A New Kind of Prayer
A New Kind of Prayer
Summary: Blake finds Legacy hiding in the Tool Room.
Date: PHD058 (16 June 2009)
Related Logs: None
Players:
Legacy..Blake..

Tool Room - Hangar Deck

A small hatch leads into this claustrophobic room. Divided up by chain-link fencing, different sections hold certain tools. One fenced area holds a red plate with white lettering to denote the contents as 'Viper Specific' while another locker, noticeably larger, holds a similarly colored plate that reads 'Raptor Specific.' Further back, the room opens slightly. Back there, lockers are labeled with their contents that include socket and torque wrenches, rivet guns, impact guns, and all the necessary attachments for everything else that might be required to fix something on the Hangar Deck. Wheeled air compressors have their own separate locked cage, the carts packed tightly into the storage.

The Tool Room is relatively quiet. The deck crew seem used to the Raptor Captain who's sitting quietly at a table, cleaning tools. Hey, when a Captain does the grunt work, everyone wins, right?

The hatch opens, and a cart is shoved into the void. Shoved, because only three out of the four wheels wants to comply, and the entire thing is wobbling horribly. Blake is manning the helm, able to repair a Viper with the best of them, but he's getting bested by a busted wheel. "Mother frakker." He shoves, really putting his weight behind it, which seems to work. Too well. The thing launches into the tool room, Blake having lost his grip on it, and it slams into the table the Captain is working on.

Legacy looks up at Blake, head tilted to the side slightly, and offers a small smile. "Afternoon, Petty Officer," she says quietly. "Am I in your way?" Not get out of my way, but am *I* in *YOUR* way. Cylon captain?

Blake trots after the cart, yanking it back from the table sheepishly. His tanned skin looks a touch pink from a blush. "Uh, no sir. Sorry, sir. This thing has a mind of its own." Maybe the cart is a cylon! He shoves it over to the side, and starts unloading tools. "I'm starting to think we should charge you rent." His words come a bit bolder, now that he's not making eye contact.

Thea humphs quietly and goes back to cleaning the tools. "I thought my cleaning tools was the rent I got charged," she teases, clearly not taking offense. "Though, if you all need me out of here, I'll be happy to take off." That part, however, is a touch serious.

Blake opens up one of the cages, putting away the things that are no longer needed on the deck for the time being. "No no. Just making conversation." He says easily, as if chatting up Brass is a normal pasttime for him. "This how you unwind? I mean, most people go to the range or the gym, or shoot pool…Not that I'm hating, mind you. Means I don't have to do it if I draw the short straw."

"I'm horrible in the gym," she admits quietly. "A couple injuries back to back. Shooting pool…well, last time I shot pool, I injured a fellow pilot. They think he'll be able to have children." Her smile is simply a ghost of one, small. "So, yes, this is how I unwind. I spent a lot of my life working on birds. I dare not try here, so I help out in little ways."

Blake casts a glance over his shoulder, an easy smile on his lips. "You used to be a wrench jock back in the day?" The question comes not as an intrusion, just an opening. As he steps back from the cage, he starts to systematically crack his knuckles, going forefinger to pinky and then finally - painfully - popping his thumbs.

"Not so much a wrench jock," she says with a laugh, reaching out for the next took to be cleaned. She takes great care with the tools - someone taught her well. "Daughter of a pilot. Grew up at the Academy on Gemenon. It was either teach me how to fix things and keep me out of trouble, or let me run wild amongst the planes. My mentor in the Academy taught me about Raptors from stem to stern, they were his passion and he passed that on to me." She works quietly and quickly, relaxed. "Believe it or not, I started out as a Viper." She glances at his fingers and winces a little. "Ow. That sounds painful."

Blake shakes his hands out, "Yeah, they keep telling me I'll have to stop or I'll have arthritis when I get older. I say frak it, who says I'm going to live to be old." He comes over to the table, picking up another rag and one of the tools that she hasn't gotten to yet. "Viper or Raptor. Everyone has their favorites. Their babies. I like to think I'm not as biased."

