| Enlightenment |
| Summary: | Misc. rec room chatter |
| Date: | 2/21/41 |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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The hatch creaks open as several people arrive, one of them being Petroski while the other is his Marine escort, a rather young private who is named, ironically and appropiately, Young. The guard points to where he'll be standing, that being towards a corner, offering to let Daniel relax without being dogged while Young keeps to his duty. That gains the man a smile from Danny who looks around, getting a feel for the room and the general mood within it before wandering, furthering his casual inspection while walking about.
On break, or perhaps done for the day and just too lazy to change, Stavrian is sitting on one of the couches here. Still in his scrubs blues, the sleeves of his wrist-length T-shirt pushed up to his forearms. His feet are up on the coffee table, crossed at the ankle, and a heavy textbook lies open across his thighs. Though rather than at it he's kind of staring off into space, arms folded.
Trask has a system. Whenever the support peeps refresh the snack supply for this shift, he's there to snag several bags of the BBQ flavored kettle chips and some sweet potato ones, too. Why, he's even on a name-to-name basis with the delivery guy. Right on time, the ECO enters the Rec Room and makes a beeline for the counter that will contain the munchies.
Petroski doesn't see Jesse at first but he does notice the refreshments, it being what draws him to an area where he can get a better view of the room. Scanning right to left, he takes stock of who is here, the majority of those present unknowns to him with the scrubs-donned Jesse finally being noticed. His approach of the PA has him moving in the opposite direction Trask does, the pilot given a smile and a nod. "Hello," he greets jovially enough before reaching where Stavrian's perched, his throat now cleared to get his attention without too much interruption, or so he hopes.
Evandreus comes running on in after Trask, hopping over the threshold as if trying to earn his callsign all over again and briskly legging it to Trask's side, wrapping an arm around his waist to give him a relatively sedate snug when the energy of his entrance is considered. "Bootiekins," he greets, "'Sup, dude? Did you hear we won the day out there against Team Checkmate?"
Who knows what's going on in Stavrian's head at the moment. That's a pretty vacant stare, usually reserved for blondes. The throat-clearing does its duty, however, eyes refocusing so quickly there might've been the screech sound of tires behind it. "Mr. Petrosk-…" He doesn't get out the vowel, suddenly caught up in a monstrous yawn that he claps his palm over. "…shit. Petroski. What's up." The noisy pilots are noted with a glance.
"Sure did, Bunny boy," is Trask's reply, followed with a chin-tilt towards Petroski and a, "Yo." Passing the aide, he lifts his left hand to indicate for Evandreus to hold on. That is because he's come upon the bringer of goodies. "Harris, my man. Wassup? You an uncle yet?"
For his part, Harris flashes a proud grin. "You bet. A healthy, beautiful li'l girl. They've named her Tamika, like my Grammama."
"Congrats, man," is smiled back, Bootstrap offering a high-quality celebratory cigarette. "An' your sister?"
The Crewman accepts the smoke and nods. "Yeah, she's awright. Doc says she'll be home soon."
As this conversation transpires, it might be noted that not all the bags of chips are being stocked. Some have remained in the delivery boxes.
Evandreus grins at the Boots, then, as he's left behind for Boots to go do his magic with the chip man, he turns his head to look to Petroski, then to Stavrian, and back to Petroski, "Hey, guys," he tells the both of them, since he's in the neighborhood and knows at least one person around.
"You do realize you can call me Daniel or Danny when I'm not acting on any kind of offical capacity, yes," comes the ready reply from him, Petroski giving Jesse a shrug and a grin to go along with it. "Protocol and pomp and all that should be stowed away under any 'normal' circumstance." Looking at the couch, he lifts a brow, letting that speak for him when he 'asks' if he may join him.
"That's great news. Send her my best," Kal continues, nonchalantly reaching into one of the boxes to pull out two small bags of sweet potato chips, which he tucks into their own pocket.
"Sure thing. How're you? You guys still playin' cowboys an' indians in space?" Harris doesn't comment about the acquisition of treats, even though he saw it transpire. When Trask reaches into the box that harbors the BBQ flavor bags, the Crewman still says nothing.
"Yup. No frakkin' idea if we're the cowboys or the indians, but we're winnin' and that's all I really need to know," the ECO quips, stuffing one bag of BBQ chips into another pocket. The last one, he opens and extends the bag to Harris. When Harris waves it off, Bootstrap helps himself. "Sweet. Good talkin' with ya, man. See ya 'round."
