Archive : MD28 : Shifts In Paradigm
Shifts in Paradigm
Summary: A game room conversation spans booze, fingerpainting, and a clue to a mystery.
Date: MD028
Related Logs: None

Game Room

It's a quiet afternoon in the game room. The day's earlier goings on have settled down, and the Raptor Captain has shoved her behind in a comfortable chair, glass of scotch on the rocks next to her, file in her lap. She's off duty - wearing sweats. Looks like the day's already been long.

In from CAP, Roubani is freshly showered and in off-duties when he gets down to the game room, carrying a small notebook with a pencil stuck in the spirals. Having learned his lesson about standing too long in the hatchway, he immediately drifts away from it this time, heading further in.

Legacy runs a finger down the first page in the file, brows pulling together - whatever's on the page is not something she's happy about. Lips purse slightly as she reaches absently for the scotch. Apparently she needs a -drink- given what she sees. With a sigh, she closes the file and settles back, pensive. It's only after she's been staring into space for a minute that she realizes that someone else is moving. Attention snaps to Roubani. "Evening, Ensign."

Roubani freezes for a moment, but the voice is familiar. Thank goodness. "Captain." He's learned not to salute in the game room, at least. Tucking the notebook into the crook of his arm, he approaches one of the chairs nearby, and gives a glance to her glass. "Everything okay, sir?"

The cubes tink quietly against the confinement as she swirls the liquid. "It is, Ensign. Just an end of day drink before getting to the work of the evening. How was CAP today?" Apparently she's well versed in who's going where when. "Quiet out there, I hope?"

"Yes, sir." Roubani offers a slight smile. "Most aggressive DRADIS contact was a magnetised piece of debris. Not exactly an attractive target, if you'll pardon the pun."

Thea's eyes crinkle at the corners and she shakes her head. "Heavens forbid that piece of debris get aggressive," she says musingly. "You Viper jocks would trip over each other to see who could take it out first." The teasing seems gently good natured. "No need to stand, Ensign. Pull up a seat and feel free to get back to whatever you had planned for the evening."

"Oh, thank you, sir." Roubani glances down as though he hadn't realise he was still on his feet. He folds his long-limbed frame into the chair he'd stopped by, pulling a foot up under him and resting the notebook down on his leg. "Being called a 'Viper jock' takes some getting used to," he says, with an awkward smile. "Do they have derogatory names for Raptor pilots around here?"

"It's not meant in a deragatory manner, Ensign," Thea clarifies, lips quirking at one corner. "You all are the best of the best, the jocks of the air wing, like the Pyramid stars in civilian life. And you fly Vipers - hence, Viper Jocks." A shoulder lifts delicately. "As for Raptors, well. Your Captain is fond of calling us trundlebugs." The 'your captain,' however, is said fondly. She takes another sip of her scotch, resting the glass on her knee rather than the arm of her chair. "As far as the other names, I haven't heard any, yet."

Roubani raises his brows at the explanation, and clears his throat. "You make it sound like television." A small smile. "Trundlebugs? It doesn't terribly seem to fit, but I suppose it's fun to say."

Legacy wrinkles her nose at him and laughs quietly. "It makes our birds sound like the great flightless ones that trundle around on the ground, rather than the finely honed support vessels they are," she teases. "As for television, well, you all ARE the ones taking quite a few risks. You're front-line."

Roubani mms, scratching the side of his head. "Glad we're all so sharp then. Lest all that debris get too sassy." He shifts in the chair so his foot is on the cushion, his knee next to his chest. "Have you been flying a long time, sir?"

"As long as I can remember," Thea admits, then grins over at him. "Which is likely why I feel so damned old some days. My father was a pilot, so I've been going up since I was a child. He started with Raptors, moved to Vipers and then settled into leading the pilot test facility on Gemenon. One of my first memories was going up in a non-military plane, and that's likely why I'm where I am today. It's all I've ever wanted to do. How about you? What got you behind the stick?"

Roubani' brief smile looks self-conscious. He shrugs one shoulder, fiddling with the corner of his notebook. "I'm applying for a master's-doctorate program in aerospace engineering. It just seemed like a good thing to do first…you know, get a firsthand sense of the things I want to work on. I'd never flown in my life before, not even as a passenger."

Both brows migrate upward and her head tilts slightly to the side. "And yet you made it through the program with high enough marks to get transferred into the Captain's wing," she asks - clearly a bit impressed. "You must have some impressive moves up there, Ensign. How do you like it so far?"

