PHD #458: The Smiths
The Smiths
Summary: Ciro and Ekho mark the start of their working relationship.
Date: 30 May 2042 AE
Related Logs: None.
Ciro Ekho 
Enlisted Marine Berths
Designed specifically to house a small Marine contingent, this berthing is one of the smallest on the ship. The bunks are arranged in standard formation in the classic over-under configuration and lockers dividing each one. However, the lockers here are a bit larger than most elsewhere on the ship to accommodate the bulky combat gear associated with the security details of the crew that lives here. Tables are spread out for use through the area with their standard allotment of chairs.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear
Post-Holocaust Day: #458

It's midday and all is quiet. The marine berths is a constant beehive of activity, with marines leaving to and from their postings. The rumors are true, and a heavily tanned Ciro Sondray appears to be getting just another moment of post-Gemenon relaxation in before he starts up his heavy duty shifts again. Currently he's seated in his bunk with his feet propped up, reading an old magazine.

Low and behold, the movement continues. The hatch swings open, and a smallish man stumbles inside, propelled by the hands of the larger cuss behind him, "Beaten by a girl. For shame, Jenkins. You keep this up and she's gonna start thinkin' she's the boss of us." The 3-2'a resident nerd snorts, as he gets his balance back, "She is the boss of us. And you went down first." The man behind him, Scott, for those in the know, waggles his brows, "I know." The two jostling their way in, though, know well enough to make room for the woman coming in behind them, dressed as the men are, in standard workout gear, "Go on with you, before I work you both back into the third rotation." The pair of men move off, heading to their lockers, the woman leaving them to their business, turning her attention instead to the towel draped around her neck, flicking it off on her way to her own bunk. "Shouldn't you be hiding that inside a newspaper or something?" A light remark as she passes the magazine toting marine.

"Nobody reads those anymore. All they have in them are bad news. Besides, everyone would assume it was porn anyway." Ciro replies, making a dark joke at the state of human affairs. The old joke is that the news was always depressing. Now, with the lack of real newspapers, those old stories will forever be known for how depressing they always were…and always will be.

The mohawked marine looks up from his magazine, this one being a sports magazine filled with Pyramid statistics, beer ads, and bikini clad supermodels, and trails Ekho over his far shoulder as she heads past. "Note, Elly, that the curtain is open…" He chuckles, watching her for the moment. "So what'd you do to those poor pukes that came in before you?"

A fingertip reaches down, as the brunette reaches the end of the demi-hall of bunks where she's staked her claim, catching on a well-dogged eared page, which sports a model wearing nothing but a few strips of floss to cover breasts nearly larger than her own head, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought that was porn. Clearly, I do not have your refined palate." Quick hands tuck her hair up where it's fallen out of the quick bun she wore down in athletics, "So is Lady's curtain, when she's in the mood, and that's never stopped her yet." Eli tosses down the towel onto the bunk across the way, turning to her bunk to start the process of grabbing the things she needs for a shower. Her uniform is already neatly laid out and pressed. "Team building. They're still getting used to me." It's been only recently that she's been moved up to lead the 3-2, with Valentine having been assigned elsewhere post Areion.

"Well, Lady's a story unto herself. The best I could afford was to not bunk across from her and was lucky enough to get this corner bunk. As for my refined palate…" He smirks, closing the magazine and giving it a toss onto his bunk. "…there was a rather charming article on the C-Bucs high altitude training that was getting finished on that page…probably." A dog is a dog is a dog. With a grunt, he presses forward to sit on the edge of his bunk where he can see her better. "When do you hit the shops downstairs and work on gunsmithing?" It's no secret he's been seen reading books on metallurgy and gunsmithing. The question that's sure to follow is obvious.

"Absence does make the heart grow fonder, or so they say." Supplies are gathered together, tossed into a plastic tote before the towel goes in the dirty laundry and a new one's tossed over her shoulder, "Oh, I'm sure it was." A hand rises, "I know, I know, you read it for the wonderful prize-worthy writing and rapier commentary on the human condition." With everything ready, she starts towards the hatch to the head. "Next time I'm off rotation. About…eight hours, give or take. Come on, I don't want to have to yell all the way."

"Are you trying to tell me that Pyramid Quarterly doesn't have prize-worthy writing and rapier commentary on the human condition?" Ciro rises from his bunk, leaving behind the magazine as he follows her around the collection of sleeping cages until he finally trails onto the tiled floor of the head. Glancing about, he keeps the same, strange distance that he usually does from Ekho before choosing a basin to lean against. Making sure it's dry, he leans against the metal sink and folds his arms across his chest, watching her. "I might follow you down there, shift permitting. It was suggested that I get a hobby and a book on gunsmithing got thrown at me. I figured I might see if there's something I could learn from you." He teases, a small grin finds its way onto his face.

