| You Spin Me Right Round |
| Summary: | Laundry room philosophy like OH MY GOSH. |
| Date: | 17 Feb 2042 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Laundry Room Deck 3 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Industrial washers and dryers line each side of this elongated room, which typically has personnel moving in and out all day and night. These front-loading systems are designed to withstand the rigors of a military beating and still function as expected. A sturdy set of counters run the length of the room for crewmembers to fold their own laundry and dress and pins or patches before and after the process. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #356 |
Condition Two, but what are you going to do? When you need clean uniforms, you need clean uniforms. Afterall, those Cylons can take everything away from you, but godsdamnit, they aren't going to take your human dignity and sense of hygiene. At least, that's what the Marine CO seems to be saying to herself, and to everyone else for that matter, when she takes a few unis up to the laundry room to toss them in…even so soon after the air wing launched Vipers and what have you for the umpteenth swarm of Raiders in as many days.
Condition Two, and this time Sergeant Lysander can be found entering into the laundry room. Considering the bag he has held slung over his right shoulder is full of uniforms and he himself is wearing a red t-shirt with some cartoon animal over the chest it's clear why he is here: to wash all of his standard-issue shit. "Err," is murmured at the sight of the Major but after pausing a short beat in step he continues further in and moves to find his own station. "Another moment of peace between attacks," he pauses and then adds, "Sir." Doing laundry just turned surreal.
Oh no, there's no WAY in Hell that that shirt is going to go without some kind of comment. "Nice shirt, sergeant. I'm almost certain that my son - rest his soul - had the same one." Though she jokes, the smile is thin and meaningless, and the pain plays across her face behind it. The tan unis go back and forth and around and around there in the machine, and Madilyn's left to the last clean pair of off-duty threads, just hanging out in the laundry room waiting for them to finish and fold. "And yes, a moment of peace between attacks…fleeting though it may be."
Helia arrives from the Deck 3.
Helia has arrived.
"Yeah, well," there should be a law that forbids officers from abusing the styles of dress of the enlisted, but as it stands and with Lysander taking a moment to glance down to his shirt he is at a loss with regards to comebacks. So he just stands there momentarily. "I'm sure he would've loved it a lot more than me," is said in reply when he notes her actual expression, partly apologetic. He bites down speaking up further and begins to load his uniforms into the washing machine before him. The marine half-steps back and sheds the red, cartoony shirt too in order to toss it in last: not like modesty exists everywhere. Shirtless as he may be, he still has pants. "Anniversary of all of this is coming up. So. Well." The two are doing laundry after all of the attacks.
"I may have to part with one of the few photos I still possess. Put it up on the wall, and what have you. I think I owe them that much." Sure, Madilyn says it, she states it, but yet it still manages to come out more like a question. Maybe she's distracted by shirtless marine? Maybe she's seeking an answer or confirmation or validation or something. Regardless, she rests against one of the folding and sorting tables, idly jingling and jangling rank pins and insignias around.
Lysander holds up his empty bag, detergent and such set aside now that the washer is running, and turns in place in order to look over towards Madilyn. "I think you should do it. It'd honor their memory, like everyone else." He doesn't know about owing but he does try to help out as best he can, it only being awkward because it's the Major of all people. It doesn't stop him from taking to a light, reassuring smile. "You still have their memory. I know you won't forget their faces."
Before she replies, Madilyn takes a moment to hop up onto the folding table - the lack of any other furniture to sit down necessitates this, and it's not like she's the first person to do this, after all. "Don't you ever wonder about that though? What is a memory? A fleeting thing. Electrochemical, cellular, electromagnetic, physical imprint…whatever you'd like to call it. Isn't it fragile? Isn't it vulnerable? If you keep those reminders…" she starts, trying to convince herself, and eventually just gives up. Yes, she's been talking strange like this for the last few days.