Roubani again shrugs at the praise, eyes down on the corner of his notebook as he bends it up. When she asks him a question he looks back at her. "Some of the pilots are a little weird," he confesses. "But I love the Vipers, even with their problems. Flying is like…I mean, I'm not a surgeon, but I kind of imagine it's like they feel when they're holding someone's beating heart, you know?"

Light blue eyes seem to casually take in the other pilot's body language as Thea sits, relaxed, listening. At his description of what flying is like, she smiles and nods in agreement. "I feel much the same," she says quietly. "There's something…I'm not quite sure how to put it. But there's a connection between pilot and bird, whether they're in a Raptor, a Viper or some other kind of plane. Pilots know their birds. They know their quirks. They know each movement, each valve and seal in the same way a surgeon knows the body."

Roubani doesn't look like he's quite ready to confirm her words, offering no nod to all that. He wraps his arms around his shin, loosely locking his fingers. "Do you fly Vipers too, sir? Or only Raptors?"

"Just Raptors," she confirms. "I leave Vipers to the professionals. I've flown them before, but just long enough to get familiar. How about you? Any interest in Raptors?"

Roubani smiles in spite of himself. "Raptor pilots are so humble," he observes in his soft voice. "I've never flown one, no. I've only seen the controls up close once, and that was in class."

Legacy chuckles softly and shakes her head. "We're as big of a pain in the ass as any Viper pilot you'll ever meet," she teases. "We just have more to prove. One of my ECOs is interested in learning Vipers, so I have her on quarter sim time with them as a way of cross training."

"People cross-train?" Roubani asks, raising an eyebrow curiously. "That must be taxing. She must be an impressive person."

"She is," Thea replies simply. "And cross-training is encouraged - though not too many people actually follow through on it. It's difficult. If her Raptor skills slip, she'll be pulled back to Raptor only. But I believe in allowing people the chance to explore and cross train where possible. It provides for a more well-rounded officer." She takes another sip of her scotch, seeming to savor it. "So, tell me more about you, Ensign. Where do you come to us from?"

Roubani listens to all that with interest, until she roundabouts to questions again. "Oh…nothing exciting. They had me on the Demeter, near Sagittaron. The Reactionless Drive project, flight propulsion research." Despite his preamble, his tone sounds wistful at having left it behind. "Have you been here long?"

"Aboard Kharon? Stationed here roughly four weeks, on board for three, give or take a few days for handling some business out of the station," Thea replies, lips twisting a touch wryly at the mention of business. "The squadron just finished up a rather long tour and are still trickling in. Most took about six weeks of leave, some a little more, some a little less."

"Excitement is intoxicating, but the mundane sustains," Roubani quotes with a brief smile. He pauses, then asks cautiously, "To be a Captain, that's…what, about ten years?"

"Fifteen years in, though I became Captain about a year ago," she tells him with a small smile. "The time flies when you're having fun. I went straight from the Academy to commission, so I had a bit of time in, unofficially, before that." She shifts in her chair slightly, getting a bit more comfortable. "How long are you planning on staying in?"

"Not much longer," Roubani says. His tone sounds almost apologetic, in the face of her service. "I'm still working out a grant. But I'd like to get back to school." He lets his leg down, tucking it under him instead. "Fifteen years is a long time. I'd…guess you don't plan to leave."

Thea seems to be one of those officers who's comfortable with a smile on her lips. "Not for some time, no," she confirms, shaking her head. "I'm at home in the military, a lifer. There aren't many of us left. But it's what I know, where I'm comfortable. Once I'm finished flying, I'll go back to the Academy to teach." Her head tilts slightly to the side. "How long have you been in?"

"Not counting flight training?" Roubani glances up and gently scratches his cheek. "This is my second year."

Ahhh, a short timer - and still a kid at that, Thea's expression seems to say. "We'll have to have a drink before you take off back to school," she assures him. "Proper way to see you off, with all the wing around to razz you back to civilian life."

Roubani smiles, in a slightly awkward kind of way. "Er, well. I suppose that'd be nice. I've…actually never had alcohol before. Sir."

There's a touch of surprise in her eyes, then she nods slightly. "Don't need to start just because you're leaving," she tells him gently, though there IS a touch of suspicion in her eyes. "We'll get them to fix you something sweet and non-alcoholic. Maybe even throw an umbrella in it for you."

