PHD #354: Klaxons Abound
Klaxons Abound
Summary: Circe, Lysander and Rian speak together in the enlisted berths when the alarms go up for stations.
Date: 15 Feb 2042 AE
Related Logs: TBD
Circe Lysander Rian 
Marine Enlisted Berths
Post-Holocaust Day: #354

Despite everything, Circe has actually been able to sleep. Exhaustion finally set in at some point during her tossing and turning. Still wrapped about her hand are the medallions. The curtains to her bunk are open and she starts to stir. Still she looks tired and starts to shift, the handmade blanket dropping to the the floor as she rolls out of her bunk, perched on the edge and bending forward, gripping the ceiling to stay where she is. Curls cover half of her face and she blinks, rubbing at the sleep. The razorback sports bra given a shift before she drops down to her feet with a soft thud on the floor. She rolls a shoulder and then reaches down for the blanket, rolling it over an arm.

"He was like 'Oh Eve, Eve, Eve, you look wonderful. How 'bout you come over? Really? He's currently deployed cross-colony? Why don't you come over around eleven? While he's putting his life on the line - I can dicky do you from behind,'" Lysander is speaking to another member of his squad in the process of entering the berths, finally off-duty as they are wont to be. The Sergeant himself completing his personal history lesson by mimicking what dicky do ought to be: hips gyrating forward in the air in dry-humping. He finishes off his story with a clipped, "The frakkin' ass-wipe."

"Dicky do - Really Sarge?" The conversation could go on for a good couple longer moments but with entering the berths this late and with others skulking about, Lysander reaches forward to push the marine onward to the head. He clears his throat in moving to past quietly by Circe.

Stifling a yawn, she turns slightly with the passing of the two men. "Done sharing your story?" She asks in a deeper voice, filled yet with sleep. The medic wipes at her face and then rubs at the back of her neck. She smirks at the sniper. She gives a tossle of her curls and stretches by flexing her shoulder blades backwards towards each other. She looks to the two men, smiling a little more a she hooks her feet on the vacant bottom bunk and levering herself up to hook the two corded medallions from her hand onto a hook.

She slides back to the floor, the hand made blanket still draped over her arm.

"Somethin' like that," offhandedly replies Lysander as he comes to a stop in front of his locker. His right hand unlocks and swings open the metal door so that his left hand can catch it and stop it from clanging noisily about. The sniper glances over his shoulder towards the medic's stretching before focusing on shedding off the outer layers of his equipment not taking a rest within the local armory. In the middle of sliding out of a vest, he looks back over, "Not that I wouldn't share it with you of all people, or anyone else."

"I just thought it sounded interesting.." She says, lifting hand to rub at her eyes before she moves for her own locker. Opening it, she gives a tug to her sweatshirt. She slips it closed, lifting the latch so that it doesn't make a sound. Circe moves to deposit her blanket upon her bunk and draws the sweatshirt on loosely, running her hands over the sleeves to push them up.

"How have you been?" She asks softly, not wanting to speak too loud. She smooths out the blankets of her bunk. Damn coffee wasn't helping her get any shut eye.

Though Garret does take a moment in parting his lips and preparing to speak up in reply, the strength of his voice leaves him and so he gives in to a short whistle that rises sharply in pitch before dying down. Interesting? Him? Go figure. Then again, "I hope it weren't the dicky-doin' that was the interesting part. The guy really had it coming, whatever the Holocaust gave him." He might as well point that out in the middle of exchanging undershirts with his locker, sweeping the fabric down over corded muscle before turning at a shallow pivot so that he can look to both his belongings and Circe.

"Terrible, absolutely dreadful," he answers her fairly honestly. There's almost a wry half-smile to lighten his expression, almost. "But, hey, could be worse, could be dead, like Mister Dicky Do. I'm surviving, you?"

