PHD #123: Some Mild to Moderate Side Effects May Occur
Some Mild to Moderate Side Effects May Occur
Summary: Anti-Rads can be a bitch and a half. But life goes on in Pilot Berths, no less.
Date: 29 Jun 2041
Related Logs: Some
Alessandra Cidra Cora Evandreus Jayden Marko McQueen Psyche Sitka Tisiphone Trask 
Pilot Berths
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: #123

Evandreus is in bed, curled toward the wall, bare to the waist and wearing a pair of fatigues trousers, sans socks or boots. A heating pad is draped over his thigh, one hand resting on top of it, the cord acring down and out of the bunk to a plug on the wall.

Jayden is just making his way in. The berths somewhat busy, as the CAP rotations begin. "Hey, Bunnster," greets Jay, as he steps in front of reaching his locker. The process of shedding flight suit begins.

CAP rotations mean near to nothing to a Bunny kept off the line. His world is conscribed by the line of prescription drug bottles set up like a silent jury overlooking him in his bed, and the stopwatch hanging on the wall that beeps on occasion to let him know to take more of them. The rest is just the ebb and flow of the tide of people washing through the room at his back. "Hey," Evan calls back, after a moment, trying to call up the vigor to make himself sound friendly.

Jayden is one of the lucky few who got away unharmed from Leonis. A few scrapes in his face and scalp are all that remains from the venture. "How's the leg coming along," he asks as he steps out of his suit. The locker's door is opened, displaying assorted personal items. "Heard you moaning a few days ago and…" he chuckles a bit, "Well, I figured you where in a lot of pain or maybe you found some other way of dealing with the injury." The suit is hung inside the locker, but his hand remains inside. He browses for something inside his private storage.

Evandreus was not, despite all evidence to the contrary, shot in the leg on Leonis. He was shot in the chest, a wound that's all but healed, by now. But the moaning, yes, was his, and his legs seem a source of constant complaint. "Huh," was surely meant to be a laugh. But it didn't come out that way. "It -aches,-" he lets Jayden know, trying to turn himself over, but failing due to a stiffness in his side and lower back. Finally he just speaks up to talk to Jayden without turning to look at him. "How was work?"

Jayden hasn't seen a heating pad in ages, and seeing one draped over someone's thigh lead him to believe it was some sort of therapy. Not that he is keeping track of the injuries his friends are racking-up. "You know, to some degree I envy you being laid-up," he smirks even if Evan can't see it. "I mean, it's a maze of sprays and needles just to get in and out of our birds," a pause and he takes a thick marker from his locker. "A few more anti-rads, and I'll begin losing my hairline." He shakes his head and uncaps said marker.

Evandreus is silent a long while, adam's apple working against a crush of emotion. "Yah," he finally speaks up. "Yah, those thing's'll frak you up. Be, uh. Be careful, okay?" he asks of Jayden in a voice that struggles to be more than a whisper for the last few words.

Jayden nods once to Evan. He can pick-up on Doe's crappy demeanor, but it is evident that he has every right to be so. The scent of the marker is profound. "Yeah. I'm taking it easy," says Jayden before using the marker to scribble something on the front of his locker's door. One word is written in bold over the door, just below two others. Lasher joins Gadjet and Goddess.

Evandreus finally negotiates his way onto his back, knees slowly unbending, degree by degree, as Evan controls his breathing enough to let his muscles go without making more of those ungainly 'ow' noises. "Hey, can. Can you do me a really big favor, J?"

Jayden caps the marker and turns. "Absolutely," replies Jay, as he walks towards Evan's bunk. It's right nect to his, so, it takes seconds.

"Next time you're down in the mess could you bring me up some more juice?" Evan asks the guy, turning his head to the side and tipping his chin down toward his shoulder in an awkward sort of position. "I have a thing for it… up here," he cranes his eyes to peer up to his cubbyhole.

Jayden nods and looks towards the bunny hole. "In here," he asks, doing he best to find some sort of vase or cup to bring the juice in.

There's a yellow water bottle, the tall liter-and-a-half kind, with a screw-on cap in black plastic, up there. it's sitting behind the row of medication bottles, and when Evan reaches up to fetch the thing while moving as little as possible, he manages to bring half of his meds down on top of him, eyes squezing shut as they rattle down over his face, a coupleof them rolling to the edge of his bunk and down, clattering to the floor. "FRAK IT," Evan grunts out through clenched jaws.

Jayden winces a bit as the meds come down. Guess the poor guy really does need a nurse. "Hold on, Bunns," he tells his fellow flier, and begins gathering the bottles from the floor. They are picked up and aligned back in his box. "Let me get some clothes on, and I'll rush over to the galley for the juice, eh?"


Evandreus has got a heating pad creating something of a hazard as it arcs down from his bunk and across a few lockers to plug into the wall. He's on his back, with the pad draped over his side, knees still slightly bent, bare heels planted into the bedding. One arm draping over his eyes, some of his pill bottles have been spilled from their tidy arrangement and are lying around his head, one in his hair, one rolled down in his pillow to rest against his cheek.

Admit one (1) Tisiphone, by way of the Head. Her towel's around her waist, unlaced boots slopping noisily on her feet, her flight suit and other clothes thrown over her shoulder. Shlop-scuff, shlop-scuff. The noisy steps pause by the edge of Evan's bunk, and nothing else is heard from her for several long seconds. Finally, very quietly: "Bunny? You awake?" A moment after asking, the pill-bottle pillowed by his hair is picked up and carefully set back upon the shelf. Rattlerattle.

"Mhmm," Evan's voice tries to escape the seal of his lips, but that's a no-go, for now. Added to the mix is a dash of a tone enough to indicate that he'd really rather not be. Once the pillbottle above his head's put back into its line, his arm peels up over his hair, letting his dull reddish eyebeams free from the enclosure they'd been hidden under, free to amble in search of Tisiphone's. "Mhey," dry lips finally peel apart to let a syllable out.

