Post Fight Not Partying
Post Fight Not Partying
Summary: While some booze in the lounge, the old (and old at heart) folks creak it up in berthings.
Date: PHD103 (31 July 2009)
Related Logs: Directly after Fight Night III, simultaneous with Post Fight Partying
Players:
Kai..Praxis..Roubani..Willem..

Kharon - Officer Berthings

Praxis is seated currently in his bunk, currently buttoning up his blue uniform and then subsequently standing from it, dusting off his shoulders and moving to his locker. It seems he has just gotten up from rest from the slightly fatigud look in his eyes. Staring with scrutiny at his reflection, a finger rubs out all the sleep still existant in his jades, and a lot of time is spent making sure he looks presentable.

It's been a few hours since the fight, and the dubious victory that Willem had claimed. Since then, were one to follow his whereabouts, it was a shower in the head and a nap. One of the top bunks that has been temporarily annexed by Rebound was, until several minutes ago, producing the sound of soft snoring. It stops gradually and is replaced by a sound of stirring behind the drawn curtain. Clad in his offduty fatigues sans boots, he unzips the curtain and begins blinking, rubbing at his bleary eyes. He edges out onto the ladder and looks down upon the Berthings proper, glancing down at the bunk below him which has been most recently housing the Scorpian Ensign Ferris. "Huh." He mutters.

Kai must've taken a wrong turn, somewhere. No, wait. Red berthings are still off-limits, and there must be a rule somewhere in the CAG's handbook about not sleeping with the raptors. Having made the officer's quarters his home away from home the past few days, Marek returns from what looks like a shower. Damp curls sprout every which way from his skull, and he's got a bag slung over one shoulder, and his fatigue jacket left open atop a faded grey t-shirt with N A V Y stamped on it. Eschewing one of the empty bunks, he marks a path instead for the couch. Willem gets an upward tic of his eyes, Praxis a slantwise one, though he leaves them in peace for the time being.

In that few hours since the fight, Roubani's bunk has been empty and quiet. One could think any number of things about where the young man might be. Drinking, partying-…oh who are we kidding? The hatch opens and admits Roubani in his duty greens, his hairline bearing a faint streak of sooty grease that says clearly where he was. At work. His nose is rather swollen, the small bit of ice pack time that he gave it early not nearly sufficient to calm down annoyed and once-bleeding skin and blood vessels, and his slightly stiff walk favoures the area where Thorn drove his fist twice into his midsection. Grr. He has his laptop bag over his shoulder.

Praxis' primping and preening is interrupted by the presence of the others. It's evident that he doesn't want to be seen fixing his hair or rubbing his eyes or otherwise checking himself out. So he immediately ceases and closes the locker instead, although unconsciously smoothing out his uniform anyway. Looking upon the others with a raised brow, lungs expand and subsequently let out the air in a quiet but still audible sigh. "Our new houseguests have returned." Demitros remarks in monotone, being sure to padlock his locker. For good measure! He doesn't want bombs in there.

"It seemed logical." Wil's high baritone carries through the still recycled atmosphere of the Berthings as he rubs at his chin with a slight grimace. Shortstack left him a good one. "Sorry. I try to be a good neighbor, Lieutenant." He slaps his open hand against the mattress of the 'borrowed' bunk and twitches a brief smile. Which is straightened as Kai and Roubani arrive. "Sir." He says, simply, leaning over the ladder. Eyeing Roubani's face, he winces a little. "Poet."

Kai unslings his bag from his shoulder, dropping it atop the couch with an audible thump. A few things rattle around in there, but the sound's indistinct. At least nothing's ticking. Ha ha. Ha. "Good showing tonight, Price," he tells his fellow viper stick with a small smile. He, meanwhile, is shrugging out of his jacket. "Demitros, it's good of you to have us. I'd hate to have subjected the squadron to the likes of marine berthings." That's spoken drily, with a glance over his shoulder as a grease-smudged Roubani arrives. The Ensign gets a nod in greeting.

Very few of this place's citizens have seen Roubani for the last two days or so. His bunk's been neglected much moreso than usual, one entire sleep shift even spent empty. So now he pauses in the crossroads between bunk aisles, in T-junction with the precious couch that now houses a CAG butt. Said couch and its denzien get a bleary look in which one can see the motor of his mind running way past E, then his eyes shift up to Willem, then to Praxis. "Sir," he says, in a voice slightly gravelly, but in complete and dead seriousness. "I am certain from personal experience they will not piddle on the floor. But should you need this…" He holds up his right hand, which has a rolled-up journal of some sort. "…I'll leave it out."

