Bearer of Bad News
Bearer of Bad News
Summary: Nigel visits Snatch in the recovery ward and unintentionally becomes the bearer of bad news.
Date: 19 BCH
Related Logs: None

Recovery Ward Genesis - Deck 13
19 ACH 6735 Souls

This is a large room holding over twenty bed stations for patients to recover after having treatment severe enough that they cannot immediately return to duty. Each station has various connections for medical equipment, a bed with collapsible railings, fold out table, adjustable positions and a privacy curtain.

Contents: Nigel Snatch

Exits: [O] Out
Snatch is recovering. They're weaning her off of the painkillers, so she's awake and unfoggy more often than not, even if all she ever does while awake is sit half propped-up with her head turned away from the door, staring at a blank space on the wall. Her breathing is easier, now, though her breaths are still short.

Nigel is led into the ward by a nurse, and the ensign points the way towards Snatch's bed. With a nod, the crewman stuffs his hands into the pockets of his fatigues pants and heads that way, bony elbows flopping about as though his lanky arms still want to swing even with his hands tucked away as they are. Approaching the bed, he clears his throat in lieu of a verbal announcement.

Snatch tips her chin down almost automatically at the throat clearing, drawing her eyes down to the blankets, then shifting her gaze sideways, evidently preferring to identify Nigel by his kneecaps.

And what magnificent kneecaps they are. Bony, just like his elbows, though they are obscured by his olive colored trousers. A shame, really. "Hey, um, Snatch. Mopsus," he states tentatively, running a hand through hair that is long overdue for a buzzing. "Don't wanna disturb you or anything, but… I brought you something." He reaches into the military issue satchel draped over his shoulder and pulls something out, setting it down on the metal table next to her bed. On closer inspection, it's a sculpture of a single flower made out of recycled wire, welded to a base of scrap metal.

Snatch looks up slowly as her name's stated. Her face is clean, which is a new one, for her, though half of it is still pretty bruised over. She looks rather like she introduced the side of her face rather abruptly to a bulkhead… and for good reason. But the swelling's down, her eye's still a little squinty and quite bloodshot, but she can obviously see out of it. She looks in confusion between Nigel and the flower. Confusion and… something else. Guilt, maybe? "A hain't done aught ton 'serve than thar, none, now, Nigel," she tells him

Nigel shrugs his shoulders in an exaggerated, loose manner. "Well, you're in sickbay. I don't know who started this whole thing about bringing people in the hospital flowers, but I'm not one to shirk tradition, see?" He scratches the side of his chin and lowers himself gracelessly into a nearby chair, uninvited. So much for not wanting to disturb her.

Snatch looks back to her lap, only managing a slight, helpless sort of nod. "Ah'll ken on whan's y'n dee…" she sighs softly, the expansion in her lungs making her ribs ache. "S'of im-port, ain' it? Whan's custom-ree tan fai…" she trails off, pensive.

Nigel moves from scratching his chin to picking at a long, thin scab on the back of his hand. "So… what happened?" he asks after a moment of contemplation. He looks at her battered face and stops picking. The scab's not ready to come off yet, if the pinprick of blood is to be trusted.

Snatch keeps her eyes on her lap, pressing her lips together briefly. "Ah'ns took min a tummle off un main'nance walkway," she answers after a moment's consideration, not really seeming to have it in her to lie about it.

"Yeah," Nigel replies, leaning forward in his chair a bit. "I heard. I guess… I guess I meant why, and not what," he adds after another few seconds of thought.

Snatch keeps her eyes locked downward. Knees are pretty fascinating to her, today. Her own as well as his. "Y'ns ken't it y'nself," she supposes. "In mine fam'ly we'ns take ours good care," she speaks suddenly with a certain clarity not often found in her voice, "For to see to our'n elders an' such als cain't care for'm selves. An' I hain't done 'an, none. Ah trait. Ah trait…" she shakes her head, voice breaking at the onset of tears.

Nigel keeps his eyes on Snatch's face even though her own gaze is reserved for knees. "You… are you blaming yourself for what happened to the colonies?" he asks, plainly flabberghasted. Leaning forward and over the bed, he situates his face right above her knees, aggressively trying to catch her gaze.

