First Day
First Day
Summary: Seriy gets a bit of advice from a couple pilots on her first day. Kissy is on the run from the priest, and Jules marches to the shower.
Date: PHD110
Related Logs: Related Logs (Say None if there aren't any; don't leave blank)

THINK FAST! This could be awkward and the ginger-haired Libran pilot eyes the other woman with a quirk of his brow. Arching, higher, higher. Mouth opens. "Uh. I'll let you think that if you really -want-." He begins after a sort of resigned-sounding sigh. He stares back down at the notebook a moment. He doesn't seem to expect a salute here. Satisfied she's neither pissed-off nor a Marine, he steps back to his own end of the bulkhead to rearrange the binder's contents before snapping it shut and tucking it back under his arm. This done, he looks both ways to see if anyone caught his near-unfortunate accident.

Seriy stares at him Willam for several seconds, still looking surprised as loose sheets settle at her feet. Apparently she's not in trouble though, so slowly she starts to crouch down, her eyes on him to make sure she's not about to get rebuked. Her knees stay firmly together as her body lowers and her hand begins searching for the lost pages.

There's a soft clang from down the starboard hallway, and after a moment Komnenos arrives at the intersection. He pauses, looking at Seriy with a raised brow as the woman picks up several loose sheets of paper from the ground. There's a nod to Willem. "Hey, Rebound." His eyes flick back to the ensign. "You running over ensigns in the hallway, now?" he asks in a perfect deadpan.

Situation defused. Wil just stuffs the binder in his satchel with a lateral shift of his arms and his shoulders just shrug again, lopsided and nonplussed. He clears his throat again as he looks down at the Ensign's predicament and up at the OQ hatch. Like he's about to say something, in fact.

Komnenos beats him to it as he snaps to a straighter posture. "Oh. Hey R…" There's a cough. "Thorn. Apparently I found something -else- I'm good at besides data corruption. How was CAP?" He gives Seriy another sidelong glance and sighs, bending to reach for the nearest discarded paper with a rueful half-smirk. "Sorry, Ensign. A tip? Get one of these." He taps the binder in his satchel as he explains, "I lifted about four of them from the Chief a few months ago after I slipped her a bottle of rotgut. She didn't kill me over it so I guess there's enough of a surplus to go around up there."

Seriy starts to stand back up again at the new arrival, then stops, holding in a half crouch until she realizes she's still alright. "Yes, sir?" she replies softly, her cheeks growing warm as she quickly crouches back down to try and grab the loose papers before he does. Anyone looking would see lists of comm frequencies, wiring diagrams, and other light reading.

Apparently it's been too long since Thorn last abused his lungs, as he takes out a cigarette and lights it. He looks curiously at some of the spilled papers, but lets Seriy continue to hastily gather them up. "Boring, as usual," he replies to Willem. "Course, that's probably a good thing." His eyebrow crinkles slightly. "At least you left her something for them." The binders, he means. "I just lifted a couple here and there when she wasn't looking." Anton shrugs. "What Fenix doesn't know can't hurt her — or me."

Wil's glance at the paper is cursory but cataloguing as he simply holds it aloft back towards the Ensign, accompanying a polite, sort of abashed nod. "Uhh. Relax. I don't abuse CIC. Or Engineering." He tosses this out as an educated guess, given the source material. "It's not healthy at any rate. Sooner or later everything filters back up to Lt. Praxis. -That- guy already has my number." A little waggle of his brows as he turns from her to Thorn, clicking his tongue and the man gets a very clear, conspiratorial nod, and the faintest of winks. "Chief and I had an ongoing exchange of liquor for a while. She drank half my intial stash but it cut down the tongue-lashings to just the occasional dirty look. We're mostly civil. Any case, I didn't hear you say anything about that."

Seriy looks up shyly as she gathers the last of her pages, following the glance by standing back of from her crouch, absently sorting the pages back into a neat stack, a soft smile lifting her lips. Then she hits the smoke coming from Komnenos and coughs before she can stop herself, covering her mouth daintily with her hand. In looking across at him her eyes scan his flight suit, and she pauses in her coughing with a curious tilt of her head, her gaze locked on his breast.