"I'm never sure when you're bean counting and when you aren't." Stavrian makes no movement to fix his posture, still comfortably slouched as he is. "We have off-duty clothes, but you…" He makes a vague motion at the aide. "Have you get you a sign on your back or something." His hand closes and indicates the couch in mild invitation. As Evan goes by he rubs the side of his neck and cranes it, looking up. "Hey."
Marko wanders into the rec room with a can of soda in his hand and a tech manual tucked under his arm and pauses just inside the room to take a look around at who's here.
Evandreus grins at Jesse and sort of collapses mid-step, looking like his knees have given out from weakness, but ending up sitting in a pretty tidy indian-style on the floor before the sofa, leaning back on his hands. "I think civvietypes get to be off-duty all of the time," he notes to Jesse in a playful tone. "Hey, Danny," he adds, then, narrowing his eyes, "I brought you on board, didn't I?" he wonders. He brought a -lot- of people on board, and they've all sort of blurred together in his thinkmeats.
Dan grins and shakes his head, his arms folding around him. "Knowing how some of you feel about my type of people, I would wind up with a sign that reads 'Kick me' or something. How about hand gestures instead?" He sits down once the self-depreciating joke is made just about in sync with Evan sitting, the question getting a shake of his head at first which he follows verbally. "I was brought aboard by…frak, what was her name. Gidget…Midget…something like that. Can't recall off hand." Baby talk. That's not what he's used to and Petroski turns to listen, watching Trask and his conversation companion, Marko's arrival missed.
Harris nods and amiably replies to Trask, "No doubt."
With that little social exchange concluded, the ECO then makes a pit stop to fetch a can of cola from the designated cola spot. Bag of chips in one hand and carbonated beverage in the other, he makes his way towards the others assembled. "Yo, hunny bunny." The can is lightly dropped into Evan's lap, it being the pilot's favorite kind in-stock. Casually, Kal adds, "Scauru. Stavrian. Guy I don't at all know." Crunchity-crunch. The greeting is concluded with some BBQ flavored kettle chips.
Marko gives Evan and Trask a nod before snagging the nearest chair. "How's it going?" he asks casually, pulling open his soda and taking a long swig. "Anybody seen O'Sullivan?"
"Hand gestures." Stavrian's lips curl in a smirk. "If you walked up to the Admiral and gave him the finger, that'd do it for life. How about it?" He teeth make a click-click noise of challenge, brows waggling as well. His shoulders roll, arms staying comfortably folded, and he looks up at Trask next. "Trask. That shit stinks, what is it?" Then Marko, glanced up and down with no hint of familiarity.
"Huh?" Evan looks up, then his hands shoot up to grab the can as it descends through the air, cushioning the landing with the give in his elbows so that, when he opens up the tab, it doesn't fizz every which way. Well.. it does a little, but nothing he can't lean in and slurp up through pursed lips before he takes a deep drink of the stuff. "Oh, man, battery acid," he chuckles. "Thanks, Bootiekins, I need another hole in my GI tract," he chuckles, and leans over to headbutt the ECO lightly just above the knee, a fond gesture. "Who, uh, Gadget? Oh, okay. I could have sworn… well, anyhow," he waves it off. "Good to know you, Dannyboy."
"I haven't seen her since post-flight, dude," Evan adds. This is for Marko, whom he hears rather than sees, from his spot on the floor.
Petroski's normally able to keep up with several conversations at once but, for a moment, he finds it difficult to do so, the various topics along with the pace they're flowing around him getting him oddly off of his game. "Uh…" Thankfully Trask is in need of an introduction, that being something he can do. "Daniel Petroski. Political aide to Delegate Winston. Pleasure to meet you."
"Well, it sure as frak isn't mint chocolate or lollipops from Sickbay," Trask tells Jesse, not missing a beat. More crunchity-crunch because kettle chips are exceptionally crunchy. "Better your GI tract than your heart from thinking I no longer cared enough to put another hole in said GI tract." The headbutt seemingly is ignored. "O'Sullivan… O'Sullivan…" is then mused. "You mean Big Red?" He may or may not be speaking of Temperance's height. Most likely, he isn't. A blasé nod is offered to Daniel. "Kal Trask. I frak-up shit, but in a good way."
Beat. "Except when I don't."
