Just a Snipe
Just a Snipe
Summary: A day in the life of local Enginesnipe Mopsus Doe
Date: 54 ACH
Related Logs: None

Snatch has been hard at work for the better part of the last several days, and it shows. Her knees are planted sideways in a chair down in the front row of the observation deck, and she's wilted over the armrest into the next chair, where her head is buried sideways in her arms and she's drooling a nice puddle in her sleep.

Reighner arrives from the corridor, looking halfway dead. He's brought a few folders along for the trip. He takes a seat on a couch, coincidentally adjacent to Snatch's, and gets to reading.

Snatch shifts a little in her sleep at the motion on the couch adjacent. "Mmmgh," she says, fumbling around for where she put the rest of that grain bar from the mess without bothering to peel her eyes open. Where'd that thing go?

Reighner glances sidelong at the noise, almost startled by it. Truth be told, he's near sleep himself. He watches for a second or two before clearing his throat to unobtrusively announce that there's somebody nearby.

Snatch khmms, a noise that almost echoes Reighner's, a cough in her sleep followed by a hmm as she finds the bar and bites into the end of it, holding it in her mouth, nostrils flaring with her slow breathing. At least now she's stopped drooling, which is a blessing for Reighner as she senses warmth nearby, and, having neither blanket nor pillow, she worms closer and half-curls against him. "Hmmm."

Reighner arches an eyebrow, half-amused and half-inconvenienced. He clears his throat again, louder.

Snatch nudges against Reighner's leg with her head, as if she were trying to burrow into him or underneath him. She says something, but her teeth don't budge from the middle of the grain bar, making her words completely incomprehensible except for the fact that they were approximately three syllables in length.

It's time to bring in the vocal cords. Reighner cleans in and mumbles, "Petty officer. It's time to wake up."

Snatch takes a deeper breath and finally breaks through the bar, chewing on the bit left in her mouth and then sighing, "O.K. Whan time's it?" she asks, coherent if still sleep-flavored.

"I don't know," Reighner answers. He suppresses a grin and requests, lowly, "Where do you think you are?"

"Roonser's nes'," Snatch drawls, eyelids moving as it building up the energy to open them. "M'a gone git back on shif' in'n ahr. Ah'm taahrd."

Reighner nods. "That's right. And, who do you think I am?"

Snatch takes a deep breath, and lets it out with a soft, "Aaaahnunno," her answe half-hidden in a yawn that moistens her eyes enough for them to open and not feel all papery. She peers upward. "Who'ns ye? An' whah'm Ah hugged on yin?"

"You tell me," Reighner shoots back, dryly. "Frankly, I think you should tell me who you are, first."

Snatch drags herself up into a seated position, yawns again and polishes off what will have to pass for her meal. "Del Boccyo, Mopsus Doe," she introduces herself. "Ah b'long to the Cap'm. Cap'm Z'merman," she drawls out.

Reighner closes his folder. He extends his right hand with an arched eyebrow. "Dr. Reighner." He leaves the department out of it. "You didn't get enough proper sleep, del Boccyo?"

Snatch haws. "Hain't no one gettin' no proper sleep 'roun' these parts no more. There's chores got to git done," she informs him. "An' plenny on 'em. You seen all them novo canott out 'ere, m'vrait?"

"I have," Reighner answers. "But I'm sure you know that chronic lack of sleep shoots up the chances of error." He pauses. "What do you do?"

"Whane'er needs done," Snatch replies. "Ah'm jus' a snahp. Of recen' Ah bin o'er on than thar Desney, straipin' paahr units from thar wa'er pumps. They'ns ain't gone have no use for'm no more, an' they'ns cin git put t' good profit elt-swar."

Reighner nods. "We were running low, weren't we?"

"Ne ye' pas—" Snatch admits, "Bun we'ns gonna, some day non too far off, an' that's for fact," she warns. "Damn sucette hain't nary an clue whan she'n's about," she shakes her head as she mutters that last, being quite unclear as to who she's calling names there.

Reighner lifts his eyebrows, but he doesn't probe. He glances at his wristwatch. "To answer your question, it's nineteen hundred. How long were you here for?"

"Ah, frak an' Haydes. Ah'd bes' ought git gone," Snatch shuffles up to her feet, stretches, and then jumps up and down a few times to get some energy back into her. "Thanks fer wakin' min."

The corners of his lips rise in a slight — just slight — grin. "Pleasure. Be safe, petty officer."

"Ou-ais, Cap'm!" Snatch replies with some enthusiasm once she gets enough in her, and she dashes off, taking the steps up out of the Nest two at a time.


