Stupid Hair
Stupid Hair
Summary: Orion tries, and fails, to secure a date for Sloane. Fail, fail. Fail.
Date: 58 ACH (10 Jan 2009)
Related Logs: Pimp My Cornbread

Carina, Carina Park, Central Square, 58 ACH

The main level of the Carina depicts a garden-like atmosphere with cobble-stoned walkways leading off to other areas. This ship is the pride of the Colony fleet. Set up as a training area and stadium for play-offs of the Colony Pyramid teams. - In the center square the colony flags fly with their Pyramid team labels.

Caprican Buccaneers, Picon Panthers, Aerelon Argonauts, Tauron Bulls, Aquarian Aces, Virgon Vultures, Sagittaron Hornets, Scorpia Stingers, Libris Daredevils, Gemenon Giants, Canceron Capitals and the Leonis Liberators. The flags surround a statue of the latest team who won. The C-Bucs Pyramid trophy stands proudly in the center.

Signs point down the cobblestone pathways to other places: Training, Housing, Hotel, Courts and Stadium.

Apostrophe Algos navigates one of the cobblestoned pathways of the Carina with care, her delicate heeled shoes wary of any crags or severely uneven patches which might send the petite blonde stumbling. She holds a cocktail of some kind in a small glass in one hand, and a small clutch purse in the other. A faint frown crosses her lips. She glances around as if lost.

Orion is back in some very familiar surroundings. The man spent the last two months wandering this ship, and except for the off duty fatigues, fits in like anyone else. Almost like anyone else. "Orion… is that you??" The question is asked by a man sitting at a table, playing triad with a few friends, who turn and laugh. One of them says, "Heeey. Flyboy. What, they throw you out already?" No. That doesn't leave a mark. Another man salutes at him and adds, "Teeet hut!" Orion smirks at them. Yes. They're saying 'tet hut', idiot. But they seem to want a show, so the rookie viper pilot salutes at them, "Nah, I just couldn't stand to be away from this place. Hey.. I'll be back later, but I done had a -hell- of a day and I needed something like fresh air." "No problem, Scala. But you owe us a game." "You got it."

"What the—" There's a little stomp of her foot, and the jangle of a delicate anklet, and the blond Sig glances around a moment, clearly trying to get her bearings. Or maybe she's just … modeling. "You." She spots Orion, and turns in his direction. People are addressing him, so they probably know him, which means he works here, right? Oh, wait, uniform. Maybe not. "Where's the hotel." It was almost a question.

Orion blinks, at first. His first reaction is guarded, after what the military has been accused of these days. Once he's sure that he's not about to be accosted for being in the military, he relaxes and actually smiles a bit at your demeanor, as well as the question asked, "The hotel? You really don't know? Hell, you've got to be new around here, then. It ain't too far, actually. You from the Destiny?" No. He doesn't actually give directions. What he's doing, instead, is looking you over. He's being subtle about it, mind. But a few mental decisions are being made, here

Sig brings the glass to her lips, and takes a sip of her Aerelon Apple Twist, a smudge of berry colored gloss is left behind on the thin crystal clear rim of it. Apostrophe sparkles a little bit in various places, largely due to the diamonds she wars on her toe ring and in her ears. "My shoes. They're taking up my actual bed, and I needed a break from all the heat on the Destiny. I can't find my bikini, and that head is practically unbearable in full length garb, no matter how well tailored it is." She snorts softly. "I was from the Hera, but then Captain No Regard For Anyone Else gave it off to the military, as if it wouldn't negatively effect the rest of us." She could be winding up for an all out bitch. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get shuttle lint off of this fabric?"

Never let it be said that Orion's not a good listener when he needs or wants to be. He listens to the entire proto-bitch session and nods as understandingly as he can manage, "Been a hard, hard few months. Yeah, I heard that." The comment about giving the Hera over to the military earns a particularly blank stare, but he manages to more or less pull it together, "Well… depends on what kinda fabric, but I'm guessing you ain't exactly livin' lint free, huh?" Yeesh.

The questions you have to ask in order to make a connection with people. "And now I don't even know if they're ever going to let me fly again." Apostrophe's slight frown is expressive, but more like the pout of a little girl than a grown woman. She probably doesn't even realize she's doing it. Or does she! "Go live with the civilians, scurry off and waste your talent. Fine. I'll just catalogue my shoes then."

The viper pilot peers at you, turning his head to one side and folding his arms over his chest. He shifts his weight a bit and gives you a nearly incredulous, almost amused look for a moment, until he finally asks, "You done got a lot of pent up frustrations, don't you. What's your name?" He laughs a bit and shifts his weight to the other side, "Situation is completely fubared. That's what it is. Flyer, huh? What do you drive?"

"I fly whatever I can get my hands on, as long as it's clean and fast." Apostrophe gestures with a hand, but then is distracted by inspecting her manicure for a moment. "… You can call me Sig." It's just easier that way, really. "I'm really more of an artist, if we're going to be technical about it. Where did you say the hotel is?"