"Sounds like it.." She comments with a yawn. She fans her fingers over her mouth and lets her elbow rest on the table. Fingers twine up into her hair as she turns slightly in her seat to talk to him as he changes. "Pretty much the same. Been patching pilots up more frequently." Another big yawn and she sighs. Her arm lifts from the table and she pushes back the right shoulder of her sweatshirt. Rising from the chair, she moves for her locker again and reaches for a quick pak. She digs for it, pulling it out as she flicks it about to crack it and begin charging up it's cooling. As it drops temp, she presses it to her shoulder and presses her locker closed once more as she walks over to lean against the one next to his. She fixes the gel pack so it lays over her shoulder and she leaves it there. "If you are doing so dreadfully you should head down to the sickbay. We have meds." She offers.

"No offense, Junior Doc," the man gives a short pause in debate if that nickname truly fits or not. Content about things in the end and with the beat having passed, he returns to his response: "I'll be fine - great, even. I've survived a lot worse." The smile does show this time around and he gives a lifting nod of his head, matter-of-factly so, before directing his attention briefly to his locker again. Cartons of cigarettes and a bottle or two of alcohol are ignored, a wooden box and metal container as well, just so that he can withdraw a ratty old notebook and smooth over its ruined edges. He then digs out a pen and brings the door to, so that he can turn in place and look to her. "I shouldn' use Junior Doc,

The impromptu title causes her brow to lift as she shifts her weight upon her feet. Her hand fixes the pack on her shoulder, keeping her hand braced against it. "Uhhh no…probably not. Circe is just fine, Crewman too. Lagana or if your Constin and can't take the last syllable..Lagan." She smirks a little bit and pulls the cool pack from the bruised shoulder. She rolls it and the replaces the cold compress.

They are both standing next to his locker talking. Circe leaning against the one next to his as he gets changed for his R&R.

And here he was, enjoying the ring of Junior Doc, but alas, Lysander falls into a light nod of his head and then reaches up in order to comb fingertips through his hair. "Crewman, Circe, or Lagana, I'll figure out which one's the better of the three eventually. In the meantime," he begins to close his locker rather than have his privacy invaded by one of the grunts when he isn't looking, "I'll stick with Circe." Since it looks like neither of them are going to be going to bed any time soon, and after casting his gaze downwards to make sure his shirt is on right, he gestures to a nearby table. "If you really don't mind, that is."

She pushes away from the locker and nods, moving back towards the table she had been sitting at. "No, that's fine. At least then I can feel like I actually know some people. Only other person that calls me by that name is a pilot." She smirks a little and sighs, rolling fingers against the gel pack to give it further contact with her shoulder. Hooking a chair with her bare foot she slids down into it and rests back, getting comfortable. "Though given some of my current thoughts lately, Junior Doc won't be far off. Going to look into further my medical studies. You know for the benefit of all." She says. She reaches her legs beneath the table straight out, finally crossing the ankles.

Announcement: [Volans]: Klaxons blare throughout the fleet, and Tillman announces over the loudspeakers: "ACTION STATIONS! ACTION STATIONS! Set Condition One throughout the fleet! All Air Wing personnel report to the deck for immediate launch. THIS IS NOT A DRILL!"

With the familiar whirrr click of the mechanical door the hatch towards the berths is pushed wide and the normally brooding tall figure of Corporal Rian steps through. Heavy booted feet clink on the metal floor as she walks towards her own bunk, dark eyes downcast and frown upon her pale features as she seems lost in thought. Clad in off duty baggy cargo pants and a olive green tank she sports a canvas bag draped over her one shoulder. Realizing she is not alone she raises her chin to look to the other marines, giving Circe a half smile and a curt nod before taking a long moment to eye up Lysander. A half smile appears on her lips as she tosses the bag to her own bunk, "eve'nin folks, hope your day has been as profitable as my own. Managed to cheat some crewmen out of some booze playing triad this afternoon."
Her words fall short as the alert blares throughout the ship, dark eyes reflecting the hard neon light as they look up to the speaker. Another one of her characteristic frowns covers her features as she whispers beneath her breath, "frak, again?"

