Try the Priest
Try the Priest.
Summary: Dane and Greje prepare for their roles in the Rites of Apollo; Amalina comes to chapel to hear a service; Effie seeks comfort from the Laughter-Loving Goddess; even Rhea manages to find her way to the Chapel.
Date: 18 ACH
Related Logs: Can't Stop Falling, Mandatory Meeting

Chapel Genesis - Deck 9
17 ACH 6735 Souls

A simple military Chapel, octagonal in shape and of uniform dark grey hue with slab lighting up above. Four walls of the room have four large steps along them for continuous seating in an angular stadium form, the other side of the room largely devoted to a raised platform with a plain altar of pantheatic consecration. On the Altar are figurines set in their traditional places, of the gods and goddesses, with simple sacrament incense burning in holders on each side of the line of figurines.
-----< Condition Three - Public Area >----
Contents: Greje

Exits: [O] Corridor

Greje kneels on a three-footed stool behind the altar, leaning over it to huff chamalla, hold her breath, then exhale, exhaling smoke as well as a subsequent line from the first Paean, spoken, recited rather than sung, each drag of the stuff she takes.

The door opens and closes softly, and in walks the form of Dane Ramiro. Stepping quietly across the floor, he stands against the wall quietly, waiting to be addressed.

Greje finishes the Paean at length. It's almost a painful sight, watching the priest put herself through this, but as much as her head wavers her expression remains serene. She's serving the God and can forget her own body's needs, for the time being. She pants, inhaling the extraneous smoke wafting up from the altar. "My child," she calls, a few long moments later.

"Sister." Ramiro replies, careful to nod make any contact with her as he goes to stand before the altar. Kneeling respectfully, he watches her quietly. "What would you have me do to help so that we hear the voice of Apollo?"

Greje takes a moment to collect herself. "How well do you recall the tongues of Kobol?" she begins by asking him, stil gasping a little between breaths.

Ramiro raises his eyes to her, going quiet. "My parents taught them to me as a child. They told me that it would better to be able to understand than to wonder if I ever heard them." He smiles softly, a little bit of pain in his voice. "I recall them fairly well, Sister."

Greje is silent a moment, letting a warm cloud of respect encircle that pain in Ramiro's voice before she proceeds. "You might… recognize words. In one language, in another. You might recognize words that… mean things to you, but… don't pertain to the question at hand. You need to…" she lifts her hands, spreading them, "Decontextualize. Forget the literal. What does it mean? Then recontextualize, for the specific moment. The interpretation… also must be in verse. Don't hold back. If it sounds right… just say it. Think, but don't analyze. Let the God work through you." Yes, people train for years to be able to assist in this rite. It's complicated.

Ramiro is seated before the altar that Greje is over, speaking to him about his part in an upcoming ritual. Breathing in slowly again, Ramiro nods softly. "I will try my best, Sister…" He says, not making light of the situation. "Do you want me to interpret them as they come, or interpret them after they are said?" Ramiro asks quietly. "I am ready…I feel that I am."

The chapel door opens and D'Artanion eases in. She walks with a decided limp, her weight resting heavily on a black cane. Her expression is schooled to imobility to mask pain of many varieties. Spiritual, physical and emotional. While she kept to herself, she was at the gathering today and saw her beloved home colony torn to shreds. Just like all of them were. Spotting the two of you at the alter, she pauses, then lowers her head and, not wishing to interrupt, turns to make her way back out.

Greje lowers her head in a slow nod, believing him when he tells her he's ready. She lifts her head and her voice rings out, warm, if stilted: "Amalina." It's a greeting and a note of concerned inquiry all rolled up in one.

Lowering his head and turning it slightly to look over his shoulder, Ramiro spots Amalina's shoes. He moves slightly to the side of the altar, giving the combat medic some room near the altar as well.

The greeting stops her and Amalina turns once more. She does not look at Greje directly, nor at Ramiro. But, she does move rather slowly and haltingly forward once more. Kneeling, while appropriate, is out of the question for the woman so she lowers very carefully to sit, casting an apoloty to Apollo as she does and hoping that the God will not mind her indiscression. Clasping her hands before her, she finally looks up to meet the other woman's eyes. Seems she was at the muster this morning, for the horror of what was shown, then done, reste clearly in her eyes.

