| The Futility of Frustration |
| Summary: | Stavrian speaks to the CMO before departing for the Eidolon. |
| Date: | 2041.05.07 |
| Related Logs: | None. |
| Players: |
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| CMO's Office — Deck 10 — Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #69 |
| The CMO's office is, like many offices aboard the ship, of very military design. The space is utilitarian, to say the least, with bookshelves on the wall behind the single desk. In front of the desk are two chairs - as if the occupant would never need to have more than two other peole in the office at any given time. The shelves are lined with medical reference books, dotted here and there with a few framed photographs. Despite the rather sterile feel, overall, the room does have a few touches of warmth - a lab coat hanging from a hook near the door, a hearty variety of plant on top of a filing cabinet. It's the little things. |
| Condition Level: 3 — All Clear |
'Have Mister Jesse come by soon as he has a moment free, won't you?' Such is the standing request of the Interim CMO to the Sickbay staff, as Grace works within the — no, now /her/ — office. Her door is slightly ajar as usual, and the sound of frenzied hunt-and-peck typing drifts out from within.
Mr. Jesse's had his hands full with wellness exams lately, making sure every crewman heading out to the Eidolon is disease-free, up on their shots, has normal range of motion and reflexes, and isn't batshit insane. When he comes to his scheduled break and ducks into Bia's office, he's just changed his scrub top for one that someone hasn't coughed phlegm onto. His face is still bruised. And he still kind of needs a haircut. "Sir?"
Grace has some manner of small reference book open in one hand, coffee-coloured eyes flickering from it to the keyboard and back. The clickclack of typing never really ceases, even when she looks away. At the sound of Stavrian's voice, there's a final burst of keystrokes before she overturns the book on her desk and pushes up to her feet. "Mister Jesse. Have you a seat if'n you'd like." After closing the door behind him, she continues: "Two things. First, I've got your name here on the roster for tomorrow's mission."
Stavrian looks mildly stricken when she gets up. A) Female + B) superior officer + C) standing when he walks in a room = DOES NOT COMPUTE. He clears his throat, sidling away in his familiar Personal Space Waltz when she goes for the door. His weight rocks back on his heels and he steps backwards, starting for the chair he's gotten used to. His hands rest on the back of it for now. "Yes, sir. One of the Lieutenants came round with the signup, said they'd pass it to you." Which, clearly, they did.
Good Gracious, dividing by zero since undergrad. Or throwing syntax errors in her wake, depending on one's luck with her lazy Scorpian swamp-drawl. Those warm brown eyes follow the medic over to his unclaimed seat, leaving him a pace or two of distance before she makes her way back around her desk. "They did indeed. It sounds powerful dangerous what you've signed up for." She doesn't sit back down — instead she collects a tiny binder, the sort used for pocket-sized day planners, holding several pages with even tinier print. She offers it out to Stavrian. "There's a botanist what came aboard from Parnassus Anchorage. I'm making a list of suggested uses for the hydroponics she'll be working on. These here are some of the useful plants what may still be left in the corner of Leonis you'll be going to."
"I know, sir," Stavrian replies softly, as to her assessment of the op's danger. "I'll bring you back a nice postcard. Some pralines." There's a slight smile somewhere in his voice but it doesn't materialize on his face. Fingers detach from the chair back to take the folder, heavy brows drawing with interest as he flips the binder open. "Oh, lovely. Seeds and shootlings, first priority, sir?" His startling eyes glance up, from under the black brows.
"Hain't nobody on Leonis knows how to make a good praline, but I'd take even a bad one long as it's brought back." The medic's invisible smile is met with Grace's visible one, wide and warm — though her gaze remains faintly distant. "First priority from where I'm standing, Mister Jesse, but I hain't an idea what orders will be coming down upon you once you're there. You've got a good head on your shoulders. I trust you to balance things as they're necessary. Restocking what supplies you find is a blessing, but getting our hands on what we can replenish ourselves is even moreso."
"Aye aye, sir." Stavrian skims over the plant list and then closes the binder; he's got time to pore over it more in-depth on the way. "Is the Eidolon already equipped with collection and preservation kits, or do I need to bring some over?"
"I've put in the supplies request to the quartermaster, but it wouldn't hurt to check and make sure they've gotten down to it. I imagine they're busy with things what they figure are higher up on the list." Grace leans forward slightly against her desk, propping her weight on long, tented fingers. "Second matter's a thing I was planning to set you to immediately before this mission popped up its head. Engineering's finally ready to release the Centurion they've picked apart so we can have our turn at examining."
Stavrian nods, very slowly. His eyes haven't moved from her face. "Be nice to be able to see it ourselves, sir. In whatever state it may be in by now." He doesn't sound particularly hopeful that engineering left it in any intact sort of form. "And the raider, sir? From the secondhand reports I'd seen, it's got a biomechanical component where the centurion doesn't. I mean, if anything…"
Grace's expression alternates between a light but steady appraisal when it's upon Stavrian and a detached and distant look whenever her eyes move to her paperwork, or the tiny binder of notes, or the hatch opposite her — the look of someone running through multiple To-Do lists at once. "I'm passing certain they'll be sending it to us in about five dozen small boxes too, Mister Jesse, but we'll see what we can see once it's here. I submitted some preliminary findings on the liquid in that Raider and the resin you and Mister Sabien brought back. It's a whole passel of paperwork, but I'll get you a copy of it, too. No point in not checking one of them against the other."
