2236-11-22 - Business or Something Like It

A meetup in the Tech Shop leads to potential business arrangements and possible plans for the post-war future.

Date: 2236-11-22

Location: Tech Shop, Deck 5, Armoury, Deck 10, Mess Hall, Deck 8, The Stairwell, //Galactica//

Related Scenes: None

Plot: None

Scene Number: 887

Jump to End

With the ship under Condition 2, and in orbit only a hop, skip, and a jump from Tauron, the firing range has been seeing more action than a well-built marine from Picon. As such, the ammunition stores that the range supplies for its weapons (in order to save the good rounds for the cylons) have been disappearing at a prodigious rate. Which means that there's more than enough busy work for the techs on board to be getting on with.

To that end, Tamlin is seated at one of the work benches, working on her very own assembly line. Cleaning, straightening and polishing the empty shell casings for the rounds, and then working down along the line to secure the primers, load the powder, tamp in the round and then send it through the machine to clamp everything together. It's a bit like doing demo for the Vipers and Raptors, only on a miniature scale. There's already a large box of reloads off to the side, reading to be picked up by whomever the Marines send down.

This isn't a part of the ship that marines frequent very often. At least not those that aren't engineers and don't fuss with explosive devices. Charlie is, in fact, a wee bit lost. The young Corporal sort of leans in through hatches and can be heard -- faintly, distantly -- down the hall asking for directions before she appears in the portal between hall and shop. Dressed in the khaki tan uniform of a marine, the dusky-skinned woman is holding a hefty case. One that can likely be recognized as a sniper rifle's kit. She at least bears it easily as she steps through, looking about for an individual that is pester-worthy.

"Just leave it on the bench. I still have the rest of this crate to work through." Tamlin's hand tugs down on the lever of the turret press that puts everything together, all of the pieces coming together with a satisfying 'chunk' sound. (If you've seen Constantine, you've seen one of these things in action). When she doesn't hear the thunk of a metal crate on the deck, she stops in mid-stream, looking over to the Marine standing with her arms full. "Oh, sorry. I was expecting Givens from the range. What can I do for you," a quick glance at the other woman's uniform, "Corporal?" Her tone is friendly, curious, her accent Caprican.

Lifting a hand to push her hair back behind her ear, Charlie steps closer as Tamlin speaks to her. The case is hefted a bit before she lifts it to set it in the empty space on the bench. It takes up a smaller footprint than a crate, at least. The woman doesn't immediately respond; she opens the case first and rotates it so they can both see. "Charlie Wagner," she provides, so the tech has more than a rank to work with. Her own accent is Picon. Queenstown. Surfer. "My main scope-" she plucks it out of its foam-padded compartment, "isn't sighting straight. I think it got rattled loose on my last mission. Think one of ya can take a look?"

Tamlin hops down from where she's sitting, "Tamlin Dorn." A 'huh,', as she catches the accent. "Met a boy a few days ago, sounded just like you. -- I mean, your accent, not that you sound like a man. Mellow." Her own accent is one of those really hoity-toity Caprican ones. Not mellow at all. She moves over towards the rifle, "May I?" Marines can be tetchy about their weapons, so she makes sure to ask permission before she touches any of Charlie's equipment. The scope she accepts, turning it over, a hand reaching down to pull a larger version of what might otherwise be described as a jeweler's loupe from a pocket of the duty greens that she's wearing. She holds it up to her eye with one hand, for the moment eschewing the band that she would normally use to secure it to her head. "I think I see the problem. Shouldn't take but a minute to fix. You got the time?"

"Nice to meet ya." A beat, then, "Yeah? Lot of Picons around, from what I've seen. Guess the new fleet trusts us." Because Caprica has never had an issue with Picon. Too laid back to really care about much, perhaps. Charlie gives a nod at the query, offering over the scope. Once her hands are free, she shoves them into her pockets just like a proper naughty Marine. The woman waits, only briefly rocking back onto her heels. When asked if she has the time, Wagner gives a bit of a scoff and looks towards the hatch. "Well, you're giving me reason to put off PT for a bit longer, so go right ahead." And a nearby crate not being immediately used? Well, that becomes a place to sit.

"I imagine with everything you all went through, there're a lot of people looking for some payback as well. Which is a bonus given how many of the colonies had to practically force people to sign on." That's not said with any heat. It's just a fact. Still any number of Colonies not yet on board with this whole 'cooperation' thing. "Take a seat," she offers, though she says it as she's already turning back to the bench, and so actually misses the fact that you're already finding a place to settle. Tamlin slides her stool back over, settling in front of a vice, a hand drawing one of the bench lamps over, the flexible neck angled to make it easier for her to see what she's working on. She sets the scope into the vice, turned up to let her get a good look at the scope's mount. This time, she does put the loupe on, securing it around her head with the elastic. "Anything I can do to help a body out, I'm happy to do it."