Greje meets Amalina's eyes, her own highly receptive, pupils dilated widely, but weak on expressive ability under the influence of all the chamalla. It's likely, once the rite's complete and she can come down off of the stuff, that the images will hit her harder, but for now her mind is with the God, and the God is above the suffering of man, singing both good and ill for humankind with measured tones, singing all that has happened before and all that will happen again with one voice, for all of it is one to the God whose lyre speaks the will of Zeus. A trace of human pity lingers at the corners of the priest's eyes, though, and it's just enough to lock with Amalina's horror, "Deucalion and Pyrrha," she murmurs to the pair of them.

Ramiro looks up slowly, watching Greje for a moment as the words from her reach his ears. His eyes soften as he tries to concentrate. Breathing in deeply, he closes his eyes and meditates over the words coming forth. He remains quiet for the time being, as if considering that the moment of the ritual is not far off.

D'Artanion meets Greje's eyes and, while part of her recognizes the look left by the drug's use, the other spots the human concern. When the two names are given, she clears her throat softly and lowers her gaze, comforted. A flicker of a glance is offered Ramiro, but she does not otherwise interrupt his concentration. Slowly, her gaze focuses on the alter and her mind seeks communion with the God through Greje's facilitation.

Greje has not yet reached the pinnicle of her enthousiasmos (when the God comes inside of her). But that's not to say she's not high as a kite, thinking in many of the same ways. Instead of a stream of incomprehensible blather, she speaks in a reasoned tone. "Deucalion and Pyrrha came to rest on the mountainside, where was the navel-stone of the Earth, where Rhea and Themis gave prophecy at the first and second temple before Apollo gave prophecy at the third. They approached Themis with suppliant boughs, and cried to her, our homes are gone, our families are lost, and everything we own we carry with us in our exile from our fertile lands, in this strange ship, on that strange sea, where the mermaids pluck the apples from the trees and where the sea-cows crop the waving grass. How can we live? How can life go on, with we, such few, the only ones to carry it on?"

Ramiro looks up, offering Amalina a smile as he tries hard to ignore the hunger in his stomach. He listens to Greje speak, considering the words as he looks between the both of them. "It seems that our situation is no different." He whispers quietly, without hopelessness.

The chapel is a quiet place, though not deserted. Two people either sit or kneel in front of the alter while Greje stands in the God's place. The service has not been going on for terribly long. D'Artanion is sitting, a black cane resting next to her. Her gaze flashes to Ramiro and she nods, "Not different at all, really." Her gaze returns to the alter and she murmurs a soft acknowlegement to the Priest's words.

Effie steps into the Chapel from the corridor, carrying a small, and well used copy of the scriptures clumsily bookmarked with a set of prayer beads. She makes it almost halfway down to the altar before her book slips out of her hands and thuds softly to the floor. She wide-eye scoops it up, mutters, "Crap," under her breath, and continues on at a slightly increased pace. No one saw that. The Crewman throws herself into a seat quickly.

Greje keeps on reciting the tale, emphasizing, of course, those aspects of the story which reflect the current situation. "They made themselves pure, and sacrificed at the altar by the stone, and asked the Goddess what they ought to do. And the Goddess answered them that they should take up the bones of their mother and throw them behind them. But this Deucalion and Pyrrha refused to do, since it is an impious thing to desecrate the bodies of the dead, and a heinous thing to violate ones own mother. Not even in their duress would they act in impiety."

Ramiro looks over at the sound of a book dropping, offering Effie a small smile as he turns back to listen to Greje. His eyes go reflective for a moment as he looks to the floor. Slowly, he runs a hand over his itching skin on his right arm, and a distinct growling stomach echoes through the chapel. Listening to the words, he closes his eyes again to focus.

There's a crinkle of a wrapper, subtle but audible in one of the pauses in Greje's speechifying, and the newly arrived Crewman slyly hands over half a granola bar toward the growly bellied marine. Effie looks askance at Ramiro, silent. Mostly. "Psst." It's soft, but if this place were packed, at least two rows would be glaring at her by now.

