BCH #003: Questions and Cycles
Questions & Cycles
Summary: Santiago & Sawyer make small talk, discuss QUODEL, the ship, etc, but the subject shifts just as Sitka arrives to put his laundry on.
Date: 23 Feb 2041
Related Logs: None
Santiago Sawyer Sitka 
Laundry Room Deck 3 Battlestar Cerberus Condition Level 3: All Clear

Industrial washers and dryers line each side of this elongated room, which typically has personnel moving in and out all day and night. These front-loading systems are designed to withstand the rigors of a military beating and still function as expected. A sturdy set of counters run the length of the room for crewmembers to fold their own laundry and dress and pins or patches before and after the process.

A seated, well dressed blonde is perched on the edge of a chair over yonder, with a packet of detergent in one hand. That hand is perfectly manicured, not a chip in sight. She's turned the packet around, and appears to be reading the the instructions. A brow is slightly arched, as if it's in a foreign text she's a tad rusty on. She is perched with a silk pillowcase stuffed with something. This appears to be her version of a laundry bag. None of the washers or dryers are running.

Platinum bleached blonde hair is spiked and mussed in a 'didn't just wake up, but that's the look I'm going for' do. Santiago's build is athletic, body compact. Her hair is kept short, and she wears only touches of makeup, in neutral tones, with a light pink gloss to bring out the shape of full lips. Her nose is pierced with a small hoop, left nostril, and she wears very little other adornment save a ring on her left hand, and a few thin metal bracelets on her right wrist. Her skin is on the fairish side with hints of a light tan. Her eyes are green, long lashed, and her smile is just a little wicked when it's flashed. Though she's short, her footwear usually makes up for her 5 foot 5 inch frame.

A sheer sleeveless top clings to her upper body, showing through just enough that dark undergarments are required. The cut is modest, the opacity is not. The neck is a mock-turtle, collar standing about an inch. Around her neck, she wears a delicate platinum choker studded with small diamonds. A simple black bolero is worn over the top, hiding her arms and back from view, leaving barely even a glance of her wrist visible. The cut is slightly asymmetric at the collar, and there is a single small pocket on the left sleeve. A pair of designer slacks cling to her hips, almost fitted to the knee, where they flare out over a pair of six inch stiletto boots, also black. The fabric is thin without being sheer, and flows with her steps.

There's the click of heels on the deck plating as Sawyer enters the laundry room, though by comparison to the ones that Santiago wears, they may be considered conservative. She doesn't tote laundry bag nor basket, merely a pink garment folded over her arm and a can of spray starch. Someone is on a mission to make the world a little less wrinkled. It doesn't take a second glance for the Reporter to pin Santiago as a fellow civilian. "Troubles?" She asks casually as she crosses to ironing board to fold it down from the wall.

A neat clip of blonde hair is parted off center and layered delicately to hang at the soft line of Sawyer's jaw. She has broad features and large eyes, accentuated by the careful application of subtle make-up that brings out the richness of her brown eyes and the minor pout of her full lips. There's a sharpness in her expression, like she's taking in ever minor detail and mentally recording it for use sometime later. Her form is athletic and full, not waif thin or modelesque, but it's clear she takes pride in her appearance.

She's dressed professionally in a white blouse, the top few of a series of pearl buttons undone at the throat. Silk pinstripe charcoal grey pants are high-waisted, accentuated by a pair of black suspenders instead of a belt. A lanyard printed with the fleet logo hangs around her neck, plastic sleeves housing her media credentials and security clearance badges for identification that mark her clearly as a Civilian.

Santiago glances up from her literary adventures in domesticity. Her green eyes fix on Sawyer. She doesn't look at all annoyed by the time her eyes meet the other woman's, after a quick perusal of the ensemble. "These things make no sense to me. It's not as if I wear cotton." Translation: these directions are for plebs in jailhouse clothing, dear Gods someone help me. "I had people for this at home." The words cover a hint of frustration. To be stymied by laundry!