"Glitter," Stavrian mutters, for no apparent reason at all. He lets his head rest against the couch's vertical pillows, the back of his curls smushed upwards. The heavy text on his legs gets jostled but doesn't fall, open to a diagram of a cross-section of the human brain, with the classic sensory homunculus draped around its edges.
"Ah, oh well." Marko shrugs, trying to keep up with the conversation, but, as usual, failing. "So you're with QUODEL, then?" he asks Petroski, curious.
"See? I'm not the only person who thinks those chips you like are gross," Evan seems vindicated, glancing to Stavrian and then up at Boots, grinning brightly. "G'aww. You love me, you -really- love me," he notes, about three notches too overdramatic to be serious, snugging at his legs like some suppliant at a statue of Zeus. Then, tipping back his head to take a deep drink of the pop— it comes shooting out of his mouth and nose at the single word from Jesse.
"That is going to hurt," Petroski says in regards to Evan's nasal mishap; it's a good thing that Daniel is in the habit of keeping a handkerchief on him, it extracted from the chest pocket on his blazer and is then handed over, it still folded neatly. "Yes, I am with them although only as an employee," he adds while looking over to Marko, his smile widening. "It's not a bad job, really."
Stavrian has caused pain, and looks pretty smug for it. Petroski gets the honor of offering the crude mop; he just lounges. It's a comfortable posture but a closed one nevertheless, ankles crossed and arms folded as they are. "Thanks, Daniel."
Oh noes! People think his snacks are gross! Whatever will Trask do? How can he carry on? Well, he'll stand there, not giving a frak, and will continue to not give a frak. "That," he tells Evan, "or I'm fattenin' you up, makin' your innards sticky sweet and bound to caramelize when you're finally thrown in the oven, mon petit lapin." Then the would-be roasted rabbit spews soda. "Your aim's off." This is said to Stavrian.
"So what is it exactly you guys are doing aboard?" Marko asks Petroski. "Heard you were here during the Orientation brief, but they never really gave us any details about what your job is. Didn't the Admiralty already sign off on the ship when she was commissioned?"
It -is,- indeed, the sharp sting of battery acid up his sinuses keeping the Bunny from further hilarity for the moment, brown soda dripping from both nostrils as he seems regularly uncomfortable, commenting, "Gguh! Thangs," he notes to Danny, rolling forward onto his knees and one hand as he reaches with the other hand to set down the can of soda and reach for the napkin, taking it gingerly enough before he starts in honking on it. "Glitter," he does chuckle some, after a couple of good soda-laced snottings. Bootiekins gets a giddy little look, as well, for his teasing, but for the most part he's busy trying to clear his sinuses of this burning sensation.
"I don't shoot to kill." Stavrian answers Trask as his feet move back and forth on the axis of heel on the coffee table. "But I may change that if you keep talking about mint chocolate and don't put out." His attention flickers back down to poor Evan, making certain the man's not drowning in his own sugary sludge. "You okay?" Trying not to sound amused. He's a health professional, after all. Then his bright blue eyes cut sideways to Petroski's profile as Marko gives him the third degree.
Petroski relinquishes the hanky once Evan has it firmly in his grasp, the fact that he's using it to blow his nose getting a soft 'ugh' which is then rapidly concluded with, "Feel free to keep that. I got plenty in my locker." Shuddering visibly, he looks over at Trask and Stavrian, trying not to laugh, knowing that to do so will most likely only encourage further teasing and such, and then he's answering the question posed to him. "I'm here to observe the war games as well as do some fact finding Mister…" Pausing, he looks at Marko. "I am sorry. We haven't met. You are?"
Evandreus settles back onto his knees by Boots' legs, clearing his throat once or twice before, "Hem. Any case, between getting frozen solid and molested and getting roasted and eaten? I'd pick the latter. At least it's warm," he chuckles. "Oh!" he recalls, as Petroski brings up the games. "The Major let me put those games I proposed into a spare slot on the docket. Tomorrow night, twenty hundred hours. Can you come?" he asks up at Bootiekins, giving him the bunnyeyes, doing all but tugging on his pant leg.
"Ensign Scaurus, Marko Scarus. No call sign just yet," Marko replies, chuckling a little. "Probably a good thing, given the one I'm likely to wind up with. Sorry, wasn't trying to be rude or anything, just…well, ya know, curious and all. Running into a gaggle of civilians aboard a ship like this isn't exactly something you see every day. Especially when said civvies are like to be at the top of most everyone's 'Must Frak With' list, ya know?" If he's paying any heed to Evan and his friend, he's not letting it show.
