Rhona responds poorly to the latest prank perpetrated in the berthing.
Location: Officer Berthing, Deck 7, //Galactica//
Related Scenes: None
Scene Number: 926
The officers' berthing. The tranquil home of the dignified, professional officer corps. Where the models of decorum who make up the commissioned crew of the Galactica come to rest and relax. And where, at present, a small, dark haired Hibernian is throwing things against the bulkhead and lockers, ranging from smaller items like books and pens to, at one point at least, her entire mattress. "Which one of you little cunts has been going through my shit?" she demands to know, lobbing a mug towards the first unfortunate Ensign to poke a sleepy head from his pit. He has just enough time to duck, but not enough time to prevent the mug shattering on the back wall of his bunk, shedding sharp splinters of china all across his bedding and out onto the floor.
Eva has just come back from mail call, and has a carefully wrapped bundle of something soft and pliable, if the way she's squashing it is any indication, "I'm not sure what the frak is going on, but turning the room into a minefield isn't going to solve any problems. Unless you've just come from medical, in which case, throw away." Thankfully, she's not anywhere near the ensign, so no shards on her, but the poor guy gives a yelp as he gets some in his bare skin. She doesn't move further in, yet, stopping with one foot in and one foot out of the hatch.
A magazine is tossed out, fluttering to the deck and landing in an undignified mess of pages with a smiling picture of a popular sports personality holding a less popular carbonated beverage staring out across the berthings as though he, too, was judging Rhona's temper. "The frak's medical got to do with anything?" Rhona rages back, briefly pausing, tiny fists clenched around some kind of tactical sling device, which is then thrown towards the door and the Captain standing there. "There's a frakking thief in here, and I'm going to find them, and I'm going to frakking murder them!"
"It doesn't, which is exactly the point, Taxi. If your things have been stolen, throwing around and destroying the things you DO have left isn't going to fix the problem." She releases her package with one arm, a hand reaching out to snag the tactical harness with the other. She might like an extra slice of pie now and then, but her reflexes are still top notch, "Nor is it going to entice the thief to suddenly turn over their spoils." She looks at the harness and back at her fellow Hibernian, switching from Standard to Celtan, "Just giving everyone a better view of your trade-able goods."
The difference when Rhona switches languages to match, is a slightly more colourful vocabulary, but no lessening in temper. "Let the bastards see it all! But mostly let them see exactly what happens to the little gobshite who dares to steal from me," she calls back, running out of things to throw now and eyeing up the next bunk up. "ALL in this together MY SHINY WHITE ARSE!"
Eva steps fully into the berthing, not releasing the package, or making any attempt to return the sling. She doesn't seem put out by the language, and does not switch back to standard, "Wouldn't it make more sense to actually find out who stole your things, and then show them what you do to them?" She stands in clear view of the woman, in case she should need another target. "No, we're not all in this thing together, regardless of what the party line is, no more than we were when we were on Virgon, "But we," here, she uses an inflection that narrows the we to just she and Rhona, "can try to figure out who violated your space." And, in a place like this, with so much lack of privacy, it is a violation of the few scraps of dignity the military allows you.
Rhona takes a deep breath before she turns absolutely purple, and although she's still shaking, the fists begin to unclench and she turns more suspicious. Eva gets the eye. "We? And what the frak do you have to do with it, either? What do you know about Gary Gibbon?" The... what? Gary Gibbon? The beloved children's TV character? But Rhona is apparently deadly serious, about to start the inquisition about a cartoon monkey.
Eva steps forward, setting down the sling on the main communal table, "You're right, Ensign, as you said, we're not all in this together. Clearly I was mistaken in assuming that one Hibernian would be open to accepting help from another. Clearly that is not the case with you." Eva switches back to Standard, as she gets close enough to her bunk to toss her package onto it, before she makes her way over to the ensign whose still trying to painfully extricate himself from his bunk, "Just lie still, Harron, you don't want the medics picking splinters out of you for the next few hours." She answers Rhona's question, but doesn't look back at her, "I know he terrified me, and I refused to watch any skit he was in."
"'Help'," Rhona responds, and you can practically hear the quotes around the word. She scowls, dropping to one knee to find, amongst the debris of the various things she's managed to throw across the room, a surprisingly intact bobblehead doll. Of a well known monkey. "What the frak was this little bastard doing in my bunk, instead of my gum?" Yes. Apparently the whole hissy fit is over a pack of chewing gum. Gary Gibbon is brandished like a deadly weapon, his little bobbly head bobbling with a sort of malevolent leer.
