AWD #441: Checking In
Checking In
Summary: Randy and Clara check in on each other. Randy shares with the Three what the Marines saw on their recon mission to Aerilon.
Date: 05/09/2016
Related Logs: {$related}
Clara Randy 
Marine Enlisted Berthings
Housing for a whole company of Marines plus headquarters support staff requires more than one hundred bunks for the Marines' enlisted personnel. Divided into two primary bunkhouses, each one holds sixty bunks, one bunk stacked over another against the wall with a table between each row and a thin bulkhead between the sections. Rather than the blue curtains of the naval enlisted, each bunk has a dark green barrier with the crest of the CMC done in black. The lockers for the Marines are triple the size of the Navy's allowances, each locker holding a Marine's personal bodyarmor and several different sets of uniforms plus combat webbing and helmet. The space physically provided in the lockers might be larger, but the allowance for personal space is less, though the drawers beneath each bunk help alleviate the problem somewhat.

It's one of those evenings when quite a few are living it up down on Piraeus. There seems to have been a bit of a damper on the mood of many ever since the recon mission to Aerilon the other day, even though no one came back injured and the mission was deemed a massive success. Randy is not one of those Marines. She's spent every night since that mission at Charlie's, and tonight, the Berthings seem like an odd but good place to hide out from people. She's in her bunk, a task light pouring out, her legs dangling down, but the other half somewhere back inside.

While the rest of her unit's been down on Piraeus, living it up, Clara Mercier has been right here. In her bunk. Sleeping, or trying to sleep, or burning the midnight oil with her latest acquisition from the library. She's heading 'home' a bit later than usual tonight, owing to a long workout and a longer shower. She pads toward her locker, barefoot and with a towel wrapped around herself for decency, pausing when she sees a light on in Randy's bunk. A brief glance for the dangling legs, then she continues on toward her destination.

Randy reaches up to pull herself into a seated position when she hears someone else come in. She leans forward and scoots out a little more so her head can make an appearance too. "Oh, hey Clara," she says with a small grin and a little lift of her hand in an approximation of a wave, which, if Clara's looking, she'll notice Randy's cast is now off.

"Hey, Flynn," replies the medic, in a slightly more subdued than usual tone. The missing cast is noted, and she takes a moment to spin the combination on her lock before commenting on it, "Got your cast off." Yup, Captain Obvious right here. She pushes up on her tiptoes to grab a sleep shirt and pair of skivvies from the top shelf of her locker, then bangs the door shut.

"Yeah." Randy smiles mildly, the light of it not quite reaching her eyes, but she's not so lost in whatever's affecting her that she doesn't notice the subtle shift in Clara's own demeanor. As she notices Clara about ready to change though, she quietly leans back into her bunk. "Are you okay? You sound kind of…not." Subtle, she is not.

Clara isn't precisely shy about changing in front of others, but she's also no exhibitionist. The skivvies are pulled on quickly, towel tugged off, and then the sleep shirt is slid over her slim frame with unhurried yet deliberate efficiency. Her long hair is pulled across one shoulder, towel used to squeeze some of the dampness from it. "I'm fine. Tired of waiting to get my job back, but.. fine." She's quiet for a few moments. "Haven't seen you around here much, lately."

Thump! Randy lands on the ground sometime after Clara has finished changing and she walks over to her locker. She's still in some navy cotton shorts and a tshirt. "Yeah. I don't envy you the time off…" she turns to the side so she can look over at Clara. "And we really need you out there." As for where she's been, she simply admits, "I've been at Charlie's," as she opens her locker. "Reacquainting myself with an old friend. Vodka." She snatches up a hoodie from her locker and makes sure to put her recently injured hand through its sleeve first, somewhat careful with it.

Clara twists around slightly when she hears Randy approaching. She's still working the towel through her hair, soaking up the moisture from the too-long shower she took that's left her cheeks flush with warmth. Well, presumably it's the shower to blame, anyway. "Why are you out drinking every night?" she enquires flatly. Bending forward then, she lets her hair trail almost to the floor and rubs it vigorously with the towel for a few moments before pitching the damp terry back into her locker. A brush is withdrawn in its place, and put to work with a soft, measured sound of snarls being done away with.