"Here. There's one over here." Another pill-bottle, pulled away from its attempts to nuzzle Bunny's cheek, set up onto the shelf as well. "I'll be right back," Tisiphone says — and she is, gone only long enough to throw her flight suit and sweaty clothes onto her bunk. She's pulling her olive drab jacket on over her bare torso, shower-pinked fingers curled on the edge of his bunk as she peers in at him. "Get you anything?" she asks. For her own part, she looks tired but… /settled/, perhaps, is a good term for it. A few of her own gremlins sent packing in the last twenty-four hours or so. Though concern takes the place of pensiveness, now, furrowing her brows toward eachother.

Evandreus moves the hand that's down on the heating pad down to the edge of his bunk, patting it twice by way of invitation before it returns to its place on his side. "No," he tells her. "Echo's gonna bring me some juice," he goes on. 'Cause evidently the stairs down to the mess hall are a little on the formidable side, right now. "You smell nice," he points out. "Sorry, I haven't done the shower thing in a few days," he begs pardon for his own stank. "I should probably do that," comes out on a sigh that indicates he has no desire to go and do it. Whatever uptic in his mood followed his visit to the shrink seems to have dissipated, and then some.

She hasn't exhausted her supply of sandalwood soap. Yet. It was one of the very few fripperies she brought aboard with her — unless the smokes and booze count. No shore-leave clothes — unless her red- and gold-striped socks were all she was planning to head out in. The eels are freshly-cleaned as well, coiled in damp jumbles across her scalp. Tisiphone sniffs sharply in Evan's direction, and makes a small show out of grimacing — then climbs up anyway, settling on the edge of his mattress with her legs a-dangle, her near hand reaching out to stroke his near arm. "What you do to your side?" she asks, the frown returning after her pantomimed good humour.

Evandreus lifts his arm again as Tisiphone climbs up. It moves out and around in a smooth motion to seatbelt over Tis' lap. "It's kind of… crampy," he euphemizes around the tight ache in his side and back. "I'm still, uh… well, my body's still trying to deal with all those anti-rads I shot up in Kythera. I've never had a good time with them, and— seven weeks might have… overdone it, a little," he goes on, trying his best to keep his tone conversational. A small smile settles on his features, "You look happier, today," he points out, finding some comfort there, at least.

Tisiphone looks down at Evan's arm, and folds both of hers over it, fussing lightly — and perhaps ticklishly — with the fine hairs there. "I don't even want to think about how many we took," she says, her mouth pursing for a moment. She is, of course, thinking about it, right then. Other matters distract her, though, and she looks up from his arm to his face. "Don't know about /happy/, but I sure as frak feel /better/," she readily admits. "You ever just- you're talking to someone, and right in the middle of it, you realize why you're having the problem you're busy bitching about?"

Evandreus' arm hairs range from the fine to the less so, culminating in a ridge of darker hair along the outside of his lower arm. Shaggyboy. He taps his fingers listlessly at her hip when she fiddles with the hair there. "Yah. Yah, talking stuff out can help more than anyone'd ever think. Hearing yourself say stuff out loud that… sounded so reasonable in your head, but. Really isn't."

"I was talking with Shiv." There's some complicated tangle of thoughts that snarls in her eyebrows and the uncertain curve of her mouth, then smooths away, gradually, as she keeps talking. "About everything. Being so angry about Lucky, and Flasher losing his shit at me the other night, and- and everything. And I was just talking, and realized, here I am bitching at someone about people bitching at me, and what the frak is it accomplishing? The frak is it fixing? Nothing. It's just- all a heap of shit. I just need to- sweep it out of my way. Concentrate on what matters. Stop tying myself in knots over everything." Insight is such a pure and simple thing, only twenty-four hours in.

Evandreus' brows wander upward toward his hairline as he hears of Flasher's outburst. But, in the spirit of sweeping away the shit, he doesn't ask after it, brows returning to neutral, smile returning to touch the corners of his mouth. "That's great, hon," he tells her, jostling his arm feebly about her by way of a snuggle. "That sounds… really nice, actually. That sort of clarity isn't easy to come by."

"We'll see if it works, now, yeah?" Tisiphone's mouth splits in a brief, wry grin. "Sure frakking hope it does. I can't keep going the way I've been going." Too enthusiastic, too optimistic, maybe — but she's cleaving to it for now. "Now we've just gotta get you back up and running." Her hands curl around his forearm, near his wrist, squeezing warmly there. "It's not right not seeing you on the CAP board. You sure the juice is enough? They might have some fruit cocktail left from supper, still." She's /pretty/ sure that's what she saw him eating, that night in the galley.

Tisiphone is sitting on the edge of Evandreus's bunk, her towel wrapped around her waist. Her olive drab jacket is left unbuttoned across her otherwise bare torso. He's stretched out, looking the worse for wear, a hot pad across his side; she's seated back against him, his arm rested across her lap.

Evandreus goes glum again as the subject turns back to his own sorry state of health. "I'll remind you, when you're getting antsy. Let it go," he rejoins, quietly. "I should eat something, I guess. I'm really not… hungry," he tells her, hesitantly. "Gracious said two weeks. Said it wouldn't keep me out of a Raptor, if Doctor Byrne okayed me for it, but… I don't get how I could fly, right now. I feel like complete and utter ass," he murmurs.

Into the berthings comes Cidra. In her duty blues, which are rather neater of late than when the CAG usually stalks the corridors in them. But she's still off the flight line. Her left arm is free of its sling again, at least, though she still wields it carefully. She's a righty, fortunately. Tisiphone and Evandreus do not immediately attract her attention. Rather she heads straight for her locker and begins the process of de-blueing. The jacket, at least, is gratefully discarded.

Tisiphone's concerned frown is aimed down at Evan's arm across her lap, and her own fingers fidgeting there. Pet the Bunny until he feels better. That works, doesn't it? It's supposed to work. "I can go check for some fruit cocktail for you," she says to him. "Maybe there's…" It trails away as she watches Cidra head for her locker, her expression pure oh, FRAK for several seconds. "Uh," she murmurs. Words. There were words.

"That'd be nice of you. I can barely make the stairs today. Yesterday I could do it. Today it was like… 'no.' You'd think someone would have thought to make this ship more handicap-friendly," Evan puts in his own two cents, churlish. Then, As Tis trails off, he follows her attention toward the CAGlady. "Hey, Cidra," he calls gently from his little rabbithole.

