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Central Atrium
Filled with greenery and assorted plants from a hundred different Alliance worlds, this massive atrium is a chaotic and interesting place. The room itself is round, with evenly-spaced archways leading to the other areas. Each archway is color-coded, with a label telling where it leads in standard and the languages of each of the major races. For those who pause to look upwards, the escheresque upper levels of the complex may be seen, as the atrium reaches through the entire complex, with a plasglass skylight at the top through which Linnae's sunlight may filter. Paths wend their way through the carefully tended gardens, and small placards label the groups of vegetation and their homeworld. Some are labeled with the universal symbol for danger, be careful, they bite. Groups of benches are located here and there for the comfort of passing delegates and those attempting to lobby them.
Clara is seated on a stone bench tailor fashion, a bag of chips in her lap and a can of soda in one hand. Orange soda, which makes her infidel status ambiguous. A datareader is in her other hand, which she scans while munching absently, and a few shopping bags are on the ground just in front of the bench.
Kyara pauses by that bench to peer curiously at the can, trying not to seem impolite. "Excuse me, Doctor?"
Clara starts slightly, but peers up at the voice, a smile brightening as she sees the diplomat. "Well, good afternoon, delegate. Pull up a patch of bench. What can I do you for?"
Kyara glances around. "I don't believe I'm quite strong enough to do that." So she remains standing as she points at the can. "What's that?"
Clara laughs and taps the bench beside her. "I meant have a seat, if you like. Sorry." She glances down at the can, then swirls the liquid inside it absently. "Orange soda. Nectar from the gods, in my own humble opinion. Ever had any?"
Kyara ohs, and obediently sits. "No, I'm afraid I haven't reached the 'O' selections on the beverage menu yet. I've become stuck on the 'milkshake' category."
Clara clicks off the reader and sets it to the side along with the potato chips. "I've got the rest of a sixpack in one of my bags. You want one? Nothing in it unsafe for Stilvani physiology, if you like orange. Milkshakes are a definite goodness too, particularly mocha flavored."
Kyara doesn't hesitate before nodding. "I'm attempting to sample at least one item from every culture. And oranges taste good. Mocha?" She shudders slightly. "I prefer cherry myself."
Clara leans down to tug one of the other cans out of a handled bag of some shiny paper and hands it over. "Cherry, hmm? I've never tried that. That's a pretty bold attempt. Any cultural food you're finding that just really stands out so far?"
Kyara nods, examines the can closely for a moment, and pops it open, hands fluttering in surprise at the resulting sound. "Well, the yeglu salad of the Gefr'kani definitely made an impression. Apparently, petroleum jelly is an essential part of their diet."
Clara winces slightly, but nods, taking a long drink from her can. "And petroglycerides, for that matter too. Some of their stuff smells good, but not edible for humans." She casts a sidelong grin. "Must've been different than your own culture's culinary specialties."
Kyara takes a cautious sip of the soda, eyes widening almost imperceptibly. "Oh yes. Our diet tends to run more along the lines of raw meat with a few idle plants on the side." She grins suddenly. "But I daresay you knew that already."
Clara waggles her brows under her cap, chuckling. "I do, yeah. Xenobiology's sort of my thing, although I do treat the odd human if I have to," she jests. "Have you tried steak tartare yet, then? Wonderful spices, but I'm afraid it moos a bit much for me."
Kyara nods, brightening. "I had that the first night I was here. It's the most wonderful dish! My only complaint is that they don't spice it up enough." She takes another, longer drink from the soda. "Xenobiology, eh? That seems logical, considering..." She gestures to indicate the various species in the Atrium.
Clara glances about as well, faintly amused. "You'd think, wouldn't you? Actually, I just transferred here, though...but you know that, since you were there when I reported in. But it did help in my last post."
Kyara nods. "Yes, I believe that was the night we visited the medical bay, was it not? What was your last post, if I may ask?"
Clara tugs almost self consciously at the bill of her cap, shrugging. "I was a surgeon for the 8023rd MMU out on the border skirmishes frontline. We did a lot of patching up, so it helped to know what to patch where given the soldier."
Kyara ahs, looking away for a moment. "Thankfully that was not a problem back home." She looks back, smiling faintly. "That's the only advantage of civil war- first aid for only one race is all that needs to be learned."
Clara glances over at the other woman, a wistful look of sympathy in place. "About the -only- good thing about civil war. Did you have medical training, too then? I'm afraid I don't know your function with your delegation," she admits.
