Summary: Roubani meets Epi in the laundry. There is epic pun fail.
Date: PHD046
Related Logs: None

Kharon - Laundry

Machines churn, spin, and hum through all parts of the laundry, keeping this room several degrees warmer than the hall outside the hatchway. Standing at a sorting table is Roubani, tossing pieces of untangled clothing into a nearby washer. Wearing his off-duties and dogtags, his right arm is is a cast from shoulder to knuckles, resting in a snug, dark blue sling. His face and neck bear some aging bruising, and the remains of deep lacerations that probably had stitches until recently. On the table nearby is a notebook, along with a mechanical pencil and a white slide rule.

The door opens and a small woman comes bounding in over the ledge of the hatch, cocking it closed behind her again. She's got a laundry bag over one shoulder that's nearly as big as she is. And she's whistling. Off-key. "Evening Sir," she says to Roubani, scampering over to her own washers at the far end.

Short. That's the only way to describe this little bundle of energy. She's -short-. In fact, she's JUUUUUST about 5' even. Her elfin face is delicately shaped, including a tiny button nose, almond-shaped brown eyes, and a smile that's just a tad too wide. Long black hair is kept pulled back in a somewhat messy ponytail, though wisps escape to brush at her cheeks.

Epi is currently wearing the Colonial Fleet sweats. Both the top and bottom of this crewmember's garb is done in a dark grey color, a cotton sweatshirt on the top. The Colonial insignia for the CEC-46 Kharon is done in a subdued black that is embroidered into the fabric. The bottom is a simple set of sweatpants that tie through an elastic cord at the waist, built into the material. A pair of white gym shoes is worn on the feet.

Generally when things scamper in here, one is best armed with some sort of spray repellant. Roubani looks up, in the middle of trying to untangle two knotted socks with his left hand and his teeth, a feat that leaves him unable to pronounce certain consonants. "Eeeee'nin."

Clothes get efficiently dumped into the machine. They're all grey, so it clearly doesn't matter. Whether they're grey naturally or by someone's inattention to laundry is anyone's guess. Everything, including detergent, gets thrown in as if the clothes are toxic. Given she's a Marine, they might be. Once it's turned on, she turns to face Roubani, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Need another set of teeth, Sir?"

Roubani's teeth let go of the knotty socks. "I'm not certain I've had enough flouride in my life to survive a tug of war like that." His voice is the kind that's naturally soft-spoken, even in a quiet place. He watches her bounce like that a moment or two. "Are you feeling alright?"

She blinks at him like a little brown wren then holds her hand out for the socks, palm up. "I am, Sir, thank you. And yourself," she answers, as if senior officers ask if she's feeling alright every day. Of course, they probably do.

Roubani looks a little young to be a senior officer. But not too young to be foiled by knotted socks. "Well, thank you." He glances down at the socks and holds them towards her, though his grip on his side is secure. "Here." He even braces his feet a little. "Pull on the top part, if you'd be so kind. I think they might actually be triplets, I can't be sure. Watch for fangs."

Epi takes the socks in both hands and leans in, getting right up close to the knot to study it. "Point of pressure here, here and here," she murmurs, bending and twisting her head like a hyper little mccaw so she can see the underside of the knot. It'd be too easy just to turn the socks over. "Two, I think. Impact point…" Little delicate fingers go at the knot, plucking at the socks for a moment. Then she pulls.

Roubani doesn't seem to mind the scrutiny of his footwear, not offering up the easy way around this perspective problem. He watches her get all ready to attack this problem with logic and strength…and barely a second before she goes to yank on it, he snaps the whole thing backwards and out of her hands. Still knotted. "Oops," he remarks, in a prim voice. "Silly me." Now that just sounds teasing. "Try again?"

He yanks and she pounces when the socks are held back out again. If she were a cat, her ears would be straight back. "It's ok, Sir," she says, looking appropriately submissive or subordinate. "Everyone knows pilots are too quick on the draw. We make allowances." Is she grinning? This time, she's got a good, firm grip on the socks this time. "Are you ready?"

The almost-smile on Roubani's face fades a little. He looks down at the socks, letting her get ahold of them again. "You're far too happy to be deck," he observes. "What is it you do? Ready."

"Don't make me growl at you to keep you from snapping them back again," she warns, grinning up at him. "Marine, Sir. Corporal Epiphany Jarot. I'm the ship's demolitions expert." Right. And Roubani's Major Vendas in drag.

"Really," Roubani replies, again so drily that it gently teases her. "So in other words, you're a blowhard." His hand makes a quick tug on the socks, testing her grip.

Yep, like a cat with a catnip cigar. MINENOTYOURS. She tugs back, testing his. "Not as bad as most Marines, but yes," she tells him, bobbing her head a little. "My sole purpose in life is to reduce obstacles to pieces no larger than the last segment of your pinky finger. Explosive, incindiary, you name it, I can do it."

Rowrl. Roubani tugs right back on it with a tougher yank, meeting the little test. "Tried spontaneous combustion, then? I hear it's hot these days."

Tug back, a little harder, eyes on the knot. "Gotta be careful playing with fire, Sir," she tells him with a straight face. "You might get burned. But just a little kiss of nitro means I can rock anyone's world."

Roubani gives a sudden, hard pull and the socks finally give up the ghost, yanking apart into two matched, dull gray pieces of cotton. "Touche'. I shall certainly have to remind myself never to get into a flamewar with you."

She nods solemnly, almond-shaped brown eyes going wide. "If you do, you'll have to hot foot it out pretty quickly, I'm afraid. I'd hate for you to be singed, sir." The sock she's holding is dangled in front of him, just out of reach.

Roubani half-smiles, tossing the one sock into his machine. "Now you're just blowing smoke." His watch makes a soft beep and he glances at it, then back at her. And his sock. "Ensign Nadiv Roubani. Engineering." The correction to his post is given softly. "And I've got to get to duty, regrettably. I know you don't love that sock quite so much as to want a memento."

Epi heaves a quiet sigh and looks at the sock, as if she doesn't want to give it up. "If I don't give it back, you'll flame me," she says balefully, then holds it out, much as a recalcitrant 4 year old would. "It's nice to meet you, Sir. Have a good night at your post."

"I wouldn't burn that bridge, Corporal." Roubani replies, with a slight twitch of his lips. He taps the button on his washer to start the water moving and takees his sock back, if she lets him.

She reluctantly lets the sock go, lower lip tucking out just a little. "Like a disco inferno, Ensign," she sighs, turning to pat her own machine. "Like a disco inferno."

"Don't let it get you too hot and bothered, now," Roubani suggests, quite gravely. He shuts the lid of his washer, picking up his notebook and slide rule. "Be well, Corporal." A little half-smile, and he's off for the hatch.

"Only if you don't get too hot around the collar if your socks are missing," she calls after him, laughter following the poor man out.

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