The jacket's hung with something resembling neatness. The rest of the officer ensemble, Cidra leaves for now. Head turning toward Evandreus' bunk when she says her name. "Hello, Evan," she replies in kind, lips curving in the barest hint of a smile. It's a genuine one, though. "Money Shot." The Viper jig is also greeted. A hint of amusement, perhaps, at the oh, FRAK look. Just perhaps.

"Sir," Tisiphone murmurs, somewhat weakly, her eyes squirming away from Cidra's after only the briefest contact. She fidgets again with Evan's arm, petting down all the fine hairs she's just spent minutes rumpling up, then carefully scootches over a few inches before hopping down. "I'll go check," she promises the Bunny, patpatting his hand back down against his side with a perhaps-oddly fretful gesture, before she scoots over the short distance to her own bunk, to start getting dressed. The Galley's no place for a toga-party.

Evandreus seems to have the opposite reaction to the CAG from Cubits'. The sincere warmth of that smile, slight as it is, touches something in him and calls out one of his own, simple, honest, if weak with his current condition. The skittish Saggitarian is set free from the seatbelt he'd made of his arm with an easeful grace, and he rests his hand back on the more sore of his two flanks. "Thanks, Cubits," he murmurs to her, then, louder, "Out of your sling, Toasty? There's hope for one of us getting back in a boat, then, eh?"

Cidra is all about eye contact generally, so Tisiphone's eyes are held until they squirm away. Not that her gaze is particularly penetrating this day. She approaches Evandreus' bunk now that her jacket is stowed. A nod to the Raptor jig. "Yes. It is coming along. Rest and careful exercise with it and it should not trouble me much longer. I was quite fortunate." If she keeps saying that, eventually she'll sound like she believes it.

She was doing so well, too. Almost comfortable in her own skin again — if deeply worried about the ailing Evan — and at least some small corner of her shit sorted out. Tisiphone hustles briskly through pulling on her clothes, shedding towel and unbuttoned jacket for her fatigues, then sinking down onto the edge of her bunk to fuss with striped socks and unstriped boots. "Lords and Ladies saw fit to set you down near to us, Sir," she offers out with a glance over. "Maybe not the nicest landing, but they're not Viper sticks, either." It's hesitant, but it's still almost a grin.

Evandreus' eyebeams dim as he looks over the CAG's face, listening to that tone of self-persuasion with the corners of his eyes just tweaking downward in sympathy. Lucky. Yeah, he's been trying to convince himself he was lucky for a long while, now. "You should be able to get into a Raptor before you have to worry about PTing up into a Viper again, at least." Even as his eyes sympathize, his mouth jumps on the 'silver lining' bandwagon. "S'why I never tried to train for vipers. I just… don't have the upper body strength to wrangle that damned stick. Plotting flight vectors is more my speed. Y'know. When my thinkmeats are in working order."

"They are quite different animals," Cidra says mildly, as to the varying pleasures of Vipers and Raptors. "Though that does make the process of getting back into things somewhat less daunting. I do try to cover a share of the patrol schedule regularly in the little ships but…buses are home. I am a creature of them, for better or worse." A trill comes into her voice as she speaks of flying them, wry words or no. Cid's not so open an adrenaline junky as some pilots, but a thrill in flight lurks beneath her even-keeled surface. A small inclination of her head to Tisiphone, and another of those faintest of smiles. "Indeed. I have made my offerings to Hermes in more gratitude than usual. He is not an unkind Lord, though his sense of humor can be sharp."

"He has a wicked left hook, too," Tisiphone mutters, seemingly in regards to Hermes. Something about her statement amuses her, and thaws sleety eyes back from the uneasy wariness the CAG's arrival provoked. As she bends over to work at her bootlaces again, she calls toward Cidra and Evan, "You get back out there to keep finding us the fastest way through CAP, Bunny, and I'll keep on keeping the Raiders off your tail."

Evandreus moves his hand lethargically up from the heating pad, whick he peels from his bare flank, showing the skin rosy pink within the corners of where the pad had been laid. He lays it on his thigh, next, giving a wild grimace as he pushes his knee back up toward the ceiling an inch or five, finally letting a clenched breath out through pursed lips. "Heh," he tries his best not to look depressed at Tisiphone's offer. "I'll try my best," he tells her, though there's a hedging to his voice, as if not entirely convinced he'll fly again, at this point. A heavy depression dims his eyes and, as if aware of his giving himself away, he turns those eyebeams up to the ceiling where they can't mingle with anyone else's.

"You shall fly again when all is mended. Time heals much." There is a sort of confident fatalism in Cidra's voice. The matter is not pressed on her part. She is lingering near Evandreus' bunk at the moment. Talking with him and Tisiphone. She looks to have just come off duty. She's in her duty blues. Minus the outer jacket, which appears to have been shed. Her left arm has been in a sling generally since her misadventures on Leonis, but it's loosed from that now. Albeit still held rather carefully.

After summarily swinging the hatch open with a creak and a *thunk*, a figure emerges in the A-Frame leading to this set of berthings for the Cerberus' weary pilots. It is one Trevor McQueen, sweaty and clearly post-flight, his suit peeled down to his waist to reveal the tanks below and loosely tied. With a series of small 'thunks,' his boots impact against the metal of the ship's deck lazily as he slings a duffel bag marked with his name over his shoulder and proceeds initially without words towards his locker.

Tense, then hesitantly grinning, then tense all over again, it would seem. Tisiphone looks up from lacing her boot and freezes for several seconds as Queenie goes by, her eyes frosting over again as they track his progress to his locker. A blink abruptly shatters the one-woman staring match, and she kicks out her other foot, bending again to lace it with sharp gestures.

Cidra leaves Evandreus to his own devices, drifting back toward her own corner of the berths. She bunks on the bottom. A look is flitted to Tisiphone but there's, again, no real probing in it. "Queenie. How did CAP treat you? This sector is a nasty one to fly in. Not quite Uram, but not far from it."