Carrying her dirty clothing in a bag slung over her shoulder, along with detergent and softener contained within, Helia "Sunspot" Gryphon wanders into the laundry room, deciding to make the most of her free time after this evening's Raider attack and get her clothing nice and clean. Two others in here right now. Not too bad, really. Brown eyes linger briefly on Lysander, brows raising. Then, she turns, making her way over to a washing machine and starting to load it up rather quickly.
"Don't know, but my mum said that when someone you love becomes a memory they become a treasure that cannot be stolen from," Lysander stops talking when he looks over to the entrance of someone else. He then decides that he should close his mouth in order to look far less stupid about things. Helia is given a once over and light nod of his head in greeting. Yes, he is not wearing a shirt. Yes, women are allowed to stare. He won't even stop men either. "Fragile, maybe, but memories are part of what makes us human. You should keep them around - sir."
"Do I really seem like the type you need to address as 'sir' 24/7?" Sure, she's sitting there rolling some rank pins around, but she is in off-duty threads almost, but not quite, as casual as Lysander himself. "I wonder if all the pilots do that with the CAG…" she muses idly, directing her gaze toward the new arrival.
Helia, wearing her own off-duty threads, glances over her shoulder, brows raising. "Not usually, no." She offers a faint smile to the woman, brows raising. "Not all the time, at least." She turns her eyes back to the task of putting the detergent in, before closing the laundry door and turning around to face the two. "Usually, it's the callsigns." She puts the bag up on the top of the machine, before pressing the 'start' button to get her clothes washed.
"Not so much, no," readily replies Lysander. He trails off with a slow inclining of his head to the right, doing it thoughtfully before he adds, "I had a long chat with Vandenberg - the formality stuck, is sticking, was stuck, one of those." He clears his throat a bit. With that answer, he rubs at his right shoulder while turning his attention to their laundry room newcomer so that he can listen in on her answer. With it received, he starts to grin appreciatively. "So, then, can I nab a callsign of my own?" He's looking back toward the Major.
"We'll call you…Suds. It fits. But then, I make no claim to know how a pilot earns his or her callsign. However, if you really wanted to earn a callsign, I'm sure you could put in a request to transfer to the air wing. You have the eyes for it, I'm sure." Is it wrong for an officer nearly twice as old as one of her subordinates to be staring? Probably, but that doesn't keep Madilyn from sneaking peeks at the bare shoulders and now back when she looks between the pilot and the other marine during the conversation.
Circe arrives from the Deck 3.
Circe has arrived.
The Viper pilot laughs softly. "Usually, callsigns are given to you. Mine's Sunspot. I was in the middle of a training drill, and I missed the target by a longshot. Mistake, error in judgement. I was stupid, blamed it on the sun. Had sunspots in my eyes. It wasn't the case, but…a callsign is kind of a reminder of things." She smiles faintly, moving over to an empty section of counter space and hoisting up to sit on it.
Yes, she most certainly is staring at Lysander and his amazing shirtlessness.
Sickbay and helping with surgery has not left Circe with many options in wardrobe change. She enters the laundry room, sack over her shoulder and dressed in a short jade green razorback topped, matched with a pair of white sweats and sandals. Old and very warn sandals which are nearly falling apart.
She lugs the bag in and plops it onto the ground with a push from her foot to slide it towards one of the washers. The flop of her sandal shows that is it about ready to fall apart. The medic lifts her head at the voices and then notices two of three faces that are familiar to her and she smiles, "Sir." She intones to Madilyn. "Lysander." She says and gives him a nod and a raise of her brow that causes her to smirk and go about her business. She nods to the pilot and then begins to unload the bloodied medic uniforms.
The good Sergeant lifts a hand in preparing to counter with a comeback but after glancing between all of the women, now that Circe as well is joining the group who is given a smiling nod of his head, Shirtless Lysander ends up giving a dismissive shake of his hands. "I love my duty as is, working under all of you lovely officers, and alongside fellow enlisted." He shifts his weight from one boot to the other before deciding that he should hop up onto the portion of counter next to his wash, resting his hands on his knees while he leans somewhat forward. "Don't think I have anything as embarrassing as that though - Sunspot," he pauses before adding, "Does it have to be Suds?" Eye the medic uniforms, he does.