Thorn smiles slightly at Willem's expression. "Say anything about what?" he asks innocently. He looks back at Seriy as the ensign coughs, his eyebrow raising again as he catches her look. Komnenos says mildly, "They're wings, Ensign… Ensign…" He frowns slightly as he flounders. "Sorry, I don't know your name. You must not play Triad." His lips twitch slightly, as though there's a punchline in his words somewhere.

Paper handed, Wil seems to wait for a response from the quiet Ensign judging by the prompting glance, head tilting curiously. This done, he stands straight once more. Just for a split-second, his lightly-freckled hand rises. He has a different reaction to the smoke, and yes, this time he's actually reacting to it. Grey eyes flicker from his hand to the cigarette in Thorn's mouth and for just a -second- there's a covetous flash. Then he rights himself, and stops short of actually -saying- something. No more smokes for Mr. Quitter. Then back to the conversation, and he chimes in a bit awkardly himself. "Some of us -shouldn't- play Triad." He tosses as an aside. He looks down a moment as this comment is delivered, both self-directed and wry.

Seriy's eyes shift up from Komnenos's chest with a bit of confusion in them. "Huh?" she asks intelligently before shaking her head and clearing it. "No, sorry… pages… here…" she explains. Her blush returning she takes a small breath. "Thorn. Komnenos, Anton. Lieutant JG. Raptor division. ECO," she quotes as she turns around the top page, a list of flight staff and callsigns. Without looking at it she looks back at the name on Willem's uniform, her sight going inward at the back of her own head for a moment before she offers up "Price, Willem, Lieutenant JG. Callsign… Rebound? Viper division." She looks up at him, waiting to see if she got it correct.

"She's got a file on me," Thorn notes drolly to Willem as he watches Seriy thumb through her list. "I don't know if I should be worried or turned on." He chuckles sharply at his own display of sarcastic wit, or at least what passes for it. "Yeah, that's me," he offers Seriy, a jaunty lilt in his accented voice. "Still doesn't tell me who you are, though," he reminds her, not unkindly. "You CIC or something? I don't get up there, much," he explains. "I would recognize you, were you one of those ensigns whose Triad games I regularly crash." He smiles mischieviously at that.

First, Rebound replies to Thorn with a shift of his eyes and a simple blink. "Our every word -is- watched and logged, Thorn. Maybe we're doomed. CIC -does- see all, after all." He punctuates his statement with a simple, if slightly tentative laugh.

With a slight glance down at his own uniform, Wil's mouth pops open as he utters wordlessly, "Yeah. Got it in one, Ensign. We sit in high-velocity pressurized cans in the vacuum of space, pushing buttons. I push buttons and actively break shit. He" a languid thumbwave to Thorn, "He does all the passive breaking. Same result, though. The glittering, strewn guts of dead Cylons laid out amongst the stars. And then the merrymaking." The right side of his mouth erupts in a sudden, wry half-grin and he reaches upwards to smooth out his hair and re-adjust the chewed pen sitting up his hair. Seems someone's an amateur poet. Maybe not a very good one, in this instance.

Seriy gives a soft, very girly giggle, her hand again rising up to cover over her mouth, at least until the Cylons are mentioned, and then she visibly pales a bit, recovering quickly. "I'm sorry, I've been memorizing names and callsigns," she explains. "I've been assigned to communications in the CIC, and am trying ever so hard to get 'up to speed'. Ensign McKale," she offers the pair, clutching the stack of papers to her chest now.

"No wonder my ex used t' tell me I was a passive-aggressive bastard." Thorn replies drolly to Wil's comment about passive breaking. Uh oh, he's on a roll now. He nods as the evidently frazzled ensign introduces herself. "Well, Ensign McKale," he says finally, "I'd suggest you try t' slow it down a little. Wouldn't want you t' get burned out — or run over —" a conspiratorial wink over at Willem — "on your first day." He doesn't actually know if it's literally her first day, but the colloquialism seems to fit. Komnenos shrugs. "But hey, whatever makes you comfortable."