Roubani breathes a laugh, relaxing a touch. "Do I strike you as a paper umbrella sort of man, sir?"

Thea's shoulder hitches slightly. "I don't know, Ensign," she teases. "Any man who's not had a drink before…Though, you strike me more of a green umbrella man than a pink or yellow one."

"Uh…thank you," Roubani answers, saying that as though he hasn't a clue what else to say. "You strike me as sort of a dark red."

Legacy laughs quietly and dips her head. "Thank you," she tells him, quirking a brow. "You realize the psychs would have a field day trying to analyze these color choices, yes?"

"So would physicists," Roubani says, smiling a little. "To be fair, we're a little more serious about it."

"That's who I meant, Ensign," she says with a quiet laugh. "And we are?"

Roubani actually turns a slight shade of red at the ears. "Er, I meant…physicists. With that. I studied physics. I'm sorry, I'm not usually so sinfully vague."

Thea blinks at him for a moment, then looks to her scotch before looking back to him. "This must be hitting me a little harder than I first thought," she muses with a wry smile. "And physicists as serious people…I never would have guessed." Her eyes twinkle just a bit. "And aren't physicists supposed to be vague?"

Roubani gives her drink a mildly curious look, then looks back at her face. "Physics, no. Physicists…" He lfits a hand palm-down, wavering it. "Okay, I'll give you that."

Legacy laughs quietly and shakes her head. "I can't say much since we pilots are pretty much the same way," she replies. Then she finishes off the drink and puts the glass aside. "Plain old scotch, I promise you. It normally doesn't bite much."

"Oh?" Roubani goes silent a moment before he asks, "Why do you drink it?"

"It goes down smooth," she explains, shifting to tuck a leg beneath her, boot and all. "It has a nice, oaky taste - if it's the good stuff." She glances to the glass with a soft smile. "And it reminds me of home. It was my father's drink of choice."

Roubani gives her a crooked smile. "Describing something as 'oaky' doesn't make it sound very good, sir. Those I suppose it's better than 'teaky'."

"Mmmm," Thea murmurs, considering that. "Oaky is good for scotch, teaky - not so much. The wood the alcohol is aged in flavors the drink. It's an earthy taste, very rich, especially if the alcohol has been aged for a good, long while."

"Oh, I see." Roubani says, though the statement is more polite than understanding. "I suppose those are compelling reasons to drink something."

Legacy chuckles softly and shakes her head. "It's an acquired taste," she assures him. "The taste is…quite nice when you get used to it. Rather like a favorite juice, only with a bit more of a kick."

Roubani nods slowly. "Aren't you…" He pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. "…aren't you afraid that it dulls your senses?"

"Only if I over-indulge," Thea says quietly. "I've been drinking so long that one drink really doesn't have a noticible effect on me. Not," she hastens to add, "That I'm an alcoholic. I've simply built up a tolerance. I don't drink it for the numbing effect. I drink it for the taste, for what it represents. Now, if I were drinking half of the bottle, yes, I'd worry about dulled senses." Her head tilts a little to the side. "Do you mind me asking why you've never tried alcohol?"

Roubani's head makes a similar tilt, then he shrugs. The self-consciousness is back as he clears his throat, breaking eye contact to look down. "I guess I've never seen a reason to."

"Fair enough," she says with a quiet laugh. "My boot class was…rather rowdy, as was my flight class. They thought nothing of drinking their liberty. 24 hours of leave? That meant 23 hours to drink, one hour to get sober."

Roubani nods, commenting softly, "That seems very irresponsible, sir."

Legacy quirks a brow and grins. "That was the point, Ensign," she says with a quiet laugh. "The prevailing attitude was that pilots work hard, play harder."

Roubani considers this, perhaps thinking back to his own time in flight school. "I see. I've never seen the pride in achieving -despite- onself, I suppose."

"Mmmm. I suppose you can look at it that way, or you can look on it as being young, having fun, and, in some cases, being stupid." Thea grins at that, shaking her head again. "Those were the good old days, and I'll quite happily never go back."

Matto has arrived.

Roubani is sitting at Thea's table, a notebook lying closed on the arm of his chair. The Captain has a glass which is empty now though smells of scotch. "Youth, fun, and stupidity aren't exactly correlated, sir. Albeit sometimes coincidental."

