What Are Words For
What Are Words For
Summary: The rendezvous is set. Meanwhile, tempers simmer in the com room, as looks are given and words are exchanged.
Date: PHD081 (08 July 2009)
Related Logs: Message in a Bottle

Thea's been taking shifts in here, and is currently taking Roubani's. She's been there awhile and looks a bit tired, a bit worn. She's tried not to let anyone see it, but it's been a long couple of weeks, to be sure.

Komnenos sits not too far away in what he's established as 'his' station. Not that it has his name on it; he's marked his territory clearly but subtly, though. An ashtray rests next to his keyboard, as does his PDA and several sheets of paper. He slept for a very, very long time after being relieved, and seems revitalized enough for the time being.

Thea taps slightly at her console, watching it. She's been uncharacteristically quiet, engaging only in brief social banter during all of this. No, it didn't seem as though anything were wrong - she's just thoughtful. "Everything's normal on this end. Thorn? How are things on your end?"

Bits and pieces of code scroll up and down the ECO's screen; Thorn's debugging his hastily written algorithms. It takes him a moment to break concentration and answer. "Green over here, Captain," comes a mumbled response. "I've managed t' debug some of the more problematic sections of code… we should have a smoother time of things now."

"I'm showing one hour, thirteen minutes until our next transmission. Synchronized," she asks, head canting a little in his direction. "The algorithm looks like it's doing well. You and the Ensign," not Poet, "did an excellent job."

[TAC3] "Rabbit" Hale says, " Colonial Mission Recon, this is Lookout. Do you come in? Repeat: Colonial Mission Recon, this is Lookout. Do you come in?"

[TAC3] "Thorn" Komnenos says, "Lookout, this is Colonial Mission Recon. We copy, over."

[TAC3] "Rabbit" Hale says, "Colonial Mission Recon, Lookout. Its good to hear your voice. What is our time frame over?"

For once, Thorn simply nods in acceptance of the complement instead of coming back with some self-deprecating reply. "Thanks, sir," he replies, then suddenly goes stock still as the radio crackles, and Hale's voice emits from the speakers. Time to work.

Thea says nothing else on the matter, just goes back to monitoring things. "We don't have a final count," she tells Thorn quietly. "At least not that the Captain told me. I'd say no more than five more coming with us. So, all of us who came down, minus the two who died," both NPCs. "Plus Mudguts and plus five."

[TAC3] "Thorn" Komnenos says, "I'm afraid I don't have a definitive count for you at the moment, Lookout. My best information at the moment puts the count at about 20. Sergeant Elder is the only one in critical medical condition."

Roubani returns to the bunker after a shower and a few hours either sleeping or pretending to. The Ensign's shoulders and jaw are tense as he heads for the monitoring consoles, pulling out a chair.

Legacy is seated at Roubani's usual console, tapping. She nods to Komnenos' words, then adds, quietly, "And Mudguts is mobile, but injured." It's clear Thea's been there awhile, but there's a sense of re-energization about her.

Well, then. Roubani's chair is taken, so he takes one two down from Legacy instead. The monitor's turned on without a word, as he watches the scrolling data in silence.

Thorn suddenly feels supremely harried all of a sudden as he rifles through his papers, trying to find anything with the answers to Hale's questions. It takes him a few seconds to find it; too long and he knows it, judging from the storm of muttered curses emitting from his mouth as he searches.

[TAC3] "Thorn" Komnenos says, "Also, we've recovered Lieutenant Valasche from her crash site. She's sustained minor injuries and is currently mobile."

[TAC3] "Rabbit" Hale says, "Copy again Recon. We'll send about four raptors for evac, at these Coordinates. 39.3' N 76.6 E of your current position. Say again 39.3 N and 76.6 E for your evac. We'll have med staff ready"

[TAC3] "Thorn" Komnenos says, "Roger that, Lookout. We'll be waiting."

Thea dips her head to Thorn, once, marking things down as she goes. Then pauses to ask quietly, "When, Thorn?"

[TAC3] "Rabbit" Hale says, " Copy Recon. We'll be there at approximately 19:30 hundred hours. So don't be late. Also Thorn" a pause there "When you et back I have shot waiting." a chuckle "Recon Confirm time, and we'll see you then.""

Roubani listens to all this go by as he watches his screen, resting his elbows down on the table. His fingers fold against his mouth.

[TAC3] "Thorn" Komnenos says, "1930 hours, confirmed, Lookout. We'll be there." A pause, and the sound of a gravelly chuckle matches Hale's. "And I'm looking forward t' it, Rabbit. See you at the rendezvous."

[TAC3] "Rabbit" Hale says, " Copy Recon. Lookout Out."

