Summary: Down on Scorpia, a marine and a viper jock chillax in a rickety little cabin in the woods.
Date: PH072 (29 June 2009)
Related Logs: Along Came A Spider & Three Hour Tour.

Scorpia, Near Osprey, Dilapidated Cabin

IC Time: Post Holocaust Day #72
OOC Time: Mon Jun 29 21:05:42 2009

Salazar's erstwhile houseguest has been a relatively quiet companion, for the duration of the day. He woke up, he found something resembling clean water to splash on his face, and he's spent the majority of the afternoon and evening slumped in that chair he was ordered into. His flight suit's been zipped down to the waist and tied off there; he's wearing some kind of navy-issue t-shirt beneath it. Identifiable as such by the 'N A V Y' stamp in faded lettering across the back. His dogtags jingle now and then as he.. works on something. Looks like his comm radio. Must've gotten busted when he crashed.

Salazar returns from outside the cabin just around dusk. Her absence was likely noted around two hours ago, when she stepped out for a smoke. Now she's back, carrying nothing in particular with her save her rifle. She closes the door behind her quietly, and moves over to tug the curtains closed, leaving only the light of the lamp inside. She glances over briefly, the moves to pick up a pack, and drop it lightly on a table.

Click, click, click. The pilot's trying, and failing, to fix his radio. It's probably something really stupid like a loose wire, but he gets paid to drag millions of cubits worth of military property around the sky, and blow shit up. When the door opens, his hand is on his sidearm before his eyes even come up. Recognition sets in, and he sets the thing down on the table again, and goes back to his fruitless tinkering. "Thanks," is offered quietly for the cigarettes. "How's your arm doing?" At least his head wound is looking a little better.

Salazar bends to grab her bag from the floor, and digs around inside it, right arm only, before she pulls out a black tank top. There is no logo. She unzips her vest, ziiiiiiiip, and then pushes it open. Her left arm remains down at her side. She's careful, but competent, about getting it off without a fuss. She pulls the leather over her arm, and tosses it atop a desk, where she left her leather jacket. "Sore." The bandage at her shoulder could use a change. Where's a medic when you need one? Her torso is tattooed, her upper back, arms, and sides are the most heavily tattooed and visible flesh. Most of the tatts are black and grey, some are portraits. She takes a slow, deep breath, and then starts to slowly pull it on. Dressing slowly with an injury to arm and shoulder isn't any easier.

The pilot remains silent for a good while after Salazar's spoken, just tinkering away. Not much of a talker, it seems. At some point during her changing, his eyes have drifted slowly toward her shoulder, perusing the tattoos sprawled across her dusky skin with subtle appreciation. "Nice ink," he offers, even-toned and offhanded. "You need some help there? Dressing looks like it could use changing, too. Why don't you sit down. You can tell me where you've been."

"Only if you say please," Salazar replies dryly, pausing with the shirt roughly half on her body. "It is. I had a great artist." For the ink. She doesn't specify, but it should be fairly obvious to an officer, cos of all that training and such. "I liked you better when you had a gun in my face." She's just charming. She flicks her hair out of her eyes with a toss of her head, and regards Kai for a long moment. "I was praying." Yes, she takes excursions on a hostile and occupied planet to pray.

"That can be arranged," Kai answers, as to the gun in her face. It's sitting right there by his elbow, after all. Loaded. He doesn't address the prayer, or lack thereof, for the time being. Instead, he sets his radio down and leans back slightly in his chair, blue eyes tracking back to the woman's far darker ones. "Pretty please. With a cherry on top."

"Oh, a feisty one." The former marine's arched brow tics up slightly. She moves over to take a seat on the edge of the bed. It looks a little funny because it takes her a moment to finish getting both arms into the tank. She may have been stalling a bit, waiting for the pain to subside. It was the cherry on top thing, you know.

Kai waits a few seconds, then pushes out of his chair slowly. If he looks like he aches all over, it's probably because he does. These kinds of things usually take a day or two to show their full colours, especially when there isn't adrenaline to compensate. He fetches his sidearm and thumps closer to where she's perched on the bed; his eyes briefly rove to the door, then the curtained windows as he moves. "You can call me whatever you like. Just sit still for me." He drops down beside her then, and drags the medkit over. Rustle, rustle.

"You remind me of a priest I knew," Salazar comments dryly, perhaps cryptically, depending on the bent of the pilot's sense of humor. She breathes in, breathes out, and sits with a slight slouch, just relaxing, trying to relax. "If you make me bleed all over my fresh shirt, I'm taking the smokes back."

