Censorship
Censorship
Summary: A nugget discovers a novel way to silence Seriy. Ivory and Rebound are mildly horrified.
Date: PHD136
Related Logs: A Cubit Short
Players:
Willem..Marissa..Seriy..Timon..Kitty..

HALLWAY

Clomping down the staircase is a pair of bootsteps. Or maybe two pair, if one judges the cadence of the sound. Some voices carry as well in quiet conversation. The first, male, proceeds him and may be a bit loud. "D'you think Thorn's scans came though? I mean." There's a pause. "I spent hours, even days trying to figure out the iterations of those ships and as usual, my dumb self pretty much gets what he asked for." A few more steps pass and it turns out that the owner of the voice(recognizable to most here, anyway) would be that of one Willem Price as he chats with his companion in a furtive tone.

Seriy frowns as the two exit the temporary housing of the Kharon's current refugees. "That is quite unfortunate, I hope you are feeling better. They have a wonderfully competent medical staff I've found. I'm afraid I'm discovering that they get quite a bit of practice. There's been a bit of a.. well I believe they'd call it a 'fracas' recently, as I'm sure you have heard by now."

Two pair indeed. The second of the invaders is also male, though his voice is a few half-steps higher than that of his comrade-in-arms: Timon Stathis, Raptor driver, his expression muted and drawn. There's a half-full coffee mug in one hand and a legal pad in the other, to which more than a couple of pens have been clipped — every color of the rainbow, yellow excepted. "I expect he'll tell us if they do," murmurs Ivory, eyes fixed somewhere in front of his feet. "His ego will get large enough for CIC to catch it on DRADIS."

missing pose

"You know, for all your talk of Thorn's ego I don't see it that much. Except during training exercises. And, well, I expect a bit of leeway during those." Wil considers with an upturned hand as he comes into view. "Except when 'Seph' called him 'Rosebud' and he about exploded." There's a bit of a cough as he amends, affecting a smile that almost falls flat. "Is that an affectation or something I don't really see?" He seems quite curious as he levels this question at the older man. The smile fades, however, as he just comments, "Those things, though. Ever wish you could 'un see' something? Because that's right now at the top of my list. And pretty much everything else on that op." His shoulders slump a little as he adjusts a greenish bag on his arm — the one he seems to carry almost everywhere these days. Catching sight of Mimi and Seriy in the hall, he blinks a bit. "Eh. I'm alive. Cranky, but mostly intact." He nods to Seriy though, although it's clearly somewhat abashed, for some reason. "I see you two have met, Ensign." He glances back to Timon over his shoulder as he indicates, "She's a rescue pilot. Which, if you put two and two together…" He trails off, making the obvious implication.

Seriy is contemplating making introductions, but sees that isn't apparently necessary on her part. She gives both pilots a warm smile though. "Good evening, sirs," she adds hospitably. "We have, I met her in the library earlier when she was conversing with Lieutenant Ajtai. I was just providing her an escort to the laundry facilities before finishing my duty shift for the night." Any two and two combinations are lost on her.

Rebound's point about the basestar draws a tight smile from Timon, nothing more. As for his ECO: "I call Thorn arrogant, he calls me pedantic, we're even." The pilot takes a sip from his mug, grimacing at the flavor. "Still burnt," he mutters, more resigned than irritated; then, looking up at the woman in civilian clothes: "'Wil'?" he wonders, more than a little bemused. Fortunately, he'll let the unspoken question die on his lips. "Nice to meet you. I'm Ivory. I'd shake, but — " He's got that legal pad, see. "Evening, McKale." And then he stops, shuffling his boots on the deck. Small talk fail.

"Cranky beats morose any day," Mimi replies with a grin. Seriy explains their acquaintance just fine, so she moves on to other things. "Nice to meet you too, Ivory," she says, bestowing upon the man a deep nod and a smile. "So you fly, too? And who's this Thorn?"

"That explains it, I suppose. And the name? I gave her that in introduction." Wil seems to take this 'first name basis' thing in stride. "It doesn't seem really sporting to demand rank address from a civilian who just rolled out of sickbay." He considers glibly, with a tight smile painting his lips. "I don't know if I've reached that level of, eh. How would I say it eloquently. Tightass?" Said smile fades shortly thereafter. There's an aside to Seriy as well. "Uh. Everything going allright I hope, Ensign? Translations, et cetera?" He just lets Ivory field the question who Thorn is, the man's obviously got dibs on description.