This is one of the rare occasions the ChEng is at her desk. She's got a mountain of schematics, inventory lists and general octagons of paperwork to slog through. Rhea is working half with chicken-scratch on her keyboard, half on her laptop. Scratching out data on the paper, then typing some in on her keyboard. Between that, she drinks liberally from her coffee cup.

Snatch heads into Main Engineering, bent forward with a case on her back that she looks like she could probbaly fit inside. Still, the hardy little snipe is lugging it without apparent trouble or complaint, and she hefts it over to a storage unit where there's room, settling it down and then standing up straight to uncrick her back, popping a joint there and then looking relieved. She spots the Cap'm, then looks from side to side, biting her lip almost conspiritorially before hustling over there. "Y'ns got a min't, Cap'm?" she asks kind of meekly.

Rhea is absorbed enough that she doesn't notice Snatch until the enginesnipe addresses her. But she looks half-relieved to have an excuse to come up for air. "Del Boccyo. Always. Just slogging through the ledgers. Trying to make sense of where we stand, technically-speaking, after the other day. What's doing?"

"Ah jus' fin'shed straipin' them Desney wa'er pump syssems on them's paahr units, sin' we'ns ain't gone turn 'em baik on agin," Snatch replies. "Ah'd much laik t' be left to takin' apart the rest on't, Cap'm. Nothin' too shiny or prettiful laift, bun someday we'ns gone ache hard for a simple triwi bolt 'fin we'ns hain't un laift. We'ns complete-wise scraip the res' on thar pump thar an' we'ns got a good reserve stock on pahps an' bolts an' waahrin's, m'vrait?"

Rhea cracks a faint, crooked grin at that. "Scavenge to your heart's content, Del Boccyo. There's not much we won't probably be in want for one of these days, the way things stand."

Snatch nods her head firmly in recognition of the Cap'm's approval. "Ou-ais, Cap'm. Cin Ah aks yin on an whole other manner?" she asks, a little more quietly, shuffling subtly closer to the desk.

"You can ask anything you like, Del Boccyo," Rhea says. "Coffee?" She gestures to her ever-half-full pot, and the spare cups she always keeps about for the visitors to her desk. "Before you get to your other matter, though, I've got a query for you. What'd you make of it all? Yesterday. The Hera. The other ships we found."

Snatch shakes her head, pulling her lips together. "Ah reckon than Peg'sis bin staiffed with idjits, Cap'm," she replies. "An' cruel-als-Haydes ones, none less."

"I won't speak for what happened on another ship," Rhea says, her tone low. "I wasn't there. We've all faced hard times since the attacks. But there are some things in this universe there's no justification for." She doesn't dwell on condemning the Pegasus. Not in front of one of her snipes, anyway. But her disapproval is heavy. She clears her throat. "Anyhow. I heard you handled yourself well on the Hera. Kept our troops in line. I'd considered sending a contingent over to the Nebula but, in retrospect, I'm glad I didn't. From the reports I got, it turned into a clusterfrak all around."

Snatch nods a little, brow furrowing, "Ou-ais, Cap'm. Ah'm glad -as- Ah weren't o'er thar. Them Hera prossies wasn't mulch t'keep in lahn, bun ah reckon't once them M'rines laift some un should ought t've stayt thar t' look to them. Keep 'em from trah'n t' pull an riot on them's own."

"The Hera seems a well-run ship, for all the surface gloss," Rhea says. "Can't speak for what happened on the Nebula, either. But I'm sure whoever's responsible will be dealt with." Her disapproval is audible and sharp. As if she'd like to 'deal' with them with her bare hands. She clears her throat. Reaching out to grip one of her desk toys. Idly playing with it. It seems to level her mood. "So. What else is on your mind?"

Rhea shakes Magic 8 Ball. Its message reads: Ask again but this time I want to hear more rage in your voice.

Snatch wipes her hands on the sides of her coveralls, wiping some of the grime from her hands to the fabric, but some of the grime from the fabric to her hands at the same time, so the sum improvement in cleanliness is only slightly more than nil. She leans onto the edge of Rhea's desk. "Y'ns rememmer them flaahrs what wen' up 'roun' parts of recen'?"

Rhea looks down at the message that pops up on her ball. Snorting. "This thing has a screwy sense of humor…" she says with a smirk. She keeps it clenched in her fist, though, when Snatch mentions the fliers. They seem to prompt the requested rage. But she keeps it contained to a spark in her eyes. "Yes. I recall them." Her tone is clipped. "Don't give them a second thought, PO. It's an idiotic distraction I, and some of the other officers, are doing our best to squash." Her brows arch. "Unless there's some reason you're…particularly concerned about them?"

