| Doing What Counts |
| Summary: | Petroski and Stavrian argue…which ends in the former agreeing to wear pink just as a crowd shows up. |
| Date: | March 03 2041 |
| Related Logs: | Related Logs (Say None if there aren't any; don't leave blank) |
| Players: |
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[ Ships Library ]-----[ Deck 9 - Battlestar Cerberus ]
Racks of books extend deep into this room, nearly darkening the overhead lights towards the back. The shelves are neatly labeled to each category with nearly everything represented here. Fiction, Sci-Fi, Romance, and everything down to comic books has been loaded up onto the shelves. A smaller research area at the back has a large table for maps to be opened-up. Nearer the door is a small library of movies that covers some of the most recent blockbusters and flows through some of the more campy movies from about two decades before. Next to the door, a Petty Officer can usually be found at a desk to help someone checkout their selections.
-=[ Condition Level: 2 - Danger Close ]=-------—-
Daniel arrives as he almost aways does, just a few minutes late for his meeting with Jesse. Peeking in, he tries to get a bead on where he is before entering the room fully, the hatched closed behind him as quietly as he can. As per Jesse's instruction, he is without the bottle he would have brought with him, his hands empty of anything but a pack of fumarella and a lighter.
Stavrian is late, himself. A full seven and a half minutes late, and still duty-uniformed to the nines with buttoned collar and brassards. The sharp sting of antiseptic smell clings strongly to him, as well as the unmistakeable scent of a throng of humanity. Sweat, salt, and skin. Rotations have been sleeping a little more in the past few shifts, but the real exhaustion goes far beyond the physical for nearly everyone on board these days. "Daniel." His arms fold as he gets closer. "What's up. Are you hurt?"
Jesse's voice pulls Daniel's attention out of his head and back to what's going on around him, the sight of the medico making him smile and actually relax a bit. "I'm fine. We got out of there before the near-riot and shootings started. Perk of being a VIP, I guess." Bitterness slips into his voice at the last, a tone so very uncommon coming from him, it enough to make him wince apologetically. "Are you okay? You look worn out. Come and sit down with me."
"I don't have too long," Stavrian says, in a mix of caution and apology. He looks down at the spare chairs and sits, unconciously staying right on the edge of it. His arms unfold just enough so his elbows can rest down on his knees, fingers laced. "Can't smoke in here, you know," he murmurs. "But I won't tell if you don't."
There's a nod of understanding along with a slight sigh, Daniel not very pleased over hearing how his companion's short on time. "Bet you're getting worked to death. Shame, that." When the smoking's commented upon he looks down, blinking in seeming surpried that he's got something in each hand. "I wasn't going to," Petroski assures Jesse. "I think it's more a habit than the actual smoking is, you know? It's comforting, in a manner of speaking." Blushing, he puts them away, tucking one and then the other into a pocket sewn into the interior of his blazer.
"Everyone's working, Daniel. It's what we're here for," Stavrian replies, flicking a wry look to the right around the room. "All that crazy spending, suddenly relevant." He tilts his head, scratching up under his eyebrow with his thumb. "So what's up. Thing okay, other than being supremely frakked up?"
"I know it's your job as well as it is everyone else's. Makes me wish I could do something more than hitch a free ride." Chewing his lip, Petroski stops, putting some conscious effort into not speaking, taking great pains in watching what it is he says. "Not much. Trying to locate Richard. He got lost in the first rush of people who were trying to get back to the ship. Am not having much luck, unfortunately. Think he might have gotten mistaken as a 'regular' civilian and herded aboard with the rest." Groaning, he changes his mind and removes his smokes and lighters; one of the latter is removed and placed against his lips while the lid of the lighter is flipped open. The flint is fussed with for a little while before his hand steadies enough, the lighter eventually lit and applied to the fumarella.
Stavrian nods. Elbow left against his knee, he rubs his fingertips over his dry lips. "Have a picture of him? Give me that and his full name and I'll see what I can dredge up next time I'm rotated up there."
