There's Something Wrong Here
There's Something Wrong Here
Summary: Komnenos and Roubani experience the strangeness of the miasma for themselves.
Date: PHD117
Related Logs: Miasma logs.

Kharon - Gym

Roubani is in his sweats with the jacket still on as he comes into the gym. His right wrist is wrapped in a blue neoprene brace that stretches around the curve of his thumb, no doubt courtesy of some physical therapist in Sickbay. He unzips the jacket and starts to shrug it off as he bypasses his usual treadmill area for the section housing the punching bags and free weights.

Thorn doesn't give any indication that he's noticed the new arrival; indeed, he seems to have eyes only for the punching bag. Sweat glistens on his forehead and drips down his face, but he doesn't seem to be paying that any mind, either. Thorn's fists continue to pound the bag, one after the other in quick succession; his sneer deepens even further as his pace seems to quicken.

Roubani tosses the jacket onto a nearby bench, rolling a stiff right shoulder under his T-shirt sleeve. The sound of someone abusing their punching bag draws his attention for a few seconds, then he looks away to focus on picking up the right resistance band off the weight stand. He kneels to loop the bottom of the band under his foot and then stands, curling the rest around his right fingers.

The torrent of punches continues another few seconds; finally, Thorn's pace slows, and he begins to exhale heavily, his face red from the sudden exertion. He finishes with a flourish, though; a quick one-two punch is followed by a snap kick, and the slam of his foot against the bag is accompanied by a harsh grunt. With that, though, Thorn appears to have had his fill; he retrieves his discarded sweatshirt from where he'd tossed it and uses it to towel off his face and his bare torso.

The sequence of wrist bends versus the resistance band is old hat for Roubani, who's been going through the exercises with dedication in the meantime. It's the sudden whap of Thorn's foot against the bag that brings his eyes up again, one brow making a faint tic upwards. "Insulted your mother, did it."

Komnenos turns, the sound of a familiar voice pulling him away from the sound of his own thoughts. "Eh? How's that?" He looks around, bewildered for a moment, until his eyes lock onto the other lieutenant. "Oh. Hey, Roubani," he greets Poet as he goes back to drying off.

That makes the other brow kind of raise to meet the first. Roubani regards the other man briefly the way one might an animal suspected of being rabid, then unwraps his hand from the twist of the elastic resistance band. "Evening." He half-turns his back, hooking the band back on its hook. "Things alright?"

The question gives Thorn pause; he pauses mid-wipe and glances over at Roubani, studying the man for a moment. "Fine. That's why I'm here working up a sweat when I could just as well be ignoring people from the comfort of my own rack," he says drolly, tossing the now-soaked sweatshirt aside. There's an edge in his voice, despite his deadpan delivery.

Roubani nods slightly. He may be awful at the usual small talk, but he is at least intuitive. "Good time with that, then." Shifting on his heels, he takes a step back and turns his attention back to the free weights.

Thorn grabs a towel from a nearby shelf, tossing it over his shoulders. He paces for a second by the punching bag before finding a seat on a bench not far from the free weights. There's a sigh as he slumps down. Thorn looks back up at Roubani, as though he's about to say something, but for the moment, there is only silence.

Cue fail. Roubani picks up the weight that the therapist told him to move up to, eyeing it as he makes a stiff practice curl with his wrist. That's damn heavy. But he lays his arm down on the flat surface by the weights, palm down with hand hanging over the edge, and continues on. His hand shakes for the first few curls and then steadies out as his wrist slowly gets used to it.

"There's something going on on this ship," Komnenos says abruptly, with another glance over at Roubani. "Something… I don't know. I can't put my finger on it, exactly. But something feels… wrong." He shrugs. "Like there's something in the water that's making everyone and everything… not as it should be." There's a shake of the head as Thorn speaks, and he makes no effort to disguise the suddenly troubled expression on his face.

Well that was unexpected. Roubani is jarred out of the fallen silence with his wrist bent back. He glances at Thorn and then back at his fingers, lowering his hand. "I know." Confirmation rather than dismissal, given in his usual soft voice. "Fields in a drought."

"At least I'm not the only one t've noticed, then," Thorn notes with a raised brow of his own at Roubani's reply. "Well, then I'm not crazy after all." He stands up and begins to pace again by the rack of free weights. His lips quirk in a humorless smile. "Or if I am, I'm not th' only one."

Roubani's eyes lift again, flickered to Thorn's feet once they've paced past. Then it's back to his hand and its repetitive movements. Seven. Eight. "No. You aren't the only one." This pensive response given, there's then a brief pause. "Some are more affected than others."

