A Hypothetical Scenario
A Hypothetical Scenario
Summary: A conversation in the head gets heated.
Date: PHD064
Related Logs: Periander IV Facility Recon

0915 hours and for once in its long existence the head is actually quiet. Here, a Viper pilot strikes a pose or two in front of a mirror; there, a marine examines the tattoos scrawled all over his beefy chest; and there, in an otherwise empty row of sinks, is Lieutenant Timon Stathis, who's currently brushing his teeth with remarkable fury, his mouth dripping with the suds from the standard-issue toothpaste he received when he boarded.

Sometimes a night of uninterrupted sleep can do wonders for the disposition. Of course, it's not as though Komnenos is a scared civilian who had his first taste of fighting the other day; he's trained Colonial flight crew. Even if the fight yesterday put him a little out of his element, he's no stranger to danger and stress. He enters the head quietly, a towel draped over his shoulder, a neutral but more or less content expression on his face.

Timon spits into the sink a couple of times before turning on the faucet to wash out the bowl. "Minty fresh," he mutters aloud with a distinctly displeased expression, even as he cups his hands to catch as much water between them as he can. Then he's diving into his hands face-first — the ten-second equivalent of a shower. Efficient, no?

Komnenos says, "Oi, Ivory," calls Thorn softly in greeting, as the older man fiddles in the sink. The pilot does seems unusually on edge, a change from his normally steady, calm demeanor, as he goes about his abbreviated bathroom routine. Komnenos, though, is here for the full monty; he goes to hang his towel over the door to a shower stall, then joins Ivory at the row of sinks, his own toothbrush in hand.

Ivory's not been made a pilot for nothing: his peripheral vision is such that Thorn's move toward him doesn't catch him by surprise, and the lieutenant finishes his traditional morning ritual in time to offer a wave of his own. Without a word, he turns to his towel, wiping himself dry in a few short motions. If he's got anything to say, he's saving it for later.

Faucet is turned, and water is splashed; putting his toothbrush aside, Thorn splashes water on his own face, his eyes blinking and mouth gaping open and shut. He's looking a little rough this morning; maybe today would be a prudent day for his weekly shave. He pulls his razor out of his shower bag, putting it to one side as he goes back to the toothbrush. In between spits, the words, "Hell of a day, yesterday, what?" are barely understandable.

"Yes it was," Timon rasps, clearing a ball of phlegm from his throat with a loud and sudden cough. Speaking of looking a little rough, the Raptor pilot isn't at the top of his game either: his skin is more pallid than usual, and his receding curls are matted in all sorts of unexpected places — bed head to the nth power. He makes as if to go — and then, as if some inexorable force is pulling him back, he stops in his tracks, half a step behind the ECO. "You okay?"

One final spit, and another splash of water cleanses the last bits of toothpaste from Thorn's mouth. "T' be honest, I was plenty rattled after we got back t' the ship and the adrenaline subsided," the ECO replies after a moment. "First time I've ever actually seen a Cylon," he adds. It's easy to forget, sometimes, given Thorn's demeanor, that he's still a relative newcomer to the Fleet despite his age. He smiles, although probably with more bravado than he actually feels. "Appear back t' my old self, now, though. Bloody toasters are going t' have t' work a little harder if they want t' frak me up."

The lieutenant steps around Thorn to find a sink against which he can lean back, his palms resting against sharp metal as he turns his head left to catch the ECO's eyes. Then: "Can't believe we had to use our service weapons in the line of duty." Timon's voice is low and muted, infused with a hint of exhaustion. "We got them good, didn't we?"

Komnenos grunts neutrally in response. "Good enough, I suppose." He's a bit more sober, now; the loss of the third Raptor crew is still weighing on his mind. "Lucky enough I remembered how t' use the bloody thing, at any rate, otherwise that frakkin' Centurion might have offed me." He splashes water again, on his face this time, leaning forward to examine his reflection in the mirror.

"'Offed' you." At that, Timon actually laughs, but the sound echoes more than a bit hollowly in the mostly-empty room. His right hand rises to brush back his unruly hair as he places all of his body weight on his left. "You sure gave them all the chances in the world, didn't you?" His words are chummy; his tone is decidedly not.

