| Freakouts and Philosophy |
| Summary: | Sickbay is quiet, except when it's not. |
| Date: | 2041.03.16 AE |
| Related Logs: | Related Logs (Say None if there aren't any; don't leave blank) |
| Players: |
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Hawke walks into the recovery ward, moving straight to Tis' bed, though he gives the Captain a nod as he does so. Always good to nod to superior officers. Pulling up a chair, he watches her carefully, pausing only to check the morpha drip she is recieving.
Tisiphone's eyes shiverwince at the sound of the chair being pulled over, and drag open. It takes a few beats, but her gaze swims over to Hawke and fixates there. "Stay away from me." It wouldn't carry far, but it doesn't have to. She doesn't have anywhere to edge away to, on the hospital bed, and currently lacks the arms to manage the movement, anyway.
An eyebrow raises as Hawke sits there, but his smile remains. "I'll take that to mean that you're clear enough to have this conversation. I am here to discuss your treatment, Ensign. I know you have very specific ideas on how you are to be treated, and I want to honor those as much as possible while still doing my job." He reaches for her chart. "First off, has anyone talked to you about how you have been treated so far?"
It's not a pleasant look that the doctor's receiving. It would be easy to imagine Tisiphone as a cornered beast. "The frak you talking about, Medicator?" The capital M is definitely audible, though at her somewhat weakened volume. "I been in and out since you cut me open."
Karthasi heads into the sickbay, bearing gifts, herself— a stack of four or five military-issue generic compilations of scripture, resting on her crossed arms and leaning on her chest, where she balances them as she leans back in stepping across to the recovery ward, a cautious, slow step, keeping herself from dropping anything, then rights herself again.
Hawke nods from where he sits, on a stool next to tisiphone's bed. "You suffered quite a few wounds, Ensign, but the worst was the damage to your arm. The bone was shattered. We required two titanium plates to repair, primarily to the ulna." He points. "This bone right here. It was the only way to save the functionality of your arm, and I apologize if that contradicts your beliefs. What is done is done… but I wished to hear about your wishes for further treatment. I did not know, for instance, your beliefs concerning painkillers. We have you on morpha now, temporarily reduced so you can understand what I say to you. I have a few other methods, more naturalistic, to treat the pain that will not simultaneously complicate your healing… but they will hurt a lot more."
Having been in and out of it since he was brought in, or rather since before that, Malone stirs a little in his bed, trying to sit up a bit while looking around. Grimacing a little as he sees where he is. He then remains quiet for now laying back down a bit further.
Plodding his way from the front of sickbay with a fleet-issued duffel bag slung over his shoulder, a silent, drawn Lt. Oberlin's features flicker into a brief, tight smile as he looks at the various occupants with a few swivels of his head. He breathes a heavy sigh as his walk continues, towards the patients, it seems.
Alessandra slips in, her path and gaze slipping along first one row of beds and then the other until she sees Tisiphone, that enough to cause her to hesitate. Still guilt-wracked, she almost turns around and leaves but instead steels herself and approaches the Ensign's bed, stopping at the foot. She's silent, letting the conversation between pilot and doctor continue without interruption from her.
Stavrian caught a shower at some point after the rush last night, along with a fresh pair of blue scrubs. He's accosted by a nurse straight out of the gate, both walking as the woman gives him a few quick verbal updates with a point here and there to show him which patient she's talking about. After a minute he nods he thanks to her and starts off on his pickup rounds. His steps slowly pause as he gets closer to pilotland, spotting the cluster around Tisiphone's bed.
Apparently Laskaris has been given his walking papers. The curtain around his bed slides open to reveal the lieutenant standing there in a pair of freshly provided blues, a paperback and several other little odds and ends tucked under his arm. His appearance is much improved, though several small, inobtrusive bandages are still noticable on his face and poking out from under his uniform on his arms.