Rhea shakes Magic 8 Ball. Its message reads: Go for it

Snatch narrows her eyes, brows furrowing with a sort of curiosity at the Cap'm's reaction. "Ou-ais, Cap'm. Ah bin thinkin' on't," she goes on to explain. "Ah reckon in's likely hagh tahm Ah got mahnself hitched. Ah would on bin alreaduns 'fin I hain't 'ave re-upped. Ah turnt twenny-three this year, Cap'm. Mah momma alreaduns had min an mahn bro'r before she war mahn age. Ah'd bes' ought git to it 'fin ah'm gonna. Bun ah hain't really got tahm or inklin' t' go courtin' agin. Ah bin through all that once't. Ah was wonn'rin 'fin ye kenn't on any un what could half use on a waahf," she finally gets to the point. "Ah cin cook," she adds, giving her particular qualifications. "An Ah bleed reg'lar, sol Ah reckon Ah'm good fer birthin'."

Rhea blinks. That's not a request the ChEng gets every day. She takes a deep breath. And lets it out again. Heavy sigh. She hands Snatch the eight ball. "Give it a shake, PO. See if it points you toward any willing fellow." It's a joke. Probably. Another sigh. "Del Boccyo, if you find a fellow you want to court, that's all well and good by me. So long as you keep it in the regs, I figure we can all do as we please when we head off-duty. But you sure as hades aren't obligated to get married just because the commander puts up some…" A pause, as she removes the inappropriate profanity she wants to insert here. "…edict up on the walls. People should get married because they fancy each other, and figure they can build a better life together than apart. You've got a lot of duties thrust on you on this ship. *That's* not one of them, to my mind."

Snatch takes the black sphere in both hands and looks down at it. "Go.. for.. it?" she reads it slowly, then repeats, "Go fer it?" less stiltedly. In any case she lowers the ball to the top of the desk and rests her hands on top of it. "Je sa—" she assures the Cap'm, "A hain't obliged so to do. Bun Ah always reckon't on gittin' hitched an' droppin' brats. An' y'ns sait als we'ns all bes' ought make ournself an new laif here… t'gither. Thar pos'er jus' got min thinkin' on't, than's all."

"I'm not one who can really say anything against it," Rhea says, a little wistful. "I lived thirteen years in a Navy marriage. Twelve with a brat dropped." She smirks. "It's hard, though. Even in the best of times. Sometimes I wonder…" But she trails off, not finishing that thought aloud. She smiles faintly. "It's good work if you can get it, PO. But it'd best be with the right tools. It'd take a rare sort of man to build a life out here."

Snatch gives a sort of snort of a laugh, rueful: "Ah reckon all men are on a rare sort, now, Cap'm," she points out. "Sait's which? Mahn mamma an' poppa got fixed up t'get hitched bah mahn granpappy. Shore 'nuf they'ns haid them's spaits, bun a mairr'g hain't nothin' unlaik to an canott. Takes elbow-grease to keep 'er midst-airs."

"A marriage is an engine, no doubt of it," Rhea agrees. "Got to keep it maintained. You let things slide…" She sighs. Still wistful. "…well. It's like any other machine, isn't it? They break down without proper attention. But, my husband and I had more good days than not. Apart from the occasional systems malfunction."

Snatch fiddles with the black sphere in her hands, "Ou-ais, Cap'm," she replies, "Y'ns ken out the good in mainnance, an' Ah seen mahn own sailf how dutiful y'ns bin t' yourn chores. A hain't no doubt y'ns war an good waahf."

Rhea doesn't answer yay or nay to that. Though, from the wistful frown that comes to her face, she's on point of disagreeing with Snatch. She shrugs. "I had some good years. I don't think I'll ever get married again." It's stated softly but firmly. She sighs. "But, I suspect it's the sort of thing anyone can be good at if they put in the work. If you find a fellow worth the effort, Del Boccyo, it's good work."

Snatch nods quietly. "Ou-ais, Cap'm. Bun als Ah dee, Ah hain't no tahm t' go trah an' git mahn sailf courted. Ah hardly got tahm t' sleep an' keep mahn sailf fed. An' A hain't pretty or well-spoke laik some's wimmin 'roun' these parts. Ah'd be awful beholden t' yin 'fin y'cin len min know 'fin y'ns run 'cross sommon' needin' an wahf. A hain't particular 'fin him ain't."

