PHD #067: New Kid on the Block
New Kid on the Block
Summary: Demitros is inducted to the Cerberus by way of nosy reporter, then a disagreement arises over a spoon. And duty. And art.
Date: 05 May 2041 AE
Related Logs: None.
Demitros Sawyer Tisiphone Evandreus Santiago Sitka Penelope 
Behind the two hangar decks, the Cerberus' Galley is the largest room on the ship. Nearly half the size of a football field, the eating area is made up of long lines of stainless steel tables that can be folded up and placed against the wall for larger events. Individual seats are the standard military issue, boring and grey with lowest-bidder padding. The line for food stretches across one of the shorter sides of the room while the kitchen behind works nearly twenty-four hours a day to produce either full meals or overnight snacks and coffee for the late shifts.
Post-Holocaust Day: #67

When you're shipped over from another vessel, it's easy to get a little lost on a ship that dwarfs your own. Even for someone with a near-eidetic memory like Praxis Demitros. And when you get lost for long enough, you get that little rumble in your stomach telling you that you haven't been kind enough to fill it up with anything quite yet. So, Praxis eyed the directory for quite some time and subsequently finally made his way to the galley. Breaching through the doors unobtrusively, the stalwart tactical officer undergoes his seemingly perfect robotic movements in his locomotion towards the nearest source of food; taking ahold of a tray and queuing up without ceremony. Nom nom nom, food.

The food on the line is relatively unappealing now that all the tasty QUODEL morsels have gone the way of collective digestive system of the crew. Now it's down to the historically bland fare that's normally associated with the military and Sawyer bypasses it all. She's at the end of the line, chatting up one of the enlisted men who work in the kitchens. They share a smile and an awkward laugh over a terrible joke, and then he's handing her a tall glass filled with greenish goop that looks like a rather lumpy milkshake. Looks like the reporter is having a liquid lunch. Instead of taking up a seat, she occupies a square of hull and holds it up with her lean, content to people watch for the moment. One of the people she's watching, just so happens to be Demitros filtering through the line.

Bland fare! That's Praxis' specialty. When Demitros progresses enough in the line to receive his meal, he looks happy enough to get it. And by happy enough, it means he takes it without any alteration in his perpetually iron visage. He's just about to take his tray away when he GRINDS to a halt, perhaps a little taken aback by the fact that there are a pair of eyes staring right back directly into his soul. What the hell? A brow raise would indicate that particular sentiment, and then suddenly he's analyzing her form with scrutiny, not to mention the drinking container enclosed within her hand. "May I be of assistance?"

Sawyer lowers her glass after a particularly long sip. With no straw to speak of, she's left to drink directly from the rim which leaves a little half moon of green on her upper lip that she quickly swipes away with a pass of her tongue while giving Praxis a questioning, "Hmm?" She seems to snap out of whatever reverie was clogging up the works of her brain, and manages a smile. "Oh. No. Sorry for staring, I just don't recognize you and I like to keep tabs on people. It's…sort of my job." Her job easily identified by the lanyard that's hanging around her neck, with the plastic-protected clearances and credentials, one of which clearly says 'PRESS'.

Praxis remains just frozen in space as Sawyer commits the food-related faux pas, but he just waits there for her answer, anyway. The guy's like a totem pole, he can stand there in one spot for ages and never move. Even while carrying a tray of food that he so desperately wishes to consume. His neighbor eyebrow rises up to meet his partner as soon as words begin to flow from Sawyer's lips, chin raising slightly in semi-acknowledgment before looking down to the lanyard around her neck. "Ah," he intones, finally comprehending. "It is not unusual that you don't recognize me, Miss. It turns out that until this morning I had been posted to the Colonial Frigate Corsair; but now I am aboard to be a tactical liaison." He starts walking towards a place he can sit down.

