PHD #460: Analog
Summary: Ciro and North have a conversation about ink, the gods, and bonding.
Date: 01 June 2042 AE
Related Logs: None
North Ciro 
Enlisted Marine Berths
Designed specifically to house a small Marine contingent, this berthing is one of the smallest on the ship. The bunks are arranged in standard formation in the classic over-under configuration and lockers dividing each one. However, the lockers here are a bit larger than most elsewhere on the ship to accommodate the bulky combat gear associated with the security details of the crew that lives here. Tables are spread out for use through the area with their standard allotment of chairs.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear
Post-Holocaust Day: #460

The end of a duty shift standing in front of a door is nothing anyone wants to do, and for a veteran recon marine like Sergeant Ciro Sondray, it's practically a death sentence. Already changed out of his blacks and into his off-duties, he steps through the door of the marine's enlisted bunkhouse and makes his way down the long aisle towards his corner bunk. Toting a book in one hand, he peels back his closed curtain and tosses his book inside. Two muscular, tattooed arms stretch over his head until he feels a satisfying pop between his shoulderblades. The true beginning of the day has come. He turns to his locker and flips it open, pulling out his duffle bag, preparing a gym bag.

A foot, just a foot, sticks out between the curtains of the top bunk, row twelve. Either the occupant (one Private Bridge North) is awake, or she's fallen asleep in a really awkward position. In a quiet berthing, it would be easy to hear a soft little humming coming from within, but only because Ciro's standing so very close. There's no motion for a moment, and then the cap of a bright red marker nudges out between the curtains, and one's pushed aside a few inches. A shaft of clip-on lamp light illuminates the young marine inside, and the gargantuan sketchbook resting on her lap. She peers out from between the curtains at the Sarge. Her eyes go immediately to his arms. And that is right where her attention stays for a staring=long-time.

The foot snakes its way into Ciro's peripheral vision, forcing him to tilt his eyes to the side to watch its descent. Realizing that it's not going to hit him in the face, he turns back to his locker, throwing a canteen into the gym bag. Then, more motion above him near the curtain draws his attention and he's faced with a troublesome decision. The drapes the conceal the bodies inside of their bunks are a sacred thing, and looking is…well…looking. Again, he watches the foot and then follows it to the crack in the curtain, catching sight of Private North, staring at his arms. "North." He offers, a sharp nod directed towards her before he returns to his work. "You're not usually up this hour. You get things shifted around on you?"

Bridge holds the curtain open with the end of her marker, which is still clasped in her hair. It's a fat red permanent kind, the likes of which are used for the most ribald of restroom graffiti. "Sarge." The greeting is offered with a sleepy smile. "Naw, I just couldn't sleep. Been on my back too long." She's been on active duty for a whole 24 hours. A moment follows and then she re-thinks that statement. "I mean sleeping. Recovering and all, because of—" She has the beginnings of a flush in her cheeks when she drags the marker back and her curtains slip closed again. There's a mutter from inside that sounds something like, "Frakkin' mouth disorder." It's very soft, clearly not meant to be overheard. A thump of the heavy book closing follows, and she quietly slips out a little further, legs dangling out to her knee. A hand gently slides the curtain wide on one side, and she perches there, palms on the edge of her mattress. She wears an off-regs grey tank top with the insignia sweats pants. Her right shoulder is a mass of scars at varying stages of healing.

"Right right…" Ciro nods, the side of his lip tugging into a smirk with an accompanying nod of his head. "…I got you, North, I read." He adds, sliding the door to his locker closed with a satisfying click. He leans back, waving his head around her feet like he's dodging a pyramid player's grab and moves to stand in front of his opened bunk. In goes the gym bag, and his workout shoes and sweats follow. Much closer, the intricate artwork of his recon plattoon from the insurgency on Sagittaron on one arm and the homage to Poseidon and the sea are brought much closer for her to view as he checks his bunk over. "So…how you feeling? It's been a long time you've been in rehab. Ready for a return back to duty?"