Greje looks down at the burning remnants of leaves on the altar. "Commit no trespass on your mother's bones, my love, Deucalion said to Pyrrha, the oracle speaks in riddles which we must think through. Who is it who is the mother of us all? The earth, the earth is the mother of us all. And what, then, are the bones of our mother? The rocks and stones, the rocks and stones that form the earth below us. Wait, then, until the strange ship lands once more, freed from the strange seas, until the ground is dry and fertile and gives birth to a million things, and take up the stones of the earth and throw them over your shoulder. Unweave the riddle of the Oracle's tongue and come to land once more— this is our mother and this is our survival. Our separation will be long and terrible, our losses many, but we will one day feel the sun once more on our backs and the earth in our hands, and work in it and cause our people to be plenty once more."

Ramiro looks over his shoulder at the granola bar. In a lighthearted manner, he smiles and waves it away, mouthing the words 'no thank you' to Effie. Sitting on his knees, he turns back to Greje. Listening to her tell the tale, he controls his breathing and nods to himself. He's seeing where all of this is going, and listening to her direction.

Crinkle, crinkle. The bar is slid back, and shoved into a pocket. "Oh." Soft whisper. "Sorry." She ducks her head a little and goes back to facing totally forward, her hands folded over her little scriptures. Effie reaches up to her mouth, and quietly gnaws at her thumbnail. Though her hands are scrubbed clean, a little smear of grease across one cheek is a glue to her profession on the ship. Seems she missed a spot in the scrubbing before the service. She fidgets once, then goes relatively still.

D'Artanion glances over to smile at the woman with the snack. A faint wink is offered, though her attention returns to Greje quickly enough. As the tale unfolds, D'Artanion lowers her gaze once more, her thoughts spinning parallels between the old tale and the current situation. Sorrow remains, however, even with the words of that distant Oracle echoing hope in her ears. Inhaling deeply, she closes her eyes and concentrates once more on meaning. Her hands twitch slightly and one comes to rest on her injured thigh, the touch almost unconscious.

Greje has indeed shifted seamlessly between narration of the story and commentary on the current situation. "This week we will go to Apollo's oracle, offer our sacrifices, our prayers and our piety. The God has inherited the oracle of Themis, slaying the serpent thereof and proclaiming his task of calling out the will of Zeus. We all have questions to which we want the answers. We will hear and receive the God's voice. We will not act with any impiety. We will pray for the God to send us a solution which purifies us and soothes us in our loss."

Ramiro turns to regard Greje for a long moment. His left hand reaches up to brush against his face as a pit forms in his stomach. "May I also continue to pray for his protection in battle, Sister?" Ramiro asks quietly, raising an eyebrow. "Do you feel questions can be asked, or simply answers given?"

Effie's eyes go to Ramiro as he speaks, and her hand drops from her mouth. She stops gnawing on the thumbnail, and instead crosses her arms to keep from fidgeting. She listens, and watches, eyes a little wide—unsettled since the meeting on the Deck so recently.

"Of course you may, Dane," Greje answers quietly. "And as to the questions. We all may ask, but, as we know from the story of Oedipus, the God only answers the question he finds worthy." Oedipus, after all, asked the Pythia who his parents were, and Apollo replied that he would kill his father and marry his mother. "I think it would be prudent to ask his advice in how to proceed from here. Unless you had another question you thought would be more apt, Dane?" Greje asks. It's a sincere question, she would like to discuss options for the rite.

D'Artanion listens to Greje, her gaze flickering upward, then back down again. For a moment, she passes her teeth over her lower lip, but stops when Ramiro speaks. He is given a quick glance and then she looks back to the Priest, waiting on the God's answer. Her hand presses unconsciously over the sutures in her thigh, though moves quickly away when pain shoots through her. That is one way to bring reality back again. The answer? She nods once when it is given and lowers her gaze once more.

Effie's eyes go from Ramiro to Greje, and she nods along with that the woman is saying, listening intently, thinking very hard on this exchange. She glances back to the marine, awaiting his reply.

"Not at the expense of asking how we should proceed." Ramiro replies, looking to the three of them. Even Effie, over his shoulder, is given a long, slow look. He lets out a slow breath. "If the orders come through I'm going to be given command of a sniper unit." He pauses. "Snipers are no good indoors or in space." He looks up to Greje. "Which means that I'm going to be very, very far away from the fleet more than likely, on a planet that our people has lost." He gives a small smile. "I'm not afraid. I just want to make it count."