Kyara shakes her head quickly. "No, I'm afraid that the ability to triage and apply a bandage had to be learned by all. As for my function," she laughs with a touch of bitterness, "I believe the term used was 'peon'."
Roland leaps from a horizontal to vertical position, from his nap spot on a bench in a very startled and hasty like fashion. "Whowhatwhywherewhen?"
Clara's eyes flicker over the Stilvanian's horns although she grins in response. "We're all peons in one way or another. Everyone reports to someone sometime or another," she offers consolingly.
Kyara chuckles. "True, but not all are informed of their status in so blunt a manner by their superiors." Hands flutter, a bit of the orange soda splashing out onto the top of the can, at Roland's leap. "Er, good afternoon."
Clara tilts her head at that thoughtfully, but offers a warm half-smile. "In those cases, the fault is not in us when our service is adequate, but in the insecurities of those above us," she supplies quietly. "Preservere," she suggests, then grins over at Roland. "Morning."
Roland glances around quickly then sighs. "Oh man." He sits back down on the bench, shaking his head before looking over at Clara and Kyara. "Uh, sorry?"
Kyara's mouth quirks wryly. "I'll try to remember that the next time I'm cleaning disposal units." She turns her head to give Roland a friendly smile. "Please, do not apologize when you done nothing to warrant it."
Roland scratches the back of his head. "Oh, uhm, okay. Didn't I startle you though?" He glances around again, muttering about space-lag.
Clara simply offers a sympathetic look to Kyara, then lifts her brows at Roland. "No reason to apologize, even for that, certainly. No skin of my nose if you doss down in the Atrium. Just don't let Addison catch you at it," she adds with a grin.
Roland ahs and waves off the Addison comment. "The man's too busy to worry about people sleeping in the Atrium. And I was only resting my eyes, really."
Kyara chuckles quietly. "That was some very deep resting. Or do your eyes practice meditation?"
Roland blinks at Kyara, and in all seriousness says, "How did you know?" He looks at her with false awe.
Clara snorts faintly, although whether or not she rolls her eyes is impossible to tell with the brim of her cap pulled down to the regulation position. "Too busy for his own good," she mutters.
Roland drops the act to look back at Clara. "You talked him into heading home the other night though, did you not?" He glances over towards the elevator.
Kyara blinks, glancing toward Clara. "How'd you get him to take some time off?"
Clara is motionless for a moment, then nods slowly at Roland before chuckling at Kyara. "Womanly wiles? Nah, I just suggested it'd be a good idea," she understates easily.
Roland nods his head before grimacing slightly. "If you two ladies will excuse me, I have to grab a bite to eat." He glances around as he stands. "Now where was that cafeteria..."
Roland ahas. "I remember now." And he heads in the opposite direction.
Roland heads towards the Massive Open Air Pavilion.
Kyara giggles. "I'm afraid I never bothered practicing those. Wiles, I mean."
Clara watches Roland leave thoughtfully, then snickers as well, pushing up the brim of her hat to rub at her head. "Me either," she admits. "I'm always lousy at it when I try. It's easier just to window shop. I take it you're not partnered either?"
Kyara shakes her head. "Oh my, no. I've never had much time to socialize, I'm afraid."
Clara lifts her soda can in a toast, nodding. "A toast to being too busy to think straight. Fairly new to the diplomatic envoy program, then?"
Kyara grins, tapping her can against yours. "Yes. Well, not exactly. It depends on what you mean by that, exactly. I've been in training for several years. Twas just recently I became an official diplomat, however minor."
Clara chuckles and takes a drink from her can, then glances over speculatively. "May I ask what made them choose you?" she asks, dropping her voice. "If you'd rather not discuss it, that's fine, of course."
Kyara chuckles. "Which them? His Majesty? He had no choice- it was a stipulation in the treaty which ended our civil war."
Clara pulls one knee in to wrap her arms about, letting the other leg dangle down off the bench as she peers at the other woman thoughtfully. "He was forced to send you? That surprises me, I'll be honest. I've never met one of your people with...your particular condition." Her tone is neither prejudiced nor sympathetic, simply commenting.
Kyara lets out a surprised bark of laughter even as she turns bright crimson. "That's not especially surprising. His Majesty would wish to send the best examples of his people, of course, rather than a... what's the word? Pariah?"