At that, Komnenos tenses. Bracing himself for something ugly, he slowly turns, his arms folding across his chest; a classic Thorn maneuver. He eyes the pilot, oblivious to the water still dripping down his chin. "Is there something you're wanting t' say, there, Lieutenant?" he replies defensively, a more than noticeable edge creeping into his tone now as well.

"'Come on, you frakking metal bastards.'" Timon doesn't flinch even as the taller man turns toward him. From a distance, he's as casual as casual goes — just a friendly conversation here, no need to bother, move right along. But softly, ever so softly: "What is it that you do onboard a Raptor, anyway? Your job description, as it were."

Thorn scowls. He ignores the question, merely turning back to the mirror and snatching up his razor. It's a rhetorical question, or so it sounds like to him. It's not as though Stathis doesn't know the answer, anyway. His brow still furrowed, he starts attacking the stubble on his jaw. Privately, he's not proud of himself for losing his cool back there on the planet, but he doesn't think he did anything wrong, per se. Not like DRADIS or ECM was doing them any good at that point, at any rate.

"Drop your razor, Lieutenant Komnenos." Timon doesn't bother raising his voice, but he's no longer leaning back against the sinks. Feet apart, hands clasped behind his back, he looks like he's ready for a drill inspection more than anything else. "Eyes on me. And tell me. What is it that you do onboard a Raptor, anyway?”

Shaving with no shaving cream? Bad idea, Komnenos. As Timon gives his order, his hand slips, and he feels a sudden jab as razor nicks skin, sending a few drops of blood down to mingle with the water. Nevertheless, he recognizes an order when he hears one, no matter how wrapped in velvet it may be. Slowly, Thorn puts down the razor and turns to face Ivory. He stiffens and clicks his heels, somehow managing to inject a healthy dose of insolence into the position of attention. "Sir. I am an Electronic Countermeasures Officer. Sir." The sudden parade ground formality, too, carries a rather biting edge to it.

Matto looks to be approximately fifty percent still asleep when he moves into the head in a regulation set of boxer-briefs and a dark red thigh-length robe— the fabric of which doubles as a towel, and hte pockets of which are good for storing needful showerthings. The fifty percent of him that's awake looks like someone ran over his cat. He narrows his sleep-encrusted eyes to peer at his squadronmates over there saluting one another. What the hell?

"And as an Electronic Countermeasures Officer, you are expected to maintain Raptor flight proficiency in the course of performing your standard duties, isn't that correct?" Timon's quite enamored of rhetorical questions this morning; this time, however, he plows forward, enunciating each syllable as best he can. "So you can fly a Raptor in case the primary pilot is unavailable, or, worse, incapacitated. Isn't that also correct?" Ivory's back is to the door; he either doesn't hear Kissy enter or doesn't much care.

Thorn, therefore, is facing the door, so he does notice the new arrival; however, he's a bit too occupied at the moment to acknowledge the second Raptor pilot. His eyes flick to Kissy, then back to Timon, fixing a baleful stare on the latter. His voice, however, is still nothing that could be called disrespectful on the surface, but his pilot likely knows him well enough by now to know otherwise. To a man who disdains etiquette and protocol, to speak formally to a close friend is one of the worse jabs he can think of. "That is correct. Sir." Komnenos isn't usually a wordy type, but he's becoming terse even by his own standards.

Matto dawdles to a halt not too far off from the group, his eyebrows lowering and drawing together as the unfriendly tone of their exchange becomes readily apparent. He doesn't look angry— he very seldom manages 'angry.' But a thick sadness overlays his features, almost edging onto full-out sorrow, and he shakes his head slowly, coming closer, "Guys? Today? Seriously?" he asks them, expression worn and tired, on closer inspection, rather than simply sleepy. "Not today," he answers his own question in a tacit suggestion that they leave off their hissing in deference to those recently departed from the squadron.