[TAC3] "Thorn" Komnenos says, "Be safe, Lookout. Colonial Recon, over and out."

Hold your horses, Captain, they were just getting to that. Thea's question is answered by the radio right after she asks it; the time Hale mentions is a little earlier than what had originally been scripted by Kai, but then last minute changes are nothing new in the military. Besides, Thorn sure won't argue with getting back to Kharon a few hours quicker.

He nods respectfully to Roubani as the man enters and assumes a station. "Hey, Poet," he offers softly, after he finishes his last transmission.

There's a furrow in Thea's brows as she checks the coordinates. "Mmmm," she murmurs. "That's not what the CAG talked about." She sighs quietly and starts taking notes in the margins with a pencil, consulting first one map then another.

"Lieutenant." Roubani's voice is terse and formal tonight, as the transmissions end. He starts typing, resetting the clock and the various programs controlling the rig.

Komnenos shrugs. He doesn't have a high enough pay grade to worry about it; he just works the radio and says what he's told to say. "You know how it is, sir. Plans get changed, and it's not like they're going t' consult us before they do it." It's an ironic role reversal from their brief spat during the mission to trash the Cylon jamming towers.

Thea simply looks over at Komnenos for a long moment then goes back to her maps, quiet, now, save for the quiet scratching.

Roubani of course has no comment. Work has his unsmiling focus, keys clacking rapidly and softly as he does the maintenance on the system.

Yeah, superiors don't tend to like having their own words thrown back to them; Komnenos catches Thea's look, but she says nothing further and neither does he. He simply goes back to his debugging, keyboard clacking furiously as he works.

"Ensign? How are things at your console," Thea asks after a moment, glancing over at Roubani.

Roubani is still working, finishing one task and going straight to the next. His eyes stay on his work, shuttered. "They are fine, Captain."

"There you are, you mumble mumble mumble…" Thorn says under his breath as he comes upon a particularly snarled bit of code in the interface algorithm. His fingers whirl, tapping the keyboard rhythmically as he rewrites that bit of the algorithm to function properly.

Thea contemplates Roubani for a long moment, then returns to her work, expression unreadable. "Good work, Thorn," she says quietly. "You've been outdoing yourself lately. I'm proud of all of you."

"Thanks, Captain," Thorn echoes himself from earlier. "I've even surprised myself." There's no arrogance there, just cold honest truth. If someone had told him a week ago he was going to do what he's been able to since arriving on the planet's surface, he wouldn't have believed it. Then again, adversity tends to bring out either the best or worst in people; for Thorn, it seems to have been mostly the former, although he's hardly been the model of military protocol while doing it. Oh well, no one's perfect.

And, after a few more minutes of silence, Thea finally pushes away from the console. "Now that you're here, Ensign, I'll relinquish the seat to you. My notes are on the pad of paper." No smiles, no cracked jokes. "Get some rest, Thorn." Then she's on her way to the door.

In comes Lieutenant Stathis, who's been resting far longer than his usual routine will allow — eight hours by his count, maybe more. Most likely more, if the spring in his step is any indication. Physically, though, he still looks like a man who's crash-landed on an irradiated planet before being shot twice and grazed — well, he hasn't bothered to count. At least he's clean-shaven, having somehow managed to borrow a razor from some kind-hearted soul.

Roubani has picked up Legacy's notes and gotten to work. Besides the few terse words there's been nothing from him, the Ensign even more reticent than usual tonight. Fixing shit, la la la.

"Ivory," Thorn says curtly as the pilot enters the room. Despite Legacy's last statement(command?) before she left, Thorn makes no move to vacate his station. He's just fine, thankyouverymuch, as he continues to debug.

Unlike his ECO, who has no problem with berating somebody for working too hard in front of an entire room full of officers, Timon doesn't much like to push people to bed before they want to go. "Gentlemen." He, too, is quiet — waiting for directions, perhaps, or concentrating on the stew he's got in his mug. It's the same one from last night, and from the looks of it, it hasn't been washed in quite some time.

And gosh, most other days Roubani would be right on that. Probably while gagging. Timon goes ignored tonight though, even if it's hard to say whether it's on purpose or just because he isn't paying attention. His eyes are on the screen, fingers rubbing across his brows.

Having unsnarled that last piece of irksome code, Thorn leans back in his chair and lights a cigarette before moving on to another. The wispy smoke floats towards the ceiling as he works; his brow crinkles as he comes upon another algorithmic mess and begins untangling it. This one is less stubborn than the last, though, and the problem is resolved in short order. He leans back again and blows a smoke ring. "Ensign, those notes from last shift mention anything I should take a look at?" Thorn asks, having finished most of the things on his own 'priority' list.

