PHD #153: Captive Audience, Pt. IV
Captive Audience, Pt. IV
Summary: Tisiphone has visitors of varying temperaments while in the brig.
Date: Gotta check on this.
Related Logs: Captive Audience Pt. I, Pt. II, Pt. III.
Marko Stavrian Tisiphone 

Tisiphone's in the very cell she emptied a clip of armour-piercing rounds into, not days before. How ironic, or fitting, or both, that she now gets to stare at that panel of bulletproof glass from the other side, and see just how fruitless her little idea was.

The Marines at the door have added a new part to their visitor-clearing procedure, courtesy of her — a brief patdown, after one relinquishes any obvious weapons. It's the little details that matter.

Scrape. Scrape. The sound of a spork against a dinner tray. She sits on the edge of her bunk, staring down at her long-cold food as if she could will it into edibility by sheer willpower alone. So far, so /not/ good.

Stavrian gets prison duty often, when there are prisoners. The hazards of being forward crew. She may have glimpsed him a few times going back and forth, here to check on the briefly incarcerated for petty crap that the MaA just let them stew over. Never allowed to stop though, while on duty.

Tonight, a plain dark longsleeved T-shirt is over his downtime fatigues rather than the distinctive olive-and-red. His boots trudge more slowly, lacking the 'thud thud' of a duty gait. They allowed him only one item — a black bound book under his arm.

The shatterproof plate and blunted cutlery jangle as the tray's set aside on the foot of the bunk, the twist at the corner of her mouth a clear, if mute, frak it. Tisiphone blows out a sigh and scrubs her hands over her shorn scalp — only a few days' prickling has started to grow back — as she looks over to the approaching medic. Her expression doesn't warm, nor do the pale eyes light up; if anything, she looks rather stricken. It doesn't stop her from pushing up off the bunk, however, and limping her way toward the bulletproof glass.

Stavrian stops about a foot from the glass. His left arm is curled around the well-kept book, right hand at his side. The lighting in here blotches skewed shadows under his eyes. Tough to read as ever. As she getsup he's completely silent and quite still until the sounds of feet have stopped. Then, a pause that should have been filled, but it isn't.

Up to the clear panels Tisiphone hobbles, leaving the crutches stacked by the edge of her bunk. She leans forward against folded arms and stares out, her gaze sketching up and down Stavrian but never quite managing to raise to his face. Finally, as the seconds keep dragging on, she clears her throat. "Hey," she says, barely more than a whisper. "It's. Good to see you."

"Shit spot for vacation," Stavrian murmurs, without a shred of humor. He glances down at the book and clears his throat, shifting his weight from right foot to left. "They treating you alright in here?"

"Food's crap. Bed's terrible. Wish you were here. X-O-X." There's a soft huff of breath that accompanies it, the corner of Tisiphone's mouth quirked at a mirthless angle. "It's… it's fine. They can't figure out what lentils are. I get potatoes instead. At least there isn't gravy on them tonight." She drums her fingers against her elbow, knuckles knocking against the glass. "How you doing?" she asks.

"What am I supposed to say? 'Not in the brig'." Stavrian smiles thinly, shifting the book around until the title is mashes up against his unwrinkled T-shirt. "They're timing me," he adds, at length. "But I brought some scriptures. Gods don't see much of this place."

"Yeah. They don't." Tisiphone's eyes sink back down to the floor, her gaze dragged around there as if it was on the end of a very unenthused mop. "You can put it in the hatch," she says, pulling her eyes up as the rest of her straightens. "Court-martial's in the next couple days, the way the JAG suit's talking it up. I'll." She clears her throat as she limps along the wall to the hatch her dinner tray is passed through. "I'll. Um. So I'll. Have it back to you soon."

Stavrian looks down at the hatch and then back at her. "I can't leave it," he says under his breath. "Some reg. I don't know. Think you'll suicide by paper cuts or something frakked like that." He looks down at the worn book, gently thumbing the paper edges, and then stiffly starts to crouch down to the floor in front of the plexiglass. If you want I can read some."

He can't leave it, he says — and for the span of a couple blinks, her pale eyes are too bright. Tisiphone nods a few times before she manages an, "Oh," and clears her throat again. "Makes… sense. I guess. No smokes, either. Like I could do anything but piss myself off with a cherry, right?" She doesn't answer Stavrian until he's crouched down, then wincingly settles herself as well, her injured leg stretched out in front of her, one shoulder and the side of her head against the glass, near one of the gerbil-cage air-holes. "Yeah," she says. She has to clear her throat again. "I'd like that."