Greje nods her head shortly. "You will, Dane," she replies, as if the knowledge of Apollo were already in her head, she speaks with such conviction. "When a man of virtue acts, the world feels it. Your feet will remain steady, your arm will be strong, and you'll see with perfect clarity that which you need to do. Apollo's light will guide you. Only look to him." She turns, then, to Amalina, "And— Amalina— I meant to say… congratulations. You should be very proud. I'm very proud -of- you. Apollo must send his son to bless you." His son, Asclepius, that is.

D'Artanion smiles at Ramiro, though she refrains from elbowing him playfully in the gut. For one thing, she might miss and hit his injured arm. For another, it would be rude. Actually, it is almost a toss up as to which concern is paramount. Then, Greje addresses her and her startlement is clear in her eyes. Looking up, she blushes a bit, though her smile remains, "I am blessed, Sister. Thank you."

Effie goes back to being quiet, gnawing on a fingernail. She looks to the altars and her eyes fix on one of all of them. She considers the arrangement of it, and her fingers push open the pages of her little book. She glances down at her lap, and quietly reads to herself.

"I do and shall." Ramiro replies to Greje, turning to give D'artanion a knowing smile. It speaks volumes. His eyes, too, flit to the altar and sweep over it. "Yes, you are blessed, Amalina." He says, destroying rank in the presence of the altar and the chaplain. That is when Ramiro stands slowly and takes a step back, thinking to himself.

Greje is about to address Effie, whom she hasn't had the honor of meeting personally, yet, but stops herself as Effie comes to the altar to read, instead simply giving her a warm smile as she does so, and some time to read in silence before she quietly begins to speak, "I'm sorry, my child. We're preparing for the rites of Apollo, and so services have been quite one-sided. Whose cult do you follow, or how may I be of service to you?"

D'Artanion blushes a bit and looks up to Ramiro, "You too, Dane." She rises, though it is a painful process, aided by judicious use of the cane she brought. Turning to Ramiro, she mouths, "I'll be going with you." To the planet. "I think." Then, Greje is speaking to Effie and D'Artanion falls silent so as not to interrupt.

Oh god, someone's paying direct attention. Effie glances over, and smiles that bright, wide smile of hers. "Well… I just like t'listen, really. I just never really picked one, but I let the Gods direct me this or that way. I tell ya, though, ever since I was a little girl I've really been partial to Aphrodite. She's just always so beautiful." She glances around briefly. "I know that might sound kinda dumb, what with the war an' stuff. But she speaks to me." Pause. "Not literally." Except that one time in College—do NOT say that out loud. Eyeshift.

Ramiro smiles, listening to Effie talk as he takes another step back. Looking to D'artanion, he nods slowly before speaking to Greje. "Sister I will continue to fast and keep myself pure. I will pray and prepare myself for the ritual." He says with a respectful bow. Taking in a deep breath, he turns and exits the chapel.

D'Artanion nods to Ramiro and lifts a hand to wave after the guy. Then, curious, she focuses on Effie and Greje. A smile begins quietly and she moves to one of the benches and claims it. Sitting on the floor was not good for her sutures, even though she did not kneel. The bench gives her a chance to listen as well as rest her aching leg.

Greje smiles broadly right back at Effie, the Apolline haze of the latest dose of chamalla beginning to let a little bit of herself through. She nods gratefully to Dane, then, turning her attention back to Effie, "It's easy to let the Laughter-Loving Goddess pass by unnoticed when nobody has the energy to laugh. But there's no shame in rendering unto her the honors which she is due. Without the pleasures of beauty and love… why bother fighting for this life to begin with? Remember that Ares chooses Aphrodite as his consort. He fights to come into her bed at night and know her pleasures. I myself provided service at Aphrodite's temple on Leonis for eight months… and every day was a delight. You're very lucky to hear her call to you."

Effie's smile doesn't fade, though her cheeks do flush a little bit. It's probably a combo of the attention and the subject matter. She clears her throat a little and nods to Greje. "Thank you for saying so." Several follow up remarks flit through her brain, but none of them make it out of her mouth. Because. People are watching and she has some self control.

