stifles a yawn and attacks her right eye with the heel of her hand, effectively stopping the soundtrack. The pale, skinny thing spiders her way out of the bunk beneath Savas', barefooting over to the sink in her regulation skivvies to open the cabinet beneath. "White vinegar," she says, as the bottle is placed PLUNK on the counter. Her poshy accent makes it come out VIN-eh-guh. "And table salt." Plunk. "Works for all accretions. Better living through chemistry." Bettah, indeed.

"Milkshake's a farm girl- she ought to have more sense than that." Thaddeus stresses the /ought/ just slightly, and his brows twitch as he considers adding the Ensign to his list of Potentially Guilty Parties. The vinegar and salt, then Gwen, are squinted at dubiously for a few seconds before he picks up the vinegar jug. /Might/ work — it's science, after all. "How you both been settling into the second tour, anyway?" he asks, glancing over. "Things going about how you expected?" The questions keep him distracted from the vinegar stink.

"If I get any more settled, I'm going to own a piece of the Orion." Zander quips, finally deciding to descend from his bunk. He rolls out and drops down, stretching and shirtless. But for just a moment, as he's reaching back up onto his bunk to pull out a wifebeater to wear with these sweat pants that he sleeps in. "But don't you worry about a thing. I'm keeping Fatso here out of trouble." If only such words could be believed.

"Our Buttons is entirely too gallant," agrees Gwen, pulling her skinny arse up to sit on the counter and watch the miracle of science in progress. She takes a drag of her smoke and exhales. "He's even putting off a rather epic boss battle to accompany me to Checkpoint Charlie's tonight. Make sure everyone is treats me properly at my first social function." Her Knight in Shining Power Glove.

"Buttons, you ever feel like you're succeeding at keeping a girl out of trouble, all it means is they're starting trouble somewhere you haven't spotted yet." Smirk. Slivers of Thaddeus's teeth flash for a moment. He leans into the scrubbing, and blinks in surprise a couple moments later. "Hunh," he says, peering at the bottom of the kettle. This just in: SCIENCE WORKS. "Make sure you know the way back to the Raptor pad before you start drinking," he says, lifting his eyes to Gwen. "Everyone knows the way there. Half of everyone forgets the way back."

"Don't you worry about a thing, Captain. I'm leaning towards being the Sober Savior this particular round. I'll make sure everyone makes it back in one piece." Zander finishes fitting himself into his wifebeater and such and strides right on over to the others to get a much closer look at what's going on. "You think I'm gallant? I'm touched." Wink and then he's turning to the Captain's work again.

Having blinded the Captain with science, Gwen attempts to do the same with a smile. It's a shade too feline for blinding. Zander's comment gets a smoky laugh from the ECO-come-lately. "I think," she states with lovely diction, "you are both gallant and touched."

The heating coil of the electric kettle is starting to look more like a heating coil and less like a horrible stove accident. It — and Thaddeus — are starting to smell like a pickle. The wages of science, or something. "Maybe we can swap it for the Lucky Strikes's," he mutters, sniffing dubiously at the inside of the kettle once it's rinsed out. It's still very vinegar-y. "Frakked if it didn't work, though." Gwen is given an impressed lift of brows. "It smell like a pickle to you?" he asks Zander, thrusting the kettle toward him.

"Now you're speakin' my language. I volunteer Fatso for this mission, Sir. She's just skinny enough to slip in and out of their Berthings without being noticed." Zander's smile is big and bright. He does so love to mess with the Vipers. If only because it gives him a chance to obtain victory over those that would belittle him if they had the chance. Granted, this is probably a stereotype and then some. But whatever. Sticking it to the Vipers is good. Plus, it stops him from talking about the scent of pickles. "Pause. What do you mean touched?!" Eyes Gwen.

"The smell will go away," Gwen promises. C'mon, Cap. Would those eyelashes she's batting steer you wrong? "And the taste won't transfer." Science, man! BELIEVE! She looks rather blankly at Buttons as she's volunteered for — something. "You said it," she tells Zander, all doe-eyed innocence. "I only agreed."

"We went streaking in the park, skinny dipping in the dark, then had a mnage trois! Last Friday night!" In comes Ygraine with her laundry bag, the faint scent of dryer cloths and strawberry shampoo. Her buds are in her ears and she is of course, singing along - she's not horrible, but no one's going to recommend her for Caprica Idol. Dancing over to her bunk, she sits down, plants the bag between her feet, and starts folding.