"Oddly enough.." He fishes out a fresh swath of bandaging, ointment, and a cotton swab. "..you're not the first person to tell me that." Kai, unfortunately, doesn't really have much in terms of bedside manner. His hand is a little rough on her arm, though at least it's warm; the grip is firm. He probably shakes like a stick jockey. "I'm pretty sure I can outrun you to the table, so I'll take the risk." He starts peeling off the old dressing, no sign of squickiness at the sight of blood. "How far is it to this lodge you mentioned?"

"I would take that bet." She gives him a look over, then nods. "And then I'd win it." She'd probably win it by injuring them both more than they already are injured, but she'd win it. She seems sure. "A day or two, depending on how fast we move, and how many Centurions we have to go around."

That manages to draw a little smile from the man. It's fleeting, and the flash of his incisors makes it seem a bit feral. But it's a smile. And it's more than some get out of him. He tosses the old dressing into a rubbish bin overflowing with broken bits of glass and other random junk that isn't fit for being salvaged, and sets to cleaning the wound as gently as he can. "We'll use your maps, factor in the cylons' patrol routes." He pauses. "I need to find my other shipmates. At least one raptor probably crashed. The other, even if it landed, won't have air support. I need to get to them. Think you'll be good to go in the morning?"

A smile from a man who rarely smiles? Salazar is really quite good at getting things out of people, at least once she's figure out she wants it. Part of the reason she's so darn good at her job. Not that Kai knows what her j — hey wait. "Are you ever going to introduce yourself, or would you prefer sweetheart?" Somehow, even though she uses an endearment, it manages to sound just a little condescending. "What possessed you people to fly over this late in the game, and where the frak did you even come from?"

Kai pauses in his swabbing, either to consider how to answer that first question, or to admire the ink sprawling over the woman's shoulder. It's really pretty intense. "Karim," he answers in a murmur shortly thereafter. The 'k' is pronounced like a throaty 'h'. With the ointment, and the fact that he doesn't have the most delicate of fingers, what he's doing is probably a bit uncomfortable. Soon the swab is tossed out as well, and he starts wrapping her arm with the fresh bandaging. "Parts. Fuel." His hand drops away from her arm, and he starts closing up the kit. "Survivors, maybe."

"Karim," Salazar repeats, softly, as if testing the feel of it on her tongue. Her pronunciation is spot on. "Good name." She glances down to watch him work on her shoulder, teeth only clenching slightly when he's particularly rough with it. She's fairly stoic for a person with a gunshot wound being manhandled by a pilot. "Those first two you'll find. Survivors… it's a mixed bag. I'd say it's 50/50 on the group I was with." That's the nicest thing she's ever likely to say about the Resistance. "You're not like most of the jocks I've known."

"And you're not like most of the ex-marines I've known." It is.. really tough to say whether that's a compliment or a tease. Or a little of both. It's delivered straight-faced, either way. "Are you from Sagittaron, or just well-traveled, Salazar?" He's referring to her pronunciation of his name, presumably. The medkit is locked up and re-stowed, and he pushes to his feet— the sidearm, a handsome looking Picon fifty-seven, is collected as he moves.

The response to that is obvious and simple. "I get around." Salazar's expression remains stoic as well, but that could be due to resisting the urge to punch a pilot in the face for prodding her fresh wound. "I was born here on Scorpia, but I find men of Sagittaron to have a certain rough charm." She glances at the sidearm, and notes Karim's fondness for it. "I've fought with several Saggies. Always a good time."

"I'll bet you do." Get around. Which probably isn't helping her urge to want to punch him in the face, but Kai's just scathing like that. "I've never actually been to Scorpia, before all of this. Hell of a way to take a vacation." His voice is tinged with amusement, even if he doesn't smile. With a glance back at her, he's returning to his seat, sidearm set down with a solid *thump* beside him on the table. He reaches for his broken radio again.

Salazar rarely punches people for repeating something she's just said herself. The punching urges subsides, but returns just a bit with every throb of her shoulder. "Welcome. Mind the radiation. It can put a real crimp in your social calendar." Her dark eyes follow the pilot, "It won't do you any good. All radio signals are experiencing active jamming."

"Any idea where the jamming's coming from?" His eyes lift a fraction, but his head stays down. He really isn't making much progress with that thing, anyway. Maybe it's just something to keep his hands busy. Stick jockeys and their fidgetyness.

