Summary: Drama interrupts moustache o'clock.
Date: PHD129
Related Logs: Implosion


Roubani is here in the game room, which otherwise is mostly deserted but for one petty officer ruining his brain on video games. The JG is alone in the back left corner with the room's pool table, a cue leaned up against the wooden edge. There's an array of balls on the green felt but they've definitely been arranged that way, forming a 4-ball diamond with the white cue at the centre. Roubani is half-seated on the side of the table, rolling the cue a few inches back and forth with his fingertips as he looks at the arrangement. A notebook is open nearby, scribbled in.

And in comes Timon to interrupt his reverie. The lieutenant has just arrived from the showers after a run: his stringy curls are matted against the top and sides of his forehead, and he wears only one of the usual two pairs of sweats. The other's slung over his right arm, covering a legal pad that looks — for all intents and purposes — new. Not one but three black pens are clipped to the first page, all of which are as yet unopened.

Around and around rolls the white cue ball under Roubani's slender fingertips, the diamond watched with a very focused air. Or his mind could be somewhere totally different, hard to tell with his eyes down. He finally slides off the edge of the table without taking a shot, fishing four more balls out of the well underneath. These four are split two to an arm, cradled against his chest as he leans a hip back against the table and then two are placed on the table near the ends.

Figures that Ivory would find a hypothetical game of pool more interesting than whatever shoot-'em-up the petty officer is playing in the corner. It's over to Poet's side of the room that the man now wanders, pausing only to set his work down on a nearby table before slipping on the second of his two sweats in a motion more awkward than smooth. "Are you winning?"

Roubani's attention goes through several stages as it transfers from way off in his head, to the physical pool table, and finally to Ivory. He and someone having an absence seizure probably had a good amount in common just then. "No," he says softly, looking back at the table. "But luckily loser isn't buying the rounds."

Timon chuckles at the thought, even as he shifts around the table to examine the positioning of the balls on the table. Conclusion: this is nothing he's ever seen before — which he could really have come to without butting in like that, but everything's better in hindsight. "Sorry to interrupt," he offers, leaning back against the rack of cues bolted to the wall. "Looks like it's your shot."

Roubani hehs quietly, picking up the cue stick and carefully leaning over the configuration, aiming not for any of the immediate balls but for the green felt wall behind it. With a quick and rather practiced jot of the cue stick, the white ball goes thumping into the wall and then into the 5-ball at correct angle, thwacking it hard and sending it across the divide into the 3-ball. "It's just an experiment. Ergodic theory, my mathematical heroin."

"Nice shot." Ivory looks on approvingly as Poet executes that virtuoso play. "So what exactly is it you're trying to prove?" There's a pause as Timon fiddles with his hair, wringing a few strands free of water before smoothing the lot back against his head. "Other than your credentials as the ship's resident pool shark, I mean." His hands are brushed dry on the front of his trousers.

It's like a strange rent in the fabric of space. One can almost feel reality warping as another quarter of the Kharon's DorkSquad edges into the game room, the buttons on his duty greens jacket undone. Slipping through the briefly-opened hatch, Wil makes his way further inside, strolling leisurely towards the video library. He's on a mission, by the looks of it.

Roubani's lips twitch at the end, but he shakes his head. "I'm not after a proof. This is solely observation." He braces the cue stick on its heavy end, folding his fingers around the top. "If you're familiar with the particular mathematical branch." He's at the pool table with Timon, who ends up having to roam away to do something. Cue stick in hand, he stands there looking at the arrangement of pool balls left on the table.

Strolling along a little further, Wil starts adjusting the pack on his shoulder as he starts a sort of idle rummaging within its confines, moving a little while he walks. He pulls out a sheet of paper and stares at it as he navigates, looking up at the video library when takes a slight detour, spying two rather familiar faces. "Something tells me you aren't playing for wagers." He comments in a wry voice. The right side of his mouth curls upwards a little.

"I'm doing heroin," Roubani remarks to Willem, confessionally. Without explaining further, he gently scratches the side of his neck, glancing at the videos that Willem had in his sights. "Looking for something?"

"So you found the guy peddling 'black tar' out in the storeroom next to the water reclamation chamber." Wil makes a genuine effort at being glib here as he waves an arm, swiping at the air with small spread of his fingers. "Guess nobody can keep a secret forever. You're looking healthier than one would expect." He finishes this questionably funny joke with a small arch of an eyebrow. "Eh. I just made a list. Wanted to see what they had in the vid library." Of course, it's not like they've -added- to it in recent months.

Roubani offers Wil a faint smile. The vid library gets another glance and a twitched eyebrow, then he looks back at the pool table. There's a while of just that - looking - and he picks up his pen, making a few scribbled notes down on the page in the language of variables and transformations. "Particular reason?" He asks Wil as he writes.

"Maybe only a mundane one." Wil tosses out there at the erstwhile smackhead and his shoulders shrug neatly upwards. "I've heard a couple people talking about doing some kind of 'vid night.' He replies simply. "Figuring I could do an advance scouting of the stock before that day comes."

Roubani picks up his cue stick, consulting his notebook before leaning over the table and aiming for the white cue. "'Vid night'?" He murmurs. "Shoving half a ship's worth of people in a room watching a single video that a third will adore, a third will complain about incessantly, and a third won't notice because they're too taken with heavy petting? Fantastic." The smirk is goodnatured, the thwack of the cue stick against the ball ringing out right after.

Roaming completed, Timon returns to his abandoned legal pad without so much as a hitch in his stride, pausing only to tap Rebound on the shoulder by way of greeting. A clutch of red pens rests easily in his cup — a sturdy metal thing scrounged up from the mess, its lip still stained with coffee. One such pen is removed and tested; then, the words 'CHAPTER ONE - FINAL' materialize on his page. Then, aloud: "At least it'll be dark," Ivory murmurs. "So you can't see those last."

"I don't think it's going to be 'half a ship.' Just a few people. Although there's not exactly what I'd call an overabundance of classics in that stock from what I recall." That's a smirk -right back at- Poet, apparently, on Wil's part. He gives a bit of a glance at Ivory as he makes his way back over and gives the other man a pointed glance. Apparently he takes his newfound calling as 'morale officer' seriously. "What you described pretty much matches an everyday vid theater, you realize."

"Therefore we're likely right," Roubani says under his breath, eye-level now with the table as he takes another shot. Whatever experiment this is, it has nothing to do with actually getting any balls to go in holes. Thwack, and he picks up his pen, making new complicated notes that have no 'words' anywhere in them. Whatever it is, it's plenty exciting to him. Ink is all over the blade of his hand from writing in that funky curled way that lefties have to. "And it will probably go over famously."

"You should consider allowing Poet to select the film in question," Timon advises, tapping his pen against the side of his head as he thinks. "He gave me one to watch a few weeks ago, boasting unrealistic gunfire, martial arts mayhem, wooden acting — the works. I found it a profound meditation on the state of humanity and much more than the sum of its parts." If he's joking, he doesn't look it.

After that suggestion sends Willem fleeing, Roubani's attention remains on the pool table. Setting the pool cue back on the floor, he rolls the thin end between his palms, watching balls roll on the table. "You actually watched that?"

"I trusted your judgment," says Ivory, looking down at his (relatively) blank page with some degree of trepidation. His back is turned to the pool table: apparently, Timon finds lined yellow paper more interesting than Poet's balls. "I particularly enjoyed the part where the hero destroyed a house by kicking in a few of its columns."

Oh the innuendo-laden jokes that could come from this situation. Roubani, of course, will make none of them. "Not the epic horseback chase across terrain that scientifically could never exist within one day's ride of each other?"

And Timon has no clue what those jokes might have been, so: they're even. "Nothing exploded or was otherwise demolished during that chase." The man's voice is dry. "Apart from a few of my brain cells, which I'm afraid I'll never grow back."

Roubani half-smiles, picking up his pen. "I rather liked that part." He's finally done with what he needed to see on the pool table, brushing the balls into their various holes with hollow thuds and soft clackety clacks. "Are you attending this 'video night' thing?"

"This is the first I've heard of it," Ivory confesses, sitting at last: for the past few moments, he's been writing while leaning, which doesn't do his penmanship many favors. "Depends on what's on the menu, I suppose, though I'm usually spectacularly bored by anything that's not a documentary. Bonus points if it's filmed in black and white."

"Black and white?" Roubani asks, as though this were an unusual concept. "You mean…such as older films?" He picks up his notebook and settles on the arm of a chair.

"I was thinking more along the lines of archival footage historians seem to dig up every other year." Timon waves his hand in the air dismissively; the note about black and white was an idle remark, nothing more. "From way before the Articles of Confederation were signed, usually accompanied by actors dressed in period costumes reading from primary texts."

"Ah." Roubani then falls silent, a kind of awkward silence where he scratches his arm. "I'm afraid I'm not very familiar…I haven't seen very many films."

"No time, no inclination — or both?" Timon still hasn't started writing, instead sitting back to twirl his pen around his thumb.

"Well." Roubani clears his throat uncomfortably. "We weren't really allowed to. At then there was university, and by then I just rarely thought about it."

"'Weren't allowed to?'" Ivory looks up, a little puzzled. "This might sound insensitive, but — why not? Because even I've seen enough to know that there are several which won't corrupt the youth."

Roubani rubs his upper arm. "I'm not sure how to answer that. It's…the way my family was. The way everyone was where I lived. " He's not defensive, but his voice is becoming cautious. "It was a little strict."

"Fair enough." Timon doesn't look particularly surprised at the revelation; instead, switching pens from red to black, he merely underlines his title before enclosing it in a box, the lines of which are relatively shaky. Dammit, he's a philosopher, not an artist. "And here I thought my first time in a barracks was culture shock defined, what with people dropping their pants at a sneeze and all."

Roubani shrugs one shoulder, just a twitch really. "I used to think it was unusual, to behave that way." The word unusual is definitely a euphemism there. "But I suppose not."

