Dirty Laundry II
Dirty Laundry II
Summary: The Laundry Room continues with yelling doctors, math geekery, and CAGs.
Date: MD029
Related Logs: Directly after Dirty Laundry

Laundry Room

One pilot's just walked out the door. The other, Roubani, is sitting. There's a pile of very neatly folded laundry on the table behind him, but a washer nearby is still going. Presumably he's waiting for that, as he sits there reading.

A-clink… ctang! … One of the driers sings out a short series of notes before the drier door creaks open. A moment later, an arm sprouts from the darkness, then the rest of the snipe unfolds from the narrow opening, flashlight held in her teeth, drawing out a bucket full of lint and small items that had been caught up in the duct after her.

Roubani turns a page in the book, letting it rest on his fingertips. Long legs drawn up onto the chair, the book sits cradled on his ankles, his free arm folded loosely around his waist. His head doesn't move, but his eyes come up.

Nine sets the bucket on top of the drier, gangly form shifting closer to it as her fingers begin to pick through the thick, fluffy lint, picking it into tufts as she sifts though it, muttering to herself. "… could say 'elves,' to him, but… it isn't 'elves,' exactly… and anyhow I'd like for him to say it for himself…'

Roubani watches the snipe mumble at herself for a time. His washer then dings and he closes the book, after sliding a meticulously folded bookmark into the spot. He unfolds his tall frame and opens up the washer, taking out only a pair of boxers and one T-shirt.

Nine jumps at the sound of the ding, and looks behind her. "Beesting," she notes, by way of greeting him, then gawks at his load of laundry. "Do you do your laundry every day?" she asks, eyes wide in sort of heart-worn admiration. She wishes she were awesome enough to do her laundry every day. It's written all over her face. "I'm sorry. I looked at your laundry. I hope you don't mind."

Roubani tosses the two items into the dryer. Their washers must be awfully good; there's no sign of leftover stains or other clue as to why they were in a load all by their little selves. He sits back down and picks up his book again. "I wash them when they get dirty," he explains, then gives her a curious frown. "Don't you?"

Nine looks hideously embarassed. "I usually just put them in a bin when they get dirty, and wash them at the end of the week," she admits. "I'm not as well-organized as you are. I wish I were," she looks back down into the lint.

"It's nothing more than a little preparation," Roubani assures her. He folds his hands on the open book. "I don't understand how anyone can live in chaos, honestly. It's such a waste of time."

Nine looks back over at Roubani. She doesn't know his name, but she looks as though she might be in love. "You're right. I'm so disorganized… I don't know where all my time goes. And I can't find the socks that the drier goblins eat. I bet you know where all of your socks are," she declares, as if she were telling him he had beautiful eyes.

Roubani looks at her as though she'd just said the oddest thing ever. "Of course I do. It's a matter of knowing how many you should have at all times, and making reality match that," he replies, matter-of-factly. "Disorganisation is very unfortunate. People get caught up in such mundane pursuits and next thing they know they've lost half the day. I hate to think that happens to you."

"It does. It does a lot." Nine looks ashamed to admit it, but she's not trying to hide it. "I always seem just a little bit behind. I should have thrown a pebble at a beehive when I was small. Instead I stayed indoors."

"I would bet…" Roubani pauses to consider the young woman, unfolding his hands and laying them palms-flat on the pages of his book. "…that you have a whole host of things you love to do, but you're scattered. You can't prioritise and you often don't finish what you start. Right? Wrong?" He lifts a hand with the palm facing down, giving it a slight waggle.

Nine stares at Roubani, open-mouthed and wordless, and then she just nods her head in silence as the magically, mathematically perfect officer reads her imperfections to her.

Roubani rests his arms down on the book, leaning in slightly. Whatever he's reading is more numbers than words, a mess of equations and diagrams. "Do you know what chaos really is?"

"It's… everything," Nine replies, hesitantly, standing quite still near her bucket. "Without differentiation," she qualifies. "The world without like linked to like, before the rules take hold and heavy things sink to the bottom while light things stay floating on top."

