Laundry day turns into a discussion about whether anyone could have predicted what the Cylons became.
Related Scenes: None
Scene Number: 856
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Laundry Deck 8
Sat Nov 05, 2016 9:22pm ~ 11/05/2236
This is a fairly mundane room serving a fairly mundane purpose. It is one of many aboard the ship. Banks of washers and dryers line the walls, and are going at almost all hours. Tables and chairs are scattered around the interior of the room, and there's a soap dispenser set into one wall.
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The things about blues is this. They're almost comfortable enough that you could wear them in just about any situation, this is true. But, given that you can't disrespect the uniform, you end up looking like you're trying to live your life at attention. It's a lot of straight backs and awkward deep knee bends, especially when you're trying to get laundry in and out of the bottom rows of washers. As an aside, why is it that everyone always hogs the machines you can actually reach.
Anyway, it blues she's been reduced to, as Eva throws another load into the washer, before she rises, hands unconsciously smoothing the wrinkles out of her uniform, her words just above a mutter. "Nil Tada Nios Measa Na Bod Ina Seasamh." A second to start the load, and she heads back to the folding table, where she's turned out all of her duty greens.
While the Commander probably has lackeys to do her laundry, the CAG is not so fortunate. And so Kallas carts his wash in a standard-issue duffel bag over his shoulder. "What language is that?" he wonders idly, catching the mutter as he moves to a machine. He's wearing his duty green trousers and off-duty tanks, the sleeveless shirt showing off his biceps.
The solution to one pile, is many piles, as Eva gets to work, sorting through the single mound of clothes on the table to make many smaller mounds. Shirts, socks, pants, a random unmentionable bit that apparently wasn't supposed to be in there, as she tucks it down under the rest. At the sound of the hatch opening, she looks up, eyes getting that momentary glazed look, when you're trying to go through the rolodex in your head to see if you can place the face, before she snaps back into focus. Nope. "Celtan, sir." A few words, but enough, if one has the ear for it, to pick up on the accent. Hibernian, but not so broad as one would expect.
"Celtan," Kallas echoes with a little nod. "Don't hear that every day." He dumps his duffel bag on top of the washer and starts pulling clothes out. Glancing over at her, he notices the uniform, and the wings above it. "You're Thorne, right?"
"I have a feeling you'll be hearing it more than you might like, if the last few transports I saw leaving Virgon are anything to go by." It's fairly common knowledge that most of the Virgon military is only too happy to see the back of as many Celtans as they can foist off on the CF. She's definitely either been away from Hibernia for many years, or she's worked very hard at her diction to control the heaviness of her accent. She nods, to the question, "Yes, sir. My apologies for now stopping at your office for the full debrief, they threw me right into the rotation." She nods down to her blues, acknowledging that this is not the sort of environment one would normally wear their dress best, "It was this or my flight suit."
"More the merrier. Long as you can fly and shoot straight, I don't give a damn where you come from," Kallas says with a smirk. He waves off her apology. "Not much to debrief anyway, at this point. Everyone's still settling in." There's a soft chuckle at the flight suit comment. "Not sure which of those is less comfortable for doing laundry, actually." He stuffs his clothes in, with far less care than she displayed for the sorting, and switches on the machine.
Eva says, "It's a bit of a relief to hear you say that, if you don't mind me saying, sir." Things being as they are. But with the heavy backstory seemingly settled, she start working through folding the clothes on the table, laying them out at the edge of the table to be folded back into her duffel, "That is true. I wouldn't have to worry about tipping over backwards when I bend down to get things out of the bottom row." She stops midfold, as one of her alarms goes off, and she heads over to switch one load from washer to dryer, "If you don't mind me asking, sir, how is it going, the settling in? I've heard there's been a bit of issue with the living quarters." Could be environment, could be rats, could be people not wanting to get along."
"Not at all," Kallas says, "Wish more people shared that opinion. There'd be a lot less drama." He leans back against the washer, crossing his arms and watching her while he listens to the question. "There was some kind of snafu with one of the heating units in the forward section. They had to refit a few parts, but it should be fixed soon. I know everyone's anxious to have their real bunk assignments. Once a few more of the squadron arrive, we'll start having some training exercises."
