Damn Colonial Child Labor Laws
Damn Colonial Child Labor Laws
Summary: …and other such musings over chow in the Genesis Mess Hall.
Date: 5 BCH
Related Logs: None

Mess Hall Genesis - Deck 9
5 BCH 2235 Souls

The Mess Hall on the Genesis is quite large and able to hold atleast 300 personnel at a time. Tables are staggered in some areas and set against the wall in others. The mess hall begins near the hatch with an area for trays and silverware, then moves through the line for the cooks to dish up whatever is on the menu for the day. There are also snack machines at the end of the line, past the huge coffee urns and water dispensers.

----—< Condition 3 - Duty Area >-----
Contents: Rhea Snatch Sora Wireless 1498
Exits: [O] Corridor
Special: +lhelp - Local Help Available

Snatch assaults the flooring with her steel-toed boots as she bolts in like a bat out of hell on a dinner break, pivoting to turn on the threshold and make for the grub, as if afraid that, having come late, there won't be any left to grab. She spins out of the way of running straight into one person on his way out, issuing a perfunctory 'Hay-whoops!' as she slows down, appeased by the sight of dinner still loitering in the hotbins. Mmm, grub.

Rhea is in line, also a late-comer to the chow, though she managed to get here ahead of Snatch. She holds her tray, working her way gradually along. Soup, greens, some kind of dry-looking bread. The sound of spinning petty officers makes her turn her head. She purses her lips, stifling a chuckle. "Boccyo," she offers Snatch, by way of greeting. "Careful there. Be a shame if someone was damaged here by something other than the food."

Snatch grins and leans to grab a tray and she gives Rhea a cheeky sort of grin, "Cap'm," she greets in return, leaning over the end of the chow line to get a couple of big scoops of the meat chili. "A little chili-peppres ne'r killed a man," she articulates in her thick Aerelon Plains accent, grinning as she grabs two, no, three slabs of cornbread to go with. She's a hoarder, it seems, in all things, and she takes to her meals with the appetite of someone who doesn't know when the next one will be coming. "An' they sure whip up a fine mess of it here. Lords bless Fridays." She stabs a baked 'fish' block, as well, slapping it down right in the middle of the chili.

Rhea grins. "It's not a bad spread, for Navy cooking," she allows. Though she isn't /quite/ as enthusiastic about it as Snatch. Once she's through the line she heads straight for the coffee urn. To get her hourly dose of caffeine. "Lords bless Fridays indeed. Everything seems to get done quicker. Might get the chance to knock off early, after all." She grins as she says it. She doesn't mind, so long as it gets done.

Snatch also dutifully remembers to get her veggies, a big mess of limp green beans and some peas, spooning them on, passing over the salad stuff and heading for the coffee urn to line up after Rhea, "Hump me halfway t' hell, I -hope- so. I hain't been soll hide-whipped sin' I join up. Guess it's time I earned my wage and grub, hay, Cap'm?"

Rhea can't contain a laugh, though it's a kind one. "I think we've all more than earned our keep lately. Colonel Regas better get us something shiny to say thank-you. I'm hoping for new power coils, myself. A girl can never have too many. Come on. Let's grab a seat." She stakes out a table, motioning for Snatch to join her.

Snatch follows after getting her coffee, sliding her tray onto the table across from Rhea and sliding herself into the seat in front of it, grabbing up her fork and beginning to mush up the fishcake into the middle of the chili. "We get new pow'r colls, we chuck'n th' ole ones?" she asks before she lowers her head for a momentary silent prayer before the first shovelfull of fish, beef, beans and spice gets shovelled into her mouth and she's stabbing at some green beans. "Y'know if we got a wishin' list made up, we might could use some thricer peaks, we ben use'n im by the grot."

"Thricer peaks? That's not a half bad idea. We have been burning through them, especially with the overhaul work on the Pandora. I'll add them to my engineer's dream list." Rhea starts with the coffee. That's what powers the ChEng. Once she's got some of that in her system, it's on to her soup. She stirs it, to get the good bits to float to the top. As for the power coils, she shrugs. "One of the other ships might want to do a little horse-trading for them. Never hurts to give the Logistics boys something to bargain with. But I'll let you know if they're about to be chucked." She offers the petty officer a little wink.

Snatch shoves in the green beans and then another scoop of the fish and beef chili, inhaling feed like she's stoking an engine with coal and letting her coffee go cold while she does so. Eating also fails to get in the way of conversation, since she doesn't seem to have any compunction about giving Rhea the 'seafood' treatment. "Score. Yah, Pandora jus' eats im. I go over with sev'ny in my satch, I'm callin' back an hour, hourn half for reinforcements."

"It is a Marine ship. Lack of manners rubs off." Rhea keeps most of her meal to herself while she's devouring it. Not that she seems to mind the imperfect table manners. She gulps down more soup, then some greens, washing it all down with copious amounts of coffee. "At least we'll be done with that soon enough. That's good work you all have done, if I haven't said it already. I was ready to consign that thing to the scrap heap back on Scorpia when the flattop towed it back."

