| Our Cerberus Evocati |
| Summary: | The CEX Areion's Evocati have got nothing on the Cerberus' bunch of veterans. |
| Date: | 06 Oct 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Pilot Berths - Naval Deck - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| The battlestar's pilots call this place home. Bunks line the walls with grey curtains to cover their sleeping areas. Lockers sit between each pair of bunks and a round metal table sits in the center, furnished with simple but comfortable steel chairs. A hatch at the rear of the room leads to a communal head. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #222 |
Poppy has commandeered the berths center table, going over what appears to be uniform blues with a stiff-bristle brush. The uniform is appropriately sized for her, so it's probably hers — it'd be awkward if she were cleaning someone else's uniform, especially at her rank. Also, rare as it is, Khloe is dressed in off-duty sweats. There not be any photo evidence of it, either, because when Bran comes in she freezes like a deer caught in headlamps. "Close the door, Pens," comes her clipped orders, looking past him into the hallway nervously.
Bran lingers in the hatchway, if only because he's debating if he should truly enter or try his hand returning to more food in the galley. The moment passes and he unfolds his arms from across his chest in order to pinch the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb of his right hand and step forward. The entrance is closed off behind him. He drops his hand, exhales, and allows his hands to rest at his sides as he looks from Poppy to the uniform. He's in his off-duty greens. "Because," he starts, "You're doing what exactly with all of that?"
"Grooming it. You know, what half the sticks don't do because they don't actually wear the uniform they're sworn to uphold," Khloe replies. Studying Bran for a moment, she makes the astute observation: "You look like hell. By the way, I live here now." She holds up the jacket, an index finger resting on the Captain's pins at the collar. She's trying very hard not to smile; it ends up being a corner of her mouth turning up in a smirk. That's "smile" in Khloe-speak.
"Don't meet anyone from Areion then, or you're bound for a heart attack at such a young age," Bran is able to get that response out before wryly, and quietly, laughing to himself as he begins to step up. He stops briefly to her observation and casts his gaze momentarily downwards before coming to the table and resting his hands at the edge. The man holds back what he would enjoy saying and it shows with a twist of his expression. Leaning to the side, he looks once again from the uniform to the woman. "You look like a little giddy schoolgirl," because that's as astute as he'll be, but at least his tone isn't trying to be insulting.
Khloe scoffs lightly, tossing the brush down onto the uniform jacket and the table, ending in a muffled metallic sound. "Toast promoted me against my wishes. I mean, at least, I protested a little bit." She shakes her head. "I'm not sure I can fill Shiv's shoes, Pens. But by the gods, I have to try now. I've got orders." She rests her hands on her hips. "And you can never, ever, call me giddy, again."
Bran makes a noise of protest under his breath against the light clatter of the brush. His gaze follows after the pins for a while longer as he listens to her but soon enough he is focusing most of his upon her, and returning to standing up fully and folding his arms over his chest. "A little bit," he mimes thoughtfully, testing the three words in the air before him. Judgment is silently passed and the beginnings of a smirk appear, just enough to curl and tighten the right corner of his mouth. "Yeah, because giddy-you could never live up to the role. Too bubbly for that, but the usual threaten-me-until-I-comply ought to work. Congratulations, by the way, the Major chose fairly well, really." The smug look grows, if only because he's given a heartfelt compliment.
"At least I don't have to chafe against Blowback any more," comes Poppy's response to Pens' congratulations. "She's a fantastic Es-El, but she's far too sweet for my taste. I disagree with a lot of her style." Taking up the brush again, she tosses it into a small leather bag that's in a locker nearby, presumably hers. She then picks up the jacket from the table and tugs it straight, going over it with a critical eye. Marginally satisfied, she turns to hang it up.
Bran gives off a light tip of his chin, reflexively nodding his head rather than verbally comment. He's just an ECO, half of the viper jocks all look alike. Though, he's not wholly becoming suddenly bored at the prospect of discussing Viper Politics and the smile of his lingers while he circles around the far end of the table in order to find a chair to sit at. He reverses it in order to rest his forearms against the back support and brings his attention back towards Khloe. "See, I hear she's as competitive and fierce as ever, with an ego to boot, so," he pauses and clears his throat. The beat that passes allows him to recollect his thoughts and reword his incoming statement. He actually does have foresight with socializing. "So, that sounds like you, so what're you disagreeing with exactly here?"