D'Artanion might notice that restraint in action. Rising again, she lifts a wave to Greje, then begins to hobble out. "See you later, Sister." The comment about performing Aphrodite's service? Amalina flashes the Priest a quick grin and a faint wink before her gaze falls to Effie. The woman is also offered a wave and D'Artanion hobbles out of the chapel to give the two some privacy.

Greje looks up to Amalina as she stands, but simply gives her a gentle nod of farewell before turning her attention back to Effie. "I'm maintaining a ritual purity for Apollo's rites, at present, which precludes me from performing many of Aphrodite's services, at the moment. But — if you'd like — once Apollo's rites are finished, we can celebrate the Goddess together. She can lend great comfort in a time of sorrow."

Effie considers that for a moment, and then she nods. "That would be nice, yes." Though most everything about the Crewman is kind of sparkly, she's a little shifty today and seems a little out of sorts. War has that effect. Dark eyes meet Greje's and she nods again. "I think that would help." It's a very solemn assertion from the short blonde. "Thank you, sister."

Greje looks down to the altar, to the statuette of Aphrodite, "Would you like to leave the Lady a piece of incense?" she asks gently. "She hasn't been very well-attended, and I'm certain she would appreciate it."

The Crewman glances down at the altar a bit skeptically. It's not the altar, or the suggestion, really. It's the whole touching the altar thing. "You mean touch it?" Though the tech is pretty well scrubbed, there's a smear of grease across her cheek which suggests she's more comfortable with engines than religious finery. She whispers unnecessarily, "Is that ok?"

Greje nods quietly. "As long as you touch it with respect and reverence, don't spill human blood or waste upon it, and are clean of religious impurity," she stipulates gently.

Effie does one of those wide-eyed little eye shift things at the mention of human blood. "Okay," she says, a little higher pitched than normal. She clears her throat, then reaches for the incense to place it gently on Aphrodite's altar. She's a little fuzzy on that last part, but since asking questions can sometimes lead to disturbing answers, she just nods. "I haven't really done this a lot," she supplies, unnecessarily.

Greje coughs briefly, realizing that it's probably more information than Effie needed. She's a terrible geek, at her core, and will happily prattle on about dogma all day. She tries to make it sound less scary, in retrospect: "It's mostly an issue if someone has a cut on his or her hand and doesn't realize it's bleeding. Don't worry. You're doing fine. Do you have anything you'd like to say to her? Any prayers?" She asks quite gently, trying not to make the young lady feel any pressure.

Effie relaxes a little as some explanation is made. That's a lot less ghoulish sounding for sure! "Oh, kay. I can do that." She mmms. "I don't really know—I mean well. Ok." She clears her throat and touches the edge of the altar, and says, "Please… um. Temper our lives with comfort and love to go with all this battle and struggle, even for those who don't think they need it. Because everyone needs it." She glances over sideways to Greje, as if checking to see if that's ok.

It's perfectly alright, if Greje's warm smile says anything about it. She nods her head in approval, in case that wasn't enough. "Do you want me to light it for you? It can be a little tricky to light sometimes."

"Yes, please." Effie glances from the incense to Greje, and leans in a little to confide, "Me an' fire is best left separate." She doesn't go into details, but there's undoubtedly a story in there somewhere. Perhaps at a later date, when there aren't people praying.

Greje smiles at the hint of the story, and she takes up a long twig and lights it in the candlelight, moving it to hold along the incense until it begins to smoke. She then waves the twig until it goes out, and sets it down again. She looks down at the incense bathing the figure of Aphrodite in sweet smoke, and she pronounces slowly, "Lady of Laughter, Cyprian Goddess, Cythaerian, who delights in genitalia and was born from the sea-foam, turn a kindly eye to this offering, and always favor those who present it to you. Accept this gift and nod your head, and grant us every grace and pleasure." She moves two fingers through the smoke of the incense, sanctifying the offering.

Effie smiles a soft little smile standing by the altar of Aphrodite as Greje lights the incense she's just placed. She closes the small book in her hands, marking the page with a set of tiny prayer beads. "Thank you." She glances to the altar again, smiles a bit more, and steps back a little, lingering, but just out of the way.

Rhea enters the chapel. Posture stiff. Nose wrinkling faintly at the smell of incense. The Chief Engineer looks decidedly ragged, but there's a bristle about her manner as well. If she were a cat, she'd be thrashing her tail. And possibly scratching something.