Seriy turns her smile up towards Willem. "Yes, quite. I feel my Mierce is back to where it was before, though admittedly that's just enough to translate text. I am borrowing a book in Kashmiri from one of our petty officers in CIC though, and that has always been one of my stronger languages from which with to work." The Friday nights must just fly by…

"Never said you were, Rebound." Stathis takes another sip from his mug, staring into its depths as if hoping its contents have been replaced with something more palatable. Alas, it's not meant to be. "But if that's true, it really throws your 'If-I-Were-CAG' fantasy into new light." Whatever that means, he doesn't say, instead tapping the toe of one boot against the heel of another. "As for Thorn, he's the guy in charge of running my onboard EW. Ask him the same about me? He'll tell you I'm his chauffeur." All of which implies that yes, he does in fact fly, but Timon is one of those people who delights in the circular and circuitous. The redhead, for her part, gets a faint smile.

"Must be some working relationship, seeing as you two haven't killed each other yet," Mimi observes, a faint shadow coming into her usual cheery expression. She's apparently not one for circuitousness. At least not often. "So you fly Raptors? I'm thinking of signing on with the air group, but I've still got to catch Captain Marek. He seems very busy. I've only seen him once, and he was in a hurry even then."

She looks back to Seriy, a new respect coming into her expression. "You translate? Wow… I do well to spell my name right in one language."

"Few times I've peered at written Mierce it's always looked like a hate crime on the Standard alphabet. -Sounds- a world different spoken than it's written. I stuck to Thracian. Was easier to absorb. But I've already been over -that- story." Wil says with some faint, wry humor although like every other example of it he's been displaying, it's slightly muted. A flicker of a smile back at the Ensign and then to Timon, for some reason. "I still think my powertripping would be mild at first but end horribly."

He just nods at Mimi afterwards, half-smiling. "See, Ivory and Thorn — they really are like an old married couple." Oh, did he say that? OH NO HE DIDN'T.

Seriy waves a hand dismissively. "Just a little I picked up along the way. I found it ever so much more enlightening to be able to read texts in their original languages. So much meaning can be lost through incorrect translation, especially as time changes the meaning of words and society reconsiders its moral stances on various concepts. Additionally there are various concepts that fail to properly translate as they are fixtures of the cultures which created them, and not our racial culture as a whole. And of course much can be lost in poetry where form is often as large a portion of function as the words themselves… But, I'm rather going on…" she adds as her cheeks take on a bit of the red from her hair.

"I'm opposed to violence in most of its forms; Thorn's incapable of inflicting it in any of its forms." Timon shrugs, swirling his cup around in an attempt to push the grinds to the side furthest from his mouth. All he manages to do is dislodge them from their rest. Groan. "We manage." More would normally follow, but for some reason, Ivory's not as easily roused tonight as he usually is, not even by Rebound's snark. "Anyway, I'm sure you'll meet him yourself if you really are interested in signing up. Soon as he discovers you fly, he'll dispense his usual sunlight and joy."

There's silence for a while as the redhead goes on and on. The pilot takes advantage of the delay to kill the rest of his coffee, grinds and all; then, at length: "Words are defined by the society that produces them, Ensign, is what you're saying." He smiles wanly. "Brevity, McKale. Or should I say — Thesaurus? But pot, kettle — you know."

"And you explain it so well, too," Mimi replies to Seriy, a hint of teasing coming into her tone as those dark eyes light up with twinkles. "Remind me to ask for you next time I go to the library. I think I'd learn more in a week than in 8 years of primary school."

She has to bite her lip hard as she turns back to the two men. "Well, managing is more than I've seen some crews do. They were flying Condors instead of Raptors, but the idea's not much different. I look forward to meeting him… if only to clear up some of the mystery." She pauses for a moment to glance at her watch, a scuffed monstrosity of an eye-searing pink hue. "Are there any flight instructors on board? Or sims?"