"This coming from the guy who has yet to let me suck his sucker to determine whether or not his claim of said sucker not sucking is actually true." As nonchalant as anything, these words flow as freely as cola from Doe's nose. "A corpsman who doesn't shoot to kill? That might be even more useless than a PA-C who doesn't dole out lollipops." Daniel then pings on Trask's radar. "Here's a fact for ya: I'll be thoroughly entertained if you continue to be so squemish about spewage." The way he smiles is that of a mischievous little boy, which means grossness can only befall an aide who goes 'ugh' and visibly shudders. At least until Evan wheedles. "Prob'ly. Depends on whether or not I'm still workin' on hush-hush top secret stuff."
Molesting and now sucker sucking. Good lords, this is just about too much and Danny slinks slightly, slouching as he looks up. "It's nice to meet you, Marko. Feel free to call me Daniel. Or Dan…" The end of that is cut off as he shoots a look towards Trask, his brows arching up quickly. So quickly that they look like they just might be launched clean off of his forehead. "It wasn't the spewage," he quips in slight annoyance, choosing to use Trask's choice in words as an echo. "It is…was…frakkers. Look, love. I'm fine." Clearing his throat, he goes back to his slouch, nodding to Marko. "Yes, yes, I know what you mean."
Stavrian's eyes stay on Petroski's profile for a time, as if using the opportunity of the man's distraction with Question Time to memorize something about his cheekbone. Then he bends his knees, sliding the book up along his legs till he can reach and close it, thumping the huge thing onto the mattress by his hip. His right ankle's settled up onto his left knee. "Lollipops aren't within my scope of practice, sorry. You could hit up one of the surgeons, but you'd have to flutter your lashes a little more than that." He doesn't seem terribly bothered by all this, at least not from what the sound of his voice would convey. His body language and expression, though, remain tough to read. He clears his throat quietly. "I saw the wargame thing today from the observation deck. It looked like madness."
"Madness, nothing, that was the most fun I've had in weeks!" Marko grins. "I bet Lasher's giving Blowback a wide berth right about now," he adds. "She did not look happy, nor should she. Her wingman's probably wearing his guts for garters right about now."
Evandreus is silent for a moment, then, "What hush-hush top secret stuff?" he asks, plain, just like that, no sense of the inappropriateness of the question in this forum relayed in the words. He crawls back onto his hands and knees, then, walking his hands out, grabbing his soda, and then shuffling back to his knees again, looking to Stavrain, then. "You didn't give him a sucker? Isn't that against the Cassandra Convention or something? Eh. The game got truncated by one really awesome shot that took down half the other team right at the start. So, yeah, we all just sort of clusterfrakked about with the last one."
All that had to be said was 'frakkers' and Bootstrap takes off running, verbally speaking. "Oh!" is exclaimed with a faux surprise. "Ohhh." This time, it's a sort of wink-wink nudge-nudge tone. Naughty, naughty aide. "I misinterpreted your ugh and shiver…" Does someone named Daniel Petroski cream his pants at the thought of someone staining his handkerchief? Could be. "My bad." What follows is a 'whatever floats your boat' look, and then one that conveys 'I am not one to judge your freaky-deakiness'. To Evan, it is drily noted, "Revealing what it is makes it cease being hush-hush top secret stuff."
"The Cassandra Convention's about space mines," Stavrian corrects Evan, absently. The exchange between Trask and Petroski has him glancing back and forth between them with a faint browraise, but nothing more, as his eyes then drop to his boot on his knee. He rubs under one eye with his thumb. "What's the game tomorrow supposed to be?" He asks Evan, not that he has a clue about flying things.
Petroski's not a dumb man by any measure but the nature of the looks he gets from the pilot are totally lost on him, Trask's efforts in the whole 'nudge-wink' only gaining a blank look from him. Yes, this is Daniel Petroski, being socially stymied. So odd for him to be rendered such, but he's unable to speak or do anything else, for that matter.
Evandreus is from -Thalattra- and has never heard of anyone with a snot fetish, so… Boots' commentary goes soaring over his head (not that it's hard when the Bunny's on his knees). But then Jess is asking him about the games he dreamed up, and so that's where his attention goes, his rear lowering to his heels as he sips his soda again, then says, "I dunno how it's gonna pan out, really, but what I want to see? Is how long a quartet of linked ECM suites can defend three weaponless Vipers from three Vipers who are attacking them. Basically see how long an ECM shield can hold up under assault. I'm hoping for at least ten minutes, but… I've never seen a test like this tried. It could be three minutes, it could be thirty. No idea. It'll be neat to find out, though, eh?"
