| Medicinal Purposes |
| Summary: | In which Ensign Apostolos talks pharmaceuticals with her CAG. |
| Date: | 05 Aug 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Rainy Day Woman Number Twelve and Thirty-Five is referenced. |
| Players: |
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| CAG's Office - Deck 10 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Though it's not much bigger than the average ship supply closet, the office of the commander of Cerberus' air group has as much luxury as one can hope for aboard a battlestar: a hatch that locks. It is dominated by a blocky gray metal desk straight out of standard Navy supply. Behind it is the room's single indulgence, a high-backed rolling chair of almost comfortable-looking brown leather. That one, the CAG probably had to import herself. A few other chairs are shoved against the wall, able to be rolled over should visitors to the lair require one, though those are of the standard not-terribly-comfortable Navy offices variety. The aforementioned desk contains a computer that looks rarely touched and an ashtray of greenish glass that is obviously frequently used, as well as the standard office supplies. The surface is usually cluttered with files, squadron reports, flight schedules and other aerial bureaucratic sundry of the day. A metal carafe, filled with water or coffee or tea depending on the CAG's whim, is usually at hand on the desk's corner. The rest of the office is packed with filing cabinets and wall shelves, the latter of which hold various flight manuals and military and historical books. Any decorations on the walls are limited to professional awards and mementos from Major Hahn's past tours of service. It is largely devoid of the personal, save for one item: upon the shelf just behind and above her desk, serving as one side of a bookend to a collection of Raptor manuals, is a wooden statue of a small brown owl with very large eyes. A person might get the feeling of those eyes following him around this confined space. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #160 |
The hatch to the CAG's office is ajar, as it tends to be when she is in residence in it. And she is. It's getting on to the end of second shift and Cidra's seated at her desk, reviewing the day's flight reports and smoking.
Rap. RapRAP. Small knuckles against the edge of the hatch, followed by the voice of one (1) Ensign Apostolos. "Sir? Do you have a moment?" The edge of her face is visible only for a moment as her curiousity gets the better of her — any door open only a sliver is /that much more/ worth peeking into — before she straightens up like a good little girl, outside.
"Certainly. Come in please." Cidra rises, setting her cigarette in her omnipresent ashtray. She half moves to put the smoke out but, recognizes the voice, refrains. She can inflict haze in the confined space on her fellow smokers. Tisiphone is eyed. Speculatively. "How are you feeling to be back in the cockpit?"
Tisiphone's in her duty greens, the olive drab jacket tied around her waist, its sleeves dark and damp. Reddened hands, her fingertips still faintly wrinkled. Fresh off of KD, by the looks of it — her very last eight-hour tour of the kitchen, as a matter of fact, so long as she remains a good little girl. "Sir," she murmurs, as she squeezes in the bare minimum of gap required, then closes the hatch behind her. Pale eyes flick to the CAG for only a moment before they make a skittish study of the other woman's desk, the floor, her own boot-tips. "Thank you for, um. Clearing me for duty so soon, Sir. I- spoke with Captain Sitka last night. About- the flight roster. First CAP's tomorrow afternoon."
Cidra's cloudier blue eyes flick to the hatch when Tisiphone closes it. Then back to Tisiphone herself. Then she sits again. Legs crossed, smoking leisurely, watching the younger woman. "Shiv and I spoke about it and he saw no particular reason not to. I concurred. Do not take this as any slight to the practice of psychiatry…" This has the sound of a thing one says when preparing to very much slight something. "…but I have never held to the idea that inactivity and pills are any good sort of remedy for a problem."
Tisphone casts her downturned glance from side to side, then perches on the edge of a seat, her fingers trapped between her knees where they can't fidget. "It's- sort of what I wanted to speak to you about, Sir," she murmurs. "I had a- question. Or- maybe- it's…" Words, Ensign. Get some words out. "A… favour." She grimaces faintly as she says the word. Of all the people deserving such a thing, she seems acutely aware she's rather near the bottom of the list, presently. She blunders on, if for no other reason than to not provide enough time for a 'no'. "Medicator's got me on- sleeping pills, I'm sure you know already, but." The tendons in her arms flex subtly under the skin in her forearms; fidgeting averted. "They're. Horrible. I hate them. I asked the Captain if he'd- tell Medical they weren't needed anymore. He said he wasn't my doctor. So I…" …came to ask Mom after Dad said 'no', though her words run out before she finds a way around that bit of phrasing.
"…did not get what you wanted from Daddy so came to Mother for another go?" Cidra hits on that figure of speech right away. Though it does prompt a soft clearing of her throat. "It is an expression." She takes a drag. "Sit, Money Shot, please." One of the other chairs scattered around the office is gestured to. "I am not a doctor, either. That is why those that are handle these matters with my personnel. So. Tell me. *Are* they unnecessary?" She fixes the ensign with a very direct look. Well, moreso.
"Yessir. I know it's what I did, Sir." Tisiphone clears her throat softly, remaining perched on the very edge of her seat — as if prepared to bolt and run at a moment's provocation — with her eyes down on her boots. It's ten or fifteen seconds before she finally looks up, troubled and anxious. "They're- it's- wrong to take them, Sir. I shouldn't be. It's. No better than morpha. But." Her voice grows softer, and her eyes sink down to the edge of the desk again. "But I was ordered. I- can't deny they're /working/, Sir — could probably saw my fra- um, my toes off in the middle of the night and I wouldn't blink. But. I'm fuzzy for hours after I wake up."
