PHD #019: Thrown Back
Thrown Back
Summary: Tisiphone bumps into Cadmus in the galley. Demos joins them.
Date: 2041.3.17
Related Logs: Related Logs (Say None if there aren't any; don't leave blank)
Cadmus Tisiphone Demos 

It's early morning, and the Cerberus bustles with equal measure of the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and the bleary-eyed dragging themselves off of late shift. Wending her way through the galley is Tisiphone. She's bleary-eyed enough to be in the latter category, but there's no way she was on-duty. Her right arm has a cast on it, and her left arm is in a shoulder-sling. Around one eye, beneath the grandmother of all shiners, is a crescent-moon of sutures. She's determined to get food, however, and so onward she trudges, studiously ignoring the looks passed her way.

Anyone who saw Cadmus would be damn surprised if he's slept any time recently. His hair, short though it is, looks completely messed up. His duty uniform is rumpled, in contrast to the usual hairline pressed-and-starched seams. But it hasn't dulled his eyes one jot - he LOOKS alert, like nothing can wear him down. Then again… some people deal with hardship and tragedy by working more. He is staring at the oatmeal and muffin in front of him with grave suspicion. "Seriously," he says, as if anyone around him cares, "Capricans eat this stuff? Nobody's playing a *trick* on me, or something?" And he actually does look around as if someone has secretly replaced his breakfast with a grain-based glue.

"Hydroponic, anti-allergenic and free of anything that might actually be natural." Tisiphone's voice, a little softer than usual, with a touch of fatigue-dulled familiarity. She is carrying an apple in her beslinged hand, holding the fruit against her chest. Limping to a halt near the MP, she watches him for a moment before saying, "I saw your note. Training pilots to stop shooting like pilots."

Wheeling about on his bench, Cadmus glances back toward Tisiphone. "Well! Ensign Apostolos, you're looking better than the scuttlebutt would have me believe," he says, stabbing idly at his oatmeal with one hand. Maybe if he doesn't look at it, it will mysteriously become appetizing by the time he looks back. "I intend to try, anyway. I take it you'll be bowing out of my little party, then?"

Glum regret amongst the sutures, at Cadmus's words. "Unless you're crazy enough for another round in a couple months, yeah. You got any interest so far?" She drags out a chair with one foot, half-turns it around, then puts a foot up on the seat. Leaning forward a bit, to give some new part of her back an ache.

Stretching out both of his arms, Cadmus causes his elbows, shoulders, and then neck to pop in rapid succession - the fanfare of the weary. "Yeah. Looks like Atreus and his deck crew are going to jump in. The Corpsmen as well, obviously. Sergeant Arkat, as well. I expect some pilots will also show up. A motley arrangement of madmen, at any rate. Phaedra will probably be running an OpFor team, and I'll do the same if I don't have enough marines around. But I'd prefer to act as an overseer. As far as I'm aware, I'm one of the most tactically trained marines aboard, so I'd rather do analysis." There's no ego in the statement: simply an assessment of his own training versus that of others.

Tisiphone finally takes a bite out of her apple, chewing first with relish, then suddenly with more care. The stitches are closer to her jaw than she thought, it seems. Sleet-blue eyes intent on the Marine's, as he speaks. Appraisal, or maybe judgement. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?" she asks. She's about to say more when something catches her eye in the galley crowd, startling her slightly. Chin up, eyes narrowing.

Perhaps it's the mention of being serious, or perhaps Tisiphone's caused Cadmus to actually think about the facts of the matter, but he falls silent for about half a minute, stirring his now-tepid breakfast. "Yes, I really am," he says, not taking his eyes off the mushy mass. "Every life has always counted. But now, every life is even more important. We're at the end of the rope. We can't play it out any more. Everywhere I go on this battlestar, I see people who are biding their time, waiting for someone to tell them how to hope for a better tomorrow. Tell them how to survive, to live, and to fight, because it isn't just a tour toward a college tuition." He stops, turns, and faces her dead on. "We fight, or we die. Some people fold under pressure. I'm beginning to suspect I sharpen under it."

Tisiphone leans a little to one side, then the other, still trying to pick someone out in the crowd. Somewhat reluctantly, her eyes return to yours — disappointed that it wasn't who she thought it was, perhaps — as she tries to catch back up to the conversation. "Fight, or we die," she echoes after abruptly blinking her stare away and clearing her throat. Discomfited by her own reaction to the intense statements. "I've heard that before." She pauses to let a knot of people past the table, and suddenly looks up, hard and swift as an owl tracking a mouse. "Hey, wait-!" she calls at them, scrambling up from her half-kneeling perch, her voice cracking somewhere between excitement and alarm. She shoves into the knot of people — a knot of snipes, talking amongst themselves until the interruption — to catch up with the frontmost one, then just as abruptly looks at them all in confusion. "Sorry, I- Sorry." Mistaken identity. She turns a slow circle, then frowns at them all again. The snipes chuckle, shoot eachother bemused looks, and continue on toward the door, leaving Tis behind.

"I… Yeah, it's a common sentiment…" Cadmus says absently, more interested in watching Tisiphone's sudden jump and pursuit of…deck crew? He cautiously takes a bite of his oatmeal, watching her stop and go like a marionette. "Listen, we fight or we die, it's true. But we can survive, because we're made to. Because we're trained to, and… everything will work out, in the end." It surprisingly doesn't sound like he's just repeating a platitude. He really seems to believe it.

Tisiphone stares after the departing knot of snipes — one of them glances back sidelong as they mutter to their pals and chuckle meanly — then turns in a circle a third time. She's deeply confused, now, even her stitches-ringed eye creasing up with emotion. "Uh," she replies distractedly to Cadmus. One step back toward him, then another. Both accompanied with furtive glances from side to side. Maybe she thinks she's on Candid Camera.