Clara's lips tighten for a moment, although she inclines her head smoothly. "According to your culture, if I've been properly informed," she allows. "Still, it is gratifying to see training put to use."
Kyara nods, smiling sadly. "This," she gestures to indicate the Complex, "Was not the use to which I intended to put my skills, but it's a start, I suppose."
Clara's brows creep up in surprise. "Your training isn't in diplomacy, then?" she asks, obviously surprised.
Kyara blinks. "Oh, that's where my training lies, yes, but I'd hoped to practice it back home."
Clara aahs softly, nodding as her face clears in understanding. "I can see that. Look at it this way, at least. Posts to the Complex don't often last long, and it's quite a bright mark on the resume for when you do return home..."
Kyara smiles faintly, eyes flickering around the Atrium as she takes a drink of the soda. "It's an honorable posting," she admits.
Rhys emerges, with a polite bow to Kyara - better safe than sorry, with diplomats - and a grinning salute to Clara.
Clara is seated on a stone bench with Kyara, sipping a can of soda, and a few shopping bags at her feet. She nods firmly. "It certainly is, and a distinguishing one," she agrees, then glances up at the elevator and grins broadly in return, sketching a salute back. "Heya, flyboy. Life treatin' you okay?"
Kyara gives the newcomer a nod and a practiced smile. "Good afternoon, sir."
Rhys chuckles softly. "Fairly well," he replies to Clara, "though, there is a small matter of a flight physical...?" He then returns the Stilvanian's smile easily. "Afternoon to you, too. My name's Rhys."
Clara gestures an affable introduction. "Kyara, this is Lieutenant Rhys Valinson. Rhys, this is Delegate Frondeur Kyara Veh," she returns the introduction." She blinks up at the pilot before her eyes widen and she peers down at her comm. "Aaah, bother. I'm sorry Rhys, I totally forgot. Let me gather up this stuff, and we'll hit Medbay?"
Kyara's smile becomes a little more real. "Very nice to meet you, Lieutenant," she greets softly. "Thank you for the soda, Doctor. And for the chat."
Rhys chuckles softly. "Don't worry about it, Clara - I was just on my way when I looked down and saw you here. No trip where I meet someone new is wasted. But, since I don't think /either/ of us want to face a Section-11 for desertion of duty..."
Clara makes a rude noise. "Better than a Section-8 for me actually reporting on time," she counters, climbing to her feet and holding out a hand to Kyara. "Thank -you-, really. I'm available to chat at any time," she assures, starting to gather up her bags.
Kyara giggles softly, blushing at Rhys' remark, and gives Clara's hand an ethereal shake.
Rhys bows again to Kyara, then offers to Clara, "Can I carry some of those for you?"
Clara unloads three of the bags on the pilot, casting a final grin at Kyara. "I'll catch up with you again and we'll batter the dining hall to cough up something decently spicy," she offers, then turns to head towards the elevator. "Thanks. It dawned on me yesterday I didn't have anything to wear that wasn't service issue."
From the elevator, With a ping, the doors slide open, soundlessly.
You walk into the elevator.
From outside the elevator, Rhys walks into the elevator.
You push the button marked 2.
The elevator direction light changes to UP with a ping.
The doors slide shut, soundlessly.
Rhys's eyes dance. "There's something wrong with that?"
The elevator glides almost imperceptibly upward and goes "ping" as it reaches floor #2.
With a ping, the doors slide open, soundlessly.
You leave the elevator.
Rhys has arrived.
You head towards the Medical Bay.
Medical Bay
Even the circulation of air can't quite keep the antiseptic smell from this room. Immaculately clean, the tiles of the floor are the same pristine white as the walls. Gadgets and gizmos abound. The highest medical technology available for all the races that might conceivably come to the station are present. A pair of beds near the door provide places for emergent cases, their bioscan devices ready for monitoring. Door lead to rooms for surgery, short-term care, and long-term care. (OOC note: To set your room doing, try 'I'm <doing>'.)
Rhys arrives from the Second Floor Elevator Lounge.
Clara sticks her tongue out, dropping her sacks on the chairs in front of her desk. "No, silly. I could live in BDUs all day long, but there's likely to be times where I officially have to wear a dress."
Rhys sets the bags down where directed before setting his jacket down on one of the beds, laughing. "Lucky. Some of us are stuck with our dress uniforms."