"As long as I don't have to end up using you for target practice, I think that should be alright." The undressing is quick and perfunctory, the same as it always is, the only oddity, perhaps, the fact that she looks, for all her years in service, completely unmarked by wound or scar or callous. Well, nothing recent at least. What she does have looks faded, barely visible marks of injuries sustained many years past. the towel comes with her, tossed over the glass of one of the stalls before she steps inside, "If you're willing to learn, I don't mind teaching." The sound of the shower drowns out conversation for a moment, before it dulls as she steps under.

"I don't think I've ever given you reason to suspect me as the kind of person that would need to be used as target practice, have I?" Ciro asks, raising his voice a little bit to offset the roar of her shower. He moves to a closer position, leaning against another basin with his arms folded, eyes turned to the floor to give her a sense of privacy. It's the polite thing to do. "But yeah, I'm willing to learn. I read through that book and by all means I'm no expert but it'll fill some sort of gap that hitting the AA's usually got filled for me. Alteris was nice enough to even find a pair of coveralls that are my size and some goggles."

"You'd be surprised." And that's all she's going to say about that. Today seems to be good cop day. The shower doesn't take any longer than necessary, before a hand reaches out, tugs down the towel, and winding it around herself, allows the door to open for the woman to slip out in a puff of steam, the warmth left in her way as she heads over for the sinks, "I'm no expert either, but we're all digging in our heels and getting up to speed. As long as you're willing to learn and we can find the materials, you'll be welcome down there. Most of it is tedious. We've got to repair and refurbish weapons we'd have just sent back for replacements months ago. Clean and maintain the ones the jockeys can barely use themselves. And you don't even want to know ahead of the time some of the things you'll find in there."

"I'd be surprised…" He replies under his breath. Leaning against the sink next to hers, Ciro watches her approach but then scoots a little to the side, giving her a bit more room to take care of getting cleaned up. He runs a bare hand over his neck and chin, brushing his fingertips over the collection of scruff that's well overdue for a shave. "What, like beat up old hunting rifles and rusted barrels? I imagine the sort of junk that was probably scavenged in the early days of the war, or the stuff that's been busted over time and doesn't have any sort of standardized part to it, right?" He turns towards the mirror behind him, leaning in to inspect his jaw line, as if looking for gray hairs. "Bad supplies or not, I'm a recon marine and not an MP, and the less time I spend guarding doors the better."

Quick hands pull a brush through her hair, before she pulls out a pair of slender barber's scissors and starts trimming at the ends of her hair. There's not much artifice to it, just utility, "Like whatever we could scavenge from the colonies, and the weapons the marines bring back from their engagements. Even the best oiled machine rusts in the thunderstorms of Sag, or when they've been covered in blood and bodily fluids." She makes light work of the trimming, eyes occasionally glancing at the man at the sink down the way, using the mirror, rather than turning her body or her eyes to him directly, "So was I. LRFC. Nine years, until Jakob came. But I learned to be something else. So have a lot of people on this ship. The man you were, you aren't ever going to be again."

"So I've heard." Ciro's words come easily, though he does spare himself a long, knowing look into his reflection in the mirror before him. "…So I've heard." He repeats, brushing the heel of his hand over his eyebrow before he brushes it up and over his mohawk. "At least that's what they keep telling me. I was fortunate enough to get some dirt-time recon-wise down below, though, so I should probably not sign myself over to the quiet world of gunsmithing and standing in front of doors just yet. Grandfather Colonial's got something left for me." With that, he presses his palms into the basin and pushes away, turning to find her face. "I'll be a good student, though. If there's one thing I've learned it's how to keep my mouth shut and pay attention."

"Is that really what you think MPs do all day, stand and guard the doors?" There's more than note of amusement, in the delicately Caprican accented tone of Eli's words, "Maybe you should come on a ride along one of these days." A flick of her fingers to send the last of the hair clippings into the sink before she washes them away, turning to take care of the last of her toilette. Washing her face again, brushing her teeth, before she rises again, toweling her hair a bit more dry before she starts to braid it. "Keeping your mouth shut makes it hard to ask questions."

"If you're a sufficient enough instructor I'm sure you can make it clear what I do and don't need to do, Inoue." Ciro fires back, a bit of amusement trailing with his words as he walks past her, heading for the door. "I know when it's time to talk and when it's time to shut up. The point I was trying to make was that I'm not going to turn this into some grueling experience." He passes her, stepping quietly out into the bunkhouse before he returns, shaving kit in hand.