There's another pause at Roubani's response, and Komnenos stops in his tracks. "You make it sound like a frakkin' disease." The sweaty ECO looks back over at Poet, a slight scowl on his features as the other man's words suddenly lead him to a conclusion. "You know something. Tell me."

"Don't you bark at me," Roubani's voice suddenly gains its own edge as he looks at Komnenos' face, and he puts the weight down.

The sudden steel in Roubani's voice takes Thorn aback, but Komnenos isn't exactly a wilting wallflower himself. "And don't you take that bloody tone with me." All the signs of an approaching outburst are there; the slitted eyes, the thickening of the accent, and the beginning of a sneer on his lips. "Who th' frak d' you think you are?" he continues, his voice ratcheting up a notch.

Roubani's mouth opens immediately, his shoulders straightening and tensing. Oh no he di'i-…wait. What? The open mouth turns into nothing but silence, mouth forming a weird shape before his lips drift shut again. His brows have drawn, making faint and very premature lines etch into his forehead.

Thorn looks all set to keep going, the tension clear on his face, but Roubani's sudden silence seems to deflate him. Whatever he was going to say next dies on his lips, and finally, he starts pacing again, running a hand through still-damp hair. As he passes near the punching bag, he emits a sudden, wordless roar of frustration, slamming his fist into the thing with a loud smack. Finally, he turns back towards the suddenly pensive Roubani, waving a hand placatingly in the other man's direction. "Look… I…" Thorn says finally after a moment of consideration, "… I'm sorry about that. Didn't mean t'…" Komnenos trails off helplessly, further words escaping him as his face flushes with shame. His tone is much quieter now, and he's clearly uncomfortable all of a sudden.

Roubani holds still as Komnenos takes out some anger on the punching bag. As he does is inhale slowly through his nose, tension drawn in instead of expelled into the room. Corked, shoved away. "No, it was my fault. I apologise." He clears his throat, gently scratching his eyebrow with his ring finger. For once, he doesn't blush at all, even if he does avoid the ECO's eyes for a few moments. "Are you a religious man, Thorn?"

Komnenos takes Roubani's apology with a brief grunt, the issue as good as forgotten. He tilts his head at Poet's question. "Answering a question with a question. Socrates would be proud." He shifts from one foot to another. "No," he admits. "Quite the opposite, actually. One of the few family traditions I carry on."

"Then we're at an impasse," Roubani replies, after a moment of almost cautious silence. "As I can't ask someone to suddenly take a leap of faith."

Thorn gives Roubani a glance of disbelief. "After all that buildup, you can't just leave it like that," Anton retorts. "Try me. I'll listen, at least."

Okay, that first sparks a crooked little half-grin out of Roubani. It quickly fades away though, and loosely folds his arms. "I have been told that Aphrodite is upset." Blunt start.

"Aphrodite. Upset," Thorn repeats. He sounds skeptical on the surface, but there's an undercurrent of something else in his voice. Something apprehensive or even wary. There's a long silence at that, but finally Thorn continues. "Whatever could Aphrodite have t' be upset about?" he asks. He doesn't seem to be dismissing the idea, at least, an unusual reaction from an avowed agnostic.

Roubani scratches his upper arm through the T-shirt sleeve. Now he seems to hesitate with his answer. "Her business is particular," he murmurs, finally. "I don't mean to be vague, it's just…that it's not mine to discuss further. I would just ask you to pray, but…I respect your convictions." Or the lack thereof.

"If not you, then who else?" Thorn asks. "Whatever this is — if it truly is the wrath of Aphrodite or something else — it's clearly affecting all of us. I mean, look around." He takes a deep breath, exhaling heavily. "Nobody's been right the past couple of weeks. Nothing seems quite… right when I look at it anymore. People aren't being themselves. Hell, look at us just a second ago." For just a second, Thorn's lips pull apart in a tiny smile, but it quickly passes. "If you can't talk about it, who can?"

Roubani exhales quietly through his nose. "The chaplains. But," he warns, quietly, "Don't go to them expecting everything to be neatly answered. The gods never work that way and neither can their mouthpieces."

There's a deep sigh. "Then I suppose we really are at an impasse, then. Because I refuse t' go t' a bloody priest." The edge in his voice is back at the mention of the chaplains. "Mouthpieces indeed." He once again picks up his discarded sweatshirt. "I suppose I'll have t' look for my answers somewhere else, then."

There's a quick flash of something in Roubani's eyes. Touch of hurt, perhaps. He says nothing, taking a step back so he's not in the way of an exit.

Thorn returns the favor, and his only farewell is a sidelong glance at Roubani and an awkward silence as he heads for the hatch. He can be seen shaking his head and muttering something to himself as he leaves.

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