2237-12-03 - Proper Bust Representation

Poor Yelena just wants to drink in peace, but marines ruin everything. As usual.

Date: 2237-12-03

Location: The Ship and Castle

Related Scenes: None

Plot: None

Scene Number: 1599

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It's the weekend, not that weekends matter for shit during war or in the military. It's Yelena's day off. And in a town like Conway, there's really nothing to do. You can be in the cold somewhere in town, you can stay on base, or you can go to the pub. For the Tauran doc, the answer is easy. The pub reminds her of Tisza (or at least as close a place can without actually being in Tisza). She's settled in a booth as the bar itself is full of a group of pilots out celebrating someone's Ace. They're shouty and trying to convince each other to do shots of something found on the bottom shelf.

Yelena is in civvies. Mostly. Jeans, a long-sleeve shirt in the tell-tale waffle weave of thermal wear, and the bomber jacket they've all been issued. She sits sideways in the booth so she can have a foot up on the seat. At the moment, she's just sipping from a mug of beer. There's a pitcher, near full on the table, and a dog-eared book. Classic Tauran literature, too. Which means it's mostly full of politics and people dying.

A handful of CF marines in off duty gear are settled around one of the pub tables in the midst of the bar. There's a half empty pitcher of beer on the table, and there are slips of paper on the table. They don't seem to be betting for them, but they are exchanging them here and there, to sometimes raucous laughter -- which is probably nothing compared to the pilot's noise. One of them (don't they all look the same in uniform?) -- tosses a paper down onto the table and suddenly there's a mad scramble that turns into wrestling. It's friendly wrestling, to judge by the laughter of the rest of their number, but it does involve a lurching movement that'll jostle Yelena's table in a way that will undoubtedly put both her glass and pitcher at risk.

<FS3> Yelena rolls Athletics: Good Success (7 7 6 5 3 2 1)

It's not the beer Yelena is worried about so much as it is the book- oh, who are we kidding. She's damn concerned about her beer, as well, when the table is jostled by the pub table next to it. However, the Lieutenant only has so many hands. Two of them, in fact. Two hands and three things of note. Beer, pitcher, book. Two of them with liquid contents. And the reason for the book's battered state may become quickly evident. Before another body can knock into the table, Reznik grabs the pitcher and lifts booted foot from booth bench to kick the book onto the opposite bench -- she's flexible, too. It's all done in a single, smooth motion. Thus saved are all three, even if she's left with pitcher and mug in hand. "Eh!" It's a quick, sharp noise. At a glance, it'd be hard to tell what branch she, herself is from. She's Timber Wolves; the bomber jacket makes that clear. But in jeans and long-sleeved tee, there's no rank. Marine would be unlikely, however. She's lithe, but definitely lacking in muscle. "Watch what the frak you're doing." Accent, however, is clear Tauran. She hasn't been away long enough for it to even out yet.

<FS3> Gage rolls Melee (8 5 3 3 3 2 1) vs (a NPC)'s 7 (7 7 5 5 4 4 3 3 2)
<FS3> Marginal Victory for .

There's barely even a look in the woman's direction by either marine. There's a wrestling match to win, after all, and the two marines seem pretty invested in the outcome. Finally, the blond manages to get the darker marine in a choke hold, and with grunting, grudging concession, there's some kind of yield signal, since a moment later the blond is lifting his hands, doing a victory lap around the table, and then claiming the piece of paper to the black-slapping celebration of the rest of the marines. Gage straightens, grumbling as he tugs his uniform straight. Finally, he glances at Yelena, sees her holding pitcher and beer with a flatly puzzled look -- maybe he thinks it's some weird tradition -- before he grunts, "Your beer is fine, what do you want?" Because that's the most important thing at stake, clearly.

The woman looks a touch peevish for a moment when Gage finally looks her way. She casts a glance across the table; to the book she cannot see, but he likely can from his angle. It sits, barely, upon the edge of the bench seat. "No thanks to you," she answers, tone wry. Her glass is lifted and downed, nearly. With a deep intake of breath and a wonderfully unladylike burp she refills it and sets the pitcher back down. "What the frak is that-" she nods towards the table and the slips of paper, "all about anyway?" A sip to level off her glass and she pushes out of the booth and squeezes by the marine so she can lean around to retrieve the book.

It could be said that Gage is immune to peevish looks. In fact, if anything it earns a smirking response, reflexively shrugging shoulders. "Aint gonna worry about what could happen. You'll die of stress well before the toasters take you out that way." He turns, and takes a step back towards his fellows when she throws another question his way. He pauses, glance flickering towards her book -- not with interest, really -- before giving another of those shrugs. "Highly sought after chore swap. There's this Picon woman on security detail that has these..." he starts to gesture out from his chest in a fairly unmistakable way.

There's a roll of her eyes as Gage explains, but nothing chiding. Yelena gets her book and tosses it back on the table. There's no telling how often its been read, but plenty in the military look that way; read and traded countless times, pages dog-eared this way and that, margins marked with peoples' bunk numbers, ratings, crude doodles, and other whatnots. The doctor takes a long drink. "So rather than trying to get out of a chore altogether, you're fighting over who gets to spend time with a woman who probably won't give you the time of day anyhow?" There's a beat and she downs more of her drink before setting it down. "Also, you look ridiculous doing that. You wanna properly represent a good pair of tits, you wanna-" she holds her hands sort of low, cupped, beneath her not-so-ample pair: "like this. Gravity affects breasts if they're real and I doubt your chick paid out for fake ones."

There's a somewhat impatient snort from Gage at Yelena's reaction to their jostling. "Aint asking you to fight over it, the frak it matter to you?" He folds arms across his chest, chin lifting when she starts criticizing the accuracy of his gesture, adding a roll of his eyes. "You're awful frakking judgy about social things for someone reading a book in a pub and drinking a whole pitcher to yourself."

"A pitcher y'all nearly spilt 'cause you're so bent on drooling over a girl who apparently doesn't get a say in the matter," Yelena points out, smirking a bit as she retrieves her glass to take a sip. She shrugs, lowering it. "You want some? I buy it by the pitcher 'cause it's cheaper in the long run and saves me trips back and forth." She doesn't seem insulted. At least not outwardly. The woman leans a hip lightly against her table. "I also figure it might help me meet folks. Someone doesn't wanna try to get through the knot of pilots, they ask if they can have some." There's a beat and she looks sidelong to Gage. "Joined up right before the Dauntless shipped back out from Scorpia, so it's not like I've got myself a pack of bros to hang out with."

"You aint been around marines much at all, if that offends you," Gage observes with a grunt. His gaze flickers towards the pitcher with somewhat of an incredulous expression at the offer, given the words that preceded it. With a snort, the marine abruptly turns his back on her and stomps back towards the table of his fellow marines. It's a pretty rude gesture, but also pretty par for the course for this marine -- not that she'd know that. He's probably just one of those assholes.

"Didn't say it offended me. Just think it's a shit way to treat one of your equals. Y'know, someone who might be all that stands between you and a Cylon someday." Yelena takes another sip of her own beer, watching that look to the pitcher. When Gage turns away, she shrugs and calls after: "Your loss!" At the very least, it frees her to settle back in with her beer. A cigarette soon surfaces from one of the pockets in that jacket, too.


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