A little advice from Irene about a letter Ines is writing turns into a brief chance for the new viper pilot to get to know one of her bunkroom C bunkmates. They're joined eventually by a zombie-zebra with //shocking revelations you won't want to miss.//
Location: Bunkroom C
Related Scenes: None
Scene Number: 1417
Bunkroom C is largely empty at the moment -- one of those rare, brief windows of time during which schedules and stars align, and one or two lucky soldiers find themselves with an empty berthing and all of the comparative peace and quiet that such a thing offers. Most would use it for sleep, but it's early in the 'day' for Ines, whose patrol won't be until the wee hours.
She's just-showered, if the aroma of the bunkroom is anything by which to judge. She keeps few things in her actual bunk, but among those things are pricey lotions, good shampoos, hand-milled soaps -- vanity, or perhaps vice. Damp hair clipped up behind her head, she's sitting lotus on her bunk, bent over a leather portfolio containing stationery, writing.
The gray curtain on bunk five, bottom, slides back. Bare feet swing out followed naturally by bare legs and eventually the rest of the attached pilot, Irene. When she's up and standing, she stretches her arms up over her head and then lets them drop for a limp shaking out. She looks appallingly chipper, like a truly annoying morning person. Not a lingering bit of lethargy clings to her, just energy winding up to high intensity. She's polite enough not to shatter the quiet atmosphere, but pads over to her locker in her tanks and bottoms to pop it open. Ines, being straight across the 'street' is smiled at during the short journey.
Pale eyes flick up at the sound of sliding curtains, land on Irene. Well: on feet, then legs, then Irene, the latter of whom she furnishes a small smile for before her eyes drop to the page in front of her again.
"What do you think," she says, tone mellow and slightly distracted. "'I'm going to shortsheet my bunkmate's bed for being insufferable and he'll probably do something rash,' or, 'I shortsheeted my bunkmate's bed for being insufferable, and he did something rash?'" She bites the inside of her cheek, hollowing it out. "If you were infantry on Leonis, which would you rather read? It's difficult to keep people up to date with how long it takes letters to arrive, but if you start guessing to keep it fresh, sometimes you're going to be wrong."
The locker door is swung back and the mirror mounted inside peered into, so that Irene can check her face for eye crust or whatever else. She looks perfectly presentable though, so busies herself by pulling her hair up into a small, loose but otherwise functional bun. She's fixing it in place when the question is posed by the other pilot, and she considers it carefully, "The first, it will make them eager for another letter, so they can find out what happens." After, she takes a rolled up towel from the shelf and tucks it under her arm, then puts her hand through the ties of her shower bag so it hangs from her wrist. There's a sudden grin at that point, "Is Tomak giving you grief?"
Ines lifts an index finger off of the fountain pen in her hand and points at Irene with it. "Good thought." The pen whispers on the page, a scratchy little noise barely audible above the sound of the Dauntless. She punctuates the sentence by stabbing the point into the page, and then smirks, capping the pen and leaning back into her hands on the bunktop behind her. "Sort of. Not exactly. I'm more like...collateral damage." Her head rolls to the side, angled over one shoulder, and then she gasps and sits up, realizing: "Iris! You've got to be in one of my letters!" A little bit of sheepishness percolates up through her eagerness. "I send pictures with my letters. Obviously, I should put 'Daisy frakking Bean' into one of them."
Well, that sounds interesting! Almost like... gossip! Irene closes the locker and pads right on over, stepping up on the center bench and over to reach bunk number one. Now, she doesn't lean in to nosey nieghbor the letter itself, but folds her arms on the edge of Ines's bunk and raises her brows up at the Leonese pilot. "Oh, tell, tell! What happened? Do you need me to wrestle him? I will." It's not entirely clear how that would help, but at least she's offering? As for the rest she snorts out a soft laugh, "I doubt they'll know who I am, but okay."