Snatch furrows her brows in something like pain. "No'n laik as 'an," she corrects him. "Ah jus' wanned a git home an' hailp… mahn mamma… she hait need on min t' git home for an' hailp 'er. An' Ah'ns traiped here an' cain't gettha frak offa this cain."

"Oh," Nigel states, settling back into his seat with a slight frown. "So… you thought you'd do yourself in, instead?" He runs his hand through his hair again. "Not like I've never done something stupidly self-destructive. I mean, that's basically all I do, I'm a case study for frakking up." He almost smirks, but there's no mirth in the expression that manifests.

Snatch hunches a little. "Ah just wanned to git home. Ain't no one would take min home," she explains in her distress, her bruised eye burning as it produces tears from a bruised tear duct. "Ah don't cir none, they'ns ain't got should stay thar wit' mins… Jus' leave min thar an' go, but leave me git home."

Nigel furrows his brows, nodding slowly. "Yeah," he mumbles, slumping somewhat in the chair. "It's hard to care about anything anymore," he agrees.

Snatch turns her head, at length, and winces as she leans back, ribs moving into a different configuration, looking to Nigel, finally, as if he might get her. "Ah cain't jus' leave 'em thar."

Nigel's brows descend as alarm flashes in his eyes. "You…" He pushes his forefinger and thumb into his eyesockets for a moment, lips pursing. "I guess you didn't go to the mandatory meeting Commander Regas held… were you in here?"

"Meetin'?" Yeah, Snatch was pretty much unconscious for both the announcement and the meeting proper.

"Frak," Nigel groans, lifting his other hand to cover his face with all his fingers. "Shit," he curses again. "You didn't see. You don't know. I'm so sorry." He doesn't explain why he's sorry, not yet.

Snatch can barely bring herself to swallow, her good eye narrowing to about the same squint as the other one as she looks at Nigel, as if fearing some explanation.

Nigel doesn't lower his hands to look at Snatch. "Everything's gone," he tells her. "We saw… all this footage from news stations on all the colonies as… as the attacks were happening. It's… everything's destroyed." Still, his hands remain.

Snatch clenches her jaws. "So them grille-a-pain got they'ns haind onna bomb. Ain't like mahn granpap ne'er trainched a sheller 'neath the house. We'ns git down in 'ere 'fore them twisters come on through, but granpap, he done it up for'th war."

Nigel finally pulls his hands away, settling them in his lap. "I…" He seems loathe to disagree with her, so he just goes quiet instead of finishing that thought. His shoulders slump at the end of a long sigh.

Snatch returns her attention to her knees as Nigel goes quiet. She can barely stand it, sure as she is that her mother's trapped underground on a suddenly hostile planet. The thought that she's probably actually dead never even enters her mind. Her mother needs her.

Nigel sits up a little straighter, as if preparing himself for what he's about to say. His face is tight, his brows angled downward. "Look, no one can really be sure about anything. But you have to consider the possibilities. We might be the only ones left, Mopsus. We have to give all of ourselves to making sure that we stay alive, and that any other survivors do too." He grits his teeth and exhales through his nostrils. "If your family is safe in the shelter, the thing that's going to help them the most is us fighting back from up here."

Snatch's lower jaw moves in a slight wobbling shudder, and she looks up, again, fierce-eyed like some mountain wildcat. "We'ns ain't fightin', we'ns runnin'," she protests plainly, still hunched and distraught despite her look of sudden anger.

Nigel blows out a breath. "Yeah, I have no idea what the hell is going on," he admits. "But we can't go back to the colonies. It's not safe. There's nothing for us to do there except be sitting ducks. At least in this ship, we have a fighting chance." It sounds as though he's trying to convince himself just as much as he is Snatch.

Snatch frowns, "At leas' then we'd ken whar we'ns war an' wans we'ns war on about. Not flah'n about laik als no-see-mees in summer. Leave min at an gun an' Ah'll ten' to seein' them grille-a-pain off on mahn mamma's lan'."

Nigel can't really hide his frustration, though the expression is laced with pity. "They don't want your mother's land. They want us all to die. And they've done a pretty good job of seeing to it. Maybe you should watch the footage, Mopsus. Maybe you just need to see for yourself." He stands, his eyes still on her as he rises. "I have to go. I'm sorry. For everything." He turns away and takes a step towards the door, one hand lashing out to push the wire flower a little closer to her side before he starts striding away in earnest.

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