In contrast, the Viper pilot's mention of the hated enemy is delivered with a casual air, although the line in which it was couched sounded a bit, well, pompous. A slight flicker of an eyebrow at the Ensign's reaction, maybe, but there's no verbal acknowledgement of it. He just clears his throat again, a bit less awkwardly than the last attempts at doing so were. "CIC. Ahhh. -Dangerous- bunch." It's obviously meant as a joke, but no hint of malice in tone or expression. "Got it, McKale." He snaps his fingers. Wil then continues, "Well, If you're trying to keep track of comm chatter, just remember that Dash is the one usually telling the jokes. I'm the one they're usually about." Turning his head to behold Thorn, he smirks again. "Think it was my fault, actually. The running-over part." The smirk manages to remain here. "Got some more of those notes I forgot to give you last time." And with that, he starts rustling in his satchel and pulls out a somewhat neatly-folded paper and hands it to the ECO. "I forgot there was a hole in my data."

Seriy nods her head, seeming to take both sets of advice to heart, her gaze growing distant for a moment as she commits them to memory. "I… well… start today," she admits nervously. "I don't suppose either of you sirs has any advice you could impart?" she asks hopefully, an honest earnestness in her eyes that's almost a little painful.

"I usually keep my mouth shut on channel. Probably for a reason." There's a slight smirk at Willem as Anton says that, then he turns back to Seriy. "No one's expecting you t' pull rabbits out of your hat the first day. Just do what you're told t' do for now. When you get into the routine, then try taking on extra." Normally Thorn isn't much of a mentor type, but the young woman's expression seems to evoke a bit of sympathy, and his Aerelon-accented voice is a little gentler than usual. "We're all living one day at a time. Take it easy." He reaches over and accepts the folded paper from Willem. "Oh, what'd you forget?" Like any good techno-nerd confronted with a new bit of information, he eagerly unfolds and begins to look over the sheet.

"Suppose the key word here would be -useful-." Wil tosses out lazily, on the subject of advice. He considers this tidbit aloud as the cockeyed grin settles firmly on his lips, cupping his hand to his chin and scratching at it in an idle manner. "Never play cards with a Tauron girl who has a father with a penchant for leather fedoras, full-sleeve-tattoos and a collection of antique non-military-standard firearms." There's a bit of eye-narrowing there and a shake of his head. "Nah. No worries there. Avoid the Cornbread on Tuesdays in the Mess Hall if you haven't learned that -already-. It's only good for still fuel." That's -semi-helpful-. "Before you worry about stepping on someone else's toes, try to situationally memorize -who- they are and what gets their noses out of joint. And like he said-" he gestures to Thorn. "Just do your job like you've been doing. I don't know about the exact command structure up there, but Praxis is generally rather fair. Also - " Now here comes the -really- useful piece. "Libran pilots tend to be blowhards. So listen to Thorn, here." His brows waggle one more time as he finally moves to explain. "Oh. Those were actually updated specs on the Heavy Raiders. From what we've gathered. Haven't seen much of those ugly black pigs so there's a little more guesswork involved. You have anything on them?"

There was a little self-pointing on Willem's part as he mentioned 'Libran' pilots, at any rate.

Seriy nods her head, giving Anton a grateful smile. Willam, however… gets the better part of a lot of blank stare. At least it's pretty blank stare. "Ummm, yes… no cornbread," she repeats, blinking several times. "Thank you, sirs. Ummm… yes, quite. I suppose I should be getting to the CIC, I shan't wish to be late to report for duty…"

Thorn frowns thoughtfully as he studies Willem's specs. "Probably not anything more than what you have here. Won't be as much guesswork as with th' Baseships, but you're right, we haven't seen enough of them t' get a conclusive profile. I'll put it in with th' rest of my info." He nods to Seriy. "Well, if you're late… blame him." He points a thumb at the Viper pilot with an amused smirk, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"Yeah. Blame me." Rebound echoes Thorn. " Make sure you say it -loud- once you're up there. Give Lieutenant Tanner -another- reason to punch me." Wil chimes in first on the ECO's statement with deadpan precision and finishes the statement with a tentative chuckle. Eyeing with some degree of confusion, though, Wil simply shrugs his shoulders once and the satchel slides slightly down his arm. "Enjoy your shift."