Today, Kissy, sorry. "Good to know you haven't forgotten why you wear those wings," Timon begins — and then he winces, for somebody in the corner's just turned on the shower — the Marine, most likely, judging from the truly hideous singing that now comes from his corner of the head. And then the Viper pilot joins him in song from the other corner of the room, both of them carousing like drunken cats on a moonlit night. The glass in the room begins to fog as stinging humidity seeps toward the sinks.

At this newest development, Ivory has no choice but to raise his voice, thin beads of sweat appearing on his brow. "So tell me again what you were doing out there, blasting away in full view of those Centurions, screaming shitheaded battle-cries you stole from a frakking television special on the First Frakking War?" Not that he wouldn't have started speaking louder if the room was as quiet as a graveyard, judging from the content of his words.

And this is what Roubani walks into, carrying his toothbrush and toothpaste. He pauses in the entranceway, regarding the two officers carefully as someone's voice raises. Pitch in though, he certainly doesn't. He starts past them towards the sinks, as though they were having a nice quiet tea party instead of an argument.

The sound of Timon's raised voice — an unheard-of development — comes as a shock to Komnenos, and he's suddenly feeling even more defensive than before. To be dressed down by captains, majors, colonels, is one thing, but by this man? For Thorn, it's almost unbearable. "What the frak was I supposed t' do?" he shouts suddenly, returning Timon's vehemence and then some. "I couldn't just sit there and watch those Centurions do their best t' murder our people! We've already lost enough, gods take you!" Despair mingles with anger in his voice; the mention of the gods shows just how distraught the firmly agnostic Komnenos is over the affair.

Matto did what he could. Not much, in the final equation. He turns his head to the side as his behests for them to give up thier fighting fall on deaf ears, and he chooses an opportune moment to fall into stride with Poetryslam, instead, not saying anything to him, either, but simply joining him in a silent (at least on his part) stroll on to the sinks. He turns on the water and waits a moment before leaning down to splash it up onto his face.

"My father he doth lie at the bottom of the sea," yells the Marine, launching into a new verse; "No stone at his head, ah, but what careth he?" hollers the pilot, replying in kind.

Timon, meanwhile, has regained some element of control, leaning back against the sinks — casual once more. "We got lucky," he says, quieter, so only Komnenos can hear — he hopes. "Now here's a hypothetical for you. Let's say two bullets — just two — had hit. One goes through the portside window and takes out, oh, I don't know, my left eye. The other finds a home right there in your gut. You're rolling on the floor screaming in pain and I can't see, there's so much blood, while the doc is desperately trying to fix one or both of us. And in this glorious mess, the Cylons are still shooting. One question, Lieutenant. Who's driving?"

And all together now: "While that clear crystal fountain over Tauron doth roll, give me the punch ladle, I'll fathom the bowl!"

People fighting. It's not interrupted, the quiet Ensign making no move to get between two men getting their anger out. Roubani keeps his back to the argument as he gets to a free sink and turns the water on, flitting his toothbrush under the water. Matto's glanced at in the mirror rather than directly, and he lowers his head to start scrubbing the bristles over his teeth.

Komnenos, by this point, is nearly shaking with unfocused anger. He flushes in shame; his temper has gotten the better of him once again. It takes a titanic effort, but he's able to calm his own voice somewhat as he replies, having finally gotten his feelings off his chest. Dammit, the man's right, as usual. "I guess we'd be celestially frakked, then, in that case," he mumbles in reply.

Matto keeps his face in his wet hands, dripping water into the sink for a long series of moments before he looks up, though he doesn't meet Roubani's eyes in the mirror, perhaps more due to chance than avoidance. He fishes out a handful of bathroom equipment from a loose robe pocket and sets it all up along the top of the sink before joining the Poetryslam in brushing his teeth. Err. His own teeth. Not the Poet's teeth.

"We'd be celestially frakked." Timon's face is flushed from the heat settling over the room, even as the raucous singing degenerates into a hysterical argument about whose foot-long ladle fathomed whose mother's bowl. "And Kharon's now lost her chief medical officer, a Viper pilot, two corpsmen, the tapes the ground team picked up, and another Raptor. Not to mention the two of us." The lieutenant stops there, having caused enough bad karma for the day.