The good Captain is dubious. But… science. And batting eyelashes. "Hrn," he mutters, giving the interior of the electric kettle another sniff. If all else fails, /test/ — and so he rinses it an umpteenth time, fills it with fresh water, and sets it on to heat. "It'd work, you know," he says to Gwen as he leans back against the counter, arms folded across his chest. There's a quick, conspiratorial glance to Zander. "Big smile, wide eyes. 'Just returning the kettle, sir.' Grab theirs, put down ours. It'd be-" He pauses as Ygraine boogies in, and raises his voice a little, in hopes of cutting through her music. "Milkshake. You try to heat milk in the kettle, here?"

Zander has already created the most innocent face he can muster up on such short notice right now. Probably has something to do with the entrance of Milkshake. And from there he turns to lean back against the nearest solid thing and look from the Captain to Milkshake to Fatso and then to the kettle. "Which totally just happens to be the most random inquiry ever, right, Sir?" is added to the line of questioning coming from the Captain. There's no guilt on the face of Zander. Nope. Not even a little bit. Or the fact that he can't look anyone straight in the eyes right now. Pay no attention to these signs of guilt! "Y'know, we could always just make sure it tastes like pickles. I'm sure science can do that, right?" That is asked of Gwen, while he's still in schemer mode.

"If… science can take the pickle out," says Gwen, dimples deep as the attempts to ponder this srs business, "I'm sure science can put the pickle back in again." Sagenod. Her eyebrows lift and she cranes around to get a good look at Ygraine, who could be In Trouble. Which is Interesting.

Ygraine pops her earbuds out, only to lean forward and mug Thaddeus with an are you kidding me? expression. "I'm from a dairy farm." Translation: No one with the regional record in fastest full pail milking speed is dumbass enough to stick the stuff in an electric kettle.

Thaddeus unfolds his arms and holds his hands up, palms out, toward Ygraine. "Easy, there. Wasn't me who thought you did it." Does he look sidelong at Zander, right about then? Do the corners of his lips twitch with poorly-restrained mirth? Magic 8-Ball says: FRAK YES. "Okay. Let's do this," he says, clapping his hands together and rubbing them vigorously as he turns to unplug the kettle. "Been at least a week since we ruined their day. How do we make this sucker taste like pickles?"

Zander continues to play as innocent of a role as humanly possible. "Y'know. Come to think of it. I think I'm supposed to be manning the simulators today. I should probably, y'know, get showered and changed and what-have-you." This is totally plausible. Right? Right. "I'll have to leave you all to your sordid plans of Viper Pwning." Yes, see, this is how one tries to get out of getting pwn'd by Ygraine for possible snitching attempts gone wrong. Now if only he didn't have to walk her way to get to his bunk. Crap.

"Baby frakking Eros," Gwen finally breaks into a grin, laughing. "All right. Fine. But if we are going to plot serious mischief, I'm wearing pants." Science and pants. The go together. She hops off the kitchenette counter and goes to pants up.

Ygraine turns and looks at Zander, one wheat colored brow arching before she looks back to Thaddeus. "Well, he would. Damn fool'd rather play a game than get near a girl, so of course he just says the first name that pops out of his dumbass mouth." There's an eyeroll, and she adds, "Wash it out with water and vinegar. You can get it from the folks in the mess. Someone explain this whole pickles thing to me!" She stretches her legs out so her heels rest against the bunk opposite hers. If Zander wants to get past her? YOU! SHALL NOT! PASS!

Zander is pausing in his attempt to get the frak out of dodge. Mostly because he's trapped. And being trapped is not exactly the best thing to be right now. Not when there's the possibility of getting pwn'd happening at the moment. "You're looking at this entirely wrong, Ygraine. It's not that you're the first name thatpopped out of my dumbass mouth. It's that you were the only name on my mind…?" That should work, right?