Ines doesn't seem too worried about nosy-neighboring, given her response to Irene propping herself on the bunk edge is to scoot over to one side and give the Virgon -- Virgonian? Virgonese? Virgoni? -- a place to sit. That turns into a lean to the side, one arm outstretched to drag her instant camera out of the corner she tossed it into. It's an old thing, done in out-of-fashion colors. It has a flip-up front end, and spits little square photos out of the front, the only real way to include pictures in letters with any economy of time from aboard a vessel.
"Oh, definitely," Ines says without missing a beat, of Irene's offer to wrestle the unwitting Tauran. "Yes. Please. Anyway, who cares whether they know before they get the letter? They will after. I hope you get royalties from things."
It's a few moments before she comes back around to answering the other question. "Oh, you know how it is on tubs like this. Mixed signals and crossed wires, and then people want to..." She gestures meaninglessly with one splayed hand, fiddling with the camera. "...talk about it. But not with each other, because heaven forfend anything get sorted out."
And that's invite enough for Irene, so she gracefully monkeys up into the top bunk and settles in, cross legged next to Ines. She puts her towel and shower bag at her feet and has an unabashed look about, checking out all the decor. "All the time. How else could I afford this lavish lifestyle?" She laughs as she unbuns her hair and shakes it out, tousling it artfully down and out so that she looks a bit glamorous. "So, somebody likes Tomak but won't tell him, and he's his usual grumpy self and unapproachable? Or they thought green light and then he was all red light on them?" She's totally fascinated.
The bunk is sparse. There are only two things in it that could be considered decorative: a very small orchid that probably won't live terribly long, given the lack of anything even remotely like natural light, and a wooden box with an enameled lid, one corner of which has been broken off. There's a small glass jar containing a snarl of stained metal, and those aforementioned toiletries, which are probably the reason her actual bunk smells like a girls' room in spite of the determined odor of 'soldiers on a working vessel' that permeates the rest of the berthings.
"I saw you with those shopping bags on Caprica," Ines points out, one of her brows arching. She flips the front of the camera up with a click, and then twists at the waist, lifting it. Unless she's forcibly stopped, she is going to take that picture right now. "And honestly, I don't know the details. She thinks he hates her. I told her to just ask him. Nobody ever likes that solution, though."
"I like clothes." Irene admits, as though she's finally revealing her not so secret hard drug addiction or something and she hasn't fully grappled with the immensity of that habit yet either. She takes a breath and blinks back the coming of some tears over her weakness to shopping, but then it passes and she's smiling again. Acting! "Oh, it's like that? He probably does hate her. I'm not sure why that'd be a problem, I mean, it's Tomak. That's his thing. It just makes me want to hug him which is probably why I wasn't permitted to date when I was younger." Oh, camera! She shifts a little and turns her head to the perfect angle for photographs, like she's a professional or something. She'll freeze like that until she hears the click. "How's it look? I don't want to hurt morale with a bad picture."
CLICK. WHIRRRRRRRR. The camera spits the photo out, little white border and all. It's grey and will be for some time, but Ines hands it over to be screened for acceptability by the object of the image, and snaps the camera's front hinge closed again with a plastic rap. "That's what I said. It's just one marine's opinion, what does it matter even if he does?" Sitting in silence a moment, she ends that silence by closing her eyes and folding her hand over them, a sigh leaking out of her like air through a punctured bike tire. "Which probably means she does."
Whump. She tilts over backward, then winces and reaches behind her head to drag the clip out of her hair. "Fantastique. I am not a good referee for this."
What Irene actually said gradually sinks in through various theatrics. She rolls her head to the side, brow quirked. "You weren't allowed to date?"
"Let them work it out between themselves. For your own sanity." Irene quietly insists, waving the still grey photo around as she does. It still doesn't look like anything, but she echoes Ines with a loose approximation of the Leonese accent, "Fantastique." The word rolls around on her tongue and she repeats it, smiling as though she really likes it. She might have to add it to her vocabulary. As for dating, she slowly looks up from the flapping candid in hand and nods, "Not much, because I was in the public eye and my grandparents are very important people, and I had terrible taste. How about you?"