The longer the doctor speaks to Tisiphone, the more the muzzy expression takes on a wary, you-gotta-be-kidding-me cast. There's something thoroughly unpleasant she's cooking up, no doubt, but her agitated, cagey glance is distracted by movement — more precisely, Alessandra's arrival. /There's/ a strong reaction, and none of it's pleasant. Cast on one arm, shoulder-sling on the other, it doesn't matter; she's trying to sit up and push herself back, as far as she can. "Get out. Get the frak out. No, I mean it. GET. THE. FRAK. OUT." Her voice is breaking and cracking as she works herself up to a shout. Nostrils flared. The sort of look one might have before attempting to beat someone to death with a cast.
Hawke looks up at Alessandra, and his look is sympathetic, but also firm. "Eltee, I appreciate that you came to visit your pilots, but given her state, I really need her calm. Maybe you should just go." He then focuses on Tisiphone again. "Ensign, focus on this, now. The longer we can keep your blood pressure down, the faster you'll heal. I can have you out cold in four seconds flat to accomplish this, or you can help me out. Your call."
Malone winces as he hears the shout, grimacing a bit as he glances around again. He doesn't move more than that though. "I should have gone into law when I had the chance…" he mutters, probably loud enough for those nearby to overhear.
Alessandra blinks and then stares, her expression blank. Whether she expected that kind of reaction or not is left up to guess, nothing in her expression giving any hint of surprise or whatever. "Alright." Pressing her lips tight, she turns away, her shoulders slouching forward, chin dipping as if defeated. Silence is what follows her as she goes to do as Tisiphone wishes, leaving without so much as a word to anyone. Passing by Lasher, she doesn't so much as even look at him, the hurry to leave before the tears hit making her rush towards the hatch and out of the recovery ward entirely.
Stavrian raises an eyebrow slightly at the sudden agitation in the group, blue eyes blinking slowly. He folds his arms, the dangling end of his soma braid draped over his forearm, and casts Alessandra's profile a look as she starts to hurry out, lips thinned. The things you walk in on around here. He looks over at Laskaris, giving the man a nod respectful of their differing ranks, and continues forward towards Hawke and Tisiphone. "Sir?" His voice is soft-spoken as usual, tinged with that grating Sagittarian accent. "Something I can do?"
"Why the frak aren't you leaving? Get AWAY from me!" She can't even throw anything, though Tisiphone tears the black and murderous look away from Alessandra to look around for implements, anyway. "Blush like a frakking bitch in heat until I offer to play matchmaker and you peel off for your own frakking glory while I'm getting my bird shot out from under me? WHAT THE FRAK, man?!" Ares is laughing until he cries over this all. "Who the frak cares about RTB, you're gonna splash that raider and rub one out over Lasher praising you for it, right? RIGHT?!" She's not finding her Happy Place and thinking of her Power Animal about now, no; what she /does/ do, however, is spit at Alessandra as she leaves. Older brother taught her well, once upon a time. Sterile environment, what?
Hawke's eyes press shut for a second, then he looks up at Stavrian. "Not sure. Do you do exorcisms?" He then looks around. "She is gone, Ensign."
Karthasi keeps to the other side of the ward, for now, from the collection of people conglomerating around a bed. The shouting makes her lift her head and look over, clutching the books a little tighter to herself. But she only narrows her eyes, taking in the facts of the occurance, eyes moving from Tisiphone to Alessandra, but she doesn't move to intercede, only drifting slowly into motion again, coming along to Malone's bedside and offering him a sympathetic look. "Would you like for me to close your curtain, Ensign?" she asks him gently. Presumably so that he won't be disturbed by the yelling. As if the curtain would help.