Legacy is in her off-duties again, file folder on her lap as she leans back in a chair, comfortable. "Very true," she tells Roubani with a solemn expression. "Us old folks occasionally have fun or get stupid, too."

"They do say that youth is wasted on the young," Roubani says, offering a slight smile now after all that seriousness.

Whether Kissybear has any notion of the discussion at Legacy's table isn't exactly clear. The Raptor pilot has more important things on his mind, his lips pressed firmly together as he stands on his toes to look way back on a high shelf of a games cabinet.

Waite has arrived.

Kai arrives from the Hallway - Deck 3, Fore.
Kai has arrived.

It would appear that the Game Room is THE place to be tonight. Thea is seated across from Roubani, chatting quietly. Kissybear is up on his toes, perusing a cabinet. "You know, I think they're right," Thea tells Roubani. "The young tend to pound back the alcohol without regard for quality. Us old folks like to savor the taste of a good alcohol, rather than drowning outselves in Kobol's Best."

Stepping into the room, Waite glances around, clearly a little startled at the crowd. She offers the occasional smile as she makes her way toward a chair. There is a book beneath one arm and a mug of something that steams softly in her hand. As she nears, the scent of coffee rises.

"It doesn't seem like you to stereotype, sir," Roubani says, folding his hands. "Those young that pound back alcohol seem to have a tendency to grow into old that pound back alcohol. Bad habits aren't easily broken." His tone is faintly disapproving. His attention drifts momentarily as people come in, and he glances up as Kissybear starts reaching for things.

Matto drags out a box from the top shelf, shifting it forward inch by inch until, grunting, he lowers it to his head and then down in front of him to tote back to his table. He seems, for his own part, sober, with no hint about him that he plans to become otherwise. He does, however, grab a roll of paper from the box, and two tubes of fingerpaints. Then another two. Setting out all the available colors for perusal.

Kai steps in dressed in offduties this evening, and bearing neither papers to be marked nor antiquated games to play. He spots Legacy and one of his pilots at a table, and heads that way after a moment's consideration.

"Not at all," Legacy tells Roubani cheerfully. "Usually the young ones who pound back the alcohol tend to be dead before they can get old. Moderation is usually learned after a year or two, then being jaded sets in. I rather imagine it's like when you were first learning physics? You bounce around from one specialty to the other without regard for what actually fits, then you finally find that one thing that DOES fit and you settle down with that. Such is the way with scotch."

Joined at the hip or so it seems are Matto and Poppy, so it seems strange (to Poppy at least) that Matto is off doing something when she isn't. It doesn't take her long to track him down, however, and soon she's wandering into the games room with her hands in her pockets and taking a look around. Yeesh, busy. All the same, she can spot the serious-faced Kisseus and she trots over to address him, "Whatcha doing?"

"Of course, sir," Roubani replies, in the manner of letting someone have their way. He does smile though, a small peace offering. His fingers slide the pencil out from the spirals of his notebook, and he starts to chew idly on the eraser until he spots Kai. "Captain."

Waite watches the unveiling of the paints and paper for a moment, her expression quietly interested. Catching motion out of the corner of her eye, she turns to spot Kai. Following his line of sight, she spots the pilots. Turning the rest of the way, she lifts her mug toward them and begins to wander that way.

Matto rips off a section of the rolling paper and sets it down curl-downward on the table so it doesn't roll up on itself. "I'm expressing myself," he replies. Oh-so-serious. He holds the roll out for Poppy. "It's healthy, 'dewn't-cha-know,'" he affects some sort of aristocratic accent. And grins at Waite, an inviting sort of look, as thought to say there's enough paint to make -everyone's- fingers messy. Which is really the point, isn't it?

Kai pulls out a chair, and then pulls something out of a pocket of his open jacket. It looks like a teabag. It probably is a teabag. "Ensign," is returned crisply, though not in an unfriendly manner. "Since it seems we've both been hard to catch the past day or two, do you have a moment now, Thea?" The question's asked as he moves away a few paces to pour hot water for his tea.

Waite smiles a little shyly at Matto and nods once. Still, she does not make her way back just yet. Reaching the 'pilot cluster', she once more lifts the mug in a greeting. "Sirs. Ensign." The coffee is sipped, but she does not seek a chair. Her gaze turns back toward the paint-pusher by the table.

Poppy reaches down to help keep the paper flat while Matto does his thing, although she's not quite jumping in herself for the moment - instead opting to lean back in her chair and watch him. "So I hear … what're you going to paint?"