With a sidelong glance to Thorn, he murmurs, "I'm making assumptions that they are armed and fairly dangerous, and not just in the 'troop carrying' way." He clicks his tongue and waits a bit longer, adding, "Cornbread. Nobody likes the cornbread. Do they?"

Seriy smiles softly at both men as they get lost into their technical conversation, heading past them with her papers still clutched against her chest. Her smile deepens as she hears the comment about cornbread behind her, but the soft giggle doesn't escape until after she has turned the corner to take the steps down a deck.

Thorn shrugs. "As I said, we don't have much on them. If I remember the records correctly, we've only seen them in the troop carrying role — but for all we know they could be as multi-faceted as our Raptors." The ECO looks back down at the paper. "Like I said last time, better t' overestimate their capabilities than the other way around." There's a pause and a hovering ring of smoke as Thorn puffs away at his cigarette, followed by a sidelong glance over at the Viper pilot. "Well, I tend t' stay away from it, if that says anything," he replies with a smirk. "Then again, never much cared for it even before I came across the military issue stuff."

There's a faint shrug on Wil's part as the Ensign departs but he acknowledges her with one last comment some moments after she's gone. "You too, eh? Well. Maybe she didn't like the cornbread either." Smoothly clearing his throat, he turns back towards the ECO and his attention is now firmly focused on talking shop as he rustles idly in his satchel. "One thing you can say about whoever designed these fraksticks. They weren't stupid. You can -count- on multipurpose design. There seems to be -some- kind of aesthetic and systemic hand in the orchestration of all these upgrades. Better technology too. FTL-equipped Raiders? I mean, -come on-. If our Vipers had that kind of mobility it would be a completely different game board." Still talking shop, still serious, but oh, what is this? Willem produces what he was digging for. A shiny chrome flask with an inscription bearing, one word in Thracian. 'Ataraxia.' He points to it. "You mentioned the 'hard stuff,' hmm?"

Komnenos nods in agreement. "No arguments there. From what I've seen, I think our targeting systems are better than theirs, and our ECM is just as good, but everything else…" He trails off. Willem's flask comes out, and Thorn quirks an eyebrow in response. A hand reaches out to accept it. "I did, thanks." He knocks back a slug, grimacing appreciatively and pausing for a moment as the potent stuff burns into his gullet. "Got a kick t' it, that," Thorn replies, his voice slightly raspy. "Thanks," he repeats himself.

"Agreed and agreed. Considering raw -numbers- we've survived. Which is a considerable feat, all the same." Wil shrugs dismissively as he lets Thorn take the hit off the flask he handed off to him. "I figured I owed you a gulp at least." He stands in the hallway, leaning against the bulkhead, again talking shop with Thorn. "Still, uh…About that. I wonder if we couldn't run ECM tests on the sims too. That's more -your- thing, but still."

Thorn nods. "No matter the advantages their hardware gives them, I don't think those robot brains of theirs can match a trained Viper pilot behind the stick. Otherwise we'd not've survived so long against these odds." Willem gets a measured look at the mention of ECM. "I was already planning t' do that." He smiles crookedly. "Got t' give my fellow Raptorbunnies something t' do in there too, after all."

"Toooeees!" Yeah, it's Kissy, and Kissy's seeming more or less o.k. with life tonight. "What, what are we doing?" he wonders, having wandered in on mention of something Raptorbunnies are supposed to be doing. "Hey, dude," he addresses the paranoiac.