"Part of the culture, I suppose." More needless underlining: at this rate, Timon will wear a hole through his paper before he's written down five words. "I'm surprised the Fleet doesn't advertise it in their recruiting posters: 'Enlist, and enter a world where immodesty is king.' At least half the men I knew in college would have signed up in a flash." The comment is accompanied by a sidewise look at Poet. "Never got around to asking you why you joined up, by the way." Which seems to imply that he's asking now.

Roubani scratches the tip of his pinky past his lower lip. The non-question's answered with a dose of wryness. "It was my rebellious phase." His fingers straighten his collar, unbuttoned but still somehow formal. "And you?"

There's a low laugh, as if to say You? Rebellious? But Ivory doesn't pry. "Best job my resume could get me." Timon stops writing, resting the end of his pen against his forehead as he leans forward onto the table. "Kept the tabloids away, too."

Roubani's dry smile at the laugh acknowledges plenty of irony. But there's no 'just kidding' in it. It fades and he nods thoughtfully, shifting in his seat so he can cross his legs. "Mmm. But why flight school? Why not tactical or…anything else?"

"The curse of a high score on the RT test." Timon leans his head against his shoulder, lazy gaze drifting over from Poet to the pool table and back again. Brown hair falls gently over his forearm. "If I could have flown a desk for pay, I would have." And likely not have been here, is the implication. "And you — why not engineering, or anything else?"

"It was a means to an end," Roubani idly picks something off his knee, an errant thread. "I was applying for a doctoral program in aerospace engineering, with focus on Viper-class vessels. I figured it would show the panel some 'dedication to the field', or whatever other patronising drivel they write on applicant forms."

"No kidding." Ivory sounds more amused than anything else. "I remember getting asked to write a recommendation letter for an undergrad at the end of my second term TAing for Rowlings. Kid gave me a bullet-pointed list of things to say, and could probably have composed the thing for me if I'd told him to." His hands flatten on the table, pen resting between the middle and ring fingers of his right. "Any little edge, I guess."

Roubani's attention is still kind of on his knee, now straightening folds of olive fabric. "What would you rather have done?" About the undergrad? Nah, his tone's too pensive for that.

Timon chews thoughtfully on his bottom lip. "I liked teaching," he says at length. "A lot more than students of mine liked getting taught by me, but — " The sound of laughter — quieter, this time — is further muffled by his posture. "Our department had a couple of really nice classrooms. Stained glass windows, shelves full of old books, high-backed chairs, blackboards and chalk. Straight out of a picture books. Would've been neat." His pen shifts in his hand, pointing back at Roubani. Your turn.

Matto comes shuffling in after his usual sedate fashion, arms hanging relaxed hy his sides, feet moving over flooring without hurry or haste. His path takes him straight for one of the games cabinets rather closer to the hatch.

Roubani's turn. It takes him a while to admit, "I don't know." Under this completely inelegant answer is a complex tone. "I was still unused to the notion that I could make my own decision about one thing. Let alone among many." His back is to the hatch, and he misses Matto slipping into the room.

As does Timon, who would look like he was in the middle of a nice and relaxing nap if he weren't, you know, talking. "What did your family have in mind for you, then?"

Matto slips up the handle and opens the door, hands rising to grasp both sides of the crate of craft stuff up on the top shelf, just where he left it. The tune to some song is getting hummed lightly, the sound barely escaping the proximity of his throat, much less transgressing the room.

"Marriage. My fiancee was a good girl, or so my father informed me. I couldn't say," Roubani says, with no hint of dryness. He picks at his knee again, brushing it off. "There was a position her father had secured for me somewhere…factory, I believe." He laces his fingers together, looking back up. "What about your family?"

"Before we filed for bankruptcy? CEO, most likely." Timon runs his pen through his hair to push it out of his eyes. "Tantalus Incorporated was a hereditary monarchy, shareholders be damned. First birthday present I remember getting from my father was a set of business cards in eggshell white." A hint of contempt filters its way into the pilot's tone. "I was five."

Matto takes down the crate into his arms, leaning back to let it rest against his chest as he shuffles to and shuts the cabinet with a hip. He's on his way to a table when he sees the others, diverting his course to a table rather more close and settling the stuff down, pushing one knee up into a chair, "Hey," he greets them softly.

"Were you the oldest?" Roubani asks Timon, shifting his shoulders against the chair. His eyes then tip upwards at the sound of a new voice and hey, the little smile's back. "Hey, Kisseus."

"The only," Timon confirms, before he too looks up; then, with a few bleary blinks, he's dragging his pencil and pad closer to his corner of the table so Matto has room for his crate. "What's in that?" he wonders aloud.

Matto returns Roubani's smile in kind, a less exuberant expression than his usual, but no less full of life for all that. Then, lifting both brows briefly, he reaches slowly into the crate, as if about to lift something of great delicacy. Then, suddenly, he tosses up a round, tubular item, letting it spin in midair before he catches it, then flips it, spins it in his palm and finally grabs it still, pointing it at Timon like a toy gun. Except it's a tube of fingerpaint. Fortunately there's a lid on the narrow squirt cap. "Stuff," he answers, the small smile edging into a grin.

That the Raptor pilot was an only child doesn't seem to surprise Roubani much. He nods the man's way, but the flipping and pointing and grinning grabs his attention. "Fingerpaint," he explains to Timon, lest the man not know. Hey, a few weeks ago Roubani had no idea either.

"They let you have paint?" Ivory's expression is one of mock horror. Back into his arm-made cocoon he goes, his face planted somewhere near the bottom of the 'A' and 'L' in 'FINAL'. "What exactly do you plan to do with it?"

"Well, I dunno, I thought I might paint with it, but maybe you're right, there's got to be something more interesting to do with paint," Kisseus considers the proposal for a moment before his eyes light up with what can only be a terrible idea.

Roubani watches Matto, an eyebrow slowly raising. His eyes then shift to Timon, narrowing. "What have you done?"

"Painting is interesting," says Timon, a little too quickly. He's trying to salvage the situation. "I can even donate paper, if you'd like." In the hopes of making sure something NOT HIS FACE is Kissy's canvas.

Oh, no, it's far, far too late for that. Kissy's rummaging around in the crate until he finds the tube he's looking for, shaking up the tube of black paint and then flipping open the lid to squirt a little bit on his finger. "Moustache o'clock!" he announces, applying with a finger that seems only too practiced at this activity two globs of the black above his upper lip, then, with a flick of a clean finger to either side, just slightly up, then down, then pulled into a point with a fingernail on each end, he paints a cartoonish semblance of an old-timey gentleman's handlebar moustache on his face. "Who's next?" he asks, eyeing the two boys with two black fingertips and the tube of paint raised almost menacingly.

Oh dear gods. Roubani's foot shoves his chair back, conveniently BEHIND TIMON'S. "Age before beauty, Lieutenant."

Great minds think alike. Timon pushes off from the table and shoves his chair back further, conveniently BEHIND ROUBANI'S. "I think Poet could use a couple of sideburns first, Lieutenant Junior Grade." Is he actually going to pull rank?

"Lords of Kobol, what unholy shenanigans are going on here?" The priestess' voice is unwritten with laughter as she approaches the painter and paint-menaced. She places her hands on the back of Timon's chair and notes, "A beauty mark on Lieutenant Stathis, I think."

"A beauty mark? Sideburns? I don't think you truly appreciate the -meaning- of moustache o' clock," Kisseus points out with a jovial smile that looks a little more wicked considering that the moustache he's wearing might fit nicely on a fellow whose favorite hobby is tying maidens to train tracks. "Here, Bo Peep, I'll get you first, while these two are cowering," he winks at the Poet. "What sort of moustache do you want?"

Roubani balks at Timon, sucking his teeth. "How on Kobol did you fit that bus in here to throw me under, LEF-tenant? Shouldn't you be sacrificing for the good of your men or something, you terrible role-model, you?" Scootch, scootch, the chair gets shoved even further back as he talks. His eyes flick up as Ariadne swoops in and he suddenly beams a beautiful smile at Timon.

From the befuddled panic now gracing Timon's face, it sure looks like he appreciates the meaning of 'moustache o'clock' just fine. "I think you just swore, Poet." Roubani's chair scootches; Timon's veritably screeches as he, too, moves back — only to find that there's now a priestess between him and safety. OHNOES. "I don't have to outrun Kissy," the pilot observes. "I just have to outrun you." And up he goes, pausing only to tap Ariadne on the shoulder in greeting — presumably, he's off to cower in fear under the pool table, to grab a cue with which to defend himself, or both.

Ariadne sighs. "The things I do when capitulating to peer pressure…" She sucks in her cheek, considering. "What are my opt — oh! Oh!" She claps her hands. "One of the droopy ones that reaches almost down to the chin. I love those." She rolls her eyes at Timon's retreat. "Really, you two put far too much value on dignity."

"Like, the little thin droopy ones or the big bushy walrus-looking things?" Kissy asks for clarification even as he applies a dot of black to his forefinger. To the escaping Ghostrider he pays little heed, focused on his task and the priestlady. "It's true. I think it's a -guy- thing," he smiles, the emphasis on -guy- making it clear that he means it's associated with cultural masculine -types,- male or female, rather than biologically masculine -people.-

"I did not," Roubani scoffs back at Timon. As to swearing. Hmpf. The mental 'hmpf' is even punctuated by his hmpf'ing his arms folded over his chest. As to whether their adherence to dignity is attributed somehow to gender roles, he has no comment. Except to straighten his collar.

Apparently, it's neither pool table nor pool cue that Timon wants. He's content to put himself behind Roubani, settling down warily as Matto gets to work. Only when he's well and truly safe — for now — does he speak to defend himself: "More abject terror as to what the CAG will do if he sees me walking around with a horseshoe on my face. Another two weeks of PT-with-Spider will likely kill me."

