| Mornin' Sam, Mornin' Ralph |
| Summary: | Santiago and Ramon meet in neutral territory to discuss their situation. |
| Date: | 06 Mar 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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Like any normal head on the ship, this one is painted in light grey with some blue around the top of the room. Down the center there are 16 sinks, 8 on each side backed up to each other. Along the hull areas of the room, showers and lockers are toward the back and off to the left of the sinks are closed toilets and open urinals.
A long and trying day could use an end and Ramon slowly but surely nears it. Only a handful of loose ends to tie up before he can settle down in the uncomfortable cot they call a bed and try to get some sleep. Try, of course, is the operative word in this sentence. He makes his way into the Head with the usual stern look upon his face, stepping up to one of the urinals and performing the Great Equalizer.
A stall door, to one of the showers, creaks slightly open as the older gentleman makes his way into the Head. These two events have little to do with each other. It's just timing. A rustle of cloth is heard just before the stall door opens all the way, and someone steps out. Santiago's voice is recognizable a moment later. "Hera's sweet ass. You do piss. I guess that's another mark in the Ramon may actually be human column."
Ramon doesn't bluster or stop what he's doing and leave. Instead he simply looks up at the wall in front of him and speaks, his accent that usual one he uses when it's just family around - rough and indicative of a not-so-wealthy upbringing, "So it would seem."
Santi finishes her walk to the sinks, and she drops a little tote on the edge of one. She wears a fluffy white robe, which covers her from neck to ankle. Just the tattoos on her toes are showing. A little red heart on either big toe. "Talked anyone out of their soul today?"
"Not yet," Ramon says, shaking twice and zipping up before he moves towards a sink of his own and begins to run the water, "But I wouldn't have anywhere to keep it, would I"
"Pockets a bit full this week, then." Santiago looks at herself in the mirror, her face washed free of most of her usual makeup. She's clearly also preparing for bed. She squirts a little moisturizer into her palm, and gently rubs it over the skin of her face, neck, and shoulders. She's silent for a while, which is nothing new between father and daughter. Finally, "We can't go home." The tone is very nearly neutral, words only slightly clipped.
"Full of the crushed dreams of children," Ramon answers flatly, running his hands under the water and looking down at them. He's staring into the mirror when she speaks again, running soap across his palms - worn and calloused palms, not really those of a rich man. After a moment of silence he nods his head slightly, "I know."
There's a rattle of a few bottles being jostled aside as Santiago picks around for the proper one, then opens a pot and applies a little lip gloss with her middle finger, eyes on her own eyes in the mirror. "I never got a chance to spread Promise's ashes."
"Did you bring them with you?" Ramon asks, perhaps realizing the foolishness of the question but asking it anyway as lifts his chin and checks for stubble and other unsightly things.
A little more rattling and sifting ensues. Santi comes up with a pair of long tweezers, and she leans in close to the mirror to study her eyebrows. Just in case. She plucks exactly one hair. Click. The tweezers bounce off of something as she chucks them back into the case, then lifts her hand to just over her head, and slides it forward about an inch. "Top shelf of my locker." As in down the hall in the Enlisted Berthings.
"Hold onto them," Ramon says, not asking that he be given them to hold onto - perhaps he trusts his daughter that much? He washes his hands again a little compulsively, continuing to look forward into the mirror, "We might find somewhere nice to spread them still."
"I'll do my best not to lose them at Triad." Santiago's tone matches Ramon's. She finishes up with her mirror, and zips the small tote bag closed, tucking it under her arm. One last check is made of already brushed teeth. She brushes her fingers briefly over her chin. Satisfied, she says, "I talked to the marine in charge of the squad that fired on civilians. He's troubled by the action, but defends its necessity. He personally saved my ass, even if he was a little handsy. I was drunk. It should have been handled better." She steps back from the sinks. "I think the white dress is ruined."
"He wouldn't be human if he wasn't," Ramon points out, washing the suds off his hands as he speaks, "And as much as these sorts of actions seem reprehensible. They weren't just shooting civilians for the fun of it. It was a very unfortunate necessity." He looks up at the mirror once more, staring at his own weathered reflection, "We learned all about that in the First War." Yep, First War. This pretty much counts as the Second as far as he's concerned.
"You might avoid use of the word unfortunate. The last time a marine uttered a similar phrase, he almost ate a fist." Santiago steps around, and then finally glances over at her father. "I never thought I'd see a war." The price paid in blood, before she was born, obviously wasn't paid in full. Here it is, war again. She watches him for a moment, then says, "Ramie would know what to say." She glances away, lingering for just a moment before she heads for the hatch.
"Santiago," Ramon speaks up, letting her almost reach the hatch before he attempts to gain her ear yet again, "I don't suppose you ever learned about this and I wouldn't have ever thought to tell you about it until now. But I fought in the Cylon War … the first one, that is."
Santi's arms slide crossed, and she tucks the little bathroom tote into one hand, where it dangles near her elbow. She glances over, and pauses near the hatch. "You were a marine." She says that as if it's no surprise. Though how she could have learned of it so casually is hard to say. "I can usually tell the pilots and the marines. So many come through Tama. Maybe sometime, you can tell me how you survived all of that, what this life is like." Shipboard life. Though she'll discover it soon enough on her own. It's the only admission she's at all out of place here. It's a very small hint, just in those words.
"Luck." Ramon doesn't mask it with talk of skill or hope or prayer. He doesn't brag like he might at any other time - about how he built Blue Sun from the ground up and turned it into one of the wealthiest corporations in the Colonies. He turns around, his stance entirely different. Almost as though he's relating to his daughter rather than dictating to her. "On Canceron. We had to take a hill in the poles where they were building them. Cylons. Their gun emplacement took out so many of that we were climbing over piles of dead marines to reach the top. And then it was our turn. We all moved forward and I know I wasn't the only one thinking that was the end of it. But not a bullet hit me. I made it all the way to the bunker … " He trails off, not going into detail though the look on his face hints at some sort of vicious bloodletting, "I don't chalk that up to gods or higher purposes. Luck."
Santiago's eyes remain on her father, locked as he relates his tale. She swallows once when he's finished, reiterating Luck as his saving grace. "I totaled three of the last five street racers I've owned. I came away without any major injuries. Luck. Maybe. I'll be praying just the same." She starts to turn, then glances over at Ramon. "I need more than luck." One of her hands slides up over her shoulder, and rests on her neck. The mental image of piles of dead is probably going to stick.
"You've got more than luck," Ramon points out, still with his hands at his sides, "You've got a lot of your mother in you and with all those years of experiencing defying your father, you'll be able to defy Cylons just as well." He leaves it at that, unwilling to venture any further into such things. Turning around so that she can leave in peace.
Santiago regards Ramon for but a moment more, then turns to open the hatch. She, too, seems less than willing to pursue that turn in the conversation further. At first it seems she may just leave, without a parting word, but then she utters, "Aloha auinapo." Goodnight. And out she goes.