Snatch snickers, then coughs, having inhaled something inappropriate. But after the cough she seems well enough, chewing and swallowing whatever it was properly before going to mop up the remnants of chili with her cornbread. "She ain'ts bad off als her crew war," she points out, shaking her head and tsking before stuffing her mouth with the soppage. "You know they foun' sumbitch who done all that yet?"

Rhea nods soberly on that score. "I haven't seen anything like that in a long time. Hopefully her people can put themselves back together as well as the ship. I'll leave that to wiser heads than mine. I've always found machines to be far less complicated than people." More coffee is downed before she answers. "The Marines took down one of them when we boarded the Pandora. As for the rest…" She shrugs. "The JAGs and the MPs are handling it. If they aren't wiser heads, they're at least trained ones. I'll stick to just wrenching things. Blessedly simple life."

Snatch lifts her coffee cup at length, swallowing down the first piece of cornbread and nodding. "So say we all," she lifts the mug in agreement, then takes a drink, settling it down with just another disapproving shake of her head before she starts sopping with the second piece of cornbread, "I'll tell -you- what, I'm goin' sleep like a babe in arms tonight. What 'bout you? Big plans forth?" Hey, look, a change of subject.

"That sleeping thing sounds good," Rhea replies. "My bunk and I aren't nearly as well acquainted as we'd like these days. After I rouse myself I'll probably just head to the station. Bum around, spend some quality time with the spawn before the reception." Her 12-year-old son, affectionately called 'the spawn.'

Snatch lets the cornbread soak in the spicy chile juices while she dutifully scarfs down the rest of her veggies. "Mayhaps I'll head on down that way my own self," she muses. "Assume I hain't got a call to back-up on someone's Pandora shift by then," she adds with a grin before getting back to the feed. "How's that one?" she wonders, of said spawn.

Rhea shakes her head. "Nope. In fact, I'm going to try and free up quite a few of you during the reception. You'll be on-call, but if nothing blows up you should be able to enjoy ourselves a little bit. Gods know you've all earned it." She doesn't sound /entirely/ convinced nothing will blow, but she's trying to remain optimistic. As for her spawn, she smiles. "Reece is good, I think. He's getting used to life on the station, such as it is. Can't get into too much trouble. Doctor Zaharis loaned him his video game, so the boy's wasting his time with that to his little heart's content."

Snatch makes a little tsk again as she licks her fingers and shakes her head. It's with a playful sort of smile, though. "You ought put that boy to some use good an' profitful," she suggests. "There's plenty chores to go 'round without a pair of hands busied on a video-game." She starts slathering the last bit of cornbread with fake butter.

Doyle comes in from Corridor 9B.
Doyle has arrived.

Rhea makes short work of her bread, now that she's finished her greens. It's used to mop up the remains of her soup. "He's got lightning-fast reflexes. At least when it comes to zapping electronic dots. Maybe Major Carter has some chores he could do. I'm sure the PAS has decks to swab, just like anywhere else." She's seated at one of the tables with Snatch, eating.

Snatch manages to actualy look like she's savoring her third piece of cornbread, instead if simply inhaling it. It looks to be taking some willpower, though where she's keeping all of this grub is anyone's guess. Hollow leg, maybe. "Put im on Pandora with the lot of us. We'll have his care, teach im a thing or tan."

Doyle scratches at his nose, entering the mess hall. Could be a tic or just habit. The ensign makes his way through, picking at a tray, then putting it down. Then picking up another one. Silverware's looked at warily before grabbing the necessary utensils. On his way to food. Then finally turns about to face the tables. Conversation's apparently a big draw as he moves to sit in the vicinity of the engineer and technician.

Rhea chuckles at that thought. "Not sure the Navy would approve of me bringing the spawn to the Pandora. He might come in handy, though. He's a skinny kid. Small hands. I'm sure you could find a nook to stuff him in where he could make himself useful." She scarfs more bread. "That reminds me, though. Since the Pandora doesn't need quite as many personnel these days, you up for another project? Strictly voluntary. I can find another hand to do it if you're busy, but it might give you a chance to play with some neat toys." Engineering lingo for highly technical pieces of equipment. She notes Doyle facing the table, offering him a cordial smile and inclination of her head.

Snatch wags a fork at Rhea, bobbing it to emphasize her point, "Navy don't think so practal als yeself, Cap'm, that's all the problem there," she chuckles before scraping her tray clean, making sure she didn't miss anything. "I don't know why thay make'ns wait for deesweet to join up. Could use some small hands get into the corners." She nods at Doyle.

Doyle's brows quirk upward in response to that inclination of Rhea's head. For a moment, he's got that dear in the headlights like look. As if he didn't expect any kind of look in his direction. Or perhaps that he might have been caught looking. Or staring. In either case, the short pilot nods once, right back at the captain. At Snatch's last remark, Doyle suddenly smirks. "Was that a joke?" he asks the technician, one hand gesturing to the other. But the dry humour stops and soon he's picking at his food, hands now using utensils rather than gesturing.