"And at one point I toyed with being a linguistics major. But no, journalism was 'respectable'" Wil muses, wryly. Going so far as to make the famous 'bunny ears' false quotes with his fingers at 'Respectable.' He clears his throat with a loud rumble but it sounds like more of an affectation. "Still, your point's sound. Kind of a departure from Brother Paulus in high school using such terminology as 'mamma dura.'" He blinks, back towards Timon to see if he catches the phrase. Then back towards the Ensign. He seems to take Seriy's wordy explanation in stride and even agree, beyond that. There's a pause as he answers Mimi's question though. "Well, there's Lt. Valasche. Heh. I'll let you in on a secret - she's not half as stern as she seems. Really. Not sure she handles Raptors though. And there are sims aboard."

Seriy looks slightly embarrassed, but Timon's last comment starts her percolating again, and it's easy to see the battle to not say anything play out across her face. Silence loses. "Well, indeed, words are defined by the society that creates them, but more importantly they are continually redefined through evolution of use as meanings change, and additionally as new meanings are ascribed to them, for instance the development of slang or jargon. We use numerous words on a daily basis in the fleet that have original meanings that have become archaic. Not to mention," she says with a bit of exasperation, "the number of words that are created that are abbreviations and acronyms given life as whole, new words. It's… quite organic," she says with a look to each of the three. "Were I more a scholar of etymology I should be quite happy to dissect the communications chatter that constantly surrounds Kharon and her crew."

"About sims — what Rebound said." Timon shakes his head, flicking a few stray droplets of coffee onto the ground before fastening his mug to a clip on his belt. If he catches the phrase, he doesn't show it, too busy answering questions. "And as far as the SOS is concerned — Fleet HQ didn't expect us to get nuggets anytime soon, for rather obvious reasons. I'd offer, but I'm more about diagramming syllogisms on a blackboard than giving pointers about the finer aspects of flight." Which may or may not be true: he's all about the self-deprecation. He might have stopped there, too — but then Seriy talks.

"Seems like an artificial distinction to me," he offers, tapping a bit quicker. "Who's the agent of definitional change? Or, for that matter, of ascription? I'd say 'the society that creates them.'" Whether he's just being contrary or actually arguing the point is unclear; his voice is mild, almost deliberate. Apparently he wasn't kidding about the blackboard.

"Lt. Valasche… thanks, Wil! I'll remember that name," Mimi says, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "And thank you too, Ivory. I'll have to catch the CAG to find out for sure, but I'm hoping that'll happen any day now."

Her contemplations don't last long, though: Seriy goes back into Professor mode. Trying not to laugh, she lets the long string of explanation end and favors the redhead with an impish grin. "Seriy, if you do that again, I'll tickle you 'til you can't," she promises.

Wil's shoulders simply rise and fall in their signature shrug as he listens along, head craning between the two sometime-scholars as he absorbs their theoretical dialogue. Finally he nods. He may actually get it. Well, some of it. At least the language it's presented in. He does address the more pragmatic issue of pilots, nuggets, and flying. "We weren't equipped or staffed for it, but Hell if we can't find a way to make do, I guess. We've muddled along this far out of blind luck. That's got to be worth something. Right?" He seems to want to think this.

Unlike her last discussion with Timon, Seriy is a bit more on her home ground now. "The author, or speaker, is the instigator, but generally the change only spreads when a portion of society as a whole then adopts that change, be it redefinition or new nomenclature. I could start to refer to, say… a 'hat' as a 'limpet', and it would become apparent what I meant through context. To all extents I have created a new definition, even if it is only one of slang. Were I to write in my memoirs about the fetching limpet I wore to adorn my head, and the lovely feather in it, future readers would likely be able to surmise I was speaking of a headpiece, however-" she cuts herself off after Mimi's comment though, again turning a bit red, and a bit shy. "Yes, well… That's… quite unnecessary…"

"You'll have more luck now than later. The CAG's on light duty after — " Timon pauses, his free hand tugging at one of his overly long curls. "After the engagement," he finishes, brown eyes darting to the ground. "He'll be piloting his desk for the next week. Sawbones' say-so. I'm sure he won't mind a spot of good news." Wil gets a brief look. "It'll be worth something," he concludes, a little lamely. Whether Ivory's still talking about the prospect of welcoming a new pilot into the fold is unclear — and true to form, he doesn't elaborate. Instead, after turning back to McKale:

"Sure. I concede the point, but I don't think it's actually responsive." RUH-ROH. BURN, YO. "Society's still the only meaningful agent, right? You said it yourself: anybody can create meaning, but it takes collective effort to ratify that meaning. To make it relevant, mm?" Yeah. He's almost certainly egging her on.