Maybe she sees a scoop here, or maybe she's just setting out to annoy the man. Either way, Sawyer pushes off her lean and trails after him on his quest for a table, still toting that awful green mixture in the tall glass. "So they're pooling all the resources into one pond. Interesting." 'They' of course, is the understood pronoun for 'Command' or 'Powers that Be'. "Well, may I be one of the first to say, welcome to the Cerberus. Sorry we don't have a proper welcoming committee, so you'll just have to make do with me. Sawyer Averies, ship Historian and resident rabble-rouser." Once he's settled his tray, she thrusts out a hand for him to shake.

"Yes, fascinating." It looks like the tactical officer is capable of being sarcastic once in a while. Praxis isn't really interested in having a welcome party or any welcoming at all - in fact all he wants to do is dig in - so when he's about to thrust his fork into the meal, suddenly there's a goddamn hand there. He stares at it as if pondering it to be another piece of meat to stab and wolf down, but Demitros puts down his utensils and sighs, reaching out to clasp that hand and shake it firmly. "Lieutenant Praxis Demitros. I don't have a colloquial title as fancy as yours, Miss Averies." Maybe he'll get a chance to eat, NOW?

Well, Praxis shook her hand, that's as good as an invitation to sit down and join him, right? Sawyer slips into a chair just opposite him, keeping him within her scope, as it were. Her glass gets slid onto the table, if only to free her hands to pluck at her trousers so the crease doesn't get ruined when she sits. "I find I can take liberties with my title, when I no longer have a boss to regulate it. Afraid you'll never have that luxury, Praxis. May I call you Praxis?" Well, she already did. Twice. So keeps on taking that liberty as well. "Tactical liaison means you'll be working up in CIC, correct?"

The nice thing about these meals is that only after a few bites, you stop feeling so hungry! Maybe it's because Praxis is subconsciously losing his appetite, however. Green eyes look up at Sawyer over his meal, unwilling to betray the fact that she's being more of a pest than good company (that's what good press does, anyway). So he simply just deals with her presence. "I believe that to be the case, Miss Averies. I will be working within the confines of the Combat Information Center. As for working up, I'm not entirely certain I possess much a career anymore - now we all work for necessity. Advancement is no longer one of my primary aspirations."

Sawyer nudges her drink forward with her criss-crossed forearms as she sets her elbows to the table and leans forward in mock-conspiracy. "So you were concerned with advancement /before/ Warday? What were your aspirations? To command your own vessel one day?" Sawyer verbally pokes and prods this new fellow, like a child given a stick and an ant mound. Let's see what she can stir up.

Demitros can't help but break his regular disposition and smile at the words offered towards him, eyes wandering down to the meal and he just pokes at it in contemplation. "Commanding a vessel: An entertaining thought that would perhaps represent the apex of my potential career - a thought destroyed by eventual reality. Now I simply want what is needed of me; to serve in whatever capacity that benefits this fleet the most." At this point his eyes level up so he can stare directly at Sawyer. "Really, Miss Averies. A newcomer with boyish dreams cannot be of any serious note. I daresay you may have started running out of material recently."

Sawyer finally lifts her own liquid lunch again, taking another drink. She has to gulp around a rather large chunk, that has her grimacing just slightly around the edges of her eyes. From this proximity, the concoction smells vaguely like mowed grass. Setting it down, she quickly smacks her lips clean again in lieu of a napkin. "On the contrary. Consider it my 'humanitarian' piece. You're very well spoken, Praxis," …there she goes again… "where were you from, originally?"

Praxis watches with interest as the weird chunky drink is imbibed, if only to see the subtle reaction of the reporter when the taste settles in. One girl, one very disgusting cup. It could be worse, I guess. With the light little scent that crosses his olfactory organs, the tactical officer shovels more of the solid matter politely into his maw while he listens. "Thank you," he is certain to mention to the compliment as soon as he is able, yet there are more questions being forwarded in his direction. "You are particularly thorough, aren't you?" Demitros says with no lack of amusement in his tone before answering, "Caprica City, if you must know. I have resided there for most of my days, even for my initial military deployment."