Petroski pats himself down, patpatting along where pockets are in search for an image of his assistant but the search is eventually given up as he can't. "His name is Richard Andersen. I'll bring a picture by once I can find one." Inhaling, he takes a rather unhealthy drag of the one vice he's allowed to have, pulling a good bit of the smoke into his lungs which he then blows out in a gray hazy smog which hangs about his person. "I'd appreciate it if you can find him. He deserves to much better than to be held in the hangar like one might keep a head of cattle in a pen or something."
Andersen. Stavrian starts to nod again. The movement stops at what Daniel says last, turning instead into a slow, dry-eyed squint. "What?"
Hmmm, frak. That's what his expression says, Daniel's eyes wide and brow dipping in tight right above the bridge of his nose. "I meant nothing by it, Jesse. Truly. I know everything's being done to insure their wellbeing's tended to but still. How many people are being held there? The conditions can only stay favorable for so long." He looks away then, unable to look into the PA's eyes, Daniel feeling like an ass.
Sitka arrives from the Deck 9.
Sitka has arrived.
Even if Petroski's looked away, he still might feel Stavrian's blue eyes locked on his face. A second goes by, the sort of catchup moment spent just after a slap to the face. It just barely shows in his tone, a little bit of tired incredulousness. "Daniel, what are you doing?"
Petroski is sitting close to Jesse, the two talking somewhere within the room although Daniel's own efforts in conversing's temporarily thwarted by the way he's suddenly chewing on his foot. "I'm not doing anything," he says while turning to look at Stavrian again, his own expression slightly annoyed. "But I will be doing something eventually." He looks around and then drops his voice, acting almost supicious until he speaks once more, making his intentions known. "I'm planning on trying to have a meeting with those responsible for the civilian living arrangements is all. Make sure everything's being done to make sure our brothers and sisters are being cared for."
<FS3> Arkat has reconnected.
There's a creak and thunk of the hatch opening and shutting, followed by the heavy report of boots on deck plating as someone wanders into the library. A glimpse of olive drab fatigues, layered tank tops and a jacket headed in the direction of the audio visual section, probably marks the interloper's department as navy.
"By calling them held like cattle in a pen?" The corners of Stavrian's eyes have tensed up. He's still staring at the aide as his mind confirms that he heard the man say something like that. "Is this a helplessness thing for you? That…you haven't even been there but already you're chomping at the bit to demonize the people that are there day in and day out doing everything we can for them? Do you have any idea…" He straightens up, letting out a controlled breath. "Never mind. You throw names as you want to."
Petroski grunts and grabs for Jesse's arm, the motion he manages to see from elsewhere in the room doing nothing to still him. "I misworded. And I'm not looking to demonize anyone, frak it Jesse! If you want to come with me and show me then show me…grr, you're being more difficult then some of the women I have known in my life. Will you stop?" Muttering, he gives Stavrian a cool look before adding, "Okay. Maybe I was. But godsdamnit. You want me to learn better? Show me." That's left at that as he's now too busy puffing at his smoke, the length of which dwendles quickly into one that is just shy of burnin his fingers, the toe of one shoe dusted with the ash that has fallen.
Sitka's path takes a circuitous route along the rows of shelving units that betrays his unfamiliarity with this particular part of the ship. As it happens, Stavrian and Petroski are seated not too far from the modest collection of movies, music and books on tape; the officer comes to a halt about midway along, backs up a couple of steps, and pulls out one of the boxed discs with his fingertip to check the title. Petroski's little outburst has him pausing and lifting his eyes to study the pair for a few seconds.
"Yeah. Maybe you were." Stiff sarcasm there. Stavrian's arm jerks back instinctively from being grabbed, that instinctive violent flinching that happens every time Petroski's tried to touch him. His eyes, though, stay where they are. "I may be being difficult. You know why? Because in an hour, a hundred of our people start their hours up there. Hours that half of them volunteered to put in, when they should be getting their time to rest and to mourn. They don't get to do that, because they're working to the bone caring for people. And you do not get to spit on them." Those last words some out slowly, sucking energy into them that he barely has available to spend. And then, abruptly, he reaches out and taps the side of Petroski's face with his palm. Once. "I'll get you volunteer clearance or something. You can be my candy-striper. Might make you wear pink, though." His eyes finally flicker up, hearing something nearby. "Evening, sir."
Demos arrives from the Deck 9.
Demos has arrived.