"Eh. Truth be told, Major, it's bloody beautiful out there." Brushing the back of his hand against his forehead, Queenie tips slightly to one side as he studies Cidra with a curiously lopsided expression as he goes to fumble with his locker. While seemingly sweaty and tired, he's not completely in the throes of tunnel vision, adjusting his gaze to take in Tisiphone and clicks his tongue. "'Swith you, En — " he cuts his speech off, correcting himself as he fumbles with the lock and pops the door open. "Lieutenant? Congratulations, by the by."

"Thanks." The second pair of laces are wilier, somehow; Tisiphone fumbles the tying of them twice before she finishes. "He's right. It's gorgeous out there. A dozen black bitches to navigate through, but gorgeous." She pushes up to her feet and rummages out her cigarettes, that odd, frosty stare flicked back Queenie's way from under her brows.

Evandreus seems to have had his fill of social interaction for the day. Gregarious bunny as he normally is, this state that he's in leaves him staring at the ceiling, the voices in the berths all fading a muted grey in his ears, leaving him alone. Even Gregor's not up there with him. Wherever that one's gone off to.

Cidra tilts her head to study McQueen right back at an angle of her own choosing. Backing up into her bunk and sitting within it, still with her neck cocked a notch. "Less beautiful on our planes given the radiation, and I am still unsure of how some of those new Vipers we managed to retrieve from Leonis shall handle the stress. But those storms do make for some prettiness in the visuals. It cannot be denied. I do hope flight control can plot us some more stable flight paths if we are to linger here long, but until then it is best to keep our maneuvers near to the anchorage unless we are pressed further out."

"It's gon' to happen, wherever we go. That's the hardest part to swallow." McQueen states matter-of-factly, his weathered face buried in the recesses of the locker, his sharp accent framing the words. "Atmospheric jumps, gas clouds, solar storms, they're gon' to get a bloody rad bath one way or another. For what it's worth, I haven't heard anything about the ones we pulled. Then again, the one flew back is still barely spaceworthy, thanks to those dogs."

Rummage rummage, Trevor continues to fumble as he unloads and loads his duffel with a loud *zzzziiiiiiiiiip*, adding clean clothes and toiletries. Tisiphone's regard of him goes unnoticed for now. "But yeh, it's beautiful. All that color and energy, and not even /us/. It's like we were afterthoughts. Kind of puts a perspective on the universe, doesn't it?"

First her bootlaces, now her cigarette — Tisiphone fumbles her smoke as she goes to light it and, in the process of catching it, drops her lighter with the CLACK of steel zippo against berthing floor. She clears her throat as she crouches, back against the baseboard of her bunk, recollects her lighter, and lights up successfully this time. "We aren't afterthoughts. We're- eventual-thoughts," she points out with a peculiar little grin, and straightens.

Cidra says, "Up, up the long, delirious burning heavens, I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace. Where never lark, or ever eagle flew. And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod. The high untrespassed sanctity of space…Put out my hand, and touched the face of the gods." Cidra closes her eyes as she recites that, alto voice taking on a more resonant quality. It's poetry rather than scripture, though it's probably from that particular genre of verse. "All is connected to greater whole. It does make one feel smaller to fly in such as that, does it not? Though that is the grandeur of it." She's seated in her bunk as she rattles on about that to Tisiphone and McQueen.

Somewhere in the midst of traffic coming and going from berthings, is a fresh-from-patrol Captain still half zipped into his flight suit, and already pilfering his gear for a smoke. The other pilots — mostly Harriers and Knights — loitering about are noted, but not directly greeted as of yet. Creep, creepity creep toward his locker, helmet ditched onto one of the tables with a thunk as he passes.

"An here's where I say you're both right. Nobody's an afterthought. That'd be a stupid creation and there's too much out there to start throwing around the 's' card. Well, the Cylons're pretty stupid, but they were built in a lab n' not a cosmic board room, yeh?" McQueen's voice rumbles from inside his locker. A few more moments of rumbling and shuffling pass and he seems to have what he needs, packing away his belongings and emerging from the locker, his belongingings tucked away.

And he shrugs, slowly and messily. "It's a weird thing, after all that's happened, to just sit back and marvel at the universe. It's something so simple and so huge that we have to stand back and realize that we're just one cog in that wheel."

"Something like that," is Tisiphone's reply to Queenie's philosophizing. She leans a slim shoulder into the edge of her bunk, arms folding across her chest, cigarette perched precariously at the corner of her mouth. She's still scrutinizing the fellow, equal parts wary and curious. It's not a /hostile/ look, at least. That counts for something, doesn't it?

Psyche pauses as she enters the berths, blowing a slow bubble and popping it as she listens to the tail end of Cidra's recital, then McQueen's reply. She tilts her head and chomps on her gum a few times before chiming in, "Wow. Should I come back later…?" She points to the door behind her, eyebrows arched. "Because I think I might bring down the IQ of the room sharply, just by comin' in…" Yeah, okay — disclaimer made. She's no big brain. But she comes on in anyways, clambering up into the pink of her bunk, legs hanging down as she unties her boots.

Marko meanders into the pilot's berth with the weary, leaden steps of a young man who wants nothing more than a few hours' worth of rack time. Those within are acknowledged with a vague wave and a few head nods as he makes his way for his precious, precious bunk.

"Or leaves in the storm," Cidra notes soft to McQueen. "But we shall see where the winds do take us, Queenie." She's in a philosophical mood tonight herself, apparently. One of those abstracted bents that occasionally take her. Though they're rare enough things that some may not have observed her in them. A "Shiv" is offered to entering Sitka has he passes in. She looks recently off-duty herself, albeit she's recently shed her blues rather than flight gear. Left arm out of the sling its been trapped in for the last several days, though she still holds it on her lap rather gingerly. A chuckle at Psyche. "Bubbles. Hardly. We were just talking of the variable pleasures and trials of flying around the anchorage. Or Queenie and Money Shot were. I have yet to experience this."

Cora steps into the pilots berths not tentatively, exactly, but aware that she's walking into foreign territory and looking about in such a way as to make obvious that there is something specific she's seeking in coming here. Her gaze flicks from bunk to bunk and then between relatively familiar faces — Tisiphone, Cidra —, "Has anybody seen Averies? I was told she bunks in here."

