Camila obtains vital oral-hygiene implements -- and makes a friend.
Location: Biscayne Starport
Related Scenes: None
Scene Number: 308
It's probably not a huge surprise that a pilot might be found near those things what they fly around in. In this case, with Irene, it's a raptor that looks almost brand new, if one discounts the oily streaks and shiny marks on the hull from close calls and near escapes. The hatch on said bus is open and she's gamely wrestling a heavy ration box from the stack inside. Her ECO, a tall, rangey middle age guy with white hair and a cowboy sort of cragginess about himself watches with patience. He's not helping. He's probably been warned off. Irene can handle this... just... got... to not fold in half under the weight. "See, Wooly?" She says through her clenched teeth. She's got this!
It's at least a moderate surprise for a Marine to be found near those things what they definitely don't fly in. Camila -- Corporal de Silva, judging by the name and rank insignia on her BDUs -- is weaving in and out of the spaceport with a holocam in hand, narrating the footage in fluent and rapid-fire Leonese. "<<This is just a couple of days after Vanguard went down>>," she says. "<<Looks almost normal, but poke it too hard and you'll see it's all a certified shitshow.>>" Her boots kick up a haze of sand as she wends her way through a cluster of Viper pilots and darts beneath the wing of a not-quite-broken Raptor. "<<Nobody's slept much. Don't want to look soft in front of the civs, you know?>>" Two young representatives of whom get an enthusiastic smile and an encouraging thumbs-up. "Find your parents!" she calls, in Scorpian-accented Standard. And then she walks backwards into a Raptor that looks almost brand new, if one discounts the oily streaks and shiny marks and the outline of a BDU-clad Marine on the thin film of beach sand on its hull. "Ow."
"You've impressed me beyond words, Iris. Now, how about you not do that? If you pop your stitches the doc's gonna be absolutely, positively livid." Wooly drawls in a pleasantly rough bass, as he stands there, arms crossed, watching the pilot. Well, watching her until a marine with a holocam backs right into his bus. That illicits the rise of a snowy white eyebrow and a frown, "Watch where you're walking, you lunkhea-"
Irene interupts at that point, unceremoniously dumping a ration box at him which he either has to catch or have his toes crushed after it's hit just about every soft spot on his body from the waist down first. It almost seems intentional on the blonde's part, but she smiles it off with an 'oopsy' and hops down off the wing, unburdened and curious. "You're early." She tells Camila, as if she was expecting a Marine to splat into the side of her bus... later.
The short marine pushes herself off the side of the Raptor with a sheepish grin that shows too many teeth. Her holocam swings up to capture Scowling Old Man and Smiling Blonde Woman. "<<Grumpy pilots>>," she stage-whispers into her microphone, and then she clicks the recorder off with a tap of a thumb. "Sorry, sir. I honestly have no clue what you're talking about." The woman looks behind her at the nose art she's just made on the big bird's hull. "Wow. We gotta clean these things."
While Wooly grudgingly puts box on waiting cart, Irene tips her head toward her shoulder and checks out the other woman slightly askew. There's a long scrutiny then a glance at her wrist and the timepiece there, "Oh. At eighteen hundred we're expecting a party of colonial marines. Sometimes they're actually punctual too." She jokes with a wisp of a smile there as she slaps her hands together a few times, to smack off the ration box dust, or something. "Wooly makes anyone that fouls our bird clean it with their toothbrush. So. Toasters don't have toothbrushes, so we're a bit behind on the cleaning."
"Marines don't have toothbrushes either, before you get any ideas." Camila clicks her tongue as she meets the other woman's gaze with steady eyes. Then, inquiry apparently satisfied, she glances over at the box of rations. "What's the mission? Probably not one of mine -- I've got another uxo sweep at seventeen thirty. Maybe this one'll actually turn up a real bomb."