"Wait…you thought…" Words really are not flowing together well and he sighs, hand yanked away at the twitching even as the limb is pulled back. "Jesse, gods no. It isn't that at all. I'd never spit on the people who are trying to help. Not what I was trying to do in the least. It's not you, it's not the others who are helping and it is sure as frak not the civilians themselves. All I'm wanting to do is make sure that Command is doing everything possible to assure they're seeing to all their needs." Glancing away a moment after the sole pat, he looks in the direction of the one Jesse just addressed, nodding in agreement to his suggestion. "Please do…and hello," the greeting that has been tacked on one given to Sitka.
Sitka's eyes are down again, blue vanished beneath a fringe of dark lashes by the time the medic looks over. He slides out the box, then its neighbour as well for good measure. "Hey, Stavrian," is his distracted reply, murmured as he turns the second box over and peruses the contents of the disc. Petroski gets a brief glance, and an even briefer smile, but the pair are left otherwise uninterrupted.
Stavrian may believe all that. He may not. It's not apparent on his face, most of that blocked as he sits back and rubs his itchy left eye. A lack of sleep's left both slightly bloodshot. "Pink," he mutters. Then he looks Sitka's way again, slowly. "Sir?"
Entering the library, Demos looks… well… harrassed. When the hatch closes behind her she closes her eyes briefly. Perhaps she intends soaking up the quiet. The feeling of being alone. Alas, that is not to be. Someone else is here. One eye opens a crack and she peers around. That is when she spots the semi-cluster of men yonder. Two at a table, one standing. For a moment, she considers fleeing, but the moment passes. Stepping forward then, she aims for the 'fiction' section.
Petroski sighs. "If I wear the frakkin' pink will it put me on your good graces again," he mutters while looking up, trying not to smile when he asks that. "I jus' might even be willin' to wear a pretty lil' nurse's dress if it'll help my cause." The accent's back but this time it's a joke, it as easy for him to bring forth as it is for him to hold it back. "I couldn't live with myself if you were to hate me." Another body and he's yet again distracted, the fact that it's Demos who arrived missed as she ducked into the aisle just before he could process details like facial features.
Ren arrives from the Deck 9.
Ren has arrived.
"Ibrahim," the pilot corrects, scratching at his lower lip with a thumbnail while he contemplates the boxed discs. "You can call me Ibrahim." He pronounces it EE-bra-chem; the last syllable is rough and throaty, typical of many Sagittarian names. "Or Shiv, if you prefer." Blue eyes land on Petroski then, with just a hint of amusement beneath the sleep deprivation, red-rimmed eyes and slightly disheveled appearance, "Sorry, I don't think we've met. You must be one of the QUODEL." Demos, for the nonce, hasn't been spotted.
Stavrian gives Petroski the most mature response he can muster at the climax of nuclear wars, deaths, and tempers: he sticks out his tongue. And /almost/ smiles. Not quite there, but he tried. Then to Sitka: "Yeah. That…actually. That was what I was going to ask you." The weak, blanketed humor stays in his voice for that, then fades back away. "So that's why Evan calls you Shivers." He scratches at the stubble on his jaw, eyes flickering as some movement goes by into the aisle.
Although she is now in an aisle, that sort of remark seems to seek out listeners. Yes, she heard it. Demos pauses in her quest for distraction as images conjured by the words 'pretty lil' nurse's dress' and 'pink'. They shift as the speaker is blended in. She squeezes her eyes shut and violently shakes her head once. Yet, it is enough to bring the Marine MP out of hiding. She leans a little against the end of the shelf and clears her throat, "That is quite the image. Somehow, I do not believe that I will be able to unsee that for a very long time." She offers a bit of a wave to those gathered, "Gentlemen."
Ren strides into the library, bearing a couple of volumes. They look academic in nature. Literary test prep, if one is /really/ curious to look. He returns them to the petty officer at the desk with a muttered, "Thanks. See? Not late this time." An attempt to joke, but both seem to realize how lame it is, so he steers away from the desk area promptly. Into the stacks he ventures.