Cidra gets a distracted little upnod from the Petrels' Captain in passing, and a small, crooked smile as he starts spinning the combination on his lock. "Right there," he tells Cora, indicating the bunk above his. "But, uh.. I haven't seen her around.." His brows furrow slightly in thought. "..few days now? You might try the news room." Spin, spin, spin.

"Please don't mistake this for the grasping of a desperate man to find one bloody shrred of beauty." McQueen says, in a mildly pleading tone as he slams the locker door shut with a sharp 'clank' and affixing the lock. He pulls the duffel bag, messily half-zipped with a towel sticking out over his shoulder and squares his feet to face the hatch. "Nah. Bubbs! Was talking about the light show out there. You know what they say — simple man, simple pleasures." A pointed smirk at Psyche. Back to Tisiphone. "Congratulations, again." He takes a few measured steps further out of the berthings and eyes Cora with a tilt of his head. "Haven't seen 'er." He adds, flatly.

The talk of flying around the Anchorage rouses some of his attention, but Marko seems content to shrug off his off duty fatigues before moving over to participate in any talking just yet. And thank God for being smart enough to keep a water bottle in his locker. It might not be especially cold, but it's water, and it's right here!

"Thanks. Again." Tisiphone watches Queenie for a beat longer before sliding her eyes away as the hatch opens again. Cora's treated to the fading remnants of that frosty look before it's replaced with a more neutral puzzlement. It is not a pilot or ECO, yet it is here. "She wasn't racked out here last night," she adds as her own fragment of In Search Of: Sawyer. "Maybe the library?" A faint shrug; it's a wild guess.

"Haven't seen her," Psyche shakes her head at Cora. CLOMP. One boot hits the floor. CLOMP. And the other. "But if you see her, tell her I have three new shades of nail polish she'll love. The chicks from Aquarian Petes can't play triad for crap. I can't wait til they start betting their shoes."

"In't that a slice of home?" McQueen says, his face screwed up in that same smirk, except now a bit pensive as he studies Psyche. "Fly well and fly hard." He wheels about, catching the rest of the new arrivals as he saunters towards the hatch. "And enjoy the show. That's why it's here."

"Lieutenant Nikephoros. Welcome," Cidra says, casting the barest hint of a smile toward the Intel officer. It would be wrong to call her casual, precisely, but she's fluidly relaxed at the moment. Even taking off her boots, so she can properly lounge in her open bunk. On the matter of Sawyer she replies, "She does bunk with us typically, yes, but I do not keep close watch upon her hours. Miss Averies is not in my charge. Likely fortunate for me, I do not think I would have the energy for that." Her tone is dry, but not precisely un-fond where the reporter is concerned. Well, Sawyer is still here. The CAG can't be /that/ annoyed by her presence. A curious look to Psyche at mention of nail polish. "Aquarian Pete's? What is this thing?"

Cora glances between those that answer, nodding a little, not to anyone specifically but to the general consensus. "Ah," she replies, replying finally to Cidra, since, well, she has the fanciest title and the longest answer. "Thank you, major. I'll have to try elsewhere, I guess. Maybe the library, since she's not in the news room. And I'll make sure to mention… the nail polish." She turns towards Psyche as she says that, and her gaze narrows slightly and she takes another few steps into the room, tilting her head to look up at the ho-fleecing pilot, "Psyche Athenos?" She sounds… well, incredulous is an understatement.

"Strip club," Tisiphone answers Cidra, plucking the cigarette from her mouth as Queenie exits, blowing the smoke out toward the hatch as it closes behind him. "We pulled a bunch of survivors from it. Not a bad little place. Still sad we couldn't bring the bar back with us." Her mouth tugs up at the corner, fond and wry, at the memory.

"So…what's up?" Marko asks the CAG and those sitting near her. "Any news about…anything?" he asks, yawning and taking a big sip from his water bottle. "Oh, and before I forget, Harrier 303's DRADIS went bye bye about an hour ago." he adds, frowning. "Just in time for docking."

Psyche watches McQueen mosey, frowning just slightly — huh. Cidra's question snaps her attention right back around, though. "Oh, wow! You didn't know? We have strippers!" Like it's an infestation? Only a happy one. She even claps her hands. "Candy, Desire, and Indigo. From Leonis. None of them are my size, of course — like I could fill out anything they managed to bring with them up top, anyways… but Candy and Indigo both wear a size seven shoe." She looks down at her feet, wiggling her toes. "I kind of have giganta-feet for being little like I am…"

Wait. Back up. Psyche hears her name, and what Cidra said earlier… "Cora? Cora — Niki??" She gapes at the other blonde, leaping down from her bunk and running over to hug Lt. Nikephoros tight. "Oh my GODS what are you DOING here??"

Having done his part in pointing out where the reporter ostensibly sleeps, Sitka refocuses his efforts on getting his locker door open. Clatter, clatter, creeeeak as he finally succeeds, and starts rummaging about in it for.. his lighter. The other half of the cigarette equation. His first drag's taken before he even has his flight suit off.

"We are all of us off-duty here. You may call me Cidra if you like," said major offers. Not that she's one to use more casual forms of address unless first invited, herself. Tisiphone's elaboration on Aquarian Pete's and its titty bar status earns a non-committal "Ah" from her. Well. Now she knows. To Marko she replies, "Nothing out of the usual, Flasher. If much can be called usual in these times. Command does seem to be taking the opportunity to regroup around Audumbla, for which for my part I am quite glad." If she has more to say it's stowed when Psyche starts gaping and blonding and hugging things. That gets a look.

If Cora looked shocked to recognize the pilot, she's nearly as surprised by the reaction it provokes, and it takes a minute before it seems to register that she is being hugged. She returns it, but there's a sense that if she'd only had more time to see it coming she might have fended it off somehow. "Wow," the lieutenant says simply, "I had no idea you became a pilot." Because that is, it seems, the strangest part of this, for her. She glances around then at the others in the room, explaining, helpfully, "Our families were friends, on Caprica."