"No walruses, please," Ariadne wrinkles her nose. "Thin and droopy. Like an ancient wise man." She closes her eyes and presents her face to the maestro.

Matto h'ms a quiet note of understanding to the priest before he daps two dots of black, side by side in the middle of her upper lip. Then, his middle finger smudges each droplet smoothly outward to a proper length before his pinky picks up the task, dragging a small section of hteir tips downward on each side to describe a properly droopy sage-esque moustache on the woman. "There," he declares with a smile. "Oh, now, come. There may be regulations against moustaches, but there certainly are no regulations about -false- moustaches." Probably because there never needed to be.

As soon as Timon is settled, Roubani starts innnnnching back again. Inch. Inch. Oh hey look, he's behind the Lieutenant again, with the jab given, "Well, at least the Marines would be impressed that you can even pretend to grow facial hair."

"If anybody can spin noncompliance with a non-regulation into a punishable offense — apart from me, that is — it's the CAG." There's no sourness in Timon's voice; one gets the feeling he's using the Legend of Marek as shield more than anything else. Then — oh no you don't, Poet. One step, two step, and then their positions are reversed again. If there weren't a wall a few meters behind them, this could go on for an eternity. "And don't rag on me just because I shave." He can't help from peering over at Matto and Ariadne, though: call it morbid curiosity, which to his knowledge has never actually contributed to an actual feline death.

Ariadne turns to display her Sage-of-the-Far-East moustache, flashing a dazzling smile. "You see? It only tickled a bit, you cowardly custards."

Matto turns his attention back to the jab-swapping pair in their backward approach to the wall. A moment of staring them down with a cocked eyebrow, he decides, in the end, not to pursue, instead sitting his ass down on a tabletop and pulling his legs up after, going sloppily lotus. "Well, whoever's next, step right up," he tells them. Carnival barker. Another of the many aspects of the handlebar. "A word or two of description is all it takes for all your deepest moustache desires to come to life," he promises them. Paint bottle in one hand. Other palm up, three fingertips blackened as if he were in the middle of getting fingerprinted.

Roubani's back finally does hit the wall. A winnar iz he. Folding his hands demurely behind the small of his back, he lofts both brows at Timon. Can't run.

Ariadne's words are probably Timon's cue to say something flattering, but no: he's not so much custard as plain yogurt. To say he has his back to the wall is — well, to be quite truthful.

Ariadne slow-grins and advances on Timon. One. Step. At. A. Time. "Aww c'mon, luv," she croons in the most cockney of Aerelon accents. "Give us a li'l kiss." All the better to share her moustache, my dear.

Matto grins broadly as Ariadne goes to spread the gospel of the 'stache, leaving his attention to drift toward the Poet, once more, eyeing him playfully, "So what's it to be?" he asks the poet, "I can put one on you like this," he lifts the paint bottle and his fingers, "Or like that," he tips his head toward where Ariadne is attempting to smooch one onto Timon. The tone of the proposition is decidedly canted toward the belief that cooperation with the former will be inspired by the threat of the latter.

Roubani clears his throat softly. He's gracefully ignoring any of what Ariadne may or may not be doing to Timon in public, though he can no doubt hear it. Oh those crazy kids. His dark eyes do their best to glare at Matto, which works about as well as it would from a baby koala. "Just. A. Little."

"Gross displays of affection are frowned upon even in off-duty areas," Timon mutters desperately. Deprived of his ability to flee backwards, Ivory now scoots sideways in an attempt to put a pool table between him and the priestess. The fact that she's threatening to apply his fake mustache using a singularly enjoyable method doesn't quite seem to register.

"I promise it won't be gross," laughs the priestess, jumping up onto the pool table. She crouches there, ready to spring on poor Timon no matter which direction he flees. Her smile, beneath her silly fingerpaint moustache, is both mischievous and feral. Rowr.

The door to the game room spins open after the telltale sound of the spinning hatch. Stepping inside, Martin glances in the direction of the antics. In a sudden display of acting strange, he turns and closes the door only to head towards the coffee maker without a single word. Looking a bit the insomniac with small circles under his eyes, he stops at the sink to wash out his mug in silence.

"Just a little," Kisseus agrees with an almost solemn nod that doesn't do much to quiet down the jovial smile he's smiling in the Poet's direction, "C'mere," he tells him, gentle-voiced. Not moving from the table. It's an interesting dichotomy: Ariadne, the wild beast stalking its prey; Kissybear, the candle flickering a warm beckoning to the moth.

And moths are notoriously flighty, if you'll pardon the pun. Roubani's eyes flicker past Matto's head as someone goes past towards the coffee machines, and probably would have ignored after that but for the look on Martin's face. The joking (the little he was willing to do, anyway) falls a bit to the wayside and he makes a subtle movement of his eyes from Matto towards Martin.

Timon doesn't flee now; instead, he mirrors the younger man being beckoned by candlelight, giving a glance toward the latest addition to the room — whom he recognizes only from a few briefings here and there. Then he's stepping toward the pool table, left hand extended to help the priestess down, right hand braced against green felt.

Matto turns his head to follow Roubani's eyebeams toward Marty, quiet, a moment, and looking just about as serious as someone can possibly look while he's wearing a painted-on handlebar moustache. Still, he straightens his back after a moment, and puts on that usual gloss of good cheer over his tones as he calls out, "Hey, Marty. What's up, guy?"

Aww. That's just charming — Ariadne's plainly melted by Ivory's chivalry. It looks like he might even escape the threatened moustache. She takes the proffered hand and climbs nimbly down, smile aglow.

Roubani sliiiiiides away from Matto's hands as he turns his attention, back slithering against the wall. SAFE. The victory's exceedingly short-lived though, as he gives the back of Martin's head a concerned glance. It doesn't reflect in the casual voice though. "Would anyone like some tea or something?" To those without cups in the room, of course.

Turning off the sink, Martin turns his mug upside-down to drain out. Pivoting at the waist, he turns his head to look towards Matto and Roubani with a sleepy look on his face. As if registering that his name was just called, he blinks and his brain starts to slowly feed him the information. "Oh. What's up?" He blinks, sliding a cigarette into his lip. "Not much man, just burnin the midnight oil. How are the lot of you doin?" He asks back, turning towards the sink again to light his cigarette and fill his mug with black coffee. He doesn't look or smell of alcohol. He looks and smells of exhaustion.

"We're pretty okay in here," Kissy gives Marty a friendly smile, not complaining at the Poet's retreat. "We're having moustache o' clock. Would you care for some dashing bit of facial hair?" he asks, tones precise and polite, as if he were offering a crumpet at tea.

After the priestess is on terra firma, Ivory reaches into one of his trousers, pulling out a pair of handkerchiefs he scrutinizes for dust, grime, or anything along those lines. The cleaner one he tosses to Ariadne on the off chance she wants to get rid of her recently-acquired facial hair. As for this Marty fellow, he receives a wave that would smack of relief if waves could smack.

No tea requests. Which is a-okay, Roubani just gets a mug for himself. After inspecting it. Thoroughly. He gives Martin an acknowledging nod. "Doing alright, thank you, Black."

With a steaming mug of coffee that a spoon could sit up straight in, Martin turns and leans against the edge of the counter. A weak smile forms at the side of his lip as he nods upwards in return to Ivory's wave. Eyes scanning the collection of moustaches, he smirks mirthfully and takes a sip of his coffee. His face scrunches up in response to the liquid magma. "No thanks, Matto. After drinking this I'll just shave it off my chest and glue it…" He

Matto doesn't push the moustache issue, even if the thought of pasting chest hair to ones upper lip makes him flinch a little. He prefers the paint variety. "I don't think anyone can say for sure. In times like these the words for things becomes disjoined from the things they were once meant to signify." Eh? "Are you alright? You look like someone hit you with the exhausted stick. You been sleeping alright?" He maintains his post, meanwhile.

Oh, THAT'S the way it's going to be, is it? Ariadne doesn't seem pleased — brusquely handed a hankie after being lured down from her perch. Pfft. So Timon might have gotten off easy, but alas. Tragedy ensues. He's grabbed by the shirtfront and kissed solidly. It's a silly, messy kiss, one designed to get maximum moustache onto his face rather than titillate.

Or the priestess could ignore the handkerchief and use his — face. By the time she's finished, Timon looks like he's just made out with a tar pit. Thank the gods for redundancy: fortunately for him, he carries around two kerchiefs instead of one, the latter of which is still in his possession. And so it is that he dabs gamely at his lips while heading over to the nearest sink, ears a pleasant shade of pink, stride rather quicker than altogether necessary. AVERT YO' EYES.

Roubani fills up his teacup, content to go rather quiet while chatter (and blushing and making out and etc) goes on in the room. He sets his tea down on the coffee table, taking the opportunity to straighten the various notebooks and pens, some his and some Timon's.

And into the game room comes the intrepid Raptor Captain. It looks like Thea. Whomever it is is wearing her usual off duties. But there's a change - this woman is -smiling-. She's actually smiling. Like she means it. There's a cup in one hand, and a flash of silver in the other.

Grinning, with black (now dark gray) smudged all around her mouth, Ariadne NOW uses the handkerchief to wipe her face. She looks inordinately entertained. There's a glance at Timon's retreat, perhaps to check the color of his ears.

Martin lifts a pair of slightly amused eyebrows as Timon is attacked by Ariadne. Listening to Matto speak, his eyebrows return to a more slacked position as he turns his eyes to his coffee mug. Scooting closer to the door so that Roubani can access the coffee and tea, he slides his cigarette between his lips and takes a slow pull from the filter. Lifting his face towards Roubani as he exhales towards the ceiling, he promptly works out a way to change the subject. "I sleep off and on, Matto. Just really busy I guess." He says, a lie. Everyone knows his CAP schedule. "Thought I'd take you up on that video game offer." He turns to the door and nods to Legacy, a silent greeting.