"Much better," Mimi says firmly, trying not to giggle. She gives Seriy a 'no hard feelings' smile and looks back to Ivory. "Well, that should make him easier to catch. And I hope he sees it as good news. It sounds like training'll have some hurdles to hop."

"Huh. Yeah. How -is- Captain Marek?" Wil perks a little as he inquires of Timon with a crane of his head. At this point, he just -looks- between Timon and Seriy with a 'best betta not get involved yo' look which is completely -not- an affectation. He clears his throat again once more. Rather, he turns his head towards Mimi. "So I see you survived your escort. Did Lt. Leda talk you into the ground?" He's almost grinning here. Almost.

Seriy looks over at Mimi before replying, taking a half step away before getting out a quick, "Not always." That was short and succinct. Too succinct to be entirely helpful, but there you go. It a discussion they will likely take up at a later date. OK, maybe a quick example. "Just because an event has happened and been replaced by new event does not mean the original event has never happened. Words do not exist in absolutes." She grows more passionate in tone and gesture as she continues, the scholar being replaced by the romantic. "It is their temporary nature that allows us to use them to create on multiple levels; to tell stories, to pass on values. It is their stagnant nature that allows us to pass on knowledge. Both are contained within the whole, while all can be replaced with a gesture or noise. A dictionary will define a kiss as the affectionate or passionate gesture of placing one’s lips against another person or object, but a writer can describe it as the unfolding of a rose, the autograph of love, the dawn whitening behind the hill… The meaning of a word and its definition are distinct, living creatures, symbiotic yet separate. And either can be changed at will, whether that will be individual or collective." She lets out a small sigh as a shiver runs down her spine.

"Hurdles indeed — but what else is new? And the CAG? His left hand's broken, his head's bandaged up, but he's walking and talking." Ivory's eyes flick back down to his boots as he leans against a nearby bulkhead, getting out of the way of a passing crewman now zooming by. "Old Spider, new tricks. You know." More he doesn't say — perhaps because the mention of Leda causes his cheek to twitch a little, or maybe that's just a trick of the light. "Cigars and hooch," he mutters, almost inaudibly. Okay, maybe not.

And of course, the inevitable rebuttal: "Still unresponsive." Well, that was short. Timon looks a bit amused at how long he's managed to keep this up, a smile playing about the wide planes of his face. "But more importantly: 'The dawn whitening behind the hill'? Really?"

Mimi has to laugh. "He does have a problem keeping his mouth shut, doesn't he. Thank the Lords the Mess Hall's only down a hall and down some steps. I might've had permanent hearing damage."

And… there she goes. Some people you can’t just ask to be quiet, oh no. They have to learn the hard way. Mimi lets out a dramatic sigh and turns, taking a quick step in Seriy's direction and burying her fingers in the woman's sides, working those sensitive ribs for all they're worth. Well, on the bright side, there might be a few new metaphors in the making here…

"CIGARS AND HOOCH." Wil mutters back to Timon, in something of a private joke that just spilled into the public venue. His mouth carefully quirks to one side. Oh yes, it's public now. His head cranes from the other pilot to Mimi and he opens his mouth further, his teeth flashing. He's about to comment further as he grimaces, a few premature lines showing on his forehead as he wrinkles ever so slightly.

He's about to say something else regarding the whole of Seriy's dialogue on the nature of language, concept and romance even with Timon when Mimi just -launches- into her. Oh well. Not much to do except step back and survey the damage from a safe distance. He clears his throat, simply stifling a smirk in the firmest way he knows how and looks over towards Ivory once more, tossing the following in as something of an aside. "So. Ivory. Need an opinion. Assuming dye or scrap materials can be found. What's a good color for a wedding dress? Red? Blue? Green?" What the Hell, man?

It's censorship, it is! Serendipity reactively puts her hands up to catch Marissa's attacking fingers and misses them. Letting out a very un-officer-like squeal she tries to pin her arms against her sides and trap the hands there. At least there are multiple layers of cloth to help lessen the damage as she writhes against the wall.