"She's a competetive stick, and she doesn't treat her squad like they're her junior officers. Like, they're her younger siblings," comes Khloe's explanation. She kicks off her tennis shoes and unzips her sweats jacket, stowing them properly as well. Everything's so precise with her. "I don't think that's a proper way to handle Viper pilots under your command. Especially not during wartime."
Khloe has just finished hanging up a freshly brushed and de-linted uniform, and now she's shrugging out of the outer layer of her sweats while chatting with Bran, whose seated at the table.
"I see," and he's not being much of a bull-shitter just yet. There's another nod of his head and then a brief glance to the closed entrance before he looks back towards Khloe. He starts to speak up from where he sits and then doesn't bother, foregoing a side comment. "To each their own," he says, "I guess. I rather like things the way they are. Not that I'm looking for an argument here or anything."
The closed entrance doesn't stay closed for long, as the wheel spins to lock open, and the door cracks, far enough to admit Leyla, once again in her flight suit. Transport and logistics have given way to Double CAPs and a decided lack of sleep. But, here she is, looking as bright and chipper as ever. Which is to say quiet and reserved, though she is nibbling on a strip of jerky, helmet tucked under her other arm. Apparently, she missed her normal meal time—"Poppy! I heard a rumour about you. Pens." See, she can multi-greet."
Khloe glances up at the entrance, and for what passes as a Poppy-smile — that is, a slight upturn of the corners of her mouth — is seen. "Hello, Sweetiepea," she greets, her own version of Leyla's callsign. "Yes, as I was just telling Pens, I live here now. All of the horrible rumors are true. You're all frakked. And you look as tired as Pens did when he first walked in here, but we both know he's just lazy. Rough shift?" The new Black Knights SL is shrugging out of bit after bit of her sweats, until she's down to skivvies and undershirt — then covers up with trunks, all done partially obstructed by her locker door. Even after all this time, she's still maintained a modicum of modesty.
Bran clears his throat and sits back and up within his seat, catching sight of Leyla in the process. He mimics the actions of chewing over something at the right side of his mouth and then places his tongue there. "I get rumors too, you know," because he doesn't want to be left out of things, and with such a lackluster greeting given unto him. He ends up snorting and leaning back forward, lazily so. "As lazy as I can be under the glorious might of our CAG." He idly scoffs, but it's not as if his posture is a saving grace at the moment. He's just tired. There's a glance over in Khloe's direction and then he glances aside towards Leyla. "By us being frakked, she just means me."
"Well, I think that depends entirely on your definition of horrible. I for one, am overjoyed." Not that she looks overjoyed, but then, Leyla clearly fell victim to that old wive's tale 'If you make that face, it'll stick that way." But she does manage a smile as evocative as Khloe's. "You pick a bunk yet?" A look askance at Pens, "Yes, I heard a rumour about you too, and that new viper stick from Aerilon." Oh, did she say that out loud? Yes, yes she did. "Double. Boots, I think, is trying to make up for all the easy riding we've been getting lately. You know, what with all the logistics and transport details, and finding lost civilians stuck in trees. Oh, you're always frakked, Pens."
Poppy points over at the corresponding rack that matches the locker she just dumped all of her gear into. Well, dumped isn't precisely the right word — everything is folded and placed neatly when Khloe is involved. Always. Without exception. Even if she threw it in a ball into her locker, it'd magically fold itself and stack neatly in a shiny pile. "That one, seemed fairly unoccupied this morning. No sheets or anything, so I dressed it up." Trundling over barefoot, she climbs up — always perching on things, she's chosen the top rack — and unceremoniously flops. A nightly ritual, just like on the Hephaestus, she scratches at the inside of her left arm. She's still got scars from half a lifetime ago. "This little stick needs to get her rack time in before I find Decoy tomorrow and terrorize him. Again." Yawn. Scratch.
Bran lifts his eyes from Leyla at her response and he doesn't bother trying to come up with a comeback, because rumors are rumors. He almost rolls his eyes though. It's surely the childish thing to do. "Always frakked I am," he says it near-proudly while sitting up and stretching out in place. It helps in masking a short yawn, and he further adds, "Sometimes it's a good thing, though." He stops being much of a bum though and begins to stand up from his chair and slides it towards the table before him. The man also pipes up with a small, "Have fun dreaming, Sir."