"So…you're offering me to ride along in the MP world eh?" His voice a slight mockery of her Caprican accent. "Somehow I don't think that riding along with the MPs details much riding of anything, unless standing in front of doors, looking up and down hallways, and checking for signatures at the armory infers some sort of movement or action. What do you higher ranked MP NCOs bother yourselves with anyway?"

"That'll be enough of your lip. I get enough of that from the puppy grenadier they saddled me with." There is, though, obvious affection for the white and nerdy demoman assigned to the 3-2. She finishes up at the basin, before she starts pulling on her underthings, the rest of her uniform left back on her bunk. "There's a reason an MP fireteam has riflemen, demolitions and an AR, just likes yours, Sondray. We maintain the brig, we break up fights, we occasionally beat the hell out of people that need beating the hell out of. And we investigate all infractions of the law in the fleet. We're also responsible for maintaining martial law on the Elpis, and that's no picnic."

Again, Ciro's eyes are averted as she dresses. His attention is easily turned to the sink before him, which he fills with hot water. Pulling off his tank tops, he drapes them over the next sink as he prepares to shave. His own muscular body bears only small memories of scars with colorful tattoos over his arms. He smears some of the fleet's issued shaving cream over his jaw and reaches for his razor. "Don't they have bouncer's at Pete's for that sort of thing?" Ciro asks with a smirk, sparing her a quick, almost leering glance before he turns to his reflection once more. "Sounds like an around-the-clock sort of job with all of the drama people put out around here. Sure you don't wanna reconsider and try to transfer to recon? In my world we get to crawl around in the mud and climb rocks, rather than use our polite society accents to request the gentlemen to please keep themselves calm."

"When a sailor is on shore leave," and the Elpis is all the shore leave the fleet has anymore, "The MPs are responsible for their actions. It's our job to make sure they play nice with the civilian population. Our job doesn't end when they punch that ticket and get on that raptor. And you won't find anyone better trained at close-area combat than an MP. because, unlike you…filed marines…we never have the luxury of miles of land and nicely laid out defilade positions." A shrug, as she finishes dressing, and goes back to clean up the area she used, glancing only occasionally at the man now scraping hair off of his face. "You should spike that a bit more…it's a bit…limp." A flick of her fingers towards the mohawk. "Just saying."

Ciro's eyes tilt towards her at the mention of his hair being limp, doing a cursory check to test the level of innuendo being thrown in his direction. His eyebrow raises to her with a scant nod of his head as she appends her words, noting that she's got a point. "It wouldn't take much and my supply of anything that I can use for that sort of thing tends to come and go. Last few times over to the Elpis I traded for alcohol and clothes, but every now and then someone's got something they've put together that'll keep it upright." He pauses, dipping his razor into the water to clean it before he resumes his shaving. "You've always had nice, shiny hair, Ekho. Do you have any suggestions as to what I could use? All I've got left is some old expired stuff."

Ekho's expression is pure as the driven snow, as she finishes up, finally heading back to the bench to pick up her towel, "You've gotta know the right people, that's you're problem. There's a couple of people over there who could probably hook you up. It's amazing what they can do with the non-edible parts of the stuff they grow down in hydroponics." There's a decided smirk in her expression, at the question, "Condiments and really amazing genes." A snort, "You're giving me estrogen overload, Sondray. I see you down in the armory. Seven hours." A flick of her fingers in his direction, before she steps back out into the berthing and onward to put the suit on, as it were.

"How am I giving you estrogen overload? You're the one asking me about my…" Ciro starts, curious at first but then lets it go as she leaves the room. "Alright, seven hours!" He calls out and then lowers his gaze back to his shaving. He lowers his voice, speaking to the Ciro-like figure in the mirror that seems to mimic his every movement. "…confusing-ass girl asking me about my hair and then kickin' you in the ass for it." He smirks, scraping away more of the hair from his jaw, leaving the scruff on his chin alone. "Let's hope she doesn't try to get me to put fry-sauce on my hair."

Eli's voice comes back through the open hatch between the head and the berthings, "I heard that!" Now what she might or might not have heard is up for debate, but the woman doesn't head back into the conversation. She's got duty to report to, and that MP uniform won't wear itself. Nor will the small locket that she pulls out from her storage and slides onto her dog tags, the woman opening it to look at the picture of the small boy inside, before a hand tucks it under her shirt.

Later That Day….

