No Time To Talk
No Time To Talk
Summary: The silent snipe snaps. Needles are involved.
Date: PHD170
Related Logs: Scorpia Logs

Nine walks slowly, foot before foot, bringing her laundry into the laundry room, her face the blank mask of impassive cold that it's been… for a while, now.

After rounding the first hour of his laundry, Martin is sitting in there alone. Quietly reading a book with a few loads in the dryer after their run in the wash, he seems about ready to airlock himself with boredom. Lookimg up suddenly at the newcomer, his face twists into a smirk and an upwards nod. "Ain't seen you in a while, how you been?"

Nine keeps her eyes, on the main, on the flooring, though they lift briefly to meet Martin's. She lifts a shoulder a centimeter or two in a gesture of ambivalence before her eyes drop once more and she continues on her way to the washer.

"Yeah that about says it." Martin replies, turning a page in his book. Looking back to the printed text, he brings the cigarette to his lip and takes a long drag off of it. "Something about doing laundry continues to make me feel like I'm not alive. Are you dropping off or staying around for company?"

Nine puts her things into the washer one at a time, arranging them in careful layers, neck bent forward to look into the machine as she does. Her shoulders shrug again, and she doesn't look up. Ambivalance strikes again.

Martin glances back in Nine's direction and raises an eyebrow at her shrugged shoulders. Smirking in a frowning manner, he shakes his head and goes back to his book. "Suit yourself then."

Nine lowers the lid on the machine and starts it up, placing both hands flat on the top of the washer and smply standing there, head slowly inclining to stare at the surface of the top of the machine. Mouth a little bit open. No sound issues therefrom, however.

A long few minutes pass as Martin smokes his cigarette. Ashing it quietly into the ashtray, he glances back in her direction to see the way that she's standing. Concern crosses over his face like a ghost in the fog. "Nine…you okay?"

The response is unbearably predictable. A moment of silence. A feebly-voiced, "Yes, sir." More silence after that. She doesn't turn around, or move her hands, but she stands there like a statue over the washing machine.

"Don't look like it, anything you wanna talk about? I'm not a chaplain, your CO, or a damned counselor but my door's open for the next thirty five and ain't a soul in sight." Martin replies, turning his gaze away from her as he smokes his cigarette.

Nine finally turns her head, her dark black mouse-eyes setting on Martin, then his cigarette, then Martin again. He's not looking, though, so she turns her head back around, looking down at the top of the washer. Her brows furrow faintly, "N…o sir," she whispers.

"Fair enough. I'll leave you to your peace then. I'll just quietly read my book." Martin says, taking his book back up. Flipping open the pages, he finds his spot and begins to read again in silence. Not pushing the issue, a deep quiet falls over the room that is accompanied only by the droning noise of the machines.

Nine's fingers twitch, once, as if about to move, but she settles back into her statue's stance. Her hands flat on the washer. Her feet at a little less than shoulder width.

Martin twitches, biting the side of his lip. The presence of another person in the room amidst already unbearable boredom is turning him slowly into a four year old child. Drumming his fingertips on his knee, he turns himself in his chair so that he can keep her in his peripheral vision. "Okay damnit this is boring…got a deck of cards?"

Nine is still for a while after the question, her head slowly beginning to build torque into a slow, smooth shake of her head.

Pursing his lips to the side, Martin folds his arms across his chest and lets out a quiet 'hrm' sound. "Well scratch that then. Did you bring anything to entertain yourself or were you just gonna stare at the washer?"

Nine takes a long, quiet breath, then shifts her weight forward onto her hands, knees curling up until her legs slide forward onto the washer and she sits on it in the lotus position, back still to the room. She feels in a pocket, taking out a long, narrow tube, blue on both ends, clear in the middle, with a dark line in the middle of the clear part.

To say that Nine is being strange is an understatement, but then again she's always been rather strange. However, when Martin sees her take out a needle of some sort, he quietly rises from his chair and moves to lean his back against the next washing machine over. Glancing to her hands, he raises his eyes to her face. Prepared to try to grab her hands if she tries to inject it, he lowers his voice. "Hey…"

Nine dabs her fingers with the end of the blue part, then opens up the lid, revealing the tip of the needle inside. She looks at the needle, then past it to the pilot, eyes vaguely fixed on him.

Martin watches Nine's face with that quiet contemplation that speaks volumes. She's dispassionate, but she doesn't seem suicidal and he's not a doctor. "All I'm going to ask is that if you're not supposed to have that, you give me a chance to talk to you." Martin says, dragging off of his cigarette. "And if you are supposed to have that, then I'm an idiot."

Nine reaches around with her other fingers to catch the needle and pull it out of the case, revealing the metallic thread that hardens into another needle at the other end. For piercing, evidently.

