Gage and Sarita try to talk. Once again, it doesn't go well. A very dangerous object is thrown.
Related Scenes: None
Scene Number: 1464
The TV is on -- some old program, certainly no news or anything. No one seems to be watching, however, although there are a smattering of people about. Gage is one such, settled on the couch, flicking through a magazine that he's undoubtedly borrowed from Aleksander -- Gunz'n'Girlz -- looking at ease in socked feet. There's a couple of people chatting by the tables, but they're not playing cards, undoubtedly why the marine's ignoring them.
She's spent the past week -- or has it been more? -- on what approximates to a swing shift. One of those schedules that has one floating between everyone else. It means Sarita's usually 'on' for surgeries or when the wounded are hauled back in from missions, but it's made her something of a ghost in the midst of her new teammates. She's sleeping when they wake or vice versa, though thankfully the dubbed 'Captain's Bunk' is a bit quieter than some of the others. The doctor has grabbed a few things from the mess on her way back at the end of her shift- it's between meals, so it's a poor meal of sandwiches and cold coffee. Anyone who has served for more than a few months, however, has surely had worse. She's sans labcoat and instead in rumpled duty blues. Her hair is down and spills rather sloppily over her shoulders in a mass of untamed waves and aspiring ringlets; faintly damp from a post-shift shower.
There's only a brief glance to the occupied tables, but Hargrave heads for the couch instead and sinks to sit with a long sigh that she drowns in the coffee.
Flicking over a page, Gage involves himself in an intense study of the picture and details around a new assault rifle being manufactured on Tauron. Or... maybe he's intensely studying the brunette whose displaying the gun... who can say. There's a grunt -- might be greeting, might be warning -- as someone else sinks onto the couch. He doesn't even look up.
It doesn't matter that the coffee is cold, stale, and she's likely going to pass out before too long. It's what medical professionals survive on more than anything else. After a long drink, Sarita lowers the cup to balance it between her knees. She unwraps one of the sandwiches with a look over to Gage and the magazine. Her jaw tightens briefly as she considers opening salvos. Eventually, however, what the woman settles on is: "How many copies of that are floating around this ship anyway? I swear I see it everywhere."
Engrossed. Gage must be utterly engrossed, since it's not until he turns to the next page that he observes, "Quality rag." Also, with a bit of a smirk, "Some things are universal." Taurons may hate Capricans, but surely they can both agree such a magazine is a beautiful thing.
"The magazine or a man's obsession with women and weapons?" Sarita shakes her head slightly, taking a bite of the sandwich. After a moment of eating quietly, she adds: "Or is it the only magazine left in active publication?" There's a look to the various other reading materials littering the Wolves' little personal 'lounge.' Most of it far out of date. "Or... I guess the only one that would interest someone like you."
The half completed shrug of Gage's seems to suggest either/or works as a probable answer, as does the brief, low chuckle. "Aint a complicated man. Don't enjoy those fancier ones none. There's sometimes ones with pretty dresses floating about," he waves, vaguely, across the lounge like she might find some hidden somewhere.
"I think you're more complicated than you know," Sarita points out between bites. She finishes off one sandwich, balling up the wrapper before starting on opening the next. When he makes the gesture to indicate the lounge, she frowns. "The last time I wore a fancy dress was-" and stops herself, the frown deepening as she looks down to the food in her lap. There's a shake of her head. "Us doctor types are too busy for that," she finishes, lamely.
Giving a snort, Gage says, "Aint no layers. Nothing to read into," rather blandly at that. With another flick of the magazine's next page, he says, "Aint nobody has time for that. Except on leave. Sure you'll get to dress up then, if that's your thing." Clearly it is not Gage's 'thing', judging by his dismissive tone.
"Everyone has layers, Tomak," Sarita says, rolling her eyes briefly. She frowns at her second sandwich. Whatever it is, she's not happy with the contents. The doctor picks apart the layers a bit before uttering a sigh and eating the rest to quickly wash it down with coffee. "It's not," she follows things up with. "Maybe at one time, but I honestly would rather just find a bar and get drunk on leave now."