Aerospace Facility
The fourth largest single room on the Cerberus, the Aerospace Facility actually appears larger than the Galley because there isn't a kitchen. The only separate area is a large cage at the rear that contains all the cutting, welding, and air tools necessary for assembling nearly anything. Although primarily for assembling new Vipers and Raptors or fixing large parts of current ones, just about anything on the ship can be fixed here. Raised areas of the deck stand in for tables and an intricate crane system runs along the ceiling to move anything too heavy for crews to situate on their own. On both the port and starboard sides of the room are huge elevators that drop down into the floors for projects to travel to and from the Hangar Decks.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear
Post-Holocaust Day: #458

It's never quiet, persay, in fabrication, but occasionally, it's less shrill and thunderous and teeth-rattlingly raucous. And tonight seems to be one of those nights. It's been days since the Areion, and most all of the repairs that need to be done here have been done. But that's not to say that the place is unused. And certainly, at least one of the tables off to the side seems to be in full use. Ekho is settled there, a selection of guns and a toolbox set out in front of her, hands flipping through a list of repair orders as she waits.

He's late, but only by a few minutes. Wearing his off-duties with a pair of coveralls and goggles thrown over his shoulder, the tall, muscular form of Sergeant Ciro Sondray enters the area. Making no attempt to conceal himself, he comes to a stop at the edge of the table and sets his canteen and clothes down on the back of a chair. He's freshly showered, and by his open schedule he's likely come from the Athletics Area, his favorite haunt of all places. He eyes her clipboard with mild curiosity and then his vision trails to her face. "…so we've got a backordered list of jobs?"

"There's always a backorder of jobs. We have a particularly well-stocked armory. And the firing range is seeing more activity lately. Those who don't have weapons issued to them, say…a pilot who wants to learn how to shoot a rifle, but only has their service pistol, needs to get it from somewhere. And we need to make sure they're cleaned and cared for afterwards. But that can wait. How much do you know about maintaining your own weapons? And how do you go about doing that?"

"Well the only actual weapon that I maintain is my rifle, which I take out of storage twice a month for cleaning and firing tests." Ciro replies, taking one of the chairs nearby on the side of the table. He lifts his head to glance over the collection of weapons as they speak. "So as far as my own weapon goes, you won't find more of an expert on my own rifle. I could list the dimensions for you if you so desire. As for other weapons, that tends to get taken care of for us by people like you and the gun cage, but ever since basic I've regularly broken down and cleaned sidearms and alternate assault rifles that tend to get assigned to me as time goes by."

Ekho's face remains still, showing no trace of judgment, though there's a lightly lilting, "You only take it out for a ride twice a month? Shame." Definitely a twinkle in her eyes, before she nods, reaching over to lift her sidearm from the table. A standard issue MP whatnot. "Field strip this for me. You have one minute." She sets the weapon down, which appears to have its magazine in place and is likely loaded on the table in front of the man, before she reclaims her hand.

"Conserving ammunition." Ciro replies, lifting his brow in the Staff Sergeant's direction with another layer of veiled competition. He reaches for the pistol. "I could take it out more but there's no sense in just looking at the thing if I'm not getting clearance to let it off any more than I can. That's twice a month." He smirks, turning the pistol over in his hand. The first thing he does is clear the chamber, setting the unused bullet alongside the ejected clip. He works fast, familiar with the pistol's model. Piece by piece he strips it, careful to not let the springs fly off. It's close…but he manages to completely disassemble the pistol in just a hair under a minute.

"Because you have so little of it to go around, no doubt." That lilt of accent and humour. And the woman falls silent again, watching the disassembly. Once it's finished, she rises, picking up a strip of cloth from the table, and walking around behind the man, making no attempt to disguise her intentions. Trust certainly won't be built with a foundation of deception. But she does move to settle a blindfold on his eyes, hands light and careful, not even marring the mohawk. She's talented, that's for sure. With that done, she returns to her side of the table, rearranging the parts of the disassembled weapon, and adding in a few more, before she settles back into position. "Within the area two foot square in front of you are the pieces of that same weapon. Find them and return the weapon to working order."

"You've been reading my medical records again, haven't you?" He asks, eyes narrowing alongside his self-deprecating humor as she nears. The muscles in Ciro's shoulders tighten as she steps behind him, and his head tilts, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Allowing himself to be blindfolded is a practice in patience, but her obvious intention sets him at ease. He trusts very little, it seems. When she steps away, he shakes his head, getting quietly comfortable with being blind. He flattens his lips and nods towards the table. "We'll see how this goes…" He reaches out, feeling the pieces one by one. His eyebrow lifts as he finds an unfamiliar piece, which he sets aside. "Tricky…" He chuckles, an arrogant smile sent towards the sidearm's disassembled pieces. Slowly and carefully he starts to assemble the weapon.