Enter Tisiphone, twisting past a cluster of people who have decided the area directly in front of the Galley hatches is the best place for an impromptu catch-up. There's a quick, restless sweep of the room, her attention seeming to fall on a few specific tables yet not finding what she was looking for. Giving her scalpfuzz a quick scrub, she moves onward into the chow queue, dragging a tray off the stack at the head of the line.

Some sort of wheat grass concoction, for those of you playing along at home. That's what Sawyer is having for lunch, and it's a goopy green milk-shake looking mess in a glass that she's chugging down like a champ despite the clumps inside. "Yes, I rather like to think I am." She gives him a wolfish grin at being called 'thorough', even though she doesn't seem to outwardly notice she's wearing him rather thin with her questions. "That's quite a lucky posting, Praxis. Most get shipped the furthest from their home, the better. I'm told it's to break soldiers of their dependency of home. You must have had influential parents. Let me guess. Hmm. Father in the military?" She notices Tisiphone's bald head bob in, hard to miss with all those tattoos covering it. Even though you could say they aren't on the best of terms, Sawyer still lifts her hand to give a little finger wave.

Evandreus sneaks through the crowd in the narrow lacuna created by Tisiphone's passage, a brisk step bringing him through before the circle of backsides coalesces once more, fortunately without him being trapped in the middle. He looks back that way as he ambles toward the line, taking up a plate rather than a tray, an act that generally stops the line attendants from trying to foist a little of this and a little of that on him, allowing him instead to slip easily in beside Tisiphone and squint with discrimination at the offerings. "Hey, Cubits," he offers up.

"You're good, Miss Averies, you're very, very good." Demitros mentions, glancing up from the meal and the person in front of him to watch the new entries mill about the interior of the rather expansive galley. "Perhaps we can draw away from this particular subject and you can do /me/ a service and start giving me the … how do generally put it … scoop on the more notable inhabitants of this battlestar? I might hazard a particularly educated guess that you are the go-to person for that sort of thing, am I correct?" The Lieutenant smirks just slightly at that before finishing up his meal. "Consider it a trade, no?"

Tisiphone, never the best at stealth, except when hunting supper was on the line. The substance in the Galley? Evidently not considered supper-worthy. Sawyer is noted, and peered at neutrally for a moment before she dips her chin upward and offers a, "Hey," back toward the woman. That sorted, she moves onward into the chow line. She takes a smaller than usual portion of rice and lentils, recreating some foothills instead of the usual Mount Lentil, and is shoving her tray further along when Evan pops in behind her. "Bunny. Hey." The same word Sawyer was greeted with, though of warmer tone. "How you doing?"

Sawyer lights up a few watts when it seems her guess was in keeping with the truth, her smile stretching to Cheshire proportions. "Now, I don't normally throw myself on to the gossip train, Lieutenant." Oh /now/ it's Lieutenant. "But I am of the mind that what is good for the goose is also good for the gander. A little give and take never hurt anyone, but I'm afraid you already know all the movers and shakers on the Cerberus. Or you can easily identify them at least. Just look for the pins on their collar." Sawyer is sitting at a table with Praxis, the former drinking her meal in the form of a wheat grass shake. Tisiphone and Evandreus are weeding their way through the line. "But I will give you fair warning about a pilot named Psyche. She's a shark at cards, so if you play Triad, make sure you keep your knickers." Which, in Praxis' case, must be starched.

How a woman with obnoxiously white clothes manages to maintain them when living with the Deck Gang is certainly a mystery. Santiago Blue, a civvie attached to the (apparently otherwise) low key Aquarian Quorum delegation, makes her way into the Galley, and turns for the queue. "Fraks sake," she mutters, carefully stepping around what looks like it may have been a jello spill. Hard to say these days, with the mess fare what it is. At least the woman is mindful of getting anything on her heels.