Orion nods respectfully. "People don't understand where yer coming from. You realize that. Right, Sig? They don't get that rush, or know what it's like to be that free, like you or me." The man points in the general direction of the hotel. He only -starts- to give you directions: "You go about 200 yards thataway, hang a left near the rock painting… what kind of art?"

"Art. You know. Drawings and paintings and art." Way to be specific there, blondie. "I was raised to appreciate the finer things in life." Like booze and older men and six hundred cubit shoes. "Since we've all done this merge thing, I'm completely lost. And I can't find half my clothes." Horror! "Do they even have a salon on this thing?"

Orion gestures in the appropriate direction, and does you one better than directions: He's apparently wordlessly offering to -take- you to the hotel. "Yeah. Finer things ain't so easy to come by now that the canners went and took it all. Just glad we actually found you before the Cylons did. Anyway, yeah. Sure, I know art. Know there's lots of different kinds." He looks you over as he's walking, "How long you been on the Hera? Sounds like you lost two homes in the last two months."

"Oh, are you going to show me? Excellent!" She perks up way too much at that. Apostrophe turns toward the bar. "I just have to return this, if you'd escort me?" She's being way too nice now. Sig finishes her drink, and totters off in the direction of the bar, careful of her heels on the cobblestones. "A few months. I lost track of time. I count it by waxes, so I think there've been threfouhm. Champagne erases these trivial details."

There's a sound of a throat clearing. Orion looks you over again, then shrugs. Hey. She's hot. She's probably a good time. There's a decent chance she even puts out! "So… how fast are you?" Woah! "You know… behind the cockpit. Said you like fast birds. How fast we talkin'?" He seems to be willing to go wherever you're going.

Apostrophe leads the way back to the bar in fairly short order. She turns in her glass, and reveals a small pile of luggage beside the bar, all matching, all extremely expensive. "You can carry t he last of my bags," she says. The LAST of her bags? There's four of them. FOUR. And they're heavy. "I've won a few races in my time," she glances at Orion briefly, then turns for the door. She takes a few steps on delicate heels, then half turns, as if waiting for him to hustle it up with her luggage. Which is exactly what she's doing. "Stats aren't important. How much do you know about piloting?"

The man raises an eyebrow at you when you mention the bags, "What would you have done if I wasn't here to give you the grand tour?" It's a neutral question. He takes your bags and, naturally, gets similar indoor treatment to what he got 'outdoors'. "Hey, Scala. Good to see you again." "Orion, what the hell happened last week?" "Hey, O." He smiles sheepishly, says, "Hey. I'll be back guys, start without me." and exhales, "Me? Oh, I'm a viper pilot. Fighting 58th on board the Genesis. I'm used to as much speed as you can throw at me. It's why I asked."

Apostrophe's smile doesn't even waver. "There's always a nice, helpful guy around when I need one," comes her reply. You'd almost think she was wandering around the park fishing for a do gooder type to carry her bags. But, no. Surely not! What sort of user would DO that? "Just so you know, this isn't going to end in me throwing you any speed." She waves a hand, and leads the way to the hotel, which she seems to have zeroed in on just fine, thanks.

Orion nods, "Yeah. You know, actually…" Orion nods a couple of times, then drops the bags flat-out onto the floor. "I got all the speed I can handle, lady. Thanks for asking." Something you've said was basically the last straw, going by his facial expression. "But the next time you get into a Caprican Cloudburster and shit Tyllium out the back, y'might want to think about how many people just frakkin died so you can act like you're sitting back on Caprica livin' the high life." He rolls his eyes and turns to the bartender, "Hey… I gotta get out of here, brother. But it won't be a once-in-a-million visit. I gotta stop by, give you the whole nine yards."

It's possible Apostrophe threw a little too much spin on that last comment. She drops her hands to her hips, jutting one a little as she regards her bags now dropped on the floor of the bar. "Look." She eyes the off duty pilot. "I just need some help with my bags, ok?" A slightly different tac, perhaps. "All I have is this. What am I supposed to do? Cry my mascara off because I can't get a Caprican Wax at three in the morning because my trusted beautician of six whole years is probably a pile of ash on the very fine marble inside Ice Salon? Getting a good hairdresser is more difficult than might think. Just because I'm not on my knees in scratchy clothing moaning about eternity doesn't mean I don't have feelings!" Huff. She flicks an out of place curl from her cheek, flushed just a little. "You don't get to judge me just because you were probably raised on the back of livestock, you snarky little jerk." Blink, blink. Her eyes are not glistening, so just stop looking!

"Confidentially, lady?" Orion stops to turn to you, pointing an index finger in a somewhat threatening, in-your-face manner, "Your coping mechanism -sucks-." And then he turns to storm out. A nearby, unoccupied chair gets a powerful, almost deadly glare. If he was going to kick it, he appears to have reigned himself in. Out the door he goes.

Apostrophe blinks. Her mouth falls open a little at the pointing. She scowls, and yells after the pilot, a bit belatedly, "You have STUPID HAIR."

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