You're not at all sure you understand the procedure he's describing, but you experimentally shove the panels around a bit and try to devise a space for yourself. Not too big, that invites clutter. Just a modest sitting area and cozy adjoining respiteblock. After a few minutes, you step back and look around consideringly. "Sir, may I bring in fixtures for a private ablution block? Also, how do you lock these?"
"Oh, there's angle-brackets," you say, and indicate the screwholes drilled along the edges of each panel. You get out a few boxes of brackets and screws and fix together one corner. "See, you get it all bolted from the inside of your rooms, and no one can open it up from the outside without several cutting torches, though we'll be putting angle brackets on the hall-side corners anyway just for some extra support, and so people know what's inside and what's outside. New hallways tend to confuse everyone for a few days. "And— right, yes, you still need to designate an ablution chamber and a kitchen. Er, cooking area. Mealblock. We'll have the appliances sent over and get the plumbing put in tomorrow, if you don't mind the wait?" (bel is free to get hot and shrug his uniform jacket off at any time)
"Not at all, not at all," you say absently, returning to your experimental shoving-around of walls. Aspera doesn't seem in any hurry to move you along, or to leave. You guess seeing what new trolls do for their modular housing must be pretty interesting at a boondock posting like this. You almost say 'pardon the informality' before unbuttoning your jacket, but realize that might seem snide in light of your CO's current mode of dress. So you just loosely fold the jacket and drape it over the cart seat, roll up your shirt sleeves, and get back to the wall-shoving. "My dad's flyway will be over here, you said?" you glance at him for confirmation.
"Yes, here, follow me to set the perimeter." You get out chalk, select two blue sticks, and toss him one. Then you step out of the sitting block, shove a proper hallway diameter, and draw a shoulder-level blue line on the panels of each side. "Right, see? This is the hall, these are the outsides, the color shows who's on the inside, haha. Come on." You gesture for him and then start working to make a solid continuous wall in a large, rough square. "There, that's about oh, forty, meters? D'you think that's enough?" you ask, when you've once more returned to what's going to be Kadros's front door. You absently wipe your dusty hands on your shirtfront, then frown— colored chalk, not regular white, and now you've got his color all over your sign. You hope he doesn't take it as anything inappropriate. (congratulations, erskin, you now look like you meandered out of a very implausible construction-worker porno)
Your eyes linger on the stain for maybe two seconds longer than necessary, but you don't so much as raise an eyebrow. You focus on the question. "His wingspan's about ten, so he can't do any fancy flying, but it's enough for an exercise yard. And if he gets to feeling cramped, he can take a turn around the big aviary. This'll be the upper portion of his bit, then? We'll cut the floor out? So I'll want a spot for his nest here... has to be sheltered by my quarters, see, it's the only place he's territorial... so I guess that makes this the respiteblock..." This is actually kind of fun, now that you're a bit less self-conscious about getting your shirt all cling-sweaty and chalk-smudged in front of your superior officer. Less like the sterile shipboard life you hate, and more like the mud-in-your-bootlaces existence you've always secretly thought of as real life.
You trot along after him, this time, helping shove, fix together, and chalk various modules. You like hearing people talk about their custodians— you're still not such a good judge of character, and it seems to you that trolls that have tender and respectful relationships with lusii can still be absolute bulgesores to everyone else, but it's still nice to see this side of someone. "I meant to ask," you say, after a bit of a conversational pause, "what, er, what does a first mate do, really? What's your... your purview? What falls within, rather. Er." You scratch your nose, remembering only too late that you're all sweaty and chalk sticks like the dickens and now you probably have it all over your face. You sit back on your heels and try to have a scrub with a cleaner bit of your shirt hem. "And are we to do anything together, do you think?"
Again, the slightly-too-long look, and again you succeed in refraining from comment. "We ought to meet at least briefly every night, barring emergencies, sir. To discuss what needs to be done. A first mate's job description is deliberately vague; essentially, you tell me what you want done, and I make it happen. Hold this, please." You give him one end of a tape measure and crouch-walk along a wall section, continuing to talk as you do so. "I'll do this mainly by delegating, so I won't be working any miracles until I know the crew better. I'll also do whatever paperwork you authorize me to see. Generally this is pretty much everything except for sealed orders and admiralty courier packets, and of course personal correspondence. I'll be your go-fer, your guard dog, your secretary, your butler, whatever you need me to be. Thank you, sir," you add as you take the tape measure back. You consider the area you've chalked out, and then you lie down as if on the lounging platform you'd like to put there. "Hmm. My horns are through the wall, aren't they, sir. Damn these antlers."