"It's likely a combination of experience and luck." Wil says. If that was meant as a compliment, this was meant as an abashed rebuttal. He brushes back his hair and almost knocks the chewed pen off his ear. With a bit of a frown he snatches it away and tosses it in his satchel. "Don't blame me if I don't have the slightest bit of understanding when it comes to the 'luck' part." He lets out a bit of a cough and jams his free hand in the pocket of his duty greens. "Oh. Sim-based ECM tweaking." Wil delivers towards the oncoming skeptic. "Evening, Bear."

"Luck… perhaps. But I've not seen a program that can match a human pilot in the cockpit. Even a Raider, as smart as it may be, is still little more than a heuristic program mated with a fancy autopilot." It didn't seem to be a complement so much as a matter-of-fact statement. "Hells, we couldn't even create a functioning AI until we developed the Cylons t' begin with, and even then they used Centurions t' pilot their first generation Raiders." He shrugs, puffing away as he notices the newcomer. "Hey, Kiss, how goes?"

Matto doesn't mind being lost stepping into the middele of the conversation without any clue of what's being discussed. "Not too bad. Crazy Bo Peep seems to have stopped nipping at my heels, which is a plus," he cocks a grin in Willem's direction, "Sorry I bitched out and everything, darling, it was just not an optimal evening by a long shot."

Wil flashes a cheeky grin to Thorn initially. "I tend to agree with your assessment. In practice. -Practice-." He repeats as he comments further, "They didn't just start doing things like developing Raiders that sport FTL's and cut-down-cockpits out of pure chance. Which is what worries me." There's a bit of a sour note that takes hold when he processes the term 'AI' and starts to consider the ramifications of this when he just stops. Catches himself. And right then, he shelves the topic to address Matto. "Eh. It happens. Probably what happens when you create a professional class of people who think they can talk to the Gods. If the Gods are talking to anyone, you can be -damn- don't want an interpreter who thinks they have an answer. Who thinks he or she can make sense out of a bullshit situation."

Thorn leans back as the conversation shifts. He listens to Wil and Kissy, blowing a couple smoke rings as they talk. Something Kissy says, though, causes his brow to crinkle in confusion. "Crazy Bo…" He trails off, shaking his head. "Have I missed something?" He can sort of gather who they're talking about, though, as Wil answers. Thorn purses his lips; there's a sharp glint in his eye at the mention of priests, but he says nothing.

Matto shakes his head at Thorn, lifting a hand to wave off the thing, "I just tripped over the new priest we picked up on Scorpia," he sounds mildly tired thinking about the conflict there. "Or the other way around." As to Willem's two cents on the notion, he doesn't seem to have much to say, though he doesn't seem to disagree on any given point. "She apologized, at least. Get past the hysteria and she's actually pretty okay."

"Yeah. Fair enough I suppose." Wil says, with a bit of a wrinkle of his nose as suddenly he starts to rub at a speck of something on his uniform sleeve. It's really quite small, whatever it is. "I went to a religious school and got an earful of those types. -Some- of them were all right once they stepped back and focused on things like philosophy, ethics, education instead of the 'doom and gloom' and 'punishment meted out by the gods' shit." Suddenly he jerks his head back up and finishes putting a little more than his own two cents in the proverbial jar, quite simply finishing, "Even if humanity brings it upon themselves, I don't know if anyone actually -deserves- it." Suddenly he just flushes faintly and lets the matter drop.

"Feh. Priests." Thorn manages to cram a lot of disdain into that single word. "Mind you, I've never spoken t' the girl… but something about her just… gets my hackles up." He shakes his head. "Nobody deserves getting force-fed that… prattle." He bites himself off forcefully, as though he wants to say something stronger, but doesn't. A surprising bit of restraint from the ECO, but even he has limits.

Matto gives Toes an appreciative look, even if he wasn't there for the original encounter, and knows nothing of the matter itself, for seeming to take his side in it, anyhow. It brings a smile to his face, "Thanks, dude," he restrains himself to saying, though. "So, if raiders aren't as smart as we thought, we should be able to outplay them, right?"