"It's just started up in the last day or two. I don't use the radio a lot, but to get any respectable range out of transmitters, you need a tower. I've been here. I was about to move." Salazar glances over again, and reaches up to rub her eyes. "Lucky for you, I didn't."

There's another little twitch of his lips, a not-quite-smile. "Damned lucky," he concurs. "Where were you going to move to? I need to get this thing working, if I'm going to have any hope of finding my people. And I'd like to know where the signal's coming from. How many days' worth of supplies do you figure you've got?" Demanding little bugger, isn't he.

"Trip further into Osprey, then back to the lodge." Sal reaches up to sweep a hand through her hair, then reaches back to twist the length of it around her hand, and lift it from her neck. She took off the leather because the little cabin is stuffy in the day. "I was set for at least three more weeks. Two with you in tow." The demands don't raise the flag today. Salazar was a marine for a few years. You get used to officers, you get used to the basics. "There's more available out there, it's just a matter of getting past the enemy and getting to it."

"Right." It's murmured sotto voce, as the pilot cogitates upon what was said. There's a *click* as he seems to finally have some success with his radio. The 'transmit' button is pushed, and he voices a clear and coherent 'krypter, krypter, krypter' call into it. Fsssssssshhhhhhh. He tries again, gets the same static, and switches it off. "If we haven't found my people in two weeks, anyway, we're going to need a change in plans."

Salazar runs her hand through her hair, then lets it drop against her neck again. The light sheen of sweat will fade once the sun sets, and the cooler weather drifts in. She turns her head, and her eyes to the pilot. "… I'm not repopulating anything." Was that a joke? Could have been.

Kai clips the radio to the hip of his flight suit, then ducks his head and lifts the hem of his t-shirt to drag over his face tiredly. He, too, is a bit sweaty, dark hair clinging limply to his skull. "There goes that idea," he returns drily. Then, after a few moments' consideration, he starts crumpling the cellophane off the pack of cigarettes. Then slides one out, and pats himself down for a lighter. Shit.

Salazar shakes her head. "You pilots." She reaches into her own pocket, and produces a stainless steel zippo, and tosses it over to Karim. It flashes dully in the light, end over end. The logo, of course, is that of the CMC marines, etched into the side. "If I die, you can have that. Not before. I want it back. It lights in the rain and wind."

"And here I thought I wasn't like most pilots you'd met." Kai catches the lighter, thumbs briefly over the CMC logo, then cups his hand over his cigarette as it's lit. "I'll remember you said that, Salazar." He meets her eyes for a full five seconds after, then tosses it back and takes a drag. Sweet, sweet nicotine.

The eye contact is returned for the duration. "Though you may defy the odds," Salazar catches the lighter with her right hand, and shakes it slightly at him, "There are certain traits all jocks share." She slides the lighter back to the home from whence it came, nestled against her thigh in her pocket. "One is never failing in the need to have a marine pull your fat out of the fire. On the ground, the lot of you are delightfully challenged." It's said, oddly enough, with a certain fondness.

The fondness makes him smile again, if only briefly. It dimples his cheek on one side, but not the other. "Delightfully challenged," he repeats, in between puffs of his cigarette. "Basic training was a long.. long time ago." It doesn't sound like an excuse, so much as mild self-deprecation. "I'm genuinely grateful that you found me. I'd be dead right now, otherwise." He exhales, and drags again. "Thank you." That's sincere.

Salazar nods. She glances across the cabin, the interior of which is a bit depressing, in that stuffy post apocalyptic way. "My pleasure, Karim." She quirks a brief smile, and then glances over. "There are a few pilots in my family." She offers a little tidbit of personal information, in the spirit of small talk. "I find they mellow with age, at least until the reunions." There's another brief pause, and she slides the folding knife out of her back pocket, and flips it open. The blade rests against her thigh for a moment. "If you were under twenty five, I would have left you. Nothing is more irritating than a young jock feeling his oats."

"Military family?" Blue eyes dance to the blade, then back to her face. He looks relaxed, comfortable in his chair. Or as relaxed as he can be, anyway, with a head wound, a concussion and gods know how much ugly bruising from his seat harness, under his clothing. The sidearm is still sitting beside him at the table. He could probably, given his reaction times thus far, have the safety off and the weapon cocked at her in under a couple of seconds.