"Some fellows don't mind a little grease," Rhea says, grin crooking another notch. She shrugs. "I suspect you'll find a man on your own just fine, PO. It's the sort of thing that tends to happen in its own time. It's never the sort of thing, in my life, that I've had much luck planning for." She eyes the eight ball. "I've just kind of taken what's come my way. It's worked out interestingly enough."

Snatch turns the thing on its side and rolls it back toward Rhea with an easy roll as she listens, wrinkling her nose and scrunching up her mouth to one side in thought, finally nodding her head. "Awright, Cap'm. M'a citch min nex' canott out to'n Desney. Aught elts y'ns needin' done out thar way?"

"We've still got repairs to make on the ships we stumbled across. Don't fear. You'll be tasked with plenty," Rhea says. She stands. Though she gives her ball an idle shake before going anywhere. "Anyhow. I should be looking in on the upper brass. See what it is they're going to task us with next. If there's nothing else, you can get back to work, PO."
Rhea shakes Magic 8 Ball. Its message reads: Asking machines to solve your problems lead to the creation of the Cylons, you know

"Ou-ais, Cap'm," Mopsus Doe replies, straightening a little in as close to a military gesture of respect as she gets after so long in Rhea's Engineering, then turning to go and gear up for her next venture abroad.

Rhea dismisses Snatch with a minimum of fuss, setting her eight ball down on her desk. In a caring sort of way. Then she marches off, to whatever venture she's headed to.


Snatch is back on the job, waiting on the raptor over to the Destiny, sitting crouched amid a variety of toolcase, waiting, leaning forward with her forearms on her knees, watching the deck crew quietly.

There's a subtle sort of smile on Kalypso's face as she explores the various parts of the Genesis that she'll be spending the most of her time in. This is one of those places that the freshly uniformed woman wants to familiarize herself with. It's not gawking that she's doing, so much as quietly observing and absorbing the atmosphere here. The deck crew is at work doing their jobs and she doesn't get in their way. What she does do is notice the woman leaning there watching, some vague sense of familiarity about her. Ah, that's right, from the Hera… while all the chaos was going on. "I don't think I caught your name last night."

Snatch did sort of disappear among the arriving raptors. She looks up, sort of surprised to be addressed. "Del Boccyo," she replies. "Mopsus Doe." A name with the approximate valence of class and upbringing in this part of the universe as a name like 'Bobbi Sue' might have in another. "Y'ns parn on thin's here crew, now?"

Oh. Right. How could Kalypso even hessitate in recognizing this woman. The moment Snatch speaks she definitely recognizes the voice that's for sure. "That's a mouthful. Do you have like, a nickname or a handle?" Kalypso asks. She looks down at her uniform, half-smiles again. "Ensign Kalypso Leto." It feels both strange and good to be saying that. "Part of this crew as of about three hours ago."

Snatch holds up a hand, "Wilcom on, than. Good on yin fer uppen'. Raht dutiful on yin. Snatch. Folk ken min's Snatch," she adds, even standing up to shake hands with the woman properly.

Kalypso's handshake is firm, though those are not the hands of a seasoned pilot. They're… they're… manicured. Gasp. (That of course is unlikely to last much longer). "Thanks. Pleasure to meet you Snatch," Kallie says. "Are you waiting on something, or just watching the scenery?" The pilot tucks her hands back after the handshake, letting them fall casually at her sides.

"Ou-ais, m'a caitch min hold on th' nex' canott out to the Desney," Mopsus Doe drawls. "Jus' soon's she'ns git here. Chores t'git done o'er yonder," she explains.

Kalypso does have to work a bit to mentally translate Mopsus DoeerSnatch's dialect, but she's at least taking the time to bother. "Yes. I would imagine there's a lot to do over on the Destiny after…" Well… she doesn't want to dwell on that and bring the darkness back to her eyes again. "I was just trying to get a feel for this place."

"Ah don't reckon y'ns wan' to gift min a raahd out thi'er?" Snatch asks obliquely. "A hain't impatient but Ah feel less 'an profitful jus' sittin."

"It's not that I don't want to," Kalypso says, giving a longing look to one of the Raptors that's sitting on deck. "But I'm not fully cleared for flying out just yet. I have to have a green light from Lieutenant Bayless and possibly be accompanied. I'm under a probationary period from the CAG right now. Haven't been in the box office of a Raptor in about a year. Not that I think anything's changed, but…" She shrugs.

"Fair 'nuf," Snatch replies, "Ne chus pas fain t' get'cher'n hot wa'er wit'cher CAG," she continues conversationally, the whole lot of it drawling together almost into one word as she grows comfortable with the new pilot.