She heads back to the table, finishing the load she'd been working on. "I won't lie and say that I haven't had uncharitable thoughts about where the Cylons could strike next, but it seems that we don't really have the room to let our old enmities hold us back from doing what we all came here to do. We all volunteered, nobody forced us here at gunpoint." They signed up to cooperate and all that. "I'm good as long as the curtain pulls shut, or I have a bag to throw over my head. Although...bunking out in the mess hall has its perks. First run of coffee in the morning. And I do like a good midnight snack."
Kallas chuckles. "Well, I suppose there are still a few hatchets to bury. And I'm glad you're one of the volunteers, but we've got more than a few around here who didn't. Some seem to think they drew the short straw. Me? I like being the tip of the spear." He grins briefly at that before offering a sympathetic chuckle to her bunking situation. "Mess hall huh? Beats a foxhole, at least."
Eva's brows furrow, as she considers the Major's words, "I hadn't realized, to be honest. This is the first time...in a long time that I've really done intercolonial operations. I did the smallest bit of support for when the ICJPK was in our system, but most of my duty's been strictly Virgon. I haven't had much experience with how the other colonies have been handling their military. They were turning people away when I was last on the ground at NAB Hatteras." She nods, grabbing her duffel and dumping out the remainder on the floor, before she starts repacking the load she folded, "I suppose this is the point where I realize it's too late, and I should have brushed u on the regs from other colonies, but I suppose as long as you're not putting me on a trash duty, I'm still in your good graces."
"I don't expect everyone to be an expert on every colony's regs, Captain. Just the CF ones," Kallas replies good-naturedly. "But the more you know, can't hurt. Keeps it all in perspective, with where everyone's coming from. I came up with the Foreign Legion, so I've been around people from all over. Keeps you on your toes."
Eva actually smiles, at the revelation, looking almost wistful, "If my Da hadn't still been on Hibernia, I might have considered running off to join the Foreign Legion. We used to hear stories about them. Adventure and camaraderie and all that. Everyone welcome, with a chance to earn your citizenship. It must be nice to be wanted." Although how much the FL actually does want its inter-colonial recruits and how much is just propaganda to pad the military ranks is not something Eva knows for sure. She heads over as one of her loads finishes, doing that awkward knee bend again to get to the clothes in the back of the dryer. She loses her balance momentarily, a hand reaching back to hit the ground, stopping her from falling back on her ass. She grins, looking up at the Major, "I swear I fly better than I housekeep."
Kallas offers a pleasant grin. "It was all that. Good people." He chuckles at her housekeeping remark. "Hey, as long as your uniforms come out the right color, you're ahead of the game in my book. This one time, something red got in with my whites - I don't know how in the hell that happened, by the way - but I was wearing pink boxers and socks for a week until I could get to the PX."
Eva looks over, as she gathers up the clothes into a big wad and rises, heading back to her designated table, her expression deadly serious, "You turned them in?" She manages to look scandalized. "I would kill for pink underwear." She breaks into another grin, "I would feel like such a rebel." And then, more seriously, though the humour still hits her eyes, as she looks you over. Not in a lascivious way, but more a measuring, taking in hair, colouring, skin tone sort of thing. "And the colour might have suited you." She makes a show of looking through her own things, but sadly, even her unmentionables are unworthy of mention. Nothing red to be seen anywhere.
There's a snort of laughter. "Turn them in? Oh hell no, I never would've heard the end of that. Those babies got put out of their misery when I got some new ones." Kallas smirks.
Eva actually looks mildly disappointed, at the news that they've been put down. "Ah. Sad. I might have traded with you for the tshirts." She'd never have been able to wear them regulation style but still. Pink Underwear, yo. She keeps working, so long in service that she doesn't even have to look to see if she's folding to regulation. Though, given the circumstances, well, that probably doesn't matter, "Sorry, old habits. I'm a bit of s scrounger."