Stavrian gives Evan that kind of 'I have no idea what all that means' nod. Then his brows twitch together. "Vipers have anti-ECM shields? Or you mean Raptors? Raptors can shield a Viper?" Huh? The medic's mind hurts.
"I'm interested." Marko comments to Bunny, shooting a little 'See what I mean' smirk to Dan as a fresh round of 'bait and confuse the civvie erupts'. "What time are you planning to run the sim?" he inquires.
Sneaky, sneaky political aide. Kal Trask is on to you, but he will keep your secret. His face scrunches just a wee bit as he quickly and minutely nods his head in a conspiratorial manner. Effortlessly, he shifts gears to tell Stavrian, "Yeah. They're called ECOs frakkin' up shit from within a Raptor." The anti-ECM shields, that is.
Petroski is still acting innocent, feigned or otherwise, his expression still pretty blank with only the barest lift of his left brow giving any form of hint as to what he might be feeling. Nope, he's not giving anything away, the metaphorical hand held close to his chest, no one allowed to see the cards he was dealt.
"Not in the sims, dude. Out in the field. Awesome, huh?" Evan beams a grin on over to Marko. "Twenty hundred tomorrow," he adds, as to the time, then, "No, no, see, Raptors can upload ECM suites and send them out on certain electronic spectra to jam other ships' systems," he explains. "If you get a group of them together to coordinate efforts, well… technically it should work something like this. Let's say that a given ship has a seventy five percent chance of hitting a target. One ECM suite jams their systems, takes it down to, say, sisxty percent. Now let's say that -four- Raptors are working in tandem, taking sixty percent accuracy from the attacking vessel, leaving them with a fifteen percent chance to hit. Not really a shield, but— it could be described as one, especially if the targets are also moving and evading, which could lower their chance to hit even more. If we could get any given ship's to-hit percentage down to zero… well, that ship could shoot at its target 'til it runs out of ammo and maybe ding it a couple of times on chance."
Stavrian smirks at Trask. "Ah…so you're trying to see if this jamming thing is like a cumulative effect?" He confirms this with Evan then, trying to shave the tech talk down to manageable in his biochemistry-inclined head. "Is that a new function for them? You could get it named after you, if it works. The Doe Maneuver. The Evan Effect." Petroski, he hasn't looked back at yet. Giving the man time to re-compose himself, maybe.
"The theory's pretty sound." Marko nods, looking thoughtful. "He's basically talking about accumulated jamming, which we do all the time." he adds. "I'm wondering about how much we could really frak with an enemy's control systems." he muses. "There's at least one or two good I/O ports in any given ship. Comms, for one and DRADIS for the other."
"Too long; didn't listen?" is quipped, "Just stick to what I said." Kal keeps it simple. He also munches more kettle chips.
Petroski takes a deep breath and finally breaks his silence only to say, "You all are about to give me a headache. Please excuse me while I go and get something to drink or something." Jesse's knee is patpatted, it a gesture that Danny doesn't even give thought to, it being so automatic that it might as well be instinctive, and then he's standing. "Can I get anyone anything while I'm up?"
"Exactly," Evan answers, "And yeah, it happens, sometimes, in the field, we'll overlap targets depending on where we are and what we're trying to accomplish. But I dunno if the cumulative effect's been tested to see how complete a protection it can afford. It wasn't a component of any of the stuff on our docket, at least. Someone's got to have done it before, though," he waves off any talk of making the event eponymous in any fashion. "Anyway, I'm just wondering how long we can go out there. What do you think, Bootiekins?"
Stavrian's knee twitches inward when it's touched. Like most parts of his body do. "Can you see if there's any tea over there, Daniel? I owe you." Cause the PA's not getting up. He nods at Evan as all's made clear, with a quiet 'heh'. "Don't electrocute anyone."
Audibly licking his fingers clean of the BBQ powder, Trask glibly replies to Petroski, "Yeah. A pay raise. Please and thank you." Bunny's question garners the response of, "I think I'm good with just the pay raise." Perhaps he doesn't want to discuss this in front of the opposition, aka, the G-Man serving V-Gon. Or, quite likely, he's just being a pain in the ass.