The gesture, as 'mature' as it may be, has Danny taking a second to sigh in relief. "See, you love me too much to stay pissed at me. I knew it." That's the last of the teasing from Petroski, the severity of the mood and being addressed by the Captain being more than enough to distract him and save Jesse from possible further taunting. "Yes, sir. Daniel Petroski, aide to Delegate Winston. Pleasure to meet y…huh?" Oh hell, he had forgotten Demos was there and he is falling quiet, actually embarrassed which isn't something he often experiences. Not sure how to follow up her statement, Phaedra is given a minute nod whie the heat almost causes his hair to start smoldering.
"Sergeant." Stavrian's intrusive Sagittarian accent softens the 'g' in the word. "I know, right? Like you needed more trauma." Not serious, of course, though his tired voice doesn't have much inflection. "I got your note," he adds to Demos quietly. "Tomorrow around 16:00 alright for you?"
"Lieutenant Evandreus Doe, butchering callsigns since.. well, hell if I know." Sitka's not above cracking a smile, if a faint one that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Ms. Zinnia Todd-Winston, you mean? The delegate from Virgon." Fleeting amusement's replaced by curiosity; he, apparently, has done his homework. Phaedra, meanwhile, receives a polite greeting of, "Evening, Sergeant," and a brief, silent assessment.
Demos licks her lips slightly, distress at Petrowski's reaction flickering briefly in her gaze. Stepping closer a bit, she reaches a hand toward the civilian, though the touch does not land, "I am sorry. My sense of humor has fled. That was not intended to imply that the image was a bad one." Fluster and fail. She, too, blushes a deep crimson; especially as her fumbled attempt at a save could be construed to imply far more than it should, though Stavrian is awarded a very faint smile as he saves her from mortification.. She refocuses on him, her hand falling to clasp thet other at the small of her back, "Thank you. Yes, that would be fine. Where should I join you? Your office or mine?" Her attention shifts to Sitka then, the assessment likely missed. Very gradually, the blush begins to fade. A glance flickers toward the desk as Ren delivers his load of books. He is offered a nod as he slips off into the stacks. Then, her attention returns to the three in front of her.
Ren drifts in the general direction of the little speculative fiction section, though he drifts as he winds through the aisles. There are officers and civilians and Marines here. And he does, kind of, approach their general area. He doesn't /obviously/ eavesdrop. But he kind of looks at the books adjacent to them. He picks one up at random and flips through it. If he's trying to look absorbed, he fails.
"Ah. Yes, that'd be who my Winnie is, sir. Lovely lady. Have you met her by chance?" Daniel reaches up to scratch his jaw line, that causing a slight rasping to be given off as his nails rake over the stubble that has grown there since his last shaving. "If you haven't and would like to, I am sure I can arrange something." Darting his eyes from Demos to Stavrian and back, he asks them both, "Should I wear the nude pantyhose with it or the black fishnet stockings," barely missing a beat as he changes mental and verbal focus. Ren is allowed to eavesdrop as far as with Daniel goes, the man not yet seen.
"Don't have an office," Stavrian informs Demos, pulling his ankle up onto the other knee. "Have to rest on your hospitality, if you don't mind." He glances at Petroski and Sitka as they talk, nodding to the latter. The other Sagittarian gets a brief glance-over. Not a medical one as he usually does, just getting a sense of this source of his home accent. "Met him. Nice guy." His reddened eyes shift back to Petroski and there's a faint, faint smirk. Then he notices Ren, watching the rankless skulker.
"I haven't," the pilot confirms, tucking the borrowed listening material between his elbow and side, and sliding his hands into the pockets of his fatigue trousers. They fit slightly loose on his frame, which is hardly marine-grade beefcake. His eyes slant toward Stavrian briefly at the tail end of his study, though he continues speaking to Petroski, "That'd be an honour. But I'm sure she's a busy woman." The implication there, of course, is that he himself is busy. Accent-wise, he might be placed as southern continent, generic slum trash. What little of it can be detected. "Anyway, I should get going. It was nice to meet you, Daniel. See you around, Stavrian." Demos just gets a furtive little smile as the Captain takes his leave of the gathering; Ren, a brief glance in parting.
Marko arrives from the Deck 9.
Marko has arrived.