The hatch swings aside with a metallic squeal to admit Komnenos a few moments after Thea, he too being clad in off duty tanks. Unlike the woman impersonating the Raptor captain, he's not smiling — but neither does he look especially glum, either. There's a cigarette on his lips and a neutral expression on his face as he goes immediately for the teapot on the side of the room, his 'Eschew Obfuscation' mug clutched in his hands.

Ears? Still pink. Timon, for his part, is making tea in the corner, face and back carefully turned away from the gathering of pilots. For those looking more closely, though, it’s not a tea bag he's dipping into boiling hot water; instead, he's applying near-boiling water to his handkerchief, letting it cool down for a few brief seconds before dabbing at his mouth. A few more seconds of rubbing and the vast majority of paint has been transferred from head to cloth, which now looks not unlike the mottled skin of a cow. Back into the cup of water it goes, where he'll let it soak for now. Then, only then, does he turn around: "Captain," he offers, voice mild. "Thorn."

Roubani stacks Timon's notebook and pens on the table, and his own on the other side. He settles onto the arm of one of the chairs, sipping his tea. As the room starts to get…dense…he stays rather quiet as he usually does, mostly watching people. His hand lifts to signal hello to Thea and then to Thorn.

The hatch swings open again and Castor enters for what reason, none can say, but safe money is on the games or maybe he has something hidden in this room and maybe that something is hooch. As he spots everyone his eyes go a bit wide and he offers a, "Captain, Sisters, everyone else." He makes a mental note of who is in here and what everyone is doing. If anyone is looking there is a smile on Leda's face but then again there usually is a smile on his face.

Thea grins at the gathering and just shakes her head. "Judging by the back of Ivory's neck," she comments to no one in particular. "I came in at just the right - or wrong - time, depending on your point of view." She meanders over toward Roubani, winding her way through the people, but she's definitely pointed toward Poet. The cup gets switched to her other hand and she reaches into her pocket before holding something out to the Engineer. Whatever it is is hidden by her hand. "Good evening everyone. Did I miss the memo about the party?"

"Captain," Ariadne bows her head slightly to Thea, smiling a greeting. "Castor," she greets Leda much the same. Thorn gets a quick, cheeky wink. She returns the handkerchief to Timon. "I'm afraid I must be going. Last of the evening services in a few minutes."

"Hey, Sure," Kissy agrees, "Just let me wash my hands, yah?" he lifts his left hand, which looks rather as if he's been taken in for fingerprinting. He slips down off of the table, unfolding his legs and sliding on down. He passes by where the Poet sits, briefly and unceremoniously 'staching him, just two big black commas with their round parts up by his nose and their little tails curling up just above his lips: smudge; smudge; done. "Adorable," he declares, looking up to the Captain, next, who's nearby, now. He wouldn't dare— would he? "Moustache, Captain?" He's sporting a gentlemanly-looking handlebar, himself.

"Your timing, Captain, is impeccable." Timon settles down near where Poet's stacked his books, content to observe for now. There's a certain amount of tension evident in his posture as he sits: apparently, he's not altogether comfortable with the crowd that's suddenly chosen this moment to flood inside, though the return of his handkerchief is greeted with a low whisper and a brief, stiff nod.

"Shit." First words upon a small gathering of Marines-three of them in fact- hit the room from the hatch. "This place is always filled with frakking pilots.." the Chief of them, one Sergeant John 'Dutch' Elder is already complaining about. Cigar shifted from one side of his mouth, over to the other. "An Priests…" he mutters spotting Ariadne and with a shake of his head he and the others are in the move towards the pool tables. Find a game to nose their way into- or a table to take over. Play some cutthroat.

Roubani lifts his hand to accept the mystery present from Thea. "What is-…" Oh heeeey. He holds up the prize, a GREEN PEN, looking stupidly happy about it. So much so that he twists a bit and waggles it towards Timon. For some reason. Then it gets tucked into his pocket. "Thank you, Captain. I shall guard it with my life."

If Thorn were paying attention, he'd likely return her wink with a baleful glare, but he's not. His back is still to the rest of them as he pours himself a cup of tea, a halo of cigarette smoke forming around his head. Finally, he turns around, full, steaming mug in hand, nodding quietly to the gathered officers — and pausing ever so briefly as he catches sight of Martin. He takes another drag from his cigarette, blowing a slowly twirling smoke ring through pursed lips.

Martin stops drinking his coffee mid-sip to watch Thorn cross the room from over the rim of his mug. The way his eyes slightly narrow seals the fact that it's not a pleased look. Lowering the mug, he turns his attention to Matto and nods before stretching his neck until he feels the muscles pop. "So Thorn…" Martin says openly. "…what do you say you and I have a little talk?"

Ariadne smiles warmly at Timon and nods, then makes her way out.

Leda looks at Martin and then at Thorn and he stays the frak out of this, no more hall monitor here since he got busted on that last time, if the crap is going to hit the fan the Captain can take care of it. He does however look at Ariadne, "Sister, take care." He then turns to look at the drama that is unfolding…this might not go so smoothly.

Poet's gesture actually draws a laugh from Timon, who merely taps his finger against his head. Then Martin addresses Thorn and whatever he was going to say dies on his lips. Bushy eyebrows rise; thin (and faintly-smudged) lips close.

Thea's not oblivious to the ambiance of the room, especially not when Martin pops his neck. As she settles into the chair Roubani's arm-sitting, she looks to Martin and clears her throat ever so delicately. He gets one warning. Then her attention turns to Matto as her ankles cross and she cants her head to the side. "What do you think Poet," she asks of Roubani quietly. "I think Madman's skills are up to the task, don't you?"

Words like Dash's could sound quite benign in another tone. But Roubani's brow raises just slightly at the way they've come out now, his eyes flickering towards Martin and Thorn and then politely away for now as Thea sits. "The task, sir?" He asks quietly.

Thorn's head twitches to the side as Martin addresses him. He watches the younger pilot for a long moment before nodding. "I expect it's about that time, what?" he says woodenly, leaning back against the counter, smoke in one hand and mug in the other.

Dutch has no real clue as to what is going on between the pilots and for now-this is just fine. There's barely a look as he's grabbed up a cue stick, and is already helping his friends rack the balls. Cigar is still being chomped on as well as smoked, and by the looks of it, the marine isn't going to stop and gawk. Pilots have their dramatics all the time. This is probably over a bottle of nailpolish, or something equally as lame.

Matto's blissfully unaware of brewing drama, of course, having been equally unaware of Beece's latest romantic vaccilation. He settles onto the other arm of the Legsykitten's chair, standing ready — well, sitting ready — to take on the next case. He tries to tame a smile as he looks across the chair to the Poet on the other arm.

While everyone else keeps their attention on the drama at hand Leda takes a moment to sit on a couch as his hands begin to move here and there. However, it would seem like he has suddenly produced a bottle of rum from out of no where. Maybe he was hidding booze in here because that bottle is to big to hide in his pocket and yet there it is. He then stands so he can get a better look at what is going on in here. Well, there may not be popcorn but someone has hooch.

Martin glances to the hatch and then back to Thorn. If he heard Legacy's throat clearing, he gives no indication which might be a bad sign. All body language included, the way he rests his thumb on his belt buckle and squares his feet is the opening throw into what usually results in bar-brawl posture. "You want to do this here?" Martin asks with a raised eyebrow. He shrugs and pauses to drag off of his cigarette. "I can tell by your attitude and that stupid little false identifier of wisdom coffee mug that you're feeling pretty secure right now? But for all your efforts I guess I shouldn't feel bad about letting the room know that you're a little punk, you know that?"

The silver continues to flip through Thea's fingers, a little more slowly now. "Apparently the Lieutenant wants to paint a mustache on me," she tells Poet, demeanor relaxed, confident. Yep, the normal Thea's been replaced with Caprican Crystals. A hand is lifted in Dutch's direction, but Thea doesn't call out. Martin's too busy talking.

"Why the frak not?" Thorn replies crossly, scowling over at Martin. He stops, taking a pull of his own, exhaling loudly. His cup gets set down on the counter behind him, and his upper lips begins to curl into a sneer. "If you want t' show the whole frakkin' ship how much of a child you really are, who am I t' stop you?"

"Oh g-…" Roubani was about to say more, but. Oh dear. His attention's pulled back towards Martin and Thorn as all that rolls out of Dash's mouth. And then Thorn's. Maybe boys will be boys but he puts that very hot mug of tea down somewhere safe. Just in case.

The quiet sound of balls on the move is all that stretches the silence. Laughing and jokes about women…or saggitarrons are leaving the pool table where Dutch is currently standing. Though as words come out, With a puff of smoke Elder's looking back to the pilots for a second. "Someone sat on someone's pony, I am betting.." A chuckle there before the Tauron is taking his shot, missing, whatever ball he was aimed for. A look back up as the Sergeant catches movement from Legacy. A brow up and he's tilting his head towards the Captain. There's no sir called out. Just a frakking raised brow.

A bemused-looking Rebound slips back through the hatch, now carrying a satchel perched on his shoulder. Just looking for a quiet evening with his tac-sim wargame, sitting down playing with himself. He's probably in for another of a long series of disappointments. His ginger-tinged head arcs about in a series of attentive, quick glances.

Leda opens the bottle of rum and takes a sip straight out of the bottle as he knows what this is about since he caught the look from Sam earlier toward Thorn and he knows the history between Martin and Sam and when hearts get to fidgetting about bad things tend to happen. He isn't a fan of this but he isn't sure of what he can do to stop it. He then leans against the wall hoping this remains a shouting match.

Matto is likewise distracted from his campaign for the furtherance of dapper moustaches by the squaring off and tossing of epithets to and fro in the middle of the ring. Err. Lounge. "Woah, wait, dudes, calm down," he suggests to them plainly, brows furrowing.

Timon doesn't look at Martin so much as he does at Thorn, as if taking the temperature of the man — and the Raptor pilot doesn't like what he sees, judging from the way his laughter dies on his tongue. He'll let his Captain take the lead on this one, though, sitting back in his chair with arms folded across his chest.