"I don't fault 'em for it, really. Caprica hasn't always treated some of the other colonies very well. You add in those that fought for some sorta independence-" Charlie shrugs, leaning back and crossing her legs at the ankles; boot upon boot. "I could see how they might see it as a bid to be in charge. But they'll learn to look past that to the greater good." Politics suck, belief in people to be good, Picon hopeful nature. "Well, this will help me quite a bit. I'm pretty fond of that kit and I'd hate to break it up to nab a different scope from the armory."

"Believe me, Caprica hasn't treated its own people very well, more than once in the past, so I know a little of what you're talking about. And the fact that a lot of the colonies think we're to blame for the cylons to begin with. Well, let's just say...I know how unpopular the planet of my birth has become." She looks away from the scope, sliding a door open at the small cabinet attached to the wall above the bench and pulls out a few tools. A small hammer chisel, a sleeve of files, "I can only hope that people will choose to judge each other personally, rather than lumping people together based on their colony of origin." She looks back, the loupe, magnifying her eyeball to a ridiculous degree gives her a weird, cartoonish mad scientist look, "I don't think it'll be all of that. Looks like the mount's been bent. I can fix that easily enough. We can check the rifle over after."

"Well, good for you on being open to seeing it. Lotta folks from Caprica, 'least the major cities, seem to be... less inclined. It's not the people, you and I know that. It's the government." Charlie shifts, planting her feet square to the ground. She leans forward, resting forearms against her knees; hands falling into the empty space between her legs. She watches the tech work; mildly interested, but not overly so. No creepy stares here, just light observation. "Just the mount? Good to know. I try not to frak with those in the field. Worse to break the mount from using the wrong tools."

"A lot of folks who sound like me, you mean? Yeah," she turns back, adjusting the scope on the vice and starting to work on the bent mount, pulling out a set of pliers to assist. "Governments are like most corporations. The marketing tries to convince you that they actually care about you...but what they actually care about, is the bottom line." It's delicate work, yes, but it's also aircraft aluminum alloy, so it needs some force behind it to work the kinks out of the metal. Just ignore the tapping and occasional banging. "Don't worry, I'll sand it down and polish it up good as new." Finally, all that work on how to fix KEW mounts is coming in handy off the deck.

The tech Shop is busy as ever, but off in the rear, at the benches where much of the more delicate work is done, one of the techs, in navy duty greens, is seated on a stool. Just to the right of her is a ammunition reloading station, that is still in mid-use. There are empty casings, sheets of primers, unloaded bullets, powder, as well as a half full large box of reloaded rounds. The tech herself, is seated in front of a table mounted vice, a large magnifying loupe secured to her head over her right eye, working on what looks like a sniper's scope. Another woman, in marine duty khakis, is seated on a nearby crate, watching the tech work. A sniper rifle, still in its carrying case is to the tech's left.

The woman that enters the shop next, slipping in quietly with the minimum of fuss, could be anyone. She's dressed in off duty tanks, with dog tags swinging somewhere from the sliced open now V-neck, and has her thumbs tucked into her belt loops. Casual as she might appear, however, Rhona has her eyes well and truly open, scanning every box, crate and shelf to identify everything here. Occasionally a slight, crooked smile tugs at her lips as she sees a particular otherwise completely innocuous part.

There's a bit of a grunt in acknowledgement to something Tamlin's said. Agreement without overtly saying 'You're right.' She shifts slightly on the crate, but still leans upon her forearms. "Government's out for themselves. They just placate us, really." There's a glance up as the other woman enters. Quiet and casual, but Charlie's sitting at the proper angle to see her. There is a sort of nod - just the lifting of the chin - before she looks back to the tech's work on the scope.

Tamlin doesn't look away from the work she's doing, the work as well as its import not lost on her. No one wants to send a Marine out into combat with a shoddy weapon. A few taps of the chisel, to which she's applied a cover so that it applies force without chipping the metal of the mount echoes a bit in the semi-enclosed space, "That's sort of what they're there for. But then...where would be we without government? Oh, right, Sagittaron." Tamlin sits back, turning away from the scope to pull the rifle case closer. The shift of her focus allows her to catch sight of the new arrival, "Help you find something?"