Stavrian nods again, the kind of absent nod one gives when the mind's busy turning. His brows keep twitching together, little tension wrinkles between his brows and at his eyes that might be permanent by the time he's 35 if he's not careful. "I understand, I'm just baffled Captain Diego didn't send someone to look at it. They've had it for ages…biotechnology. I mean." He sounds mildly frustrated, and pauses to recollect with a soft throat clearing. "If they send it in five dozen boxes we can't see if it was tied into the steering functions, the life support, the guidance, my gods." He rubs his cheek, slowly.
"May be a lot we can't learn until we've got ourselves another intact one," Grace confirms, after a long and careful pause. She looks to Stavrian as she says it, seeming acutely aware of the boulder they've been tasked to push uphill — and the folly of hoping for another Heavy Raider to leave itself gift-wrapped at their feet. "But may be there's something left for us to find. The liquid they tapped off was consistent no matter the location in the vessel, so there's maybe a small blessing for us there." She looks down at her tented fingers, the knuckles gone paler as she's stayed leaning there. "Weren't something I was involved in, while Miss Glory was here. Weren't something I was aware of one whit, or it might not've languished like it did. Hain't no point with regrets now." Boulder, uphill, one hand behind the back.
"Yes, sir." Stavrian too knows the futility of frustration, though that doesn't mean it's not there. Just means it gets sealed behind a tensed jaw and one finger tapping the back of the chair he's standing behind. "Will do everything I can. I absolutely cannot bring myself to believe that those cadavers from the Chimaera and this biomechanical find in the Raider are unrelated."
"The eviscerated ones? I found your report on those in the paperwork when I was busy getting familiar in here." There is, perhaps, the slightest of sour tones in Grace's phrasing. Getting familiar, as if it was some sort of social affair involving polite laughter and handshakes. "I'm of a like mind with you there. Consider the mixed blood samples you and Mister Sabien found, as well. Hain't no reason for them to go through all that trouble of samples collection without some powerful reason on their part." She breathes out a soft sigh and straightens, putting a fist to the small of her back. "I sure do hope there's some answers in there somewhere."
"Maybe, sir." Stavrian falls quiet for a few moments then, his tongue tracing over the underside of a molar or two. "You saw the end of the report then, sir? On the problem of the…extraction method?"
Grace wants to say yes, immediately and with certainty. She even starts to, then reconsiders with a slight cant of her head. "It's possible there's documentation what's gone permanently missing, Mister Jesse. What are you referring to? The records I'm recalling mention the electrocuted bodies on the Chimaera's bridge, the ones with no organs left in them, and the blood samples brought back that showed evidence of multiple donors."
Stavrian nods once. "The bodies with organs removed, sir." He doesn't quite like the clinical tone he's employing, but he's good at it. "You've had a lot to go through, I know. But I think with all this coming down the pipes now, it's important I bring this back up." His tongue wets his dry lower lip. "We had assumed after the Chimaera that the centurions were responsible for the removals. But after I spoke with Parres while Engineering had the centurion, that became…about impossible. The centurions are not equipped for such a fine operation." Blue eyes, on his superior's face. They don't move.
That's a long stare that passes, there, between the Interim CMO and the Junior Lieutenant. "And there's the prize-winning question, right there," she finally murmurs, straightening up to her full height, her hand uncurled from the small of her back. "And some manner of answer what we desperately need and aren't gonna be happy to hear. Is there anything else coming to mind what might not be in those reports? I shouldn't be keeping you much longer, what with all we've got to do."
Stavrian thins his lips, shaking his head. "We haven't had much to look at so far, beyond that." And with the centurion and raider coming to them in pieces, who knows if that'll change now. "I'll keep my eye out on Leonis for…anything they may have been doing. I /know/ there is something going on here that we're not seeing. And it's not in those circuitboards and pretty lights." Biology Pride, son. He shifts the binder in his arm. "I'll go over this and be sure we have enough sample pods with us, sir."
"Thank you, Jesse. Can't say I was happy to see you on the list of volunteers, but weren't anyone I'd rather handle this business down there than you." Which may explain the odd distance in the usually-warm eyes. Grace's mouth curves again in a smile as she moves back around her desk, heading for the door. As she opens it, she looks back to the medic and says, "One last thing, before you go."
"If anyone can find pralines, it'll be me," Stavrian says, corner of his lips twitching slightly. He steps back as she goes for the door, following until she speaks again. His weight settles back on his right foot, shoulders straightening again. "Yes, sir?"
"Either get you to the barber's, or I'm sitting you down in here when you get back and trimming your hair myself." A warm glimmer of mirth. Don't think she won't, either. With that, Grace swings the door open and takes a step back to hold it, giving the medic a clear shot at the exit.
Stavrian just looks at her for a moment, as if the words needed time to circle his entire head before finding his ears. Those then turn a faint shade of red, as do his cheeks — at least the part that isn't turning yellow from bruising. "Aye aye, sir." He lifts two fingers to temple, saluting with them, and then heads out. Quickly, before that 'doing it herself' timeframe gets bumped up any. Flee.