"Raptors…became my passion," Thea admits quietly. "I love Vipers, don't get me wrong. But Raptors are my babies." There's a small smile on her lips as she works, glancing down at the tool in her hands. "As for the arthritis…there's always hope," she says, voice soft and quiet. "Without that hope, everything gets lost."

Blake snorts a bit of laughter, it's not an unkind thing, but rather perhaps just a precursor to a real laugh that isn't quite ready to bloom yet. "I don't mean with this whole war thing, sir. I meant it more of a personal goal. Live fast, die young. That is if thirty-one still counts as young."

"Sadly, it doesn't," she says, grinning over at him. "Once you hit 30, you're done as far as being young. Thirty-five, though, it's all over from there." Yes, she's teasing. Mostly. "As far as the living fast and dying young? It's a pain in the ass, especially when everyone else is doing it."

Blake hehs again, "What do you know about being over thirty-five?" He asks, thinly veiling a compliment there. He starts to polish the grease off the pair of pliers diligently, keeping his eyes averted from her face, lest it become indecent.

Her eyes crinkle at the corners at that and she laughs softly. "Charmer," she murmurs quietly. "Quite a bit, sadly, is what I know about being over 35. You can say I've even got a few years of experience." Pausing, she dips her head to him. "By the way, I'm Thea, or Black Cat. Cat's probably safer."

Blake wipes his hand on his coveralls, before offering it over to Thea. "Cat." He repeats, "Though I think 'sir' is still the safest option. Petty Oh Second Class Blake Donovan. Pleasure to formally meet the Tool Room mouse, sir. Er. Cat." A smirk pulls his lips up unevenly.

She takes the offered hand, after wiping her own off, laughing quietly. "Pleasure to meet you, Petty Officer," she says quietly. "I think most of the deck knows that they can kick me out of here any time. I try not to get in your way. You all do a hell of a job." It's not patronizing, but a simple matter of fact statement. A pilot with a very healthy respect for the deck crew.

Blake's hand is calloused, but his shake is warm and friendly. "Someone has to keep you guys flying. I'm one of the lucky ones…I get to look good doing it." He tugs at the front of his jumpsuit, and if it had a collar, oh yeah, he would have popped it. "Don't suppose you'd mind if I tell the boys that the Raptor Captain helped me polish my tool, do you? My reputation could use the boost." He's joking. Mostly.

For whatever reason, that has a shadow crossing her eyes. "There are probably quite a few rumors out there, Petty Officer," she says quietly, looking away. Her hands are slightly calloused, nowhere near as bad as Blake's. Back to polishing she goes. "It's interesting, you try for years to maintain your reputation and then the world ends."

Blake can see the change, surely as one can see a cloud slide across an already sunny day. "Hey, no. I was only joking. Don't take it that way, a'ight? Only joking." He says quietly, his voice a low burr like trying to talk down a spooked horse. "That why you're locked away in here, 'stead of out there?" He hitches his head back towards the hatch.

She's quiet for a bit, simply working. "It's quiet in here," she says, perhaps in answer to his question. "There's a safety in tools." A pause and she glances over at Blake, quirking a bit of a grin. "No pun intended. You know what to expect with tools and there's something calming and peaceful about working with them. Some people pray. I clean tools."

Blake reaches out to touch a finger to the piece she's working on, lowering it slightly. "And tools don't judge. I respect that more then you could ever perhaps understand. I'll leave you to your prayer for now, but no doubt I'll be back." He offers a soft reassuring smile. "We can worship together."

Thea shakes her head slightly, letting him lower the tool, glancing up at him. "Please stay," she says quietly. "Sometimes it's nice to have company." There's a brief hesitation. "That is, you're welcome to stay," she corrects. "The Chapel's all well and good, but there are too many things I can break in there."

Blake seems pensive about the request, if only for the reason he's quick to relay. "I'd like to. Honestly. But the Chief is going to realize one of her ants is missing from the mound before long. Rain check?" He asks, though he's already back pedalling towards the door.

Thea laughs softly and dips her head. "Just tell her you were feeding the cat," she teases. "Have a good evening, Petty Officer. Don't work TOO hard, hmmm?" And then it's back to the tools.

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