Kallas chuckles again. "Get creative and I'm sure you can make your own. Got to be something with red ink or dye somewhere on this damn ship - it's big enough anyway." Nevermind the uniform regs, though. He's probably teasing. "Scrounger, huh? Been aboard old ships?" he wonders.
"Can you believe it? The first time I saw it, I though you couldn't walk from end to end in a day. That view over the bow was like an optical illusion." Of course it really isn't THAT massive, but compared to the other military ships, it is. "To many. Ever since the "peace"," you know the one that supposedly exists between Leonis and Virgon, "there hasn't been much call for new ships, so they've been trying to make due with what they have. Although, I suppose ti doesn't help that the monarchy is falling apart. I suppose they think they have to pinch pennies where it will affect them least." It's not their sons and daughters fighting their wars after all, "But I think I just got it from growing up on Hibernia. Da was a miner, was just me and him, so we had to learn to make due."
"Yeah - and as big as the ship is, the shipyards hold two of them. It's insane." Kallas's washer clicks off, so he starts transferring things to the dryer. "Bet they're regretting all those cutbacks now. People don't seem as expensive compared to Cylon =s any more," he reasons with pursed lips.
"We created something, and then we didn't take responsibility for what we created." She pauses, hands still, in mid jacket fold, "We had just started introducing them into the mines. We didn't have enough miners to handle the materials needs the company was demanding. They wanted more tylium, and they didn't care how we got it for them. But when a mine shaft would cave in, if a cylon was crushed, we just threw it on the junkpile." She frowns, hands returning to her task, "There wasn't even any family to notify. It was just a machine." A pause, before she continues, "I won't dare to intimate that I understand the logic of a Cylon, because I don't, but, doesn't every oppressed being have its breaking point?" A beat, "That doesn't mean, of course, that I won't destroy every one of them I can."
Kallas hitches a shoulder, going back to leaning against the washing machine now that he's switched his stuff over to the dryer. "You really think anyone could've predicted what happened? This washing machine isn't going to get pissed off if I put my boot to it." He demonstrates with a swift kick to its front, then grins. "I hope. Maybe I'd better watch my back though. My point though... we don't worry about our Viper's feelings. We don't worry about 'oppressing' our TVs. The Cylons were machines. Till one day they weren't." He gives a what-can-you-do shrug.
The laundry is relatively empty, all things considered. A man, tall, brunette, dressed in off duty greens, and a woman, redhead, dressed in dress blues are the only two occupants, their voices rising above the rumble and whirr of the machinery. He's standing by the washing machines, leaning against one, she's folding uniforms at one of the folding tables.
"Yes, the Cylons were machines, but a Cylon was never made to be a washing machine, or a Viper, or a television. A washing machine wasn't built to be able to think for itself, to take in new information and process it based on previous experience and programming. I think that the people who built the Cylons originally, were so caught up in thinking about what they could get the Cylons to do, and how they could make life "easier" for humanity, that they didn't consider how badly things could potentially go wrong. It's like...she pauses, considering, "There was a fruit tree species on Virgon, that they tried to genetically engineer to make it more hardy. It all looked fine in the labs, and even in the greenhouses, but when they put it out in the world, they found out that it completely overran all the other trees planted around it. It became completely invasive and destroyed a lot of other plants the ecosystem needed." Eva shakes her head, "They planted the seeds. Now it's our job to clean up their mess."
Ramsay , still in his duty greens, walks in carrying a small bag of laundry. He sighs slightly and wrinkles his nose a bit. "As long as you're cleaning up messes," he holds out his bag to the Captain, "Feel like handling this one?"
"Sure, we know all that now," Kallas agrees. "But at the time? They were made to be machines, that's all. More sophisticated programming than the washing machine, but still just programming. Algorithms. You don't expect a computer program to go off and get a mind of its own any more than you expect that fruit tree to grow legs." It's a serious conversation, but Kallas' manner is still easy-going, a light smile lingering. He smirks and raises an eyebrow when Ramsay addresses the Captain, but doesn't comment on it. In his off-duty tanktops and green trousers, Kallas is not wearing any visible rank insignia.