"Of course," Greje replies gently, letting Effie retreat to her own private prayers, as she pleases, but continuing to offer her the same soft smile a moment longer, before her attention turns to the hissing cat crossing over the threshold. She doesn't register anything near alarm, though she does shift on the three-legged stool she's been kneeling on for hours at this point. Priest training increases your tolerance for staying on your knees a great deal. For priests of Aphrodite this often applies doubly so. She resumes her attentions to the altar, letting Rhea come in for some quiet prayer, or come to address her, if she pleases.

Effie looks again to Greje, her smile intact, the thanks clear in her eyes. The Crewman turns after another nod, her chin just a little higher than when she came in. She scuttles down the aisle, passing Rhea, ad she does not make eye contact. Flee.

If the ChEng ever gets on her knees, it ain't in the chapel. Rhea's not here to pray. She offers Effie a polite little nod as the deckhand flees, then marches forth. Up to Greje. "Lieutenant. Do you have a moment?" Her tone is quiet, and respectful enough, but there's still that general air of bristling about her. She's out of her comfort zone.

"Of course," Greje replies, "Here? Or would you prefer to speak in the Ecclesiastical offices?" she offers, somethow thinking a more secular setting might be helpful to this meeting.

"I don't particularly care," Rhea lies. But, it's become something she'd have to back down from now, so she's staying put. "I just don't want to disturb anyone else's prayers. And I would like to do this privately."

Greje nods her head slowly, "Well, then, just pardon me a moment while I finish sanctifying these offerings, and then we can head downstairs and leave this space open for quiet prayer," she agrees, picking up on the thread that they're moving for the comfort of the other patrons and not for Rhea's sake. A few short but devoted prayers, the same motion of fingers through smoke, and she stands, taking up the tripod and folding it to rest at the back of the altar. "Shall we?"

"Sanctify away," Rhea says, with just a tinge of sarcasm in her tone. She can't help herself. It's a really good thing for everyone concerned they're moving this to another shop. She follows Greje gladly to more secular quarters.

Greje moves through the offices to the small suite set aside for ecclesiastical purposes. Both rooms are tiny, and she heads into the tinier of the two, which looks for all the world like a closet masquerading as an office. But she's made good use of the space, the walls are covered in bookshelves, her desk sports a laptop computer and a variety of potted plants under a sunlamp, as well as a portable teapot and a mug tree bearing a variety of mugs, all souvenir mugs from a variety of santuaries at which she's practiced, worshipped, or made pilgrimage. There's a ghastly orange loveseat next to the door, and you need to squeeze between the arm of the loveseat and the front of the desk, but it's comfy enough to sit on. "Please, make yourself comfortable. May I make you some tea?" she asks quietly, squeezing around to get behind her desk.

"No, thank you," Rhea says, shouldering her way into the small office. "I won't keep you long. I'm sure you're very busy." That's actually not sarcastic. "This concerns one of my snipes. She's of a religious inclination. I think. I don't really discuss those things with my people. Anyway. She's in Sickbay, laid up for about a week, and I'd appreciate it if you'd pay her a call."

"Of course. I have been… quite busily preparing for Apollo's rites, I haven't been in Sickbay today. But I was just considering earlier that I'll have to go by tomorrow before the… before the unpleasantness," Greje muses. "I'll look out for your, um, for your snipe while I'm there," she fumbles a little around the military lingo, and opens up her laptop, "What's her name?" she asks, preparing to make a note for herself.

"Unpleasantness. Yes. It's definitely that. I won't be attending," Rhea says simply. There's no sign of approval or disapproval for the execution in her voice. She doesn't pursue the subject. "Mopsus Doe del Boccyo. It's quite a mouthful. She…fell. From a maintenance platform. On the hangar deck. I…don't know the particulars. But she's been quite distraught." Concern, actual emotion, creeps into Rhea's tone. She clears her throat. "Anyway. I thought someone like you would be a bit more useful than me at the moment."

Greje types out the name, Mopsus like the prophet, Doe, a deer, a female deer… del… she guesses at the spelling of that last and figures she'll find something close enough on the charts tomorrow. She looks up, as if there was something she was missing in all of this, "Oh… dear. She'll be alright, I hope? Physically, I mean. I can see how falling from such a height can leave a person shaken. Is she afraid to climb back onto one?" she asks, trying gently to plumb into what Rhea means by 'quite distraught.'