"Well, break them off, then, I'm sure I've got a saw somewhere around here," and pat yourself down with grave seriousness til you get a bit of a smile. It's funny— hardly anyone around here calls you sir anymore, it never really suited to begin with, but from him you rather like it. You toss a screw at him, and go "Ha!" when it bounces off his forehead. "Come on, up and at 'em, soldier boy. Shove that wall over and let's get this finished up and you can have a lie-down somewhere with padding."
"I was only testing it for length, sir," you say reproachfully, but you get up and go back to work with a will. Once you've cooperatively heaved the wall into place and are applying the brackets, you admit, "It feels good to do a bit of hard physical work. Is there still a gym on board? There was one on the original plan, but..."
You frown. "You know what, I havent the faintest idea. Your first job as first mate can be sorting all that out."
"My first, sir?" you say uncertainly, though you're getting out your tablet to make a note. "I hope you'll at least show me where the paperwork lives, so I can get to work on it afterwards."
"Oh! Right! Yes, good, I forgot." You stand and stretch your back out, draw your canekind again. "This way, my quarters aren't so far from here, and we can both take a turn in the shower." The corridors to your place are too narrow for a cart at the moment, so you set your teeth and hoof it. It's not so bad, but you're glad to get to your back door and thumb the lock open. "Mudroom's here, ablution chamber to that side, and this is the dread office whence no man returns with mind and soul intact. Excuse me." You drop heavily into your wheely chair. Something goes thhhbbbt. You remove the humorous flatulence device and drop it to the floor. Kadros is remarkably impassive, though there seems to be a certain attitude of grim resolve as he takes in the bins, shelves, drawers, and desks all crammed with papers, flimsies, datapads, tablets, jump drives, flatworm drives, and bottled datagrubs. "The vengeful remains of six bloody captains," you say, waving your cane at it all. "It's worse than ghosts, you don't have to file ghosts."
"I would file ghosts," you say, jut-jawed; "I'm a Marine." But then you spoil the effect by unearthing the remains of a perigee-old sandwich and clearing your throat. "Is the trash bin missing, or just buried?" He points it out, and you spend a few minutes having a casual ruffle through the mess, trying to spot any sort of organizing principle. It looks like it's just a matter of sedimentary strata for the most recent stuff; whoever packed up the rest did so at intervals, which helps, but there isn't any consistent labeling system and some of the storage items have burst or tipped over and spilled their contents to mingle. Satisfied that there's enough here to keep you occupied for half a sweep, you straighten up and dust your hands. "I like a challenge," you tell Aspera with a grin, and the thing is, you mean it.
"I-- oh. Good." You say, a trifle startled. When he's smiling, actually for-real, really smiling, he's rather appealing to behold. Your fins, which are dirty traitors who do not care about proper conduct, heat up. "I'm first for a rinse," you say, ducking your head a bit. "You can-- have at it for a bit." You heave up, give a little hop-and-curse, your fucking hip's siezed up already, and catch your balance. With a hand fisted in his shirt front. "Nn. Sorry," you manage, tightly. "Sorry." You've pulled it all crooked but you're not sure you won't tip if you let go. "...sorry." ( i can dump this plot bit if you like, i just think erskin dealing with the fallout of zero medical care for his leg as an adolescent is a good balance to his relative maturity and compitence. also something for bel to pity him/ underestimate him about? and care for as part of his job?)
Your days of blushing at every little thing are long behind you, but your ears do heat up a little bit. You squash the stab of pity mercilessly. Not only is he your superior officer, but he undoubtedly already has his quadrants filled, with that handsome face and those gorgeous shoulders and those amazing scars and -- yeah. Off limits. So your response is, you hope, companionable without being solicitous. "It's no trouble. Muscle cramp? I'll lend an arm if you like." You position yourself so he can grip your forearm or shoulder if he wants to.