Roubani is nothing if not polite. As Kai asks for Legacy's attention he gently rolls his chair away from the pair, pulling both feet up into it. He still doesn't open the notebook on his knees, folding his arms loosely over his waist as he watches the trio seemingly about to get messy with paint. A glance goes to Waite's pins before he offers any words, "Good evening, sir."

Legacy dips her head to Waite, once she catches sight of another of 'her own,' and offers the woman a warm smile. But the smile fades as she gives Kai a stricken look. "I got caught up with the CAG this afternoon," she tells him. "How about you and I wander down to the Mess Hall and get a bite of dinner?" As Roubani takes his leave, she nods to him, smile popping back into place.

Matto doesn't have any armsleeves to roll up, and therefore he just settles down on one knee on the chair, leaning over the impromptu canvas. "No idea," he replies. "Maybe something… a little bit…" he grabs up a bottle of red and squirts it onto the paper. "And a little bit," repeat. With orange. "And just a -liiittle bit…" again. Purple, this time.

Kai's unruffled by the look Legacy gives him, and watches her only a beat or two before turning back to his tea. The bag is dropped into boiling water, and smells distinctly of peppermint. "I'd love to. I hear they're serving meatloaf tonight, I'm sure it's an improvement over the roast beef, which practically requires a buzzsaw." He skirts around the painting that's going on, and starts for the door while sipping at his drink.

"Its colorful, I'll give you that," Poppy says, casting a critical eye over the painting before she leans forward to whisper to Matto with an air of conspiracy, "So, guess what."

Matto draws his other leg onto the chair, kneeling there and slouching over the paper as a thumb moves to snag a bit of the purple and mix it in the trailing end of the streak of orange, producing a rich brown spiral as he coaxes the colors together. "What's that, Poppyflower?"

Roubani rubs his upper arm, idly. He remains quiet, watching the painting in an unobtrusive sort of way. Looking down at his knees, he unfolds his arms and gently flips open the cover to his notebook, picking up his pencil.

Legacy rolls to her feet, following Kai out, expression somewhat bemused as she goes. Apparently Business Is Afoot with the pilot Captains.

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

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

Waite watches the two officers head out, then turns back to the painting, "It's pretty." She takes a few steps closer, her mug once more lifted. Taking a sip, she looks back to Roubani and she nods toward the painting, "Don't paint, Ensign?" Another step or two is taken and her attention returns to the swirling streaks.

"I was speaking with the Cap after you ran off to relieve that pea-sized bladder of yours," Poppy recounts, looking quite pleased with herself despite not having reached the point of the story yet, "And she figures if I put in the requisition for it, I can take some time practicing my piloting skills in the sims as well as in the ECO chair. Which reminds me … she said we oughta be getting in ten sim hours a week so we oughta work out a schedule of some sort." Upon hearing Waite's comment, she smiles and nudges Matto with her elbow, "You've got a fan, Kissybear."

Roubani looks up from the paper, giving Waite a questioning look. "Oh…I don't think I've ever tried. I wouldn't want to interrupt them." On his page he appears to be sketching something. Two semicircles have appeared in light pencil traces, next to each other. The beginnings of heads?

Matto keeps working the brown spiral with his thumb until the dab of purple runs out and the brown fades streakily into orange, thumbstroke by thumbstroke. "Ten sim hours, that's.. not bad. Mornings?" he wonders. "I know I could use something to get me out of bed and make me put myself to good use," he grins, then, looking to Waite, "Hey, thanks," he chuckles, "It's… a brownish orange blob," he grins. "Want to paint with us?" he invites, before turning back to Poppy, "You're not going to put me out of a job, are you, Poppyflower?" he asks her.

"You're still my favorite pilot," Poppy says affectionately, resting her head on Matto's shoulder for a moment, "I just figure I ought to be able to not crash the thing if you ever have to run off and pee in the middle of a hot zone or something."

Roubani gives Waite a faint smile as she moves off to paint or do whatever she does. Silence falls back over his area of the room and he watches the painting going on for a few seconds more before putting pencil back to paper.

"I'm your -only- pilot, Poppyflower," Kissybear reminds her with a chuckle, dragigng out a few lines of orange to streak through the squirt of red at various points for a partial starburst effect.

Roubani is sitting near a table a ways from Matto and Poppy, who are fingerpainting. There's a notebook open in his lap, on which he's idly writing, or drawing.

