Carrying the Torch
Carrying the Torch
Summary: Ramiro and Micah talk about Leonis, wingmen and Pyramid in the recovery ward, and keep a new tradition alive
Date: 30 ACH
Related Logs: Enemy Contact

Recovery Ward Genesis - Deck 13
30 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.
----< Condition Three - Duty Area >----—-

Pilots tend to be notorious for possessing a flagrant disregard for their physical health, in the pursuit of bigger and better things. Micah's no exception; he may in fact be one of the worst offenders, where self-destructiveness is concerned. So much so, that one of the nurses (or possibly two) has seen it fit to literally strap him down to his bed so he doesn't get up and wander off. This, of course, does not sit well with said pilot. He's glaring at the ceiling, teeth clamped together, while a recovering Novella presumably dozes nearby.

Stepping in quietly, off duty, Ramiro looks down the row of beds. Spotting Micah with his eyes open, he steps over with a small metal tube in his hand. In the other hand is a personal bottle of water for himself. "Hey Ensign, I thought I'd drop by to see how you were doing." He says quietly as he moves to the side of the bed.

Micah has his arms and hands free, at least. The better to deck whoever gets too close, maybe. Twisting his head around at the sound of approaching footfalls, he follows the Marine with his eyes until the man comes to a halt. A brief glance toward the tube, then away. "May as well laugh now, an' get it out of the way," he mutters quietly.

"Actually…" Ramiro replies, setting the corked metal tube down on the end table out of his reach. "I decided to stop by and share my fat-lady-signin." He pauses, motioning to the tube. "Good cigar in there, smoked half of it, you and Novella can share the rest." He shrugs. "Want some company?"

Now that's just mean. "Frakhead," Micah grunts, eyeing the rest of the cigar that the doctor likely won't let him smoke yet, anyway. His mouth does twitch up at one corner though, in something that wants to be a grin, and then doesn't. "Sit down, an' tell me how your part of the mission went. Make me think I didn't get busted up for nothin'."

"Twenty civilians including one I personally dragged out of a shallow grave." Ramiro says slightly above a whisper as he sits. "I even heard we managed out with a few kittens, hopefully one of each." Ramiro adds, opening his water bottle. "Trust me, you didn't get busted up for nothing."

Micah lowers his eyes as Ramiro speaks, listening quietly. Some of the agitation even softens, just a fraction, so he doesn't quite resemble so much a bristling porcupine. "That's good t'hear." Oh yes. He flits a glance sidelong to Novella. "Ah'll let her know, when she wakes up." A pause, and then the question that needs to be asked, "You lose any men out there, Corporal?"

"Yeah…I did." Ramiro replies, a bitter look on his face for a moment. He looks over to the sleeping form of Novella as his lip curls into a slight frown. "Before everything went down, her and I talked about what would happen if I got left behind. You see…I'm a sniper. I'm designed to remain behind enemy lines if need be. Recon. I got the impression that she was worried about having to make that hard call. Soften the blow, you know?" He pauses, looking back to Micah. "Hubris. I assumed it would be me."

"Don't know what that's got to do with hubris, mate." There's a sliver of colour beneath the lowered lashes; he's watching the Marine, though not meeting his gaze. "And it wouldn't have been her call to make. Way I understood it, this was your mission. We're just the taxi drivers." He draws a breath that seems less than pleasant, releases it slowly. "Who'd you lose?"

"I'm a corporal, the sniper team was my responsibility." Ramiro replies. "The call was made by my superiors." He shakes his head. "We lost Lakis right at the end while we were evacuating. One of my charge." He looks to Micah. "Sometimes the dice roll bad, the fates step in and throw a curve."

Micah's lips firm together slightly, but there's little else to indicate emotion on his face. In the absence of conversation, the steady blip of various monitors can be heard; now and then, a voice out in the corridor. "Didn't know 'er." And then quieter, "Don't blame yourself."

"I don't blame myself." Ramiro replies, a little bit of exhaustion in his voice. "I've had a day to think about it and I've thought long and hard. I don't blame myself." He leans back in his chair, propping a boot on a lower rung of the hospital bed. "So how long are you two shacked up in here?" He replies, pulling out a deck of triad cards. "I've got a tradition to carry on. Deal you in?"

"Aye. That's good." It's mumbled, and his eyes shift sidelong once more to rest upon the form of the sleeping blonde nearby. The bed's propped up so he doesn't have to play on his back, so when triad's mentioned he chances a crooked grin. "Princes high? Ah'm not staking the cigar, so don't even ask." He raps a knuckle on the ledge beside the bed, to indicate where to toss the cards.