"Okay enough," Evan answers, in that fashion that means it's not entirely true. Rice. Okay. Lentils? He leans down a little to sniff, then absconds with a few. "Not been sleeping great, but— what can you do, huh?" Meat. Maybe. That gets studiously avoided, whatever it's trying to be. "How're you keeping together, eh?"

Tisiphone doesn't linger overmuch for Evan in the chow line. The Raptor pilot seems to thrive on a steady diet of hugs and vitamin water, and the former, at least, is rarely dished out by the galley crew. "Yeah," she says, as she reaches the end of the line and scoops up a handful of cutlery, setting it down on her tray with a jangle. "I- noticed the other afternoon. Problems since you guys moved over? New digs, all that?" She moves over to the drinks table and pauses there, sleety gaze lifted to Evan's.

"Fair warning," Demitros repeats after Sawyer, an amused look crossing over his features. "I will certainly keep that in mind, though I must ask if I seem like to sort to play cards without discretion." He pushes his tray a couple of inches away, a little subtle sort of signal that he's done with the meal; perhaps a weird reflex of some sort? The Tactical liaison stares across at the reporter for quite a while before hazarding another guess, "I wonder if you're speaking from experience of personal loss…" At this point in time, he scootches backwards in his chair and rises, smoothing out his clothing. "If you wouldn't mind, Miss - I believe it would be the appropriate time to take my leave for more pressing matters."

Santiago picks her way through the line, eyeballing the food selection very carefully. Her fingers trace over the rim of a tray, but she doesn't actually choose one, opting instead to grab a bowl of sweetened dessert, which could just be a gob of protein with faux chocolate flavor in it, for all she knows. A cup of coffee follows, black. She slides around a few folks in line to exit the queue early, hands up and out of the way of being jostled.

"Honey, you don't look the type to unbutton your collar." Sawyer says with dry amusement in her voice. Her head tilts back as he stands, afflicting him with another but more subtle smile. "But no, I don't play cards anymore. I'm told I have a horrible tell." She looks down to her own glass, giving it a last slurry swirl before downing the rest of the contents. "Go press your matters, Praxis. I'm sure we'll run into each other again. Small ship and all." Small chunk of humanity left, too. Shortly after he stands, so does she, apparently intent on heading on her way now that her amusement is high tailing it.

"Only for laundry, Miss Averies," Praxis is kind enough to say before pushing in his chair and making a beeline to egress from the galley. "Small vessel…" he repeats with no formal goodbye, glancing at his chronometer with a raised brow and quickening his pace. Demitros is always going on about the value of punctuality…

Evandreus picks up one of the little bowls filled with the preservative-goo-covered fruit bits that seem amenable to him, then nabs a fistful of nuts from the salad bar and seems to call that some manner of a meal, pausing a moment without complaint as Santiago maneuvers around him, in no particular rush, then heading over to the drinks station and unhitching his water bottle from his hip to fill it up with the delicious red. Red. "I guess. That and, y'know, bombs on deck. Hard to feel at ease anywhere anymore, yah? You back on the line, eh?"

"Pardon me, curls," Santi notes to Evan as she passes him. There's a slight smile to Tisisphone, whom she probably recognizes from one of those festivals in the chapel or another. Maneuver, maneuver, sliiiide by. "Sawyer Averies," Santiago intones, in a manner most befitting a VP or, you know, haughty librarian. "You. Me. Breakfast this week." And then she resumes her search for a table at which to sit.

"Yeah. Yeah. First CAP's in two hours." A quick nod and anticipatory grin aimed by Tisiphone at Evan, before she looks away to fill a large tumbler with water. "Tyr pulled a couple strings so he's the one helping get me back out there for the first time. What a dork." Fondly said, that — though the look cools a little when mention of bombs are made. After lingering a moment to see if Evan's grabbing a drink of his own, she heads into the maze of galley tables, in search of a handful of empty seats.

"Pardoned," the amiable note from the Raptorbunny to Santiago. He is getting a drink. Which is to say he's swiping well over a liter of the red stuff, and it's taking its time pouring from the little spigot. But eventually he screws the cap back on and picks up his tray again, the heavy bottle swaying at his side as he moves off to follow Tisiphone. Y'know. Wherever she's headed. He doesn't much mind. "That's sweet."

