A new arrival to the ship witnesses a somewhat awkward sparring match between pilot and chaplain.
Related Scenes: None
Scene Number: 1500
In the wake of her capture by the Cylons, Astraea had only one really pressing injury: her hand. It means the rest of her workout routine is back to standard rather quickly. Right now, the pilot is on a 'rowing' machine. Good for keeping up the leg strength that pilots tend to need. She's got no music player and the gym is otherwise quiet at the moment save for the steady 'woosh' of the machine itself. Forward, back, in steady routine and motion. Her shoulders flex against the CF tee she wears. The woman herself just stares off to a point in space in front of her, features settled into a placid expression. She might as well be a million miles away.
Aldrich has been pretty distant himself, lately. Pretty much since the whole disaster at the insurgent camp. Just now he has taken up residence at the punching bags and is apparently doing his best to kill it. His expression is intently focused, and he's going at it probably harder than he should without gloves on. He's already sweating, so he must have been working for awhile.
"Guh. This? This is not the Ready Room or CAG desk!" A gravelly sort of baritone ringing out from the entry to the gym, exasperated but mirthful in its sardonic edge. Spoken from the mouth of a new bearded face on board. A thirty-something man in CF duty blues, straining over belly and thighs enough to indicate he may have been brought here by fate and need, despite his apparent faux-distress. Reaching up to scratch at the back of his head and peer about as if trying to get bearings, he winces a touch at thought of interrupting the bag-murderer, so instead turns bright jewel-blue eyes on the woman at the rowing, asking of her with a lopsided grin. "Uh, this isn't the Ready Room right? I haven't been transferred into a fitness-obsessed Air Wing that turned their space into a gym? Lords would that suck!"
It takes a long moment before Astraea stirs herself from reverie. The Scorpian slows down steadily at her rowing before coming to a stop, knees bent. She flexes her hand slowly as she lets go of one of the 'oars,' looking down to angry red scar tissue. Another flex of fingers and the pilot finally looks up at Pieter. There's a sort of passivity to her expression as she studies the new arrival. "Deck Seven," she offers him. "You're on Deck Three." Extending her legs slowly to push the seat back, she unfolds to... a rather diminutive height, really. There's a look over to Aldrich at his work, then back to the man before her. "No, we're probably a more 'obsessed with guncam footage' Wing. There's be an outcry if the Ready Room were changed."
Aldrich punches the bag a bit too hard and steps back a pace or two, shaking out his fingers with a grim expression. That's when he notices the new arrival and gives a solemn nod toward him and the more familiar face. He must be done with the punching bags, because he abandons them, stripping the wrap off his fists as he goes over to fetch his towel.
The pudgy Pieter pops his head back out into the hall at revelation he missed the deck by that much, as if staring accusation at the deck numbers probably painted on all corridors. "Frak me I need caffeine and/or rack time." His gravelling, grumbling mutter can be heard carrying as he's turning attention back to the workout-interrupted pair. A faintly awkward nod back for Aldrich of the murder-bag, before his bright-eyed attention's snapping back to the end of Astraea's guncam talk, clearly cheering up at that with flash of white teeth amidst the gray-threaded beard. "Oh good! That sounds like much more my speed!" The big man's glancing at a clock, determining he's not too late, and then moving a bit more into the gym to wave to the pair amicably. "Lieutenant Pieter Raines, by the by. Pudge to most. New ECO by way of Athena. Sorry if I like..." He makes a vague gesture (almost as if at something unpleasant) at the gym equipment, clearly not his favorite stuff. "...interrupted or whatnot. Turned around after too long on a battlestar clearly!"
There's a glance over towards Aldrich and should the chaplain look her way, Astraea nods to him. It's just a quick, jerked-chin of a nod, but it's a silent greeting nonetheless. The woman goes back to watching Pieter, then. Her features remain smooth and had she Resting Bitch Face, surely it'd be there. Fortunately for her, she has a fairly pleasant 'resting' expression overall. Almost a smile, but not quite. Perhaps more 'not quite' with the distant, almost pained look in her eyes. She rubs steadily at her right palm with her left; thumb pressing into the fresh scar tissue. "Nova," she offers, simply, by way of her own introduction. "Never been on a battlestar myself, so I wouldn't know. Welcome aboard."
Aldrich dabs at his face, then the back of his neck, ridding himself of at least the worst of the sweat. Since he seems to be included in Pieter's apology, he shakes his head, waving off the concern, and nods a return of Astraea's silent greeting. "I was just finishing up, actually. Chaplain Kavanagh. Nice to meet you." He inspects his knuckles, frowning at them vaguely. The furrow of his brow makes the scar across the bridge of his nose stand out more obviously for a moment. "You can join us if you like. I could use a sparring partner."