Like many others, Antonie Niemec is still without proper berthings. She's left her duffel in the rec room, staking out some space. But a few things have been retrieved from it. Primarily clothing that she hadn't had a chance to properly wash before being given her assignment to Galactica. The Raptor pilot is in off-duties as she makes her way in; a book held in one hand and a bundle of clothing -- duty blues, primarily -- gathered under the opposite arm. She's reading as she goes, though the way the woman leans to glance through the hatch before stepping through indicates that she's likely made a few wrong turns before reaching her final destination. One presumes. It's not often one slouches about with rumpled laundry tucked beneath an arm.
Eva looks over at Ramsay, pointedly at his face and then at the bag of laundry he's holding out to her, "Perhaps if I knew you better, but I have no idea where those things have been." She reaches out, pushing her clothing to one side of the table, to give room, if needed, though there are other places to sort and fold, "I suppose you're right, sir, but it's just so damned frustrating. We've lost too many people not to ask, even if it isn't fair, "How could you not have thought that far ahead. Failsafes, something." She pauses, pausing in the conversation as she sees yet another person walk in. She may be finding a sort of easy camaraderie with her CAG, but these are two decidedly unknown elements. "You've got it in one," she offers to the woman who seems to be searching for water and some soap.
Ramsay chuckle's at Eva's quip, looks to the empty space and give a nod of acknowledgement. He takes a few steps to a different folding table - close enough to be sociable, but not so close as to be in anyone's space and plunks down his bag. "Who says they didn't build in failsafes? The machines did something no one thought possible. Maybe they figured out how to turn the failsafes off."
Kallas chuckles at Eva's response to Ramsay, but then sobers up when Eva mentions losing people. "I hear you, Captain. Frustrating doesn't cover the half of it. All I'm saying - hindsight's always 20/20." He nods to Ramsay. "That's a good point too. I'm sure they had some sort of 'off' switch." He offers Niemec a slight nod when she arrives.
In her off-duties, Niemec's tattoos (which her player will eventually detail out) are all the more visible. They do largely mark the woman as Tauran. Few others are that extensive in the way they mark their bodies. The woman looks over the book towards the occupants of the laundry and blinks just once. "I swear, one could get lost and not be found for weeks on this thing." The accent cements the colony she's from. Thick enough to not even be an ex-pat. Rather than head to a table, she just hikes her way to one of the washing machines. The book -- some study into Tauron history, by the looks of it' -- is set on another washer as she starts dumping her clothes into the chosen victim of a machine.
"Well, maybe not weeks..." Ramsay offers a warm smile to the newer newcomer and greets her in Tauran. "Schto."
Eva nods, the gesture seemingly encompassing Kallas and Ramsay. In answer to Kallas's response, "I have been trying not to lay blame, but it's difficult when you see what's going on down there. Especially when you hear about more people getting taken to the camps." Her own accent is modulated, Hibernian, but not a strong one. Well-modulated. "I was thinking much the same thing when I came in," Eva offers to Niemec's comment, "It's just too large to seem real." She doesn't, you know, creepy stare, but it's clear that she hasn't seen Tauron tattooing much, and she's studying the other woman with obvious curiosity.
After a brief pause, Ramsay gives a look to Kallas and Eva. "Means 'Hello.'"
"Only natural," Kallas agrees on the whole laying blame thing. "It's a world of shit Graystone started for us." The brief somber moment is broken with a smirk at Niemec. "You'll get used to it. It's only, what, a mile long? Still, bigger than anything I've ever imagined." He glances at the progress meter on the dryer. "I'm going to go grab some coffee while this stuff finishes up. Good chatting with you Captain." That was to Eva, then the other two get a cordial nod as well as the CAG heads toward the hatch.
"Good to meet you, sir, thanks for the conversation." Eva watches Kallas head out, before she turns back to the room.
There is a brief flicker of surprise in Niemec's features at the greeting. Another Tauran? She finally takes in Ramsay and lifts her chin in an upnod for her fellow colonial. The lid of the washer is closed after appropriate things are added. Like soap. The woman picks her book back up, watching the man leave the room. "Only a mile. Frak me I've been on bases smaller than this ship."