"Other way round," the Hibernian admits simply, giving both of the women a brief nod of greeting. "Well, sort of. Don't let me interrupt you, though, it can wait, sure. Just wondering if we're short of anything useful down here. McRae," Rhona offers, without rank or first name, "Virgon. I used to work in supply, so I can keep my eyes open for anything you're struggling for."

"Or Aquaria." Where there's too few people to properly have a government. "Freezing our asses off." Charlie looks up and over to Rona as the woman speaks up. She's more inclined to listen in this regard. As to what deck does and doesn't have? The marine hasn't the foggiest. She had to ask directions just to get here. So the woman just leans down to retie the laces on one of her boots.

Tamlin looks over at the new arrival, the loupe over her right eye magnifying her eyeball to comical levels, "The biggest thing that we're missing at the moment, is hands. We're still at barely half complement for the crew." The Galactica had only taken on about fifty percent of its crew when they were called out to Tauron. Transport from Scorpia to their current orbit has been few and far between, with an active cylon presence in the area. "Dorn," Tamlin offers, "Caprica." And not, sadly, down country Caprican, but real gentrified stock, at least according to her accent. Tamlin turns away, pulling the rifle closer and inspecting the clip where the scope would normally be attached, "Speaking for the deck," where Rhona might or might not have seen her before, "We'll never say no to sheets of aircraft aluminum and triple-insulated wiring. And sealant tape. Have you seen the state of the deck? They're already doing their level best to wreck those birds."

Rhona gives a slow, thoughtful nod. "I'll put the feelers out, see what we might not be able to find. Anything you've got a surplus of that'll pass for trade if I can get my hands on anything?" comes the next suggestion. "Same goes for you and the rest of the marines," she adds towards Charlie with a nod. "Let me know. Don't ask, don't get, sure?"

"They were scheduling folks for being brought out when I got here." The marine herself being one of those who came in after the departure. Charlie sits up a bit straighter as Tamlin begins working on the rifle's body itself. At least where the scope attaches. "Can't just have a transport ship bring them to the shipyards and board from there. They were scheduling it in groups of two, with another Raptor outfitted to protect 'em." If things went sideways. The sniper's own accent is Picon. Queenstown. The sort of languid drawl that the oceanside community tends toward. Wen Rhona speaks to her, the Corporal lifts her chin to regard the woman. "Anything, eh? Entertainment always goes over well with marines. Especially since out here it's not so easy as taking a day off-base to pick things up."

"That I won't know for a while yet. We're still spinning up to full readiness. I'll keep an ear to the ground though. You might want to ask around. The engineers spend more time around here than we do. There's actually a shop up on the deck, but, again, not fully stocked, so we're sharing resources in more ways than one while we wait for the ship to be battle-ready." Which, to be frank, it really isn't. Yet. "That's slow going, transporting in wartime conditions." Tamlin nods to Charlie's comment, "With the net being down, people are starved for the types of things they used to be able to get with a quick connect to the net. Movies, music, porn." She's no sniper, but she is a soldier, and as she picks up the rifle, she makes certain to clear the rifle, and ensure the safety is on, before she sets it up on the table. The scope she removes from the vice, sliding it onto the bracket with a satisfying click, before she lays the weapon on its side. She slides off of the stool, leaving room for the Marine, "Give it a go. See if it works for you. I can do some fine-tuning if it's not right."

Rhona gives another of those nods, leaning up against the nearest stack of crates. "I'll see if we can get an exchange system up and running. Plenty of people coming in from all over, and if they've brought their own vids, we can start swapping them around. If you have anything you don't need any more, or anything you pick up on ex, let me know and I'll give you a price for it. One man's trash, and all that. There's a buyer out there for everything, if we're prepared to look." She digs in her pocket for a moment, pulling out a tattered pack of gum which she offers over, raising a brow.

Tamlin reaches over, accepting the a stick of the gum with a brief smile and a, "Thank you." She pops it into her mouth, fingers carefully folding the wrapper and stick it into her pocket. "There might also be a market for resupply as well. There are a whole lot of people on the ship that either lost everything in the attacks, or only had time to come with the shirts on their backs." She tips her head to Charlie, "That other Pican I mentioned, he might be in the market for a guitar." She looks back to Rhona, "Little things like that that you sometimes either can't get, or don't realize you'll probably want. Specially if this is your first time on a ship after a ground-based station --" Tamlin looks over, as she hears a whistle and then, "Genie, call from the deck." She looks between the women, "Back in a few. Make sure you're happy with the work on the rifle."