"Hey, ya never know, Evan." Marko replies, shrugging a little. "You know how this kind of stuff tends to get set in stone. Somebody in the brass decides it'll never work and that's as far as it goes."
Evandreus eyes Boots, grinning impishly. "If I put a betting pool together you'd throw in your cubits," he accuses the guy playfully, then drinks from his soda again. "Thanks for the pop, dude. My sinuses really needed cleaning, too."
Petroski grins. "You and me both," he grunts, that in reply to Trask's raise commentary. "Any kind in particular," he then asks, Jesse being queried as to what kind of tea he prefers. He's not sticking around for the reply which means the PA will have to raise his voice if he doesn't hurry and answer as he's already navigating around bodies and stuff, the tech talk having flushed him out.
"The caffeinated kind," Stavrian calls out behind Petroski. He has a voice that carries, he's not worried. He rubs the side of his face with his right hand, fingertips dragging at the tired skin under his eyes. Hmpf. He sits up, giving his back some reprieve and resting his forearms on his knees, watching the air wing types chatter.
"Depends who's swimming and how many laps," Bootstrap tells the token Raptor pilot. Daniel gets told, "Frak, man. You work for a frakkin' delegate. You should be on that shit. Seriously." Cue mock admonishment. "Anyway… gentlemen, it has been a delight, but I must take my leave." With a hand flourish, a theatrical bow is offered. "Latah." With that, the JiG ECO (and his bags of chips) head on out.
"See ya 'round." Marko replies, giving his fellow ECO a wave. "Whoever you were…" he chuckles.
"Caffeinated. Gotcha." With the order placed, Dan goes about doing that, making matching cups of tea, one left plain while the other has a small splash of cream and a bit of honey added to lighten it, covering all bases in case Jesse wants his doctored up. A bag of chips, these plain and of the not-as-crunchy variety compared to the ones Kal was enjoying, is then picked out and it, along with the two cups, are brought back to the couch and the sofa-loafer that is still seated. "Black or with cream and honey. Take your pick." Would seem like Petroski's good with his either way.
Evandreus lifts a hand to wave at the guy, giving Marko a questioning look. "You never met Bootiekins?" he wonders at the guy, flopping about and settling onto his butt, back up against the bottom of the couch, carefully spaced away from any legs. Maybe he saw the flinching earlier? Or remembers Stavrian's no-touch field? Or maybe it's just by happenstance. But he draws up a knee to open a fatigues pocket and go rummaging.
"Ha! Eh, Evan, I dunno how to tell you this, but I've been here for a grand total of 48 hours. As of right now, the only people I know at all are you, Daphne, Sully, Deep Freeze, the two other Viper jocks whose names I couldn't tell you if you stuck me in an airlock and threatened to cycle it, and..oh, that one funny looking guy working the chow line. That's about it," he chuckles.
"Plain's fine, thanks." Stavrian lifts his arm, reaching for the offered cup. He braces his elbow back on his knee and gently blows on the steaming surface, eyes down on it rather than on the chatting air wingers.
The one drink is passed on and then Daniel's making himself comfortable again, the couch now a bit fuller since Evan has claimed some room for himself. "You're welcome, Jesse." Sipping, he looks from Marko to Evan, trying to sort through their part of the conversation with very little success. "I should sit down with one of you flyboys and have you teach me what all that you were talking about means. Frakking acronyms and abbreviations…"
Evandreus fishes a small cluster of slim white markers from his fatigues pocket and straightens them all to a level patting their ends on his uplifted knee. "Boots is Cap'n Juggles' backseater," Evan explains to Marko, setting down the markers on the floor and picking one out of the group, uncapping it and looking at the palm of his hand.
Evandreus looks back over his shoulder to Danny, then, "Boots is Lieutenant Trask. Cap'n Juggles is Captain Quinn, Squadron Leader for the Raptor Squadron Harriers. Lieutenant Trask is her ECO."
"Gotcha, thanks Buns." Marko replies, nodding as he files those names away for future reference. "Well, if you've got questions, you've got two Fleet Aviators sitting here with not a hell of a lot to do at the moment," he suggests to Dan.
Stavrian goes on cooling his tea with his breath through pursed lips, eyes watching the ripples go across the surface of the tiny, steaming-hot lake.
