Misotheists in Foxholes
Misotheists in Foxholes
Summary: Ariadne and Matto talk. A bit. With a spectacular lack of progress.
Date: PHD107 (August 03, 2009)
Related Logs: Contagion & A Mess in the Mess

Simulators - Hangar Deck
IC Time: Post Holocaust Day #107
OOC Time: Mon Aug 03 17:04:50 2009

The perimeter and walls of the room are lined with posters, white boards, viewing screens, file cabinets and lockers, which leave very little of the battleship grey bulkheads visible. A trio of small tables and chairs are set up by the hatch, allowing a space for crew to relax or study while awaiting sim time. Triad cards, some dishes, and a small coffee maker are lined up along the counter behind the tables. The paint along the steel floor is scuffed and worn in places, a testament to the volume of foot traffic the sims experience.

The dominant feature of the room is a set of four viper cockpits, complete with outside skin and canopy, which have been bolted in place. Retractable curtains separate the pods, two of which are modeled after grey Mark VIIs, and the remaining two after white Mark IIs. A trio of liquid crystal screens are positioned in an arc around each pod, providing a one hundred and twenty degree view of the sim world to each pilot. Behind the simulator setup is a control station with a view of each of the sets of screens.

"Pesh… unt… that's not right," Kisseus Matto mutters to himself, engrossed, one knee in the seat of the Raptor sim, then he ducks out and he runs up the two steps to the sim controls, and he flops into the seat as he looks over the new settings he'd put it, shaking his head and restoring them to the original values, then changing another set. He hops down again and hustles to the machine.

Ariadne ghosts in, the severe black of her cassock contrasting sharply with the pale pensiveness of her face. She hesitates near the threshold, thoroughly uncertain. Takes a breath. Steps inside.

Softly, she approaches the machines, hands clasped tightly before her; she clears her throat a bit, as though making sure she'll have a voice when she speaks. "Mr. Matto."

Matto is half-crawled into the machine, a leg and part of his hunched back visible as he inputs some commands into the sim. He looks back once, then again, taken somewhat aback. "Do you have an appointment to use the simulators?" he asks her. Not entirely hostile sounding, but definitely less than inviting.

The priestess blinks, looking astonished at the question. "No," she replies, actually laughing a little. "I'm sorry." Her startled mirth dies a melancholy death. "No," she repeats, softly. "I didn't come here for…" She sighs and brushes a curl out of her eyes. "Mr. Matto. I need to apologize to you." She pauses, then shakes her head. "Actually, apologize is an entirely insufficient word. Beg your forgiveness, I think, would be more appropriate."

Matto ducks his head back into the simulator and checks on how the thing's running, then turns off the program and shuffles backward out onto his feet, turning and plodding up to the control panels again, sitting down. "Okay," he replies, taking a deep breath. "Decide accosting strangers in the mess isn't the best way to find yourself feeling at home?"

Ariadne shakes her head. "I came because I'm truly sorry, Mr. Matto. Not over some vain concern to maintain a good reputation." Her hands remain folded before her — gripped tight. White knuckled. "I've been…" she sighs, looking up at the ceiling for a moment as though searching for words. "I've been looking for you. And I was startled. Shaken. Just then. So…" She looks down. "There's really no excuse for being so insensitive. I don't know what else to say."

Matto glances up, skeptical, as Ariadne claims to have been looking for him, one eye narrowing faintly. "Fair enough," he grants her, by way of accepting the apology, "But I don't subscribe to your religion, and I'm not looking to take out a subscription now, thanks."

"I'm not asking that you subscribe to my religion. Or anyone's," Ariadne replies, softly. "Whatever you believe, Mr. Matto, the fact is your… spiritual state… is endangering this ship. And the people on it. People I'm sure you care about." She looks rather helpless; her hands spread in a supplicating gesture. "If you'll only submit to a rite of purification… it doesn't require your belief, only your cooperation."

And there the bear's hackles go, rising again in the wake of the accusation and request, "You know what's endangering this ship, dude? Cylons, is what," he tosses out there in his Leontinian-tinged voice. "Go bless them, why not?" He shuts down the program he was working in and stands, crossing the platform and jumping down both stairs at once, heading out.

She follows. What else /can/ she do? "Mr. Matto! Stop. Please." She's pleading, but not shouting. The priestess is, apparently, attempting to tread a delicate line between appealing to Kissy's reason and recreating the mess hall incident. "I know you wouldn't put anyone in danger on purpose. But I promise you… gods, Mr. Matto, how do you think I found you? I can /feel/ you wherever you are! You care about these people, this ship — I /know/ you do. What wouldn't you do to make them safe?"

Matto's cheeks flush faintly as he nears the door, determined to leave, but pausing there no less, head dipping down as he tries to take a few deep breaths. "I haven't -done- anything wrong," he says, pronouncing each word firmly with some steel there in his voice, almost verging on that most dangrous of angers, that of the misotheist. The one who wages wars in vain against the immortals, and holds grudges where he shouldn't. Decidedly more dangerous than an atheist, who through their sheer apathy are seriously unlikely to offend.

"There is one thing I'm sure you know about the universe, Kisseus Matto," Ariadne murmurs, coming as close as the dares. "It isn't fair. Billions of souls far more blameless than we are dead. This life is a dubious gift — sublime, beautiful, and savagely unjust." She draws a quiet breath. "Whatever you've done or not done isn't the question. The only important thing is the reality of now. Fair or unfair, you are presently a danger to people you care for. Let me help you. And help them…" Another pause. "Please."

Matto leans down slowly, one hand moving to his thigh to steady himself as he fumbles in a low pocket with his other hand. "Who sent you?" he asks her simply, then, standing, he shakes his inhaler energetically before uncapping the mouthpiece, taking a deep breath with a hiss hidden in the middle of it, holding it a long while, then exhaling, "No. Nevermind, I don't really want to know. I can't do this, okay? Some of us aren't ready to kiss and make up, yet." He caps the thing, and, feeling moderately more able to process air, "I'm going home. Please don't show up there?"

Matto also makes his retreat before waiting on an answer.


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