Pieter blanches a little at that offer from Aldrich, after having looked perhaps a touch surprised at a hard-boxing Chaplain somehow. He's quick to reply with a shaking of apple-rounded face, though the grin is lopsided and easy-going despite his quickness to deny that chance. "Uh no, sorry ...uh, father." The title seems to roll of more from old habits than familiar ones. "...Got to report to the CAG or duty officer and get squared away." A little, rough-voiced, self-deprecating sort of laugh and ongoing faux-whisper. "Besides, I'd get beat harder than that bag did probably. I prefer to be a klick in the air dropping missles or KEWfire to punching people. Especially tinhead sorts of people!" A shake of head, ruefully over to Astraea as he adds, sapphire eyes briefly trailing down to the womans arms and the tattoos there with flare of some sort of recognition. "So, you said deck seven right?"
"I'm sure the padre could go easy on ya," Astraea quips, lips twisting into a wry sort of smirk. It shifts after a moment as she looks to Aldrich, tilting her head towards the mats. "I'll spar ya." Her Scorpian accent is almost lazy in enunciation; indicative of someone who grew up in one of the more poor clans and regions. "Yeah," she affirms to Pieter at his question. "Deck Seven. You'll find th' squadron office an' Whisper's desk down there, too."
Aldrich's brows lift, catching that blanche. For a moment, he just looks blank, until he figures out the source of the reticence and glances toward the bag. "Oh. No, it's... I mean, the bags can't dodge," he points out, a slow, self-conscious smile settling into place. "I could use a live partner a little closer to my level. The marines wipe the floor with me, I'm afraid." He glances to Astraea, and nods a little. "Sure, all right."
"Hey, keeping a figure this sexy takes a lot of effort on ship rations! Don't wanna burn off too much!" Pieter's quipping back to Astraea's first comment with a jovial self-awareness and ease, adding a slap to the uniform-unshaping roundness of his belly. To his credit, it doesn't jiggle like a bowl full of jelly so much as just give a bit of a ripple beneath fabric. At the smaller Scorpian's talk of taking on the religious man though, Pudge is moving to find a spot to lean with another glance at the clock, curiosity getting the best of him. To the man's explanation, the ECO's giving a little shrug and adding for him. "Assuming I can dodge better than the bag, maybe someday I'll give it a shot. I think you'd still lay me out though. Let's see how Nova does first though. Think I can hold that long at least. SHe's kinda tiny, but Scorpian women are fierce. Least all the ones I've known. Good luck, man." He can't help but grin a bit in anticipation.
Oh, little does he know. He'll learn. Even if Astraea doesn't see very fierce right now. In actuality, the Raptor pilot is fairly subdued. But she moves to the gear to pick out a couple of gloves. A pair is even offered towards Aldrich. "Got any rules you wanna lay down, padre?" There's another aborted attempt at a smile. "Or mebbe make a bet of it? Winner owes th' loser drinks on leave?"
Aldrich starts with headgear because those are kind of hard to put on with gloves, but then he accepts the gloves and starts strapping them on. He snorts faintly at the questions. "Nothing below the belt?" he proposes, with a little smirk, then glances to Pieter. "We could make him spar the winner," he jokes, then a bit more seriously. "Sure, drinks it is."
"Hey now!" Pieter protests with joking mock-fearfulness at the chaplain's first proposal, holding up his hands in a surrender sort of gesture, jewel eyes twinkling. The mock-fear turns to smirk though as he settles to watch, going on. "I got time enough to see a bout, not take part in one. And runnin' on two hours rack isn't probably my best idea for first attempt at a ring bout in...Lords, too many months." Eying the pair of them, he gives a chuckle at the pilot's prep and adds. "Though I'm almost tempted to throw in my own wager, despite seeing you hammer that bag, father. Not sure what sort of flygirl Nova is, but she's got the look of a woman ready to give you a run. Viper jock I think she'd be mouthing off more cocky, but never know." She didn't give her designation, so he's apparently playing guessing games. How he assumes she's a pilot isn't clear.
Probably because Astraea lacks the build of a marine. She's just slightly too curvy herself. Not quite plump, but lacking in that refined muscle of a proper marine. Plus, she gave a callsign rather than a name by way of introduction. "Raptor pilot, but someday I'll be inna Viper, gods willin'." It takes time for her to fin headgear that'll fit over her hair; it's not in braids at the moment, after all. She finally steps on the gloves, stepping over to pause on the edge of the map. "Nothin' below th' belt, got it. First to tap out loses." Meaning: no need to necessarily go to a KO. As for the drinks bet? She grins, broadly, at Aldrich. The first sign of true mirth. Seems she expects to lose, what with that 'winner buys the loser...' nonsense. After another moment of fussing with her gloves, she settles into a readied stance.
Aldrich steps onto the mat, after making a final adjustment to his gloves. "Works for me." To Pieter, he gives a rueful smirk and advises, "Always bet on the pilot over the man of the gods." He tests his gloves to make sure they're properly attached, then reflects Astraea's ready stance. He watches her for a moment, judging the situation, before making a test feint.
"Gah, another lost to the V-jocks!" Pieter laments from his peanut gallery, rolling eyes skyward with that lopsided grin. Going on he's taking any sting out of the teasing though. "Guess I can't blame anyone. The speed and maneuverability's a temptation. I just feel blind and half-protected in one without the sensors and ECM packages from my lovely Raps though. Well, that and I'm not that great a flyer outside of virtual." And there might be question of fitting in a viper cockpit comfortably, but shhh! Either way, after that comment, Pie's shutting up, other than to laugh at the holy man's modesty, watching on with curiosity to see how each does.