"Well, we might also consider Nips, Pecs…or if you really want a callsign, Fuzzy-Wuzzy." A knowing grin spreads across Madilyn's face, as she was the only one to see him with the shirt on. "That last one may be a tad long for a callsign, however. I hear they work best when they're short and sweet. No, no, I'm content with making all of you use the long form of my name, even if many of you regularly find it unnecessary." As she talks, she looks to the machines she's using, checking how near they are to finished.
A laugh escapes Helia's throat. "I rather like Fuzzy-Wuzzy. Or Whiney." She grins to the topless fellow, then to Madilyn. "Name him for the biggest frak up he's ever managed." Brown eyes then turn toward Circe as she enters, brows raising. Oh, hey - she was one of the medics who came to help poor Wade. Her brows raise, and she offers a small wave. "Hey, is Drips okay? He looked pretty bad back there." Worry edges at her tone, as well as touching her features.
She casts a glance up at everyone, shaking her head with a gentle smirk, "I like how you amended that…last bit." Enlisted. Circe tugs open another washer and the last uniform to fall out is her most recent and she flinches visibly as she narrows her gaze. She shoves the cloth in and her fingers are very faintly stained for a moment and she turns her hand, reaching for the bag itself and cleaning her fingers off on it. She swallows and shoves the bag in with everything else. But as the pilot recognizes her, the crewman lifts her gaze and she offers a gentle smile. "He's gonna be laid up for quite a while." she's honest. "But he's alive..recovering and stitched up. Cameron works miracles." She draws a breath and then looks towards the others, trying not to play down their little bit of fun. "His hand though…" She gives a slow shake of her head.
Given the opportunity to stroke his ego, thanks to all of the teasing being sent his way, Lysander begins to sit up and bring his hands with him just so he can sweep them over the corded muscle of his chest. "I would like to thank the Corps for giving me such an impressive outlook on life, and I'll have you know that that bear," Fuzzy-Wuzzy, it was on his shirt, "Is supposed to be the frakking king of bears or something. So you're welcome for the good show." He hasn't been fully oblivious to all of the looks. He would grin, too, but he's shifting into just listening to Circe now that injured Air Wing folk are being brought up. Can't grin at news like that.
Helia turns toward Lysander, suddenly chortling. "Actually, I think I recall the poem tht Fuzzy Wuzzy came from went somewhere along the lines of 'Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear, Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair'. So technically, to get a name like 'Fuzzy Wuzzy', you'd have to ironically shave your head bald." She can't help but giggle toward the topless man, shaking her head slowly.
Then, she turns, frowning widely at Circe. "Frak, his hand?" By instinct, she lifts her right hand up and begins to rub at it. She couldn't imagine not being able to fly.
"Everyone knows the risks going in," Madilyn reminds everyone in the room, as if it bears repeating. If they didn't know the risks, they wouldn't have enlisted in the first place, and in the case of the officers, applied for the academy. "Alive with loss of mobility is still better than dead." As she concludes her statements, Madilyn hops down and pulls open the door of a dryer, checking the uniforms inside. As if this move wasn't practiced about a million times before coming aboard this ship!
Giving Helia a smile, the crewman then adds, "But he's in good care. If anything can be done it will be. You are able to go visit him now. He's out of surgery. She had helped with that, Cameron was all about baptism by fire. Circe wets her lips. "But I heard you were talking about callsigns." She levels her gaze on Lysander a moment and smirks some as she turns on the washers, her attention going to her work. Madilyn could not have said truer words. "Drips is a tough guy, he will pull through. There is no way he's not going to fly again." she says this a bit more upbeat. As the washers begin to key up, the crewman rubs at her skin. Out damned spot!
"If ever I lose a bet," Lysander offhandedly offers head-shaving to Sunspot with that caveat in mind. Otherwise, he's keeping his head-hair. His expression is further sobered up as the conversation continues. The Sergeant clears his throat before solemnly adding, "Injuries are part of the game and though we're trained for them, expect them every time we're in the field, they're still damage to the spirits." He begins to pocket his hands, tucking them there for the time being and leaning his upper back onto the cool metal of a dryer. "And Fuzzy-Wuzzy is still not my callsign." He better put his foot down on that before it gets further out of hand.