"I want to!" With mock petulance, she slaps her hand down on the 'mattress' beside her hip. "But she won't! And he just left me there -- " Silence descends suddenly, and her danger-zone eyebrow configuration smooths out again, serenity restored by one thought: "It's fine. I'll just short-sheet his bed and then consider us even." Because, surely, that won't escalate somehow.
Her lips quirk, muted grey-green eyes lifting alongside her hand, index and thumb touched together in an 'ok' gesture. "Your pronunciation is pretty good."
The question gets a little bit more contemplation than it maybe needs. "I was allowed eventually. Leonese high society -- " She says that in the tone of someone failing to take it at all seriously, " -- is very fond of pressuring the young into aesthetically pleasing pairings." Her lips pinch as though she'd bitten a wedge of lemon. Gravely, eyes distant, like a veteran's: "So much pomade, Iris. The pants so tight."
Surely not! Irene gives the thumbs up to the plan. Given that hers was to wrestle him, short-sheeting sounds a lot more restrained. There's a grin at the compliment, and she tunes up the accent a bit more for one last repetition that sounds a bit saucier than it probably should. "Fantastique!" As for the other pilot's dating revelations, she's in full sympathy mode for that, "Oh, you poor thing. They've been pairing me up with very stiff and proper Virgan lordlings in very sharp uniforms with lots of shiny medals on them. I feel your pain. Are you a princess or something?"
The 'ok' hand turns into a thumbs-up. "Like this," she agrees, meaning the second attempt was better than the first. "The more flounce the better."
So she's already looking amused, even pleased, when that question comes, and it handily shatters her. She laughs outright, hard enough that it tilts her head back and narrows her eyes almost to closing. "No. Just..." The humor doesn't evaporate, but it wanes slowly until she slow-blinks and shrugs, and gradually curls upright. "My family had money. Insofar as that makes anyone important, that was the limit."
Curious, she studies the blonde sidelong. "You don't like proper Virgan lordlings in sharp uniforms with shiny medals on them?" One brow rises. "Like this Brend?"
"Brend? He's Caprican and a former co-star. And you mustn't ever date actors." Irene tells her very, very solemnly. She doesn't go so far as to demand she promise she never date actors, but her tone suggests she's tempted. There's a beat or two there, as she watches some faint shadows coalesce on the photo she's still waving, then, "I suppose lordlings are fine. They have money and wooded estates in the country with horses and yachts and, if they themselves were interesting and romantic I suppose it'd be quite ideal. But they're just so formal and proper... I want to mess up their hair and make them eat mud pies. It's childish, but I can't help it. I'm a farmgirl at heart. I could set you up with one, if you want. The next time there's a formal ball, we'll get a matching pair. They do look good."
Two little notes of humor in Ines' throat for the cautioning, somber as it is, against dating actors. The light of her levity sticks around in her eyes, but she listens to everything that follows with quiet interest, ever curious about other people and looking for the nuances in Irene's expression -- always for whatever sits between the lines.
The last offer wins a flash of a smile, but she makes a 'tss' sound and flaps her hand dismissively, eyes lidding. "No. They would hate it. I'm not -- " She grapples for the word. "Containable." She crinkles her nose playfully, a kind of self-deprecating smile, a little impish. "Reputation-ruining, I am sure." There's a pause, and then, more seriously: "I haven't really been interested since basic, actually. It's time-consuming, trying not to get shot out of the sky."
Irene is super extremely serious about actors, but that evaporates back to her cheerful, untroubled default state soon enough. At the 'tss', she looks over at Ines and listens with a slowly climbing eyebrow of uncertainty and curiosity all mixed together. "If you're that wild, I suppose I shouldn't unleash you on any of those poor Virgan bachelors. You might make one cry and then I think they'd actually implode somehow." She makes a fist suddenly, like that's how it would go, a tear would pop out and shluck they'd implode in on themselves from the strain of all that emotion at once. There's a few little nods for the rest, agreeing, "Me either, honestly. My raptor is my significant other now."