Lose one Lieutenant, gain another. Shortly after Queenie makes his royal exit, the boots of Bootstrap breach the berth. Dressed in his duty greens, with the buttons undone, either his shift's just ended or he's seizing a moment of Me Time. Seeing that the man's been working 14-hour shifts for the past week, he's entitled to a bit of a break. Except it's really not so much that. On auto-pilot, the ECO plots a course around the supernova of bounding Bubbles, idly comments about the scene by asking Shiv, "You think the galley has enough jello?" to make said scene more Aquarian Pete's like, and then treks straight for the rabbit hole of one Evandreus Doe.

"Heh..okay.." Marko replies, looking back and forth between the two woman with the kind of puzzled experienced usually reserved for head trauma victims or the truly stupid. "Yeah…." he comments, yawning softly. "Regrouping, boss?" he asks Cidra without looking at her. "Well, that's good…I guess." he replies. "How's the resupply going?" If he spots Tisi, he doesn't acknowledge her just yet. Female glomping is rare in the pilot's berth.

Evandreus is almost to sleep, again, despite the plethora of voices straining to pin him to consciousness. Heating pad draped over the thigh nearest the berths, that knee is canted slightly more toward the ceiling than the other. Otherwise he's just wearing a pair of fatigues trousers, one hand holding the pad onto his thigh, the other flung up overhead.

Tisiphone does nothing but look between Bubbles and Cora, back and forth and back again, for several seconds. Seeming vaguely uneasy, or perhaps just not wanting to get giggled upon — girls have cooties, yo — she edges further back into the bunks, toward Marko. "Hey," she greets him, simple and smoke-scratchy, once she's near enough.

Psyche blinks those big baby blues, which are — alarmingly — filled with tears. She hangs back a tiny bit, hands over her mouth, just staring at Cora. "I can't believe I didn't recognize you. I mean, this is so weird. I'd completely forgotten you'd gone and enlisted — it was right out of school, wasn't it? I remember Dad telling me, now. Oh, my Gods, Niki…" She sniffles, wiping at her eyes. "Holy shit. I'm so sorry. I don't know why I'm all verklempt. I just… I guess I never expected to see anyone from home again."

Trask's comment about the jello gets a chuckle out of the Captain, who's currently transitioning from limp flight suit into sweats and a tee shirt. The neoprene mess is tucked into his locker, and a puff taken of his smoke while he shoves his feet into combat boots. Briefly, the reunion between Psyche and Cora grabs his attention, and pulls a crooked little smile across his lips.

"The salvage from the anchorage? It proceeds well enough, from what I do hear from Captain Gabrieli and those on the Deck," Cidra replies to Marko. "I shall be back in a Raptor myself as the week does end, if all goes well enough. I do look forward to hauling some of it." But the reunion between Psyche and Cora still holds the majority of her attention. So much that Trask's entry is missed. "Ah…" This one drawn out longer at Cora's explanation of her past with Psyche. She actually smiles. Still a faint expression, but it does touch her cloudy blue eyes. "This is a most happy accident. Rare things nowadays."

"Yeah, really weird," Cora agrees simply, nodding at Psyche. She seems uncomfortable with the sudden outpouring of emotion, but lips quirk, and eyes almost roll as she remarks, "I forgot that was you that called me Niki. Gods." A palm presses to her forehead for a second, and then she shifts back a half-step, gingerly escaping the hug and nods, "Yes, right out of school. I don't think anybody ever mentioned you enlisting. That's… yeah, this is really surprising." She smiles crookedly at Psyche, and avoids commenting on never seeing anybody from home again, just nodding to Cidra, "Yes, of course."

Trask also isn't being very unmissable. Be vewwy vewwy quiet. He's hunting wabbits. Well, a Bunny, anyhow. With a lack of fanfare, up he goes… one… two… three rungs of the ladder leading up to Evan's bunk. Unceremoniously, the curtain is partially drawn back and the drowsy Doe appraised. "Yo," is finally said, quietly yet with authority, "Scoot your cotton-tail." The jerkass needs room to plunk down his ass.

"Well, there's plenty of work to be done, Major, no doubt on that score." Marko nods. "Be grateful for the help." he smiles. Tisiphone's greeting causes him to wince slightly, then smile friendly-like. "Hey Money. I'm sorry about night before last. I had no right to lose it with you like that." he says simply. "I was taking out all of my frustrations about, well, all of it, and you didn't deserve it."

"Wow," Psyche sighs, blinking rapidly to beat back the encroaching tears. "You were busy with your career by the time I enlisted, I bet. I went to Caprica U for four years, first. Almost got married — didn't. I'm sure you probably heard about that…" the little blonde smiles ruefully, then blinks again, looking gobsmacked all over again. "You were on Leonis — I can't believe it! Are you okay?" She steps back and looks Cora over, as though the other woman might have some gouting arterial wound she missed before.

"Nnghhuh?" is the noise that comes wending its way from the depths of Bunny's person as his slumber is arrested by the invasion of a Bootstrap. Licking at his dried lips, he pushes his foot into the bedding, lifting his butt from the bed and scooting it another several inches toward the wall. "Boots," he greets with a blear-eyed grimace, all his medicines (6 prescription bottles) lined up overhead like elders in judgement. He's looked better. He's looked -lots- better. He's lost some weight— but not in a flattering way, still soft-looking where he isn't just that much more lanky and coltish. And when he's forced to shuffle so, the waistband of his fatigues trousers slide down just enough to show the top of a bruise yellowing at his hip.

Finished dressing, Shiv bangs his locker door shut, and slides into his bunk while the others converse. Ever the anti-socialite, there's a bit of rummaging about on his shelf before his curtain skids mostly-closed, and then silence.

Tisiphone slants a crooked grin down at the floor somewhere between her boots and Marko's, and drags on her cigarette. "Naw, man," she mutters to him. "I did. I mean- apology's accepted if you're gonna twist yourself up over it, but- don't sweat it. I been all kinds of difficult. Listen." A glance over her shoulder, toward Cora and Bubbles, before she looks back. "I've got a start on some flight ideas. Gonna ask the other Knights at the meeting. Just need you to, uh. Y'know. Take what I'm doing in the sims and teach the sims to do it, itself. I gotta- book, though. Catch you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, sure thing, Tisi. Eh, I got flight ops most of tomorrow, but wanna try and hook up in the Sim room after dinner?" he asks. "Pool our resources?"