"Yeah, I just started getting to know her," Kalypso states, "I'd hate to muddy my good first impression so soon." She understood most of that. It's one of the things that had first struck her as interesting when she'd gone off to her military training. The equal footing and the ability to meet people from different walks of life that her, ahem, social circles wouldn't have let her near before. Because, seriously? In her "other life", Snatch would be on the level with a groundskeeper or a maid. "I hope your shuttle comes along soon, so you don't have to wait too long."

Indeed, people who scratched together enough learning to go off and be a groundskeeper or maid were considered the upper crust back in Mopsus Doe's other life. Had she stayed— well, had she stayed and the world not ended— she'd still be working the earth and piecing together busted freighters to carry off the grain she managed to reap from the earth for pennies on the bushel, shooting at the carcajou picking off the calves or the tax-collectors picking off her family's meagre profits. "Ou-ais," she agrees in general. "Ah mahn ought git min an other nap, 'fin in don' git here, soon. Ah reckon Ah could make use on the rest."

Kalypso smiles, "Sleep is productive." She glances over her shoulder and then back to her new acquaintance. "I think I'm going to go back to exploring this place. I'll see you around?"

Snatch nods a swift affirmative, then looks up as an alert signals the impending arrival of a raptor. Is this the one? Well, Snatch seems distracted by it, at least. "Shore als," she agrees to Kalypso. "This'n bes' ought bin mahn."

A mixture of radio, signal lights, and general chatter makes it clear that something is coming in to land at this hangar. Nobody ever said it WASN'T a raptor. Of course, nobody ever said it WAS one, either.

Snatch is waiting on a raptor, which is why she's assuming that it's going to be one. She hefts one box onto her back and picks up a toolcase in each hand, getting ready to board.

It turns out that this is… not a raptor. It's a Viper 7, actually.. and while it's not really a bad landing, it's clearly on the lower end of the sort of viper landings you'll probably have seen around here. This pilot's either having a bad day, he's totally green… or he's just not very good. The engines whine down while the spacecraft taxis into place, and then the hatch opens. No. Not a Raptor.

Snatch has a few unkind words to say about the raptor that's currently landing, but they're drowned out in the din of the landing itself. She puts down her cases again and sits on the top of the big one to sulk to herself.

Orion climbs out of the strike craft, pulls his helmet off, and steps away from the bird. He looks slightly disoriented, and spotting you does not help his sense of direction one bit, "Wow." He looks down at you. His voice sounds like deep country, "You look like the tail end of a sugar crash, you know that?" He sounds casual and friendly, if not slightly off kilter.

"Ou-ais?" Mopsus Doe replies, sounding no little bit country, herself, and looking a little bit less put-off as she catches an earful of someone who sounds of Home. "Ah war waitin' on som onner canott, 'an's all," she explains in a low Aerelon Plains drawl.

Reed enters the hangar deck, turning immediately and walking up to the upper walk, one hand resting on the railing as he moves, then he stops, leaning on the metal rail and looking over the Deck, watching the technicians, and people.

Micah's one of those aforementioned people, and it's time for his scheduled CAP. He thumps down the stairs and into the hangar bay, just in the process of tugging up the zipper on his flight suit and doublechecking seals.

Snatch is sitting around waiting on the raptor to take her over to the Destiny to finish picking that big waterslide apart. She's got one huge workcase and two smaller ones, and she's sitting on the big one, looking disappointed that the last canott to drop in was a viper. She draws her lower lip into her mouth and looks up and across the room, to the upper walk, then down again.

Reed remains silent as he watches the activity of the Deck, resting his arms on the railing, pressing his palms together, rubbing them slightly as he watches. It's a bit far to call down to anyone without just yelling, and really, it's called an observation walk for a reason.

There's plenty to observe. The hangar bay's a busy place even during the idle times. And unfortunately, Snatch is out of luck again; Micah's definitely a jock of the viper variety. He strides right past the raptor she's perched on, pauses, and backtracks a few steps. "Del Boccyo." He grins slowly. "Lookin' for a ride?"

"Ou-ais, Jailhouse," Snatch replies, evidently having caught wind of his new soubriquet and thought it proper and fitting. "Jus' o'er to thar Desney, thins tahm," she drawls, smiling at him.

Reed tracks movement of a few people, focuses in on conversations here and there, observing with clear attention. He simply watches for the timebeing, standing apart from it all.

Micah probably isn't expected up in his bird immediately, as he seems to think he's got the time to loiter. He folds his arms and rests his hip and shoulder against the raptor's broad wing, gazing up at Snatch. "What's over there?" The use of his new callsign prompts a slight firming of his mouth, nothing more.