"Oops." Oberlin says. Master of the understatement, he fishes around at the duffel bag on his shoulder and pulls out the zipper as he rummages inside several seconds, glancing down with a cursory turn of his head in an attempt to produce something. Some /several/ things, in fact. It's a pile of paperback books. He scoops them up and leaves them on a nearby table. "Some of these might be more useful to some than others." The last glance is shot at the clearly out-of-sorts Tisiphone(understatement again) and then Stavrian. Even though he's not one of the patience. The books are general pulp, for the most part, except for the last three being not written in Colonial Standard. They are classic poetry, written in a Saggitaron dialect, by one famous Shabbaz Adileh. "Ever feel like you just sat down at a toilet and the roll was empty? Yeah." He said that aloud, FYI. Turning, he eyes Katharsi. "We're down ten. Ready to put that goal home, Sister?"
Malone blinks as he hears the shouting again, and sits up a bit, moving his unwounded arm to try pulling the pillow away from where it's been. Laying back again, he pauses, blinking a few more times as he hears Karthasi's words, "Hmm…" Taking a few moments to realize what's being asked, he nods a bit slowly, "Yes, please…"
Stavrian just kind of looks at Hawke for a long second. Not amused by the comment, but his voice remains deadpan respectful. "No, sir." He clears his throat, looking down at the raging Tisiphone and then back to Hawke. Then back to the pilot, unfolding his arms and resting one hand on her bedrail. "Ensign." One word and that's all, for the moment. Karthasi and Oberlin haven't been noticed yet with all the flurry.
Lasher starts to nod and murmur some greeting or another at Stavrian, but then he stops in his tracks, eyes widening in shock as his attention is grabbed by the outburst in front of him. His jaw clenches as he stares at Tisiphone, clearly at a loss. His gaze flicks from the fleeing Alessandra to the wounded Tisiphone, whose bed lies only a few steps from his location. The Viper squadron leader pauses, looking as though he wants to offer some kind of reassurance or comfort, but he's clearly got nothing. His hand reaches out to brush against the side of her bed, before he hesitantly steps away.
"Well shit. 'Scuse me." That's all that Oberlin says, intiially. "Fate of the Worlds hangs in the balance." It's a little late for that. He leaves the pile of books untouched for the injured or people tending to the injured to do with what they will. Zipping the bag back up, he tilts his head up at the intercom briefly and sighs. "If that has anything to do with that contractor, there are going to be /more/ bodies piling up in here." With that, he silently excuses himself and heads on back the way he came.
Tisiphone is, by the end of her little wig-out, backed up against the wall or whatever medical equipment is behind her, wild-eyed and panting for breath. She's trying to calm herself — there's some sort of breathing meditation that's supposed to be helpful at times like this — but, you know. Adrenaline's easier to flick on than off. Between ragged gulps of air, she looks over at Stavrian. Stares, really. At least the screaming and crazy-go-nuts seems to be over.
All the commotion has the (much-delayed) effect of rousing Bell from his drug-induced slumber. He rolls off his side to sit upright in bed, taking in the gathering of injured and well-wishers with inquisitive eyes. He hasn't very much to say. "What in Hades…"
<Intercom> Attention! Set Condition Three throughout the ship.
Karthasi turns her eyes to Oberlin, briefly confused, the context of the medical ward not allowing the comment to settle into her brain in any coherent fashion for a good few moments. And then the intercom is yelling for the guy, calling her eyes up to the speaker, and then back to him, "I, uh— I'll try," is all she offers, weakly, in a tone of voice that indicates she's not quite in on the metaphor, if there was one involved. A set of frail-looking fingers reach out to grab hold of Malone's curtains and tug them partially closed, standing, herself, in the remaining open section. "How are you feeling, Ensign? Would you care for a copy of the scriptures to look through? Or would you like someone with whom to pray?" she asks him.
Hawke just shakes his head, and sits back, waiting for Tis to calm down enough to answer his questions.
Stavrian keeps his eyes on Tisiphone's, the shade of his scrubs bringing out the intense blue. He doesn't smile at her, though after a moment the corners of those eyes relax just a little bit. "Hey." His dark brows raise, just a little. "Stay with us, okay? There'll be time for judgments later, but not in this house."