Her feet dangle without kicking, a respectful move for the man bunked below her. Bridge hunches down a little and gets comfortable on the edge of her bunk. "I'm feeling good. It's been a long time since I could really say that for sure." She leans over just enough to follow his arms with her eyes, taking a good long look at the ink. "I'm so ready. Plantin' it on desk duty made my butt go numb." She chins toward his Poseidon homage. "Sometime, you think I could document those?" He might not notice the direction of her gaze, of course, busy as he is.

"Whenever you want. As of current they're pretty much free of scars and they might not stay that way forever. You going to draw them out or take pictures?" He asks, sparing a glance at an upwards angle towards her face. Tracing her vision to his homage to Poseidon, he turns, offering her a better look. "I got this one done right after secondary school before enlisting. Recruiter gave me a ration of shit for getting it done in between visits." His lips form into a smirk again, reminiscing. "I think you're speaking too soon. You're replacing an uncomfortable chair for standing in place for hours. Sure you don't want me to break somethin before you get in too deep?"

"I got a camera stowed up in my stuff," Bridge says, with a tip of her head, "but I prefer to draw, if that's okay with you. It takes longer, but it's so much better." Her hangs fall across her eyes, just short of veiling them both. Dark eyeliner was applied sometime yesterday, but it looks like it's smudged a little. She probably hasn't been to the Head yet to shower and spruce. Some marines sleep damn hard. When he turns his arm, and lifts a hand, and actually moves as if to touch the skin, but stops. Her hand drops to the edge of her mattress again, and she just leans in more to inspect the line quality. "Hey," she says, "I can do some lunges and stuff. My thighs are a mess after all that down time. I think my caboose re-formed to the shape of that chair in the Sec Hub." A grin flashes at the offer of breaking something to save her the life of guard duty and staring at bulkheads for pay. "That's a real generous offer, Sarge, but I think I can hack it."

Ciro's eyes lid and his shoulders lurch a few soft times in an unheard chuckle as a response to her particular breed of humor. A casual glance is slid in her direction, followed by a noncommital shrug. "Ah, the dreaded desk-ass. What's worse an idea is that your ass will take the shape of the person that used it before you, because I guess in a way it's the ass that shapes the chair, then the chair shapes the next ass in line." He glances to her smokey eye makeup before he pulls away, motioning for her to join him at the nearby table between the row of bunks. "Late night?"

Bridge takes hold of the top of her bunk with one hand, the bottom with the other, and slides out. She turns, belly to the bunk divider between top and bottom, and eases herself down. She does it more slowly than she used to, before her injury, but that was so long ago it's probable no one remembers. She's never once used her ladder to come down. "I worked out a little hard. Had to take an extra long stretch." She leaves her bunk's curtains open, and drags her giant sketchbook out. She pads over and thumps it onto the table. The thing is easily seven inches thick, and maybe 11 inches tall. Papers, threads, and photos stick out the edges. The cover's peppered with stickers and taped down bits. "You seen the day desk Sergeant's back end? Man," She shakes her head, and glances over her shoulder as if to inspect her own. "I'm gonna need so many lunges and stairs." Good thing the BS has so many. "I'm too young for a fate like that." She slides into one of the chairs at the table, and slouches down in a display of absolutely horrendous posture. Her hair tangles across her shoulders and down her back. "How you been?"

Ciro reaches for one of the chairs and turns it so that the back faces Bridge's chair. Stepping over the seat, he straddles the folding chair so that he can hang his arm down the chair's backside, giving her a better view of his arm. It's the only rightful way that he can give her a view of the detail without having to hold his arm at an awkward angle for an hour. "Well officially and unofficially, no I haven't looked at the desk Sergeant's ass, but he's a guy, and from what I understand flat ass equals man-ass." He replies with a smirk, harrumphing as he settles into place. "I'm…decent. Going down to Gemenon felt good. Getting mud-time was what I needed, and now that I'm back up here I've taken up working with Staff Sergeant Inoue on some gunsmithing, which I'm kinda liking so far. You see, since I'm not trained as an MP I make a horrible cop and an excellent sentry. It's bullshit, really."

