(no subject)
There's an old tradition in the Fleet that's designed to relieve tensions among the crew: put your tags in a jar, call out anyone regardless of rank, and fight them in a boxing ring. It's called a dance, and Galactica held one tonight for the first time in years.
Gaeta stuck to running the bets. He didn't dare put his tags in this time around.
He tells himself it's twofold: not just for his own safety, but because nobody he would've called out had put their tags in in turn. A few times, in the course of repeating that mantra, he's even managed to convince himself it's true.
Now, outside, stripped to his Fleet-issue tanks and bearing a good amount of tape on his wrists, Gaeta's keeping busy by pummeling one of the punching bags he found hanging near the forest, intent on getting out a few frustrations of his own.
Gaeta stuck to running the bets. He didn't dare put his tags in this time around.
He tells himself it's twofold: not just for his own safety, but because nobody he would've called out had put their tags in in turn. A few times, in the course of repeating that mantra, he's even managed to convince himself it's true.
Now, outside, stripped to his Fleet-issue tanks and bearing a good amount of tape on his wrists, Gaeta's keeping busy by pummeling one of the punching bags he found hanging near the forest, intent on getting out a few frustrations of his own.