"How I feel?" Malone is unable to hold back a half-grin as he hears that question. "I…" A brief pause, before he shakes his head a little bit, "I'm not really sure," he admits, after a few moments. "I mean, it feels like a steamroller drove over me, or something. Maybe like a gigantic hangover. Including the 'can't remember what happened' part…" Going quiet again now.
Karthasi returns the smile as the pilot breaks out in one, albeit one of a more mild nature. "Well, Ensign… you're in good hands, here," she assures him, lowering her head with the words as if silently affirming their verity. "And perhaps Lethe is being kind to you… those memories can hardly be pleasant."
"We could be so frakking lucky," Tisiphone nearly spits at Stavrian — though it would be fair to assume the anger is directed elsewhere, and not at him. Still, the path of least resistance works, eventually. After a long while, she wincingly shifts her legs and says, "Could you repeat yourself?" to Hawke. Pause. "Sorry." She's not happy to be saying it, but she says it to the doctor all the same.
Hawke nods. "I need to know what your opinions on painkillers. We have been using Morpha to this point, to handle the worst of the surgery and post op, but if you are uncomfortable with Morpha as a treatment there are other methods that we can use." He glances up at Stavrian, then nods back at Tis. "I do want to honor your beliefs wherever I can, Ensign. As before, we are using natural salves to treat your minor burns."
"Perhaps," Malone replies, a bit quietly. "But I wouldn't know if those memories doesn't return, right?" Going quiet once more now.
Laskaris lingers a moment longer at Tisiphone's bed, searching for words that refuse to come. He settles for a muffled murmur and a failtastic attempt at a smile, before he steps away and heads for the exit, shaking his head at himself. He doesn't even wait until he's reached the exit before reaching into his blues pocket for a pack of cigarettes — but for the sake of the medical personnel, he at least waits until he's close to the door and away from any oxygen apparatus before lighting up.
"We make ourselves so," Stavrian replies to Tisiphone. As Hawke resumes the line of questioning, the PA doesn't abandon the area. He sets his other hand on her rail as well, one on top of the other. Still wearing his wedding band.
Well, that's… true. Greje can't imagine that the memory of crashing in an airplane would be pleasant in just about any circumstance, even if she stands there, silent, a moment, looking for all the world like she's -trying- to wrap her brain around that one. Finally, she just offers one of her prim, professional smiles, "No. No, you wouldn't," she agrees. "If you need anything from Ecclesiastical Services, Ensign, just let one of the medical staff know to send us up a line," she gives him the offer before she finishes closing up his curtain, as he requested. Snik.
"I will," comes the quiet reply from Malone, before he goes quiet again. And remaining quiet for a long while, now.
"'If I'm uncomfortable with Morpha'?" Tisiphone repeats back, her voice getting a little higher-pitched by the end. "You cut me open and /put metal in me/ and you're wondering if-" Whoa, horsie. Whoa there. She looks away from Hawke as she again counts to three. And three again. Finally, Laskaris is noted — but only on his way out. It may be his cigarettes she's watching. "I want these- things- out of me," she says, marginally more calm. A nod of her head at her IVs. "Please. This isn't right." Her voice abruptly quavers. It's suspiciously close to begging, what she's doing.
Bell raises his good hand and looks about to pipe up Hawke's way, but lets Tisiphone conclude her beratement first.
Hawke glances at the IV, and then glances at Stavrian. The drip is primarily Morpha now, anyway, and if she is off the morpha the worries with dehydration become less. "I'll tell you what, Ensign. We can do that. It will mean removing the morpha from your system, though as I said there are a couple of other less intrusive ways to manage your pain. They will not work as well, however. And heaven help me, if you throw another hissy fit in my Recovery Ward again, we will keep you borderline comatose until you have healed enough to be discharged. Those are my terms. Do you accept?"