Poppy continues to lean back in the chair as she watches Matto make a wonderful work of art, "You're still my favorite. I even talked you up to the Cap … said you're one of the best pilots I've seen. She said she thought you were good, too." She puts on a forlorn look, although she's only joking, "Soon you're gonna be pushing papers at a desk and I'll have to run as bear for someone else."

A pair of Marines wander in, their haircuts readily identifying themselves as such. They're in their duty tans and talking about something or other. A darker skinned one is going on about something. " we round this corner and some dude is sprawled out on the ground, watchin' us, right? He's gutshot and not looking too good." The other Marine follows the talkative one over towards the snack machine. "So Mickelson orders us on towards engineering because this guy ain't got a weapon or a chance. Well as I'm passin him, he grabs my leg. I shake it off like its nothin' cuz he's on his way to checkin' out." A cubit goes into the machine and some tortilla chips are dropped down to the receiver. "Starts mutterin' something about a riddle or a problem or somethin. Para.. paradrag.. or.. ah hell. You want some of these?" He retrieves the small bag, opening it and offering it to the Other Marine.

"Since when am I getting promoted to desk monkey?" Kissybear wonders, "I've still got years of flying power hiding under this soft, fleshy exterior," he grins. "Don't worry, Poppyflower, you'll have to deal with making sure I don't get lost for a long time yet." Oh! Kissy knows this one. "A paradox!" he answers the Marine. "A most ingenious paradox," he adds, making feathery flourishes of red on the streaks of blood-smeared orange that radiate from the brown spiral.

Roubani's pencil keeps scratching quietly at his paper. More forms gradually take shape on the white, slowly resembling more and more of the room they're all sitting in, and the two forms doing their fingerpainting. As the Marines come in he gives them a distracted glance that lingers after the apparent end to the man's story.

Poppy cannot help but grin when Kissy jumps in on the conversation of the pair of marines, glancing over her shoulder at them - curious to see just how they respond.

The Marine looks to Matto, stopping as he's about to say more. The word hits him and the confusion on his face indicates that he's probably not the brightest of guys. "Paradox? What the frak is a paradox? Nah man, he was talkin' about some kinda ship. Moanin' 'bout how some bastard shot 'is ass." The second Marine looks to Matto for a moment and shrugs. He doesn't seem to know what the guy is talkin' about. "So c'mon, Gedrick, what else." The first Marine turns back at the begging and continues. "Like I just told the guy over my shoulder, he was whinin' about gettin' shot but he was on his last." The Marine dives a hand into the baggy, munching on chips as he talks. "Kept mutterin' a name even as we were shufflin' on down towards Engineering. Last I saw of the dude, he was pale as a ghost." Its so attractive watching someone eat and speak at the same time. They both turn and make their way back towards the hatch.

Waite must have been sort of off in the background. She winces a little as the Marines head out. The bits of fallen potato chip are given a faintly disguested glance as she sidesteps where they were standing on her way to the table where the finger painting is going on. A glance is spared for Roubani is sitting with his writing or sketching or whatever it is he is doing. Then, her attention is again drawn to the table.

Roubani had his pencil back to the paper, all set to continue sketching. Then abruptly his hand pauses, and his eyes come back up as though something had touched the back of his neck. "Paradigm." He lets his foot down to the floor, looking after the Marines. "Excuse me. 'Paradigm', is that what he said?"

Matto doesn't quite look very well, himself, at the seafood display across the room. But then he keeps painting. He tips his head to one side at the second suggestion. "A paradigm isn't a riddle," he points out. "At least, most peoples' paradigms aren't riddles," he adds with a grin, playing with reddened fingers in the orange paint now to make a goopy layer out to the red line, threaded with little streaks of red in the orange.

Poppy isn't the kind to be disgusted easily but she averts her gaze in favor of looking at Matto's painting all the same. Glancing up to spot Waite, she reaches out with a foot to nudge another seat at the table free, "Sit down. I'm Poppy and this is Kissy."

The Marine stops at the mention of 'Paradigm' and looks back towards Roubani. "Yeah. That's it. Puzzle'r some shit, right?" Apparently this upstanding member of the Corps doesn't have much care for manners - even in an off-duty area. He then looks to Matto. "It ain't? Damn. Ah well. Yeah.. Paradigm. Why?" The second Marine crosses his arms on his chest as if this might be some reason for a fight despite the innocent questions. The First looks between the two pilots for a moment with a lifted brow which makes him look even more like an idiot.