"Hhhh. Much— much obliged. Sorry. Nerve damage. Acts up around psionics." You take his arm, and between half a mountain of blueblood and your cane you shuffle off to the ablution chamber. You can grab the balance bar in the shower after that. "Thanks," you say, pulling at your shirt one-handed. "Great first impression, eh, First Mate Kadros? His Grace And Fury The Liege-Lord Erskin Aspera, High Violet, Preeminent Scion Of Her Imperious Condescension’s Naval Fucking Aristocracy." You may sound a just little bitter. You throw your shirt on the floor with just a bit of unecessary savagery. "Anyway, er, dismissed, or, at rest, you can go do whatever you like for a while, I don't know the term. Or stay in and have a free bloody show just in case I fall over and fucking drown— sorry. Sorry." You rub your free hand over your face, then essay a tired but reasonably genuine smile in his direction. "You've been lovely, I don't mean to give you a hard time. Mealblock's through the other door in the mudroom if you're hungry. Please don't eat any of the fossilized sandwiches in the office, I believe they count as archaeological treasures." (this bel would be able to, at a glance, tell apart the wounds obtained from fighting animals, fighting trolls, and torture, wouldn't he? erskin would have a lot of all three, though most of the first. i think he'd have the damage pattern of like a conscript pitfighter (gladiaterminator?) than a military combat veteran)
Your eyes wander over his scarred torso, widening little by little. What the hell has he been fighting? There are so many of them. Not like the neatly closed and well-healed slashes, laser burns, and bullet holes you sport. He looks like a conscript gladiatormentor, to be honest, aside from the part where he's a seadweller. Gawking, you remind yourself, is a Very Bad Thing right now for a number of reasons. You look up and give him a respectful nod. "It was, sir. A good first impression. Call for me if you need anything, I'll be in the office." You return to the huddle of desks to indulge your perverse fondness for paperwork. You're able to keep the main part of your focus, at least, on the process of beginning to sort the items there by type and date; when your mind wanders, it goes first to the question of whether you've inadvertently stumbled into a job you might find truly satisfying. You always wanted to curate data in some manner. While this isn't the library or museum you yearned for, being de facto secretary to the captain of a busy repair hub could be precisely the kind of intellectual challenge you enjoy. It's only deep under the surface of these thoughts that you dwell on your new commander's scars. There were a lot of animal bites. A wide variety of cuts and punctures that could be from fighting trolls, or from accidents, or from awkward surgeries. But some were definitely the marks of torture. The man's had an interesting life.... you hope he has a good moirail.
You sigh, lower yourself into basin, and let the hot spray do its work on your side for a while. You quietly— a bit guilty, with someone just over in your office— rub one out, purring as softly as you can manage into your palms, and feel enormously better afterwards. Clean shorts, shirt, slip-on shoe for the mudroom, you groom your damp hair with your claws, brush your fangs. You balance gingerly without your cane, testing, but decide to keep it out to go easy on yourself. You don't go right back to hanging all over poor Kadros. You wave to him as you stump through the mudroom. "Your turn, Kadros, fresh towels are under the sink. I'll see what's in the thermal hull, what?" You keep a lot of leftovers around for guests who don't enjoy big hunks of raw meat as a main entree. You cut up some fresh tomatoes and squash, mix them into a bin of reasonably decent noodles, and stuff the bowl into the electromagnetic radiation chamber to heat. While you watch the bowl twirl around you chew on a big hunk of raw meat.
"Thank you, sir." You feel a bit awkward about showering in your CO's private quarters, but you are sweaty and dusty, he did offer, and you don't have a shower of your own yet, so it's perfectly sensible to accept. You have a quick, businesslike wash, dry yourself and wring out your hair, and change into your battle dress trousers and a general-issue t-shirt, since Aspera is being casual. When you return, he presents you with a bowl of some kind of noodle-and-vegetable stuff. It's bland, but fresh, and you dig in eagerly. "Were these grown on board, sir?" you ask when you manage to slow down enough to talk between bites.
"Yes!" you say proudly. "My own garden, actually. I looked up the most popular cooking plants and went at it. I'm not much of one for greens myself. I take vitamins." You look around at the somewhat-rearranged stacks and piles. "Is there anything I can help with, here?" you ask curiously. "I've been keeping a few folders on what's been going on during my own tenure— here, they're in this drawer. Didn't want to add to the chaos, even if I couldn't make much sense out of it." You dig out a green folder from your personal desk, with a little drawing of root vegetables having a punch-up. "This is on the greenwork," you say, and show him— show off a bit, rather, the painstakingly neat rows and columns you've inked in. "See, what ship I got the seeds from, when, how much were they, amount, planting date, and then number of live plants and seeds every quarter-sweep after." You pull out a tyrian folder with a drawing of the condesce in a rather revealing version of a shipwright's uniform, and then a tablet with a gray cover and the words 'NOOKSUCKING DICKFONDLING MOTHERHUMPING BASTARDS' printed in your very best hand. "This is notes on helmsmen that have been through here— they're not as well organized, it's always such a different situation with each one, but there's dates and ships— and the gray is requisition orders, requisition deliveries, and associated billing costs. Oh, and personal orders for ship-use items. I needed to use hyperlinks, it was a damn headache to work that out." You scowl a bit at the tablet. (obviously, the requisition orders, requisition deliveries, and associated billing costs do not at all agree with one another)