Sawyer props the can of starch on the padded surface of the board before shaking out her garment to slide it on to the tapered front of the board. It's a pink sleeveless blouse, a little on the slinky side, with a ruffled front and a pearl button clasp at the back of the collar, for those Fashionistas playing at home. "They have a service for the dress greys, I'm told. Those wool uniforms can't just be tossed in the washing machines either. Maybe make doe eyes at one of the enlisted men in the support department?" She offers helpfully.

Santiago's eyes slide vaguely toward the hatch, and go slightly unfocused at this revelation of dry cleaning service. There's a distinct motor function going on behind her eyes. Her gaze flicks again to Sawyer. "Excellent suggestion. The boys in support won't know what hit them. I won't have to touch these machines. Everyone wins." She rises, leaving her little pillowcase of garments behind, and takes the few steps over to the other blonde. Her heels click sharply as she approaches. Once within range, she extends a hand. "Santiago Blue, Aquaria."

Sawyer pulls down the iron and is setting it to an appropriate degree for the type of material the shirt is made from. As Santiago approaches, she flashes the woman a smile. "Glad I could be of service." She holds her hand out over the board to take Santiago's in a quick and friendly shake. "Sawyer Averies, Acropolis Monthly. Sorry we didn't have a chance to meet at the QUODEL mixer, I'm sure you would have made it more interesting. So what brings you on board? Are you working an assignment?"

"When the Aquarian government calls for service," Santiago replies, with just a hint of a 'party line' in her tone, "The Aquarian people respond." She smiles, diffusing the sentence from 'frakkin' govt' to 'you know how it is'. "The cultural attache has asked me to put my skills to use evaluating the Deck. I couldn't make it to the mixer. I had other things." She doesn't elaborate on that. "I'm still adjusting to the very tiny living space. It's like camp, except little girls don't snore like automatic weapons set on crowd control."

"I've been assigned to the Wing." Sawyer says with a little nod as they swap these little details. "The other thing I don't remember from camp were the co-ed shower arrangements. Not that I'm complaining about the view." There's laughter in her voice and amusement in her eyes, as if for this brief moment the reporter is in a carefree sort of mood. "If you dig up anything good about the deck, and leak it to me first before it makes it into a report, I'll make it worth your while, Miss Blue." Hmm. "Blue. I should know that name, shouldn't I?" Perhaps it was the diplomatic sound bite out of Santiago that tipped her off.

"Yes. The 'Head'. Charming name, don't you think?" There's a slight widening of her eyes to illustrate that was sarcasm, as if it were necessary. Santiago regards Sawyer for a moment, then slides her arms crossed and stands still only briefly. She paces to the other end of the room, slowly. Her heels telegraph every step. Reporters. Santi smiles, though her back is to the other woman, and it goes unseen. She clears her throat, and when she speaks, there's no evidence of the expression in the tone. "The only thing I'm likely to dig up on the Deck is grease." She turns, pivoting on the ball of one foot to face Sawyer. "Did you know they serve tea in the Observation Deck during those flashy-flashy training missions," she flicks the fingers of one hand to indicate the laser beams. "Civilized, but not at all distracting from the fact that they're blowing through a lot of expensive fuel for light shows that aren't even that pretty."

Sawyer's smile becomes less of a public show thing, and more one based on inner amusement. "If you're not up to the challenge, then you're not up to the challenge. Be a lap dog and sign off on all the deck's doings. Or, you could help me and we'd make this rather boring assignment a little less so." Sawyer sprays the surface of the garment (turned inside out to protect the material), and then presses the wedge of the iron to it with a sizzle. "You know they actually stick me /inside/ the birds during those little dog and pony shows? At least the view is better, but sometimes I think I'd settle for tea." Of course she notices the avoidance as to Santiago's last name and familial bearing, maybe that only confirms the suspicion or maybe it only gives her reason to dig later.