Praxis shifts his gaze to each of the personnel in turn, folding his hands behind his back. To Willem he replies with only a slight little smirk at being a 'good neighbor', before jades lock on to Kai. "It would certainly be an adventure moving to the marine berthings, Captain. I find it difficult to handle just one of them, at times." he mentions with pseudohumor. "Corporal Jarot even went so far as to attempt to fight me in the gym the other day -" He interrupts himself. "Speaking of which; I missed the event. I suppose all went well?" Eyes drift to Willem as it's mentioned he put on a good show, and then finally to the Lieutenant JG. "I will take your word for it, Lieutenant - congratulations, by the way -, but what /precisely/ is that?"

"I had to learn sooner or later, sir." Wil says first to Kai with his characteristic reserved abashment. Still, there is a small, satisfied nod as he accepts the compliment. As Roubani pulls out the paper, Price murmurs, "Sorry if the snoring you finally thought you had escaped from returned." Suddenly the joke about the paper is processed and he coughs. Splutters a little bit and it's clear that the newly-promoted Roubani not only made a funny, but it managed to make Wil laugh. It's a muted one. But it's there. He reaches back into the bunk and pulls out a grey binder, inching it next to him, along with some astronomy magazine and begins to drum pale fingers upon them both. "Speaking of Corporal Jarot. I barely outdid her." He says, a little halting and awkward as he explains his victory in the simplest terms possible. Considering the usual beatings he gets from CMC personnel, it might be -something- of a victory. "CIC shifts getting longer and longer, Lieutenant?"

Speaking of CAG butts, Kai's is dropped onto the couch, and he begins unlacing his boots while Roubani's making allusions to midnight attacks with rolled up magazines. He snorts softly and mutters, "If that's one of those fishing digests I lent you while you were holed up in sickbay, I want it back." His attention's split between the running-on-fumes snipe, and his boot laces while he works, even as he addresses Praxis next, "I'm having Ensign Farris submit a report, Lieutenant, that I think might be of interest to you. I can either have it copied and forwarded-" Tug, tug, thump. "-when it's complete, or we can go over it together."

"Nothing, sir." Roubani seems content with not pushing his humour luck, which tends to fail even when his mental gears are well-greased. That said to Praxis, he shakes his head slightly to Kai as he continues past towards his bunk. "Sergeant Elder still has them, as I recall sir." His laptop bag is set on the mattress and his heavy duty jacket gingerly shrugged off. His dogtags jingle softly against his now T-shirted chest, and the journal's dropped facedown so he can spare himself any jokes made by his neighbours about the title. He pulls his towel off the end of the rail and glances back up at Willem. "Has everything been alright for everyone in here?" He asks the Lieutenant in a voice that won't carry to interrupt the other two. It's murmured and sincere.

"Do you have any clue as to the nature of the report, Captain? I'd like to know what to expect." Demitros inquires to the CAG, looking down to the boots that are being unlaced, one of the subtle signs that make him realize he works far too late into the night, sometimes. He's heading out to work while the rest come to relax. Praxis shifts eyesight to Willem, quirking a brow at Epi's performance. "Strange, she must have been off of her game when she fought me. I knocked her onto her posterior a couple of times." he mentions. Hearing Roubani, Praxis scratches his head as he misses the joke entirely…at least for about a minute before it finally reaches him. "Right." he mutters. Damn, that graveyard shift is hard on the player AND the character. "Lieutenant Roubani, I believe I should be hit by the rolled up magazines, my synapses do not appear to be firing correctly." he murmurs. Eyes fall upon Willem. "There is no end to work for any of us, Lieutenant."

Processing, processing. Wil's lips part a bit as he chews on the details flying around him. Something catches him and his eyebrows, fine and light-hued arc dramatically as Praxis' words echo in his ears and his eyes flicker towards Roubani. And his pins. First, though, he simply addresses the question. "I'm fine in here. Really. Although…" His lips quirk to one side, smiling and whatever it was he was going to say gets shelved indefinitely. "Never mind. And -what- are you wearing? Lieutenant? When were we going to hear about that one? Congratulations." The smile grows broader and then fades just a little as he addresses Praxis and his anecdote of easily taking down the mighty Shortstack. "-Really-, Lieutenant? She wasn't exactly a joke when I fought her." He flips the astronomy magazine open upon his lap but doesn't look at it. He does, however, shoot Kai a flat look. Praxis' apparent success might have taken him down a couple pegs.