Stavrian settles down on the floor, butt thudding on the cold tiles. He scoots up close to the plexiglass, folding his legs in and resting the closed scripture book on his ankles. "You got a passage you like?" His eyes flicker up as he asks. His voice is quiet, making the exact tone of it hard to decipher.

"But I pray to Mnemosyne, the fair-robed child of Ouranos, and to her daughters, to grant me ready resource," murmurs Tisiphone, by way of answer, looking over and up at Stavrian. "'For the minds of men are blind, whosoever, without the maids of Helikon, seeks the steep path of them that walked it by their wisdom.' I don't know what I deserve to hear, Jesse." She rubs her thumb against reddened eyes. "I guess- the Moirae. Something about them."

"It's not my place to judge what we deserve," Stavrian murmurs, hooking his fingers under the bound book. "Thank the gods. I'd never want that responsibility." He gently flips the book open, exhaling a long breath through his nose. Pages turn, rustling one after the other. "Even the gods are bound by fate, you know."

Marko arrives from the Deck 6.
Marko has arrived.

"None escape the Moirae," murmurs Tisiphone, eyes following corner after corner of the book as the pages are turned on the other side of the glass. The corners of her mouth tug; for a moment it looks like she might smile. Then, as she exhales, the expression drifts away again. "It's what they're there for. Fly too high, get too full of yourself, and down you come."

Marko nods to the Marine guard as he enters the brig, pausing to take in the scene before speaking up. "Hey, Tis." he says, giving a little wave. "I'd ask how it was going but…"

"Daughters of Ananke," Stavrian says under his breath, eyes down on the book. After a moment his voice starts up again, holding a soft, droned note that hangs in the air before he goes on. Invocation, sung in the particular near-monotone of a Sagittarian prayer. He's not a singer, but this isn't a hymn that relies on one's ability to climb the scales. It's darkly minor and almost hypnotic. "To the Moirai, Fumigation from Aromatics. Daughters of darkling Nyx, much named, draw near, infinite Moirai, and listen to my prayer…" It trails off as Marko approaches and he looks up at the other pilot, nodding once.

Tisiphone raises her hand to rub at her reddened eyes again before refolding her arms across her chest. Pale lashes drag down over her eyes as Stavrian starts the invocation, and again the corners of her mouth tug upward for a moment. Her chin lifts at the sound of someone else entering the Officer's Brig, though she doesn't open her eyes until the footsteps approach, gaze lifting then to track Marko's arrival. "Hey," is her simple greeting. Her voice doesn't carry far. She clears her throat, and gains a little volume. "You. You know Je- um. Lieutenant Stavrian?" She's a good little captive hostess.

"My apologies, I didn't mean to intrude." Marko says, pulling a little face as he realizes what he'd just interrupted. "I can come back, if you need." he adds. "I think we've met." he says, nodding politely to the man, "But my apologies if I can't remember correctly."

"Long time ago," Stavrian confirms, neck craned to see the man standing nearby. "Flasher, yeah? I don't think I ever knew your real name. Heh." He scratches his thick hairline, clearing his throat. "I mean, you can stay if you want to. If you're not going to lose your shit over people praying."

To Marko: "Jesse's a-" Her eyes return to the medic for a moment, and the book he holds. "-friend of mine." Then, to Stavrian: "Flasher and I were working on a project together." That's as much introducing power as Tisiphone has in her, tonight. "You- want to stay and listen, or come back later, Flasher, I don't mind either. They'll only let him stay so long." Which is likely why she resettles with her shoulder and the side of her head against the glass, her ear near one of the gerbil-cage air-holes in the bulletproof glass.

"Oh, right, right, sorry, Lieutenant. You're right, it has been a long time." Marko replies, nodding politely to the man. "Well, that's the case, I'll just stand quietly over here, then." he adds, giving the two a respectful amount of space so they can complete their private service.

"No man lives in the house of the gods alone," Stavrian tells Marko. Without explaining the comment, he pushes his fingers the rest of the way through his hair and looks back down at the text. "To these acceding, in a purple veil to sense impervious, you yourselves conceal, when in the plain of Moira, you joyful ride in one great car, with glory for your guide; till all-complete, your heaven appointed round, at justice, hope, and care's concluding bound, the terms absolved, prescribed by ancient law, of power immense, and just without a flaw."