"Maybe nobody des —" Wil initially comments as he managed to both wind himself up and deflate himself in quick succession. His jaw snaps shut and he looks between the two Black Squadron crew now a bit abashedly, clearing his throat and just ripping the train off the tracks before it goes a place where it just doesn't need to go. "Yeah. So, well, it's less of a matter of pinpointing the Raiders' exact cognitive abilities and more to just hammer some hard practice into our crew. All of us, Raptor, Viper. The sims need to be polished and the goal is to for these systems to adequately supplement the raw hours we clock out there. So if the scenarios are even tougher than reality, that's a good start." His lips curl upwards in a smile that manages to be tight-lipped but warm. "Makes you feel better too."

Anton shoots a look in Willem's direction, vaguely grateful for the change of subject. He nods to the red-haired man. "Basically, yes, although I would prefer t' strive t' be as accurate as possible. Unrealistic sims, whether too hard or too easy, don't do pilots much good." A look over at Matto. "Well, we've killed more of them thus far than they of us. That would seem t' suggest so."

"You're right. You beat a video game by learning the exact timing you need to beat the given obstacles. We just have to hope the Cylons don't… learn. very quickly," Kisseus puts some dubious wavering on the word. No idea if that can even happen, after all. When Toes gives the data for his hypothesis, "How do you figure?" he wonders.

"Randomization. No, I didn't mean 'unwinnable. I'd just afraid we'll tweak the program enough that some people will develop stress issues and twitches at even the very -thought- of climbing into a Sim console," Rebound considers aloud, with a cup of his hand to his chin. "By the way. Thorn, that flaskfull is yours. Just get me the container back at some point. It was a gift." He flashes the ECO a distracted grin as he goes back to his previous line of thought. "I think it's humanity's very potential for the unexpected that can beat a machine. Like you're saying, Bear." The ginger-haired Viper pilot paces a little. Just a couple of steps, and. "They can't beat -us- if they can't anticipate our timing."

"It's not exactly a scientific hypothesis, understand," Thorn answers Matto, a bit of caution creeping into his tongue. "But it stands t' reason that if they were as capable as us one a one-t'-one basis, they would've attritted us into oblivion by now. I think we all've agreed now that we've got a capacity for the unexpected that they can't match. Programming is inherently reactive; even the most advanced program can only react t' stimuli, t' preexisting conditions." There's a grin and a gracious nod to Willem at the mention of the gift. "Much appreciated, Rebound."

"I think the Cylons did a pretty good job at that whole 'unexpected' thing," Kisseus points out, "And 'attritted into oblivion' is a pretty good descriptor for the human race as a whole."

"It's not a thing. Said there was beer in it for you. I just upgraded." A single, simple laugh. "And war's not merely a matter of simple arrayed forces and 'too many guns on one side,' thankfully." Wil begins. He does decline to comment on the programming issue. That's an area of Thorn's expertise. "There are a slew of factors. Mobility. Terrain. Space." Wil says, clicking his tongue again and continuing on this line of thought a little while longer. "Somehow, Bear, we gave them that one. Don't know how, don't know why, but it wasn't like the fleet was -lacking- in resources, however they did it." He attempts to say something else but ends up just looking down at the cool metal of the deck.

"Just because we don't know the particular stimulus that prompted their attack doesn't mean there wasn't one," Komnenos returns. "And the attack on the Colonies was a single coordinated blow… hardly attrition. They don't seem t' be doing that good of a job on the followthrough, otherwise you and I wouldn't be here t' debate it." He shrugs as Wil speaks, deferring to the pilot's area of knowledge just as Wil does to his.

"Maybe we're just not worth their energy,” Matto says. “They're up to -something- back on Scorpia, what, I dunno, building their own civilization? No idea. But maybe there just aren't enough of us left for them to bother unless we go after the tyllium or poke around the colonies again."