Gwen watches the Captain wander off with the kettle, tinkering. "No good can come of this," she opines, sotto voce. But wait! Buttons needs her — and she's totally into bunk loyalty. Even if she hasn't properly slept in it yet. "Now see here!" The smidgen of a JiG that is Gwen comes over, fastening her pants. "Sava has nothing even resembling a dumb assmouth. His ass — and his mouth — as you can see, are entirely separate. The question is — from which is he speaking, and from which is he excreting shite?" Yes indeed. Her accent makes it sound like she wants an essay about it on her desk by tomorrow.

Ygraine looks between the pair, and stands up. All 5'11" of her. "You know what else you learn on a dairy farm?" she asks, now including Gwen in the conversation while crossing her arms over her chest. "How to smell bullshit."

"Aw, who's being romantic now?" Lola's question sounds as she steps through the hatchway. She shuts it behind her, and gives the wheel a spin. "You sweet talking some young thing in here, Grainy?" She walks down the couple of spots to her locker, and flips it open.

"And I've learned from clocking many hours playing the Other Odyssey franchise that together we can accomplish anything. So what say we put all this behind us and turn our attention to making Viper lives hell for a few days?" Zander is more than willing to just let himself weasel off the hook and throw those Lucky Strikes on the skewer instead. "Raptor Pride anyone?" He's hoping the combination of that and the arrival of Lennox will keep everything from escalating quickly. Oh and he's smiling! And he's gameless! Progress!

Gwen smirks. "I think she may be on to us," she says to Zander, out of the corner of her mouth. She lifts a shoulders at the towering milkmaid and flops back onto her bunk. "I have no objection to raising some Hades, but the Captain's gone and disappeared with the kettle. I am open to ideas."

Ygraine seems mollified when Gwen backs down, and just looks at Zander. "Dumbass." she so baptizes him, then throws a smile at Lola. "Naw. But have you met Hipshot? Built like a wall and has the cutest Aquarian accent ever." With that, she ducks into bunk, which just happens to be under Convict's. Someone's gonna have herself some alone time. Take that as you will.

"There's always glitter." Lola shoves her duty blues into the locker after arranging them on a hanger, then swaps out to a tshirt over her off-duties, Caprica Sea Bucs logo across the chest. She grins to Ygs as she disappears into the lower bunk. "Enjoy." This as the curtain closes.

"… So I guess that's a no on the Raptor Pride. Right then." Zander may be looking off at the direction of Ygraine's bunk for a moment, before he turns his attention back to heading to his own. "I'm gonna' see if I can't wash some of this Dumbass off. I'll be back by the time—" Pause as he looks at Lennox's new choice of shirt. "Go Bucs!" And then he's snatching up his own towel and what-have-you. "Yeah. I'll be back in time to have just missed you girls gushing over whatever his name is." Finger Guns to both Gwen and Lennox as Zander tries to back his way out of the Berthings with style. Only to back into the wall with his shoulder. Ow. Uneasy smile and exit!

Lola throws a fist into the air at the intonation of the Caprica call. Yeah, baby! Buccaneer pride!

Gwen winces for Zander and cranes her head to watch him go, then sighs and lights up another cigarette. "That wasn't a bit awkward, was it?"

"Yeah, it was," Lola says. "And I don't even know what just happened." She kicks off her boots, and swaps them for a pair of rubber shower shoes, otherwise knows as flip flops, hot pink. Her toenails are painted an alarmingly matchy glitter pink, too. She shuts her locker softly, then takes the short climb up the ladder to her bunk right above Ygraine's closed-curtain cubby.

"Methinks Buttons is not at all impervious to the charms of the pulchritudinous milkmaid," observes Gwen, studying the bottom of Buttons' bunk and gesturings a philosophical trail of smoke.

Exit Zander, enter Thaddeus. (Terrible metre. It'd never make for a good song.) He has the electric kettle in his hands, and now, instead of he and it smelling of pickles, the smell is pickles and glue. "Right," he says as he strides in, fanning the air at the mouth of the kettle with his hand. "So we pour salt in, and it'll bond to the spaceglue, and they'll /never/ get it out." He pauses, looks up and around, realizing the population has shuffled about since he walked out.

Lola dangles her feet over the edge, and glances down as Gwen indicates Buttons' bunk. She quirks a little smile, but says very little on that subject. Really, in the scheme of things, it's best not to do too much mixing of commentary about your bunkmate and former Academy classmate. Stories could come out. Stories. "Oh, now I get it." The thing about the vipers. Half of the story's starting to make sense.

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