The Private combs her fingers down through her bangs, arranging them briefly in a more orderly fall. She slides a pencil case out of a little canvas holder clipped to the binding, and selects a sharply pointed pencil. She cracks the binding open to a set of white pages, the thick pages creak a little until they settle. "I ain't much of a cop either, if the truth's laid out." She scoots a little closer to sight his arm, fingers overing over it briefly. She takes a few measurements by sight, then sketches out a few loose shapes on the white spread. Thick primer chews up the end of the pencil pretty fast, so she uses a light touch. "I check out the ass of ever marine I meet," Bridge says. "The MP blacks do good things." She grins again, though her eyes are hidden by the fall of her hair. "I'd like to get my toes in some dirt sometime soon. Hull's solid, still just not the same." She darkens down a few lines, blocking out the major shapes of the design, then pulls out a travel set of watercolors.

The tattoo is less than a decade old, but has faced a little fading due to the sheer amount of sunlight that Ciro's allowed to touch it. Poseidon emerges through the water, trident in hand over a troubled sea that washes over his arm. His skin is still pale, just as everyone on the ship's is, which is a sign that he spent the majority of his three day trip on Gemenon in full gear.

"Well…I don't check out the ass of everything that comes my way but black's a far better color than the muddy greens. Looks good on everyone." He pauses, letting out a quiet chuckle. "Well…let me correct that. Maybe not everyone. Sometimes sweats and walk-of-shame hair can't be fixed." He pauses, glancing down over his shoulder to watch her hand move with the pencil, making her mark on the clean, white sheet of paper. "So…how long have you been doing this? You go to school for this sort of thing or do you just follow your eyes and paint it like you see it?"

Bridge rises to wander over to her locker. She does up the combo and pulls it open, plucks a couple of items from the top shelf and nudges it closed with the bare toes of her foot. She returns to her seat with ink, brushes, and a little bottle of water. "I took a couple private classes, but I traveled around so much, I just mostly taught myself." She has no readily visible tattoos of her own. Her arms are clean of all but the scars on her right shoulder. She leans in a little, her eyes move over his arm, and she splashes some water into a little inkstone, then rubs a chunk of black inkstick against in is neat, circular motions. "I always had real good hand eye coordination." She uses her right hand, which is notably the same side as was injured. "It took a tick to get it back." When the ink's the proper consistency, she picks up a tiny bamboo brush and swirls the tip into the rich black ink. Her brown eyes flick up, and she asks, "You talk about a walk of shame like you've been there before." A grin ghosts over her lips, but she looks down again before it could really be said she's having fun at the Sarge's expense. "I've always done this. Just not so good when I was little." She smiles, and looks up again, "I got better." After a brief pause, she asks, "How many tattoos do you have?"

"Just these two." The simplest answer comes first. The two tattoos are rather complex half sleeves, dominating both of his arms from the edges of his shoulders to the tops of his elbows. It's the kind of work that's either expensive in short bursts or inexpensive when paying for them slowly over time. It appears that although the styles are similar that they were done by different artists.

From the center of Ciro's throat a dry chuckle is issued, followed by a soft shake of his head. Careful to not move too much, he glances to her face while she adds ink to her work. "The walk of shame is something that if you haven't done at least a few times you're not taking enough chances in life, North. That or ten or twelve shots with chasers took their toll." He lifts a slender brow, watching her stained eye makeup. "You trying to tell me you never did a walk of shame?"