Despite Irene apparently thinking that unloading supplies is some sort of duty of hers, Wooly definitely is not including it in his job description. He soon stalks off between the parked birds, giving Camila a dark look on the way by, and spotting some crew, whistles sharpish and authoritively. He's definitely got his grump turned to 11, maybe to offset his partner's congeniality level. "They don't tell us that. We just pick you guys up and drop you off." Irene smiles crookedly before holding up her index finger. She needs a moment. Why? She has to climb back up onto the wing and disappear into the bus for a whole three or four seconds. With no explanation whatsoever, she climbs back out and drops onto the ground with a paper wrapped object clutched in her hand which is in turn, thrust forward at Camila. It's about, oh, the size of a toothbrush. "Here, I got you something."
Camila's grin widens. "Hot damn. Nice. I broke my last one stabbing a toaster in the eyehole." Not sure if joking. She pockets the gift, without unwrapping it, into one of her uniform's many pockets. "Seriously, though, it's good to have you guys around. My old unit, we spent like a month going door-to-door with like two flying cans with machine guns for close-air support. Did a lot of walking. And also a lot of hiding from Cypers strafing us every time we poked our heads above ground." The shorter woman makes a face as she too climbs onto the Raptor's stubby wing, this time to sit down. "Been in this outfit long?" She tugs a kink out of her ponytail while she regards the pilot with tilted head.
"We ended up with an entire box of those, evacuating the Vanguard. If you need anymore for your unit, just let me know." Irene explains and offers, possibly to dissuade Camila from thinking she's running a black market toothbrush operation out of her raptor or something. Otherwise, she listens intently, unconsciously tucking her own hair behind her ear as the other straightens out her ponytail. "Where was that? I was Royal Virgon Navy before this, all of three months ago? Feels like a million years already." Not that it comes out like a complaint, just a funny realization. In the near distance it sounds like Wooly is bawling someone out, but it's somewhere out of sight now.
"Leonis -- I was in the Legion." Camila kicks her legs up and down from her perch as she grins. "I should write all of this down on an index card -- it'd save a lot of talking. Name: Camila. Full name: Camila Ines Aiuru de Silva. Real full name: Yeah that one. Unit: 8th Parachute Engineers. Home Colony: It's complicated. Marital Status: There's a ring on it." Her barking laugh rings out as a gunshot in the cool afternoon. "Your turn, blondie. And sure, I'll take all the toothbrushes I can. Can't have too many."
Lieutenant Blondie ahs softly, as though the introduction does wonders to put the marine on her wing into proper context. Not that it's hugely judgemental. There's no snooty tone paired with it or a nose looked down, just a pleasant smile and a hand offered with her introduction, "Lieutenant jay-gee, Irene Harris. They call me Iris. I'm from Virgon, but I was born on Aerilon. I've been married three times, always to star pyramid players and I'm famous myself. I have a yacht, a private island and at least a hundred toothbrushes." And at least a few of those things are extremely untrue if her slightly suspect expression is anything to go by at all.
Camila looks nonplussed until realization at last dawns. And then with another barking laugh she takes the proffered hand -- while patting the part of the wing next to her by way of invitation. "Sheeeyit, girl." The first word has seven syllables. "I think I like you." Beat. "Wait, but seriously. Do you really have an island?"
"Well, it's more like a rock with just enough dry sand to sit on when the tide's out." Irene admits as she folds her legs under her and settles on the wing too. Her arms get stretched out ahead of her, hands slowly rotating out the stress in her wrists and forearms from the flight. Head turned, cheek on arm, she asks, half-seriously, "Do they have islands on Leonis? I've never been."
Again, there's more shouting from Wooly and some choice curses. Something metallic is knocked over onto the tarmac and rolls. It doesn't seem to bother her in the least, but there's some return yelling as the disagreement heats up.
Camila looks over at where she assumes the altercation is going on with vague disinterest. "Big islands," is what she says. "Leonese took them over first. And when they ran out of islands on their own planet, they went to grab Scorpia's." The Marine's grin turns wicked as she shuffles backwards onto the wing, resting her palms against brown metal still warm to the touch. She pulls her legs up to her chest so she has a place for her head. "You should check it out sometimes, when this shit's all over. One island's got these little, like, frozen cocktails with pink umbrellas in them. And rum. And penguins." She pauses thoughtfully. "Clarification: the penguins aren't in the cocktails. They're just, like, you know. Around."