Evandreus has disconnected.

Santiago rounds the end of the queue, and approaches a table with about half empty, which seems to be one of the few pockets without having to travel to the opposite end of the Galley. She steps around a few chairs, long skirt mostly hiding the ridiculously high heels she's always sporting. She's mindful of coffee spills. You just never know when you might wipe out and give the fashion challenged a reason to say 'I told you so'. In one hand: coffee. In the other: some sort of dessert thing in a small bowl. Trays? Who needs 'em. Balanced diets? Pffft. She approaches said table, moves down a few empty seats, and leans in to place the bowl and the coffee before she remembers — no spoon. "Shit. Efficiency failure." She straightens, and glances back over her shoulder toward the cutlery station. Strategic infiltration recon.

Sitka filters into the galley on the tail end of the lunchtime crowd. Looking recently showered, and sporting navy-issue sweatpants with a slightly rumpled tee shirt and jacket, the Captain shambles into the food queue with his hands shoved in his pockets.

Tisiphone draws out a chair for Evan, then the next one over as well, which she plunks herself down into. The tray containing her water and a miniature Mount Lentil is slid in front of her before she glances down to her pocket. Normally this routine nets her her pack of cigarettes — this time, it's a little plastic packet of pills, the printed tag on them reading T.APOSTOLOS. (It keeps her from pawning them off on others, you see.) "Mmrf ooo ee-" she starts to say to Santiago, over yonder ways a few chairs, while gnawing the corner of the packet open. Maybe she thinks it's a root. "Need something?" she tries again, as she pours the assortment of pills into her palm.

"Spoon," Santi murmurs, as if slightly distracted by calculating attack approaches given the cluster of service men and women currently clogged up around the utensils. She glaces over to Tis, finally, when the words come out much more understandably. Her eyes pass over the queue, and pause on another pilot she recognizes. Santiago's eyes take a casual perusal of Shiv's attire, and she hms. "Is it usual for pilots to wander about looking as if they've just rolled off of a dorm room floor?" One can practically see her fingers twitch as if she wants to take him out to the laundry and iron the man. Hm. She calls, loudly, "Captain, a spoon, if it's not too much trouble!" He may or may not hear it, but everyone around her certainly did. The blonde moves to sit, smoothing her hand along her skirt. When she looks to Tisiphone again, her dark green eyes pause on hint of a tattoo peeking out of her collar. "…" Her lips remain slightly parted, but her brain seems to have taken over the majority of silent communication.

Penelope arrives from the Deck 9.
Penelope has arrived.

Sitka eschews the assortment of lunch options for a packaged, and hopefully not yet stale energy bar. He skirts out of the line while tearing it open, and takes a rather large bite even as he's navigating his way around a tall mountain of marine. Which is approximately when Santiago calls out to him. Rolling his eyes slightly, he wades back in, fetches a fork, and thumps on over to the table occupied by pilotry and prissy civilian. "Hey there, Apostolos. Evan." Tink, as the fork is set down in front of Santiago. "Miss Blue." He gives her a small smile.

Tisiphone's attention lifts from the palmful of pills she's holding and flicks over to the chow queue when Santiago muses about Air Wing's dress code. Sitka gets an extra pair of eyeballs aimed at him for a few seconds before she's staring at the pills again. "Depends on the pilot," is her not-particularly-helpful reply. She snags her glass of water, dumps the pills into her mouth, and gulps them down with a grimace. "Hey," is offered to Sitka, along with a brief glance up, when he makes his way over. Then a glance to the Spoon That Is Not, and Santiago's reaction to it.