Cidra shifts a sidelong look to Marko and Tis. Then shifts her gaze away. Trying not to eavesdrop overmuch on whatever that matter is. The apologies bit, at least. There is more evident eavesdropping on the Psyche-Cora reunion. Particularly as Psyche accounts some of her time on Caprica. She studies the blonde pilot not with curiosity, precisely, but a certain weighing quality. As she often studies things.

"Yeah, I did hear about that," Cora admits to Psyche before nodding again, "Right, Leonis, but I'm fine, really, fine." No gaping wounds in sight, she rakes her better hand over her hair and smiles at Psyche, saying, "Look, I've got to find Averies, and then I have another shift in CIC, but… we'll talk, alright? Somewhere without so many people staring like we're insane," she adds with a crooked smile.

True devotion is foregoing a much desired cigarette because the friend who is in need happens to have asthma. Unfortunately for Evandreus, Kal still stinks of sweat and stale smoke. Espying the six bottles atop the bunk's shelf, the Taurian's mouth twists into a moue. Brown eyes are drawn back to the Bunny with said Bunny's movements. Heating pad. Why? Big bruise. How? Pants. What the— ? Clambering inside, boots still on, Bootstrap draws the curtain closed and matter-of-factly asks, "You need help getting naked?"

Psyche nods enthusiastically, smiling bright. "That'd be wonderful. We'll make time. Sometime I'm not flying and you're not… whatevering…" She smirks and glances back at the other pilots. "They're looking at me like I'm insane — which, duh! Like they don't live with me. But their brains are all like… etch-a-sketch. Shake 'em a little and they reset. They'll all soon realize you're nothing like me, and a big sigh of relief will follow." She makes shooing motions with her hands. "Go be important! I'll see you soon!"

"Yeah. I'll grab some food quick after CAP and meet you in there about eighteen-hundred? I'm going to grab the Ready Room cameras for a couple hours in the morning, too." Tisiphone watches Marko for a moment — another somewhat odd look, almost but not quite staring — before she nods to him and turns, making her way toward the hatch. "Catch you then." And finally, /finally/, she's off to search for Bunny's precious fruit cocktail.
Alessandra arrives from the Deck 4.
Alessandra has arrived.

"Heh, gotcha, Money. Take care and good hunting." Marko calls after Tisi, waving as the other pilot skedaddles. "Oh….why do i have a feeling I'm still in shit with her?" he sighs, sliding down the wall to sit, cross-legged on the floor.

Cidra eases back into her bunk, for her part, stretching out. Stocking feet held against the wall. She rather draws out of the conversation, though she leaves her curtain open. As if basking in the domestic bliss of pilot country. Such as it is.

Evandreus's eyes seem to have problems adjusting to the sudden shifts of dark-light-dark, eyelids wavering open and shus in a dazed manner as Boots climbs up. Finally he just closes them again, resting his arm over his eyes. "You gonna buy me dinner, first, Boots?" he asks, facetiousness batting feebly at the loose end of the question like a three-legged kitten with kitten AIDS. Pitiful. But when in Rome, do as the Romans do, and when Trask comes to call, joke to cover up the hurt.

Cora glances up at that bunk that now contains Evandreus, Trask, and talk of nakedness, and then looks back at Psyche and smiles, "Yeah, that sounds good. And… right," she agrees to the rest, smiling crookedly, "Okay, I'll catch you later, then. But… it was good to see you." She smiles again and adds, "And if you see Sawyer tell her I was looking. Thanks." She lifts a hand in a semi-static wave, and then backs a couple steps before turning for the hatch.

Alessandra comes in, her hand deftly working over the buttons upon her tunic before she even gets fully in the room. "Hey, all," she greets, barely able to get that simple two-word sentence out before she's yawning. Off comes the tunic and it's tossed over the back of a chair, blinking as she notices Cora belatedly. "Uhhh…" she grunts while emptying her pockets of folded paper and a pen, those tossed on the table to be forgotten for now.

Psyche stands there, stunned, for a few moments more after Cora departs. "Wow…" she says again. "Wow." She shakes her head, turning and making her way back to her bunk in a bit of a daze. "Luckyduck," she greets Allie, a touch distractedly. Up into the bunk she climbs, wriggling herself into a cocoon of pink sheets and blankets. "Oh, my stars and garters, I'm tired…" she murmurs, turning her head into her pillow as she yawns.

"Why?" is the dry reply, "So you can just not eat it?" After a moment's consideration, the SL concludes, "A'right, lemme get in a better position." Which consists of Bootstrap emerging from the bunk, boots and all, to side-step on the edge of Alessandra's bedframe so he can pop his head and arms into the foot of Evan's bunk in an attempt to start pulling off the pilot's pants.

Marko just sits there quietly amid the chaos and noise. Oddly comforted by it. Being a member of Cerberus' Air Wing, he has discovered, is kind of like being a member of a large family…of more than slightly deranged people. It's more appealing than it sounds at first.

Evandreus is just starting to lift the leaden weight of his arm from over his eyes again when the waistband of his trousers is grabbed and yanked, the muscles in his lower back and thighs seizing up into rock-hard knots at the sudden motion, drawing a full-body scream from the Raptor Driver. Not a 'bad touch, bad touch!' scream. A 'holy frak am in pain' scream.

Lucky would have said hi but finds herself startled into silence at the scream, the tone so horrifying that it mutes her as well as cause tears of concern to leap to her eyes. "Should I call for the medics," she asks Trask, her worry audible. With nothing to do for now, she waits for the reply before doing anything, just in case the other SL needs her help.

It was a firm series of tugs — not a yanking! — but a firm series of tugs by Taurian standards could very well qualify as a yanking to everyone else. "Shit." It's a simple yet eloquent statement of (1) the realization that Evan is really injured, (2) Trask just made it worse, and (3) he's lost his balance, torn those trousers, and is about to have his rump introduced to the floor in T-minus 3… 2… 1…

When Evan can see something besides the blinding light of pain searing at his eyes— when he can breathe beyond the short sharp shards of air being intermittently admitted to his lungs in between moments of clenched-throated agony in the wake of the scream— when he has some sense of where he is, what day it is, and why the contents of one of his fatigues pockets is spilling out over his bunk and raining down on top of Trask — a few random coins, some gummy bears and his inhaler — he blinks wildly a few times, and waves an arm haltingly at Duckie. "I already went to Sickbay, they said— they said I should just stay here." A little louder than he might have wanted, considering all the people in berths at the moment. This seems to be Not Something He Wishes The Whole World To Know.