With a slow, methodical 'creak' (how can the hatch wheels get creaky on a Battlestar this new), the door mechanism in the Pilot berthings gets a good series of turns and a few moments later the hatch is clumsily thrown open, followed by a big, fat sack of laundry that gets tossed along the empty floor as it goes skittering with precious little sound towards the lockers. It's not a perfect toss, but it's a fairly efficient method of moving junk from point A to point B. In the wake of the laundry sack is a figure in off-duty tanks, a Fleet-issued duffel bag slung over his shoulder, which would be one Trevor McQueen, sauntering languidly in the direction of the locker row with his free arm swinging a bit loose. His hair seems a bit damp indicating a recent shower.
"We'll catch up in the morning, Poppy. I've got a project I could use your help on." But that's all Leyla's going to offer. She knows Poppy's rituals, and she's not about the keep the woman from her sleep. "Yes, I heard that too, Pens." Just the barest hint of a smirk, before she starts off towards her own bunk, to strip out of her flightsuit. Eyes shift to the hatch, and the man moving into the berthings. After a decided sidestep to avoid the bag of laundry bomb that was just lobbed n.
"Never do, Pens," comes Poppy's reply to Bran. Whether she meant 'having fun dreaming' or just 'dreaming', it's not clear. "And don't try to talk to me before my run, Sweetiepea." Khloe tugs the curtain to her rack closed.
There's a muffled noise from within Tisiphone's closed-curtain'd bunk — mumbled words, perhaps — followed by the solid THUNK of a limb striking the back wall. Three or four seconds of silence follows, ending with a single, "Frak." The curtain skitters half-open shortly thereafter to reveal the pajama'd pilot, shaking out her hand, a fresh-lit cigarette already dangling from her mouth.
Bran roll out his right shoulder and then the left now that he is standing up. He waves a hand in the general direction of Khloe. He remembers that he's being talked about and thus his attention switches back over towards Leyla. "Har har - incoming," is called out at the sight of the bag and he switches his hands into his front pockets as he watches aimlessly. He knits his brows and then relaxes his expression, looking aside. "Sag on deck," is murmured offhandedly as he heads for his bunk.
Leave it to McQueen to milk that one for comic effect, even though nobody could buy the idea that he thought that was directed to him. An arm raises, and he sniffs vaguely at his own armpit. "Huh. Where?" The thick lilt of his grimy Leonitian working-class accent practically drips over the words, as he meanders towards his locker. "Oh. Sorry. I systematically deny havin' any involvement in whatever it is you're talking about. Standard procedure." He kicks the laundry bag softly with the toe of his boot down about five locker-spaces and makes his way towards the one clearly marked with his name and begins to fidget with the lock. "Another empty patrol, another sack of skidmark-free shorts. Today's been a good day, yeh?"
Depends entirely on if you were wearing your diapers or not." No pilot will ever reveal such a guarded secret, of course, but one has to wonder..how does one go to the bathroom in space? And so, a certain rumour has taken seed here and there. "Sorry to wake you, Money Shot." Leyla's flight suit is shucked off, set out on her bed for cleaning after, before she grabs her shower stuff down out of her locker.
"Is there some genetic deficiency in Taurians that prevents the pronounciation of 'Sagittaran'?" Tisiphone inquires, pale eyes flicking over to Bran and tracking him for a step or three. "Maybe some quaint issue with dialect that they speak only in racial slurs? I'm really starting to wonder." Her gaze rolls ceilingward, staying there as she exhales, then lands next upon McQueen. "Met the new squadleader yet?" she calls to him, scratchy voice cracking when she raises it to carry. To Leyla, a faint shake of her head and an eloquent, "Uh?" She rubs the corner of her eye, then adds, "Nah. Nightmare. Don't sweat it."
"Only in passing. Name n' a face, but — you know how it is. This ship's the biggest roving party left in the Colonies - the fact that we /have/ new people to get to know is a bloody novelty. And I'm not even talking about that ship full of spooks out there." As the lock is fiddled with some more, the latch is pulled, and McQueen stoops with a quiet grunt to scoop up the laundry bag, tugs open the zipper all while he shrugs the duffel on his shoulder and proceeds to less-than-methodically scoop out said clean shorts.