Martin flattens his lips, glancing to the needle. Mentally flipping a coin, he squares his jaw and looks to her face. "Could you at least nod your head if you're supposed to have it? Frak, Nine…give me some sort of signal here because if you're not supposed to have that, just don't do that."

Nine puts down the rest of the tube, and, tilting her head to the side, she reaches over to pinch up her eyebrow in preparation for spearing it through with the needle. Dark eyes flash toward the pilot, and she gives a weak bob of her head.

Martin blinks, watching her pinch her eyebrow. Looking back to the needle, he bites his lip and glances between them. Suddenly realizing that this needle doesn't seem to be packing some sort of chemical charge, he blinks again and looks away. "And I'm an asshole." Martin chuckles, shaking his head. Dumping himself back into his chair, he puts his feet up and runs his hands over his face.

Nine looks at him a moment longer, needle falling away from eyebrow, then looks away, then turns away, facing the wall again as Martin goes to sit down. A moment later, and her breathing comes faster than before, more audibly. Then, some vague muffled noises escape her throat. She hunches over, after a while, shoulders moving with her breathing.

Martin is a little bit out of his element at the moment. Regularly the guy with little drama and brushing off the extremes, he continues to watch Nine's back. Glancing to the door, he decides that enough is enough. Rising, he steps over to her and puts his hand on her shoulder. "Hey…can we talk for a second?"

There's a noise from the snipe like a whimper… no… not a whimper… a laugh, a stifled laugh, a laugh behind closed lips, first slow, then rising in intensity. A decidedly unhealthy sould that shakes her frail body when Martin comes to put his hand on her shoulder, her brows both raised in something between hilarity and terror as she turns her head around. No, Nine can't talk for a second. Mostly because she's just sewn her mouth shut.

Martin doesn't waste any time when he sees that she's sewn her mouth shut. Looking to the needle in her hand, he turns and quickly slaps his fist down on the intercom. "Security and Medical team to the Laundry, repeat Security and Medical team to the laundry." Letting go of the button, he rushes over to try to coax the needle away from her. "Okay girl, it's okay, put the needle down…"

Nine lets go of the needle, but it hangs from the side of her mouth like a sad little whisker, despite the fit of hysterical laughter that's beginning to shake her as she rides the endorphins from the piercings. She slowly shifts and stands on tremoring legs on top of the shaking washing machine, lifting her hands toward the ceiling.

Martin rushes away from the door towards Nine. Nine is currently standing on top of a washing machine, mumbling hyserical laughter from behind the lips that she's apparently just sewn shut. Martin isn't taking a second chance on this one, and he rushes over towards her. Not seeing any weapons, he makes a grab for her waist to pull her off of the machine.

Nine is reaching for something up near the ceiling, back to the room, when her tremoring legs are hit from behind, and her knees bend, sending her falling backward, arms flailing out to either side as she lands with her knees over Martin's shoulder, hanging there upside-down and regarding the world from this angle with wide but passive eyes. She doesn't struggle except to reach down and drag her fingertips on the floor.

It's right about that moment that one of the security detail makes its way into the Laundry, led by the tiniest Marine. In her best command voice, the young woman calls out, "There's a problem here?" Well, duh. Obviously. But some things need eludicated.

"Yeah she frakking sewed her mouth shut!" Martin barks out with urgency, doing his best to get Nine away from whatever she had planned. "We need a medic!" Martin adds, grunting under the weight of the woman as he drags her towards the security detail with all of the joy of a man carrying a rabid wolverine on his back.

Nine has done that, indeed. But there's not much in the way of blood. She did a very tidy job, to all evidence, and she seems much happier now than she'd been when she entered the laundry. "Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmmmm!" she laughs from behind the tiny metal wiring with which she's sewn lip to lip, a needle dangling from each side of her mouth as she hangs there, half-limp, half-trembling.

Oh, lovely. Just what every Marine wants to walk into. Epi eyes Nine with a hint of compassion and a healthy dose of skeptecism. "We can get her down to sickbay faster than getting a medic up here," she tells Martin finally. "Follow me, Lieutenant." Bossy little thing, isn't she?
You begin following Martin.

Almost hesitant to take the girl out into the hallway like this, Martin nods his head. He's got Nine under control to a degree, and isn't above helping her out of the sitation. Moving into the center of the detail, he tries to immobilize Nine's arms as they go.

Nine's arms are down around Martin's legs, hands getting underfoot, arms like snakes or Dionysus-inspired vines tripping him up from time to time but other times hanging there limp and inoffensive. Her bound lips move in unison into a smile the likes of which no one has seen on her since she returned from Scorpia, and she lets out of noise as the wires pull.

Epi directs one of the Marines behind to take Nine's arms. Tripping pilots is a BAD thing. The littlest Marine takes the front of the little parade of four and leads the way to the Infirmary. "Once we get her situated, Sir, I'll need a full report from you," she tells Martin.

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