This is what one hears if one speaks his particular dark dialect of Sagittaron, anyway. If one doesn't, all it sounds like is unendingly patient droning, punched by odd wobbles of sound and guttural scrapes of air in the back of the throat. It may not be apparent unless really watching him that his eyes aren't moving across the text; it's from memory. "Come, gentle powers, well born, benignant, famed, Atropos, Lakhesis, and Klotho named; unchanged, aerial, wandering in the night, untamed, invisible to mortal sight; Moirai all-producing, all-destroying, hear, regard the incense and the holy prayer; propitious listen to these rites inclined, and far avert distress, with placid mind."

The ECO is in a maze of twisty syllables, all alike. It may well sound like Sagittaron never did get around to inventing vowels, for much of it. There's a soft scrape of sound, now and again, from Tisiphone's side of the bulletproof glass; a near-tuneless humming that moves along as accompanyment to the words Stavrian recites. She drags the edge of her thumb across her eyes, and clears her throat, before she looks through the cell's wall to those beyond.

Marko remains respectfully silent and professionally detatched, which is something of a minor miracle considering how damn peculiar this all is to him. He'd heard all his life that the Saggies were insane when it came to religion, but until now, he'd never quite believed it. This is an enlightening moment for him. Sort of…

Nobody's bleeding yet, so it's an unusually tame invocation for Sagittarians. Probably a good thing that plexiglass is there. Stavrian's voice rolls through another part of the hymn that ends after a minor-key cadence of notes, the final one the end to a heartwrenchingly quiet plea. The note hangs in the air, waiting for a musical resolution that never comes, leaving the melody's tension sitting there in the silence that drapes in after it. The medic softly clears his throat, unnecessarily turning a page and then looking up at Marko with a nod. Safe now.

No blood. No virgin sacrifices. Nothing's on fire. Tame, indeed. Tisiphone curls her hands into loose fists, pressing them against the glass to be used as a prop for her chin. The tip of her nose touches the wall, flatting it to a pale little circle. It might be funny if the situation was at all ripe for humour. "Th-" she starts, and her voice cracks. She gets it out the second try: "Thanks."

Marko returns Stavrian's nod slowly and makes his way forward to stand next to him. "So…" he sighs, giving Tisiphone that's half concern, half pure, unalloyed irritation. "Not gonna ask you what you were thinking." he adds, one corner of his mouth twisting up in a little smirk.

Stavrian closes the scripture book with care, not a thump to be heard. He's still sitting on the floor and doesn't move to get up quite yet, blue eyes lifting from the book to the animal in her cage when Marko asks the question.

Tisiphone's expression immediately shutters a bit upon that first stab of irritation from Marko. It's a sort of resigned bracing, as if the common trend to her visitors have been Angry Words, and she's now preparing for them. She stays seated on the floor, her head tilting a few degrees to one side on its fist-perch. "I thought it needed to be done. I thought it was a fair trade. Me for it. I thought it was time to see my sisters again. I thought it all made sense." Past tense, all of it, and flatly so.

"I just said I wasn't gonna ask." Marko replies, real sympathy in his tone. "Why you did it's not important now. What is is that you _did_ and we're all gonna have to eat the consequences." he sighs. "Have you talked to any one from the JAG office?" he inquires. "Gotten any idea of the kind of charges you might be facing? They hadda tell you _something_."

"They can't afford to lose someone," Stavrian says, under his breath. With how quiet his voice is, it's tough to discern his actual opinion on the matter. "I would bank on that much, at the very least."

"Sentencing's tomorrow," Tisiphone says, her eyes flicking restlessly between Stavrian and Marko, unwilling to settle on either for long. "It's been. Quick. I'm not fighting the charges. They're nothing they'd be putting me against the wall for. You know. Improper Discharge of a Firearm. Shit like that. They'll. I don't know. Pull my pins, maybe." She frowns and pulls one hand off the glass, rubbing at her scalpfuzz. "The CAG went easy on me."

Marko smiles a little, nodding. "Heh, I kind of figured that." he nods. "Lunair said the Major was gonna talk to her opposite number with the Marines." he adds. "I don't think they'll pull your pins, though. They need more than just pilots, they need _experienced_ pilots." he muses. "So, maybe we'll all get lucky and this'll get downgraded to you getting your pants pulled down, pulled over Tillman's knee and spanked thoroughly." he smiles a little.

"It's not them who ultimately judge, in any case," Stavrian murmurs. "What punishments men mete out, men can endure." He starts to get up onto his knees, aware of how long he's spent in here. He's not going to push his luck with these MPs, though he doesn't get all the way up quite yet.