Eva moves carefully, peeling away the layers of blankets, folding them back to try to contain the shards, before she helps Harron down from his bunk. Poor kid looks young enough to be her kid, "Go and wash, I'll clean up what I can." Once he's off on his way, Evan looks back, hands deliberately folding all of his bedding inward, taking the mug shards with it, eyes falling to the doll, "I have no idea. No more than I have any idea who the prankster is who's been pulling stunts like this since we first moved into the berthings. But taking a piss all over Harron, me, and anyone else who has to deal with the results of your temper tantrum isn't going to win you any favours in the popularity department. If anything, it will more likely than not, egg the prankster on to do something else worse to you, since he or she now knows they can get this sort of reaction from you."
"This," and the gibbon is waved threateningly, "is not a prank. This is personal," Rhona snarls, hauling back and hurling the offending bobblehead against the wall, despite Eva's exhortations that it might be less than helpful. "They know exactly what reaction they'll get from me... the grinning frakking monkey, of all things. THEY KNOW!"
"Then clearly, it must be someone who knows you better than, well, to be frank, pretty much all of us in this berthing with the exception of your backseater. Perhaps you should start by looking at the bunk assignments and seeing if any of the names twig some sort of recognition for you. With so many personnel, I know I don't know even half of the people in the berthings." Eva finishes bundling the sheeting, though she doesn't attempt to make the bed, as she obviously can't get into Harron's locker to take out his things.
Once again out of things to throw, Rhona satisfies herself with a fist thrown against the nearest locker in its place. Followed by a wince and an examination of her knuckles. She's hardly a prizefighter. "Got to be a Virgonese bastard. I'll check with Personnel. And when I find them..."
"If that's what you think, maybe you should start with your backseater." Eva steps carefully over the debris, trying to avoid as much as she can manage, "I mean, if she can't spot a bastard at twenty paces, considering she married one of the biggest ones Virgon every produced, then who can." Eva returns to her bunk, retrieving her package and a small penknife to but the binding tape.
Rhona rubs at her knuckles, looking up. "Why, who's she married to?" she asks, before scowling at the floor again, although it's less angry now and more resigned. Yes, she's well aware that she's going to have to clear this all up. "Frak! Whichever joker it is, they need to learn to stay well enough alone."
Eva unwraps her package. It's a big pile of fabric scraps and some skeins of yarn, which all flop out on her bunk. She folds the paper, neatly, and tucks it away in her locker, before she turns and takes a good look at the mess splattered all over floor and tabletops. She offers no comment, just starts picking things up and piling them on the table to be put back wherever they belong, "The last time I cared to know anything about her and her family, she was married to Zosimus Blake, MP for Boskirk Northwest.." She looks back over to Rhona, "You don't remember her face? She used to be plastered all OVER the promotional campaigns after she came out a war hero on Hibernia in 2209. You know the sort, 'Join the Navy, kill those worthless, mooner rebels'." Eva is of an age to have actually lived through that rebellion, and the Virgon response.
"I don't follow politics," Rhona is quick to insist, although Cressida's bunk gets a side eye. "What the frak's she doing here, then? Some kind of campaign? Frak's sake! Just when I start to think maybe they're not all bad... nope, turns out they are." She stoops to pick up a broken fragment of something or other and, looking directly into Eva's eyes, deliberately tosses it onto Wasp's bunk, challenging her to say something.
"Neither did I, until they started fighting us, and then I didn't have any choice. I was eight." Eva cleans enough of a space that she can head back to the hatch, poke around the side to the little utility closet and pop out the broom and dustpan. "No idea why she's here. She hasn't mentioned any reasons I've heard, though I rarely see her," they're not on the same shifts and also, clearly Eva is not looking to socialize with her. "And she hasn't really done much since she retired that I saw, except stand around for photo ops with her husband and pop out some kids. Maybe she's having a midlife crisis. Men buy cars and date younger, looser women, maybe this is her version." Eva comes back in in enough time to meet Rhona's eyes, see Rhona toss something into the bunk, and then, calmly turn to sweeping up debris. "Grab the dustpan, and I'll sweep it in." The clean up is going to take a while.