Roubani almost smiles. "You would -adore- string theory," he muses. "But mathematically speaking, chaos isn't 'disorder' at all. All it is is aperiodic deterministic behavior which is very sensitive to its initial conditions. Infinitesimal, exponential perturbations of initial conditions. Chaos is…dynamic. It's charged. It's explosive." He savours the explanation, his hands moving a little as he talks. "It may look 'random' because we simply can't wrap our heads around it all, but in theory everything is defined by those initial conditions."

Nine's mouse-dark eyes soak in his words as much as her ears do. With the differentiations in initial conditions shrinking to the infinitesimally small, and the range of results growing infinitely broad in reaction, her eyes widen and she even gasps slightly as infinity clashes with infinity in her brain and makes her knees feel all wobbly. "… Oh," is all she cam manage to verbalize of her reaction, though, her cheeks flushing.

Vendas arrives from the Hallway - Deck 3, Midships.
Vendas has arrived.

"So," Roubani goes on after giving her a moment. "When we think about chaos in the sense of 'disorganisation', we pluck all the scattered bits…" He lifts his hands, picking in the air at many little points. "…and slowly, slowly try to link back…" His pinched thumb and forefinger now draw lines in the air, leading downwards and meeting in places. It's like watching the pilot build a spiderweb. "…until the initial parameters can be reasonably defined. That's terribly simplistic, of course. Most physical systems are nonlinear and that's a host of multiple variables, but anyway. In your case, you should try it sometime. Take your seemingly random spurts of time and trace them back. Find the initial conditions in your head. I think they would be fascinating."

Nine draws down her bucket from the top of the drier and lets it hang, held up by eight fingers in front of her as she watches the spiderweb in construction. "You think my initial conditions would be interesting? What if they're not? What if they're just… dumb… and boring?" she asks him.

Vendas pushes through the hatch with a small basket of laundry tucked under her arm. Her jocksmock is tied around her waist by the arms and she looks like she could use a shower. "Roubani," she greets with a nod in passing, hefting the basket onto a table and begins piling out her duty greens. There's a nod to the unrecognized Nine.

Roubani considers Nine for a moment, and what she's just said. "Do you know what the Euler Identity is?" From his tone this is not a non-sequitur. His eyes flick up at the sound of someone else, and he straightens his back. He's sitting on a chair with his feet pulled up, a large book sitting cradled on his ankles. "Major, sir."

Nine fails— one more time. It's written on her face. "No… no, I'm not sure what that is," she owns up to her failure, disheartened though she is. She, too, snaps to something like attention when the Major arrives, not however, dropping her bucket. "Sir," she gets vaguely in time with Roubani's 'sir,' for good measure in chorused voices, even hushed as her own voice is.

Vendas removes the pins from her greens, pocketing them. "How's it going, Ensign? Good book?" She shadows him a glance with a light smile. The woman turns slowly and begins tossing laundry into the machine behind her. On the turn back, a similar smile falls to Nine. "At ease, you two. I'm not looking to impose. Just do some laundry." She's a simple woman, apparently.

Pike arrives from the Hallway - Deck 3, Midships.
Pike has arrived.

Roubani looks much more self-conscious with a Major in the room, but he gives Vendas a formal nod. "Yes, sir, it's very good. Enjoy yourself, sir." Enjoy yourself? Sheesh. He scratches his nose and looks back at Nine. "The exact formula of the Identity isn't important, but it's a very short one. Very, very simple…some would say boring in its simplicity. But if you look at it closely, it is…the most beautiful thing in mathematics. Three basic arithmetic operations occur exactly once each: addition, multiplication, and exponentiation. Five fundamental mathematical constants, including pi. The more you study it, the more you realise it reaches into the very depths of existence…so far that some of the most brilliant minds in history still can't explain /exactly/ what it means. It's stunning. And what makes it stunning is that very thing - simplicity. So never worry that what's in you is dumb or boring. It's always the things most simple that shatter us." He's talking quietly to Nine, a large book crammed with diagrams and equations sitting on his legs.

Pike opens the hatch, carrying what looks like a paint bucket filled with surgical scrubs, whilst calling to someone down the corridor. "…tell the bloody quartermaster that unless he wants me to splint his next broken leg with one of the deck gang's wrenches that he gets me that frakking plaster I requisitioned three weeks ago! THEN I'll calm down!" She then steps in the room, then takes a second to compose herself and straightens her glasses. "Beg pardon. Supply issue." Arielle then takes her laundry to one of the unused washers, now the picture of calm.