The selective question responses might seem rude on another person, but on a Blue it's just business as usual. Sawyer will surely learn that soon enough, particularly if she ever tackles the male Blue aboard. "If I find anything worth sharing, I'm sure I'll be obligated to pass it on. This is a service to the people, after all. I, for one, am not interested in a shiny happy soundbite to support a military who could very well be wasting funds in the pursuit of continued peace that's lasted four decades." Is she implying the new vessel, and all of its assorted tricks are unnecessary in sustained peace time? Could be. Could definitely be. "We're here to be sure that money is being well spent. I don't see why information need go through bureaucratic filters before it gets to you. You, who are the voice that reaches the people first." At some point, probably some point very soon, someone's going to regret dragging Santiago Blue to a mission in space.

Sawyer seems to fall on the same side of the line as Santiago, as far as the funding is concerned. Or if not, she's certainly not protesting the woman's viewpoint. "I like the way you think. My obligation is to bring the story to the people, not let it get buried underneath a bunch of red-tape. Unfortunately, this ship is locked up tighter then a Sagittaron's virginal legs on her wedding night." She flicks a glance up quickly, adding an obligatory, "Sorry. Sailors are rubbing off on me."

"Are they still issuing virgins on Sagittaron?" Santiago's eyebrows lift ever so slightly. "Huh. I thought the brothers of the colony would have taken care of that by now. Of course," there's a slight smile from the platinum blonde. "maybe it's just that the Saggies I've met have been atypical in their single minded pursuit of trim outside the boundaries of vow and virtue."

Sawyer gives a laugh, a full sound as she continues her ironing. "Well. I meant the arranged marriages and the women with the…" She makes a motion around her face. "Veils and what not. The traditionalists. The men though…the men…" Mmmm. The Reporter just lets that thought drift away. "I've an interview with one. At least I think he's a Saggie. I guess that'll be my first question." She puts the iron down and pulls the shirt off the board. "And I think he hates pink." Sawyer says with a little wry twist of her lips. Yes, that happens to be the color of the garment she just finished ironing.

Santiago taps her fingers against her left arm, arms still crossed. Her bracelets shine as she paces slowly, passing under the light fixtures above. Her heels rap out a sharp tap with every step. A silk pillowcase, clearly stuffed with something or other, rests on a chair in the back of the room. She faces the hatch, but glances over her shoulder, brow slightly arched. "Exploitation through sexual slavery. You say traditional, I say culture of oppression." Her fingers still, and she turns, back now to the hatch, blocking the aisle by standing right dead center as she faces the reporter. The heels she wears make her much taller than she is, her clothing is probably worth more than most Saggies see in years of hard labor. She smiles then. "All the more reason to wear pink. I think it's lovely."

Apparently, even Captains have to do their own laundry on this behemoth of a battlestar. Not that this particular one is wearing pins at the moment; he's pulled on a set of olive drab fatigues that fit a little loose on his frame, and hasn't bothered buttoning the jacket. His bag of laundry is shoved onto the nearest machine, once he's navigated around the bleached blonde obstruction in heels, and he keeps his head down while he messes with dials and settings. Maybe he didn't catch that bit about sexual slavery.

"Well, at least it'll throw him off kilter. That's the hope." Sawyer's fingers snick off the iron, now that she's pleased enough with the outcome of a little starch and a little heat. Wrinkles will not be tolerated. The can gets recapped in blue. "And thank you, that's a compliment coming from a woman who doesn't wear cotton." Speak, and man appears. There's a faint quick blush to the tops of Sawyer's cheeks as /she/ is the one caught off guard by the man's sudden appearance in conjuncture with the current conversation. "Captain!" She says a little /too/ enthusiastically.

