Summary: Another idle moment in Raptor berthings. Kissy struts about in the buff, Komnenos is on the mend once again, and Roubani comes bearing a gift. The conversation is appropriately off the wall.
Date: PHD094 (21 July 2009)
Related Logs: Related Logs (Say None if there aren't any; don't leave blank)

Matto has never been the biggest fan of clothing. Nekkid seems to suit him well enough, and, as things stand, fresh from the shower and still a lobstery sort of red in patches (boy likes his showers on the scalding side) he's lounging up on his bunk, towel underneath him, hair still dripping, one leg crossed over the other as he leans on one hand and clips his moisture-softened toenails. All manner of nekkid.

Roubani drifts into black berthings, prowling around the various bunks in a wide circle as he does. Nope, no Timon. No Legacy. Doesn't matter, he's carrying a little box and still has it in hand as he passes by their bunks, headed somewhere else. Right at the feet of a naked man, apparently. He stops at Matto's bunk and clears his throat softly, doing that back of the head scratch that politely turns the head away. "Evening…uh. I can come back."

Matto stretches out a foot, examining his toenails. "Hey, Poetryslam. No, it's alright, I'm just seeing to good hygiene. Not that there isn't enough to complain about already, but ingrown toenails? Those can be prevented. Pain in the ass, those are. Pain in the toe, anyhow. What's up, guy?" He crosses his legs again and leans forward, picking up a piece of emory and rubbing it over his toenails.

The curtain on one of the top bunks is slowly pushed aside, and a bleary-eyed Thorn emerges from his rack. His only reaction to seeing Kissy in all his unclothed glory is a blink and a gravelly "Exhibitionist." He winces as he slowly slides down from the bed and onto the floor; he goes over to his locker, taking off his tanks to check his chest bandages.

Not that Roubani's not used to people going about in the buff; the man did live in red berthings for months. "No, one shouldn't neglect one's toes," he gives Matto that in all sincerity. Holding up the very small wooden box, he pushes it up onto the Jig's mattress. "I made you something." The sound from Thorn's bunk distracts him momentarily, and he cranes his neck to see that way. A sympathetic half-smile, barely there.

Matto turns his head at the accustation, looking up from his toes, and sets the emory aside, about to say something in retort before simply tipping his head to the side permissively. It's a fair enough accusation, after all. And then the Poetryslam is setting something next to him, and he lets his legs hang from the bunk, leaving off his pedicure to take the small wooden box in his hands, "Made?" he can't help but wonder. "That was sweet of you, Poetryslam, you didn't have to… make me something," he professes with all the fluster of someone who didn't get Roubani anything, after all.

Obviously satisfied — or at least unalarmed — by what he sees, Komnenos shrugs a shirt back on. He's more or less oblivious to the conversation going on next to him at the moment; he's running on autopilot still, it looks like. Thorn does the cigarette patdown; only after there's a lit cigarette in his mouth does he turn and acknowledge the other two men with a quiet nod.

Roubani shrugs one shoulder. "I'm terrible at painting," he replies mildly, as though that should explain everything. He steps back a little from Matto's bunk, stretching his arms. It's been a workday, that's for sure. His face has a streak of something oily by the ear.

Matto opens the box. His face is an unveiled reflection of every little thing going through his mind, registering first surprise, then confusion, then— some ignition clicks, clicks, and the flame of a smile flares up as he looks over the little creature inside the box. "It's beautiful. I'll make sure Aristaeus doesn't get to it," he tells him, his smile warming into something colored with gentle affection. "Thank you." He turns the box to show Thornytoes the scrapmetal dragon inside the box, blowing pink felt mouthflames. "How's your chest feel, Toes?" he asks him quietly.

"Sore," Thorn replies. "Like I've been shot," he adds wryly with a tiny quirk that's not quite a smile. "I'll live, though, I think." He's still quiet, still terse. Komnenos retrieves his fancy glass ashtray from his bunk and brings it over to the table with him, placing it down and grabbing a seat. Shown Roubani's handiwork, he nods appreciatively.

Metal is much more Roubani's style than paper and paint. The dragon even has little crafted claws, with a red tinge. Once part of a soda can, perhaps. He leans a shoulder against the bunk's vertical rail, giving Matto a small smile before he looks at Komnenos. "Is there anything you need?"

Matto sprawls out on his bunk, lookng over the dragon in closer detail under the light before setting it right on the ledge of the shelf at the head of his bunk as a type of decoration, right above where a purple (!!!) gummy bear seems to have been stuck straight to the bulkhead. He turns, then, and drops to the floor next to Roubani, shuffling past to get to his locker and pull out some underpants, getting into the things as he nods to Thorn, but doesn't say anything, at this point, letting him and Roubani converse while he gets dressed.

"Body armor might be a good start," Komnenos answers Roubani sardonically. Overly Sarcastic Thorn is back. There's an odd glint in his eye as he speaks. "I'm fine, Poet, really. Though I do wish Cylons would quit using me for a pincushion."

Roubani glances at Matto as he gets down, which is just enough time to remind him the man's butt-nekkid. His dark eyes turn back to Kom, politely affording the other Jig his underwear-gettin privacy. He makes a mild sound in his throat. "I've often wondered what would happen if one put a sheet of centurion metal into our flak vests…" Idle musing, and he scratches his brow with his pinky.