"And I thought we didn't talk about the diapers." There's a half-laugh, half-snort.
"Well, I can't speak for Pens, but I hadn't realized it was a racial slur, or more to the point, that wasn't my intention. I simply used it, when I did, as an abbreviation. No different than being called a bull, though that is clearly not an abbreviation for Tauron. 'Dirt Eater', on the other hand is quite decidedly a racial slur, but being that I really don't give half a hoot what people call me, that doesn't bother me either." All her bits and bobbles of things are all put together, before she grabs up a change of clothes. Newly Aerilon minted tartan-sheep printed PJs, in a pink that would make Psyche envious. Don't judge her! "Oh, damn. I broke the first commandment of pilothood."
The CAG's bunk is empty. As it's been throughout her off-duty time this day. And many days in the last few weeks. Cidra has been spending quite a few nights *not* in the berthings. Where she's been planting herself is an open question, though the chapel and her office as the general guesses. She's certainly been spending *more* time in both of them on her off hours. In any case, Cidra does strdies into the berthings now. In her off-duties, prayer beads twined up around her right up to up to her wrist, hair mussed, and honestly looking like she *has* just woken up. And rolled out of 'bed'…somewhere. She offers no verbal greeting as she makes a straight line toward the Head.
"Yeah. It is. It's why I used it," says the Sagittaran, staring across at Leyla. "To make a point. It's why I haven't used it before, or since, too." A shrug follows, restless and somewhat weak, as if she doesn't have the stomach for a fight. To Queenie, she gives a smoky snort and says, "Can't be worse than Lasher or more useless than Lucky, and I hear she's too young for me." There's a smile at the end of Tisiphone's statement, but it has as much warmth and cheer as hard vacuum. It makes her cigarette bob precariously in her mouth and dust ash down her shirt — Clearwater Glideschool, it reads; the one Captain Sitka always wore under his flight suit. "I'm sure we'll-" Her words stop, mouth half-parted in a rather stupid expression, as Cidra enters. After a long pause, the sentence is ended only with, "Sir."
First, Leyla's words earn another quick snort. "I think it was the second, and not the first. The /first/ being open discussion of an ECO's porn stash. Not having that much mobility in a Viper cockpit, /I/ certainly wouldn't know anything about such things." McQueen's wild, slightly bushy brows knit in response to Tisiphone's statement as he stops in mid-locker-load to turn back towards the Saggitaron pilot, glancing over his shoulder. "Heh. Worse than Lasher. That's a funny way to put it. I don't think anyone could ever replace that disagreeable sheepfrakker. Just as well nobody really tries." A pause, as he stoops down again to toss more clothing in. "Bless his poor dead heart, wherever he is now." Clearly there was a note of reverence in that faux - 'insult'. Be snaps to, quickly, as Cidra enters, following Tisiphone's lead. "Maaaajor." He interjects, smoothly.
With all of her gear well together, Leyla turns back to face the berthing at large, in preparation for departing, "Nor have I used 'Sag' again." No need for a fight, nor the desire for one. "Well, about that I wouldn't know. My ECO doesn't have a p0rn stash. That I know of. And I have had access to his laptop. He does have a wife though." But that's all she's going to say. Not because she couldn't, but because she honestly respects both of the parties about which she's speaking. Of course, Cidra does choose just that precise moment to walk in, "Sir." Wow, a shower is looking like the best idea on the frakking planet at this precise moment. Any of the twleve of them.
Cidra does detour briefly to her locker. She puts away her beads with care, untwining them slow from around her forearm, wrist and fingers. They've obviously been wound there tight for awhile. They've left faint red indentations in her fair skin. "And how does the day find us?" is her question to the room at large, though her eyes stay focused in her locker.
"No. You haven't," agrees Tisiphone with Leyla. It's said as close to amicably as the Viper jock's managed in weeks. She even makes eye-contact as she says it — or attempts to, at least, her gaze flicked back over toward the Raptor pilot. "Full of nightmares, porn, and gossip about the new Knights squadleader, Sir," is said as she looks back to Cidra, then immediately drops her eyes, fussing a long head of ash off her cigarette into a steel mug off her shelf. These things take concentration.