Helia nods faintly to Circe, a smile on her features. "Thanks. I think I might just do that in the future." She glances toward Lysander, suddenly grinning. "Well, I'll have to think up a bet that you'll lose. For now, I think I might call you Fuzzy, or just Fuzz." She hops off of the counter, dusting off her rear. A nod in agreement is offered to the man, before she moves over to her washer, checking to see how long there is. Then, she smiles. "I think I'll go visit Drips, now." A small wave is offered, before she makes her way out.
Having apparently gauged that the uniforms in the dryer were indeed dry enough, Madilyn begins to pull them out, shirt by shirt and pant by pant. The rank pins in her hand are secreted away inside a pocket of her off-duty trousers, leaving her arms free for the pile of uniforms. They're all of the tan variety, aka, the kind she prefers to hang, rather than fold. That being the case, there's little reason for her to mingle (or take up space) any longer. "The most damaging to the spirits are the ones you can't quite prepare for. Genetics, illness; those are the things I'm talking about. The ones where your own body turns traitor, the ones where something microscopic lays you up infirm for days or longer." One final morsel of knowledge before she makes for the hatch.
She looks at the officer who is gathering her things up and Circe falls silent. The jesting in the room was a great release for her and she actually looks to relax some as the blood is being washed away. The corpsman looks fully upon Madilyn, lingering in study as she moves to take up a seat atop one of the washers, perching at the edge as she tugs out a creased list.
She flattens it out with her hand, considering the words and nodding her head. The things you couldn't fight so openly. The crewman curls one leg up to her chest, leaning against her thigh with her torso.
Helia heads for the Deck 3.
Helia has left.
Lysander lifts his head up a bit in order to look across the room in Madilyn's fleeing direction. Before she disappears in full, he offers into her wake, "I'll help you with those memories if you'd like. I could do the same with my family." His recalling of that length of conversation is bittersweet so given the taste he doesn't speak up for a while longer, glancing between the two women relatively remaining. A cheeky grin is offered to Helia and then she's leaving too. "Fuzz," is said to himself. He then looks around the room again before glancing in Circe's direction.
As the others start to flee, Circe looks up and gives her soft goodbyes, a nod offered to each woman and a wave of her hands. "Ugh, I feel so bad. Bad news cometh." She intones and gives a brush of the medallions at her neck. She watches the women leave, considering Helia a long moment as she hooks her foot on the edge of the washer.
Lysander's gaze is met and she smirks a bit again, "Fuzzy? Were you that desperate for a callsign?" She asks him, curling the paper over her hand and then stuffing it away, hooking her arms around her leg.
"One day my life's going to flash before my eyes. Since I don't really mind the teasing, it's just me being one step closer to making sure that flash's worth watching." Lysander opens his mouth into an appreciative grin, mostly due to where he is pulling that particular quote, and he turns his wrists about. It makes him adjust his hands just so he can give her a pair of thumbs up. He inhales and holds the breath, chest holding still. "If you wanted one," his thumbs drop back down by the time he is talking, "I'd call you… Bandages."
"I didn't ask for one…banages? is that really all you can come up with? Not so creative Fuzzy." She tells him. Circe give a shake of her head and safely tucks the information she needs away. No good here, the books were in the library. The corpsman drags her fingers through her hair. "Besides, its more fun to name people for stuff that is not their main line of work." she says. "Like…" she looks about fo ra moment, as if to keep from being embarrassed. She begins to sing and old folk song, a bit upbeat and she bobs her head to it, moving right on to one of her favorite lines:
Well the hour's drawing long, my love
Your mam's expecting thee
Don't tell her that you met me here
Or I'm a gypsy free
And let's get off me jacket now
Your love will have to wait
For I am twenty-two years old
And you, you're only eight
Go home, girl, go home
Go home