Matto gets some semblance of decency together, the regulation boxer-briefs and double tanks, and then lurks over toward the table in the middle of the room. "We'll have to send them a strongly worded letter," Kissy notes, sympathetic but light after his usual fashion, to Thornytoes. "I guess it'd make sense they'd be impervious to their own fire."

"So, Poet, you hear anything down in Snipeland about these mysterious failures we've been having?" Thorn asks Roubani with an arched eyebrow. It's an abrupt change of subject, but that's been on his mind ever since Praxis mentioned it in sickbay while he and Legacy were getting their latest souvenirs from Scorpia removed. He looks over at Matto — thankfully the man's at least got underwear on now — and snorts, an eyebrow raised in mild amusement.

Roubani mms quietly. "We're working on it." And his watch gets a brief glance as he says so, as if reminded there's work to do somewhere. Even if he's off-duty. "Let us know if you note anything off, of course. The breadcrumb trail has to lead back somewhere."

Matto leans back in an idle slouch. "I haven't seen anything too strange," he notes. "What do you suspect it is?"

Komnenos nods. "Will do. And if there's anything I can do t' help, let me know. I may be on light duty, but I can still sit at a computer console." A drag of his cigarette is followed by a flick of ash into his ashtray, and an insouciant little ring of smoke spills from his lips. "If Captain Eos needs an extra hand… I won't exactly be doing much else for the next few days."

Roubani shakes his head slightly to Matto. "Uncertain. But it's not the first time we've been through something like this…I wouldn't be surprised if it were another attack from outside. But it's too early to say." He thins his lips at the thought and nods to Komnenos. "You'll need to get Captain Legacy's permission, possibly Marek's. Interdepartmental and all that. But I shouldn't expect them to be opposed." He knows all that red tape plenty well.

"How are you and the Legsykitten faring, anyhow? Did you yell at her for me?" Kisseus wonders of Thorn, brain wandering past topic to other topic, and then back again, looking toward Roubani, "Honestly?" he wonders. "Well, I guess, given the options, better something we can fix than the ship just falling apart like the warantee just went up."

"Cat's up and about," Thorn replies, gesturing to Legacy's empty bunk, "so I'd say she's faring well enough. She had it a bit better than I did," he says matter-of-factly. "And no, I didn't yell at her. I was a little distracted at th' time," Thorn continues with a half smile. A nod, then, over to Roubani. "I'll do that, then. Need something t' do."

Roubani slides his unbraced hand into his pocket, leaning his shoulder against the bunk rail. His right hand scratches the back of his head, making cowlicks out of the curls growing back in. "I do hope so," he tells Matto, as he looks that way. And then musing on the thought makes him smirk a little bit. "The warranty. One has to wonder. Somewhere in the shipyards of Scorpia there must have been some poor soul manning an 800 line."

Matto watches Toes for a moment, but doesn't press the line of inquiry, not here, in any event, letting Roubani's mental image amuse a smile out of him as he tips his head downward, letting the smile inch into a grin, "Do we still have that number? Eh, I'm sure the line's busy. There are likely a lot of folk out there looking for refunds."

"My carrier's defective, I'd like t' trade it in for a battlestar, please," Thorn chimes in quietly with a smirk, pantomiming holding a phone up to his ear. He keeps smoking, exhaling a cloud of smoke that settles into a barely visible haze around his head.

Roubani makes a little sound back in his throat, two breaths' worth of quiet laughter. "Right. One eight-hundred On A Boat? Oh, if only." His head tips back, the back of it hitting the vertical rail with a theatrical thunk. "Some collision insurance might help as well. Kinetic weapon hole coverage. A few airlock warranties…"

Matto's cheeks redden faintly as Komnenos' cigarette smoke agitates his airways, and he listens to the banter with a waning attention, "'Scuse me," he 'scuses himself quietly, heading on into the bathroom.

Thorn follows Kissy's retreating back with a look that's half annoyance, half concern. The sort of look Thorn specializes in. "I'd've put it out if he'd asked," he murmurs. He shrugs, though, the pilot's sudden withdrawal quickly forgotten.

Roubani chuckles faintly. Now that Matto's moved off he seems to feel safer in searching for his own cigarettes, drawing on out from his front pocket. It's inspected briefly for holes and passes the test. "Have you got a light, there?"

Wordlessly, Komnenos tosses Roubani his silver zippo, the one with the Colonial Fleet emblem engraved on the front. He continues to smoke quietly, sitting pensively as he exhales another cloud of smoke.

Roubani settles into one of the seats as he takes the lighter. Cupping his hand over it is largely unneccessary, what with the lack of wind, but he does it anyway. The lighter's set down on the table and he settles back, crossing his legs. Silence rarely the Ensign, as he uses it to pick at his lip and idly think.

Silence reigns briefly in the Raptor berthings, then, as Komnenos reaches out to grab his lighter from the table and sticks it in a pocket, saying nothing. He stands up and begins to pace restlessly for a bit, finally stamping out his cigarette after smoking it nearly down to the filter. "I'm going t' see if I can find the captain," he mutters. "I'm getting stir crazy down here."

Roubani looks up, giving Komnenos a slight half-smile. "I understand completely." He stands himself, taking burning cigarette with him after a quick tap into the ashtray. "I ought to get back to work. Perhaps I'll see you later, best of luck."

Thorn nods. "Thanks. See you around," he pauses long enough to say before striding purposefully out through the hatch.

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