Demos steps a hair closer to the group, though does not quite join them, "Of course, sir. My office will be just fine. Thank you." She angles Petrowski a quick, ghost of a smile, "I understand that Ms. Todd-Wilson is a pretty amazing woman. An inspiration to many." She speaks in quietly precise syllables, though does not have the characteristicly aristocratic Caprican pronounciation. Sitka's smile is answered by one of her own, brief though there. "Sir." She watches him for a moment more, then lowers her gaze to the two at the table, "Perhaps I have intruded enough. Please excuse me."
Ren blinks up from his fake-reading. He's spotted. He offers a hasty nod to Sitka when he's glanced at, and another to Demos. "Umm. Hey," he offers. A general greeting all around, since his skulking has been noted. He blinks more attentively at the book he randomly picked up. 'Finer Tauron Cooking.' He puts it back.
Marko makes his way into the library, nodding politely to those he passes as he makes for the reference section.
"Sitka." Stavrian says the name quietly as farewell, rather than to get the man's attention again. The way he pronounces it is, of course, Sagittarian-correct. His lips part as if something more might've wanted to be said, but it never comes. Perhaps just something not meant to be said in front of others. He glances at Demos, about to say something, but then happens to note his watch himself. "Almost shift time anyway." He sniffs quietly, glancing back at Ren and…that book. "Deep philosophy tonight?"
Petroski gets up and then stares at the smoke he has in his hand still, one that thankfully went out before it could singe flesh, a minor miracle, undoubtedly. "It was nice meeting you too, sir," he murmurs to Sitka and then, to the group as a whole, he begins to excuse himself regretfully. "I got an appointment with the very same angel we speak of," that being Winnie, "And she hates to be kept waiting. If you all will excuse me."
Sitka ticks two fingers off his temple as he passes by Ren. It's possible he caught that hesitation from Stavrian, but it's just as possible he's so badly sleep-deprived and worked to the bone, that he misses it entirely. His exit, either way, is made unobtrusively— once he remembers to sign the discs out at the desk.
Sitka heads through the exit labeled <O> Out.
Sitka has left.
Demos fades back from the table, "Gentlemen." Turning, she nods to Ren, a ghost of a smile that fades quickly the only other indication that she saw him. Unlike Stavrian, she does not notice the man's choice of reading material. As the others head for the hatch, she hangs back long enough to let them go through before her. Then, she; too, slips out.
Ren grins at Stavrian, shrugging. "Uh. No, sir. I don't know what I'm looking for, actually. I just came to return some things. I don't know what I'm looking for." A pause and he asks Stavrian out of the blue, "What college did you go to, sir?"
"Uh." Stavrian rubs his thumb under his left eye. "Sagittaron Military University. And Fleet medical school." A mustang, easily identifiable by those credential. He glances over and nods to Daniel on his way out. "I'll be in touch."
Marko browses methodically through the reference section, frowning thoughtfully as he examines this book, then that, putting them back onto the shelves as he finds them. Soon enough, though, he's managed to find what he's looking for, and collects four books.
Ren is back in the aisles, talking with Stavrian. He seems to have shoved the conversation in the direction of academics. "Oh, got you," he replies to the medic with a nod and shrug. "I was just returning some Lit prep stuff. I was studying for the uni entrance exams before we left drydock. I've still got two years on my hitch but…" Another shrug. "Seemed like a good time to get started. I guess it's kind of stupid to worry about right now."
"There's always a point to it, you know?" Stavrian offers in a low voice. He sets his foot down, finally standing back up. "It's not stupid. We're not /all/ dead yet, so there's a future out there somewhere, right?" A glance towards Marko, then he nods to the young man in front of him. "I've got to get to shift. Good luck."
"See ya 'round, sir." Marko replies, returning Staviran's nod as he finds a place to sit at the table and plunks down four scholarly-looking tomes. "Specialist." he adds with another nod to Ren as he sits down and pulls a notepad with a pen stuck through the wire binder from one of the pockets of his BDU. "How's things?"
"Thanks, sir," Ren offers simply to departing Stavrian. He skims the shelves again after that, sticking his hands in his pockets. A look-over at Marko when he hears his rank used. "Oh. Hey, sir." The ensign is given a polite, friendly nod, though his mind still seems half-elsewhere. "Goes alright, I guess. Not much more you can say right now, you know? How goes it for you?"