There's a pause before Santiago resumes addressing Tisiphone, seated nearby as she is, at the same table. "Were those hand tooled? They have that look to them. Sag or, what, Tauron." A beat later, Shiv makes his entrance on the immediate vicinity with the presentation of cutlery. There's a glance to that, then Santi's eyes lift. Only a breath occurs before she addresses the man with the shiniest pins in the room. "I realize you hail from a relatively primitive village, and your nominal mode of gratification is centered around your hands in all things, Sitka," Santiago reaches for the presented flatware, and taps it with a delicately manicured fingernail. "But this, my dear, sweet man, is called a fork. I realize the intricacies may be lost on a man of action, but the rest of us do have our standards." It's all spoken in a nearly even tone, a polite veneer on the outside, with just a hint of inflection on certain words to tip the sentiment. Oh, and then there's the words themselves. "I requested a spoon."

Having navigated the lunch line in stealth mode, Penelope pauses to scan the tables, a bowl of mysterious stew balanced on her tray. It takes only a moment to pick out the fuzz-bald pate of Tisiphone, and it's to that table she goes, flashing a warm smile at the ensign. "Hallo, Tis," she pulls out a chair with her foot, arching her eyebrows. "Mind if I join?" Her eyes go a fraction wide, shifting from Santiago to Sitka during the lecture about flatware. Well, then.

Tisiphone's pills warrant a flickered perusal of blue eyes from the Captain, whereupon he's presumably about to vacate the premises and leave the trio to their lunch— when Santiago addresses him at length about his cutlery error. Furrowing his brows slightly, he takes another large bite of his energy bar, and manages to finish chewing and swallowing it by the time she's done. "Hmm?" is mumbled at the conclusion of the little lecture. "Oh. Shit. Sorry about that. Maybe you could just.. go get it yourself." He takes another bite, and promptly starts lumbering off for the hatch. The table, including Penelope, gets a small smile in parting before he disappears out the door.

Sitka leaves, heading towards the Deck 9 [Out].
Sitka has left.

The smattering of pills are the same accursed things Tisiphone's been choking down along with her lunch since her crash and burn. She should have been done them by now. Of course, that assumes she'd been taking them diligently. Oops. There's a sleety look flicked from Santiago to Sitka and back again, equal parts puzzled and affronted, as the whole cutlery issue is sorted out. Hey, that's one of her Captains getting dressed down! It takes several beats for Tisiphone to decide whether to pick the issue up again, after Sitka makes his nonchalant departure, during which time she looks over at Penelope and beckons her to an empty chair with a tilt of her head. Finally, with cool-toned caution, she asks of Santiago: "Old friends?"

Penelope sits, biting the inside of her cheek for a moment before murmuring, "I rather hope so…" A glance at Santiago, one eyebrow slightly aloft, and then she's turned her attention to her whatsit stew, gently blowing on a gloppy, chunky, steamy spoonful. She's definitely listening, though — one can almost see her ears perked.

In the wake of her education of the Captain regarding nomenclature, the Aquarian's shoulders roll back a little, her chin lifts slightly, and she breathes out a slow, subtle breath through her nose. "Mahalo." The word is spoken simply, sharply. For those familiar with some of the regional dialect of the Settsu Province in Aquaria, they would recognize the word easily as 'thank you'. The tone, however, needs absolutely no translation. There's still a 'you' in there, it's just the first word has four letters in it. She rolls her neck briefly, and breathes out again, before picking up the fork. "Apologies, ladies." She regards Tisiphone for several seconds before she notes, "Cultural dissonance. Our interests are divergent, experience opposed. He also has hideous taste in footwear which, let's face it, says a lot about a man."

Is it the idea of cultural dissonance or the appraisal of Sitka's taste in footwear which brings a bubble of mirth up to the surface of Tisiphone's expression? Hard to say — at least until she speaks, some seconds later. "Men. Shoes. You know how it is." She picks up her fork, juggling it between her fingers like she does with her cigarette, sometimes, then starts digging in to her miniature Mount Lentil. After a few forkfuls, she adds, "My- it's Sagittaran, yeah. One of the Marines could do tatau. She did a great job." She runs her tongue against her bottom lip, considering further comment, then chooses silence and more lentils, instead.

