PHD 271: In Search Of
In Search Of
Summary: Nobody expects a scene in the Post Office.
Date: PHD 271
Related Logs: None

This room used to be simply the post office, routing packages from home to the crew. Since the attacks, it has become a multi-purpose office: Inter-ship mail delivery, small item storage, and the home of the survivor's registry (where crew members can add their names to the list of survivors in the hopes of someday being reunited with their families). The public area is fairly small - just long enough for a couple dozen crew members to stand in line. There's a counter stretching most of the way across the room, behind which is usually a crewman on duty. Most of the rest of the room is for storage.

There are precious few places on board a real live Battlestar where peace and quiet can be had. Fortunately, Lieutenant Timon Stathis has discovered just such a place: for indeed, Hestia's former mail room now serves very little purpose now that the initial rush to fill out the survivor's registry has subsided. Empty cardboard boxes are stacked up in various places on the floor behind the formica countertop, through the gap in which an anonymous petty officer now steps — taking a smoke break, no doubt, judging from the box of cigarettes she fishes out from her pocket. "Make sure nobody steals any of my mail, el-tee?" she asks.

"Make sure you nurse that cigarette as long as possible," Ivory shoots back, returning her salute with a desultory one of his own. The two of them have been over this before, it seems. Only when the room's finally clear does Timon sit down, shaking out a kink from his neck before flipping open the legal pad he carries. Work: it never ends.

Rian strolls in from the corridor passing the petty officer as she moves with little haste. A curt nod is given to the other in greeting but that is all. Walking into the mailroom her pace slows even further, dark eyes glancing around the room, curious as she has never been here before. Hands in pockets she walks slowly, reading the outside of each box. As she spots another seated nearby she nods the same greeting, only adding a quiet, "Evenin' sir."

"Are you here to steal the mail?" asks Ivory from the corner, his reedy tenor echoing hollowly in the empty room. Well, formerly empty room. Legs splayed out in front of him, wrinkled sweats hanging loosely from his body, the pilot sure doesn't look much like an officer — especially when he sticks a red ballpoint between his teeth as he fumbles for something in his pockets. "Air wing stuff's over there, I think," he says as he does, spitting out the pen after finding he can't bite and talk at the same time. "Tell me what sweet nothings Spider's writing his pilots and you'll win my undying affection."

Rian just stares at the man a moment, one dark brow arching in surprise. "Steal? Mail?" A breathless laugh, "No, I was just…" Dark eyes scan the room again, cheek turning to the seated pilot. "I've never been in this part of the ship." Turning on the ball of her foot she strolls over to more of the boxes against the wall, some covered in a thick layer of dust. "Sweet nothings?" she questions again, looking back to him.

"You know." Timon grunts as he presses his shoulders against the bulkhead, lifting his body just high enough to reach one of the pockets beneath his trousers. It's in there that he finds what he's looking for: a worn and well-used green pen, which he clicks open with a sigh of satisfaction. "Operational orders, mission assignments, AARs, CAP reviews — the works." The pilot looks up from his legal pad, brown eyes slightly narrowed. "Not interested in grand theft departmental mail?" he asks after a while, head tilting to one sided. "Pity." And back to his work he goes.

Rian flips up one lid of an old cardboard box, dust flying up and spinning in the air coaxing a sneeze from her. "I'm not a pilot, I wouldn't know," she adds as a matter of fact, monotone. Looking into the box she doesn't see much of interest, "It's not stealing if the owner is dead."

"How delightfully utilitarian." Timon turns away as the woman showers him with — dust. Better than opprobrium, at any rate. "Fortunately, our Spider — Lords keep him — is very much alive. And even if he weren't, he'd likely find a way to smite us from beyond the grave — by destroying our squadron's coffeemaker, say, or replacing the water in our showers with that fruity gelatinous stuff he so dearly loves." There's a touch of wryness in the man's words as his pen clicks closed and open, closed and open, closed and open. "Anyway. For the sake of my dear friend Allison, I hope you leave behind anything interesting you find. I'd hate to lose my in to the only quiet place available to me aboard Battlestar Sound and Fury."

Turning her face towards Timon a curious expression comes upon the Marine's face, dark eyes glinting slightly. Looking down her shoulder at the man she watches him talk, examining his face as he speaks. Finally a smile creeps up the side of her lip, her voice changing with the expression though still kept in low tones. "You talk a lot." Flipping back the top of the box she turns toward the desk, one step and her upper-thighs are against it, "it's amusing."

"Private Amaranth Rian, CMC." She introduces herself, though her hands remain at her sides not reaching out for a shake, "I know the CAG, I don't think he's half as bad as the crew makes him out to be. Maybe you're in on his little psych out on the pilots." A breathless laugh and she reaches down to the desk, picking up the red pen that was recently spit out, wide eyes inspecting it. "I'll behave. I promise." Bringing it up to almost eye level she presses the button on the back of the pen with one finger, the tip clicking back inside the plastic pen.

"Ivory." Timon looks up from the ground, tapping the base of his palm on the blue-lined sheets of his legal pad. It's his name — probably. No other introduction is forthcoming as curious eyes watch the violation of his pen. "I wouldn't touch that if I were you," he notes, a wan smile lighting his tired expression with just a touch of humor. "I tend to chew on them when I'm thinking, and I'm thinking more often than you'd probably expect from looking at me." His green pen stops clicking long enough to display a row of jagged indentations on decidedly penetrable plastic. "Or if you must, I'd recommend washing your hands afterwards."

Rian lets out another breathless laugh at that, not seeming put off by the idea of him chewing on it already having seen it in his mouth, "I'll wash my hands." She clicks the pen again before tossing it down to the paper pad with a thunk, "I just haven't done that in so long, felt good."

"What? Wash your hands?" Timon asks archly. Indifferent to his personal cleanliness though he may be, he certainly isn't going to offer to shake — not after that disclosure. Instead, eyebrows shoot up in feigned disgust as he turns his attention back to the legal pad on his lap. It's covered in his trademark incoherent scrawl, black and blue ink having traced a patchwork quilt of words onto wrinkled yellow paper. Only the diagram in the corner gives any indication what he's up to: a stylized representation of a Raptor hovering some fifty meters above a row of messily-drawn waves.

The marine doesn't laugh at that however, the smile fades from her lips as she speaks plainly, "No, the pen click. Not much paperwork comes my way." For now she wipes her hands down the front of her off duty cargos before letting them drop to her sides. For a second she glances over to the diagram but says nothing of it, "I'll leave you to your quiet." With that she turns to leave the room, slow casual steps as she continues her stroll down the corridor.

"Tell Allison to light up another when you go?" Ivory scratches the bridge of his nose with his thumb, its unclipped nail biting into his pale skin as he thinks. "Or better yet, to light up five others. And if you'd be so kind as to snarl menacingly at anybody else who tries to come in here, that'd be just darling, thanks." But even as he talks, it's clear his attention — now released from the marine — has returned to his work, and soon all that's audible from his corner of the room is the soft mumbling of a professor at work.

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