At approximately five feet and eight inches, and one hundred eighty pounds, Ibrahim is neither built like a brick shithouse nor a beanpole, though tends toward a slightly bulky frame whose flab is kept at bay by regular PT. His dark hair has a tendency to curl slightly when worn past an inch or so, and has begun to recede a little at his temples. Blue eyes, brooding dark brows and a hawkish nose tend to lend his features an air of severity, and his upper lip is marred by an old, though still fairly prominent scar. A simple platinum ring is worn on his left hand, broad enough to cuff most of the knuckle, and etched with fine detail.

Sitka is dressed in Colonial Fleet fatigues minus the outer shirt. A dark brown tank top covers a gray sleeveless T-shirt, with a pair of silver hexagonal dogtags dangling from a chain around his neck. The T-shirt is tucked into a pair of olive green trousers, the legs of which are bloused into the top of black combat boots. A subdued black web belt is worn around the waist.

The platinum blonde roadblock remains where she is, though her stance could be called obstructive, her balance on those heels is questionable. Even as someone comes in and moves around her, she remains right where she is, rather than move to the side, nearer one of the industrial machines. Her eyes follow the back of the dark haired head as the newcomer ducks over to stuff a machine, and tweak the dials. Her eyes follows his hands, as if she's distractedly studying some arcane ritual she's never seen before. Her eyes flick to Sawyer again, juuuust in time to note the slight flush. Her eyes return to the Captain! as he's so readily addressed by the reporter. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to put the pieces together. Ah. "The woman makes the clothes, Sawyer. You have no concerns in that regard." Another compliment from Santiago to the reporter. Hm.

Well, if it isn't his intrepid bunkmate. "Miss Averies," Sitka replies, with considerably less enthusiasm. It isn't unfriendly; there's even a very faint smile in evidence at the corners of his blue eyes, which briefly seek the journalist without making contact with her own. "Finding things all right?" After a bit more poking and fiddling, he swings the lid open on his washer, and starts shoving clothes in. Santiago gets a brief, amused glance that lingers a second on her footwear, but the woman isn't directly addressed. He probably doesn't even remember nearly slamming into her in that corridor, a couple of days ago.

Sawyer spreads out her shirt on the board while she works on replacing the iron in it's crook, busying herself to cover up the momentary flush to her cheeks. If she loses her composure, she's also just as quick to gain it again. Fidgeting is better then being flustered. "Finding things just fine, thank you." She winds, unwinds, then rewinds the cord to the iron as if it wasnt' right the first time, or she needs something to keep her hands buys. "Have you met Miss Santiago Blue, from Aquaria? She's been assigned to Deck. Miss Blue, this is Captain Sitka, a reservist pilot. Captain, I hope you haven't forgotten your promise to speak to me tonight?" Ah yes, right now she's all polite. Later, maybe the daggers'll come out.

Arms, still crossed, the blonde's eyes track the movement in the room, going from the military man to the reporter, and back. Her attention shifts, heavy, dark lashes rising slightly as her attention goes to Sawyer, and she falls silent for a long moment, thinking. Her eyes, of course, shift to Sitka at the introduction. She just watches him, silent.

While he seems to be focused on getting his laundry started, it's entirely possible Sitka's noticed that blush— and the fidgeting that follows it. Viper pilots generally have pretty sharp eyes, after all. Even ones, ahem, advancing in years. He drops the lid, and looks over at Santiago for a moment when she's introduced by name; the silence is returned, and his lips twitch a little as his attention shifts back to his washer. "Deck, huh?" It's far. Too. Easy. He doesn't even bother making some kind of disparaging remark, though the amusement lingers as he jabs the start button and addresses Sawyer again, "I even showered for you, Miss Averies. An hour, right?" He checks his watch, with the sleeve of his jacket briefly slid up an inked forearm.

"It's heartening to see the Colonial Military values experience over…" Santiago takes a brief beat to choose her words. The sharpness in those green eyes suggests she may already have chosen, but is merely intentionally emphasizing the point with a pause, "… youthful enthusiasm and reflex. What age —" Her eyes slide down with the check of the watch, attention going to the inked flesh. It takes approximately the space of two words for her to recognize the style. Her train of thought very nearly derails, and the pause, that time, is obvious and clearly unintentional. "… range is acceptable for qualified safe flight?" Aquarian tattoos on a Sagittaron. Her eyes come up just slow enough that the earlier direction of her gaze may be caught.