In uniform, a VERY tired looking Pepper comes down the steps and over toward the shuttles doing the transferring. She looks rather like she and sleep haven't been friends for awhile. Autopilot is on.

"We'ns takin' them's wa'erfall to parts," Snatch replies. "They hain't no call fer an whole wa'erfall o'er thar no more. They'ns leavin' uns taik whan we'ns got use fer from't. Nothin' too fanciful, jus' some paahps an' bolts we might could use more on down the laahn. Nothin' too no'cable 'til y'ns run out on 'ems."

Reed is on the upper observation walkway, looking down at the Hangar deck from above, leaned on the railing, silent, observing.

"Waterfalls," muses the pilot quietly. He seems at once enamoured and perplexed by the idea. "Sure could use a slip'n'slide here on the flight deck. Be a better thrill than gettin' rocketed through a launch tube." And that, surely, is one damned good thrill. At least, for an adrenaline junkie like Micah. "You let me know if I need to go heckle someone for you. Them Ares boys can be lazy as frak."

Snatch wrinkles her nose up. "Ne half so lazed pa's yourn deck crew," she tells him, "Ah -swar,- Ah caim up here t' lend mahn aid to them canott gittin' fixed up, an' I ain't met -un- on your deck weren't piddlin' about rather'n gittin to them's chores. Whar your'n Chief at, he'd bes' ought whip 'em chillin's haahds clean off— ou-ais!"

Reed watches the conversation, looking at the Snipe and pilot, tilting his head slightly as he watches, hands folding in front of him.

"My chief?" Micah slaps a hand over his chest. "He in't my frakking chief, Del Boccyo. Do I look like a knuckledragger t'you?" He takes up a bit more of a slouch against the raptor's wing, grinning. He does look a little thuggish right now though, courtesy of that broken nose and splint taped to the bridge of it. Real classy there, Micah.

"Yer'n deck chief, -faahn,-" Mopsus Doe corrects herself with a roll of her eyes. "Y'all hain't got no 'listed in 'mongst yer paahlts," yes, that was meant to be 'pilots.' "Son deck chief mahn's well bin your'n," she reasons quite logically, though there's something playful in the way she puts it, as if she were just playing with him rather than arguing in earnest.

Reed watches the interaction, either blatantly eavesdropping, or practicing on his Snatch-to-English translation matrix. It needs work.

"Frak, no, then we might have to actually work for a living," Micah retorts with a mock grimace. Whatever game it is between them, he seems to be playing along. "Instead of flyin' these beautiful birds and bein' paid for it." He hitches his chin toward his viper being preflighted at this moment by a swarm of deck hands. Watching them work, is like watching bees in a honeycomb. "Say," he considers, glancing at the time displayed prominently upon a bulkhead, "You ever seen the inside of a mark seven?"

Snatch drops her attempt to speak Colonial altogether, at this point, since she's just chatting with Micah, slipping back into an easy Plains Aerelonese, where her own accentual features fall nicely into the language, a melodious utterance as compared with the rough braying that tends to occur when she tries to spit out Colonial. 'No, I haven't. Well, it all depends on which inside you mean. Seen the inside of the belly, of course. Never sat in one.'

Reed, being Caprican, tends to have that different Baltarese accent, but he's working on understanding more. He watches the conversation for a bit longer, though seems to straighten a little as he watches.

It's like a switch that's flipped, listening to the pair of them shift into the speech of their home colony. One moment Micah's accent's just that, an abrasive thing that wears on the ears. The next, he may as well not be speaking Colonial at all. It's a wild thing, a rough-edged thing of saltspray beaches and lonely northern moors. "Never? Frak me. That just isn't right. C'mon, I'm sure they'll let you in for a moment." Pushing away from the raptor, he beckons for Snatch to follow, and starts off at a prowl.

Snatch laughs as she slips down, tripping along as she follows, that slight skulk of someone who thinks she might be doing wrong. 'Are you sure? I don't want to get you in trouble. By Castor, -I- don't want to get in trouble, either," she adds with a further laugh.

Reed pats the railing a couple times as he moves along the walkway, heading out of the Deck by the upper hatch. Seems he might have either found what he was looking for, not found it and decided it's not here, or just is off to his next stop.

"Almost got it ready for you, Saint Germain," one of the mechanics poking around under an engine explains, before Micah can even open his mouth. "Had a loose ignition wire, shouldn't take long." The Ensign drops into a crouch, and a few words are exchanged with the orange coveralls-clad enlisted. The fellow tosses Snatch a brief glance, seems to recognise her, and grins. "Sure, controls are locked and she's roped down. Just take it easy in there."