With another grunt, Gage actually lowers his magazine this time to stare at Sarita. "Aint no need to be political and correct. A grunt is a grunt. Aint nothing but what you see. Nothing wrong with that, neither," he says, flatly. With a shift of shoulders, "Whatever floats your boat," the combat engineer says. "Aint heard nothing about leave yet."
Finishing off her coffee, Sarita stuffs the wrappers from her sandwiches into the empty cup and leans forward to set it all on the coffee table. "And a person is still a person," she says in return. Both hands are lifted, fingers wiggled in the marine's direction. "You all bleed and stink the same when I work on you. I give no fraks what rank you are. On the inside, it's pretty much the same-" she drops one hand, points with the other at his torso. "Heart. Lungs. Kidneys. And so on. The rank and school doesn't change that anymore than MOS can strip away all of your personality."
Gage's glance flickers up from the magazine, with a sudden scowl. "You seem pretty determined to paint me as something I aint, Hargrave. What's your deal?"
That scowl causes Sarita to flinch back slightly. She leans into her corner of the couch a bit, frowning back at the marine. "Well why are you so determined to be... nothing more than a boring grunt?" There's a vaguely sharp tone in her voice that only serves to deepen the Canceron edges of her accent.
"Not everyone aspires to be... a doctor, or whatever." Gage waves vaguely in her direction. "Didn't join the marines to be some gods-damned hero. Just wanted to kill some frakking toasters, simple as that."
"So, what, you didn't exist prior to the war?" Sarita tugs absently at the buttons on her duty coat in need of something to fidget with; undoing them to reveal the dual-tanks beneath. Her ire continues and she's unable to even really look directly at him. "You just formed from the ephemera the day the war began- a flat, two-dimensional being who cares about nothing but magazines of women, guns, and killing machines?"
"Weren't more than a grunt in different locale, different job. As far as you're concerned, pretty much, yes." If anything, Gage's smirk appears and deepens at her latter words. "You want to scratch the surface and find some fancy cultured Caprican underneath? Frak. I'm a dirt-eater, plain and simple, and I aint ashamed of that none."
"Why would I want to find a Caprican?" Sarita deflates somewhat, staring at Gage in utter confusion for a moment. She gets her jacket unbuttoned and lifts a hand to scrub at her face. It unsettles one of the retainers she uses for her piercings and she has to fuss with it; one of the ones in her lower lip. She bites at her lip in the wake of it, worrying further at the bit of rubber. "I reviewed a number of cases and reports while at Argyros. I know the Wolves have been to Canceron. Were you with them? If so, does anything about it make you think I would enjoy a Caprican?"
The shrug that Gage gives suggests either he doesn't know -- or more accurately -- doesn't really care about Canceron. "Because you seem determined to paint me as some fancy thing I aint. Sounds pretty frakking Caprican to me." He rolls up the magazine, slapping it against his leg as he pushes to his feet.
"How is thinking of you as a person making you fancy?" Sarita sounds genuinely confused as she watches him stand. "Thinking a person has... wants and desires is not some novel concept, Tomak, nor is it reserved for specific people." Her jaw tightens as she looks to her own feet, though she doesn't stand. "Look-" she begins firmly, but stops there. Trying to say something, but struggling with the right words.
"I have wants and desires. But I aint complicated like you seem determined to make me be. I like what I like, and I don't like what I don't like," Gage says, flatly. "You ought to go find someone else to practice your head games on, Hargrave. I aint what you're looking for." And, while she's struggling to find words, he's stomping (not very loudly, because socks) towards his bunkroom.
She's tired and, coming off the end of a long shift in sickbay: cranky. As Gage goes storming off and disallows her from finding her words or even formulating a reply, Sarita finds herself picking up that empty coffee cup and throwing it at his back. Thankfully it's just one of those paper deals.
The cup flies harmlessly, striking his back. Hard to tell if Gage even notices, certainly it doesn't slow the pace of his departure any, nor cause him to look back.