2237-04-16 - Drunk Callsigns

Roara is out for a jog on the ship. Calliope is a terrible lazy layabout. Roara doesn't ask about the jungle.

Date: 2237-04-16

Location: Observation Deck - Battlestar Galactica

Related Scenes: None

Plot: None

Scene Number: 979

Jump to End

Entering at a jog, Lieutenant Roara gradually slows halfway across the observation deck. Pulled back into an unruly ponytail, her lion's mane of black curls has the sheen and faint scent of coconut oil from her beachy homeworld.

The young fighter pilot is obviously off-duty, dressed down in a black tank-top layered over a sleeveless greige undershirt. The fabric is darkened by perspiration. She stops, planting her hands on either knee while she catches her breath.

Calliope is very off-duty. The Raptor pilot, returned to the Galactica not long ago after an unscheduled jungle adventure on Canceron, is sprawled on a sofa. Boots off and stocking feet up on the cushions. Earbuds in, vaguely zoned-out look on her face. She is doing as little as human possible. Even through whatever those earbuds are wafting into her brain, Roara's jogging can't go totally unnoticed. She pops her stringy blonde head up, blinking. Eyes coming out of that not-asleep-but-not-really-with-it stupor.

Roara’s lips tighten into a concentrated pucker as she wills her breathing into some kind of submission. Her brow tightens as she trains her attention skyward. She gives the visible expanse of space above them a look that borders on suspicion before her eyes find Calliope. Her mouth moves again to say something mild, not pronouncing enough to compete with the earbuds, as she pounds a loose fits against her panting chest.

Calliope makes a fist back, but it's an awkward fist. Like the motion fits strangely in her hand. She relaxes it out into spread fingers and gives Roara a waggly wave back. "Hi." She pops her earbuds out, letting the cord relax around her neck. The 'Hi' is followed by a tentative smile. "Looks huge up here, right?" Accent all piping Caprica City. The waving hand gestures off to the space out the window. She probably means that. All of it. Out there in the vacuum.

"Air's a bit different here, huh?" Roara asks as if in her own defense ...or in defense of her burning lungs. She runs the back of her hand over her forehead as her brow continues to contort. "Yeah, hi." She flaps that same hand dismissively in Calliope's direction. "Oh, frak me," she whispers to herself, pinching at the fabric of her shirt to flap some air up under it.

"I guess. Yeah." Calliope says it a little distantly, like she's contemplating the difference in recycled air in the various areas of the ship. "Less thick in here than, like, the gym, I guess. Maybe the altitude's different from deck to deck?" There's an undercurrent of a laugh there, but she doesn't, quite, let it bubble to the surface. "You OK? You're not going to, like, die, right? I learned C-P-R in basic but I don't actually remember how to do it very well." So, fair warning, she maybe can't save you!

Roara holds out her palm flatly in Calliope's direction. Silence. Her chest continues to rise and fall, testing her tanktop and undershirt as she slinks forward. She remains partially hunched inward all the way over to the loveseat, where she flaps at Calli to make room -- even if there's already enough room! "Not today, I'm not," Roara rumbles, letting out a feminine groan as falls backward into the cushions. That feels good. That is Good.

Calliope gives Roara a double-thumbs up! Yay, no death today! She grunts softly as she readjusts herself on the couch. It's a very minor effort. She hasn't moved in a long time. "You new?" The question is accompanied by her turning a chipper, curious eye on the lieutenant. "I've kind of lost track of the people who've transferred in. I was sort of stranded in the Canceron hell jungles for awhile. But I'm back now!" She is very happy about this. Big smile.

Chubby upper lip lifting in something of a grimace, Roara both shakes and nods her head. No. Sure. Whatever. She lowers it, almost all the way between her lazily splayed knees. “Picon.” That sounds right.

"Caprica." Chirped from Calliope as if it wasn't obvious. "You're a pilot, right? I'm still kind of reacclimating - from the hell jungles - but I think I've seen you around. I'm a Raptors driver. I flew commercial ships on Caprica, before...everything." The whole robot uprising...thing. "They're not that much different than small transport craft. I mean, except for how you can blow shit up with them." All of this babbling is followed by, "Ensign Calliope Drake. Callsign's Bullseye. Hi."

Oh, great. Caprica. Roara's eyebrow pricks. "Uhuh," she admits to being a pilot as she brings up both hands, running her palms up her face and back over her hair. "'Bullseye,' huh? Vipers. Raptors too, in a pinch. Lieutenant Roara." Pulling herself up to sit more like a human and less like a... I don't know... dying woman, Roara presses her mouth inward before popping out her lips. It makes an audible smack. "Callsign's Hammerhead."

