| Unhappy Returns |
| Summary: | In the wake of Villon's death, Cidra drops in on Rime. |
| Date: | 12 Jun 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | The Long Patrol; Maybe Tomorrow |
| Players: |
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| Officer Berths - Naval Deck - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Much smaller than the Enlisted Berths, 'Officer Country' has a less available in it but still manages to squeeze everything into this room. Like the other berthings aboard, this room has armored doors that can lower to seal off sections during fire or depressurization. Over-under bunks provide some individual privacy for the crews who occupy this area with a small blue curtain while lockers stand between each sleeping module to hold personal items. Tables are set-up in the space in between. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #106 |
Lieutenant Rime stands in front of her open locker. Clean, pressed duty blues, hair pulled back into tidy plaits - at a glance, one would never guess she had recently spent a week and change in the brig. Several small plastic cases, looking like fishing tackleboxes, of all things, are stacked on the edge of her bunk. She's looking for something, or engaged in some overdue spring cleaning, by the sounds of it.
Cidra slips into the office berthings. She treads soft, or tries to, but boots on deck plating are not by nature silent things. She's in her blues as well, though she does not look she pressed as Rime. Top buttons of her duty jacket are undone, dark hair down in straight locks to her shoulders. Eyes underlined by dark circles. She can probably count the amount of sleep she got the previous night in quarter-hours rather than full ones. She is holding something in her right hand, gently enclosed in a fist at her side. "Lieutenant Rime?"
The sound of rummaging stops short, and Rime straightens, though she doesn't turn. The hand leaned up against the side of the locker folds in to her face, the edge of her thumb digging into the corners of her eyes for a few seconds. Only then does she turn, blue-green eyes damp and cold as a half-frozen lake and, after a pointed delay, form up into a picture-perfect salute. "Major."
"That is not necessary here, Lieutenant," Cidra says tiredly. Too tired even to play the perfunctory protocol game. Her features, which she usually manages to keep reasonably inscrutable, are not so at the moment. She just looks very tired, older even than her near-forty years, and sad and worn. "You have heard about Emilie Villon." Tone soft. It is not a question.
Down into parade rest Rime settles, her eyes focussed on a spot on the wall beyond Cidra, just to the side of her face. "I was in CIC looking for Major Tillman not long after it occured. Sir." A muscle in the side of her neck twitches, and her already-straight posture somehow straightens another fraction of an inch.
"For gods' sake, Melissande, as you were," Cidra says. "This is not an examination." Her eyes seek to meet the other woman's, even if Rime is intent upon the wall. She approaches the Tactical officer, closed hand opening. Within it is clutched, oh-so gently, a small painted figurine. "I was going through her things last night. I do believe this is yours."
The corners of Rime's eyes narrow slightly when Cidra looks at her, but her attention remains pinned on that remote spot on the wall. If it wasn't for the sharp twitch of her nostrils with each breath, she might look perfectly composed. Her shoulders tighten as the Major approaches and then, when her hand opens, her attention finally cuts away from the wall. Between one blink and the next, her eyes are suddenly wet and bright, her voice shredded through a tight throat and set jaw. "Yes. It's mine. Thank you. Sir." She unclasps her hands, and picks the figurine from the other woman's palm, staring down at it.
Cidra remains where she stands near Rime, hands clasping in front of her once she's handed over the figurine. "I gather the two of you were close. There are no words for these losses. Those who try to find them just end up looking foolish. My heart grieves for her, as does yours I am sure. They all seem so young to me but…she was far too young…" She trails off, her own voice threatening to break. She clears her throat. "She did not leave a will, or any instructions for the chaplain. I do not know her beliefs or customs. Was she a devotee of any particular of the gods, or a keeper of the faith at all or…I would honor her as she would want to be remembered. I just…do you know what she may have wanted?"
Rime turns without looking up from the figurine, and crosses from her spot to the edge of her bunk in a single long-legged stride. Crouching there, she opens one of the tackleboxes. Arranged in their little plastic cubicles upon squares of foam are rank after rank of figurines. The returned piece is set down in an empty square, fingertip lingering on it for a moment as she clears her throat once, then again. "We hadn't spoken of it. I'm sure she was. Poseidon, maybe. She lived by the sea." Straightening, she again settles into parade rest, eyes returning to that remote spot. "On Emilie's behalf, allow me to congratulate the Cerberus's command staff on locking up the right man. I'm sure she feels safer already." Cold, ashen words, forced numbly out. "Sir."
"Posiedon. I shall tell Sister Karthasi." At that last, Cidra nods short. She doesn't so much look surprised by the remark. Just tired. "If you are spoiling for an argument today, Melissande, you will not find it with me. For my part, I believe the wrongs on this ship go far beyond one man. Either in CIC or on the Deck. I wish I could have saved Emilie, but I cannot change what happened to her now. All any of us can do is try to protect those who remain. If you know anything, if she told you anything or you saw something that might shed light on who may have done this to her…I trust you will do your duty by her and share it with the MPs."
The corners of Rime's eyes twitch again, and she looks upward as she sniffs once, sharply. Clearing tears before they spill. Again, she somehow straightens another fraction of an inch from a slouch that was never there. The sound of jacket-sleeves rustling behind her back - unclasping and reclasping her hands, most likely. "Have no doubt of that. Sir. I'm certain I'll see you at her services."
"Certainly," is Cidra's soft reply. There is little more to say. "Well, I came to return that. It is done. I shall leave you to it now. I share in your sorrow at her loss." With that, and one more attempt to meet Rime's eyes, she turns to go.
"I'm certain you do. Sir." Rime's eyes flicker again when her peripheral vision reminds her the Major is looking her way - and this time, as she clears her throat, they slant across to meet the other woman's. They're as wet and cold as before, grief stamped down imperfectly by the harsh taskmistress of protocol and duty. Her voice is less wooden, though, as she says, "Thanks for returning that." Her mouth twists into a thin line and her gaze drops to the floor.
"You are welcome," Cidra says, holding Rime's eyes for a moment, then letting her own gaze drop. She strides out of the berthings with that, leaving the Tac officer to her grief.