Pushing to her feet after checking the laces on her other boot, Charlie moves over to the workbench. She doesn't sit, but rather picks up the rifle and adds a couple more attachments from its case. She works quickly, snapping things into place. "I'll let word 'round the barracks. I know some people bring things to trade as it is." There's a wave off of the gum with a sound that is probably gratitude for the offer. "I've not got much myself," she admits of Tamlin's words. "But I don't need much, ether." When the tech departs, there's a nod for her before the woman is lifting the rifle to her shoulder and sighting along it.

"Everyone has something they want," Rhona insists. It could well be her creed. "Just you let me know when you work out what it is for you. Decent quality tea? A pair of waterproof socks for when you're on exercise? Hand cream?" She unwraps a stick of the gum for herself, popping it into her mouth. "How's the rifle?"

"Unless you can provide me some good waves and a surfboard?" Charlie shrugs. She seems satisfied with the scope as is and lowers the rifle. The scope is removed, the work studied, and then replaced. On and off a few times before she lifts it back to her shoulder. "I'm good. Anything else I'd want was either irreplaceable and lost at Triton, or not worth the trade cost." Pleased with the work done, the Corporal lowers the weapon and begins taking it apart for storage again. "But I'll spread the word nonetheless."

Rhona half smiles, shrugging. "Waves and a surfboard might yet be beyond me, but I'll keep my eyes open regardless. I could find you a pen with a surfer in the grip, that moves when you tip the... yeah, never mind. Not exactly the same thing, is it?"

The parts are packed into the heavy case; nestled into its foam. Charlie snorts in amusement at the offer. "Not quite, no. Sunshine, good waves, and a freshly waxed board. If I could have anything, that'd be it. Now, find me a voucher for leave and we might be in business." As if anyone on board is going to have a legitimate one of those. The weapon is fully packed away and the case closed. "This does beg the question... What are you trying to get that you're offering to facilitate all these trades?"

"I'm not all that altruistic," Rhona admits freely, chewing on her gum. "I'll take a cut from any trade I do, so I can get myself the bits and pieces I want. Cubits are universal. I mean, I know they say money can't buy happiness, but those people who say that don't know where to shop."

"They say that because one person's happiness isn't the same as another. Surfing? Makes me happy. But I doubt it's where you find yours." A -- perhaps -- surprisingly insightful comment from the marine. She lifts the case and moves it off the workbench and to a nearby crate. In case Tamlin returns or another tech needs the space. "See, some civvies would be nice. Some t-shirts, pair of jeans. But I'm not gonna have the chance to use 'em anytime soon," no civvies allowed on the ship, after all. Just off-duty uniforms. "And the cost of trade-" she sucks at a tooth briefly, looking to Rhona. "Way too much for something I can't actually enjoy."

Rhona shrugs. "Eh, we might still do a good trade, at a cost that's next to nothing to you. You're more likely to be planetside than the rest of us, and you might spot something you can pick up. You've got a good chance to find all kinds of things that might not be any use to you, but could be well worth a trade up here. And I'll see if I can find you some civvies you can wear. Underwear, sleepwear, that kind of thing." She smiles slightly. "Anything I can find with surfing as a theme I'll earmark for you. Take what happiness you can, hm?"

"I'm alive and still kickin'. That's good enough for me at the moment." Charlie isn't alone in the visible scars she sports. So many, already, have paid witness to the war and come away marked by it. She leans her hip against the workbench and starts rolling up the sleeves of her duty shirt. It's careful work; just in case someone sees her and calls her out on a sloppy job. Nope, this is a proper roll. "But I'll keep an eye out for stuff if I'm ever ground side and not getting shot at."

"It's a deal. Right, I'll leave you to it," Rhona decides, pushing herself upright and giving a lazy touch of her forehead in a sort of faux salute. "Time to go and get a couple of hours R&R before I'm on duty. I'm sure I'll see you both around."

There's a bit of a brow-quirk at the salute. Lazy or faux or no. But Charlie just gives another upnod to the woman. "Probably. It's a big ship, but eventually it won't seem that way anymore. Only so far you can run." She hefts the case, herself. Likely ready to get it returned to the armory.

It's a good long while, before Tamlin returns to the bench she was working on, the roaming woman, did she even introduce herself, having wandered off, and the Marine apparently packing up to head out herself. "Sorry about that. I take it everything worked out alright for you?" She gives a nod towards the rifle, heading back to the work station and starting her cleanup, putting away the tools she used for your repair.