"A luxury I'm not often gifted with." Sawyer says with a diplomatic smile, even though she's speaking of the several crew members she's had to interview fresh off of shift or during. "An hour, yup. Just enough time for me to go change and for you to finish up your load. Just don't cause too much trouble with Miss Blue here. I have eyes and ears everywhere." Her shirt gets slithered off the ironing board by the crook of her finger.

"It's heartening to see the Colonial Military values experience over…" Santiago takes a brief beat to choose her words. The sharpness in those green eyes suggests she may already have chosen, but is merely intentionally emphasizing the point with a pause, "… youthful enthusiasm and reflex. What age —" Her eyes slide down with the check of the watch, attention going to the inked flesh. It takes approximately the space of two words for her to recognize the style. Her train of thought very nearly derails, and the pause, that time, is obvious and clearly unintentional. "… range is acceptable for qualified safe flight?" Aquarian tattoos on a Sagittaron. Her eyes come up just slow enough that the earlier direction of her gaze may be caught. She quickly averts it to the reporter. "Thank you for the concern and support, Ms. Averies." She emphasizes the Ms, likely for the pilot's benefit. "If you'd like to have breakfast sometime this week, I'll buy." That's probably an attempt at humor. Rich people.

It's a little hard to tell whether Santiago's talking to Sawyer, Sitka, or Sitka's unorthodox tattoos, given the direction of her gaze. His reply is mild, and lacks the indignation that a few pilots might display: "Usually around fourty, fourty-five. Give or take. The ones that don't muster out, usually go on to do the CIC track." He slides a pack of smokes — cheap, some kind of Picon brand — out of his trousers' pocket, and lights one up before taking a lean against his machine. Maybe he interpreted it as a genuine, honest to gods query for the sake of curiosity. Sawyer's apportioned a small smile, which is gone by the time he's finished scratching at the bridge of his nose with a thumbnail. "I'll be on my best behaviour, Sawyer. Scout's honour."

"That would be great." Sawyer says promptly to the offer for breakfast. The Reporter is never going to turn down an opportunity for interaction when it presents itself. Everyone has a story, and it takes time to ferret out whether it's worth turning into press. Of course the conversation between the platinum blonde and the Captain is no doubt being recorded, at least in the Reporters memory. "But the Captain here, flies for the reserves. So no doubt he has more years of service in him, when it's stretched out like that." Did she just come to his defense? Well, maybe in some twisted way. Or maybe she's just trying to endear the Captain so she can get some juicier details later.

Santiago's query could have been genuine, but the likelihood teeters on the edge of 'snowball's chance'. She nods to Sawyer, and smiles just a bit. "It's a date, then. I believe our accommodations are directly across from one other. Anytime you'd like to chat, step across the hall." At the assertion that the Captain has more years in him for flying reserves, her eyes shift to the pilot. "Many more years?" The emphasis is slight. "I'm sure that's a boon to the Air Wing." She smiles then, and turns her eyes back to Sawyer. "What's the name of the reserve squad?"

Sitka's tshirt, visible beneath his fatigues jacket, even has the emblem of the Picon Space Guard visible at the left breast, gold on navy blue. And beneath that, the red and white symbol of the Snow Petrels; it's a fairly aesthetically pleasing amalgamation of a white bird and a Mark II viper. His eyes rove toward Sawyer while she speaks, his expression curious, if guardedly so. Santiago's question, directed to the journalist like he isn't even in the room, gets a little shake of his head while he continues to smoke. Her attention being elsewhere, of course, does give him ample opportunity to observe her. And her ridiculous shoes. And her outfit that could probably feed his family for a few months. Good gods.