"I don't have access to your medical records. But now that you've let the secret slip out, forewarned is forearmed." Ekho afterwards stays quiet, silent, observing, making no attempt to touch the table or rearrange the pieces once she's settled. That would be cheating, on her part. But she watches, carefully, with the same intensity that saw her through nine years in the field and all of the years since she left the academy. The MP academy that is. And she doesn't say a word.

"Wasn't aware that it was so much a secret, Elly. Was there some sort of reason, though, that you needed to be forewarned? You were recon. You, just like me, were trained to fire only on the greenlight." Ciro smirks, taking a moment to feel between two very similar pieces, trying to remember the details of which one was the one he removed from the firearm. His brows lower in protest. "Frakkin hells…" he turns his blindfolded head in her direction, off by a few degrees. He gives the air over her shoulder a disapproving look before he chooses one of the two pieces. It's a guess…but a lucky one. With the last few pieces in place, he sets the reassembled gun down in front of him. "Done."

"Depends on the soldier, I suppose. Not many like people to know where they're falling down on the job, as it were. And others like to gather intelligence before they go out in the field." A nod, unseen, of her head, as she watches the work continuing, eyes lingering on that piece that Ciro hesitates over. "Why did you choose the piece on your left and not the one on your right?" As if that were the most important question in the world.

Quiet and reserved, Ciro doesn't respond to her next round of innuendo with anything more than a slight flare of his nostrils. Ciro leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest with his blind attention on the table before him. He hasn't removed the blindfold yet, likely out of some sort of belief taht she's not done putting him through blind tests. "There was a slight threading on the underside of the firing pin that the other piece didn't have." He replies, turning his head towards the ceiling. His shoulders are still tense, almost as if keeping ready to defend himself. "I didn't remember the original firing pin being so smooth."

Ekho nods, rising to her feet. She gathers up the weapon, and the left over pieces, before she brings out another set of pieces, putting them down within the same area, "Good. Now, I want you to love from your left to right, find each pieces on the table and tell me what make and model each piece comes from and what condition it's in." Again, she settles back down. She makes no more attempt to needle the man, jokingly or otherwise.

Ciro tilts his head, a small look of incredulity crossing his features. "Make and frakkin' model?" He asks, one eyebrow peeking out from over the blindfold. Taking in a slow breath, he releases it quickly as if he's preparing to try to lift a mountain with his own bare hands. Carefully, he reaches for the pieces, picking them up one by one, brushing his fingertips over them as he blindly inspects. The rest of his senses are obviously tensed, providing him protection in their quiet room. "This one…" he holds up a piece. "…is from a GMAR slide. Rusted on the end." He sets the piece aside, moving to the next. Quietly he brushes his thumb over the next piece, taking his time. "This is a slide to a Milirem 4700, it's bent too far at an angle. Metal fatigue maybe?" He asks, moving to the next. This one he's having a hard time with. "Is this a test to see whether or not I have the patience for this?"

Maddeningly calm and quiet, patient and attentive, is the policewoman sitting across the way from the recon man. A nod, unseen again, as he goes from piece to piece, naming them off. "No, actually, that was from a rather enthusiastic private who decided to use his weapon as a club when the bullets were expended." But as he reaches the piece that seems to give him trouble, she turns serious. "That's part of it. Gunsmithing is precise work, it's slow work, it's painstaking work. It's not much different from what you're used to in the field. A similar skillset is required, despite the fact that it seems like a completely different ball of wax. It requires all of your senses, not just your sight. Well, perhaps not taste, so most all of your senses. The point is, to see how well you are able to focus and inspect and work without the crutch of your vision. You'll use it, of course, while you work, but 'it looks' right is a phrase ripe for disaster. Something can look right and feel wrong. You have to be able to do that. Because a single mistake can get someone killed."

Ciro nods quietly, turning the next piece over in his hands. "I knew a guy back on Sagittaron who had a weapon backfire…" He lets his words trail off, raising his head in the direction of her voice. "…and that's when we had factories producing machine-cut parts and QA departments test firing everything out of production." He understands her point for sure, with so little to work with, every single piece counts. The blind stare settles for a moment before he lowers his head again, frowing at the part in his hands. "It feels like a firing pin and it feels like it's in good condition." He shakes his head, setting it aside. "Feels being the operative word." He blindly pats his hand on the table, trying to find the next piece, if any.