The MPs aren't so inclined to cut Junior Lieutenant Apostolos much that would qualify as 'slack', seeing as it was their lack of paranoia (read: patdown) that let her sneak a handgun in for her little chat with the skinjob in the first place. At least they've stopped putting gravy on her potatoes at suppertime, though. ('Gravy', 'potatoes'.) "Whatever they decide. It will be done," she agrees, somewhat formally, pale eyes tracking Stavrian as he starts to push up to his feet. "I'll-" she starts to ask the medic, then stops to clear her throat. "I'll- see you again?"

"Well, hope you're right, Doc." Marko replies, sighing a little. "Cause I think we'll be finding out one way or the other, tomorrow." he adds. "So, how are you doing?" he asks Tisi simply. "You seem to be a little more fatalistic than usual."

Stavrian nods to Tisiphone, scooting one foot under him and then the other, now crouched. "One thing I know, Tis. Everything else aside, we'll all still be here." Barring nuclear attacks and whatnot, but he leaves that unsaid. His hand gently claps Marko's shoulder and he stands.

"I've pissed off everyone I give a damn about, Flasher. You tell /me/ how you think you'd be doing." Fatalistic's a good word to describe it. It matches well with the black mirth in her quick, tight smile. "Be well, Jesse," she says to the medic, once he's to his feet. "I'm. Real glad you came by." She sits up straighter and raps her knuckles against the glass. Knock-knock, knock. Morse code for 'bye'.

"Eh…yeah…" Marko replies, sighing a little before attempting to smile. "But you do that anyway, so I can't see how it could worry you too much." he jibes, lamely. "But I'm with Stavrian, I'll be behind you no matter what."

"A'afiat," Stavrian says quietly. A word that, like so many in his dialect, doubles as a religious blessing and a farewell. "I will check on you after the hearing." He tucks the book into the crook of his arm and glances over his shoulder — predictably, the MP that let him in is standing there, eyeing him. He sucks his teeth quietly and looks back at Tisiphone a few moments, then turns to start out.

Knock-knock, knock — and then Tisiphone presses her palm flat against the glass, watching Stavrian go. For a few seconds, it looks like she's perilously close to tears. "I bet," she says to Marko, forcing the words out stubbornly, "at best, at frakking /best/, I'll be saluting you for the forseeable future. Lieu-u-utenant." She tries to laugh; it comes out closer to a wet cough.

Marko chuckles a little, shaking his head and finally heaving out a sigh. "Probably." he admits. "But, who knows?" he asks helplessly, shrugging. "It could all turn out to be a tempest in a teapot. I mean, the bitch is a _Cylon_, after all."

"Didn't stop them from keeping her in here with extra sheets and pillows. Good food. Like some sort of guest." Tisiphone clears her throat again, and starts pushing up to her feet, wincing as she unfolds her injured leg. "Thanks for not yelling at me, man," she says abruptly, once she's on her feet. "Everyone who- When it hasn't been yelling it's been the silent treatment."

"Figured you'd have enough of that sorta thing." Marko replies, nodding. "Not that I don't _want_ to, mind." he adds, giving a little, but honest smile. "But, still, I'm more worried about you than mad at this point. I really hope this goes well for you, Tis. Cause it's going to suck big time breaking you outta here if it comes to that."

"Tip?" Tisiphone says, one corner of her mouth finally tugging upward. "Don't try to shoot the glass." She flexes her injured leg slowly, then breathes out a sigh. "I think I'm gonna lay down," she says. "You. Take it easy, okay? One way or another, I'm out of here tomorrow."

"Heh, gotcha, I'll keep that in mind." Marko replies with a little smile. "I'll pray for you." he adds. "After all, I can't have one of the Three Ensigns absent for my wedding."

Tisiphone raps at the glass with her knuckle again — knock-knock, knock — and is already starting to turn away when that last word finally sinks through her skull. "Your WHAT?" she says, looking back to Marko.

"You heard me." he calls back, tapping out his own farewell. "Getting married soon." he adds. "Me and Lunair. Asked her the other day, just before everything went whacko, she said yes."

Silence, for two or three ECO-steps, before Tisiphone calls out of the cell, "Frak me running, man. Congrats." There's a final soft WHUMP of the pilot's palm against the bulletproof glass, and then she's gone, limping back into the depths of her cell.

"Thanks. I'll see you _soon_, okay?" he calls back, letting the Marine guard give him another thorough pat down before signing himself out on the visitor's log.

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