on_her_korhal | Office Hours, Tuesday

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Office Hours, Tuesday

Kerrigan had moved on from agonizing over her syllabus to banging her head against it quietly.

It was not a good day.

[ open, but with a lot of bouts of SP due to omgwtfmountain of schoolwork ]

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Which is, of course, why today was the day Triela arrived fairly early to knock on the door.

Kerrigan rubbed her forehead. Great. "Come in."

She hadn't even had coffee yet.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," Triela said brightly as she entered. After a glance at the woman in question she lowered her voice slightly, "I am sorry for bothering you."

"Yeah, yeah, it's what I'm here for." She threw a pencil at the wall. "What now?"

"Well," Triela paused to watch the pencil fly across the room, "I had a question about training facilities."

She sat up. A little. "Go ahead."

"I've been out to the shooting range, and that's useful, but back home I'd normally be running one or two sessions a week in a simulated environment," Triela explained. "Is there somewhere on the island, or nearby, where I could do that?"

"Well, there's the Danger Shop..." Kerrigan said, scratching the back of her head. "Pretty sure that's only for teachers and classes, though."

"Are there other options?" Triela asked. "Or is there some way I can get authorization to use the Danger Shop?"

"No other options that I know of," she said, leaning back. "You need to ask the Principal about authorization, I think."

"Okay," Triela nodded. "Do you think," she paused, "That it would help if I had a teacher volunteer to supervise?"

"Probably." Kerrigan eyed Triela with a thoughtful expression. "You can bat up my name if it'll help."

Triela's grin was pleased, "I was hoping you'd say that."

"I'm Tactics," Kerrigan said, wryly. "It's kind of my job."

"You should know that I'm going to come bother you all the time now, right?"

"At least you're not Adama," she snorted. "Someone has to keep an eye on you kids."

"I will have you know," Triela struck a haughty pose, "That I'm quite capable of looking after myself."

Kerrigan smirked. "That's what they all say at your age."

Because she was so much older.

"True," she admitted, "But I actually can." For some value of "look after myself" at least.

"We'll see about that in class," she said. "I'll be glad if someone learns anything other than the great and bountiful advantages of not dying horribly."

"We'll see if you have anything you can teach me," Triela countered challengingly. Not that she wasn't willing to learn, but she was used to staying one or two steps ahead of her trainers.

Having finished the report she'd requested, Bridge knocks on Kerrigan's door.

It took a few moments for Kerrigan to pluck the syllabus-draft from where it had gotten stuck to her forhead.

With the sheet still dangling between her fingers (and her hair looking the weirder for it), she called, "Come in."

Like Bridge is really one to judge hair-weirdness. His has a tendency to stick out in all directions practically all the time, no matter what he does with it.

"I finished the, uh. Report thing. Sir," he says, waving aforementioned report vaguely. Good thing he'd done most of it on Friday: spending the weekend being Japanese had sort of prevented him from doing any more work on it.

"So it seems, Carson," she said, putting the sheet down and trying her best not to look in any way ruffled. "Hand it over and I'll have a look."

"Okay, uh. Great. Um. Here!" Bridge slides the report on to her desk. It details the coded messages they'd been sent leading up to the event, as well as the break and enter itself. There's not really much about what was found, aside from a vague mention of genetic customization. That part wasn't really relevant to the execution of the operation itself, Bridge figures.

With the end of a pencil against her temple, Kerrigan read the report. And made some notes. And looked frowny. Then made some more notes, flipped to the next page, underlined the 'genetic customization' part with a deeper, more serious frown, repeated the process, and finally slapped the report face-down on her desk.

She studied Bridge for a moment. "No further assignment," she said, then leaned back. "If your friend's report corroborates this, maybe extra credit. Maybe not."

Bridge watches her a bit anxiously as Kerrigan reads it through. And then breathes a sigh of relief at 'no further assignment'. He can't help but look hopeful at the mention of possible extra credit, too. Dork.

"All right, um. Thank you!"

She made a mental note to keep an eye on Carson.

She was racking up a lot of mental notes about the kids in her class this term. "I'll keep this," Kerrigan said, "Dismissed. I'll see you in class."

Z knocked on Kerrigan's door.

"Come in," Kerrigan called, flipping through Bridge's report one final time.

"I brought you my report, ma'am," Z said, holding it out. It pretty much corroborated Bridge's, without giving away any more of the details.

She took it, shot Z a scrutinizing look, and repeated her earlier pattern of reading and making notes on it.

Finally, Kerrigan put it down, shot Z another look, and said, "Delgado. I think this is enough tactics to compensate for missing what amounts to being an intro class." She dropped it on Bridge's. "I'll file it with the rest of the classwork."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Z, and fled.

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Office Hours, Tuesday

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