Salazar nods. "Mm." It's an affirmative mm, you see. She tips forward a little, the corners of her eyes tightening with the almost hidden wince as she slides her left arm into her lap. "Huge family, every one either serving or retired." She's quiet for a moment, before she asks, "Were the shipyards entirely destroyed?"

Kai pulls from his cigarette while Salazar speaks, and exhales just as she's asking her question. There's a twinge of reminiscence in his eyes, when she speaks of her family, though his own isn't mentioned. "The shipyards are gone," he confirms. Right, back to business. "Signal black, everything that lived or ever considered living there, is nuked to shit. Ambrose air base is gone. If I'm not mistaken though, there are factories and secondary assembly plants along the rail line we came up from. I'd like to recon down there, see what we can find, on our way out."

Salazar's fingers brush lightly up the grip of the knife. She closes her eyes briefly, nods once, very slightly. She bounces the knife in her fingers once, twice, three times. The fourth time it bounces, she flips it so the flat of the blade comes down on her fingers, turns it, and flicks her wrist to send it sailing to thunk into the wall beside the bed. It isn't a show of skill so much a direction of energy, and a quiet expression of rage held very tightly in check. She lifts her fingertip to her mouth and sucks the shallow cut there, cleaning off the welling drop of blood. Sharp knife. It barely sat against her skin. There's a soft sound, as the finger is pulled away, suction lost, and she rolls the pad of her thumb over her fingertip. "My list of prayers gets longer every day." Holding vigil for the souls of lost loved ones is inconvenient in an occupation. She doesn't say that out loud. "We'll hit the rails tomorrow."

There's a twitch of the pilot's hand like he might go for his gun. Ever so briefly, when Salazar starts tossing the knife in her hand. When it's launched at the wall instead, his hand hesitates then drops back to his lap. He breathes out, smoke funneling from his nose and lips, and dispersing in the stale, warm air. "You decide you want someone to pray with. My scripture's pretty good." Like any good Saggie boy. He tucks his cigarette between his teeth and fetches his gun then for real. "I need some air." It's muttered around the intrusion in his mouth.

"I haven't read the scripture since I was a girl," Salazar replies, her voice quiet, pitched just to pass the space between them, and no further. "I don't pray in the traditional way. None of us do." By us, of course, she means the Nikos clan, though she has yet to offer up her full name. "There's a nice spot up the rise. If I hear gunfire, I'll be with you in two."

"I suppose tradition means different things to different people." Kai's trying to shove his arms back into his flight suit, wincing as the wound in his bicep is aggravated by all the shuffling about. It's zipped to his clavicle, no higher. With a glance toward her, "I'm a believer in prayer being a personal thing. It's between you and your gods, how you do it." He ratches the slide on his weapon, then plucks the cigarette from his mouth. "You get lonely out here, all by yourself?" It's an honest question.

There's a nod from Salazar. "Yes." Her tone holds no embarrassment in admitting that, she obviously values the simple questions, direct as they are. "I have a large family. The quiet, while nice for a time…" She shakes her head slightly, trailing off. She chooses different words. "I work alone often. It's just work. Without the home to go back to, the steam to blow off, the brawls and the fights, and the kisses hello." She stops. It's not the end of a sentence, but it is. "What's left here isn't my home. I miss it."

Kai just sort of stands there for a while with an odd look on his face. It's difficult to interpret, because he's just not one of those open book types of men. At some point he'll no doubt ask her to clarify just what exactly it is she does. But that point, isn't now. "I miss it, too," he admits finally. The gun is toyed with in his hand, and there's a glance to the curtained window before he looks back to Salazar. "Get some rest, if you can. Need you on top of your game in the morning." If it sounds faintly patronising, that's because it is.

Salazar actually smiles. "Kiss my ass, fairy." She tips back on the bed, and flicks off a loose salute. It may as well have been a special finger. There's no real venom in it. "I, like many of my brethren, am always at the top of my game, even at the bottom of a bottomless pitcher of beer. Whistle if you need me, sweetheart." And we're back to that.

That's okay, Kai's probably gotten a few special fingers in his time. From special marines. It's almost like home, and that almost makes him smile. Except it doesn't. The salute's returned with his cigarette-holding hand— as opposed to his gun hand. "Will do, darling." There's similarly no rancor in his own tone of voice; it's merely tit for tat. And then he's ditching his cigarette in a cup of dirty water that was likely procured for such, and cocking his pistol before heading for the door.

A throaty chuckle follows Karim out the door, along with the words, "Music to my ears."

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