There's a choking sound as Penelope almost inhales a bite of stew. She looks a touch mirtful, a great deal incredulous… and utterly baffled by the inked blonde fashion-plate. "Does it, in fact?" she asks. "I have to say, miss…" she pauses, looking Santiago over from tip to toe, but doesn't wait for an inroduction. "In my experience, a man unconcerned with such frivolities is generally focused on more important things. His duty. His people. Family and colony. All that plebian rot." She shrugs. "Men like my father and brothers. I'm sorry that those values are divergent from your experience, but I guess now you know — if you need someone to fetch you a spoon, check their shoes." She tucks into her stew again.

Santiago seems to have settled down now that Captain Faux-FauxPas has left the immediate vicinity. Former conversation is resumed. She watches Tis devour yon moutain of lentils for a moment, before she notes, "It's a dying art form. Most artists have switched to electric tools. Tebori is one I'm more intimately familiar with. It's quite meditative and rhythmic." She thinks a moment on what Penelope says, sampling the dessert food she chose from the line, using the ill gotten fork. "… Those values aren't the ones to which I was referring. Though I find it interesting that they're the ones you jumped to first. He heard me say spoon, my request was polite. The fork was merely another in a long line of ripostes. Plainly stated, the Captain has a prejudice. It's a sticking point between us." That isn't so plainly stated as it could have been. Alas, Blues. Always a little veiled in their replies. "Elegance, beauty, and detail aren't divergent paths from honor, duty, and import. Warfare and art are both characteristics of civilization. There aren't many of us left, and these things could be easily lost. Art and poetry traded for demolition materials and kinetic energy weapons. I'd rather not toss it just because it doesn't fit in a launch tube, or a uniform."

"Dead art form as of seven weeks ago, unless we somehow find another that can use her tools," Tisiphone says, tapping her fork tines against the plate a few times after she does. Tack-tack-tack. She takes a few more mouthfuls of her food, eating with the sort of stubborn determination of someone who doesn't really want to eat, but refuses to leave food on their plate. "It's a tricky thing to keep in mind," she finally puts out there, glancing up from under her brows at Penelope, then Santiago. "Hard to keep perspective on it when the world's crashing down around our shoulders."

Penny snorts faintly. "You'll have to excuse me, miss, but what the frak that all has to do with shoes, I don't know. I brought up those values 'cause they're the reasons you should respect the Captain — the reasons you should respect anyone who's out there flyin' a plane an puttin' their lives on the line so you can have your elegance and beauty instead of flames an' ashes. You should be kissin' his arse instead of actin' snooty because your ridiculous shoes've made it too much trouble to go an fetch a spoon under your own steam — which really? If you can't be grateful? Is the very least you can do." She takes a breath, glancing apologetically at Tisiphone.

What's this? Tisiphone's staying out of a disagreement? She's definitely ploughing through her lentils in a determinedly eyes-on-the-plate sort of way for a while, there. Finally, as she scrapes the last mouthful away, she speaks up: "It's- it's- Penny, it's okay. It's just- perspective." She's a /terrible/ mediator, quite obviously, but for whatever godsforsaken reason she's doing it, she's trying.

"That's a shame. I have seen tatau, but never practiced it. It's not dissimlar from tebori, save the tools and method of application. Tebori features sharpened metal instruments affixed to bamboo, as opposed to the hooked tools with the tapping rod. It lends itself better to organic forms than tatau's geometric limitations." There's a pause as she takes a bite of her dessert/breakfast/lunch. The blonde considers the taste, and apparently finds it passable. She resumes speaking after she washes a bite down with cooling black coffee. Military coffee will kill the taste of anything. Santiago seems amused when she gets around to responding to Penelope, at least there's a faint quick or her lips. "It's a joke. The shoes. The Captain takes issue with my footwear, and it always goes downhill from that point. As to the Captain. Respect is earned. His pins may be enough for his fellow military, but they are not enough for me. I look beyond the brass to the man, and the man is lacking." She regards the other woman for a moment more before she asks, "Is was a simple request asked of him, politely. He could have declined. Instead, he delivered a message that may have been too subtle for you to discern, but I caught it plainly." She gestures slightly with the fork. "I believe you're familiar with the expression."