Timon drinks noisily from his cup as he surveys the room, slurping in lukewarm soup with remarkable alacrity. Gone is his usual habit of sipping — sleeping makes him hungry, and unlike on Kharon, the food down here is actually worth waking up for. "I can help with those," he says in response to Thorn's question. "Just use small words." His self-deprecating statement is accompanied by a faint smile that vanishes as quickly as it appears.

Roubani picks up their partly handwritten error log, eyes flat as he flips through it. "Cyclic redundacy check requested on the fixed pattern partition. It may require a temporary memory setup if it continues to malfunction."

Thorn snorts. Compared to some of the other problems they've had, a CRC is child's play. Evidently it was a bit much for the non-nerds to handle, though. "Right. I'll work on setting one up; better t' have it and not need it than the other way around." He looks over to Timon with an eyebrow raised. "Thanks, Ivory, but it'd take me as long t' explain what you'd need t' know as it would t' just fix it myself," he replies, tersely. He's seen his pilot attempt to play techie in the past, and it doesn't usually go according to plan. That's why Ivory is the flight stick actuator and Thorn is the self loading luggage, as it were.

Timon smiles tightly, leaning back against a vacant console as he's been wont to do of late. His now-empty mug is set down next to him as he lets Thorn go about his business, not responding to the jab.

Roubani just watches his screen, hands folded in front of his mouth to block it from view. Or at least he looks like he's watching his screen. Sometimes he seems to be watching the corner of the monitor itself, his mind somewhere else. Then it comes back, the subtle flicker as his focus returns to this mechanical busywork.

Acrid smoke continues to spread through the com room as Thorn smokes. He, too, is struck with boredom; the temporary memory setup doesn't take long to, well, set up, and Thorn loads it into the system as a failsafe measure for that troublesome partition. Then, he's slumped back into his chair, back to looking over code and waiting for another problem to come up… because, inevitably, there will be one. Somewhere, somehow.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Ivory's words are bland, expressionless. "Otherwise, I'm going back to sleep, and all of this has been a giant miscommunication."

"Somewhere t' be?" Thorn's expression is as flat as Ivory's tone. "I just slept for twelve frakkin' hours. I don't need any more damned rest, if that's what you're talking about."

"Well, seeing as there are four of us, and Poet just got here, and Black just left — " Timon shrugs diffidently. "Forgive me if I'm assuming something that's not true." Which he doesn't think he is, if his blank demeanor is any indication.

"We've been on staggered shifts since last night, Poet and I," Thorn replies sourly. "Someone woke him up after six hours, but nobody came t' get me." He stares at Ivory flatly, as if daring him to challenge the assertion. "Cat's starting t' sound like a broken record. 'Get some rest, Thorn.' 'Go hit the rack, Thorn.' Finally, I do — and for too long, too — and now you're here t' pick up where she left off."

"Pot, meet kettle." Timon's eyes close as he shifts his left arm in his sling, trying to find a more comfortable position. "I'd go on, but it seems as if you've got everything covered, and I certainly wouldn't want to interrupt genius at work." His right hand reaches to scratch at his (broken) nose, which has set at a rather awkward angle. Splints were hard to come by in Paros, it seems.

Komnenos flushes as Timon points out his sudden hypocrisy, but stands fast. "At least I'm not th' one in charge. I can afford t' abuse myself when I need t'. Not that I'm doing so now." He looks rested, at any rate, as he returns Timon's jab with another of his own. His wounds, the scars on his face especially, are still as evident as Timon's; but the circles under his eyes have subsided and the man's eyes are clear.

"Right." Ivory falls quiet for a moment; he doesn't have the energy or the inclination for this, not now. After giving the room and its occupants one last searching glance — he's opened his eyes, having gotten rather tired of darkness — he makes his choice. "In that case, I'm going to the mess and bother the cook. Call me when you need something a man of my limited intellect can process." And then he moves as if to go, walking a bit more slowly than before.

Komnenos winces at Timon's reaction. Thorn's foot, meet Thorn's mouth, for the 1,045,938th time. "Wait, dammit," he says with a sigh. "Didn't mean t' be so sharp. Stay, would you?"

"You've got more important things to worry about." The chumminess that's usually present in the pilot's words is nowhere to be found; it's almost as if Timon's been replaced by an awful actor reading aloud from a horribly-written script. But still, the man pauses, his head tilted downward as he looks at the way his feet are set on the ground. They're not askew: this is good. The doc would be proud. "Get me when you're done." And that's all Thorn will receive for now — that one, infinitesimal pause. The lieutenant heads out the door, mug in hand, his boots clip-clopping against the room's hard floor.

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