"Good thing it's easy to make friends around here, what, with the whole fighting for our right to survive an' all." Lysander offers that before managing to slide into a chair opposite Circe, leaning back in order to press his shoulder blades against the upper rim of the chair's back, concentrating on that moment of stretching while looking to her and slowly nodding. "Well," he starts idly, near-teasing but smiling all the more, "When you make it that far, do tell. I'd love to christen the name." He sets down the worn and tired notebook and then the pen, circling it to a horizontal pose and then vertically. He begins to question the pack but the entrance is opening up once more, leaving him to glance sidelong towards it.

At Rian coming through, he smiles and brings up his hand into a short wave rather than let it continue fiddling with the pen. "Cheaters never prosper," replies the Sergeant before grinning. When he grins, the warning klaxons come about and he glances to Circe before moving to stand: "And there's never any rest for us wicked!"

"I will, trust me.." she says and as Rian enters and talks about Crewmen, the medic lifts a brow. "Hopefully no one I truly care about." Circe adds and as the Klaxons blare in the corridors and the announcement rises up, she pushes back her chair and rises. She shrugs off the ice pack. "Ugh, damn it.." She says and goes to her locker in a hurry. "Too bad I already rested, poor sniper." She intones and then grins at Rian. "Right back to the sick bay with me."

She slams the locker open, throwing the ice pack in and beginning to draw out the gear for medic duty, reaching down to snag out her boots and begins shuffling out of her sweat pants and shirt.

Rian slumps in her bare shoulders for the briefest of moments before straightening up, she would of course respond to the subtle accusation she is a cheater but the taunt easily slips from memory. With ease she places one boot on her bunk and pushes up to see the bed on top of her own and with a heavy handed fist she punches the still sleeping Marine there. Dec grunts and grumbles to her but eventually starts to rise. Rian is already infront of her open locker, slipping out of her baggy cargo pants and tank to grab her duty blacks. After pulling the long sleeved black shirt over her lithe form she lifts the dark hair up and out of the collar as she turns around, looking across the berths to Circe as she mentions the sick bay. "Your face is new," she speaks plainly before strapping on her weapons belt, "or at least new to me." A narrowed glance is tossed towards Lysander, whether he notices or not.

"Poor frakkin' me," murmurs Lysander under his breath. The notebook and pen are taken up in order to shove into his locker once he has reopened it. He changes into a light blue shirt in spite of military regulations and finds his combat vest, matching it with knickknacks of his equipment. He doesn't notice all of the looks and talking in his direction, not just yet, that's personal foo that is too much of a distraction: instead, he turns and lifts the strength of his voice with ease for the folks within. "All right, boys and girls of Charlie Two! Get your frakkin' shit together, you know your stations, hop to it," Squad Leader is as Squad Leader does.

"Corpsman, spend a lot of my time in the library, pool, and sick bay…been around all year. Just very often." She admits as she shucks the sweat pants into her locker and begins to pull on the patterened trousers. She slicks back her hair, curls bobbing out of her face. She reaches for the top and begins to pullit over her sports bra and clasps it down the front. Rolling the sleeves, the boots are next - all methodical and swift as the shoelaces remain loose and ready from when she removed them.

"Circe Lagana.." She offers to Rian with a smile. "I gotta hit the deck." She says as she grabs for her belt and medic satchels, placing them around her waist and cinching them down. Boots are kicked up one at a time to brace against the locker. She ignores the tightness in her shoulder and goes about setting knots into place.

Rian offers a softer smile towards the medic, perhaps in a simple yet unvoiced apology for her absentmindedness. Then checking over her gear she slips back into her own boots, a cringe coming over her face as Lysander begins to bellow secretly wondering if that's how she sounds. As Decumius drops from the top bunk, in wrinkled uniform she stifles a laugh behind her long dark bangs and slips on the velcro closing gloves. "Well Lagana, don't take this the wrong way but I hope not to see you later," fully clad now she turns towards the door, giving her wingman an exasperated look as he sleepily follows behind her.

"None taken, it's a general thought anyways." She places her foot down and grabs out her back and with a jog, she mixes with the marines leaving the bunks. She pushes past and starts down the corridor for the stairway.

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