"In other words, everything is pretty much normal. If you can bloody buy /that/ as a concept." McQueen states, having relaxed a bit from attention as he continues loading his locker, riffing off Tisiphone's last statement. Turning back though, he eyes Leyla for a second at her pr0n-assertion, letting the matter lie with a visible shrug. "
Leyla does catch Tisiphone's eyes, briefly, before she turns to ashing into a mug, rather than down her shirt. And a nod follows. it seems in that, at least, the two pilots have a sort of understanding. "It's good to see you at home, Sir." And this is Cidra's home, at least to Leyla's mind, even if Cidra seems to be far from it more days than not. But be that as it may, with her things in tow, post-flight Leyla turns in the direction of the head, though there is that pause, just in case the Major might want to direct her elsewhere.
"Clean beginning was needed," Cidra says. An explanation for Khloe's appointment to the spot, presumably. It is offered shortly and with the general air that it's all they'll get so far as it goes. "Poppy and I flew together when I was a lieutenant on the carrier Marsyas. Two lifetimes ago, at least." There's nostalgia in her tone, of a sort. It's mixed with something that's not *quite* regret but very close to it. She clears her throat. "I trust her." It's again, a statement that doesn't lend itself to anything further. But it's quite definitive. "Home." The word when Leyla says it is repeated. "Yes. This is home for us all…" It is murmured like it's a statement she's reflecting on as much as anything else. She's angling toward the Head herself, once she closes her locker. Wherever she slept last night, she's in desperate need of a wake-up shower.
"I think it was three. Not two. I don't know. Can't really keep track of lifetimes anymore." McQueen observes. He's otherwise clinging to general silence. "But yeh, what she said. Good to see you keeping up, sir. Um, question. And you know I'm bad with these things, personally, but — what's your take on this new ship? If I may ask?" His voice is half-lost in the confines of his locker, so it's anyone's guess what his expression here is.
Oh! Oh! Leyla needs to stay far outside of this conversation, yes she does, lest she need to put her tin-foil hat back on, "I think I hear an empty shower calling my name." And thus Leyla goes to make The Great Escape. "Poppy is a credit to the Fleet, and a credit to any wing she flies in. The Knights will be better for having her at their head." And that's all she's going to say about the new SL currently crashed out on her (Khloe her, not Leyla her) bunk. "Good night, if I don't see you." And so, she goes, runs, flees. Okay, she just walks, but at least she's escaping.
Cidra turns, pausing at McQueen's question. And it is one she considers. "I know not to make of it yet," she replies. "The finding of it is a blessing, but not one we should let go unquestioned. Their pilots fly very well, and their CAG, Lieutenant Colonel Baer seems very…competent." She is not one for particularly giddy compliments but there is a general…interest in her tone as she ponders the Areion CAG. Still, she's not all girlish non-gushing about competence. Her hesitation to speak of the ship is born of a different source, but she does at least, after clearing her throat. "But they keep many secrets, particularly about their mission, both pre- and post-attacks. And that does not sit well with me just now." A pause and she asks, "Do you know much of Admiral Madeline Hauck?"
"Heh. That's the most logical of conclusions, sir. Well, a set collection of 'em." McQueen's observation is wry, but generally, well, soft. Having finished his epic laundry load, his shoulders shrug slightly and he draws back from his locker as he starts to fumble with his boots, one of those bushy eyebrows again arcing all askew. "Admiral Hauck? Just the name. We got all manner o' brass at Picon. It's not like /I/ ever saw her personally, though, although the Invictus floated through just a few months before the war started."
He turns to watch the fleeing Leyla, shaking his head a bit nonplussed. "Why is it her name keeps coming up? It's like people're trying to attach a name or a face to something they can't quite quantify."
"I know not much of her myself, to be honest," Cidra says. "I troubled myself little with matters of military intelligence, and that was her purview." She murmurs, more to herself than anyone else, "I flew Raptors, and was content to think I played the owl in a nest of hawks. But her name does seem to swirl around much we have seen since the attacks." This is obviously a thing that does not sit well with her. "We saw the Invictus when we were at Parnassus station. Blown away, like so many other ships. Parnassus was wrapped up in anti-Cylon research. And it would be logical to presume this Areion was part of the same branch of projects. All of which were far, far above my paygrade." And she's got the highest paygrade in the room.