"The thing about making life easier is that it makes us complacent. We forget that life is supposed to be full of challenges. It's how we grow." Ramsay turns his head to Eva, unpacking his bag as he speaks. "If we make it too easy, what point is there to being here at all? I wonder if the Cylons with their mechanical brains and number-crunching algorithms figured that out and decided not to make things as easy as Graystone hoped."
Eva nods to Ramsay, "Thank you for the translation. I have a feeling I'm going to need quite a bit before too long." She finishes folding the laundry she was working on, as the last of her loads beeps in the washing machine, and she ducks around the table to switch it out into the dryer. Once again, she does that awkward deep knee bend to try to move without wrinkling her uniform too much. "Frak it." She heads back to her table, picking up a full set of her newly washed duty greens, and heading over to hide behind a bank of washers. She pitches her voice to allow her to answer Ramsay, "You're preaching to the choir here. We never had much use for the Cylons on Hibernia. All they did was make the government raise the quota on Tylium." She pauses, her voice muffled as she works her way through changing clothes, "Or they just decided they just didn't care about us at all, no matter what their programming."
"Ain't nothing we've not seen before," Niemec calls towards Eva. "Least not on Tauron. Shared head, shared berthings. Seems about the same here." There's a hint of teasing to the brunette's words. The woman moves to hip up atop the washer next to the one she's using. Foot is drawn up to wedge against the edge of the machine as she drapes arm over her knee to hold her book. For the most part, she seems perfectly happy to leave the others to their talk on Cylons.
Ramsay drops the armload of laundry freshly removed from his duffle into a machine. Adds the essentials, and toggles the wash cycle. Nothing. The machine mocks him. "So many fives of currencies went into this marvel of modern engineering and the washer doesn't even work?" He thumps it with the palm of his hand. "I bet it says 'Made in Caprica' on the inside."
Eva goes up on her tiptoes, just tall enough to be able to peek over the top of the washers in the direction of Neimec's voice, "Well, shouldn't I try to keep some of the mystery? I can't just give the milk away for free." Her lips curl in a smile, before she ducks back down and comes around the edge of the washers, now is much more comfortable greens. "Eva Thorne, by the by. We haven't met." She glances over at Ramsay, "Is that the washer the CAG kicked earlier? Maybe it is revolting."
Ramsay says, "Oh, it's revolting alright. My clothes are covered in laundry goo and now I have to move them to a new machine."
"If you're hiding something I'm not familiar with, I'm not sure I want to know. I've seen a third nipple before. It ain't pretty." Niemec lowers her book a bit to look towards Ramsay and his revolting machine. "Brand new ship and something isn't working? Well, good to know Caprica's decided to truly emulate the military experience." Her voice -- accent and all -- is rather droll. "Antonie Niemec," she offers in return before looking back to her novel.
"Just think of it as basic training all over again, house keeping edition. If all else fails, there's a sink back there." She points back towards where she changed. "Then all you'd have to worry about would be wrinkled fingertips." She tosses her uniform into the final pile, "That's what I think of you." She looks back to Neimec, "Only two, thankfully."
Ramsay realizes he's skipped the 'introduction' phase of the conversation. "Iosif Ramsay. Just 'Ramsay' is fine. Only people who don't like me call me Iosif."
Shifting, Niemic moves to the floor, kicking absently at the machine she'd been sitting on. "Try this one." Her chosen machine, at least, seems to be rumbling along quite happily. "I thought people just used terms like 'bastard' in that case. Ramsay it is, then. For now." She dogears the page of the book she's on, looking towards Eva. There's a sort of arch of brow and a smirk. "Now, can't know that for sure, can we? Not when you're hiding."
Ramsay pulls his clothes from the defective machine, smearing laundry goo all over his greens. "In Socialist Tauron," he sighs. "Laundry washes you.