Sawyer doesn't seem fazed that Blue's question goes to her instead of the man in question. Likely by now, she's placed Santiago's family in the mental rolodex, and the fact that Santiago addresses her instead of Shiv means she ranks higher on the social totem pole then the Captain. "Reserve Fighter Squadron, One Zero One, Snow Petrels. Based out of Picon." Somene's done her homework.

Santiago watches the reporter, her eyes on the fall of the blonde's hair for just a moment. She could be mentally sizing up the cut, color, and price tag that came with it. "Hm." That's her entire response to the recitation of the Petrel pedigree. Her eyes finally flick to the dark haired pilot again. There they remain for several silent breaths. "Which viper is yours?"

"Whichever one the CAG tells me to sit my ass down in," the Captain answers, without missing a beat. His cigarette's touched to his lips, pulled from and withdrawn again when the buzzer for his washing machine goes off. "Generally," he continues, turning around to tend to the transfer of wet clothing, "I fly the mark twos. Leave the fancy machines for the ones with the skill to fly them." If he, a pilot, is being humble, then surely something's gone severely askew in the universe. "How's your review of the deck coming, Miss Blue?"

As she's no longer in the spotlight, Sawyer picks that moment now to slink off so she can go change and no doubt prepare some questions for the Captain. "If you'll both excuse me?" But it's merely said out of politeness, she's not actually sticking around the be excused.

"I'll see you at breakfast, Sawyer." Santiago's eyes flick to the other blonde. She smiles with the words, and it seems genuine. There's just a flash of humanity behind the standoffish, judgmental behavior she's displayed for the moment. And then her eyes return to the pilot. Something in her posture changes, and she watches him for a moment. Her nostrils flare ever so slightly, and she breathes in a slow, deep breath, just as smoke lazily curls past her. "Sometimes all those buttons and levers just get in the way." There's a small measure of understanding in that statement, but it's followed shortly by, "More slowly than I would like, but sometimes these things can't be rushed. They seem serviceable thus far." Seem and serviceable. Hardly a glowing review of one of the hardest working set of crewmen on the vessel.

Pardon's neither waited for, nor given; the Sagittarian watches after Sawyer for a few seconds before returning to the task of shoving wet clothing into his dryer. The lid's banged shut with his knee, cigarette switched to his mouth while he leans in to fiddle with dials again. "There's reason for all those buttons and dials. They're superior fighters, in every sense of the word." The button's pushed, and it begins tumbling away. "Have you been able to catch the Chief yet? He's a good guy. Runs a pretty tight ship." He slouches back against the machine, but eschews direct eye contact with the woman in heels across from him.

Santiago has taken to a casual perusal of the pilot's person with her eyes, as if cataloguing everything from posture, to uniform cleanliness, to the way he holds his cigarette. She adjusts her stance slightly, turning to walk past the pilot, in a perfectly straight line from where she was to where she's going. She passes by him quite closely, and takes a slow, deep breath as she does so. Ex-smoker, perhaps. "A shitty pilot is a shitty pilot, it doesn't matter how many fancy flickery lights the console has." Her posture is absolutely straight, though arms still crossed in that ever present, if slightly defensive pose. Her heels tick that slow passage over toward the seat that holds the silk pillowcase. She reaches up to run her hand over the back of her head, fingernails dragging through pale strands of short blonde hair before she touches, then rubs the back of her neck, just under the high collar of her jacket. "I haven't had anything approaching a sustained conversation with the Chief, no."

"You sound like you speak from experience." It could come off as flippant, but oddly, it doesn't. Ibrahim's eyes follow the taller (by virtue of her heels) woman carefully, his eyes tracing the motion of her fingers through her hair and slid along the back of her neck. If he sees anything that intrigues him, he does not comment. "What, precisely, are you meant to be assessing, Miss Blue?" There he goes with the 'miss' again. Might be a Sagittarian thing, between older men and younger women. Or might just be he's oblivious to her little emphasis earlier.