Snatch stands by while Micah and the deck hand talk, still looking a little nervous, but grinning, no less. "Ou-ais?" she asks the deck hand, then looks to Micah for final approval, not quite storming the cockpit yet. 'Should I…?' she asks.

The deck hand's waved off to resume his work, and Micah resurfaces promptly, giving the thumbs-up. 'Here, I'll help you up the ladder. Watch your step, I don't want to be explaining to the doctor that you actually did fall down some stairs when they ask how you broke your arm. Probably throw me in the brig for assault.'

Snatch chuckles, but knows her way around ladders. Only time she's ever fallen off has been on purpose. At least, not since she was small. Still, she lets him help, noting, 'It would be just your luck. I like your new callsign. Better than you do, I guess. I suppose it's funnier to me than it is to you, because it seemed like everytime I wanted to see you, you were in the brig. And now… well, if you hadn't been in the brig, who knows what would have happened? Your jail time saved me, in a real way. I guess that's why it sort of strikes me as nice,' she tells him as she climbs up the ladder. 'Jailhouse,' she says again, with a smile.

Micah isn't far behind her. He scales that ladder like a monkey, and reaches around the snipe to pull the seat harness aside so she can clamber into the cockpit. 'You know, I hadn't thought of it that way.' He smiles a little, too. 'I'm glad you can find something good about it. I damned near threw a fit when Nikos slapped it on me.' The interior of the bird is cluttered with electronic gauges and readouts, switches upon switches upon more switches, and a DRADIS console nestled in amongst it all. The iconic 'stick' is to the pilot's right, and since Micah's left handed, it probably took some getting used to.

Snatch can well figure out the gauges and readouts, since she knows the instrumentation that goes behind them. Still, the array of switches is dizzying, and she tries to puzzle out what goes to what, while not touching anything as she settles into the pilot's seat and smiles broadly at all the stuff, scanning it over. Castor and Pollux, twins of heaven," she recites in a sort of awe. "It's beautiful. You're lucky, being able to spend your time in here. Though I don't know that I'd buy it at the price of getting shot at by Toasters. Of course, the chance to shoot some of those bastards myself might be worth it." She finds what she figures is the weapons trigger and mimicks the sound of heavy gunfire, still not pressing anything, just sort of funning around.

It's no wonder some of the marines joke about it being like a life-sized video game. There are even foot pedals for the port and starboard controls, though engaging anything right now isn't going to achieve much; the machine's locked, as the deck hand mentioned. Micah remains on the ladder, arms folding atop the side of his viper. And it is certainly 'his', inasmuch as one of them can be. The name 'Nemamiah' is spraypainted prominently on the side. "I am. Very lucky." He pauses, watching Snatch more than the controls for a few seconds. And then, "I've got plenty of motivation. And I'm not afraid to die." He may, or may not be lying there. His face doesn't give much away.

Snatch turns her head to him at that last, her giddy expression fading into one more serious, thoough she still smiles. "I'm not, either," she replies. Well, obviously, this from the girl who kept hurling herself off of things. "But as long as I'm here I guess I'd better put myself to good use," she looks down at the controls again, then up, "Micah? Can I ask you a question?"

Micah flitters a little smile when he hears that. Truth or not, there's probably something a little not quite right about the two of them. All things considered. "You do good work. From what I hear." It's a rare compliment, coming from Mr. Grumpypants. "Yes?" It's delivered after a pause, bristly chin coming to rest on his folded forearms.

"If I were an officer. Or if you were enlisted. Would you ever think to marry me?" Mopsus Doe asks, her eyes narrowing and searching his features for reaction. It's less a proposition to him in particular than a question of her marriagability in general, but it could well be open to misconstruction.

"Uh." That's all he's got to say for a few seconds. Caught off guard, much? There's a shout from the technician working under the belly of his bird, informing him he's finished, and Micah'll need to extract his visitor and be ready for the tubes in fifteen minutes. "Marry you?" The viper jock looks puzzled, and more than a little awkward.