The brush tip touches to the penciled drawing lightly. She draws it over the paper with light, sure strokes, and blocks out the fine lines of the design. Her hand is sure as if she were holding a pen in her hand, though they flare just a little wider when inks touch. This is an interpretation of the tattoo, not a direct copy. The composition is very close, but the line quality is, of course, different. Paper is not flesh, brush is not needle. "I never got to really stay nowhere long, so I up and took it with me." She nods to the sketchbook. "I guess it's a good thing, too." Now it's all gone. Those blanks are left to be filled, maybe she means something else. "Never been ashamed of my choices." She lifts the brush from the paper, and looks over at Ciro. Her eyes linger on his long enough to say, "And I've never been that drunk." She thinks for a second. "Okay, maybe once. I never stayed over longer than it takes to, uh," she clears her throat. "Y'know."

"Yeah…yeah I know." Ciro replies, allowing the eye contact to linger before he tears it away with a nod of his head. His eyes lower to the sketchbook, tracing his vision over the heavy pages, observing it as if the pre-war relic just may fit the same category as a surviving scroll from a temple. He tilts his head, running his other hand through the shortly trimmed mohawk that he's chosen as his coiffed self-identification strip. "My story's the same for the most part. After enlisting I did a long grind on Scorpia, bouncing in and out of posts there before I got deployed to the Jharkhand Basin. This other one I got done after the war with a bunch of the guys. If you ever see Lucius Decumius in the halls, give the man a nod. He's good folk." He pauses, squaring his jaw. "Moving around did a lot of us some service…"

"Lucius your artist?" She asks, "Or you mean he's a stand up kind? Always good to know who's a man to have at your back, just as much as a man to decorate your skin." Bridge works another area of the design, culling down the line work to leave only the more intricate of shapes. She slips the brush into the water bottle, leaving it to billow a stain of black into the clear water, and selects an even smaller bamboo brush to set down the finest of details. Her eyes stay on the page for this, and her hair slips across her cheek, resting there while she concentrates. "Scorpian women are the most beautiful in the Colonies," she murmurs, touching up the ornamental details of the trident. "Moving around is good for you. It's different. I like to see places, see people, paint them. Paint their tattoos. Or tatau. Tebori. Doesn't matter what they call it, what tools they use. It's just plain beautiful." She nods to his arm, and lifts the brush to tap the inside of his bicept with the smooth, hard end of her brush. The touch is very light. "This is the path to our past. Of all the things that link the Colonies, the art is the most visceral, because it's always about devotion. One of the artists I studied told me that a man without tattoos is invisible to the Gods." The tip of the brush slips against his wrist, and she reaches down to wipe off the dark ink with the pad of her thumb. "Sorry." It leaves a little greyish smear. She drags her hand back to dip the brush in water.

"It's alright." He replies in mention to the smudged ink. "Nah, Lucius is just a recon man. We pulled a few duties together back in the war, back when I was teamed with a spotter named Troyle Dixon. Dixon didn't make it but…I guess he falls under the list of people that should have. He had a thing for art, had more tattoos than I did when warday went down at least." Ciro continues, lifting his gaze back to her face, idly watching as she focuses on the ink she's placing onto the paper. He stretches his neck, forcing the muscles to relax from the strain of the gear he was standing in place with, which causes the shark's tooth around his neck to sway. He's a patient model, letting her take her time as nothing else seems to be drawing him away from the moment. "I heard of a few guys in the fleet that do ink, and I've considered getting a few more pieces done, but I've been spending my vouchers on the Elpis for clothes and other shit like beer. Maybe I should save some up…get a little bit less invisible." He pauses. "You comfortable being invisible to the gods, North?"

"Can't pay anough for a good go ahead man," the Private says. She finishes off a few lines with the finest brush in her kit, tip of her tongue pressed just in the corner of her mouth as she's extra careful with the final details of the black inked lines. The brush is dunked in the water to soak out a little ink, and the bottle slowly clouds to ash grey. She finally looks up from the drawing, eyes find Ciro's. "I'd like to be invisible to bullets," she says, with a soft little smile, then shakes her head in the negative to answer his question. "No. I'd be terrified of being lost in that way." She turns in her own chair, facing away from the Sgt for a moment. "I have a machine, but the motor's burned out." She reaches up to slide her fingers into one side of her hair. "If you find me a motor, I'll ink you for free." Her fingers tighten in the shiny strands, and she pulls it across her shoulder. Stray strands show dark against space-paled skin, but there's very clearly a little geometric flower tattooed in fine lines at the nape of her neck. It's about the size of a dogtag. The style is heavily influenced by traditional designs from Tauron. It has no shading. "When my time comes, I'll take the hand that's offered to me."