The comparison to morpha passes with a mere inscrutable blink from Cidra. "They are perfectly valid prescriptions that have their place, Ensign. Such things only become problematic if they are abused." Pause. "However, it was my understanding from the communication from Medical that you were only to continue taking them so long as they were needed." Another pause. She clears her throat. "Can we speak, for a moment, as simply two people? I do have some advice of a purely personal nature, but it is not something I would feel comfortable saying as your commanding officer, and it should not be taken as such."
Tisiphone's brows twitch and furrow toward eachother at mention of 'perfectly valid prescriptions'. A moment later her lips prim together, and she sighs through her nose. "I- Sir?" She looks up again, somewhere between startled and wary. "Uh. Yeah. Yeah, of course. Understood." She clears her throat for the umpteenth time and sits up a little straighter, unhunching her shoulders from their tight, nervous slouch.
"All right." Cidra sets her cigarette down for a moment, folding her hands on her desk, looking across it at Tisiphone. "I know little of Sagittaron religious practices. Do you ever…smoke of certain herbs for…spiritual purposes?"
That explains the removal of the Commanding Officer hat. Tisiphone doesn't quite know how to answer, looking steadily at the CAG for many long seconds while she weighs, re-weighs, and discards response after response. Finally, after all the mental gymnastics, the corner of her mouth twists and the plain, honest words come out: "I prefer it in tea, Sir, but beyond that- yes."
"I have, on occasion, found it - as well as a way of achieving an elevated state of communion with the Lords, as fully allowed under Colonial Fleet regulations-" Cidra recites that bit of justification as if she's said it a thousand times before. "…to be quite a…useful method of relieving personal anxiety." A pause. "Tea? That is indeed more potent, but if smoked the effects dissipate a bit quicker. More…practical if one is endeavoring to leave ones' self unmuddled for duty." Another pause. "Such things should not, of course, be abused, mind, but if taken in moderation it is no worse than drinking off-duty. Some might argue alcohol is in fact far worse for morale and general discipline…" She trails off. That was kind of getting into tedious self-justification, so she does not continue. "In any case. I have in the past - the distant past - successfully requested of my physicians to allow me to take such things on a limited basis rather than traditional medications. There is a religious argument for its substitution, particularly in your case." Another pause. "I have a…limited supply of certain substances my brother sent me from Gemenon before we began our cruise. I would be quite happy to give you a small amount, if you like. It can be quite…calming if one needs to sleep."
"Yeah. You steep the pods. It's- different." And probably tastes like dead, refried grass. Tisiphone returns to her slouch, weaving her fingers together between her knees, letting them rest there instead of trapping them against fidgeting, like before. "I. Uh." She starts to tense again, trapped on some words that won't quite come out until she all but physically bullies them forth. "I know I can't- go on like I was. Not sleeping. I know I was half-crazy, okay? I, I do. I'd- of course I'd be willing to try that, instead. I'm not trying to- to dodge treatment, or not- fix myself, or whatever you want to call it."
"I have, personally, found it helpful during…such times," Cidra says. She lets out a heavy breath. "As I did say, it is not something I can obviously recommend as your commanding officer, but you may find it thus. Or not. It is simply an option." Blue eyes are touched with concern as she looks across her desk at the girl. "More than anything, I would recommend you talk to someone. The chaplain, perhaps, if such counsel is more comfortable for you than the Medical staff. Or even simply a confidante. It is…unwise to try and…fix yourself alone." It has the sound of something spoken from personal experience. Though Cidra does not exactly give off the impression of one who does a lot of personal sharing. Do as she says, not as she does.
Not a single mention of how she may or may not have patiently guided one (1) rather rumpled Cidra back to the berths, once upon a who-o-ole lotta chamalla ago. Not out of spiteful blackmail potential, but — seemingly — out of respect. "The- uh. Person I'd vent to isn't exactly talking to me since I got brigged. But I'll- yeah. I'll figure it out. For… what it's worth…" Tisiphone finally looks up again. "I /am/ feeling better. And I- really do think I'll sleep better. Even without those fra- um, the pills. And-" The corners of her mouth tug, almost shyly. "-can't wait to be back on CAP again, too."
If Cidra is thinking of that particular incident at all, it does not show. Inscrutable CAG is inscrutable. While sober. A small nod to Tisiphone. "My door is always open to you, Money Shot. Anyhow. If you need me to sign off on…anything you might request so far as treatment is concerned, I am quite willing."
Tisiphone runs her teeth across a split spot on her bottom lip several times before nodding. "I. Uh." A nervous little laugh erupts, cut short as she clears her throat. "Okay. I'll- write up a request to Medical. Already know the wording they like, from when I broke my arm. I'll have it in your mailbox by morning." She unweaves her fingers, rubbing her palms against her knees, then cocks her head at Cidra and says, quietly, "Thanks."
"You are welcome," Cidra says simply. "Now…is there anything further that I can…assist you with?"
"You know. Every time I think I've got a reason to talk to you, it either- goes totally wrong. Like- the memo about Lucky, the library work she had me do because I ran my mouth off at her." Which she /still/ has cold sweats about, if she thinks about it too long. "Or it- ends up where I don't expect it." Tisiphone pushes up to her feet on the end of this comment, not leaving much time for a response, and pops a quick salute as her shoulders square. "Thanks for listening, Sir. I'll get that memo to you."
Cidra rises and returns the salute, falling back into commanding officer mode without missing a beat. "You are dismissed, Money Shot," she says simply. Watching the girl go. Face difficult to read. As it tends to be.