Roubani is also watching Thorn more than Martin, if only for knowing the former far better than the latter. It's confusion on his face though, as he is still quite unaware of who the exact link is between the two.

Hearing Dutch's words results in a smirk and a scoffing chuckle from Martin's direction. Rolling his eyes, he downs the last of his coffee quickly and sets the mug down with a bit more force than he should. Luckily it doesn't break or chip. He drops his cigarette into it, resulting in a slight hiss. "No someone tried." He says in response to Dutch, exhaling another drag from his cigarette. Eyes back to Thorn, he nods in an upward manner towards his opponent. Taking a few slow steps towards him with a bemused look on his face. Not a good sign. "I'm a child, huh?" His eyebrows lower. "You know if your old man didn't teach you about being a stand up guy and not trying shit behind someone's back, how about you step off that counter and you and I go settle this on our own time?"

Strolling on a bit further, Wil looks about to say something but is pretty much stopped in his tracks by what he sees unfolding. For once, this may be some kind of cosmic -event- but Wil displays a distinct lack of cluelessness towards this matter. He just steps back, only paying tertiary attention to where he's going.

Apparently this has gone far enough for the Raptor Captain. With a simple movement, Thea puts her cup aside and looks up to Roubani and Matto. "Keep my seat warm, please," she tells them quietly, pushing to her feet. "Lieutenant Black and Lieutenant Komnenos, take a walk with me, please." Hmmmm. Doesn't sound like a request. She moves toward the door, apparently expecting the two to follow her.

"Nothing happened, you insolent little frak," Thorn snaps, still glaring daggers across the room at Martin. He leans off the counter taking a few steps towards the younger man. "And maybe if the two of you hadn't been on and off more times than Mars' vibrator, you might not have had shit t' worry about. I can't control how she feels." Finally, though, Thea's command takes hold, and he reluctantly breaks off to follow the captain.

Matto seems satisfied as at least that the current situation is diffusing, though he looks aside to the Poet in befuddlement, as though he might elucidate the context for him. Thorn's last comment gives him some clues, though, and he looks in that direction— yep, enough to get a general idea.

Ah. One can see Clueless Meter reflected in Roubani's expression shifting from 100 percent to flat 0 as the two of them go on. It's not exactly replaced by surprise. His lips thin slightly and he shifts a bit to let Thea get up without bumping into him, his thumb gently rubbing above his upper lip. And coming away…with paint on it. He blinks at it.

"What in the frak?" asked for a moment as Dutch's eyes flit between the now three pilots as Legacy is calling them out into the hall. However, as Komnenos' words come out there's a sputter of a laugh from the countrifried marine. "Shit, this has to be about a girl…" Which would make the pony joke have even more uumph. There's a slide of his eyes to Roubani, "Hey Ensign.." apparently someone hasn't told Dutch that someone got a promotion. Always, he shall be the last belle at the ball. "Whose the dark hair'd runt frakking?" Elder is no Columbo.

Yeah. Timon is so going to let Thea handle this one, instead looking back down at his legal pad — that still has only got three words on it. The loud marine gets an irritated look, followed by a brief gesture of his hand: the fingers of his open palm close down on his thumb in the universal sigh for shhh.

Martin stops, turning his head to watch Thorn pass him. Huffing, he lowers his eyebrows. "Gods damned right you can't." Martin says to Thorn, hesitating to follow the Captain. He pushes the envelope. He lowers his voice, speaking more directly to Thorn as he's closer. "Tellin' me last night she was just joking and shit was an accident. You know I get it Thorn, not too many women left alive to take your pick of, but I think it's pretty sad you gotta play the role of a designated hitter to get your foot in the door when I've personally pulled Raiders off your ass." Martin turns, starting to follow, practically walking shoulder to shoulder with Thorn. "Frakkin' Merc."

Eyes widen a bit on Wil's part as he just looks between Dash and Thorn as the situation is indeed momentarily defused. Sort of. He just gives off a bit of a wrinkle of his forehead and a wince as he looks at both parties. If anything, he's not clearly displaying any favoritism for either party in this exchange. Dutch's question breaks the silence though and he simply offers with a slight swivel of his head. "It always seems to be." he mutters. Finally, he edges towards Timon. Safe port in a storm and all that.

Matto seems worried, for a moment, but ultimately he seems to think the situation both in good hands and likely to be easily resolved. Toes wouldn't be the sort of person to spark someone's love; and even if Martin is… Jupiter's brother… he's sure he'll come to see reason when the misunderstanding's resolved. So he looks across to the Poet again, looking to the smudged thumb, then up to his eyes, holding his fingers just a little bit apart, "Just a small one," he repeats with a smile.

And there we go the show has ended and so another sip is taken from the bottle of rum. Well, this didn't end in blood which is a good thing. He keeps his perch against the wall as he takes a breath. Leda has an idea of what just happened but he isn't saying anything because after all. Damn, Leda wishes he had a cigar right now but the booze will have to do.

Thea's voice is a very quietly barked "ENOUGH." It's the tone of voice that generally means someone's head is about to get bounced off the floor. At the moment, a clearly off-duty Raptor Captain is walking toward the hatch, followed by two rather disgruntled looking Air-Wing members. "If either of you open your mouth in the next five minutes…" The threat isn't finished. She's on her way out.

"Rebound," says Timon softly. "Don't suppose you'd care for a moustache?" Thumb jerks toward Matto. More precisely, Matto's fingerpaint. A few faint hints of black ink are still visible around his lips: apparently, Ivory's been gotten, too.

"Uh. I think I'll pass, Ivory." Wil murmurs absently and a bit abashedly as he stares off at the hatch for a moment before addressing the Raptor pilot once further. "Today's Dignity Tuesday, after all. It's against my Faith to partake."

Whatever Thorn was about to retort with dies in his throat as he hears the iron in Legacy's voice; his only sound is a throaty growl. There's another narrow-eyed glare from the tall ECO over at Martin behind Thea's back as he follows a few steps behind her out the hatch.

Roubani rubs his paint-smeared fingers together and makes a small motion to Dutch. Not a 'shhh' motion like Timon but a palm-down kind of 'not right now'. He doesn't even bother correcting the rank just yet, eyes tracking the two snarling tigers on their way out the door behind their trainer. Until they flicker to Matto. Then back to the finger. Then he rubs at the rest of the paint with the back of his hand.

Kai steps through the hatch in his offduty fatigues, with just a pinch of weariness in his eyes and the stoop of his shoulders. But he has a bowl of jello in his hand, so all will soon be right with the world. ..unless that's two of his pilots being led out the door by the scruffs of their respective necks. He steps aside, and glances curiously toward Legacy.

Another puff of his cigar and Elder's got his brow raised "Seriously, who is he frakking? Because this is gods damned humorous. UNless, she's like a nice girl-then it ain't so funny." A sniff there as he look back towards Timon and there's a snerk right there. "Oh come off it, Lieutenant. I swear you all act like my kid sisters-I am sure if someone said pussy th' lot of you would blush as if you'd never seen a vagina before." And then there's a nod towards Willem. "Specially th' ginger." A shake of his head, and it seems to two boys are going out in the hall. Hilarious. "Gods damn.."

Timon's ears flush a furious crimson at the marine's words. There's one prediction borne out. Instead, the man turns his attention to the CAG, offering a quiet "Evening, Captain" before focusing his attention on his work — of which absolutely zero has gotten done. Wil's reply elicits but the smallest of chuckles.

Martin raises his arms, palms towards himself with his fingers slightly separated. Smirking towards Thorn, he mouths the words 'frak yourself, ingrate'. Shaking his head from left to right, he starts to slow his pace. Shaking his head, he sighs under his breath. "…frakkin bullshit." He pauses, chuckling quietly. "Frak this." He says, suddenly making his decision. He reaches out to Thorn's shoulder to grab his tanks, spin him around, and cold cock him with a right cross.

KAI! As Thea passes the CAG, she jerks her head ever so slightly behind her and salutes. "Captain," she says, pausing very briefly. "Would you mind joining us in the hall for a moment, please?" Her tone is oh, so light and sweet. Meaning someone's going to die. She starts to say something else when Martin…sigh. There's nothing Thea can do right at the second except step back.

"Misunderstanding," Roubani quotes Matto back to him, sounding dry about it. "It's never a misunderstanding when it comes to women. It's 'I'm right', and 'I'm right', and…'I have a fist'." This comes out as Martin decks Thorn right at the hatch, making him get reflexively to his feet. "See?"

And up Timon jumps too, pen still in hand, but he makes no effort to run toward the fight. "Poet one, Kissy zero," he murmurs softly.

Leda was ordered not to be the hall monitor and there is the Captain and the CAG, yup, this is a moment where one sits and drinks and lets the drama happen.

Martin's blow catches Thorn across the face, splitting his upper lip. Blood trickles from the wound, and Thorn's eyes widen in a mixture of shock and rage. He recovers quickly, though; with a swift movement, acting purely on instinct, his right fist balls up and plows into Martin's gut. His left follows, directing a shot right at Martin's nose. Thorn spits blood, advancing on the man with a snarl.

Matto's attention drifts back toward the pair as the Poet explains How Things Be. And then Marty grabs and makes for the punch: Kissy jumps, as well, but in the other direction, leaping up onto the back of the chair up by the wall as if he'd just spotted a mouse on the floor. Excepting the fact that he's not afraid of mice. Violence, on the other hand…

"Holy Shit!" Comes Dutch's own response as he sees the fist come flying. No, the Marine is in no hurry to break this one up. Why? Because he hasn't been asked to break this one up-so with that being the case, he's looking back to one of his buddies who is already laughing and missing his shot. "I'll put money on the curly hair'd one. Anyone who misses a damned fine opportunity to punch someone, deserves their shit bein' kicked." There's a conferance of agreeance before Dutch is piping up. "Five smokes."