"Yep." Charlie hadn't quite departed yet, distracted by the equipment used for preparing fresh rounds. She hefts the case up just a bit. "Tested it a few times. Removal, locking it in, all that. I should get the back to the armory, though. They get a bit antsy when you've had something checked out on board for a while." The woman begins to move towards the hatch, squinting down the hall, then back to Tamlin. "Dunno if I trust her. Sure she's talking about getting a cut on the trades... But she still seems too ready for it. I'd be wary of going into business with her for ship equipment."

"That's why I tried to be as vague as possible. I mean, I know a good scavenger has to be circumspect, but aside from her name, she really didn't give us any information about herself. I mean, on the one hand, this is a closed system, and we'll find out who she is eventually, but on the other hand, she might have led with that." Tamlin indicates the reload station, "No point in wasting good ammo at the firing range, especially as bad as I have seen some of the people on board shoot. Myself included. I am no Marine. And it'd be a waste not to recycle and reuse what we have. We usually do it in the in-between time, but some of the Marines do come down to load their own, you just need to let us know you'll be down here." She starts cleaning the station up, putting away the supplies and locking them behind one of the security gates, before she picks up the box of reloads, "Mind a buddy? I think I'm done for the day, so I'd like to drop off what I've got."

"She offered her name as McRae, but-" Charlie shrugs. "Doesn't give us much to work from. Suppose we could find someone with the directory of personnel." The Corporal briefly checks the roll of her sleeves before stepping through the hatch. There's a shrug at the query as she moves aside so that Tamlin can follow. "Well that and the AP rounds we use might damage the hull. That wouldn't be fun for anyone." Nope, best to use things capped in rubber and the like. But she seems fairly open to the offer. There's even, before she starts off down the hall, a tilt of her head. "Maybe with both of us, we can avoid the rant. The guy on duty's from Gemenon. Keeps trying to preach at folks today."

"Well, at the least, we can check the duty rosters, one or the other of them should give us some clue." Everyone on the ship has some sort of shift. "She can't be engineering, or she'd have known what was down here, I would imagine, and wouldn't have had to ask. So we start with our departments and work from there." Tamlin falls into line, the lid of the box tightly closed, allowing Charlie to set the pace, "I'll distract him. I actually have quite a fondness for religious texts. You can get in and out no problem."

"I'm not too worried about it. I'll let folks in the barracks know, but I don't think anyone's too desperate yet. We still get mail and time on the shortwave to send messages back home. Easy enough to have folks you know send you things." Charlie moves at an easy pace. Not too fast, not too slow, and able to skirt around people walking the other direction. "Eh, I'm not very religious, but this guy must have had Sag parents or something, because he'll also preach on how modern medicine goes against the Scrolls or- frak me, I tune out, I don't even know. He'd better hope he doesn't find himself being shot at anytime soon."

"Unless they're all dead." She pauses for a second, "Okay, depressing, moving on." She keeps a good pace, weaving in and out of the foot traffic. "It's the isolation that gets to you the most, least it did for me on my other ships. You get tired of the things you've got just because it's the same things you always have, you know? I wish her luck, maybe she'll find what she's looking for. Me, I need a guitar." She gets to the stairwell, chunk, chunk, chunking her way down. Fireman's boots, which she wears even when she's not in her deck coveralls, are loud.

The marine, on the other hand, moves quietly. Charlie's training is either so deeply ingrained or thorough that she moves lightly even when she doesn't need to. Like heading downstairs. "Guitar, eh? So that was for you and not someone you've recently met, then?" The Corporal looks amused. "Good way of going about it. I bet that'll be a hefty price, though. Might be hard to find someone on board with one. They're not easy to travel with or keep in a bunk, y'know?"

"Oh, not for me." Chunk, chunk, chunk. Deck six, achievement unlocked. "I play the harp. But that Pican I told you about? Lucius Reeves. He came from Queenstown. Got the impression that he lost pretty much everything in the attack there." She takes a moment to consider, still stomping her way down the stairs, "I don't know, I mean, I just met the guy, but there are just so many, not just on Picon or Caprica, who have lost so much, sometimes everything. It seems like such a small thing to try to get someone something back of what they had." She stomps to a halt at the hatch to deck 10, "After you."

The tech is making enough noise for the both of them, so Charlie just keeps to her lighter step. "Queenstown..." There's a rise and fall of the marine's shoulders. "Not as badly hit as Hyperion. Queenstown has taken over as capitol, as it were. Not that... well, I guess people are less concerned about that sort of thing now. It's just got a lot more people. Refugee types." There's a sort of discomfort to the woman's words. Like talking about the things that happened to Picon aren't really her favorite topic. "We're alive," she notes, rounding the corner after going through the hatch to approach the armory desk. "That's the important thing."