Kai kind of watches Praxis, in a circumspect fashion of course, from beneath his dark brows. Gods. CIC nerdage. He kicks off the other boot, and swings up onto the couch. No, there's no stripping naked and sleeping in the buff. Come to think of it, he's not exactly bedding down, either; an overstuffed folder is pulled out of his bag, and spread across his lap with a few sheets pulled out and rested on the couch cushions. What was that about relaxing? "Yep," he tells the TACCO in succinct answer to his query. Wil gets a glance, but he'll apparently let Roubani give the good news himself.

"Neurotransmitters seem to be another commodity on short supply at this hour, sir," Roubani says to Praxis, blandly. His voice sounds like he's been inhaling ground glass for the last few hours. And then he looks back at Wil, his darkly-circled eyes waiting for the rest of that 'although', which doesn't come. Gearshift, no clutch, and his brows twitch. "Ah. Thank you, sir." As to when they were going to hear, no answer there. He falls silent a moment, setting the towel over his shoulder. "There is some tea if you would like." 24-hour shifts, shootings, cylons, ship viruses, nothing stands up to the simple quiet pride of Sagittaron hospitality that's wrapped up in the offer.

"Really, Lt. Price." Praxis replies to Willem, nodding his head once. "Again, my luck level must have been through the roof." Our least favorite CIC nerd begins to stroll towards the exit but not before nodding slightly at the CAG, Demitros' eyes narrows slightly at the whole air of mystery behind this report of hopefully good news. "Well, I believe you will know where I will be, sir." he reminds Kai. "Lt. Roubani, the results of my comm data analyzation will hopefully be produced within the next several hours. Simply a 'heads up', as they say." Barring any reply requiring the TACCO's continued presence, he marches to work.

The look he gives Kai is not repeat. Wil's eyes loll over towards Roubani as the Engineer refers to him as 'sir.' He bursts out one quiet peal of laughter. Although careful not to interrupt, he does cut in when the soft-spoken man finishes. "When I made promotion I ended up using 'sir' unnecessarily for two bloody weeks." More empathy than mockery there. Definitely. He flips open a page without even reading it. Something about nebulae and ambient radiation. He leans forward a little and the article is indeed noticable as the magazine, worn as it is, goes sailing onto the floor and lands face up. He edges forward and slides down the ladder to retrieve it. Straightening as he does so, he finally addresses the departing Praxis. "Some people just have an edge at fighting, I suppose. Good luck down there, Lieutenant. Good to finally see you. Again."

Kai has his eyes on his paperwork, so probably misses the narrowed-eyed look from Praxis as the man departs. "Enjoy your evening," he tells the tactical officer somewhat absently, untucking a pen from his discarded fatigue jacket. Because 'good hunting' isn't terribly appropriate with CIC nerds. Least favourite? Marek's an equal opportunity ass. His hair, which he neglected to towel dry properly, drips down the back of his neck while he sets to writing. "When did you last get a good night's sleep, Nadiv?" is asked after a rather long pause.

"I will have the next report ready at that time, sir," Roubani tells Praxis, quiet and formal. It's then that Willem's laughter jarrs him and he seems to realise what he did, his bleary eyes crossing slightly at himself. "Right. 'My bad'." He makes languid finger quotes at those last two words and then starts for the showers with the towel over his shoulder. A glance at Kai as he goes by. "I expect more recently than you did, Captain." And he's into the head. Stop. Showertime.

Praxis heads through the exit labeled <H> Hallway.
Praxis has left.

"I wasn't mocking you, Poet." Wil calls out after observing Praxis' departure. This may be unnecessary but it's Wil. Unnecessary apologies are like a religion in his world. Retrieving the magazine, he finally holds it aloft, staring at the article which of course takes him out of social circulation for a moment or two. "Nebulae." He murmurs. With that he stows it in his hand and ambles back up the ladder. Speaking of sleep - el-yawn-o on his part, and he splays out in the bunk, eyes still open.

Willem's ascension into his borrowed bunk draws a glance from Kai, though his head remains bowed over his reports. "Don't let the bed bugs bite," is murmured almost too soft to be heard, followed by the scratch of his pen on paper. With the berthing lights dimmed, he's flicked on a little glowstick at the end of the pen; it bobs gently as his hand moves. Whatever else he may have to say to Roubani, will have to wait until the enginesnipe returns.

Ferris arrives from the Hallway - Deck 1, Fore.
Ferris has arrived.