Petroski nods. "Still a lot of that I don't understand but hey, yeah. I'll take you up on that, Marko. Just not right now. My head is already swimming. Gods, if there is ever a time when I feel utterly stupid, it's now." Tapping his skull with a finger, he then raps against it with his knuckles after making a loose fist.
Evandreus goes introverted for a quiet moment while he draws five little sun emblems in five different colors on his fingertips, taking care in the process to make them tidy and approximately of the same size. "Dude, here," he begins again, turning around to lift his hand, almost as if to slap Petroski five, but with his fignertips protruding slightly, looking to imprint the emblems on another set of fingertips.
"Ah, don't sweat it, Dan." Marko shrugs. "They pound the living hell out of us for months to make all this stuff fit inside our noggins." he chuckles. "The trick's to just keep thinking about where you are and what you're hearing. A lot of it's self explanatory. If someone told you to get to CIC RFN….that would mean?" he asks, not taunting the man, but clearly enjoying knowing something someone else doesn't
Stavrian glances up from the tea in time to catch the offered stamping from Evan. The white cup hides his nose and mouth, and lightens the intense blue of his eyes as he watches. Whether the medic knows any of this or not, who can say. He's quite outside the conversation for now.
Petroski looks at those fingers and the tiny suns that Evan drew, his own hand held in his lap for a bit. "S'kind of ritual or somethin'," he murmurs, accent peeking out to say hello (or in its case, ''ello') as he half-whispers. "A'ight." Holding up his own hand, the one opposite of that which is held out towards him but he doesn't move, letting the other man complete whatever it is he has in mind without running the risk of fouling everything up on his end. "CIC RFN? Uh…nope! No frakkin' clue. 'at means what?"
Evandreus presses his fingertips to Petroski's, "Dude," he tells Marko, a grave accent slanting the syllable downward in a disagreeable tone, "You can't tell him to take things in context and then not -give- any context," he points out, looking up, then, into Petroski's eyes as he lets the stamp set: "You're in the engine room. We're under attack. Internal phones are down, and the commander needs to be given some extremely important information about the FTL drives or we're all going to die. 'Get to the CIC, RFN!' someone shouts as they hand you the data printout," he goes on, voice dynamic without crossing the line into hyperdramatization. "What should you do?"
Marko tries, Lords of Kobol bless his agnostic soul, he really does try not to laugh when Evan adds his few cubits to the conversation, but he's only human, dammit. At least he's semi-polite enough about it to facepalm as he does so.
Stavrian stays silent as the three talk, his attention gradually withdrawing back into his own head. His eyes drift to foot first, then the corner of wall and floor across from them, traveling the line.
"I guess I'd run to CIC with that frakkin' piece o' paper," Petroski chuckles. "Okay. So, goin' out on a limb, 'ere, I am goin' to guess that RFN stands for 'right the frak now' or somethin' akin to that." With Jesse going quiet, Daniel darts a look to him and he laughs softly, his eyes twinkling almost. "Are you alright there?"
Evandreus peels his fingertips back from the other man's fingertips, "E voila," he lets the words roll, languid, from his mouth, beholding the five suns, "Enlightenment," he adds with a wink, then, hand still thus poised, he turns his head to look to Jess, smile faltering some, head tilting to one side, expression all, 'You alright dude?' even if he doesn't say anything aloud.
"He shoots, he scores!" Marko grins to Dan, nodding. "See what I mean? Thanks for the assist on that one, Bunny," he adds, then looks to the Medic. "You okay?"
"What?" Stavrian's attention snaps back like a taut rubber band let off someone's thumb. "Yeah, fine." His watch gets a glance and a wry look and he stands up, picking up the textbook he'd hauled along down here. "You kids have fun, don't blow up the place. Good luck tomorrow."
Petroski nods. "We'll talk again soon, Jesse. Take it easy, hmmm?" His hand is turned over and those suns looked at, each one getting him to smile a bit more until he's pretty much grinning like a fool. "Color me enlightened. Any more lessons will have to wait, unfortunately. I should get going myself. Evan. Marko. Was good talking with you both."
"No prob, Mark, and thanks, Jess!" Bunny smiles. "I'll wave for the obs lounge tomorrow if you're watching," he offers, then, looking to Petroski, he waggles the suns on his own fingers in a farewell. "Later, guy," he tells him.
Marko gives Dan a tiny little salute and settles back in his chair. "We're here…well, pretty much until someone tells us not to be," he smirks. "Sleep well."