"And that was when we had machine cut parts and test firing." Ekho leans forward, her arms settling on the table. There are no more pieces to find. "That is from a Milirem 4700." A weapon Ciro might or might not have experience with, as it's a hunting rifle that was never in use by either military or law enforcement, "You can remove the blindfold." That said, she sits back in her seat, returning to flipping through the list of orders for repairs she was looking over before the man came in.

Sliding a thumb over his jaw to hook underneath the blindfold, Ciro pulls it off and sets it on the table before him. Blinking a few times to reacclimate his eyes to the lighting, he looks to her with a quieted expression on his face. A few seconds pass before he turns once more to the parts on the table before them, picking through them with quiet interest. "So where do we start?" He asks, leaning to the canteen he brought, unscrewing the cap. "What do you need from me to make this work better?"

"Your dedication. And your attention. Most of what you'll be learning with me and what you'll be doing with me will be as boring as…oh, I don't know, standing around at a door holding up the wall," which, close enough for government work (ha!) is how Ciro described MP duties on the ship. "This work takes time and effort and concentration. But I believe that learning how to do this will help you in other ways, and as you continue with your other duties. And help you in your other roles within the marines."

Ciro glances to her face, eyes tracing the line of her jaw looking for a spot of humor before his lip tugs to the side in a subdued grin. The joke isn't lost on him. A quiet chuckle passes his lips before he takes a drink from his canteen, and then he sets it aside, gazing at her over the expanse of table between them. "Help me in other ways?" He asks, curiosity overcoming him as he challenges her with the question, his eyes locked on hers. "Don't tell me you too have gotten the impression that I'm stuck marching mindlessly, or are you referring to this frightening idea of me actually seeking advancement within the ranks?"

"Neither. This sort of work teaches you to pay better attention to the information you gain from your senses. You'll learn, for example, how to hear stress on a piece of metal. To listen to it as you're working it. The sound of metal changes under the lathe. It tells you if it's too hot, too cold. Without needing to look at it or touch it, you'll be able to tell. And the sound is subtle. You'll learn to be able to tell what a gun's been exposed to by the change in the way the oil smells, the residue left behind in its parts. And the next time you're in the field, you'll be more keyed in to changes in the sounds around you, the subtle shifts in the way the air tastes, or the feeling of it on your face. You train your senses in one arena, and use that training to help you in another. I don't know anything about your life, your aims or your desire for advancement. None of those are any of my business. My business is to teach you how to do this and hope that it helps you to do your other work more ably."

Ciro continues to watch her as she speaks, quietly observing her as he words trail across the table in his direction. He nods softly near the end, obviously seeing her points in the tiny details. He huffs quietly at her mention of his personal life, looking slightly foolish at his assumption. Averting his gaze, he brushes the edge of this thumbnail over the bridge of his nose, nodding once more. "I think you'll find that I take to this quickly, then, because it's those details that I'm interested in. Maybe that's what it was like for you too, coming from Recon and heading over to this. You remember it, right? Every detail…every bit of motion noted for its own purpose?" He nods once more, nodding off with a lift to his brow. "Alright, Ekho…you've got me, and you've got my patience and attention. Should I let Vandenberg know that she might be seeing a schedule change request coming her way, or is this something we do on our free time?"

Ekho sits up from her chair, hands moving diligently to begin cleaning and replacing the pieces she put out on the table, before she reaches for her side arm to fieldstrip her weapon again for cleaning. Grubby marine fingerprints and all, all over the pieces. "You were expecting that I was going to want to be getting all inside your head and in your business? Well, perhaps I would if you were a suspect, but there's nothing like that going on, for the time being. Your thoughts and your life outside of this work is your own affair." A nod, at his comment, "The skills I learned in the field helped me to be a better cop. It's only the pace that's slower. The work is the same. As for the Captain, that's on you. I do it on my free time, and I have scheduled hours, but I'm not your team leader. My suggestion would be to talk to her and see how she wants to work it into your schedule."

"I'll track her down and see what she has to say about it. Honestly I don't see why she wouldn't schedule this in for me. Lady's been scarce and hasn't been in much trouble in a while, and we've got plenty of people to stand guard." Ciro comments, reaching for a small notepad that he keeps in his pocket. Pen in hand, he starts to make a few notes, speaking in the direction of the book as he writes. "…and yeah, I did think you were going to try to get inside of my head. Once you know someone has an eye for details it's pretty easy to wonder just what they're seeing. I'm not asking what you see, of course, that's your own theory. This is about gunsmithing, nothing more." Ciro offers, watching her in a strange manner before he turns his eyes back to the parts on the table. "What time do you usually head down here? This shift?"