Calliope lets out a "Heh" and "Yeah" at her callsign. "That's what they call me. Cylons like to shoot at my ass like it's got a target painted on it. Haven't blown me out of the stars yet, though." She gives the starfield a thumbs-up. This one's a little less peppy. She is being, at least a little bit, ironic. "Hammerhead? Tight. I trained on Vipers a little, in military flight training, but I don't have much of a feel for them. A lot translates easy from freighters and stuff, but that felt totally different."

Retaining a measure of standoffishness, Roara lets out a sharp breath of amusement at the explanation. "Here I was thinkin you'd named yourself that on account of never missing a shot," she presses her mouth closed. Y'know, in an AMUSED way still. "It's different, alright." Finally appearing to come to some stasis as far as her breathing is concerned, Roara tilts her eyes skyward --er, spaceward once more. "Nothing quite like it."

Calliope snorts a giggle, shaking her head. "Oh gods no. I didn't get to pick. The pilots here did, after I came aboard. I didn't come out of flight training with anything that stuck. If I had it would've been something...not that. It feels kind of like...tempting fate. Like I'm painting a target on my bus that's going to hit eventually, or something. But!" Shrug. "Is what it is." She keeps watching Roara like she's not quite convinced she isn't going to die. "I like it. Kind of clears out your brain, right? Like it's all so big, you could just...float away..."

"Eh. Didn't choose mine, either. ...Is what it is." Roara slowly fills her lungs, carefully releasing the air through puckered lips. They part as if though she might respond... but she doesn't. "What?" She turns from the windows, blinking over at Calli.

"Yeah. It is. Why'd they call you Hammerhead?" Calliope asks the question eagerly and glibly. If it's an intrusive one, she's oblivious. The blinking gets a shrug. "Nothing. Just saying that I like looking out there. Feels relaxing. Like it's emptying out my brain. Some people get that from chapel, I guess, but it's not really my thing."

"Oh," Roara nudges her chin upward in two fractional movements. Her eyes slide back towards the glass panes. "I was a cadet at Picon Naval Academy, on Hyperion. Group of us went out. To blow off some steam. Somebody grabbed me up by the arm. Don't even remember why." Roara tilts her elbow upward as if to demonstrate this, "Either way, I wasn't havin' it so ...I headbutted the frak-cake square the face. Broke their nose real good. Dropped 'em cold." She shrugs, flourishing a hand. Thus: "Hammerhead."

Calliope laughs, though it's not a mocking sound. It comes with a broad smile. "Nice. Girl I played Pyramid with back in highschool could do that. The headbutt thing. She wasn't supposed to, but when you were in the scrum and going for a ball...well, stuff happened. She was tough." Pause, and she admits, "I could never pull that off."

Roara's mouth cracks, too. It's a toothy, clenched grin. A shock of white to contrast her complexion. "I didn't mean it. I was drunk, wasn't I?" She chuckles. "But call sign like that, people don't really frak with you. I guess that's opposite from Bullseye." Lifting an eyebrow, Roara spares the other woman's face a down and up glance. "You still play?"

"From the stories I've heard, lots of callsigns are because of things people did when they were drunk," Calliope says. "At least yours makes you sound boss." Little shrug, as to Pyramid. "Sometimes. Just pick-up games in the gym. I was never great, but it was fun. It was, like, the only extra-curricular thing I did in highschool that I didn't hate."

The grin widens but only at the corners of Roara's mouth. "Yeah, most of 'em. As far as I can tell." She lightly double-slaps her knee before rising with something in the way of a gentle grumble. "Yeah. I was the same way. I bet they've got some really good players around here. Way better than us. Alright, Roara-" Roara hisses to herself, reaching for her dog-tags to make sure that they are securely tucked away, "Few more miles."

"Probably. Maybe we can just do some one of one sometime. Less boring than the treadmill," Calliope says to Roara with a flitting smile. And offers another finger-waggling wave. "Later, Hammerhead. Don't die!"

Roara pouts, swiveling her head in nonchalant acknowledgement. "I'd be down for that," she offers, opening both arms in a shrug. As she begins to bounce on her feet, one hand continues up and salutes Calli in the Picon-style with an upturned, open-faced palm. After that ...she bounds forward, gradually building up a respectable, easy speed as she retraces her route.


Back to Scenes