Apparently Martin takes 'joining us in the hall' to mean something else, entirely. Kai's about to comply, with a spoonful of jello halfway to his mouth, when the viper jock goes for the old grab 'n slug. It's a measure of just how long he's been around the hot-blooded twerps, that he has time to roll his eyes, and foist his dessert off on Thea before striding over to separate the pair. It's really Martin, more than Komnenos, who's getting the majority of the manhandling here however. And with a good thirty or forty pounds on the junior pilot, the CAG's probably got the advantage. "When a senior officer says enough, it means enough." Unless he protests or wrestles out of Kai's grip, Dash is hauled back, and Thorn pinned briefly with a look that could kill. "Sit your ass down."

There's a reflexive step forward on Wil's part as a blow flies but he doesn't step beyond that. Already too much Captainness in the mix as it is and one glass jawed Ginger isn't going to help things. Ahem. He just sighs. It's not a condescending sigh, just, well, morose at the whole affair. And a little shake of his head.

Roubani's silent, arms folded as he watches the scuffle by the door. Still on his feet, he neither backs up nor gets closer for now. He doesn't look particularly -worried- about the fight…actually his first glance goes to the nearest rack of cups as if being sure in his head that they're not in danger of breaking the precious things. Then back to the two expending energy with Kai's help.

Thea takes the bowl of jello and gets the hell out of the way, seeming quite content to let the bigger of the two Captains step in. Oh, but the look she's giving Komnenos at the moment. It's not so much angry as it is professionally disappointed. There's that Captain mask firmly in place with just a hint of disapproval. Of course, the effect is probably ruined by her holding the jello. She looks past the combatants toward the rest of the room, arching a brow slightly.

"Alright, who didn't see that one coming?" Leda says as he takes another sip of rum. He then looks over at Matto, "You okay there, Kissy?" He then looks over at the Captain and Papabear and he watches to see what will happen next. Leda keeps finding himself in the middle of all the best shows on the Kharon.

Timon's not a rubbernecker; indeed, having jumped out of his seat, he's now sufficiently calm to begin gathering up his things from the table. He's had enough of explosions with his day job, it seems, and he makes sure to keep his expression as blank as he can. This time, he actually succeeds.

Reeling from the solid pounding to his guts, Martin's nose erupts in a small splatter of blood from the second attack. The warm sensation fills his senses as the taste of blood trickles down the back of his throat. Teeth gnashing and stumbling off balance, he suddenly finds himself being shoved back by an angry CAG. Luckily, Martin still has his fingers gripped around Thorn's tanks and he tries for one more swing before Thorn exits arm's reach. "Frakkin' disgrace to your unit…" He grunts, throwing a quick jab towards Thorn's eyesocket. He's struggling to stay in the fight.

Matto didn't see it coming; that much is pretty clear. He's about to ease down under the promise of Marek's intervention, but soon there's another flurry of random violence so he just. stays. put. for now. Tinners' question remaining unanswered.

Dutch folds his arms over his chest there as the Marine sergeant watches the pilots continue to thrash around like a pair of kids-well at least in Dutch's eyes? That is how they appear. A puff of smoke and a slight popping of knuckles, the marine makes to take one step forward. "You need Help Captain Marek?" Derision? No..An honest question even if the Marine is smiling.

Kai's look barely keeps Anton from going after Martin again, but it does and he doesn't. Martin, however, isn't operating under the same restrictions as he throws another shot at Thorn's face. It's a clumsy one, though, and Thorn sees it coming. He's not quite quick enough to avoid the blow completely, as the younger man's fist pummels Thorn's eye with a dull thock, but that doesn't mean he's unprepared. A hand reaches up to grab Martin's wrist on the followthrough — and he twists. Hard. There's a cold sneer on his face the whole time as he does it, too. Marek is still pushing Martin back, though, and Thorn lets go as Dash is pulled out of arm's reach. Breathing heavily, he takes a couple steps back, throwing his hands up in disgust and surrender. If there's any more fighting to be done, he won't be doing it.

Timon's not going anywhere near that hatch if fists are going to continue to fly. And so he stands there with pens and legal pad in hand, looking not unlike a confused professor wondering why his students are tardy, or why assignments are late, or why a tenured spot only opens up every ten years.

Leda for his part stays away as he watches the floor show that comes with his drink however if he was called into action he'd help but for now he is just watching all of this happen. There isn't a smile on his face and he doesn't find this amusing but he is concerned since this relates to his best friend on the ship.

Kai's not normally a physical sort of man. The occasions on which he's touched a pilot, aside from the odd slap on the shoulder, can probably be counted on one hand. This.. is turning out to be one of those occasions. When Martin goes for another swing, he attempts to reach for the offending arm, and haul it behind his back in what promises to be a painful joint lock. If this is successful? The poor kid's getting slammed up against the bulkhead hard enough to have him seeing stars for a week. "Captain Legacy — " Grunted, in the midst of trying to manhandle Martin. " — if you'd be so kind as to place a call to the security hub. Thorn, sit."

What discipline Thorn has kicks in at that moment, as he immediately finds the nearest seat and plops down in it. Blood continues to seep from his busted lips, joined by a similar trickle from his eyebrow. He makes no move to dab at the blood running down his face, though, as he simply stares darkly at his fellow combatant, sitting stock still with his hands upon his knees. His cigarette, he notices belatedly, got lost at some point in the scrum.

Thea dips her head to Kai - clearly not about to get involved in the tussle. Her chick sits down - though it's probably the last time he'll be able to sit for a week after she gets done with him. There's no hesitation - she's going for the squawk box to place her call.

[Intercom] Legacy says, "Security Officers to the Game Room, please."

The wind practically gets knocked out of Martin's lungs as his shoulders and the back of his head slam hard into the side of the wall. Eyes blinking as his vision goes hazy, Martin's footing is lost only to find that he's hung against the wall like a piece of meat. Wincing and baring his teeth at the pain in his wrist, he lifts his head to look down at Kai. Blinking through the pain of the lock, his neck muscles bulge at his failing, strained effort. "Spider…" He manages, slacking enough to show that he's out of the fight. "…I saved that son of a bitch's life so many— " He starts.

Dutch kisses his teeth as he looks back between Kai and the others. There's a shake of his head as one of the marines makes a comment behind him. "I guess you're right Sanchez. I won't ever make officer, don't nearly act as if I have shit for brains.." a mutter, but the joke is there for his compatriots as he's turning back around, a motion to the game. Apparently whatever fun there was- is no longer. So Pool can resume.

Roubani looks away now that the fight's come apart. Clearing his throat softly, he turns back to the mug rack and grabs one of the drying rags lying on the counter, letting it dampen under a trickle of water from the faucet. After wringing out the loose water, he folds it up and steps up to the edge of the chair he was by. "Thorn," he says under his breath. Before giving the cloth a well-aimed toss that way.

Ivory apparently had the same idea. Long, lanky strides take him from pool table to the coffee and tea set up in a corner. His stuff's set down before he reaches into his cup, pulling and twisting his handkerchief to clear it of paint and water. Then Timon's off to his ECO's side, making sure not to get in the way of anybody who might throw an unprovoked punch, before said handkerchief is dropped squarely in the man's lap. Just in case he doesn't catch Poet's lob.

Matto slides slowly down to where he's sitting on the back of the chair rather than perched up there in flight. Crosses one leg over the other. Rubs a forefinger against his thumb. Feels mildly useless. Stays quiet.

A gloomy look crosses Leda's face as he takes another sip of rum. He then turns and looks at Dutch and would comment if it wasn't a little true. He then looks back at Thorn and Martin and he simply shrugs because he knew something like this would happen. Instead he takes a moment to shift his attention away to look at the pool game in progress.

No, Martin's not given the chance to finish that sentence, whether or not it may be true and whether or not Spider empathises with him. "I suggest you shut your mouth, Lieutenant, and start thinking about how you're going to drag your ass out of this fine mess it's in," he interjects calmly, his grip on the pilot not relaxing an inch. There's a brief glance over his shoulder to ensure Komnenos has parked his butt in a chair, and then another to the hatch.

Yup. Wil. Bystander. He took another step but it was clear Thorn's fellow Raptordood and Poet have the man's mess in hand. No point in cluttering. He just watches, with faint concern.

Thorn catches the wet rag, squeezing it in his hand with a white knuckled grip. He looks down at it for a long moment before finally dabbing at his eyebrow with it. There's a look at his pilot, a hint of residual white-hot fury still in his eyes.

With the hatch stopped up with incoming, Roubani folds his arms loosely again, turning halfway around and pacing to the side of the chair that Matto's sitting on. His fingertips scratch his upper arm, and he's silent.

Thea's voice is a low, very quiet, "Ivory." Apparently Thorn is in the Time Out chair, which means he's not allowed to have visitors. The Captain, well, the one not holding the bucking Viper pilot, is holding a bowl of jello and making her way from the wireless to stand near Komnenos. There's a decidedly neutral expression on her face. Once she gets to Thorn's side, however, the woman places a hand lightly on his shoulder.

"You should keep that cool," murmurs Timon, almost inaudibly, and then, acknowledging his captain with a nod, it's back to the coffee area to retrieve his stuff.

"Well.." Dutch begins from where he is standing by his pool table with the others "I do get my five smokes, for whoever bet on the fraktard." A snicker, or rather a bunch of snickers leave the collective around the Marine table. Seems more pilot jokes are coming out instead of women and or sagitarron jokes now.

Martin, always the class clown, blinks his eyes through the pain and manages a rough smile. Glancing to the room of shocked onlookers, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Alright." He says gruffly through the blood trickling down his face. "Thorn? You wanna just solve this over some video games or somethin, man?"

Looks like pilot brutality is in the offing tonight. The CAG has one of his jocks up against the wall and in an arm bar, and another bloodied pilot — Komnenos — slumped in a chair nearby. He seems to be pretty much waiting for the cavalry to arrive, at this point.