Tamlin doesn't seem inclined to dwell too much on rehashing what is likely to be an ongoing and painful topic, instead offering only, "Yes, we're alive. But sometimes it helps to have little things to remind us that we are alive. That there are still good things left in the world to live for. Little joys, small pleasures." She breaks off once they get into the deck proper, "It'll only take me a sec to drop these off." She heads towards the firing range.

"I do that with food and alcohol. The latter is more difficult now." Damn her missing Galactica while it was at the shipyards. There's a nod for Tamlin as the tech heads off for the firing range. Charlie hands over the case, signs off on handing it back in, and waits for the marine on duty in the cage to check it over. While she waits, she leans up against the wall by the desk. A pocket knife is brought out and she fusses at cleaning under her nails. The usual 'standing by' type behavior.

The deckie doesn't take that long. Easy enough to chunk her way into the firing range, the sound of muffled fire escaping the open hatch, drop the box on the desk for the marine standing duty, and then had back out. She heads back to meet the marine, "Well, the food in the galley's not bad at all. And maybe you can just sort of sneak the alcohol in, like...rum cake. With extra rum. My mother had a cook who would make a fruitcake you could light on fire. Thank for the company down."

"Well," Charlie is pushing away from the wall as the sergeant on duty waves her on after verifying all good with the rifle. "It's not like we don't get off-duty time. Could find excuses for some. I'm just not so sure it can be mailed in." Hands into pockets, she falls into step near the deck; trying to avoid being dragged into a religious conversation with the on-duty marine. "And I'm not about to indebt myself to whoever that was earlier." There is a shrug, finally, with a glance over to Tamlin. "Not a problem. Had to come down here anyway."

"Well, I would imagine that we'll put back into port sooner or later. Especially as we I don't think they were completely ready to sign off on the ship. So we can hope for a return to Scorpia. Once she hears the man at the desk start cranking up, Tamlin looks over at him, and when she speaks again, you might or might not recognize the language. It's Gemenese, but an old, very formal sort. Not really the sort they speak now. "Don't worry, I have her in hand. She is my particular mission." She gives the man her most winning smile, and then moves into bracket Charlie, so that she can dash up the stairs and away from danger.

When Tamlin is back by her side, Charlie looks over and arches a brow. "Frak, you're not Gemenese, are you? 'Cause I haven't got much a problem with them, overall. I'm just not a fan of having religion pushed at me, y'know?" The woman's shoulders round a bit in a classic 'awkward' sort of pose as she treks her way up the stairs, skirting around a couple CIC types on their way down.

Tamlin laughs, the noise of her boots much less noticeable now that she's walking up the stairs, "Oh, no, I'm not even religious. I just like to read about it. I mean, it's just fascinating to read all of the old stories and prophecies and things. Religion, history, mythology, I love all of that. But it seemed to throw him off. I mean, I don't even speak modern Gemenese. That was Old Gemenese, or at least a form of Gemenese that hasn't been spoken in a hundred years." She offers a grin, "I was just banking that he'd have heard it so often, he might not realize it's all book learning."

"Well," Charlie lets out a bit of a sigh, shoulders relaxing. "That's good. Weird sort of hobby, if I gotta be honest." There is a smile cast over in an attempt to soften any blow from her words. "My father would go through fits of that. Find something new to research and it'd become his entire world. But I figure that's just part of being an author." She has to step aside again as someone moves by carrying something hefty. Gotta love the stairways. "And, to be honest, not something I'd expect of someone on deck."

"Most of my hobbies are sort of weird, I suppose. Maybe it comes from growing up rich on Caprica." She says it as if it were just a thing, part of her life or history, "We never got out much, except when our father needed to parade around the whole family. You don't live a very normal life, I suppose. But when I was about eight, my mother took us to the Delphi Museum Of The Colonies, and I was so amazed. It was like this whole other world opened up for me." She looks over at the Marine, "I know it sounds stupid, because it doesn't even exist anymore, if it even did, but still, it was a world I could escape into whenever I wanted to. I didn't even need to leave the house. I've loved all that sort of a thing ever since." She smirks, considering, "You could have cured cancer. You could have cured disease. You could have been someone important." She says that in her normal accent, but in a deeper, slightly more masculine tone. "Instead, you decided to be a mechanic."

"Well," Charlie lets out a bit of a sigh, shoulders relaxing. "That's good. Weird sort of hobby, if I gotta be honest." There is a smile cast over in an attempt to soften any blow from her words. "My father would go through fits of that. Find something new to research and it'd become his entire world. But I figure that's just part of being an author." She has to step aside again as someone moves by carrying something hefty. Gotta love the stairways. "And, to be honest, not something I'd expect of someone on deck."