"Then I should most definitely make sure I remember that." Eva takes her time, in all seriousness though, as she takes a moment to pronounce both of the names offered her, Niemec's and Ramsay's. Of course, it sounds a bit off, given her lack of familiarity with the language, but there's a genuine interest in getting the sound just right, and she'll pause after each attempt, to give either of them a chance to correct her. "Well, maybe once we get back to the berthing," is her reply to Niemec's quip.
"I really do not have time for this, Mr. Caprica." Ramsay kicks the machine and nudges the lid down with an elbow. He shoves the partially damp pile into his bag and pulls the drawstring. "Ladies. I apologize for the abrupt departure, but I have a report due when 'A' shift being." He takes three steps toward the hatch when the console lights on the defective washer dance slightly and the machine begins to fill with water.
"I don't even have my berthing yet. Guess I'll have to share yours." Niemec offers this towards Eva before her attention shifts back to Ramsay. There's a rise and fall of her shoulders in a shrug. "Joys of being a pilot right now. They've got ... well, nothing much for us to do." Except get bitched at by deckies who don't want to see the nice and shiny birds all dinged up.
"I'm still waiting to see where I end up, I'm supposed to have a bunk somewhere, but I haven't stopped by to get the exact assignment. I'm fine with sharing as long as you don't kick." She gets to work on the last of what's on the table, down to only two loads, her voice thoughtful, "Although I'm considering asking if they could put me up in the mess hall. Who doesn't want all access to coffee and donuts." A thoughtful expression replaces the humourous one, "Does this boat have sims? If we can't fly the real thing, I might be interested to see how you fly, and pick up any moves you might have that I don't. And vis versa."
"My bunk hall ain't even ready yet. I'm some sorta refugee in the rec room. I'll be lucky if I can get the assholes to shut off the television long enough to get some shut eye." Niemec casts a look towards her washer. Likely checking the status of it. "Mess hall sounds a bit better. Especially with those donuts." The Raptor pilot might just be considering moving her things and claiming a spot. At the question, she shrugs. "Not sure, but I doubt it. Sims gotta be networked and I hear this ship ain't got any of that."
Eva takes a moment, considering, and then nodding, as if making up her mind, "Once I get my assignment, I don't mind sharing. Easy enough to figure out a sleep schedule, when you don't have CAPs or regular duty assignments. Not being able to sleep comfortably, it wears you down before you know it." She continues to fill her duffel, packing in her clean clothes. From the amount, it seems as if she just decided to wash every bit of clothing she owned in one go. "Well, I can make due with a dry erase marker and a board. If you're interested, that is."
"Shouldn't be that hard to get to check out a few ships. Get the hang of 'em and all that. Some of us haven't ever had anything so new to play with." Which is likely why the deckies don't want them to. Niemec glances up to Eva and flashes a brief smile. "Mostly joking, but if you get your bunk before I do, I wouldn't protest a nap now and then."
"I wouldn't mind pushing for it, myself. Seems as if Virgon's spent the last few decades defunding the military and there were a few commands where I swear we spent more time working the deck than actually flying to keep running." Of course, she is Hibernian, she might have just gotten the shite duties, who knows. "But I'd hate for my first time being in one of these things to be when I'm going out there to face a Cylon." Eva settles in, waiting for the last of her loads. She does look at the collection of blues. "I do not have the strength." They can wait.
"Virgon, not treating things vital to its function properly? Color me surprised." It may have been a handful of generations since Virgon subjugated Tauron... But they are a proudly independent people. Something Hibernians may be able to sympathize with. "We just didn't have the funds, really. We'll have CAP, I'm sure, but that's not a time to just learn." Niemec rolls her shoulders before moving back to sit on a machine. "I'll talk to the CAG about it." A glance to the other woman, then to Ramsay's ... still functioning (second) washer. "I'll keep an eye on things if you need to go."
"Thanks. Let me see if I can track down the requisition officer and figure out where I'm headed. I'll pop back in to let you know." Whether it seems weird or not, the truth is, she knows too much about having to make due. Too much not to help if she can, "Maybe I should have done his laundry after all." A grin, before she heads out through the hatch, but, hopefully, soon to return.