Waite glances over her shoulder at the Marines. She angles until she can cant a hip up to one of the nearby tables, her coffee mug resting against the lifted thigh. "What did the guy say? About the paradigm." Curiosity flickers in her gaze, though she looks between Matto and the Marines equally.

"Uh…" Roubani's mind glitches at the question, the corners of his eyes creasing as he tries to stay focused. "It's a…philosophical framework. A thought pattern. But…" Glitch again, back on track. It's like watching a TV screen as someone flips back and forth between channels. He glances at Waite, then back at the Marines, his manner focused. "Yes, do you happen to remember anything else he said, exactly?"

"Any sort of framework, really. You can have a logical paradigm… a grammatical paradigm… a rhetorical paradigm," Kissybear lists off a couple of sorts off of the top of his head as he begins in on the red sections in turn, keeping them unblended except for hte orange-red spikes.

Poppy takes a look around at the conversation she cannot really contribute to and opts to stay out of it. Leaning back in her chair, she holds one of the unopened tubes of paint in her hands and rolls it around - reading the instructions/ingredients on the side as she stifles a yawn.

The first Marine's jaw goes a little slack with Roubani's definition. Same with Kissybear. "Uh. Yeah. What I said.. a riddle." He tries to look intelligent about the whole matter. Tries. Second Marine just nods in agreement, giving the 'I totally knew that' look to Matto.. But Marine One looks to Waite then back to Roubani and shrugs. "Hellifiknow. Just what he was babblin' 'bout between his spittle. Kept low-hollarin' like my kid bother sneakin' back in at night. Sayin' they been cheated. Anyhow, mostly he was bitching about the guy who shot 'im. Called him Krendy.. Kramble? Kregs? I dunno. Something K-R-vowel." He shrugs and moves back for the door hatch once more, shoving more chips in his mouth.

Waite blinks at the Marines as she takes a sip of coffee, "Huh. Bizzare." Her gaze flickers to Poppy and Roubani, "Yeah, but it could also just be… An archetype. Or an example of one." She looks after the Marines, shuddering a bit at the way the chips are devoured. Some folk really do love their food.

Roubani seems a bit out of it where the debate on the definition of the word is concerned. "Thank you," he says quietly as the Marines turn to go, whether it's heard or not. He looks slightly pale, and gently clears his throat.

Matto mms, nodding to Waite, "That's from the rhetorical paradigm, I think. You set up a paradigm in your speech and then you match all your other examples to it. The paradigm becomes the exemplar," he goes on, lifting his thumb, then, to Poppy's cheek. Press. Press. Press-smear-squidge. Now it looks like a lady with very red and very exaggeratedly feminine lips gave Poppy a smooch on the cheek. "Kay Are Parenthetical Vee," he murmurs. "Do we know anyone by that name?"

Waite blushes a little and shrugs, "Probably. I'm not exactly up on the rules of logic or language." She watches the smearing and smiles, "See? Now, I wish I had a camera or something." When Roubani clears his throat, the other pilot turns his way. Noting the palor of the man's cheeks, she sobers, "You okay there, Ensign?"

"Don't think so," Poppy answers casually, apparently unphased by the fake kiss painted on her cheek by her favorite pilot, "Although I haven't met anyone yet."

Roubani snaps out of his thoughts when Waite speaks to him. The frown lingers on his face. "The Paradigm. That was the other freighter."

"It was?" Matto asks, looking, quite naturally, to his ECO for confirmation. It's like he thinks she carries that damned DRADIS screen around with her wherever she goes.

Waite tilts her head toward Roubani, "Yeah? That's a bit wierd. Do freighters typically have guns?" She looks around at the others one by one for either confirmation or denial. "I mean, if the guy was talking about the ship that shot him…?"

Roubani's ears have gone a slight red as he stands there, realising what a disturbance this is making. "I'm sorry, sirs, I didn't mean to interrupt your painting. Would you excuse me?" He picks up his notebook, half-done sketch of said painting party hidden as he closes the flap.

Matto hms! And gives Roubani a quiet sort of nod. But his painting seems mostly done. Some sort of demonic shuttlecock. Or perhaps a meteor. Or a flower, torn in eighths. He picks it up to inspect it with a 'critical' eye, getting fingerprints all over the sides of the paper, as well.

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