There's a pause between him speaking, and her response. In the space between, she runs her hand over her neck, and dips down to her upper back. For a moment, a brief glimpse of a tattoo may be seen, though it's something graphically geometric, vertical lines in varying widths. The top is barely revealed, and could be anything. She turns, a little swish in the fabric of her slacks as she does so. Despite the heels being ridiculously high, she navigates just fine with them, controlled movements in spare spaces. "The Deck, of course." There's something in the tone that suggests it should be obvious, but also that that isn't entirely the truth, or anything approaching the whole truth. "There is much more to the Deck than just the Chief, as I'm sure you're quite aware." She walks back again, pace slow, just as close as before. She breathes deeply, again, as she approaches his immediate position. "Why the reserves over active duty?"

The smoke itself is nothing special. No clove, no menthol, no fancy Caprican label. The Captain seems to have pedestrian tastes— insofar as his bad habits are concerned, anyway. He watches her approach, but doesn't move from his casual lean against the tumbling machine. "Mmhm." And that's the sum total of his response, on the matter of her 'assessment' of the deck. Probably a mental note or two made there, judging by the slight turn of his lips. Then, "I've done my time in the navy. It isn't for everyone." Terse, and maybe the slightest bit dismissive. "Sure you're not in league with Averies?"

In league. That prompts a smile from the pale haired woman. She glances down, lashes heavy over her eyes, and shakes her head very slightly. She pauses, and turns the few degrees necessary to face the man, from her position just past his. Her arms slide uncrossed, and she reaches up to twirl an imaginary mustache with a flourish at the end, and a waggle of fingers. "Yes, we're all out to get you, we civilian monsters, we. We'll take your funds, bankrupt your women, and enforce limits on the time you can spend burning fuel for jamming maneuvers that could be run just as effectively one on one. How many ships were out there?" Her eyes stray to his smoke, then she glances away, and paces back.

It's like trying to bait a dead fish. He just sort of.. floats there, belly up. "You'll have to speak with the CAG about that." Which is the sound of a door promptly slamming shut in her face. Or at least closed firmly. Shiv ashes out his cigarette, checks the time on his watch, and briefly skims Santiago's face with his eyes when she moves past him.

"I'm not a reporter." There's amusement in the statement, this time, when the man shuts down at her question. She pauses in her pacing, back to the man, with perhaps a sliver of her face visible from the pilot's vantage. She shakes her head again, then glances over at her laundry… er… pillowcase. "I hope the dry cleaning services on this can know how to deal with silk blends." She skips off to a different subject entirely, and the line of her shoulders tenses again, briefly, then relaxes with she takes a breath.

Sitka's dryer buzzing at precisely that moment thankfully diffuses some of his awkward tension, in the wake of the aborted line of questioning and subject change to.. silk pillowcases. Which he's clearly about as well-versed in as a duck out of water. "You could try speaking with the supply officer, I'm not sure what facilities they have on board here." The silky thing gets a long look, and then he drops his cigarette to the deck, grinds it out with the toe of his combat boot, and sets to retrieving warm clothing from the machine.

Santiago takes the remaining few steps to the chair, takes a hold of the silk case between her fingers, and turns on her heel to make her way back toward the pilot. Her trajectory is hatchward, though she does pause just next to Sitka, forward momentum coming to an abrupt halt. She stands there for a breath, two. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Sitka." Her delivery is pitch perfect politico. She just stands a little too close. But then she moves to step away, heels sharp on the deck once more.

"Pleasure's mine." Something about the way he says that. Something. Is just a tiny little bit less than wholesome. But he is a Saggie, so all bets are pretty much off. Blue eyes come up to her darker green ones for a second, then lower again as he finishes shoving clothing into the canvas bag, and the click of her heels recedes across the deck.

"You're so right," comes the audible reply as the woman shoves open the hatch, and takes those weapon-like stiletto boots elsewhere. That response wasn't at all measured or polite.

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