Nine tries to look like she's relaxing, but the longer Roubani goes on about the Identity, the more pale and blanched she appears, knowing full and well that -that- sort of perfection is worlds beyond her, terrified to look to her own initial conditions and find something completely unsatisfactory instead. "She sounds beautiful," she begins to remark, the last few syllables of her softly voiced compliment drowned out by the second Major's yelling, as she comes in. "I should go," she looks down to her own bucket as if in apology. Apology for needing to go? Or for being so flagrantly imperfect? Probably both. "Yes, sir," she tells the Major quietly.

Vendas sorta stops what she's doing with her own basket as she looks towards Roubani. Completely. Baffled. "Damn, Roubani." She pauses a few beats. "And you fly Vipers? Shouldn't you be off chasing a triple doctorate or something?" She smirks, arms slowly beginning to work at her pile again. More pins are removed and stuck into the pockets of her flightsuit. Its about then she looks up to see Pike yelling. "Doc? Remember.. A kind word goes farther. A kind word and a twenty millimeter cannon goes a lot farther." She winks to the woman and looks to Nine. "Stick around. Nobody is kicking you out. If Roubani here gets fresh with his smart-speak, just.. I dunno.." She looks to the Ensign, considering him for a moment. "Tell him he has pretty hair or something. That might confound him." When a master of logic and exactness confronts you, go to arms with subjective observations!!

Roubani clears his throat, looking slightly embarassed at Nine's reaction. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…I get carried away." His soft-spoken voice likewise gets a bit lost in the face of yelling, which makes him tense a little bit. His dark eyes go to Vendas and he promptly turns a deeper shade of red. "Sorry, sir." Book. Suddenly interesting. Yes.

Pike looks over her shoulder at Vendas and smiles at her comment. "Sorry about that. I tend to get a bit snippy when I run short of needed materials. I'm down to my last container of casting plaster and I've been waiting on a new order for a while now." She begins stuffing her scrubs in the washer as she speaks.

Waite steps into the laundry. She has a duffle over one shoulder that is mostly full. Glancing around at all the people, she half smiles and walks toward an empty washing machine. Roubani is offered a nod and a warmer smile as someone she recognizes. Setting the duffle on a nearby bench, she pulls out a box of detergent and a bottle of softener. Shaking the bottle, she sighs and puts it back. Almost empty.

Nine seems more put off by the yelling than by the Identity. The Identity simply makes her wistful and distressed by her own imperfections. The yelling makes her well-disposed to slipping away.

"It's… no, I mean it," she eventually replies to Roubani, though, since the Major told her to stay, so she feels obliged to lurk by the door, eager to escape but bound by the rules of military obedience not to make good that escape. "I can't think of anything that could be lovelier." The room continues to fill, and she looks less than comfortable. "Ma'am?" she asks of the Major, "May I be excused now?"

"Oh geez, Roubani." Major Vendas looks like a mother with the way she shakes her head at the Ensign. "I'm just ribbin' you. So really, though. How does a brain like that - assuming you aren't bullshitting and actually know what you're saying - fit inside the cramped cockpit of a Viper? Shouldn't you be chasing fame on the cover of Colonial Mechanics?" She eye's the Ensign for another curious moment before looking to Pike. "Know where you can get some? If someone's shorting you, I might be able to trade you favors. Lend you a Raptor crew to run out and get it." She winks to the CMO and then a curious glance to Nine. "Ah, of course? I was just inviting you to stay. Nobody is throwing orders." She does her best to warm that smile.

Roubani bends the corner of the page he was reading, giving Nine an apologetic nod. "Good night." He looks back at Vendas, picking at his clean fingernails. "There's not much fame in physics, sir," he says, a bit awkwardly. "I'm applying for a graduate program. I hope to hear on the decision soon, actually. Aerospace engineering, working on vessels like Vipers. I thought it would be good to know them better before I did my applications." He offers her a little smile and then glances up, spotting Waite. She's only sort of familiar, only having seen her once, but he gives her a similar smile anyway. Then to the yelly doctor: "Evening, sir."