His eyes trail to her long dark hair, coming to a stop on the flat, dark tattoo. Tracing its lines, his vision rises, finding hers again. "Guess you're not as invisible as I thought." The dry humor crosses his facial features, one eyebrow lifting quickly to emphasize his point. His eyes lid again, lips pulling into a flat, funny smirk as he raises his arm to scratch at the side of his shaved head. Nails scrape against skin before he runs his hand over his mohawk one more. "I used to think we were lost, you know. War's taken enough of a toll on everything we once were that it got really easy to be mad, real quick. Guess that's something we all know. I'm starting to think we're being scrutinized instead, the dead watching from the sidelines to see what happens next." He takes the time to blink, the part of him that's quite dead inside coming through his eyes. "So if I find your motor, you better promise to put on me what I need, rather than what I ask for. Deal?"

"I got angry for a while. I think we all do." Her eyes drop. "There's a lot to be angry for." She closes her eyes briefly, but the solemnity is washed away by the easy and rapidly familiar curve of her lips into that close lipped little smile. "It's ok to mourn. It takes time, and I think they'll forgive us. I hope they're watchin', because… we're not over. No matter how the war turns out, getting where we're going is so much more important than what happens when we arrive. I know I got myself a lot more people to meet. Some folks to paint. Tattoos to document, for sure. Maybe some new ones to make." Her smile falters a little, as she studies his eyes when they change. She doesn't lose it, but it dims down while her concentration goes into trying to read that look like Ciro's a scroll in some language she's only partly familiar with. "We'll see them again." Those are the words she offers after a breath in, then out. The smile returns with his question. "I always give guys what they need." Her expression freezes about three seconds after that comes out of her mouth. Not what she meant to imply. She closes her eyes and lets her head drop back. A person can almost hear her sending up a prayer to the Gods to stop these things coming out of her mouth in Marine Country. "Fraknuts."

Whatever dark, dead world that part of Ciro is trapped in is washed over as his gaze turns to the ceiling as well. He hugs his arms around the back of the chair and starts to laugh heartily. His head lulls, his mohawk bobbing in front of her as he hangs over the front of the chair. "Oh gods, North…what the frak…" He places his palm to his eyesocket, his visible eye lidded as he breathes a sigh of relief. Perhaps it's because he won't have to speak any further of the dead, but he passes it as an end to his laughter. "You've been at a desk way, way too long. How's that work, anyhow? Trapped with five feet by four of wood in front of you and a host of barrel-assed desk clerks?" His finger turns into a little gun, which he presses the barrel to her forehead, giving her a little shove. "We're gonna have to get your ass to Pete's."

She takes the opportunity to reply to his question while staring at the ceiling. "The Sec Hub's empty a lot of the time, I mean of action, so it's … I mean shifts change and weapons out and in and all. But quiet day to day. I get to draw a lot when nobody's looking." Ahem. "Ow, Sarge. Stop sayin' so. I ran for miles yesterday. My feet are pissed." She tips back like she's been shot, neck lolling on the back of the chair. Now she really has a clear view of the ceiling, the long line of her throat exposed. "If I get popped in the head and it doesn't kill me, just put me out. I don't think I can do that again." After a pretty respectable lag time, in which the flush of her cheeks cools right on back to normal, Bridge asks, "How did Dixon die?" It might be kind of abrupt to ask it that way, kind of irreverent to some, perhaps even a little rude, depending on the company. But, between marines, it's just something you ask. She seems to think it's okay. That it's just another question to gather info about a man clearly respected, valued, and well remembered.