"The CMO's message said she'll be in Sickbay for about a week, then on light duty," Rhea replies. "Which, all things considered, isn't as bad as it could have been. I've seen people killed in spills like that." Rhea's not up for gentle plumbing. The ChEng is a blunt creature. "I don't have any proof I can put my hands on but I think her fall may not have been accidental. As I said, she's been distraught." Greje is given a steady look. She can connect that on her own.

"… Ah." Dots? Connected. Her gaze falls back to the computer screen, the snipe's name, and her lips press together gently in an expression of sympathy, not toward Rhea, but almost toward the person herself. This has actually managed to be the first time she's been involved in a case like this since the attacks, and, looking back, she's somewhat surprised. She looks up again, "I'll be sure to sit with her. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Have… you spoken to anybody in Psychology, yet? If you think she may still be a danger to herself, I don't have the authority to keep her under supervision, but someone in Psychology might be able to arrange that. Obviously she's safe for the moment, in Sickbay…. but… well, I'll speak with her. See if I can't help. We'll just take it a step at a time. I'm so sorry."

"Not yet, but it'll be done. I'd expect a psyche eval to be standard in a case like that. If it's not, be assured, I'll prod." Rhea's good at prodding. She nods shortly to Greje. "Good. Get it done, then." Like she's issuing a work order. The 'sorry' makes her bristle. "This isn't about me, Lieutenant, and I don't require your symapthy. I don't bring my problems to the chapel door. I thought you might be able to help my petty officer. That's all."

Greje tilts her head gently. "Self-destructive actions have long been proven to have significant psychological impact on those who know the person in question… especially upon family members, loved ones, and those in a position of responsibility for that person. More often than not it leaves people wondering what they could have done differently… leaves feelings of guilt, which, even when suppressed, can have deep repercussions. If you don't want to talk to me about it, I understand, but you might consider talking to -someone.-" She speaks quite softly, but very factually.

"If I need maintenance I know where to go. Don't concern yourself with me," Rhea says coolly. She turns to go. But, as she does, a slim frown crosses her lips. She sighs. "I don't mean to be rude, Lieutenant. I understand the value of what you do. I've known chaplains I've liked personally. But organized religion isn't something I'm ever doing to be comfortable with. If I seem…unkind, don't take it personally. It's not about you."

"Not everybody does. I would have made the same recommendation to anyone coming to me with this problem. I'm glad you have a good support system in place," Greje offers quietly. She seems a lot less awkward and fidgity around Rhea today, much less scared. It's probably the chamalla steeling her like that, or perhaps she's finally simply in her own element. "And I understand. I only hope that you understand I'm not -only- here to cater to the religious. I'm not a licensed psychologist, but I -am- here if you ever need to talk. Or just curl up someplace quiet with a nice cup of tea where nobody would think to look for you," she offers with a quiet smile.

"Maybe. I'll spare you my company for tea-time, though. I can't get over the association. I grew up on Sagittaron. Are you familiar with their religious sects?" Rhea asks. She shrugs. "Some of the rumors you here off-colony are exaggerated. It's like any brand of fundamentalism. There aren't many who *really* subscribe to that BS. But, my mother was a believer. Born-again. Which, from what I can see, just tends to make some people even less sensible about the whole mess."

"Oh dear," Greje replies quietly as the f-word gets dropped. Fundamentalism. It's nothing she's ever enjoyed the company of, though she works hard not to express distaste, since it's still her job to accept all religious backgrounds, no matter how strange they seem to her and her 'fancy Caprican education.' And she especially has no desire to show disrespect toward Rhea's mother, even if Rhea herself seems to be doing so. Some places you just don't tread, if you're sensible. "Well, I can only hope I'll leave you with a better impression of what cult worship can offer a person, if nothing else. And I hate to cut this short, but I need to go and see to Misters Doss and Mercer tonight."

There is indeed little respect in Rhea's manner. "You won't. No offense, Lieutenant. For a lot of people, religion offers great comfort. I understand that. I get nothing out of it, except bad memories. Anyhow. Thanks for your time. I won't keep you from your duties." And she turns strides away. Briskly.

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