"Right," Penny mutters, shoving a spoonful of stew into her mouth. Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow. Another breath. All very deliberate. When she speaks again, it's less terse — more weary. "Perspective's all well and good. Until it's delusional." She listens to Santiago, almost seeming on the way to mollified. Possibly… until the civilian woman speaks of respect. And what is and isn't enough to earn it. "He is not lacking. There isn't a single man or woman in this Fleet that should lack for your respect, miss. Not a single. Sodding. One." She stands, picking up her tray. "If someone has to do more than lay their life down for yours, day after sodding day — for your life, your liberty, your sodding shoesthat is what those pins represent, and if that doesn't earn your respect, there is something so wrong with you… I don't have words for it." She shakes her head. "Sorry, Tis," she says to Tisiphone, sincerely. "Rude of me in the extreme to sit and disturb your peace so… but I can't stay."

Staying out of the disagreement. So. Staying. Out. First CAP in seven weeks in a couple hours, and she is the calmest, coolest, most collected cucumber ever. At least, until Santiago makes her comment about the departed Petrels Captain being unworthy of respect — /that/ brings her gaze up and around, rather owlishly and suddenly intent. Where Penelope's attention and words seem to be focussed on the philosophy behind the statement, Tisiphone seems to be taking a more personal affront. Defensive isn't quite the right word, nor is protective. Maybe it's just reflexive loyalty. Maybe. She prims her mouth into a tight line for a moment, clears her throat carefully, then says, "I should be going, too. CAP's in an hour." A nod to Santiago, a nod and a sympathetic twist of mouth to Penelope, before she pushes herself up to her feet.

There's a thoughtful moment in the wake of the officer standing, before the blonde civilian speaks up again. It's brief, comparatively. "I believe a person should be judged by more than the content of their collar," Santiago says simply, those dark green, long lashed, and expertly shadowed eyes on Penelope. When Tisiphone stands, she smiles slightly again. "Respect is mine to give. I don't dole it out like a charity wife with candy at an orphanage. If you die in service to our people, and you give your life to save mine and countless others on this vessel, as is your duty, I will pray for your soul to reach Elysium. You don't deserve respect merely for your service any more than I do for my position with QUODEL." She puts down her fork, picks up her coffee, and asks, "What is a people that survives near-annihilation with no soul?" It's probably rhetorical, but there it is.

It's highly unlikely that Penny hears the rhetorical question, or most of Santiago's expanded philosophy — she doesn't look at the blonde woman again, and by the time the word 'believe' is out there, the engineer has turned her back, walking away. How rude! In any event, she returns her tray — keeping her bowl and spoon with a promise called to the kitchen she'll return them later — and is out the door. "Good hunting, Tis."

Penelope leaves, heading towards the Deck 9 [Out].
Penelope has left.

Tisiphone stands there with her tray in her hands, watching Penelope leave until the engineer has cleared the hatch, her mouth shifting through a series of pensive curves while she does. Finally, she'll half-turn back toward Santiago, her head inclined just slightly, and say, "I think you're wrong when it comes to Captain Sitka, ma'am. Dead wrong. But." It's a very, very careful 'but'. "You're right it's up to a person to prove it for themselves." Her head inclines further, dipping into a nod, and then she's off as well, sans Angry Shoulders, toward whatever pre-CAP duties she may have.

"He's a fine pilot, with goods hands on the stick, and sharp moves. I don't question his skills, or the skills of other servicemen, just his attitude, and that of those who treat civilians as beholden." She takes another sip of her coffee, as Tis departs, then glances up again. "Malama pono, Ensign. Gods speed."

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