Matto's eyes remain fixed on the scene by the hatch, forefinger still rubbing against thumb for no discernible reason. His hand, however, slowly rises, until the two rubbing digits are up by his cheek, the motion suddenly coming into context. What's the use of a pretend handlebar moustache if you can't pretend to twirl it in moments of awkward helplessness?

Leda is quietly drinking with an unpleasent look on his face as he watches Dutch play pool. He simply waits for the air to clear in here and when Martin speaks he looks over at Martin with a 'for the love of all that is good stop adding fuel to the fire'.

Komnenos is still sitting quietly in his corner, looking everywhere but at Thea. He looks with a mixture of satisfaction and contempt at the bloodied ruin that is Martin's nose as he dabs again, this time at his split lip; this turns into another furious glare as Dash speaks. "Maybe y' should've bloody asked that before y' cold-cocked me, you…" Thorn begins to shout, but cuts himself off as he suddenly remembers Thea's hand on his shoulder; is it just his imagination, or did her grip just tighten as he began to speak?

The S2 steps through the hatch, responding to the call herself, with a couple of marines in tow. Must be a slow night down in the Sec Hub. Judging from the speed at which the posse arrives, it was a really slow night in the Sec Hub. Yep. Pilots. She shoves the hatch open a little wider fo the two behind her, and then moves further in to have a look at the situation.

Willem simply settles into the table at the coffee area that Timon was parked at after a glance that indicates that tempers may just be abating a bit. Maybe. Tilting his head to one side, he eventually glances away to the games bookcase. Maybe it's not too late to get in a session.

Roubani keeps his arms folded, his shoulder facing the hatch and a hip against the chair back. It's Thorn far moreso than Martin that he seems to keep an eye on, though his face says very little.

Barghest comes in after the S2 in her off duty fatigues and her on duty miscelanea with a serious look on her face. There's a cursory sweep of the room and she flanks Salazar, tense and ready to spring into noisy, beatsome subduance should it become necessary.

Oh, no. The hand didn't just tighten on Thorn's shoulder. It would appear that her thumb and fingers are trying to meet somewhere through his flesh. "One more word out of your mouth," Thea says very softly and very quietly, apparently for Thorn's ears only. "You're already on strike number two for the night. When I said 'Enough' earlier, I -meant- it." After that warning, the pressure lets up. "If I hear another SOUND out of your throat before you're asked a question, each syllable will be a day off the flight line, on your knees in the Marine head."

Following in behind Salazar and Barghest is Marine Numero Dos. One Barnabas, somewhat shanghai'd into duty when he should probably be somewhere else, doing something different. The off-duty outfit gives the first part away, while the weary rubbing of his face with his left hand gives away the second. It's the ultimate in 'I have things to doooo' look that the room gets before he's turning to watch the hatch.

Kai keeps the taller pilot pressed up against the bulkhead, hands fisted and white knuckled in his tank tops. It probably took a bit of effort to get him there, judging by the fact that the Captain's still breathing audibly. "Ensign Nikos," he addresses the arriving S2, "please have Lieutenant Black detained for the remainder of the evening. I'll be by to fetch him in the morning." Or toss him out an airlock. He's probably seriously considering the latter.

When the S2 and Barghest enter Leda gives a look which is a mixture of fear and respect, maybe a bit of stockholm syndrome from his time in the brig. Either way he is taking another sip of his rum as he waits to see what will happen next and the the term detained is mentioned and Leda frowns, "Ugh, brig time." He says softly since he would rather not go back to that place let alone see anyone else go in there.

Back into Timon's arms go legal pad and pens before he looks longingly at the hatch. Then, perhaps considering it wise to try and exit when the door's not being guarded by Marines, he slides over to where Matto, Wil, and Poet are competing to see who can be the best wallflower. Judging from the forced nonchalance with which he settles down near the trio, he's up for adding his name to that list.

Thorn finally looks up at Legacy with a guilty expression on his face. There's a jerky — but silent — nod to the Captain, the blooded ECO clamming up. As Kai speaks to Salazar, he looks as though he badly wants to speak, but holds his tongue, simply exhaling and leaning back in his seat. At least, if Thea's viselike grip allows him to.

Martin goes quiet, breathing heavily against the wall as he decides that fighting an armbar is always a losing battle unless you're made out of rubber. Coughing as some blood that was trickling down his nose tries to get into his esophagus, he clears his throat. "I'm cool, Spider. I'm cool." He says, as if to let his CAG know that he's gonna go peacefully. Martin's moment of not giving a shit has come and passed, but he doesn't seem to fearful. Icewater running through his veins as always, he lets out a quiet breath and glances towards Matto, flattening his lips.

Yeah, so Salazar brought the offduty anger management problem and the uncomfortable coma victim. It's the Game Room. Besides, an on duty patrol in full blacks is probably going to arrive at any moment. Unless she waved them off. "Volker, Barghest. Please oblige the CAG, and take the Lieutenant off of his hands before he chips a nail." She moves forward to stand about five feet in front of Martin and the CAG, leaving room enough for the other two marines to flank him. She puts herself between him and the other pilot who has a Captain's hand on him. It isn't hard to figure out who was getting restless. "Sir, you are detained," she notes to Martin, in a tone that says do not resist. Or maybe it's more like a please resist. So hard to tell. "Accompany these two to the brig, try not to bleed on them. Thank you."

Twirl, twirl, twirl. It's soothing, despite the fact that there's no actual facial hair between his fingers. Kissy just keeps rubbing his fingers together. As he's already staring in that direction, he meets Marty's glance easily, his own gaze fairly well helpless, and otherwise neutral. He feels bad for Marty, sure, but— he doesn't approve of hitting.

No, not much to be said from Roubani's corner. Had they cracked something in the walls or a pipe while fighting, he'd have something to fix, but as it stands he's going to continue his current watchful silence. Watchful, it is.

There's no 'By your command' on this one, though Bar gives a simple, "Sir." on recieving the order and she moves to assume the escort position, "Lieutenant. This way, please." Polite, but firm. Resistance… is painful.

With his hands having tucked behind his back, Barnabas has to bring them back to his front when orders come through. Moving with Barghest to complete the flanking of Martin, he allows the smallest of nods towards Kai before there's an almost delicate "I really like this shirt. It's lucky."

If there's one thing Marek seems to have in Martin, it's trust, however tattered at the moment. When he says he's cool, the Captain studies his eyes for a few moments and then releases him slowly as he takes a step back. There's a glance, and a nod to the two advancing marines. He's got blood on his hands, his mood's ruined, and for all anyone knows, he did chip a nail during that little debacle. "Thank you," he murmurs gruffly to Salazar, and heads for the hatch. So much for enjoying his jello in peace— Thea appears to have inherited it.

Thorn simply watches from his seat as the two Marines flank Martin, preparing to escort him out of the room. He remains silent as the grave, obviously being careful not to push his luck any further. A slightly quivering hand removes the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, his lighter flicking open, setting the tip of the cancer stick aflame.

Released from the death grip, Martin winces as he slowly moves his shoulder and wrist to rest against his torso. It doesn't appear that anything's broken but for sure a muscle was pulled. Raising to his full height, Martin turns around to look at Kai. He simply nods respectfully before looking toward Salazar. "I understand." He replies, complying to the detainment. Arching his back to feel something pop, he doesn't spare Thorn one glance as he turns to follow the MPs in the direction that he's being led.

Wallflower fail. "So." Wil finally rises a bit, turning towards Timon with a probably uncomfortable icebreaker. "That ever happened to you?" The question is merely curious, noncommittal.

Well. Timon's eyes shift from Kai's departing back to the three marines to Thorn and back again to the CAG. Then, very softly, very deadpan: "Too often."

One of Roubani's dark brows lofts up. He's still looking at the hatch, so it could be at the goings on there. Or it could be at Timon, who he can hear.

Salazar watches Martin and Karim disengage from the 'know thy role' position against the wall, and her eyes sweep briefly to the CAG. She nods, then her attention goes back to the naughty, bloody pilot. She's only here in a supervisory role. Unless Martin tries to run, which, sadly, he doesn't appear to be doing. "After you," she notes to the marines and the pilot, nodding toward the hatch.

Matto continues to wallflower like a pro, surprisingly enough, given his usual outgoing nature. His finger stops rubbing against his thumb, now simply resting there poised over the tip of the false moustache, his other hand on his knee.

"It's always a trip when things defuse as quickly as they flare up." Wil notes, in what seems to be a nominal followup to Ivory's comment. He's got nothin', though.

Leda frowns, "I knew this was going to happen." He says with a sour look and this time he tips back his rum and takes a good long pull from it.

"I am not sure if anything has 'defused'," Roubani says under his breath, watching the Marines lead Martin out.

"Always a trip," Ivory agrees, rubbing at his forehead with his free hand. No wan smile from him tonight, at least not now, just a sigh. A long one. "Me neither."

Barghest nods and proceeds on the first steps of Martin's walk toward the brig. She tenses slightly as someone comments, figuring if there's a time for the pilot to rabbit and go back to work on the other stick, it's now. Her eyes hold to the pilot for the initial steps, wagering on taking her eyes off of him only long enough to step through the hatch, then turn to watch him come out.

Despite his urgings to hum the theme from 'the great escape' in an attempt to get Martin to run (Don't judge, Barney needs the exercise) Sergeant Volker is well aware that would be thematically inapproriate. So he doesn't. Instead, he's more than happy to lead the pilot Brigwards. Yes, he's following Barghest's lead. It's not like he's actually an MP. Or even returned to active duty. Like we said, he was totally shanghai'd.

Thorn simply goes slack in his seat as the marines lead Martin out. He takes a long drag from his fresh cigarette, a long column of smoke pluming from his nose. There's a perturbed glance over at the peanut gallery as they whisper amongst themselves, but Thorn's mouth remains locked up.