"Ah, it's not that." Being wild, Ines means. She does stop short, though, and give it a moment's thought. "Not exactly. I don't know what expectations are like on Virgon, but on Leonis there are so many...obligations. Standards of conduct, most of which, I think, are not good for soldiers." Hesitating, she amends, "Well...not the way soldiers actually are." As opposed to how they're supposed to be. See also: two barfights on Caprica, and a little street race that nobody intentionally won.
She reaches across Irene for the developing picture, pinching her fingertips together repeatedly in 'gimme' gesture. "You're going to spend the most time with your raptor, anyway; you may as well get something out of it."
Irene leans back away from the pinchy fingers and gives the photo one last, forceful wave as if that'll totally make the image appear. It doesn't and her reticence was just playing, so she passes it back with a smile. "Oh, it must be similar. I imagine the flavors are slightly different, but the forms are about the same. Which is probably why our colonies fought so much through history." She reverses her lean at that point, getting in much closer to Ines and opening her mouth, then biting her lip to shut it again. Like she was going to share or ask something but decided against it.
The little indignant 'o' of feigned surprise as the photo is snatched away melts back into a lazy smile when it's handed over, and Ines brings it up to look...and frowns, the photo still veiled in monochrome greys. There's a tch from her, and her glance up is just in reflex to that inward lean. "I think it's probably something to do with how Leonis and Virgon both felt like they ought to own everything," she supposes, with enough delicate dryness to make it a joke -- if perhaps a joke with some truth in it.
She visibly debates whether or not to ask after that abandoned...whatever it was. She did notice. In the end, cultural fearlessness wins out: "What?"
"Nothing. It's fine, I almost blurted something personal out and then my inner Virgon started screeching and I couldn't do it." Irene replies, laughing it off softly. There was also a thoughtful nod about the two formerly most dominant colonies wanting to own everything too. Can't deny that. That seems to be their major beef in a nutshell, right there. "I think the Leonese I've met since joining the CF have been fantastique, personally. And your hair!" She just gestures up at Ines wonderful, dark hair. "Amazing."
The look of curiosity Ines is wearing settles into a flat look, though it doesn't lack humor. "Right. Can't be having that, can we? Getting to know people is very messy, and what is a messy Virgon but a disappointment to home and country?" Pale eyes glitter with amusement as she lifts the picture and, in spite of knowing it doesn't need to be shaken to develop, she begins to do just that.
She looks generally pleased with the suggestion that her countrymen are fantastique, but the hair thing catches her off-guard, prompts a return of fingertips to dark, still-damp waves. "What?" Baffled. She plucks up a tendril of the stuff and looks at it, as though Irene sees something she does not.
The two of them are sitting on Ines' bunk, lotus style, and chatting. There's a stationery set near Ines with a half-finished letter, a plastic instant camera of the type that spits out little square pictures next to that, and Irene has a towel and bag of things for the shower in her lap. Otherwise, the bunkroom seems quiet.
A flourish of one of those curtains, right over where Irene's bunk is. The top bunk is opening and what should be there? A blanket monster of course. "Hrrrrrrnnnnn." The creature says, rolling one way, grabbing and half-flopping out of the bed with the blanket along with it. The blanket pulls back to reveal a mass of black hair pointed in many directions except possibly down.
"Wha-a-a-a..." The noise is croaked out, her eyes not seen, or much of her face as she starts to shuffle toward the people talking. Then the hand pokes out from the blankets, slicing in the gap out toward them with the fingers pointing toward them. She has chosen... It looks like the creature has chosen Irene.
Irene finds that immensely funny for some reason, the bafflement. "Seriously? You have great hair. I mean, you could style it some more, but it's basically amazing." She kinda gestures like she's imagining how she might style it and it involves both hands and some volume, and teasing. "Do you have a brush, and some pomade?" She teasingly asks before the creature from the top bunk awakens and begins shuffling towards them. "Uhm. Bingo? You...?" And she can't figure out a question that suits very well so she simply trails off, watching the Libran approach and sparing a few glances aside at Ines.