Water on, water off. Rinse, repeat, literally. At one point the water blasts cold in his face and there's a hurried shutoff, followed by the muted sound of a sigh. Then it's on again. Ten seconds, off. Rustling. And here Roubani returns in his fatigues pants and Tshirt, towel over his shoulders. He almost never wears his wrist brace anymore unless it's a bad day for his bones, and the nasty scarring from the pins and screws surgeries on his arm and fingers are visible. Doesn't seem to bother him much. He pulls the towel through his cropped-off hair as he starts through the aisleway.

"Bed bugbs are the least of what I'm worried about." He says, dryly. "I'm just. Relaxing, Sir. Killing a few minutes while I can. Huh. There's something in here about the amount of radiation shielding needed to deal with a nebula's output and even comes up with a formula for how long various craft sizes can last." He lies back in the bunk and sets the magazine aside again, staring across the berthings, at the wall.

To this, Wil gives a distracted-sounding reply. He's tired still but not falling apart completely. "Bed bugs are the least of what I'm worried about." He says, dryly. "I'm just. Relaxing, Sir. Killing a few minutes while I can. Huh. There's something in here about the amount of radiation shielding needed to deal with a nebula's output and even comes up with a formula for how long various craft sizes can last." He lies back in the bunk and sets the magazine aside again, staring across the berthings, at the wall.

It'd seem that it's not quite abnormal for nights to run a little long on this ship. So, as Ferris returns to the berthings from the apparent after-party from fight night - if one could call four or five people a party - he enters quietly. There -are- some people sleeping. As he ducks the bulkhead, he moves toward the bunk that he had claimed as his own - which apparently was a dead man's bunk, as it stood. But, with changed sheets, and a little personal touch to be had, Jaimson wasn't gonna complain as he crawled up onto the bunk bed that resided under Willem's. A light is turned on, and he halfway gets to grabbing a notepad… which is already covered in a bit of pre-text. But, it's too late. The pilot, slightly boozed, is out.

A few minutes, and a returning Lieutenant later, the Captain seems to have dozed off where he's sprawled on the couch. Willem doesn't get an answer to his commentary about nebulae and radiation shielding. At least Kai doesn't snore, though no guarantees he isn't drooling into the couch cushions.

Roubani passes by the couch, looking fuzzily down at Kai, who seems to have proved the new JG's parting statement to him. He doesn't say anything, continuing to his bunk. A minute later he drifts back to the couch, carrying one of his dull blankets over his arm. Kai's little light-pen is turned off with a press of the small button on the side, which he seems to know the location of without having to look, and the blanket's unfurled and draped over the Captain's legs and chest. Off he turns back down the row towards his own bunk, glancing at the zzzz'ing Ferris on the way, and then his steps pause as Willem says that. His back stays to the Lieutenant for a few moments and then he turns around, a slight tension in his brows. "Could I see that article, Price? I could…give you something else to read in the meantime if you like."

Wil's practically sinking back into the mattress, shrugging as it dawns on him that the CAG has given up the ghost when it comes to consciousness. He thumbs through the periodical, head tilting slightly upon one of the pillows laid out in the bunk when Roubani's voice rings out, drawing his eyes away from the paper. He rolls over to spy the other man, now officially his equal. "Oh. This? Certainly. This was a fourth-generation hand-me-down that just got left. Lt. Tanner gave it to me after I asked about it. Just finished the article, too." This being done, he rolls downwards after noting the crashed-out figure of Ferris below. Padding down onto the ladder, he makes a beeline for Roubani and hands it over.

Willem adds, belatedly, "I don't barter with gifts. Take it."

"Are you certain?" Roubani glances up from the pages and tilts his chin towards his bunk. "I've got some things." He flips to the article in question, brows drawn. Strangely focused despite his exhaustion, as if mention of the topic had triggered something in his dark head. The page number's noted. "Everything has gotten so strange these days…" He murmurs, apropos of very little.

"As I said. I don't count these things." Willem says thoughtlessly. Or maybe toughtless. He stoops a little to set the mamgazine down upon the floor of the berthings without a comment on the 'gift' itself. Back to his temporary digs now, with a lazy saunter. "Madness is everywhere. I know. I know."

"It seems that way," Roubani murmurs. He sits down on his bunk and pulls his legs up, rubbing his sunken eyes with the backs of his fingers. "Good night, Price." A pause. "Perhaps we'll talk later." Unfurling the magazine again, he leans back and starts to read. Which in under ten seconds turns to soft snoring. Oh well.

Stretching out, Willem murmurs, "I want to wake up. Wake up when it's gone." His last words before drifting off, himself.`

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