Timon, too, steps back from the fray, his eyebrows raised, his legal pad tucked underneath an arm. McKale's squeal causes him to wince, though it's probably more for show than anything else. In the meantime, he mouths something to Rebound before jerking a thumb at the newest Raptorbunny. "She catches on quickly." For the first time in this entire conversation, there's actually approval in the man's tone. "As for dresses: you're asking me?" Did you expect anything less?

Mimi, for her part, just tries to stay with Serendipity and keep up the tickling. She's probably not very good at the whole hand-to-hand thing, as she doesn't do anything but keep tickling as hard as she can. She barely avoids the trap of Seriy's arms, closely enough to feel cloth scrape over the backs of her hands, which momentarily halts her 'attack' as she reflexively steps back. "Oy!"

"Was I going to ask Samantha?" Wil asks, lamely. "You think most of the women I know are capable of that kind of advice anyway?" He tosses this out to Timon further, sounding a little nonplussed. It's definitely an aside. "Nadiv probably had the most developed aesthetic judgement but that's not surprising. He seemed to favor red. But — Sag. You know how it goes." His mouth quirks to one side, still smirking even as he steps back from the fray with yet another pace. And another. And another. He winces at the full-on brawl ensuing but it seems like it might be for comic effect. Somebody get on the com and call security? Not so much.

Seriy looks like a sad, pathetic creature as she huddles against the steel of the wall, her arms tight against her sides, hands in front of her protectively. She was waxing so poetically before she was ruthlessly attacked by the evil forces of Mimi… quickly her mind comes up with an escape plan. "Laundry?" she asks, trying to sound casual, despite her voice cracking.

"Just let Fallout decide," Timon replies, backing away despite the fact that this fight seems altogether over. He's a cautious one, after all. "But if you ask me, I've always been partial to — " WAIT FOR IT. "Ivory." Lame. The pilot doesn't even have the grace to chuckle at his own joke. "Anyway. I should be going. Thorn wants to go over footage from the mission, doubtlessly to mock my piloting skills. Like Iphigenia in Aulis, I submit."

That's an out if Mimi's ever heard it, but she moves closer again… and offers her hand to the cringing redhead? Complete with smile? "We did get a little sidetracked, I guess…" she says, a little apologetically.

"We decided against white." Wil says simply. Abashed. Enough on -that-, though, as he coughs again. Man, somebody better need to get that shit checked out. His mouth cracks a grin which matches his tone perfectly. "Nice one though. Nice. I give it a three out of five." Banishing this though, his good humor dims a little though as the mission is discussed. Ah, the mission, and the crushing grimness of the topic. "I want to see that, I think. But I don't." He pauses. The taller of the gingers present just gives the Raptor pilot a little bit of a wave now that the horrid violence has dissipated and just lets his hands drop behind him, fingers lacing together. "I'll see you later then, hmm?"

Seriy blinks several times, her face a bit blank. We? Or yes… probably true. Tentatively she extends her own hand, moving closer to Marissa as she steps away from the wall, not willing for a moment to expose her sides again until she knows it's safe. Timon's departure is temporarily ignored for reasons of personal safety.

"You don't." There's that tight smile again. It's been nice, gentlemen and ladies; now Timon is withdrawing back into his shell, having had quite enough of being social for one evening. "Welcome to the wing — " It's then that Ivory realizes he doesn't actually know the woman's name. Oh well. "McKale. We'll continue this later, no doubt." As for Rebound, the Viper stick gets a clap on the back — this being Timon, it's as awkward as it sounds — before the lieutenant heads down the corridor, coffee mug jostling against his belt, legal pad still tucked underneath his arm.

Kitty has been aimlessly wandering, trying to shed twelve pounds of stress by pacing the corridors of the Kharon. It shouldn't be much of a suprise that she eventually winds up here as there is only so many meters of ship and ship-corridor to walk along. At first she is busy counting something off on the fingers of her left hand and then her right only to then run out of fingers before she can run out of whatever it is she was trying to take stock of. "Frak…" Huffing, she looks up from her hands which she keeps held at waist level, all ten digits held out, and she asks abruptly, "Can I borrow someone's fingers, please?" As an aside, she mutters to Timon, "But not yours since you're leaving, it seems. So…uh, ta-ta, I guess."

"I like my fingers," mumbles Timon in passing — it's what goes for 'good evening' these days. And then he turns the corner, footsteps echoing loudly in the corridor as he disappears.

OOC: Log continues.

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