Ines is awfully torn in those moments, between being visibly flattered and absolutely confounded. "Style it for -- ?" Her brows knit, unknit, knit again, over a smile that wants to grow but continues to be unsure. "For my viper? Are we back to the dating aircraft thing?"
And then --
Ines glances back around to where the curtain-sound originates, and she watches the unfolding sequence of events after that with equal parts amusement and something like muted concern. "Good morning," she singsongs, voice bubbled by a small laugh.
She's not a morning person, either.
Faye stumbles forward in a way that could only really be described as a shamble. Still her eyes are covered, the one finger reaching out and pointing toward Irene as she took another ragged step followed by a noise that sounds more like a croaking noise than a groan of slumber. A whump as she sits down on the bet next to Irene and leans her head to the side onto the Blonde's shoulder.
"Nothing good about it." She mumbles as the blanket is tucked more tightly about her as if hiding what she's wearing underneath. "The fact that it is, is enough to mean it's not good." She sort of half-snuggles into that shoulder.
"I-" Irene begins like she might protest, but she ends up conceding the point, "I suppose it's silly to think about right now." With all the talk of hair, she reaches up to tuck hers behind her ear, probably without even realizing it. No further styling though. She doesn't even bother putting it back up, especially not with a weighted shoulder. Without comment, or looking in Faye's direction, she reaches across and lightly pats her upturned cheek a few times like she's trying to be reassuring. "Bingo doesn't even brush her hair anymore. It's sad."
Something about that gives Ines a moment of pause. She glances off at the side of her bunk, where all of those various unnecessary nice toiletries are. "Oh." With some regret: "It's not silly for everyone. I just...don't think about it, I guess." There's more to that, but there's somebody new to meet, and inevitably that trumps everything else. The viper pilot leans forward and looks around the blonde to the dark-haired figure on the other side. "If I could get away with not, I might not either. Rough night, was it? Or did you have rack time when Calhoun and Wagner did, as well?" She can laugh about it today because she herself did not.
"What?" Faye says with a bit of a flat voice. Then a "Mmmmmm!" With a smile that looks positively dorky, with squished up eyes and as wide as she can without actually showing off her teeth. All over that little pat to her cheek as she tosses her arms about Irene then and says, "No-o-o-o-o-o." The toss of the arms finally makes the blanket fall away. She quickly tries to regain it but not before everyone can see what's under.
Faye is wearing... nothing. Nothing but a onesy that looks like a Zebra, with the hood pushed down. She sighs and confirms though, "Yeah, I mean, why should I take care of my hair when it just gets mussed again? I say forget it! Let it grow out, stick at funny angles! Besides, Lauren loves it that way. But no, just morning is all."
The Virgon takes in a breath that puffs out her cheeks and let's it out slow, like Faye is squeezing it out of her with the hug inadvertantly. Slowly, Irene leans away and looks over at the Libran viper jock, just in time to see that onesie and shake her head at it, "If Whisper catches you in that, I can't even imagine the punishment you'll get, and if you don't brush your hair they'll kick you out of this outfit. This is the super PR team and appearances matter." Nod.
Shifting enough to place her back against the interior wall of her bunk, Ines watches the other two with lazy interest. To gauge from her expression she finds the zebra onesie surprising but endearing in some way, and Irene's buttoned-up Virgon long-suffering in the face of physical affection absolutely unsurprising, but equally endearing. "Oh, I don't know," she says of Stirling. "The CAG seems pretty great to me. I mean...you saw her, right? On Caprica. Threw her drink right in that guy's face."
"But Lauren said it's all the rage!" Faye says as she reaches back to pull the blanket up and over herself again. She gives a sheepish smile and sways back and forth a little. A scuff of her toe into the ground and even a bite to her bottom lip.