"She knows her people and what they need. And we could use all the help we can get down here. And if I'm not here, when I should be, I'm in the armory." There's a shrug, as Ekho starts in on cleaning and oiling the parts of her sidearm, making especially sure to clean off any oil or residue from Ciro's handling of the parts. It's just proper procedure. "If it relates to what you're working on, sure, then you've every right and the perfect opportunity to ask someone what's going on behind their eyes. But the rest of the time, its really none of your concern unless they choose to make it. Me, I'm easy, I work, I play, I keep taking it a day at a time." A glance up, and a nod, "Usually. My schedule's pretty standard, same hours every day. Regular nine to fiver, that's me."

"Yeah what other way is there to take it anyway?" Ciro replies, offering her a quiet shrug. There's no secret about his quiet reputation for being a private person that keeps few friends. He doesn't go out of his way to invite people in, he never has. Though something in him has changed in the last month, perhaps finding some sort of personal footing before traveling down to Gemenon. He brushes his hand through his mohawk, which has had something brushed through it to keep it straight rather than to fall messily over the top of his head. "Anyway…" He changes the subject, watching her work from across the table. "…give me a day or two to try to get something official going. I usually take my PT early and then a light workout after my shift, but I'll be down here on my own time just like you, shifts pending of course. Lately my hours have been getting jerked around."

"There's no rush. Figure out what you need to do first. Work the extracurricular activities in afterwards. I'm going to be lending a hand with the air wing as it is, I think, helping them get more familiar with their weapons and getting some training in in hand-to-hand, so my own schedule might be changing as well. It's like every day is a new adventure." her hands, the entire while she's been talking continue to work, cleaning more by feel than sight, though she uses that on occasion, the movements almost meditative.

"By the way, I was talking to the JAG the other day who was suggesting that somewhere up the road there may be some sort of fight night in the Athletics room. Gloves and mouthguards sort of thing. Last I heard…you seem to be one of the local experts on that sort of thing." He starts the small talk, reaching for one of the guns. Breaking it down, he starts to go over the parts, starting his cleaning.

"I don't know if I would consider myself an expert. I train hard and I try to learn as much as I can. But I'm sure there are people on the ship with a hell of a lot more experience than I have. I try to keep the chip on my shoulder in a pocket." A shrug, as if the whole idea of being a female cop were completely ordinary, which, mostly it is…except when it isn't. Even the enlightenment of the Colonial Marines has its limits. "Though gloves and mouthguards seems a little bit of a cheat. A fight should be a fight. You hurt and you get hurt. You're not going to get that sort of protection on the ground."

"Yeah…well as much as I agree we're also the property of the Colonial Marine Corps. They're not going to let us beat each other up too badly when we're needed for other things. They'll let us have our fun but only to a certain extent." He replies, scratching his chest over his tank tops before returning to his work. "You tend to come and go with the attitude, but you're right about that chip. You're low ego, but you're competitive. If that fight night happens are you going to put your tags in the bag?"

"Then perhaps the lesson there is that the people who are fighting need to learn how to use restraint, and not just to trust to their equipment." A shrug, as she works her way through the gun, before she sets it aside, leaving an oiling rag on top of itto protect it from the various and sundry of the rest of the table. "And what sort of attitude do I have exactly?" her head nods, at the question, "Probably, we'll see."

The center of Ciro's brow twitches at her question, and he quietly glances up from the revolver he's cleaning. He takes a moment to decide whether or not he wants to bite on the end of the social fishhook she's offered before he looks back down to his work. Out comes the brush, scrubbing away the scoring inside of the emptied pistol's barrel. "I'm still trying to figure you out." He offers, as the vague answer will pass. He lets a few seconds linger before he embellishes the answer. "You strike me as the type that doesn't like being told what she can't do."

Ekho seems happy enough to leave her hands on the tables, her fingers rubbing together, working the gun oil on her skin, a absent gesture that seems an afterthought and nothing else. "And you need to figure me out…because it's just something to do to pass the time?" She seems neither happy nor unhappy about that, as if it were just another fact and a question that follows it, "I know there are many things that I can and can't do. But I do think that there are things other people believe that I cannot do, that I know that I can."

Ciro keeps his attention on the revolver before him, navigating the shallow waters of their conversation with his vision kept away from her. Lifting the revolver, he gazes through the chamber, looking for signs of other debris trapped inside. "You know how it is. You cross someone's path enough times you can't help but wonder what they're about. You're my neighbor in the bunkhouse, and a good one at that. You don't keep me up at night and you don't throw things into my slab." He blows through the chamber, giving it another one-eyed inspection. "So don't worry, I notice your passing but I'm sure you and I both know I don't cramp your space."