"What do they -want- with whatever they've occupied, though? It may be a mop-up in their eyes but I'd imagine a greater concentration of forces, and Gods know what else." Wil interjects. "But I'm inclined to agree with Thorn here. No offense, but we're floating around. Maybe there are other survivors here and there." He sounds, well, faintly tired. He's probably gone over these scenarios a dozen times over in his mind. "We don't know -what- else they are up to on the other Colonies either. Maybe it's the same thing." This considered, he just claps his fingers to his forehead again and slides his palm aside. "Ugh. I should go drop this stuff off before I give myself a headache."

Thorn shrugs. "I don't have a clue, either. And we don't know enough t' make an educated guess about it. We can only draw conclusions based on what we know… which isn't much." He watches Wil as the tall pilot rubs his forehead. "Take it easy, Rebound."

"Hm, yeah, the speculation is getting a little thick in here," Kisseus agrees, his own head starting to ache a little bit. "Times like this I wish we could open a window. Anyhow. Are you going off to the sim, Toes?"

"It's one of the five things I do too much of." Wil says, dismissively, in a rough tone of voice. "Speculation, that is. It apparently drives some people up the wall." A cough. "Speculation, that is." Five. That was a very specific number. "'Scuse me. I'll probably have another insight later. Enjoy the hooch. And the sims, you two." With that, he lopes on up the corridor, back to Stick-land.

Hair bobbing in a ponytail, Jules tromps down the corridor wearing nothing but some flipflops and a neon blue towel wrapped around her. In one hand is what looks like a scrub brush, she's got it over one shoulder like it's a rifle and carries it thusly with Marine Precision. As she nears the officer types, she draws herself up and says, "Sirs."
<Public> Faraday has disconnected.

"I'll likely be headed that way in a while. Need some time t' recover from CAP, though," Thorn says to Kissy, running a hand through helmet-flattened hair. He's leaning against a wall by the stairs, smoking a cigarette as he speaks. The ECO does a double take at the sight of the towel-clad Marine woman. His eyes widen ever so slightly, but he recovers gracefully, offering Jules a smile and a nod. "Hey, Sunshine."

"Want to go down to the lounge and play some cards, or go to the library for a film?" Kisseus wonders, shifting back and to the side to lean on a forearm up against the wall in a more conversational posture as the conversation turns away from the dire. "Dude," he greets Jules after his usual less than military fashion.

"Dude-sir," is Jules' response for Kissy. She brandishes her scrub brush as she would a rifle, swinging it to hold it in front of her vertically, before moving it to the other shoulder and clicking her heel on the deck. Only after this is done does a smile cross her lips. It's turned from Kisseus to Thorn. "Hiya. Do you know which head actually has hot water this week? I need a mental health warm shower."

"I don't know what they're inflicting on you with the Marine head," replies Thorn with a crooked smile, "but the main head generally has hot water." He can't help but hide a snort of laughter as Jules treats her brush the same way a recruit handles his rifle in drill. There's a long look over at Kissy. "Yeah, I suppose I could be persuaded t' thrash you at a few hands of Triad," he answers the other Raptor pilot.

Matto looks… briefly as though he actually expects Jules to shoot him with the thing, shifting his weight to the foot which had been trailing its boottoe along the floor behind him, both hands raising slightly in an instinctive move of surrender. "Main head's always good for a nice scalding, yup," Kissy goes on after the threat's passed. "Awesome thing about living in the belly of a big machine which functions mostly on the power culled from controlled explosions is that there isn't -typically- much wanting for 'hot,'" he adds with a chuckle. To Toes, then, a grin, "Slick, guy."

"Hmmm. I guess it could be the other Marines playing a practical joke on me. They do love their practical jokes." Jules sighs the same sort of sigh that an overworked and overtaxed motherfigure might at the antics of her children. She raises her brush again, this time giving each man a neat salute before tromping onwards, "Thank you, sirs! And have a good night!"

"Well, I've never been on th' receiving end of a Marine practical joke, but I'll take your word for it," Komnenos answers the Marine with a quirky smile. He watches Jules as she marches off. "G'night, Sunshine."

"Have good showertime, dude," Kissy calls, then leans close to nudge Thornytoes, "Don't give her any ideas, yo," he tells him in a low voice, playful.

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