Brush brush. To look at Roubani one would have no idea there's any sort of vitriol or morbid commenting about all their deaths being flung behind him. No, he just tends to his teeth, watching the porcelain of the sink. His eyes are tired.

Anton is visibly drained, now. By this point, he feels thoroughly humiliated. He's got no response for Timon's quiet verdict; once again, the Raptor pilot is right on the money. Words, for the moment, suddenly escape him; all he can do now is reach for the nearest hand towel and dab at the angry red line where he nicked himself shaving. He's obviously thinking about what Ivory has said, though; sometimes, catharsis can be good for the soul.

Matto brushes in a haphazard fashion, only moderately paying attention to what he's doing, but paying even less attention to the words drowned out by the sounds of enthusiastic male bonding from the showers. When finished, he gargles and spits and rinses out the sink before going back to splash his face again, once, twice, three times. Nobody's face can be that dirty. This is obviously meant to be soothing rather than practical.

Ivory, too, looks spent, and he moves to clap the taller man on the shoulder — all clear. "Good shooting out there, Thorn. Just like a movie star." A wan little smile flickers on his face as he gathers up his toiletries, tossing them into his bag one by one. "And if you do it again, I'm getting myself a new Bear. Sound fair?"

Thorn, for his part, still can't bring himself to make eye contact with his pilot, but he nods in acknowledgement. "Fair enough, Ivory." It's the first time he's used the man's familiar callsign since the little dust-up started; the stormy ECO is mercifully beginning to find his cool once again. Realizing his face is still only half-shaven, his hand goes back to the razor and he gets back to work; he winces occasionally, though, as here and there the razor nips into flesh.

Matto lifts his head to peer into the mirror at long last, running his hand along his cheek and jaw and inwardly debating the possibility of putting off a shave until tomorrow. Finally deciding that it'll keep 'til then, he shuts off the water and tucks his own sink gear away.

Timon's done in here as well. "I'm going to change before we debrief," he says to nobody in particular, toweling off to remove some of the moisture that's condensed onto his body. "Unless you've got anything else, Thorn?"

Kai enters the head sans towel, and sans change of clothes. There's a cigarette that's just been tucked between his lips though, and a lighter coming out of a pocket of his duty blues. Smoke break in between meetings? He stops a few feet from the door, and lights up, with a quick glance to the pilots comisserating by the sinks.

Does it look like he's got anything else? At the moment, Thorn's chief worry appears to be keeping his face from bleeding out into the sink. He finally finishes removing the last bit of stubble from his bushwhacked jaw, and waves to Ivory in dismissal as he reaches again for his hand towel, pressing it to his neck. He seems to have his temper under control, now, for the most part, but it's still there, just under the surface, waiting for the next possible moment to rear its ugly head once again.

From one of the far showers, way at the end of the head, comes Thea, freshly dressed in her blues, hair still wet around her shoulders. She's got her robe and toiletries bundled up under one arm. "Good evening Captain," she says quietly. "Gentlemen." This, of course, directed at the Three Stooges. If she heard what what been discussed, she's giving no evidence of it.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Timon turns, not bothering to smooth out his hair — that's a lost cause. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced today than they have been for a while, and the flush on his cheeks only manages to create a few red spots on his pallid countenance. "Captain. Captain."

"Afternoon," Kai corrects the emerging Thea, with a flicker of a smile. He settles his back against a bulkhead, and drags from his cigarette like a man who hasn't had one in months. Addict. It's lifted in mock 'salute' to the various raptor bunnies.

"Hey, Captain," Kisseus offers up, to Thea, if clarity's required on that point. Words six and seven since he's been in here. Definitely a world apart from his usual prolixity. He looks toward his Captain's eyes in a silent attempt to gague her state of mind and offer support.