Clara tugs off her own flight jacket with medical insignia and drapes it over her chair before tossing her cap on the desk and heading over to wash up. "Have a seat where you threw your coat, will you? And men's dress uniforms are..." she searches for the proper word, "intriguing."
Rhys rolls his eyes, hopping up on to the diagnostic bed. "Stifling, the silly things. Give me a flight suit or BDUs any day."
Clara comes over to the bioscan bed and tugs the curtain shut, snickering as she hooks a stethoscope around her neck. "Okay, those have their charms too," she agrees. "Better than scrubs, at least. Put your hand on this," she suggests, holding out a scanner.
Rhys duly places his hand, grinning. "I, Rhys Valinson, do solemnly swear..."
Clara finishes taking the reading, then pokes Rhys in the shoulder, grinning. "Aver, and affirm. Silly kid. We'd need a colonel or two witnessing for me to swear you in, not like you need it. Hmm...spacer blood pressure. Putting in a lot of hours upstairs?"
Rhys whistles innocently. "I've only been up, oh, 100 hours or so. In the last month."
Clara makes a face and rolls her eyes, turning away to ready a hypo. "Uh-huh. I'll note it in your file, but I'll bet you're in good enough shape that it doesn't matter. It's better than hypertension, anyway. Hold still? I need a blood and tissue sample."
Rhys chuckles softly. "I hope so. Between the sports and the other exercise..." He looks over at the medic, and smiles. "That reminds me, aren't we still waiting for a rematch?"
The hypo hisses lightly against the pilot's neck before Clara turns to feed the sample into the computer. "A rematch?" she asks, nonplussed. "Better remind me...I'm getting senile in my old age," she explains, lifting her hands to check glands and thyroid.
Rhys chuckles. "I will. I suppose I really don't want you distracted while you're waving things around by my neck." He holds still patiently to be poked and prodded. "You're a relief after the last medic who did this - she had the longest nails.. you wouldn't belief the flak I got over the scratches, and me all innocent."
Clara stifles and explosive snort of laughter, finishing the prodding and pretending to throttle before ruffling the unrufflable haircut. "Right. Innocent as the Don Juan," she accuses, grinning. "Shirt off, please. No, what I meant is, what do we have a rematch for? We did a lot in school."
Rhys deftly unbuttons the shirt, folding it and setting it aside carefully. A scar or two that are new, but nothing else much has changed about his frame. "Well, as you never would play rugby with me... I think it was tennis."
Clara mutters something cheerfully about being about the only woman in the Academy not to, but snaps her fingers. "Hey, yeah...man, I can't believe it's been that long. You're on, flyboy...prepare to be creamed." She settles the stethoscope in her ears. "Deep breath please," she asks, setting the disk appropriately near a collarbone.
Rhys takes in a breath, as practiced for emergency ejections. Due to his obedience, reply is forgone, but his eyes dance at Clara challengingly.
Clara continues to listen at various spots, then moves to listen to places on your back. She smirks after a moment. "New scars. Been scrapping again?" she asks lightly. "Any pain during physical exertion or lifting?"
Rhys laughs. "Are you interested in a story about how six pirates jumped me from an asteroid belt?" He shakes his head. "No real pain, no."
Clara hesitates, then snickers. "Yes, but over a couple of ales someplace with decent music after work someday." She sobers then, thinks, and reaches for a different scanner to run slowly over your midsection. "No real pain? Any discomfort?"
Rhys smiles. "That's probably the best place. I actually got the scar because some idiot didn't check his safety on the range." He shakes his head. "No - just a twinge, maybe, if I've slept badly."
Clara nods vaguely, eyes on the scanner. After a moment, she lifts it higher, brows lifting at the reading. "Thwack your head a few weeks ago?" she asks. "You have a slight subdural hematoma, but it's nearly gone." She clicks off the scanner and reaches over to snag the printout of the bloodwork. "Healthy as always, Rhys. Why am I not surprised?"
Rhys considers, then nods. "You try to exercise in a shuttle," he grins, "and see if you do better." He smiles up at Clara. "Oh, I don't know. Because you know me too well?"
Clara catches up the shirt and tosses it back, grinning as she starts to make notations on the chart. "Entirely, sir. Entirely. Your doctor's supposed to, though. And I stay planetside when I can, thanks," she adds with a wink.
