BSG snippet
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
When Galactica was the redheaded stepchild of the Colonial fleet, the pilots’ duty schedule was three days on, half-day off, three days on, full day off. It was based on the Colonial workweek, which was in turn tied to the Caprican rotation around the suns (the Piconians had been complaining about it for years). Now: there might as well be no more Caprica, no more Picon, no more sun; Galactica is a flagship and the pilots’ duty schedule is...exactly the same. Enough things have changed, Adama figures, that he doesn’t need to go messing with the days of the week.
Of course, if you’re one of the few trained Viper pilots left in the universe, your half-day is quickly swallowed up by mission paperwork and training simulations that overflow the workweek. That leaves Kara with one day to herself-which is both too much time to spend on Galactica (Gods forgive her, she's sick to death of endless reps at the gym, endless card games in the mess, endless small talk with the same godsdamn people) and too little time to recover from the spectacular hangover she encounters by the end of every eighth day.
Since it was usually Lee’s job to roust her out of her bunk on the ninth morning, ignore her muttered insults, and steer her toward the showers, it hadn’t taken Kara long to convince him that the duty schedule sucked. The solution, she’d explained, was to combine and conquer: they’d put in for contiguous free days and then, every other week, she’d forgo her day off and cover his shifts; on the remaining weeks, he’d do the same for her. Every two weeks, a nice two-day stretch to spend as you please: what’s not to love? Lee had argued, of course-if the Old Man had meant for them to have two days off, he’d have arranged it; there was continuity of service to be considered; what if something came up…? Kara had rolled her eyes: they were talking about weekly parts inventory and a milkrun to Cloud Nine. Who frakken cared as long as seven days of work got done?
A week later, she spend her liberty drinking Jester under the table. She puts her head down, just for a second, while Jumbo and the others argued over the card game, and wakes up when Lee shakes her shoulder.
“Whaaa?” It takes a second for her eyes to focus on Lee’s worried face. Her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth.
“Kara.” For a second she didn’t think he’d say anything else, but then he sighed-that famous, put-upon, weight-of-worlds Adama sigh that made Kara want to break bones. “What are you doing?”
Moron: like it wasn’t obvious. “ ‘m waiting on Jumbo…gonna have a game.” Just cause some people didn’t like fun…
Lee reached over and gently peeled something off her cheek-she’d fallen asleep on the playing cards. “There’s no one here, Kay.”
She’d turned her to look (too quickly, a spike of ambrosia-laced pain into the space behind her eyes): he was right. The officer’s mess looked like it had been hit by a cyclone, but she was the only survivor-Jumbo and Jester and the rest had stumbled off to their bunks. Pussies.
“Hey! Don’t!” she swatted at Lee, who was picking up the beer-stained cards that littered the table. “Not done with those.”
“Kara, it’s three o’clock in the morning!”
“Liberty’s not over ‘til reveille.” She has to concentrate to do the math, “I’ve still got three hours.”
“You can barely sit up straight. You’re practically counting on your fingers. Anyone who lets you near a Viper should be brought up on charges.”
Kara is on her feet before she can think better of it, and as long as she’s glaring at Lee, she hardly notices how the room dips and sways. “I know you’re not saying I can’t fly. ‘Cause I can fly frakken rings around-”
“Take the day off, Lieutenant,” Lee snaps and, oh, so they’re back to titles now? “Rest up, dry out, and expect to work my liberty next week.”
She’s a little drunk, or she’d be faster to tell him exactly where he can shove his charity. By the time she’s worked out the words, he’s already stalking across the mess. Fine. Eight days on, two days off. It’s what she wanted anyway.
When Galactica was the redheaded stepchild of the Colonial fleet, the pilots’ duty schedule was three days on, half-day off, three days on, full day off. It was based on the Colonial workweek, which was in turn tied to the Caprican rotation around the suns (the Piconians had been complaining about it for years). Now: there might as well be no more Caprica, no more Picon, no more sun; Galactica is a flagship and the pilots’ duty schedule is...exactly the same. Enough things have changed, Adama figures, that he doesn’t need to go messing with the days of the week.
Of course, if you’re one of the few trained Viper pilots left in the universe, your half-day is quickly swallowed up by mission paperwork and training simulations that overflow the workweek. That leaves Kara with one day to herself-which is both too much time to spend on Galactica (Gods forgive her, she's sick to death of endless reps at the gym, endless card games in the mess, endless small talk with the same godsdamn people) and too little time to recover from the spectacular hangover she encounters by the end of every eighth day.
Since it was usually Lee’s job to roust her out of her bunk on the ninth morning, ignore her muttered insults, and steer her toward the showers, it hadn’t taken Kara long to convince him that the duty schedule sucked. The solution, she’d explained, was to combine and conquer: they’d put in for contiguous free days and then, every other week, she’d forgo her day off and cover his shifts; on the remaining weeks, he’d do the same for her. Every two weeks, a nice two-day stretch to spend as you please: what’s not to love? Lee had argued, of course-if the Old Man had meant for them to have two days off, he’d have arranged it; there was continuity of service to be considered; what if something came up…? Kara had rolled her eyes: they were talking about weekly parts inventory and a milkrun to Cloud Nine. Who frakken cared as long as seven days of work got done?
A week later, she spend her liberty drinking Jester under the table. She puts her head down, just for a second, while Jumbo and the others argued over the card game, and wakes up when Lee shakes her shoulder.
“Whaaa?” It takes a second for her eyes to focus on Lee’s worried face. Her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth.
“Kara.” For a second she didn’t think he’d say anything else, but then he sighed-that famous, put-upon, weight-of-worlds Adama sigh that made Kara want to break bones. “What are you doing?”
Moron: like it wasn’t obvious. “ ‘m waiting on Jumbo…gonna have a game.” Just cause some people didn’t like fun…
Lee reached over and gently peeled something off her cheek-she’d fallen asleep on the playing cards. “There’s no one here, Kay.”
She’d turned her to look (too quickly, a spike of ambrosia-laced pain into the space behind her eyes): he was right. The officer’s mess looked like it had been hit by a cyclone, but she was the only survivor-Jumbo and Jester and the rest had stumbled off to their bunks. Pussies.
“Hey! Don’t!” she swatted at Lee, who was picking up the beer-stained cards that littered the table. “Not done with those.”
“Kara, it’s three o’clock in the morning!”
“Liberty’s not over ‘til reveille.” She has to concentrate to do the math, “I’ve still got three hours.”
“You can barely sit up straight. You’re practically counting on your fingers. Anyone who lets you near a Viper should be brought up on charges.”
Kara is on her feet before she can think better of it, and as long as she’s glaring at Lee, she hardly notices how the room dips and sways. “I know you’re not saying I can’t fly. ‘Cause I can fly frakken rings around-”
“Take the day off, Lieutenant,” Lee snaps and, oh, so they’re back to titles now? “Rest up, dry out, and expect to work my liberty next week.”
She’s a little drunk, or she’d be faster to tell him exactly where he can shove his charity. By the time she’s worked out the words, he’s already stalking across the mess. Fine. Eight days on, two days off. It’s what she wanted anyway.