"You got business, you keep looking for it," Cadmus says, waving idly at Tisiphone with his spoon. "I've got my oatmeal here to keep me company." There's no judgement in the statement, but seems to be idle commentary on the Ensign's confusion and interest in the snipes. And like that, he simply returns to the mush in front of him, muttering, "I still think they're trying to glue me shut with this crap…"

Stepping around the departing snipes, Demos excuses herself, her gaze following theirs long enough to settle briefly on Tisiphone. Her expression blanks, though she lifts a wave to Cadmus where he sits. Stepping up to the line, she follows the man ahead of her up to the counter. While the line is not long, it does have a bit of a stop and go quality to it, so she does not get to the head of the line for a while.

Bandages, casts, slings, stitches, bruises — Tisiphone started out today as the poster child for misfortune, and now it looks like a double-billing with confusion. She nods distractedly to Cadmus, looking down at her apple, trapped awkwardly in the fingers dangling out the top of her shoulder-sling. She turns it around a little, this way and that, as if hoping some location will be suddenly more appetizing. "Drink more water. Eat more fruit." Not that she's selling that apple too well, the way she's lost her appetite.

Cadmus glances up at Tisiphone occasionally, his expression detached. It's the pondering look of someone who's noticed a vast number of crew looking confused and lost lately. He proceeds to chow down on his now-cold oatmeal, murmuring something about un-food, probably made of plastic, and the fact that Capricans are undoubtely totally goddamned crazy. Lost in his own little breakfast world.

Retrieving her own bowl of near-food, Demos slides the tray along to the coffee station. She pours a mug of liquid ebony, then dilutes it to the color of dark chocolate with sugar and cream substitute. The same is done with the oatmeal, though without the coffee. Lifting the tray, she claims silverware, then turns and begins to make her way toward Cadmus' table. When she reaches it, she looks up at Tisiphone, her gaze lingering on the woman's battered, bandaged and bruised self. The look lingers in silence while an untold number of snippy, caustic and catty comments vie for release. Finally, all that escapes is, "You look like Hades stepped on you, Ensign. Would you like to sit down?" Her gaze sidles softly over to Cadmus, "If you do not mind sharing your table, that is."

"No, no. The oatmeal is fine table guest, but it doesn't make for the most interesting gossip," Cadmus says, letting the words drawl out of his mouth. The rumors are thus confirmed: he makes the occasional 'joke', or something that might pass for one in a dark alley when you're drunk. He points at the bench across from him, indicating Demos should sit if she likes. "How have things been going with you, boss?"

The cast is the real death-knell, amongst Tisiphone's injuries, even if the stitches are more gruesome and the carpet of bruises are more vivid. That's weeks and weeks of time away from flying even the sims, right there. A tight wariness enters her expression, drowning out some of the confusion, as she looks at Demos in silence. Stalls for time by taking another bite of her apple. Through slow chews: "Thanatos caught me, decided to throw me back." She doesn't sit, but she'll put a foot up on her chair's set, leaning forward to stretch out her aching back.

Demos twitches a quirked half smile at the joke, in part because it ambushes her all unawares. Nodding her thanks, she eases gracefully onto the bench. Her bowl of adulterated oatmeal is placed before her next to the coffee. A spoon dips into the mess and she stirs it round, and round. "You cannot blame the oatmeal, you know. It does not get out much." Crooking a glance up at Tisiphone, she minces the barest ghost of a smile, there and gone again, "Comes of being small, I understand. Although I am not certain that the alternative is better. At least this way, you have a chance to grow a bit more." Her attention returns to Cadmus and she shrugs, "Busy. How about you?"

"I think I managed to get some sleep some time yesterday. Don't ask when, though. It snuck in when I wasn't looking and wooed me." Cadmus places his bowl off to the side, and rubs both his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I find myself ending up in philosophical discussions nigh daily, extolling the virtues of murder. I would say it's a bit surreal, but that's true of all life right now, I expect."

"Yeah," Tisiphone murmurs to Demos's comment about getting to grow to proper Thanatos-harvesting dimensions. It doesn't sound like her heart's in it. "Sorry for- bringing your breakfast down," It's a pretty contrived apology, but she pushes it out there much like Cadmus scraped his oatmeal around. Take it or leave it. With a mute nod, she toes her chair back under the table and turns to go, still fidgeting with the apple, bitemarks darkening from white to brown.

Demos sits straight as can be, spine angling forward just a little as she scoops some of the ecru glop up onto a spoon. "Sleep, I hear, is either overrated or the gods own bliss. I will give you an analysis the next time it catches up with me." The bite is taken and swallowed quickly as Tisiphone speaks. Looking up at the woman, she shakes her head, "Oh, you did not, Ensign. The fault lies with the oatmeal, it seems to me. It is so…" Looking down, she wracks her brain to come up with something. Anything. "Paste-like." Well, maybe anything but that. "You do not have to go, unless you wish to."

Looking between the two women, Cadmus ends up just resting his head on one fist, elbow to the table. He stares off into the distance, eyeballing the tables, the lights, the ceiling - everything concrete and immutable in the room, and nothing so intemperate and mutable as human beings. It seems he's found one of those unusual moments where he can let his mind wander, because there is nothing in front of him demanding immediate attention. And chances are, that'll only last thirty seconds or less.

Tisiphone shakes her head mutely to Demos's offer. She offers a sidelong glance back to the two MPs, eyes floundering in a confused, defensive tangle of emotions, and then she's off, beating as hasty a retreat as one can with two sprained ankles.

< Exit Tisiphone. More to follow from Cadmus or Demos, if they post it! >

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License