"But Iris... I wore it for you." And she sweeps her hand up, getting her hair out of her eyes and giving her a kicked-puppy look with a pouting lip to match it. Another little quiver of that bottom lip as her hand comes up. She points at Ines as if this was confirmation that it's totally fine she wore it!
"At my ace party." Irene confirms as she puts her hand up and tries to block out her view of Faye's sad face with it. She won't feel bad if she can't see the miserableness at all. "I'm sure she's great, but do you really want to test her on something like this? What if the captains all get their noses out of joint about it and complain?" Valid concerns, she seems to think, even though she's smiling a little when she splays her fingers out to see if her bunkmate is coming to her senses. Probably not, so there's a follow up and mildly pointed look at Ines, as though she'd like a little backup.
And now, suddenly, Ines is in the middle. It's a very familiar feeling, and this time she flattens her expression, lifting a hand palm outward in a staying gesture, gaze ticked from Faye to Irene and back again. "No. No. Not this time! I already have one bed to short-sheet over this kind of thing, I don't have time to short-sheet every bed in the bunkroom!" She gives the picture in her other hand an irritated little fwip of a shake, then glances down. It has developed, at some point in this last stretch of conversation, and what she sees there has her throwing her hands up. "Ugh! Iris, you're...so...obnoxiously photogenic." Almost like she could make a career out of it, or something...!
She frisbees the photo down where it can be picked up by the other two, and drags her stationery set into her lap. "I can't take a decent picture, ever. It was a running joke before the war."
As the hand is brought up, she starts to smile rather amused. She looks toward Ines with a wiggle of her eyebrows and a wide grin. Of course the fingers start to splay so.. SAD FACE! ZEBRA SAD! Of course that's only a few more seconds and she lets out a snort to match her grin before shuffling about. Scoot, scoot, scoot, and lean so she's against the other wall of the bunk.
"Besides, I'm only wearing it to the head. I doubt CAG'll mind so long as I don't wear it to the mess again." A very pointed look at Irene with an arch of a brow. Though it does give a little dip and a jerk of her head toward Ines with a cant to soon follow. A blink, a dip of that eyebrow.
Faye leans over, her fingers grabbing at the photo as she gives a wiggle of her brows. "That one's going up on the wall." A laugh and she shifts back to her sitting position. "Why the heck would this turn to you short-sheeting people?"
"Fine, but I warned you, so don't get angry if you get sent to uniform violation prison." Irene says once she's lowered her hand, placing both on her knees. One she decides is dusty or something, so she idly brushes it off, but even her stupid knees are obnoxiously photogenic. It's unpossible, but true. She has to know it too, but she humble swats the idea aside, "I just know my best angles." She demonstrates a few, dramatically shifting and tilting her head different ways before getting distracted by the photo itself. "You can't keep it, she's sending it to someone on Leonis who won't know who I am, but will be really impressed and fascinated by my beauty and charisma, so after the war they'll find me and we'll get married and live in a castle, and stuff."
"You can't have that one, it's -- " But Irene tells Faye why, and Ines nods, twisting a little at the waist to reach for the instant camera that produced the photo. This battered but serviceable device she hands to Faye, gamely. "Right. But you can take another one, if you want one."
Handed off or set down, she's about to start writing again when Irene begins to demonstrate her best angles, which turn out to be -- "What, all of them?" The Leonese pilot's brows dip dangerously together, but she's quelling a smile that wants to form in spite of her sigh. "Some people have all the luck. Anyway, don't get too excited about castles. Unless the fortunes of the boys I went through basic with have radically changed in the last few years, that's probably not in the cards."
Then she is writing again, though after a beat she takes the time to answer the other other question she was asked. "Oh, you must have been sleeping for that. Just. Getting stuck in the middle of two people's business. Apparently my therapy for that is short-sheeting beds. I learn so much about myself at war."
Faye looks at Irene and gives a blink, her canting to the side with a bit of an abrupt jerk. She watches the blonde with a pull of her mouth off the side and then looks over toward Ines. Her eyes flicking back and forth but offers the photo back. She gives a bit of a smile and then shakes her head. "No-no, that's alright." She sets the photo down on Irene's knee.