Irene snorts a little, because the penguins, in drinks. She needed the clarification. At the same time she drops her hands to her knees and straightens her back, only ruining the upright posture now and again to roll the stress out of her shoulders. "I wish I had one of those right now. I met another marine from there, the food she talked about! My gods. I felt bad about giving her one of my plain old Aerilonian biscuits after that." The altercation dies down. Maybe it's been sorted, or maybe someone or several someones are unconscious. She still doesn't trouble herself to go see. Must be standard Wooly behaviour.
"Got any biscuits left over?" The Marine looks toward the Raptor's hatch expectantly. "Don't be holding out on me. But yeah, food's the thirteenth Lady of Kobol. Took, like, six months after I moved in with Rhea before she'd let me in the kitchen. I was like 'Baby, I just want to nuke this instamac-and-cheese cuz I'm hungry' and she was like '<<NON>>' and like thirty minutes later there'd be like six croissants on the table with homemade preserves and something totally random like basil ice cream." Camila smiles fondly at the memory. Her thumb and index finger not quite consciously twist the plain gold band around her left ring finger.
"Sounds like my mom. She sent me off with a lifetime supply of biscuits, and keeps sending more." Irene grins, lifting a thumb to point it roughly into the open hatch. "There's a box of them under the pilot's seat. Have as many as you like." The last part of that is said through a yawn that she lazily covers, but only after the final syllable is already out. Sitting still, the exhaustion is creeping up on her it would seem.
Camila's rooting through the box almost before Irene's yawn ends. She emerges after a full twenty seconds wiping crumbs from her mouth, and with another of her many pockets now full. Give a marine a cookie... "Thanks," she says, or thinks she says; what comes out instead is some variation on "MMmrgks." Then, taking the hint, Camila jumps down from the Raptor and lands in a crouch. "Gotta go get briefed for our recce," she says. "Gonna try to squeeze some booze from a grateful Pican while I'm out." She waves toward the hulking buildings of Biscayne Bay. "Then you can tell me more about your three husbands and your island."
Irene delicately rubs yawn-tears from the corner of her eye with a gloved knuckle as she sits there, Picon sun peeking through the churning cloud overhead to cast her blonde hair in a soft halo for a few seconds. Then a shadow passes over and a wild Wooly appears, looking like the pissed off, drunk relative nobody wants to deal with at the wedding reception. "Some Pican marines invited me to a party tonight, they have a boat or a beach. I can't remember, maybe both. I didn't want to go alone, but we can go drink all their hooch if you're game." And lower, hand to her mouth to direct the stage whisper and a lazy grin, "Please be my friend. I really need someone to talk to other than Wooly."
"Honey, I'll even hold your hair." Camila slaps her fatigues a few times to clear off any lingering sand, but her grin's visible even through the faint haze of dust that glints gold in the sudden sunlight. "We'll be back in pocket around twenty-two hundred. Feel like being fashionably late?"
"You're the best." Irene decides right then and there, "My next flight is the last on the board, so I can get a little rack time and wash my hair before then." With that, she unfolds her legs and scrambles up into the raptor. Not to dramatically end the conversation, actually, but to pop back out with a handful of... yup... toothbrushes. She holds them against her thigh as if trying to hide them from Wooly and when she's close enough, pressed them into Camila's hand. "Remember, oral hygiene is extremely important. See you at twenty two hundred and something."
Camila snort-laughs and shoves the other toothbrushes into -- yup, another pocket. And then she blasts the woman with a quick exhalation of breath that stinks of stupendously minty Fleet-issue mouthwash. "And something," she confirms. Then the Marine's loping off to her pre-mission brief, her index and middle fingers held up in the universal sign for peace as she runs.