The scream's enough to put Marko on his feet, rushing towards the bunks, heedless of anyone he might be knocking out of the way in the process. "The hell, man?" he asks Trask in clipped, tired language. "Bunny? You okay?" he calls. "Somebody get a medic down here!"

THUD. If the jerkass' ass wasn't so damn toned, that would've hurt a lot more. Odds are there still might be some bruising if the way Trask winces and rolls his eyes in pain are any indication. "Ow." Bit of torn fabric held in one hand, an assortment of coins and gooey candy across his legs and crotch, the lead Harrier caustically snarks out after Marko's call for a medic, "And the dumbass doctor who said he's okay for light duty."

Alessandra nods as she leans over, putting the weight on the balls of her feet so she can raise up a few inches so she can look at Evan. "Alright…" she starts to say but then Marko's reacting to Evandreus' scream and Trask is falling on his ass, the sight of the latter causing her to giggle despite her worry. "Here," she says while walking over, offering a hand to the fallen for him to use to get upright if he wishes. Such a turn of events.

Evandreus manages to shove an elbow back underneath himself and grimace his way through some breathing exercises it sounds like he should be teaching to Quinn until he's sitting upright, looking down sorrow-eyed at Trask. "It's not Dr. Byrne's fault, Boots," he pleads the psych's case. "And Gracious didn't know until… the bloodwork came back." He glances up and across to Duckie and Marko, as if wishing that they would disappear. But no, this is coming out here. Now. Evidently. Eyes return to Trask. "I've been fatigued and sore since we came back. They thought it was a psychosomatic symptom. That's how… that's how Dr. Byrne diagnosed it. But," he swallows, "It was the anti-rads. I've never been good on them, and… this time I was on them for too long. They tore up my liver pretty bad," he finally tells his dear friend and new SL. "There's… not a lot to do, at this point. They say it could… get better. On its own. And that… that's our best hope, right now. So. We just have to wait and see." Of course, he doesn't go into what might happen if it -doesn't- decide to bounce back, or if it just keels over under the remnants of the drugs still cycling through it. He just closes his eyes and furrows his brow, and breathes in short, shallow breaths for a moment, the explanation having taken it out of him, physically and emotionally. "And I think I peed myself a little," he finally tacks on, for the sake of full disclosure, lofting one arm to catch his hand on a rung, easing himself over and endeavoring valiantly to climb down with some modicum of dignity intact.

Marko doesn't seem to give half a frak about Evan's dignity, all he knows is a fellow squad member is in distress. So he helps him, grunting with the effort as the man pulls himself down from his rack. Pee not withstanding. What's a little urine between squad mates, after all? "Easy, Bunny. I gotcha." he says, forcing his voice to be calm.

For a long moment, Trask is silent and simply staring, so many thoughts cycling so quickly. To his credit, however, he does not suffer another BSOD. Quietly, he clears his throat and wrestles a frown into submission. Alessandra's offered hand is met with Evan's inhaler, which the Taurian retrieved. Rising to his feet, he tells Bunny, "I'm, um… I'm gonna go speak with the CMO." Eyes dart to Flasher. "You help him clean up." There are traces of gratitude in his otherwise troubled expression. That all said, he idly brushes his butt clean and makes his way down to Medical.

Allie's not paying any attention to what Bunny says once she realizes what he's saying, his secret being safe with her as it's going out one ear after going in the first. She may be a lot of things but a gossip is not one of them. Seeing that inhaler in her hand, she gives it a look before it's put on the corner of Evandreus' bunk, it done while her gaze is kept politely diverted while Marko lends his aid. Normally she'd offer to help but she's feeling like she's intruding, a nagging feeling that she shouldn't be here now. Her locker is unlocked and opened once Evan's asthma meds are back semi-close to where she thinks it should be and a small tube of medical salve is extracted from it. "Excuse me. I'll…uh…" Allie looks at them now and sighs, the leaden weight of worry now a physically painful ache. It actually hurts her to see Bunny like that. "I'll give you both some privacy." Clearing her throat, she closes and locks her locker, it once again secure and she's gone, sweeping up her tunic as she passes by it, her pen and notes left on the table where they were placed.

Evandreus holds onto the rails with both hands, easing his legs down stiffly, then wavering a little when he gets on both feet, leaning gratefully on Marko, looking back to him. "I… needed a shower anyhow. I can make it there," he promises, "But… thanks," he adds, feeling the love from his squadmate, catching the guy's eyes briefly to seal the expression of gratitude. Maybe a little bit awkwardly timed as it is, coinciding with Bunny's efforts to unfasten his trousers. He glances once to Duckie on her way out, nodding to her, a slow farewell.

"You sure?" Marko asks simply. "Look, I can tell you're in a lot of pain. You need some help, you need some help." he says flatly. " I know you'd do the same for me." he smirks. "Besides, it's not like I haven't seen your junk before." he chuckles teasingly. "You need me, I'm here."

Evandreus nods slowly, once, then more firmly, a couple of times, sussing out his strength internally as he pushes the trousers over his aching thighs, one of which has been substantially bruised by some collision. "I can do it myself," he tells Marko. "If it gets to the point that I can't… you'll be first on my list to call, okay?" A little half-smile's worried by the thought of that state of bodily degradation, but it only prods him further to take advntage of his relative independence of the moment.

"Kay….just holler, I'll be there." Marko replies, nodding a little. "You just get better, okay?"

Evandreus gets himself out of his underwear, too, holding onto the ladder for support, and, unsure what to do with the soiled things, he just rolls them up inside the torn pants and tucks the bundle into his dirty clothes bag. "Thanks, dude," he tells Marko back. "I'll… yeah, that's the plan," he answers, sounding moderately uncertain of how well that plan's going to turn out.

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