Pike gets the machine going just as Vendas makes her offer. "May take you up on that. I'll check with CIC, see if there're any battlestars or such who'd be up for a trade." Arielle blushes a bit and nods once to the Viperjock. "'Evening."

Nine gives Roubani a silent nod, then the Major who's made it clear that she can go, and she takes her bucket of lint and miscellany and drifts off as if on a tide, out of the hatch and out of sight.

Waite opens the lid of the washing machine and puts some of the soap inside. She turns on the water and begins adding clothing to it one or two items at a time. She seems to be sorting by colors and this is a 'dark' load. Of course, 'dark' apparently means 'not white or nearly'. Reds and blacks and blues. How many clothes did the woman bring with her? Occasionally, she glances over between those speaking. Not so she can add to the conversation so much as get to know these people a little.

Vendas shuts the washing machine loading door and starts it. She hops up onto the metal table as she responds to Roubani. "Chasing a Masters? So you're not long for the Air Wing, eh?" The Major doesn't seem to be one easily offended or put-off. She seems to grasp the concept that not everyone shares her obessio- err, dreams. Eyes turn back to Pike. "Well I dunno when, but we should be meeting up with Sixth Fleet soon. I imagine we'll be seeing more than a few Battlestars. Your chances are good! But just in case.. let me know?"

"It's a doctoral program, sir." Roubani replies quietly. "Accelerated master's and then Ph.D. Not that I don't like flying…I have great respect for all this, Major." His hands fold, long fingers laced on the open book pages. Another glance is spared to the doctor, able to indulge some veiled curiosity while she talks to the CAG.

Pike says over the sound of her scrubs being washed, "Definitely, yeah. Always up for another Raptor ride." She grins, then says to Roubani, "Nothing wrong with shifting gears. I was working in a civvie E.R. prior to joining up."

"Huh. No kidding." Vendas leans back, palms planted firmly on the table behind her while she looks to Roubani. "No need to explain yourself, Ensign. Really. Most Viper jocks these days aren't career sailors, anyway. I'm always interested to hear what pilots have planned for themselves when their terms of service are up. Its nice when I hear something other than 'Civilian Transport'," she laughs. "Aerospace, though? Very cool. I'm going to guess you're more theory and design than hands on, yeah?" To Pike, she shrugs. "I'm amenible to whoring out my Raptor squadron for the occasional supply run. Just let me know when and where and we can work something out."

Roubani watches Pike for a moment. "I suppose one needs a good set of lungs to work in an E.R., Doctor," he says, quite seriously. "I don't know for sure, I was never very good at biology." He looks back at Vendas. "How would you define 'hands-on', sir?"

Pike grins to Roubani. "They do come in handy, believe you me." She then nods to Vendas, "Will do."

"When I say 'hands on', I mean more about reaching into the guts of an airframe and getting your hands dirty. I'd run into a few astronautical guys before back at Cafferty who could teach a mean lecture about the capabilities of the Viper. Knew the systems and push-button keystrokes. But when you sit them down in front of a stripped airframe, they don't seem so sure of themselves." The CAG nods towards him. "Of course you have Engineers who prefer that environment. Others who are utterly brilliant behind a drafting program. The spectrum, from what I've seen, is as varied as the personalities in the field."

"I see. Both, sir," Roubani says, shifting his folded legs on the hard chair. "You wouldn't expect a surgeon to not know their anatomy, but you also wouldn't expect them not to be able to plunge their hands in. I…assume so, at least." That's added towards Pike, then he looks back at Vendas. "You can't build a better machine without knowing everything about its flaws, and that's far more than just memorising schematics."

Pike smiles. "You assume correctly. All the booklearning's great, but you're not a surgeon unless you willing to make the incision and do the work."

Vendas nods. "Makes sense. But only if you're making the assumption that all Doctors are surgeons. How that translates to Engineering is a little more complicated I imagine, though." She smirks easily, the expression appears on her face like a breeze through the trees. Its given to both Pike and Roubani. "But you're looking to build us a better Viper, then? You prefer the Two's or the Sevens?"

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