Stavrian remains silent through this until now, sharp eyes on the doctor from under his brows. This is no doubt a position that any Sagittarian medical staff — rare as they are — has been in before. His head makes a slight inclination of approval as Hawke agrees to stop the morpha. "I have several things from home that we use to substitute, sir." Saggies. They come stocked. "I'll submit them to you to be run against any possible interactions."
Karthasi makes certain the curtain is fully in place, then shifts her load of books to her other arm, stretching out the one that had been holding them throughout the encounter, then centering the stack of books once more on both folded arms. Moving along. "Lieutenant," she pipes up mildly, from a short distance away from Bell, before approaching, giving him some semblance of privacy, or at least an opportunity for him to let her know that priests make him see red and that she should move along to the next patient ASAP — which, well, some pilots do.
Of course, Tisiphone has to say, with that same building indignation, "Hissy fit?! That- she- what the FRAK, man?! I nearly died!" It's not a shout, at least — and her mental editor is hot on her heels, reminding her of key terms. 'borderline comatose', most importantly. "Just- okay. Yes. Okay. Just keep…" She falters over a word. "Keep her away from me. You won't even know I'm here, until I'm gone."
Tisiphone adds, looking straight at Hawke. "I promise." There. She even makes it official.
Bell looks to the new arrival, inclining his head respectfully to Karthasi. "Captain. Good of you to come down. What can I do for you?" This last said with a bit of a grin, then a wince.
Karthasi returns the smile, continuing her approach until she's standing at Bell's bedside, "You can take one of these texts off of my hands," she tells him, keeping her voice light and amiable, but ever proper, despite the hint of levity in them. "I haven't had many takers, and if I don't push my quota of the Good Word, I'll be answering to Del— phi. Hem." That joke played a lot better when the colonies were still extant. For now, she just clears her throat over the faux pas and resumes her ready, professional demeanor, "How are you feeling, Lieutenant?"
Hawke nods, then turns to Stavrian. "Those treatments will be more in your expertise, Stavrian. I'll keep an eye on them to watch for potential complications, but for now, her treatment is your show." With that, he walks over to the IV and cuts off the drip… as the last of it drains out, he removes the IV himself, administering a bandage. "Though actually, it may be a good idea to get them as standard as we can. Morpha may become dear in the very near future…"
Bell smiles warmly, extending his good hand. "I'd be delighted for something to pass the time. I've read the Scrolls once or twice, though I fear you'll find me less than absorbent… ah." He trails off, shifting on the gurney to find a more comfortable position.
"Undoubtedly, sir. Though some remedies we use have had issues of…legality." Boy, that's dry. Stavrian says that as necessary formality, though from his tone the PA doesn't give a good godsdamn. "So it will be something Captain Diego will have to look at as well." He slides his hands off the bedrail, looking down at Tisiphone. "We can restrict your visitors if you want. That's your right."
Tisiphone…complies. It's the kindest way of putting that she watches Hawke with mistrust and wariness the entire time. He might blow bubbles into the IV tube. You never know. She lets out a tight breath and looks hurriedly away when the IV is slipped out, skin going ashen. After the bandage is applied, a marginally less-wary glance is turned back to Hawke. "Thank you," she says. She sounds genuinely grateful.
Karthasi gets the stack of texts to rest more heavily in one arm, lifting her other hand to take one of the military-issue texts off of the top of the pile and hand it over to Bell. "That's quite alright, Lieutenant," she repllies with a smile a little bit more true than her usual 'bedside' smile. "The stories therein can be fascinating in their own right. And if they can take your mind off of things for a moment, I'll just be glad that they can be of use to you."
Hawke nods to Tisiphone gamely… he can do his job, now, and that is always nice. "A medical meeting where we brainstorm treatment options would probably be a good idea. I will talk to the captain about it. Military prescriptions are predicated on certain supply assumptions that we simply cannot rely on. For now, manage her pain to the best of your ability on my authority." He looks again to Tisiphone. "You are welcome, Ensign. I apologize that the plates were necessary. Had there been another way that would have left you still able to fly, I would have used it." And with that, he heads for the door.