"Parents are never happy with how their kids turn out," Charlie offers, before tilting her head left and right. Thoughtful. "At first. I mean, they get these ideas in their head of what we should be and invariably, we never meet that idea. So they fuss for a while before-" The woman just sort of shrugs. "Being a surfer wasn't good enough. Then neither was being a marine. I mean, damn, to this day I don't know what my dad expected of me other than to fit..." she waves a hand absently, "his stories." There's a glance to Tamlin, mouth pulling to one side. "I couldn't imagine being taken places like that."

"I suppose things aren't that different from Colony to Colony. I think all parents expect you to...I don't know that it's necessarily walk in their footsteps, but maybe, better to say, they want you to live out the lives they wish for themselves. If they were strong, you're going to be stronger, if you were smart, they expect you to be smarter. Maybe people only have children so that they can live out alternate paths of their own lives through them." She doesn't seem offended by the expression, "I can't really imagine going to the beach either. I went to this park once, it was for this big fundraiser, on Caprica, they probably don't have them on Picon," you know, seeing as you have, like real oceans and beaches and things, "And they had this this whole beach recreated, with a wave pool and everything. It was so sandy and I burned the bottom of my feet. I've never had a taste for it since."

"A wave pool." Charlie can't help but scoff a bit, breaking out into a laugh. "Caprica's got beaches, but they're not the same. At least I assume, since the few surfers I met didn't know what to do when they got to Queenstown or Hyperion." The marine is in good spirits, overall. Easy banter. "I'm already pretty bummed out by just having a pool here. I mean, I guess it could be worse. Some ships haven't even got that. But I miss the sun and waves."

It's easy enough to see the humour in her story, and Tamlin's laughter joins yours, "I know they do, but they're not like the ones on Picon, or some of the other less cannibalized worlds. And they're also not that close to Caprica City, where we lived. So people like the fantasy. They like to be tourists. And if they can't be tourists, they want to pretend that they are. It's like going to a shopping center and having fake snow falling in the winter holiday displays." She tilts her head, thoughtful as they pass along the stairs, "Maybe that's what you could trade for. A holoband program of being on the beach on Picon. Or maybe have one sent from home."

"Maybe if I get desperate enough," Charlie admits, after a period of quiet. Considering the possibility. "Holobands have their place and all, but it's just not the same. I don't go to sleep smelling the salt still in my hair. I won't have my board to tend to after conquering some waves." She looks over to the deck shrugging once again. "I knew what I was giving up when I signed on. I mean, I didn't expect war, but I knew I wouldn't get to just frak off and go to the beach whenever I wanted."

Tamlin considers, thoughtfully, "Nothing is exactly the same. But, and this is just my opinion, might it not be better to have a little of what you love, even if it's not quite the exact way you really want it, then just to starve yourself of everything? A holoband isn't perfect, but I still load up my Delphia program and wander around looking at old, albeit imaginary things. I even have some recording of my youth orchestra. And sure we always play the same songs. But every now and again, I can almost convince myself that it's real." She pauses, now back on Deck Six, the smell of fighter fuel and charred metal wafting from the deck, "And sometimes, it's enough."

There's a sort of pursing of lips from Charlie as she considers it. The marine is quiet and takes up a position to hold up a wall on that landing. Hands are pulled from pockets and she folds her arms instead, drumming fingers against bicep. "I guess, but for me it just makes it worse. Tried it a time or two while I was recovering in the hospital. Nurses thought it'd do me good, y'know? But in the end I'd be back to that room, that bed, the PT... and it felt worse. I may be depriving myself, sure, but I'm not making each come down worse than the one before."

Tamlin doesn't respond immediately. She does give Charlie's words careful consideration, perhaps needing to take extra time to process a mindset that is so very different from her own, "I think that I can understand what you're saying. I suppose it's easier for me, because I'm, I suppose I'm used to making things up in my head. When you actually have had the real thing and not just the substitute, I suppose the stand-in won't ever be enough."

"I think it's also..." Charlie exhales slowly, gesturing with her hand to fill the space as she thinks. "There's a difference between something that takes a physical action and visually experiencing something. I can look at the ocean in a holoband and that's nice. But actual surfing? I want it to be me. Just like, y'know, frakking someone and reading some erotica novel don't even begin to compare to one another. One just makes you want the other more and it sure isn't the one that actually involves another person." Leave it to the marine to make it crass.