Bran is given the choice to say Sag or Sagittaran, he opts for the former rather than latter so he can produce as many words as possible in as little time as possible. It's the Bran way. No insult required, but he respectfully declines rising to argument one way or another with Tisiphone and has continued onwards and beyond to his bunk. Now he returns to the forefront of the scene and with a notebook tucked under his left arm. There's a set of pens and pencils in his right hand. "So," he almost raises a hand in order to gain clearance to speak up. He's otherwise amused as he asks his teasing question, "What happens when you give fanatics a load of money and otherwise unlimited resources?"
"I suppose I saw her in better days." McQueen ventures lamely, with a halfhearted shrug. "You'd think an Admiral with a ship like that'd fare better than that — well, whatever they did to that Carrier outside. Thing's a marvel of engineering, I'll give 'em that. Not sure what kind." His broad mouth twitches into a smile that would be good-humored, minus the subject matter. The other boot comes off as he stows it in his locker.
"So what happens in /that/ case? They nuke everything they can get their beady little eyes on, I'd assume."
"A marvel of engineering. Yes. It is that. They have done interesting tricks to their aircraft as well," Cidra says. A look is passed between Bran and McQueen. It is not, quite, quelling. She can't bring herself to disagree. But she does curtail any further remotely critical comments about the Areion. "Whatever their mission before they met us over Sagittaron. They are the first flight of Colonial pilots save ourselves we have encountered since the attacks. I take a careful look at such blessings. But I still thank all gods for them."
"I don't know, myself - could always just ask the Evocati," Bran might not be prickly-of-sorts in stating Sag but he is when it comes to Evocati, and in answering his own question, but that's just a moment in many that he lives and his attention floats elsewhere. His posture briefly falters and then he sets his collected things away and onto a desk, to sit at the table and quietly listen. He starts to speak up but decides on holding his peace, for now.
In a counterpoint to Bran's statement, McQueen ventures, with a slight half-smile. "Oh. Scuse me. I heard 'well-funded fanatics' and immediately thought of the Cylons. It's a wonder what happens when you boil everything down to non-specific pronouns, yeh? What a horrible comparison to make." Still, he just made it. With that, he proceeds to peel off one of his tanks and produces a baggy sweatshirt from the bowels of his locker. "I'm with you though, Sir. They're an ally we couldn't have even asked for, let alone expected. It makes you wonder, though. Who else is out there?"
Cidra smirks the barest hint of a smirk. "We are all veterans now. We just do not trumpet it so loud as the 'Evocati'," she says. McQueen, for his part, gets a level look. "A horrible comparison to make. Yes." But his last, just a nod. "But, yes. I want answers, but I thank all gods I have any questions to even ask. And it does make one wonder. What other ships survived? Why have the Cylons left Sagittaron and Aerilon yet reinforced places like Virgon and Picon? Many questions." None of which she can answer. "Perhaps we shall find answers on the morrow. For my part, I need to shower I am on CAP in an hour."
"Areion, Cylon, don't much matter to me. Everything happens for a reason, so I'd rather dedicate myself to finding that out than eradicating someone that got sour because I took a piss in their coffee one morning." He trails off for a lingering bit, as if he would like to speak up further, but in the end of things it just has Bran opening the book and flipping through sporadic pages of artwork. He settles on one similar to the tattoos he and other Taurians wear. "Allies, for now, and bonus points to the CAG for rhyming," he pauses, wryly smiling, "We the Evocati, poetic veterans of the fleet."
"Literary streak. /Nice./" Bran's killer rhymes earn faint praise from the other man. "If they're sitting on answers, I guess someone won't like what we find. Guess they need /something/ to keep them going. Especially considering…Well, how they are. I'll leave it at that." McQueen lets all this more or less drop. "You're on to something, though. There's a lot about this war that makes no sense. It really makes me wonder about the Gods and how much they are willing to test us with…absurdity."
"We fly but do not fall. So say we all," Cidra rhymes with a touch of whimsy. To McQueen, she shakes her head. "The gods do not manufacture our miseries, Queenie. It is men - and women - who hurt each other. And men and Cylons. Our creations, now the weapons that point back at us. But again, the sin is ours and not the gods. I pray for forgiveness for my own. I suspect Lieutenant Colonel Baer does the same for he and his." And with that, she does take her leave. Off she goes, to the Head.