"That they can indeed. I had a meticulously bound volume edged in gold leaf back on Caprica… an antique. My thesis advisor gave it to me, on Gemenon." Bell looks off into space for a few moments. "I wonder perhaps if it still exists. It's possible. Would be a travesty for it to just… burn." The last word is veritably spat out.
Tisiphone's eyes narrow at the doctor as he walks away. Suspicion. His parting words hit home, perhaps. She watches until he's gone, then returns her gaze to Stavrian's. "Lieutenant Alessandra Sophronia," she says, quietly. Her gaze flickers, creeps away from the medic as she adds the callsign. "'Lucky'. Keep her away from me. Please."
Stavrian's brow ticks up, the side of his lip twitching wryly. That has to be a notion with some poetic justice, this advanced ship relying on dirt-poor Sagittaron methods. "Yes, sir." His blue eyes turn back down to Tisiphone as she speaks again, no comment on Hawke's methods. "Alright. We'll restrict her." He draws a breath through his nose, rubbing his chin. "What…happened with her?"
"It is, yes— for so many words of so many sages to be lost," Greje agrees, eyes dim for a moment, voice mild, in a more feeble show of disapproval than the spat-out syllable provides. But then, both brows quirk in a moment of curiosity, "You studied on Gemenon?" she wonders. "That must have been quite an experience," she adds, a shade of admiration mixed with jealousy flushing out the words that would otherwise fall quite flat, conversationally. "What did you study?" she asks him.
Bell 'snaps out of it', looking back to Karthasi with a short laugh. "Rationalism," he answers. "I rarely worked with the ordained faculty. My graduate work concerned the mind-body duality, and its practical applications in high-stress environments. But my doctorate is in general philosophy." He gives the chaplain a once-over. "You studied on Caprica, then?"
"I did," Greje lowers her head in a gesture to accompany her answers. "I applied to do some post-doctorate work out of the Colleges, but my application was rejected." She doesn't seem too broken up over the rejection, only moderately rueful, in light of recent events. "Your dissertation sounds fascinating; I would very much enjoy to hear more about it, sometime. I remember ploughing through the bibliography on the animum/anima dichotomy until I was seeing double, at one point."
What happened with her? Tisiphone studies Stavrian for a long time, breaking the gaze every handful of seconds as if she's considering what to say, then reconsiders, then doubles back again. "She was my wingleader," she says. Simple words, but something about the way she says them make them sound Important. "And-" She clears her throat against an upswelling of emotion, reflexively tries to shrug it away. Her eyelids shiver at the edges with a wince, for that bright idea. Ouch. "She's hot over our Squad Lead. Tried to impress him, forgot about little things like 'protecting your wingman'."
Bell smiles brightly. "I do believe I brought the hardbound copy along with me to Cerberus. I will see to it you have access, as soon as I am free and able." He makes an equivocal gesture with one hand. "Much of the early literature is altogether too focused on finding physical indicia of consciousness, in my opinion. Why should we be so concerned with detecting what is so obviously there?"
Stavrian presses his lips together, thinning them into a line. It takes him a second to come up with something neutral to say as well, damn these public places. "The CAG has her head on straight, Ensign, and she has the right honor. If something like that did happen, she'll address it. I'm sure of that." And he does sound he has that faith in the Major. "For now, we'll respect your wishes. I promise you that."
Some time later, and his bag a little lighter, Oberlin returns, clutching a crumpled piece of paper in his hand as he slings said bag over his shoulder and stetps back on inside, his glance darting around furtively. His throat clears in an audible 'ahem.'