Randy doesn't answer Clara right away. A somewhat melancholy look sweeps over her features and she takes her time, getting the hoodie fully on her other arm as well. "On that SABER recon mission…we saw a transport ship roll in with scores and scores of kids all decked out in Colonial and Resistence gear…with the skinjobs." Just talking about it is bringing tears to the Marine's eyes and she turns back towards her locker to wipe them away.

Clara's hand slows its movement, then stills entirely. She watches as Randy turns away, and frowns slightly at the words that were spoken. "Why?" she thinks to ask, after a long pause. "Where were they taking them?" The brush is set down on her locker's shelf, and she takes a step closer to the marine. Then another. Not near enough to startle her, or broach her personal space.

"We don't know for sure." Randy takes a deep breath and turns back to look at Clara, her eyelashes still wet. She reaches up to rub her head and winces at using her dominant hand. Still sore obviously. "They packed them all in busses, but in the numbers we saw…I can't see that being infiltration. They were there of their own volition. Shaking hands. A bunch of lines…and then a bunch of lines left in protest." She shakes her head slowly, "That won't stop whatever this is." She seems reluctant to say what she really thinks, as if saying it would give it some form of validity, would make it real. "But I think we're going to see them again soon."

Clara takes one more step, bare toes soundless on the deckplating underfoot. While Randy talks, and unless she protests, the Three reaches for her 'bad' hand and turns it over gently to examine the palm. Then the knuckles. She's still listening, frown still in place as she studies the pattern of swelling (if any remains) and how the healing is coming along. If Randy pulls away, she'll withdraw. "Cylon recruits," she offers quietly, voicing perhaps what the EOD won't.

The swelling has come down a lot since the cast was first removed thanks to Medical's meticulous demands that Randy report every day. It's clear though the Marine's been pushing what it means to be clear for duty. She probably never should have gone on that Aerilon mission, and is lucky they didn't see any combat. There is some recent fluid build up around the metacarpals and her third knuckle, which must be at least one thing contributing to the tenderness. "I don't want to kill anymore kids." Her tone sounds somewhat defeated and tired as if haunted by the notion.

There's nothing comforting Clara seems able to summon up in response to that. So she focuses on what she does know: sore bodies. Her fingers slowly work out the knotted cicatricial tissue, not the most comfortable experience, but it'll probably feel better in the morning. "You gotta stop drinking every night," she mumbles, watching Randy's face for a moment before dropping her gaze to the woman's hand again.

Randy makes a small noise of discomfort, obviously trying to suppress it. Still, the process is something she can focus on. The pain is something she can focus on. At Clara's words, however, she draws a deep breath. "And do what?" There's a cynical pain buried in her words. "Lie awake? Relive everything when I close my eyes?"

Clara has no answers; she shakes her head. "I don't know." Her dark eyes flick up again. "Relax your hand." To demonstrate, she gently pries the marine's fingers open as they begin to curl in toward her palm. "You're gonna need ultrasound or corticosteroids. Make sure the nurse or whoever they've got working on you up in sickbay, takes care of it for you. Okay?"

Randy meets Clara's gaze and then looks down. She allows her hand to relax as much as she can. "Yeah, I will. Tomorrow, so I don't forget." She worries her lower lip a little before looking up at Clara again. "I'm sorry…I've just been having a rough week is all and…and…Thank you. For listening and helping with this I guess. I know you're going through a lot right now, more than me and…I hope you get to be with your son soon." She falls quiet.

"Tomorrow," Clara agrees, thumb trailing along that third knuckle before she releases Randy's hand slowly. "Don't apologise when you've got nothing to apologise for," she murmurs. "I.." There's at least one pair of eyes watching her from atop a bunk across the room. Self-conscious, she abandons whatever she was going to say, and takes a step back toward her own bunk. "Thanks. Just.. if you want to talk some time. I can listen." Then she pivots on her toes and slips away with a rustle of soft movement in the dark.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License