Ciro's eyebrow's lift sharply with the question, lowering a second later as the initial wave of surprise at the change in subject fades. "Dixon…" Ciro replies, leaning back in his chair in a feeble attempt to reach for his bunk. Grunting displeasure at his short arms, he rises from the chair to step over to his bunk, brushing the curtain aside to reveal a score of pictures on the inside of his wall. Those that aren't of the typical cheerleader and swimsuit model variety are obviously friends and close family. Plucking one from the wall that has Ciro posing at a dark, laquered table in a dimly lit bar with a dirty blonde haired man to his right, and a dark haired female with dangerous bangs pressed tightly to Ciro's side. All of them are smiling, a scene of a good night long past. He presses the picture to the table beside them, sliding it towards her.

"Dixon and I were climbing, doing mountainous recon training when the bombs hit. The base was obliterated, but we were farther away. We were in the process of transferring ropes off of a cliff face. He was making the final climb to our resting position beneath one of the cliff faces with the rockslide took him." His lip tugs to the side, one of those wry, unfair smiles. "Good guy. We graduated boot together."

Bridge remains tipped back over her chair, that boneless sprawl pretty accurate to a death slouch. She's seen it enough times to emulate, maybe. She stays that way while Ciro's passed her by to retrieve the photo, and she doesn't move 'till he's set it down, and slid it over. She tips up her head, and reaches over to wiggle the snap off the table with one finger. "One in a million timing." She studies the photo for a moment, then her eyes come up and she looks at him over the top of it. "Good looking crew." She leans forward to slide the photo back, then reaches up to touch her hands together in front of her chest, and slide one across the other, palms up. "I wish them safe journey." Maybe something in the way he handed the photo over, or the smile, indicated to her that both of the others pictured in the scene are no longer breathing.

The odd social contract of showing a photo of the dead mystifies Ciro it seems, and he's forced to look away while she looks at the picture. He chooses the side of one of the bunks, gazing over her shoulder while she inspects. It's a glimpse into a personal world, one that most marines try to avoid remembering. "Thanks." He replies, eyes connecting with hers as he takes the photo back into his hand. The nod he offers her is simple. He's shared, and no…he's not stumbling over himself to offer any more insight, although he seems strangely comfortable with showing the picture. He rises from his chair, and when he returns to his wall to post the picture back up, others are visible. Some with him and Dixon only…others of just the dark haired girl.

When he returns, he returns with his canteen in hand, unscrewing the cap to take a sip. "So…" He starts, taking a moment to find a foothold. "…there was this bar we always went to down by the beach at Lomadia. Canceron. It's where the picture was taken, actually. Frak we had a tab a mile long that my old man probably lucked out not having to pay." He crosses his arms atop the chair. "Anyplace like that for you back home?"

There's a quiet, thoughtful sort of look in Bridge's eyes when Ciro goes off to his bunk to reset the photo in its place. Her eyes re-focus on the Sgt and his canteen, and she smiles that little smile of a woman tuning back in from the land inside her head. "There's a bar in every port. Always a couple places I holed up to call my own. Guess you could say it was like a change of post. Every time Pop got a new booking, we hopped a transport somewhere else. I was in and out of shops and bars by myself at a pretty young age. I like them for their ambiance, and the things people talk about…" She hms, and nods to herself. "I surely got some unpaid tabs on a few Colonies myself." She grins, with just a hint of teeth this time. "I never had a steady crew. I guess it teaches you to make friends quick, and let go of them just as easy."

"New booking?" Ciro asks with a tilt of his head. Apparently he's only assumed her career as a marine brought her to the Cerberus, and as he suddenly realizes there's more of a past there, he opts to dig a little bit. "I'm sorry, when you said you traveled a lot I assumed it was the Corps." He smirks. "Then again I probably shouldn't assume you had all that time to learn how to draw while you were in boot, and you're a little old for a private. Not…that you look old. You understand, right?" He snorts. "Anyway, before I dig a deeper hole…what did you do before enlisting?"