Ekho, however, isn't much for artifice, in some circumstances and her words come easily and honestly. "There's not much to me, so don't go looking for the deeper meanings. I'm a marine and I'm mommy. One of those is the hat I'm wearing now. The other is waiting for me on Caprica. The rest of it is just juvenile ways of venting the frustration of being stuck on a boat."

At the mention of her being a mother, Ciro's eyes flit in her direction. The locket suddenly makes more sense to the man. He spins the barrel, turning his gaze back to the shuttered image the holes in the revolver's cylinder provides of the table beneath. "Fair enough. Understood." He replies, allowing that certain wide berth that he's always given her fall back into place. It's a strange, metaphysical sort of distance. "So…of all these different pieces, Elly, what's your favorite one to work on?"

With nothing else to keep her hands occupied, Ekho returns to cleaning and finishing the rest of the weapons on the table, setting aside the pieces that needs machine work when she finds them, her words casual, considering, but not full of deep thoughts. "All of them. I don't pick a favourite because I can't. All of them teach me something different. All of them need to be approached in a unique way. That's why they all have something I can learn from them."

The last pieces of the revolver are put together, and Ciro sets it flat on the part of the table reserved for the completed weapons. The silence collects like a film over their conversation as he goes to work on the next pistol. Narrowing his eyes, he glances over to her and then back to the automatic pistol, disassembling it piece by piece. This is a silence he'll let her break, it seems, falling into an uncomfortable lack of sound while the two of them work.

The silence, for what it's worth, doesn't seem uncomfortable for the woman. But then, she likely spends hours just like this, working in silence, with only the sounds and smells of the machines and the metal for company. Patience truly is a virtue and she certainly seems to have mastered it. But there aren't many weapons left on the table to manage.

For as much as Ciro hates the boring, long shifts of standing at guard at a post, he doesn't seem to have to force himself to continue working at the task at hand. One piece after another, he inspects every part of the weapon before him, cleaning it for future use in the fleet. Every necessary part is oiled and cleaned to boot-camp standard, and before long the strange awkwardness is replaced by the assembly line mindset that comes with cleaning the firearms. His rhythm is found, and he buries himself in his work.

Once the rhythm is going, it's an easy, comfortable thing to fall into and keep the beat of. And while Ciro works, Ekho rises and moves, setting aside the weapons that are ready to return to the armory on one rack, and placing the ones that need to be worked on on another. The pieces that need repair go into a repurposed tool box, set with a dozen shelves or so and separated by type. There's no overwhelming need to speak, to break the rhythm, and it seems better that way.

Glancing over his shoulder to the racks that she's placing the equipment on, he turns back to his work. Never being too hasty, he takes his time with making sure that every last piece is put together and oiled properly. His head bobs from side to side as he gazes down the sights of the weapon in his hands. Once satisfied, he rises from his seat and stretches his arms over his head. With a soft growl, he unfurls his tired muscles and sets the weapon on the completed rack.

"That's the last of what we can work on right now. The small parts we'll have to do a bit at a time, as we can get the machinery set up and get you trained on the proper use of them. It's easier to start that when you're fresh. And you look as though you've put in a full day." With the last of the pieces put aside, the last thing to go id clean the area and put the tools and accoutrements away.

"Alright…that's fair." Ciro replies to her, watching her start to clean up as he runs his hand to the back of his neck, quietly scratching at the tail end of his mohawk. He does look like he's getting late in the day, and his customary never-ending workout doesn't usually provide him with a neverending font of energy. Rolling his arm in his socket, he steps back to the table, moving to help her clean up. "When I get my schedule I'd throw a copy onto your bunk. We'll coordinate when to head down here and do that."

Ekho nods, accepting the help without question or a cutting word. Mostly. "As long as I'm not in my bunk when you come by." A quirk of her lips, before she steps back, the final step as easy as washing the oil and grime and dirt from her hands, though that familiar scent of gun oil lingers.

Eye contact is achieved as she issues her little joke, and Ciro returns that shared, quirked smile with her. Turning away, he follows her to the next sink available, soaping up his hands in an attempt to wash the grime away. "Not being in your bunk, such as closed curtains in the middle of third watch you mean?" He teases, hinting at waking her up with his schedule in the middle of her sleeping hours.

"You wouldn't want to see me when I've been woken out of a deep sleep, Sergeant, believe me." That's said seriously, but there's still that sparkle of humour under her words. The woman finishes up, drying her hands and taking a minute to work her hair back up into the twist on the back of her head. "Nobody wants to see that."

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