Pieter's continuing his eager, admiring attention, perhaps silently lamenting for no popcorn to enjoy the show with, but at the Scorpian's mention of pre-Uprising viper pipeline, he's arching a thick brow and letting out a little "Huh." before wincing to the padre taking the initiative. Anything else the chubby ECO was going to add is held off for now so as not to distract too much. Instead he's just pantomiming his wincing reactions to the fight that's already fair past his level (unsurprisingly).
Pieter gives way to his enjoyment and let's out a shrill two-finger cheering whistle when Astraea rallies from her hit. "Like I said, father. tiny, but Fierce!" He can't help but catcall with thorough approval. Air wing stick together apparently, even one's just barely met. A glance at the clock leaves the ECO grimacing a bit again, but he's not taking off until he's seen who comes out on top of this apparently. "Come on, Nova! Take him out! It's worth the drinks!"
Aldrich stumbles back as the punch lands on his arm, throwing him a touch off balance. His reaction is all instinct, lashing out with the other arm in a sharp jab at her chin. He's off-balance enough it would be total luck if it lands, but it's not a very sportsmanlike move, in any case.
Pieter continues his cheering when the pilot rallies, now on his feet from his lean, forgetting enitrely about the clock. The jab from the chaplain draws a hissing wince, but he's not calling it out or anything. Definitely wasn't below the belt, so fair game.
In all honesty, Astraea wasn't expecting that other arm. You fall into a routine of 'one to hit, one to defend.' The defensive arm coming out to hit you -- especially in the face -- is not something you're watching for in a boxing match. Maybe something more full-contact and down-and-dirty, sure. But boxing? Not so much. The Raptor pilot doesn't see it coming until it's too late. She doesn't take it wholly on the chin, but it catches her hard enough that she goes down. Not out, thank Kobol, but down. Nova's ass hits the mat, limbs somewhat akimbo, as she sits in a brief, stunned silence. Probably about as close to a proper 'tap out' that you might get.
Aldrich seems a little stunned, himself, when Astraea goes down. "Oh..." He's out of breath, panting with the exertion and adrenaline of the fight. "Oh gods." Realizing what he's done, he grimaces and starts fumbling to ditch the gloves and sparring helmet, so he can jump forward and make sure she's okay. "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"
"Well guess that's one way to make someone see the gods, eh father?" Pieter can't help but quip in sympathetic wincing of Astraea's state, moving closer to the ring to get a look at her and whether they're going to need to carry her to the infirmiry or anything. "Still a hells of a fight though, Nova. Better by far than I'd have done against him!" Consoling? Maybe, but also probably honest.
There's a few more blinks before Astraea looks up at Aldrich as he approaches. She grunts, initially, before tugging off gloves and helm steadily. With bare fingers, she reaches up to tenderly touch along her jaw and cheek. "I'm fine. Had worse." Like that crash that laid her out for a couple weeks back on Caprica. But she doesn't expand beyond the simple sentences. Instead, she just starts to leverage herself to her feet. "Guess that means y'owe me some drinks on leave." She's trying for levity, but there's a proverbial storm cloud above her.
Aldrich glances toward Pieter, but he looks more distressed than anything. He offers a hand to Astraea to help her up, and forces a smile, but it's not very genuine. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "Yeah, I mean. Of course. Drinks. But I didn't mean to... I just mean I'm sorry."
"Heh, yup, she's alright if she can cage a drink." Pieter quips happily, giving rueful shake of head down to the woman as she rises. "Look forward to flying with you, Nova. And chatting with you, father. For now though, I best get my shapely..." as in lump shaped "...ass up to the CAG to get myself inducted into the Timber Wolves proper. Pleasure meeting you two." And with that, he's waving off and starting towards the door, hopefully to actually find his destination this time.
Accepting the hand to her feet, Astraea carries along gloves and helmet as she stands. There's still a mildly dazed look about the jig, but it's not all from the hit. Not in a physical sense, at least. "S'all good," she says, finally, to Aldrich with a faint attempt at her own smile. "Knew what I was gettin' into." She rubs, briefly, at her cheek again. "Think I'm gonna hit th' showers, though." There's a glance after Pieter and all she offers is: "Whisper's a good CAG. You'll be fine." Since everyone gets new posting jitters.
Aldrich glances to Pieter, distracted. "Hm? Oh, of course. It was nice to meet you..." He looks back to Astraea, deeply concerned, but he doesn't try to touch her again once she's on her feet. If anything, he backs away several long paces to give her space. "Come by the chapel later. I have some stuff for bruises..."
The chapel is a far better option than swinging by sickbay. Especially since she's only been out for about a week. "I think I'll do that," Astraea finally affirms after dropping the gloves and headgear back with the rest. She makes her way towards the attached Head, still rubbing gingerly at her jaw as she goes.