"I can get others. It's alright." She slides off the bunk next and is pulling the zipper that runs down the back of the onesy, hauling the blanket in her hand as it drags on the floor behind her. "Oh." She glances back over her shoulder, "I dunno. Not sure if I slept through it or wasn't here."
A toss of her blanket back onto the top bunk as she steps out of the zebra pajamas and is now wearing her usual nighttime attire. A overly large T-shirt for the Libran Marines with the bottom of a hair of shorts poking out the bottom of it.
Irene picks up the photo and checks it out before setting it further down, nearer to Ines. She changes her mind about what she imagines will happen when it reaches its recipient when she hears there's not likely to be castles, "Oh. Then I'll foist them off on my twin sister Lauren, if she ever comes out of the coma." With a glance after Faye, she puts her hand through the string loop of her shower bag and grabs her rolled up towel with the other to slide out of the top bunk. "Time to get ready for another big day of war. See you later, Kes."
If she ever comes out of the --
Ines blinks, glances up from her writing after the blonde pilot, her expression transparently trying to decide whether that was serious or not. Uncertain and unable to decide, she (probably wisely) chooses not to say anything about it, and instead: "See you, Iris."
And, once the pen scratches against the page again, to Faye: "Probably while you were sleeping. It was only a little bit ago, when Iris got up. It's nothing, though. Really just a joke." Stage-whisper, as though that would keep Irene from overhearing when she isn't even out of the room yet: "I think the jammies are fine."
"Oh my Gods!" Faye says as she turns on the spot, her eyes going wide. She reaches down to grab the pajamas and tosses it onto the top bunk as she backs up toward the beds. "Iris! I forgot to tell you!" She reaches blindly up to grab at her own shower bag. Her eyebrows arch up as high as they conceivably could, a glance up toward the light where she holds her gaze for a second. She looks back down with her eyes watering.
"Oh my Gods-" She sniffs, letting her hand fall away to her side, "She... She woke up, Iris! I just heard the other day from Dirk. He was tending her bed and she just... Just came to!" Another sniff and she blinks rapidly as if trying to get rid of the tears. A flap of her hand off in the direction of Ines as she says in a cracking voice.
"I sleep with ear plugs in sometimes. Good to stop the background noise."
"The other day?" Irene repeats, as if she's both shocked and appalled in equal measure. "And you just forgot to tell me that my sister woke from the coma I accidentally put her in and have been eaten alive with guilt over for the last two years?" Okay, breathe. Calming. Calming. Calm. Nope, the Virgan bus driver's cheeks flush red with anger while the rest of her face gets extra pale from keeping all her angry angers bottled up in a completely unhealthy manner. Fists are made. But then, with a toss of her head and irritated sweeping of her hair from livid face, she turns and walks out with all the dignity she can muster.
It's all going much more smoothly than it should, considering. Ines starts to get the look that people get when they find themselves witness to something they're not sure they should be present for, eyes slightly wide, brows slightly knitted, the rest of her body held in absolute stillness save for the ping-pong movement of her eyes from one of her bunkroom-mates to the other.
It shouldn't have gone so well for as long as it did, considering. For one thing: 'Dirk.' Nobody is called Dirk. For another: what does a coma victim need bed-tending for? Especially from Dirks.
It's the exposition that does it. Her eyes narrow, then her expression empties.
"I'm going to put that in my letter," she mutters, as though this is a threat to hold over anyone.
"Wait! WAIT! Iris!" Faye calls, a bit choked up with her words as she slings the bag over her shoulder. She starts to walk off at Irene at about the same speed as the blonde pilot. "Please! I just heard last night! You had already fallen to sleep and-and-" A hitch and she sniffs, "-and I wanted to give you the good news. Dirk says she has amnesia, she totally forgot about kissing me and that you put her in the coma."
She reaches up with her free hand, wiping at her eyes again as she walks out the open door. "Please Iris. She's awake!!"