Karthasi actually laughs just a little at Bell's observation, a light, mirthful noise, but short, and, leaning a little closer, hand moving to the far side of her stack of texts to make sure she doesn't drop them all on him, "I'm pretty sure they got a good portion of their jollies endeavoring their best to disprove the self-evident," she remarks, almost conspiritorially. Then, standing up again, "These fellows seemed to have a keen distrust of their own eyes. See Zeno, just.. as the tip of that iceberg. In our field, at least, we call it the Great Pessimism. The idea that nothing is, in and of itself, knowable, and that we are just blind fools stumbling in the dark."
Tisiphone's silent through Stavrian's reassurances and promise, ashen-skinned and studying. "Thanks, Jess." She risks the first name — the first name as she's heard Bunny use it, that is. Quietly spoken, very earnest. The next sentence starts out more casually: "Would you-" and comes to a halt at Oberlin's throat-clearing, gaze distracted that-a-way.
Stavrian's right brow tics up as she uses his first name — not in recoil, just mild surprise. A smile, though, is still way out of reach for the PA, despite the gentleness of his voice. "You're welcome. Would I what?" Absently asked, distracted by her looking away and by Oberlin's throat-clear. "Lieutenant, sir."
"If I hear one more 'sir' I think I'm going to have to burn these trousers." Oberlin says, after quickly straightening and glancing back over his shoulder before snapping his head to and glancing down at the paper in his hand, which contains a few handwritten numbers, by the looks of it. "Don't mind me, Lieutenant. Sorry about that earlier. I think the Deck Crew's getting a little lonely."
"Some things are knowable, some things… are not. Depends entirely on your dataset." Bell's eyes are alight with the debate. "Consider the question of whether Cylons dream. Certainly there must be an answer. Certainly it is either a yes or a no, a one or a zero, in their case. But can you ever truly know? Even if you could ask one, could you trust it? Would there be lingering doubt in your mind?"
If the Lieutenant is not to mind, Tisiphone will assume she's not to mind, either. Looking back to Stavrian, voice dropped again, she asks, "Would you- Could I get a hand laying down again?" Faintly embarrassed by asking, by needing to ask, or both. She's been sitting with her back against the headboard since her outburst. It doesn't seem like such a good idea, anymore, and with one arm in a cast and the other in a sling, she's managed to trap herself.
Stavrian raises an eyebrow slowly at Oberlin's explanation, mouth not even twitching. "Do you need to show me on the Viper doll where they touched you, sir?" The 'sir' is no doubt left in on purpose. He looks back down at Tisiphone, unfolding his arms. One's held out at her side, the unbroken side. "Of course. Hold onto my arm and let me rearrange this pillow, here."
Karthasi is wrapped up in discussions with Bell, and Oberlin's return seems clear off her DRADIS, for the moment. "And some things are knowable despite patent proof to the contrary. Consider the proposition that the sum of the squares of two sides of a right triangle will be equal to the square of the hypotenuse… which, though true, when worked with on a purely hypothetical level can yield an hypotenuse which is both even and odd… hypothetically. And despite the evident disproof, it is still true. As to whether cylons dream… I suppose that I'd require better data than asking it— although, if one were aware enough to know what the question meant…" she backtracks a little. "Then I suppose the proof itself is in the answer. Unless they answered no."
"Thanks," Tisiphone murmurs again. She hesitates a moment, then grabs Stavrian's arm as instructed. "Mmh," she says as she does; the sound of a wince made audible. It beats staying cornered at the head of her bed all night, though. The medic's comment about Viper dolls and their no-no places startles a look from him to Oberlin, a poorly-muffled snerk following after.
"I think that violates certain regulations that I am not at liberty to recite, Lieutenant." Oberlin says, with a quiver of his lip directed at Stavrian which may actually come to resemble a smirk. "Every time I go up there, I come back feeling dumber. Let's just leave it at that." He shrugs again, faintly, and lets it drop. "I just figured these books could be appropriated to new owners. Please pass them along when you're done. I figure it might do to keep us a bit more sane." The true meaning of 'Us' isn't immediately apparent. His shoulders shrug again. "Actually, I need to pull some camera footage when I get time. So, I suppose the next person I need to shamelessly bother is Major Hahn."