Tamlin snorts, lifting a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, "I suppose that depends on how long you've been underway, and how good looking the people on your crew are. I have been on a few ships...ooh-ee, I was happy to have some vids on my player." She chucks a thumb back towards the deck, and then up, as if to ask, 'Which way?'. "But I think I get it. And I am sorry that there's no easy solution."

"Well, yeah, there is that." Charlie can't help herself but laugh. At the gesture, she just sort of shrugs. Seems the woman has nowhere to be anytime soon. Or is at least acting like it. "No need to apologize. Isn't your fault. I blame the cylons. I was stationed at Triton. I could go to the beach every time I had leave." And then the city was attacked so thoroughly that it ended up swallowed by the ocean. "So frak them. They ought to apologize."

Tamlin continues back up the stairs, clearing deck seven, before she stops at eight, heading out through the hatch onto the rec deck. It's also busy as anything, but she can weave her way through as well as anyone, "I'm not sure that they're in the apologizing mood. Maybe once we destroy a few more thousand of them. You know what I'm looking forward to...finally being able to go toe to toe with one of those basestars." No one actually has, "It's all well and good for us to fight the good fight, but I honestly want to see what this ship can do.'

The Mess? Never a bad choice when in the company of a marine. Charlie's got no issue following Tamlin in that direction. She drops her hands back to her pocket, snorting in bemusement. "I'll be shocked if they ever do apologize. Frakkin' canners haven't got the emotional fortitude for it." She does, as she aims for the food line, lift hands to unbutton her duty shirt. Just a bit. As a sign of 'I'm here to eat, not work.' The last does earn a glance in Tamlin's direction. "And the day we do, we hope they're right about this thing."

"Well, if they aren't, I am going to be the first one on that evac raptor, I am putting that right out there. When we have any sort of action, whether I am onduty or not, I stay on the deck. Or at least up on the catwalk." Tamlin gets into line behind you, seemingly happy to grab a tray and chug along behind you, picking at whatever looks good to make up her meal. "Is there anything better than meatloaf?" She seems to prefer the comfort foods.

"Ha, making sure you're one of the first women and children to hit the lifeboats, eh?" There's that Picon naval type right there. Charlie grabs a tray and starts adding things on. Lot of carbs, but she'll likely burn it off. Or it might just be a comfort food situation much like the deckie. "Pulled pork," she answers, glancing over her shoulder at the query. "Love that stuff. Pile it high on a good bun, drown it in barbecue sauce? Could eat it every day."

"You bet your ass. Seeing as I am neither a marine and capable of more than just average combat or a pilot who can get in a ship and blow things up, I can only save myself to help rebuild society. Why? Because every good society needs what? That's right...a mechanic." She piles her tray rather high, picking out a tall glass of fruit punch, before she waits for you to decide on a seat.

"Also women of child-bearing age, yeah? Times like that, I'd be wishing I were a guy. Their job is so much easier." Charlie grabs herself a coffee and a brownie before aiming for an empty table. The tray is plunked down and she soon follows, ass meeting bench. "Mechanics are good, too. After the war, people like me are probably just gonna wander aimlessly, wondering what to do with ourselves."

Tamlin settles in, once you pick a seat and tucks in, eating in that quick, vacuuming way that only comes from, as you know, eating when you never know when you'll be called away from your food, "Well, you might still be of child-bearing age. And if not, maybe you'll be able to wander aimlessly with that surfboard again. Might not be a bad way to retire."

"Shh, not too loud." Charlie's grinning, though. "I can't even imagine having kids at my age. Frak me. Can I want this war over soon and also want it over after I'm too old for anyone to want to get me knocked up?" She's nursing her coffee, first, and absently rearranging food on the plate. "Oh, I'll go somewhere with good waves. That's for sure."

"I'll try to keep it down. Take your name out of the hat if you show up in the lottery." Once she's gotten a good portion of the stuff on her tray into her mouth, she slows to a more normal pace, "Maybe that could be your retirement. One of those adventure tours where you go from place to place to place. No duty shifts, no people yelling in your ear, only people wanting to serve you cold drinks and finger-foods off a grill." That's the sort of thing they do at beachy places, right?

"Cabana boys fanning me and meeting every beck and call?" Charlie feigns a wistful sigh as she sets aside her coffee and begins digging into her own meal. "I could get used to that. Wouldn't be a bad way to retire at all. And I could have fun with cabana boys-" a beat, as she considers. "And girls. I'm not picky."

Tamlin grins, finishing off her meatloaf, before she tucks into a bowl of chicken and dumplings. "That's the super deluxe package. You have to kill double the cylons for that one." Something to aim for, right? "Start tallying up the kills now, cash them in for chips later."


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