"Uh-huh," Mopsus Doe replies, her complete lack of awkward contrasting against his puzzlement. "I mean— I'm not as pretty as most of the women around here, but I can cook and all that, and I'm a hard worker. I was just thinking, with those posters up and around the ship, you know? I'm twenty three now. Just had a birthday. My mom had already had me and my brother before she was my age. My sweetheart and I were going to get married when I got home, start raising a family, but—" she shrugs. "I don't know. It may sound crazy, like, why even bother having kids if you don't know whether you're going to be alive tomorrow? But the Captain was saying — and I think she's right — if we don't start building a life here, what are we going to have to keep fighting for? So I was thinking, you know, why don't I get married, start having kids? I don't have to baby them like these Caprican fools who think a child shouldn't be doing frak shit 'til he's eighteen. My mom strapped me to her breast and got back to the fields. I learned to sow grain first thing after I learned to walk," she muses, looking straight ahead, now, but then shaking her head, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pile all of this on you," she smiles at him. "I just think of you as a friend, that's all. I don't have many. Don't have time. Too much work to do. Much less do I have time to go out and wash up and try and get myself courted," she shakes her head. "What do you think? Am I hopeless?"

It's quite a mouthful coming out of the snipe, and Micah's forced for the most part to shut up and listen. He's at least attentive about it; if Mopsus were to glance over, she'd find one blue eye and one green eye focused on her. "Don't need to be sorry," he offers quietly, when she's done. His lashes lower, and he's watching some of the readouts on the console, as main power's connected and the thing comes nominally to life. "No, I don't think you're hopeless at all. I think.. I think a man would be really lucky to have you. To have you as a wife." There's more on his mind, but he's not good at talking about these things. "You don't need to rush it, though. This isn't Aerelon, this isn't a race to sell yourself off to the highest bidder." He unlaces one of his arms, and touches her shoulder lightly. Just that.

Snatch smiles softly. "You think so? Aw, thanks, Micah, you're a dear heart," she tells him in friendly tones. "I -know- I'd make a good wife. I just have to convince someone of that, one day," she chuckles, then looks down at all the lights. "Here, let's you and me switch places, I don't want to go sailing in this boat, I don't know how," she notes. "And it is sort of a race… you know when you get too old you start losing more babies. It isn't good for you," she points out. Of course, no one where she comes from has ever heard of a pre-natal vitamin, so she's really quite right— she's in her prime for child-bearing, and won't be for many more years.

Micah removes his hand swiftly once he seems to realise it's there. A petty officer's already waiting by his ladder to hand him his helmet and a ledger to sign off for preflight. "Right. I'll climb down first. But I think you've got a few more years, before you have to start worrying about that, Mopsus. Let me know if you get desperate, maybe I can convince my girlfriend polygamy's not as bad as it seems." He smirks. He's also joking, probably. "C'mon." A hand's slapped against the side of the bird, and he clambers on down to tug his gloves on and fetch his helmet.

"Oh, -ha,-" Mopsus laughs at his polygamy joke, crawling out of the viper and down the ladder. "Why don't you marry that girlfriend of yours and put some babies in her while you still can? That way even if the Toasters do shoot you down, you've got kids to carry on your name and your work," she tells him, only half-joking. If that.

Micah tucks his helmet under one arm, and nods to the petty officer to begin her preflighting of the bird. The deck crew's withdrawing already, moving onto the next task at hand: a raptor that's just returned from a long-range CAP, with a busted comm relay. "Actually.." And the kid looks a bit shy. He waits for the petty officer to vanish into the cockpit before speaking again. "She's.. pregnant." It's mumbled, with a tremendously odd mingling of pride, terror and something else. Uncertainty?

Snatch, on the other hand, almost beams, punching him in the arm in the most congratulatory way, 'Way to go, Papa!' she congratulates him. 'When's the wedding?' It's all still in Aerelonese, so she's not too concerned about others listening in.

Micah seems more reserved about the whole language barrier issue. That petty officer, after all, might be from Aerelon. Or just be really good with accents. "I, uh, I don't know yet." There's a little laugh when she punches him, and he even pretends to be jostled by it, like she'd have a chance at bowling him over. Yeah, right. "To be honest, it was all really sudden. We were seeing one another. Casual frakking, nothing serious. Then she tells me, a few days ago.." The petty officer's back, and apparently it's time to go. Micah ducks his eyes, mumbles an apology, and begins tugging his helmet on.

Snatch nods to the apology, and lifts her hand in farewell as he goes. "See you later, Jailhouse," she calls with a broad smile. "Clear sailing!" she wishes him, and retreats to her things to see whether the raptor's ready to go yet.

It's not quite how pilots see one another off, but it'll do. Helmet on, Micah clambers up the ladder double-time. From there, it devolves into deck crew shouting back and forth as the viper's 'unharnessed', and the petty officer helping him strap in and lock down. As he's being taxied away, Mopsus may or may not notice the thumbs-up given through the viewscreen. And then the mark seven's being cleared for the launch tubes, and gone. Just like that.

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