Bell sits up abruptly in his bed. "But what better data could you have, Captain? You're human. You can never get inside that tin can and see what it's like. The whole exercise is futile, of course, just as were the initial inquiries into the Self and Other. We are forever prisoners in our own minds… or captains of sophisticated, if delicate, craft, with which we navigate the universe. All a matter of perspective, no?"
Stavrian half wraps his arm aroun Tisiphone's back to support it. The touch is clinical at absolute best, his shoulder a little stiff. Personal space is one of those things he walks into only when given little choice. He pulls her pillows out of their crooked slumps and squashes, laying them against the slightly elevated head of her bed. "Alright. Going to lower you down, just relax on my arm." He can hear Oberlin even though the back of his head is to the intel officer, and talks rather than give a useless nod. "Thank you, Lieutnenant. I'll make sure they make the rounds and get back to you." He cranes his neck, one blue eye visible over his shoulder. "Ah…by the way. I need to talk to you as well. Soon." After a beat, there's an afterthought: "Please."
"Well, you— could. If we had one on board, we could no doubt study its functions," Greje points out, "Even to the point of getting inside it and seeing what it's like inside. I suppose we would never know what constitutes a dream state in Cylons, but we know how to detect dream states in humans…" she trails off, there, then smiles, looking askance at the fellow, "Now you're sounding like Zeno," she teases him a little.
Bell smiles wide, inclining his head in response. "Guilty. I wondered how long you might let me continue. Apologies, but to take the opposite position and argue it - even right off a cliff - is so ingrained in me as to be reflex. Eventually, at a certain point, we would have to reach a consensus as to whether they did or did not. And then, for all intents and purposes, we would 'know'."
'Just relax on my arm.' Right. Tisiphone manages a reasonable hand-drawn facsimile of it. It's a bit nerve-wracking, somehow, getting lowered down; at least with worried-away fingernails, the grip doesn't end up hurting Stavrian more than it hurts her. Wincingly, she shifts a little, getting as close to comfortable as she can. And again: "Thanks."
"If it's that important, I always have time. As much as I ever do." Oberlin says again, shrugging at the idea and glancing right at Stavrian with his strangely distant look, eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly. "Always." He doesn't seem to make an attempt to weigh in on the theological discussions, for now.
"Sure." Stavrian straightens up, jostling her bedrail to be sure it's secure. No escaping for her. He looks back at Oberlin and nods. "Shall I meet you after duty, then? Three hours." Then back to Tisiphone: "I'm going to go and get those things for you. The morpha will be wearing off soon, and it's better not to have to start from scratch where pain's concerned."
Consensual reality," Greje smiles. "May as well work with what we have, hm?" she adds, levity touching her voice again. "I do look forward to seeing your dissertation, though I may need to be talked through some of the finer points," she admits. "My name is Greje, by the by… Greje Karthasi. Or Sister, if it suits you." She obviously doesn't expect those who aren't religious to call her by the title.
Tisiphone's already looking a touch discomfited at her assorted twinges, as if she reminds herself she can handle it, then runs into an ouch slightly louder than anticipated. She worries at a spot at her lower lip, then nods to Stavrian. "Okay." Glances from the medic to Oberlin, and back again. The secret world of Lieutenants And Beyond is not for mere Ensigns to comprehend. Another wincing little shift, and she does her best to settle back and relax.
"What good is reality if everyone else thinks you're crazy?" Bell offers his intact hand. "Jeremiah Bell. Doc, on the radio. A genuine pleasure, Greje. As I said, as soon as I am free and clear, I'll deliver it personally. I appreciate your taking the time to keep a grounded flyboy company."