"Damn Colonial child labor laws," Rhea says dryly, chuckling. "Anyhow. Doctor Zaharis needs some tech hands to recalibrate some of Medical's detection equipment. Should be simple enough, and you'll get to play with some new medical machines. Can't leave it to the Medical folks to do themselves. I'd trust Jesse with my life, but when it comes to mechanics I wouldn't even let him set my vid recorder." The CMO is one of her oldest and dearest friends. As such, she never misses an opportunity to bust on him a little. Doyle's deer-in-headlights look makes her smirk faintly. "How's the grub, Ensign?"

Snatch nods in brief agreement with Rhea's condemnation of the labor laws. "Spoil im kids rot through," she attests. "You ain't make im work hey ain't n'er gonn learn," she declares. "M'vrait?" she looks to Doyle for confirmation, then eyes the way he's poking at the grub, "It hain't bolls or aught," she assures the Ensign, nodding to the grub, "Fair well tuck in," she suggests, before pondering the sickbay detail, licking at the inside of a tooth, "Shore, though your Jesse's gonn make me wash my neck an' hainds afore I go in. I swar, you'd think momma was nagging me to wash up for chapel."

"Grub's grub," Doyle replies. "Can't say there's a difference in it." He tests the food with a fork before spotting a fleck of rust or grit on it. Instead of eating, he takes the fork for closer inspection. Soon, while the two women talk to one another, the ensign begins to work his thumb nail against it. As he's prompted by Snatch, he looks up from the work of getting rid of the grit or rust from the fork to ask the technician: "You sure got a tongue, don't you?"

"Probably," Rhea admits, as to having to wash. "It's a doctor thing. They like to scrub. Want to spread the fun around, I guess. I'll put you on the duty roster for it. See the CMO about the particulars. I'm not sure if he knows *quite* what's supposed to be done, but he told me he has schematics. Probably best just to go by those." Doyle's comment earns a grin, but she adds nothing to it. Eating some more. She's near done with her meal by now.

"Oh, you -heard,- then" Snatch teases Doyle with a cheeky grin, "Ah'll show'y later," she adds in a false sort of sotto voce, leaning slightly toward him as she says it, then back away, leaning back and resting a hand on her stomach. "O.K. Cap'm. Either f'yall wan some sweet from o'er yonder?" she jerks her head toward the desserts table, obviously contemplating some, herself.

If the engineer's nearly done her grub, the viper pilot's practically not even started his grub. He'd likely be eating if it weren't for that stubborn glint in that fork of his, which he continues to scrape with his thumbnail. Clearly showing his callsign's namesake, he tells both women, "Jumpstart." And then, further: "Doyle too." And then finally, as if working in a jumbled order, tells them: "Those're my names." Snatch's given another glance, furrowed brows too.

Rhea considers, but ultimately declines the dessert selection. "It's been a long time since I tried to fit into my dress grays. I'm pushing it already. That kind of thing goes straight to my hips." Now that her food's gone, she nurses her coffee. "Ensign Doyle. Pleasure." She's not indulging the pilot call-sign thing. "Captain Zimmermann, Rhea Jo, if you want to go by the dog tags."

Snatch scrathes up behind her ear where skin meets canvas, turning her attention from the Captain to the Ensign, "Third Petty Off'cer del Boccyo. Mopsus Doe," she recites her dogtags in line with her boss' example. "You wan som'n Doyle?"

"That's a mouthful," Doyle tells Snatch in dry amusement. "You always so formal?" He really hasn't given up on that bit of rust, his thumbnail still working at it until he takes a moment to actually use the utensil, digging into his food. After chewing on the food and swallowing, he resumes his attack on the grit on his fork. "No thanks," the pilot tells the third petty off'cer. "Got my own grub." Toward Rhea, he nods respectfully enough for Rhea's title.

Rhea returns Doyle's nod with a crooked grin. She's not bothering with much Captain-y ceremony at the moment. "Even after all this time, I can't say her full name five-times-fast," she says, turning her grin to Snatch. She gulps the last of her coffee, standing up from the table. "My bunk is calling, I think. Thanks for the company, del Boccyo. Doyle. If the rust makes you edgy, you could just eat it with your fingers." It's hard to tell if she's joking or not.

"Ouais… Call best answert," Snatch nods to the Captain with a quirk of a playful grin. "Hay," she tells Doyle, then, "Your fork enn gee?" she picks up her own and licks both sides of it clean before handing it over, "Here, chus dan," she offers, her Aerelon Plains dialect waxing thick for a moment.

Doyle doesn't seem to mind either way if the captain doesn't act with the pomp and circumstance of her title. With the way he's going at it with the fork, he could likely have a job as a dishwasher any day. At Rhea's words, however, his hands stop. Idle. Then soon, as if to negate the idle hands, returns to eating. "What happens when it is soup?" he offers in return to the engineer, dry. He looks in horror or perhaps it is disgust when the third petty officer licks both sides of her fork and offers it to him. "I… think not," he retorts to Snatch, his face still a visage of two parts disgust, one part horror.

"Drink it straight," Rhea suggests, as to the soup. "Or have the cook loan you straw." She purses her lips firmly at Doyle's look of horror at Snatch's fork. Must not laugh. Will not laugh. She clears her throat. "Eat well, both of you." And out of the hall she goes.

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