"Not completely but I don't think we'll be seeing -that- again. Outside of a ring." Wil ventures calmly enough as he glances over towards the hatch as Martin is escorted out.

Thea remains where she is as Martin gets escorted out for a night in the Hotel Kharon. And her hand stays on Thorn's shoulder. "When they're clear," she says in a very quiet voice. "You and I are going to have a nice sit down conversation, Komnenos." Uhoh. Thea's using his last name. No rank. No callsign. She looks to the others in the room and raises her voice slightly. "It looks like this evening's entertainment is over, ladies and gentlemen. Now might be a very good time to go back to what you were doing or, perhaps, hit the rack, given the lateness of the hour." She doesn't even joke about the show being over.

There's a soft, throaty sigh and a furrowed eyebrow from Komnenos as he takes another pull from the cigarette, but he simply offers Thea another quiet up-and-down jerk of the head.

Talking to Timon and Matto kind of was what Roubani was doing before this. He's not going near the hatch until it clears, so they'll just have to deal with him standing there for a few minutes more.

Matto was… painting moustaches on people. But that, somehow, has lost its appeal. He slips down off of the chair and goes to put away the bottle of black paint back in its crate, then he hefts the crate to tote it back towards its cabinet.

It was a nice conversation, too, even after the moustaches started flying. Timon doesn't quite know how to recapture the moment. "I hope we don't," he says to Wil, and then looks sideways at Poet. It might be safer to head out in a group.

Leda just sits there thinking about what will happen when Sam hears about this because this means more bad news. He then takes another sip of his rum and he simply sits there in silent contemplation.

Ok, coast is clear. "Put the cigarette out," Thea tells Thorn quietly. Uhoh, she just noticed the lit cig. Apparently it's about to be put out in Komnenos' ass if it's not out in about two seconds. "We're leaving." It doesn't look like he's going to get to keep what's left of the precious cigarette, either.

For the most part, Wil's back to a sort of nonchalant disinterest with only a concerned glance towards Thorn breaking it up. Upon noting the man's not a quivering sack of rent flesh, his lips pursed. Either he's just not surprised or he was somewhat desensitized to this display, even if he took no joy in it. Or he's just trying very hard to distance himself from the whole damn thing. It's anyone's guess, really. Another glance at the games bookcase. Nobody's going to frak up -his- fun.

There's a forlorn look from Thorn at the lit cancer stick, but he complies like a rabbit on the run from a fox. Someone's not taking any more chances. He stands stiffly, spine rigid and fists clenched at his side as he prepares to follow Thea wherever she leads.

Matto balances the crate on a lifted knee while he jimmies the cabinet open and leaves the door swinging outward as he hefts it back up to that top shelf, up on his toes.

"Good night, Captain," Ivory offers tentatively. "Thorn." And he has — absolutely no clue what to say next.

Leda closes the cap on his rum because maybe he has had enough for now however he will have to find a new hiding place for this since the lounge hiding spot may have been compromised. As Thea speaks to Thorn there is a moment where Leda turns to study the Captain because he has never heard her speak this way but then again the moment calls for this.

Roubani pushes off the back of the chair, scratching the back of his hair as he heads over towards the urns. The faucet's turned on and he wets his fingers, scrubbing off the last streaks of black paint before washing out his old mug. That gets filled with tea. The departure of the two at the hatch isn't watched, though he echoes Ivory's sentiment of a simple, even, "Good night."

Thea dips her head to Timon and the others present. "Good evening, gentlemen," she says quietly, starting for the hatch. But then she pauses and looks at everyone, including Thorn. She's clearly about to say something, but then thinks better of it and simply steps out.

There's a tight, drawn look on Wil's part as he adds a simple wave towards the departing group.

And now in the game room are just three-quarters of the geek squad, an erstwhile painter, and an Aquarian with his hooch. "Well," Timon says gamely. "I suppose someone should clean off the blood from the floor." Off for a few cleaning rags he is, pad and pens set down gently on the table. At this rate, he'll be done with chapter one in, oh, ten years.

"We'll get it, Ivory," Roubani tells the Lieutenant quietly. 'We' apparently being engineering. "Bodily fluids and everything, don't worry about it. The best thing to do is move everyone out of here and I'll call down."

Leda simply looks at everyone and when Roubani speaks he says, "Thank you Lieutenant." He then stands with rum bottle still in hand and he moves out so this place can get cleaned out.

With a slight sigh, Wil's shoulders ripple and roll back as he ambles to his feet and picks up his bag. "Off limits." He notes. "Gentlemen." With that, he's off. He has no bottle.

Timon's "Yeah" is more resigned than anything else. "Right," he begins, voice a little louder than he'd prefer. "Everybody out." The petty officer in the corner — who by now has returned his attention to his video game — makes some noise about 'needing to get to the next checkpoint' but stands reluctantly. Dutch's little marine contingent requires a little more herding, but that gets done too. "Kissy?" he asks, tone gentling. "I could use some help with my ‘D’s and ‘Q’s."

Roubani casts a glance over at Matto that lingers a second. Then with tea in hand he's off for the wireless. Shift's starting a bit early tonight.

Matto closes the cabinet again, and just stands there in front of it, staring at the metal doors. He then takes a deep breath, coming back to life, if only vaguely. "Whu — oh — " Kissy nods as Timon's words sink in. "Sure, can — is tomorrow okay? I think I'm going to bunk down for the night."

"Tomorrow's fine." And then the pair of Raptor drivers is out the door, leaving behind Poet to his unenviable task.

Meanwhile, Up at the Brig…

The train through the corridors eventually reaches the glorious brig, inside of which is the esteemed Pvt Dover dudded up in black duty gear with a borrowed MP brassard on his arm. No, he's not normally on MP duty, but everyone gets a taste these days, thanks to heightened security.

Stepping in at the center of the train, Martin keeps his features solemn. Per his service jacket this would be his first time in the brig, but he's visited enough people to know the general rundown. Following their steps towards his cell, keeps his eyes forward. With dark circles under his eyes and showing the obvious signs of fatigue, he could probably use some rest.

Barghest gives an indicative nod to the TemP, followed by a second toward one of the cells just to get him in gear before the SOs have to speak up. Her eyes turn back to the pilot, considering him and his compliance so far with some relief.

Barnabas, on the other hand, is considering the pilot and his compliance so far with some dissapointment. He got diverted from the range for THIS? Aww. Look at him. Poor Barney. All dissapointed. He's doing nothisJob pretty well, though. All things considered.

"We'll have a medic look in on you, Lieutenant," Salazar notes, before she tosses a travel packet of tissues into the brig cell so the man can mop himself up a bit. Blood on the sheets is bad for business. "Then you can get some rack time. Dover's a shitty conversationalist." She nods to the duty MP and gives him the finger waggle of no talking to the detained would-be pugilist. "Volker, the range is yours. Ammo is provided, range ammo only. You can sign a sidearm out of the locker with one of the marines in the Hub. Barghest, once he's locked down, see about an appointment with the priest, then catch one of those medical massages with Dr. Locke. Tell her your upper back's been sore. Works like a charm every time."

Looking to the tossed package of tissues with a blink of his eyes, Martin's surprise is hard to hide. Eyebrow lifting as he looks toward Salazar, the look on his face screams to her that he found that move rather doggish. Getting over it, he turns his head and heds into the cell. "Thanks, Ensign." He replies, crossing the threshold to place himself fully within the cell. Glancing himself over, he smirks at the blotchy red stains on his hands, shirt, and chest.

Barghest follows things along pretty well for the most part. The orders specificly turned her way, however, do give her a momentary dose of bewilderment. The moment is short lived, barely having time to register on her face before she nods, "Sir, yes, sir." Salute. She takes care of the typical proceedures for putting someone in the cell. When she steps out once more, she says, "I can get the medic, it's on my way."

"Yessir." Volker speaks up once he's sure Martin is in his new home for the near future, glancing from one to the other. "I'm going to require you or the CO to stand in on certification at some point." That sounded a little order-y. He only blanches a little, so it looks like someone got used to having a new, unknown S2 pretty damn quickly. "Unless, of course, you wish to delegate." Ahem. Cough. Reflex-salute, attempt to flee.

"Not a problem, Lieutenant." Salazar smiles slightly to the pilot, and then steps over to the duty desk, and makes a few notes in the ledger. She glances over, shoowing a dark gaze at the Sergeant. "When you're ready, and have passed your physical for reinstatement to fully duty, find me." It sounds almost like a threat, but that's just her tone of voice. And the eyes. And possibly the tattoos. "Thank you, Corporal. That would be appreciated." She re-unbuttons her jacket, going back into offduty mode. "Dover, the brig is yours."

Watching the three of them shuffle through orders, Martin leans down and grabs the pack of tissues. Opening them, he drops onto the cot and proceeds to clean the blood off of his hands. Why his hands first? Because he's smart. When he gets to cleaning his face he doesn't want his hands to bloody the tissues. It's around this time that it actually occurs to him that he just got himself brigged. "…great…"

The big blonde gives a nod and a salute before she turns to carry out her orders and see about some of those therapy sessions she's in need of. While beating it out is all well and good, it does tend to fray the available combat strength of the ship, and that's no good for anyone. And so, without further eloquence, Barghest steps on out to take care of things.

You'd be amazed at the speed a man who hasn't held a firearm in over three months can move when he's told 'Go! Go Boy! Run like the wind to the candy… gun store!' Long story short, Barnabas is pretty damn frakkin' quick. It'll probably be mere minutes before he's sending some rubber bullets towards their twirling, bouncy doom.

Out of the focus of many pairs of pilot eyes, and back home in Marine Country, the S2 preps to call it a night. Again. She turns for the hatch, headed that-a-way as the other off duty marines disperse. Martin, poor lad, is left to his own devices in the brig, alone, without even Dover's witty banter and gardening stories to keep him company. "Enjoy." That last one is for Martin. Salazar is such a jerk sometimes.

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