Port-Side Flight Deck of the Avalon, 2200 Hours
Cole whistled a soft, melancholy tune to himself as the dim lighting of the deck seemed to do little more than throw the shadows of stationary Vipers across the flight deck. He leaned lightly on the mop in his hands, absently waving it back and forth across the deck as he let his gaze drift from ship to ship. A small smile crept onto his face, marked by a touch of sadness and punctuated by a soft chuckle.
"Nice going, Hero." He muttered to himself. "From blazin' smugglers to swabbin' decks."
He let out a second sigh, this one with a touch of anger. He paused in his stroke and then grabbed the mop and tossed it across the deck where it landed next to a plastic bucket half-filled with gray water. He reached into his pants pocket and retrieved a cigarette with his teeth. He fumbled for his lighter and a few moments later, he blew a relaxing breath of smoke towards the ceiling high above. He let out a cynical laugh to himself, "Wonder if I'll ever see a jock smock again?"
He leaned against the bulkhead and crossed his arms. A moment later, his eyes closed and he let himself enjoy memories of his time behind the stick.