Komnenos' head is turned by Ivory's second 'Captain' — he'd noticed the CAG enter silently as he's wont to do, a cigarette at the ready, but hadn't thought there was anyone else in the head other than the drunkenly singing duo. His eyebrows raise as he notices Legacy emerge from a shower — had she been there the whole time? Had she heard what had passed between the Raptor ECO and his pilot? Obviously, in response to the former, and she doesn't seem to be giving any indication either way as to the latter. "Captain." he acknowledges her, still holding the towel to his neck.

Yeah, the Raptor Captain has had a rough night. It's visible in the little strain lines around her eyes. While still maintaining a fairly professional demeanor, she has the look of someone who's lost two members of her family recently. "Lieutenant Matto," she says, dipping her head. No, she's not using call-signs right now. Clue #1. Her path takes her to an unoccupied sink. Her bundle is put on the shelf, complete with the clanking of dog tags which spill out the side. She's not wearing them. "Lieutenants Timon and Komnenos, I expect you'll be available and present in the Ready Room in an hour to discuss the events last evening?" Formality. From Thea. Though she sounds more like a typical Captain than herself. "Captain Marek, what time would you like to have the full debriefing?"

"I'll be there." INformality from Timon — yeah, this is going to be one of those days. "Thorn. Coming?"

If the newly-minted CAG is aware of the possible cold shoulder coming from Matto (and he probably is), there's no reaction to it. He came in here for a smoke, and a smoke's what he's going to get. His eyes track to the floor, expression contemplative while Legacy speaks. It's when she addresses him directly, that he consults his watch, and briefly glances up at her. "An hour is fine. I'll grab a tape recorder on my way over." He doesn't elaborate beyond that, for the time being.

Thea's sudden formality is almost lost on Thorn; only the alien sound of his actual name coming from her lips makes him do a double take. Yep, there's something clouding her features, too, undoubtedly something to do with the lost Raptor crew. Seems to be what's on the mind of everyone in here, at any rate. He finally puts down the towel; the angry pockmarks are subdued, somewhat, but his face will still bear the brunt of his errant razorwork for the rest of the day. Tossing his things back in his shower kit, he quickly moves to follow Stathis out. "Will be there, sirs," he adds, as he falls in step behind the Raptor lieutenant.

Althea looks over at Kai for a long moment, meeting his eyes. Perhaps a silent communication passes between them, perhaps a look is just a look. Then it's back to her bundle, though she glances at the pair who were part of last night's festivities in the mirror. "Ivory, Thorn," she says softly, briefly trying to catch their attention. "I'm glad you're home safe." At least four of her six kittens came home safe. That's something, right? Then it's back to professionalism. The brush comes out of the bundle and she starts in on her hair with long, business-like strokes. "I will see you two in one hour," she tells them quietly.

"Black." Timon gets the hint, lingering perhaps a little longer than necessary as he walks backwards toward the hatch, ECO in tow, eyes half-closed. For a while, he's silent. But right as he's about to leave, he blurts something out: "You know, they really — " he starts, but then thinks better of it. Not here. "It's good to be back," he finishes rather lamely. "In an hour. Yeah."

Matto maintains his quiet, in the meantime, keeping his eyes faintly lowered and moving past Thea, giving the Spider a silent nod to let him know he's not being ignored, and steps into a shower, looking back over a shoulder at the brief blurt, but then heading the rest of the way in. Cleanliness swiftly ensues.

Kai's features aren't quite the mask of professional disinterest he generally prefers to cultivate. There's a definite shadow hanging over him, and it's probably not too difficult to figure out why. Three raptors went out. Two came back. Some simple arithmetic indicates that two pilots didn't return home. The departing pair are nodded to quietly, and Matto is given a thoughtful glance, though he eschews farewells for another pull of his smoke. Did he catch the look from Thea? Probably.

Thorn pauses long enough to turn and acknowledge Legacy with a meaningful nod. He stays silent, though; he's worded out for the time being, and simply whirls on his heel, continuing his exit. Only until after he's gone does he realize he left his towel hanging over a shower stall door; oh, well, someone will grab it, and he can always grab another one from supply, later.

For now, Thea simply drags the brush through her hair relentlessly. Those poor knots, if there even are any. No words are spoken until after all of the other Raptors have cleared out or gone to their showers - if then.

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