"Oh," Bridge shakes her head with a soft laugh. It's Ciro's turn to be a little out of sorts, and it's a relief to not be the one shoveling away at that gaping pit of mis-speaking. "No, Pop is an actor." There's a good chance she meant 'was', but that isn't the word she uses. "Ever since I was a little girl. I've been to most of the Colonies, but I spent the most time on Tauron, Sagittaron, Aquaria, and Scorpia. It's funny how crap motel rooms look the same in every port. Just happens the weather's sometimes different…" She straightens in her chair, and reaches over to touch the corner of her drawing, to test the viscosity of the ink. Almost dry. She perches on the edge of her chair, leaned slightly forward. "I studied a bunch of different things on my own. I read a lot. I got most of my hands on training from artists in body art. Mostly skin art. I spent a lot of time in rooms and ports, so I did a lot of reading and asking around. Kind of, I don't know." She gestures with her hands. "Soaking up the cultures, I guess. Getting a feel for the people around me. I didn't stay anywhere long enough—I mean, when I say back home, I kind of mean a big chunk of the Colonies. My heart belongs to many. I was born on Sagittaron." She shrugs and presses her palms against her chair, between her thighs. "Pop's kind of mercenary about things. He could do any accent from any place you wanted. I got rid of mine, mostly. I'm not even fluent in the old languages, but I know enough to get by." She falls silent for a couple of breaths. "I look old for a Private 'cause the lights went out before I really served an active year." She gestures vaguely to her noggin.

"Ah…that. It's kind of hard to remember that you were out of commission for so long, honestly. Everything's a complete series of present-tense cases around these parts. Though I do have to say you're brave taking the top bunk while footing your way through rehab." He brushes his hand over the outer tank-top to slip a fingernail beneath it, lightly scratching at his chest. "My old man was a tough bastard, worked the mines back on Canceron where I grew up. Didn't actually travel off-colony until I enlisted. Instead we raided the beach for open surf. I guess if it could be said that you have your art, well…I've got a thing for the ocean. It's something about feeling part of the weight of the entire planet flow around you that always kept us going to the temples by the sea." His fingertips drum against his forearm, watching her reactions that come with his words. "Though damn…those clubs on Scorpia near the base?" He whistles, eyes widening. "Not bad times."

"Sometimes I almost didn't make it into my rack," Bridge confesses, "But I never kicked you in the head, so I guess that's something." She reaches up to comb her fingers through her hair, as if she could tame the waves with a simple brush through. "I figured I couldn't test my courage on the front lines… you gotta up the ante somehow." She's quiet for a moment before she says, "I like looking at the ocean, but I'm not sure I'd survive going in it." Her eyes follow his hands as he gestures while he speaks. Though the movements are probably unconscious, it's clear she's used to studying people even in the subtlest of ways. (Not that her staring habit is all that subtle.) "Right? Scorpian women, like I said." She fans herself a little with one hand. "I wish I knew what you're saying about the ocean. I think my rehab might have been better if I could stand to be in the water for very long. No self respecting Saggie would admit it, but I kind of… I guess my heart is weighted a little more toward Tauron. Lots of land, very little water." She finally asks, "What's the pendant?" And nods to his necklace. Maybe she has an inkling. She certainly seems accustomed to drawing water imagery, so she has to have studied it. "… I like the way you said that. Weight of the entire planet flow around you." She picks up a pencil abruptly, and neatly scribbles words into the corner of her ink drawing.

