No Opinion
No Opinion
Summary: Timon and Salazar discuss Damon's fate. Necrophilia may or may not be referenced; Timon's not sure.
Date: PHD114
Related Logs: None


The S2 is the only marine currently occupying the Sec Hub. All other seem to have been deployed to other duty stations or are simply elsewhere at the present time, though there are a few back in the Range doing target practice. The soundproofing muffles that. A large stack of folders is set off to the side on Salazar's desk, and she's making longhand notes in an open one on the blotter. A mostly empty cup of coffee is set off to the side. She looks fairly relaxed, sitting back in her chair as she is.

Not that Timon Stathis gets jittery around crowds or anything, but it's with a noticeably relieved expression that the pilot threads past the hatch to CMC Central to find only one jarhead immediately evident. Which must be the one he wants, or at least that's what he'll assume, and it's with quick steps that he makes his way over to her desk, his ill-fitting sweats hanging loosely from his frame. Someone's lost weight. "Ensign?"

Salazar glances up from her notes only after she's finished the thought she was writing. Her hand is a neat printing, very distinctive. "Have a seat." She drops the pen, and slides her hand closer to her body, fingers clasping against her belly. Her eyes slide over the pilot's form, and then return to his face. "Is there something I can do for you, Ivory?"

"Just forwarding a report in person, now that I'm ambulatory again." The man slips into the chair opposite Kharon's newest S2. From one of the many pockets of his uniform he withdraws a small statement written on a single piece of lined legal paper bearing the watermark of the Colonial Fleet's JAG Corps. At whose office, presumably, Timon found this scrap, which he's covered with his untidy, minute scrawl. "Not much there: you probably remember me from Scorpia as the Grievously Wounded Pilot."

"I was a little out of it myself," Salazar replies. When Captain Legacy's team found Karim and Salazar, both were in rough shape, though the S2 was very near death. She made it 2 miles back toward the bunker before she dropped. "You look like you've lost a bit of weight. How are you feeling?" She reaches over to take the piece of paper, her eyes scanning over the writing.

"Crash-landing on an irradiated planet is the galaxy's best diet plan, and that's my story." Getting shot probably didn't help, though that part he doesn't mention. "Plus, doctors told me to hit the gym as part of my rehab. Amazing how quickly one gets addicted to the endorphins." Timon's brown eyes look over the ensign with some degree of curiosity, though he doesn't react visibly to her piercings and tattoos. As far as what the ensign's looking at, the lieutenant's statement can basically be summed up with ‘Was unconscious; no opinion either way,’ followed by two paragraphs outlining his philosophical opposition to the death penalty.

Salazar nods, "Endorphins." She says this gravely, as if agreeing to some sort of hard drug habit. There's the tease of a smile in he voice, but it doesn't quite make it to her lips. She folds the paper and tucks it into one of the folders on her desk. "Thank you for your conscientious objections."

"Yeah." Half-sigh, acknowledgment from Timon, who stands after but a few seconds sitting. He's smiling, too, though the expression is more resigned than anything else. "And thank you for reading. I realize this is the military, but — well. We're humans first, right?" It's a plea, of sorts, albeit a mild one. He's not going to push the issue. "Need anything else from me?"

"You can set your mind at ease, Ivory," Salazar tips forward a little in her chair. "Given my experience with Cavalera, and several written assessments of character from other officers and corpsmen, it is my opinion we can find a way to deal with him without putting him up against a bulkhead." She nods to the pilot. "Don't pass it around, this is unofficial. Besides, there are a few hoops he needs to hop through before further processing."

"Hm." The pilot blinks once, then twice; the middle and index fingers of his left hand, crossed behind him, relax — not, hopefully, that Salazar can see it. "That's good to hear," he says at length. "Though, for future reference, some might say the airlock is more humane than the firing squad — but that's a talk for another day, and one I don't know if you'd have any inclination of participating in." A hint of humor enters Timon's tone, though the jury's still out as to whether he's ever not at least half-serious when he talks. "Good day, Ensign. And good luck with the hoops."

Salazar's expression doesn't even twitch when she says, "Airlock is a waste of a fine body, son."

Timon chuckles, turning back for a brief moment before he reaches the door. "I'd be horrified to learn what you do with the corpses, Ensign." And then the door clangs shut behind him. Why can't all meetings be this mercifully short?

Salazar's smile twitches slowly to a wide grin. It's not entirely comforting. She's a marine, they have… odd senses of humor. Sometimes. "I'd never tell."

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