Rhys begins buttoning his shirt again, with a grin. "Them's fightin' words, Clara. I'm going to have to take you up, now, and show you why we pilots are so smug all the time."
Clara glances up from the chart with a wry grin. "I -know- why pilots are so smug all the time," she counters. "There's a reason I hid from all you fellas when I was in med school."
Rhys laughs. "Other than that, oh doctor mine. I'll have you know I've been as innocent as a lamb for... nigh on 6 months now, yet you'll have noticed I'm still pilot-smug."
Clara makes a sound of patent disbelief. "Change religions?" she accuses, then grins. "You'll always be smug, Rhys. It's part of what makes you so durned adorable." She tugs the curtain aside and notes, "And you're also free as a bird, with a clean med record for another six months. Don't screw it up?"
Rhys laughs, tucking his shirt in neatly and reaching for his jacket. "I promise, Clara." He shrugs at the religion comment. "We were just busy," he says simply. "Can't fit two into one of our cockpits."
Clara reaches out to squeeze one of the pilot's shoulders affably, grinning. "I know you can't. But it's in my job description to give you regular doses of therapeutic ego deflation. Give me a holler when you have time for that rematch, though, okay?"
Rhys smiles. "Yes, Dr. Clara."
Clara smirks and heads for her desk. "Git, flyboy. Take care of you. Thanks for helping haul my stuff up here."
Rhys smiles. "You're welcome, Clara - anytime."
Rhys heads towards the Second Floor Elevator Lounge.
Clara sinks into her chair and pushes her hat off her keyboard to key in the login and start her report, still chuckling to herself intermittently.
Sweeping through the room, Honalee enters from the office area a set of keys in hand. Looking faintly troubled she heads to you, carrying a small plasboard box.
Clara stops typing at peers up, glancing almost self-consciously down at her lack of labcoat and starts to rise out of habit. "Afternoon, ma'am," she greets with a smile, then hesitates. "Is everything all right?"
Honalee gestures for you to remain seated. Giving you a rueful smile she shakes her head. "Things are a bit chaotic. I meant to come do this earlier, but every time I thought I had everything organized, one of Greg's flunkies showed up with more ancient paperwork. I wanted it all filed away."
Clara waves at the empty seat across her desk, not the one filled with packages. "Tell me about it," she agrees wryly. "He dumped a load on me yesterday, and today I'm finding bits and notices from while I was still in med school. Sorry about the packages...I had an exam to give, and didn't have time to run them upstairs."
Honalee waves off the seat, instead offering you the small box she's carrying. "I don't mind the packages. I'm afraid however I don't have a lot of time, my ship leaves in a couple of hours, and I still have to say goodbye to a couple of people. The keys to the office are in here, as well as codes and file systems you'll need. Everything about the place is in the computers."
Clara couldn't possibly be more flummoxed as she rises slowly, taking the box, dismay evident on her face. "Already?" she asks softly. "This is so sudden, though," she protests. "I...I mean..."
Honalee's expression is apologetic, "I'd thought I'd have more time. But they're going to hold me to the letter of mandatory retirement. I'm afraid nobody's had any warning."
Clara swallows heavily, then takes a deep breath to recompose herself and manages a smile up the distance at the elderly Edreeni. "Evil people," she decides. "I haven't worked for you long, ma'am, but I think it's safe to say I'll be among those who miss you."
Placing her hand over her heart and executing a bow of sorts, Honalee once again executes that odd formal gesture. "Thank you Clara. I shall miss being here. I intend to go home and create quite a ruckus regarding the retirement rules, but for now I must do as I'm ordered. Thank you for being here. With you to replace me, I do not feel as if I am abandoning this place. Now, if you'll forgive me, I have some other goodbyes I must make."
Clara repeats the gesture, completely solemnly. "Of course," she murmurs, eyes flickering to the box again before she takes a step back from her desk and gives a razor perfect salute to the woman. "Safe flight to you, ma'am. Take care of yourself."
Honalee takes in the salute with a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. She nods once, "You too Clara. And take care of this place and its people for me."
Clara's smile inches back slightly. "If I have to beat 'em over the head to do it, I will," she agrees. "I'll do my best."
Nodding at that, but not commenting further, Honalee exits into the hall.
Clara inhales a long sigh and watches the Edreeni leave, eyes closing finally as she leans against her desk. She glances down at her comm for a moment, raising it as if to contact someone before she shakes her head and sinks into her seat to start going through the box.