"Well…I didn't actually date any Scorpian women while I was there, but Dixon did. He had this habit of getting in over his head, way in over his head, with too many of the wrong girls." He brings his shoulders forward in a tight shrug. "I guess he just loved them all. He had a pretty serious thing going on near the end though, she was Scorpian. A civilian no less, which was…awkward at times." Ciro lets out a quiet laugh, leaning back in his straddled seat to brace his hands against the back of the chair at arm's length. Having caught her long stares, he tilts his head, but doesn't speak of it. Instead he watches her in return, continuing to observe in his own private way. "This?" He asks, reaching to the tooth hanging from the leather cord around his neck. "More ocean stuff, basically. It's a tooth from a creature that hangs around the waters by where I grew up. Nasty thing, really. It's all teeth and hunger, and it doesn't do much more than swim and eat, but once I was on my board and one swam by. I reached out and brushed my hand over it. Don't know why I did…" He rolls his eyes, tapping his hands on the back of his chair one after another. Rat-a-tat-tat. "…but I did. It didn't eat me, so after getting my ass back to shore as fast as I could I saw this tooth in the sand. I've had it ever since."

"They're just beautiful in that way. You know they're going to be trouble with a massive T. I painted a few of them while I was there. They're not very patient models, but the results are always stunning. And they always, always, have stories to tell while they're sitting." Bridge certainly talks more once she's been eased into a conversation. She's been quiet since her injury, maybe due to a couple of months off off-and-on aphasia, which made it really hard to communicate. The proverbial bandage comes slowly off of that old wound. She reaches up to drag her fingers over her throat, fingers sneaking up into her hair to brush her temple. Her fingers slip back down and jostle her dogtags before her hand finds a perch on the edge of her seat again. She locks her elbows, hands resting between her knees, and leans forward a little. It's a pose that makes her seem younger, and the one she often takes when listening to an interesting anecdote or tale. Her hands press together and she draws her shoulders up a little more at the mention of large, hungry creatures in the surf. "A little piece of home," she says.

"Basically…or at least one that I could take with me when I went away to boot camp. I used to have this bag of sand that made it through a year or two before some asshole replaced it with cat litter on Scorpia. I guess it was kind of foolish, seeing as how sand is all over the place back home, but if we ever head back that way I'm going to get some more." The often brooding marine allows some of his more nostalgic side to reach the surface. His face sort of folds in as he breathes in slowly through his nose, his hand reaching to hover over his lips as he stifles a yawn. His jaw tenses as he lets it go, eyes blinking heavily to keep away the cobwebs. "Look at what you did, making me sit and relax for ten minutes of peace and I'm falling off of the edge of the world." He offers her a smirk. "Before it gets too late, North, let me know if you need help in the Athletics Area. I know you're rehabbing still, but I spend most of my life in there, and if you need some help getting back into pre-injury form I'd be happy to be of service."

Bridge bites her lip when he gets to the part about the cat little. She dips her head a little. It's not funny, but it kind of is. Even if it isn't! The expression disappears sometime during the yawn. Maybe he didn't see it, right? "I never turn down help in rehab. I think… I would like to do some sparring." She pauses. "With someone who's not going to accidentally kick me in the head." She doesn't name any names, but there are some folks in the gym who just don't control their arts so well. "Thank you for the offer." She allows a smile to return to her lips, and reaches over to offer a fist to her fellow marine. "Oorah, Sarge." And then, "I think you need a nap."

"Marines don't take naps, Private. They just go into storage." Ciro grins, pressing his knuckles against hers. "Ooo-rah." He adds, giving her a sharp nod of his head. Whatever common ground they've found has solidified, at least it seems that way from his vantage point. Pressing with his powerful legs, he spins the chair around and slips it back under the table. "Sparring is something that I can do, and I'll definite see what I can do about getting that motor." The parting look that he offers her is a quiet one, that small dead look in his eyes returning for just a moment before he turns back to his locker, putting his gym bag inside. "Welcome back to the world of the conscious, Private. Seems you've got a lot to put in that book."

"I stand corrected," she murmurs, in the wake of the bump. Bridge's left hand brushes the edge of her enormous sketchbook. It's only one of a series, but most of the others are packed up in storage. She taps the paper's spine with her finger. "For this," she tips her head and says softly, "And for seeing about a motor. Thank you." She picks up the heavy book, and a few pages creak when she does so. The binding is definitely strained. "I do. I have a lot of things to put down in color. And I look forward to every line of ink."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License