"You think they pay us marines enough to wager? Princes high is fine." Ramiro says with a chuckle. He deals the cards as he talks. "When I got buzz-sawed down, one of you pilot folk came into the RW just like I did now and broke out a few hands of triad to pass the time. No money, no wager, just a good time. Next time a marine gets put in here, it'll be your job to carry the torch, you got that?" Ramiro replies, dealing out the hands and looking over his cards.

There's a low chuckle from the pilot, frame shifting a little so he can reach for the cards as they're dropped. "Buzz-sawed, huh? Crikey, I wondered what'appened to it." Flip flip flip. He's pretty good at the poker face. "Aye," murmured to the last, teeth flashing when he grins. "Hit me." A knukle's rapped on the little table.

Dealing, Ramiro hands over a card. "Yeah…wasn't the first time I was less than ten feet in front of a Centurion, but it sure as hell was the first that it got me. Cleaved down through to the bone while Gunnery Sarg'nt D'artanion and I got a wounded man out of harm's way." He smiles. "Call it an occupational hazard atop a job well done. I didn't mind being in here one bit."

The grin continues to lurk at the edges of the Ensign's mouth, warming his eyes a touch when he accepts his card and glances up. "Heard you took some kind of commendation for that piece of work." It's offhanded, but it's not dismissive; he's not the type to bring up such things unless he means them. "Congratulations. Me, ah'll be happy if I never have to get up close an' personal with a centurion again. My hand.." He holds up his left, unoccupied with cards, "..was shaking. Thought I wouldn't be able to fire the gun."

"If it does ever happen again? Empty the damn clip and then run. If you have cover? Use it." Ramiro replies with a little grin. "Preferably an assault rifle of some sort. Centurions don't frak around, but they also don't hide, which makes them easier to shoot."

Micah grunts softly, and tosses one of his cards on the 'table' following a short deliberation. "I was shot an' bleeding like a stuck pig, my wingman was out, and had more holes in 'er than a hunk of swiss cheese.." Another knuckle rap, deal me a card. "There was cover, all right, but it's gettin' to it that was provin' t'be the problem. Especially with that tin can breathing down my neck. But. If there's one thing Marines do know how to do, it's walk out of something like that with everything mostly intact. I'll keep your advice in mind, Corporal."

Dealing another card and taking one for himself, Ramiro looks over his hand. The sorts the cards as he quietly plays. "We've been fairly lucky so far, but we accept on some level that we're going to be the line so that the mission can get taken care of." He pauses. "Alot of that fear got bled out of us when we learned to fear our drill instructors more than the pain we were receiving." He looks to Micah. "So when a line needs to hold, we hold it. It's a rough job, but eh…" Ramiro shrugs. "…the less you think about fear the less power it has."

The last part of that line is echoed by Micah, voice muted and singsong while he contemplates again the cards in his hand. "Aye, I've heard that line. There's fear in the cockpit, too, but if you let the fear fly your bird, you've already lost. Imagine it's the same out on the ground." He rearranges his cards, and shakes his head to indicate he'll stay for now. "Know what I do?" A pause for dramatic effect. "I play classical music, while I'm waiting in the launch tubes. "Gambol, Tyne, it in't mellow, but it turns that fear right into righteousness. Right into anger. I don' ignore it, I let it.. become somethin' else."

"Well I wasn't lyin about it in the Obs when I said I respect what you people do. After all, us groundpounders get little things called combat medics. Sorry, not so little, figure of speech. They're the biggest and best things ever. It lets us worry less about getting shot and focus on the fight. We only have to worry about fatal hits." Dane replies, continuing to play. "But you guys get the benefit of maneuvers."

"And wingmen," Micah adds, settling back a little with his lower lip tucked between his teeth. "Most important thing to have, as a pilot. A good wingman who can pull off a half-split without extending too far.." He raps his knuckles on the ledge again. "Hit me."

Ramiro lays down another card. "No no…we got wingmen. Hades, we usually have more than five of them. Covering all the angles, watching your back. Covering fire. We've got you beat there." He chuckles. "You guys are alot harder to catch."

Micah chuckles at that. It's a throaty, slightly hoarse sound telling of someone who smokes too many cigarettes. "Point," he concedes. "Speakin' of which. I heard you were trying to organise some Pyramid teams. That a fact?"

"Yeah…when you're all healed up let's try and get a league forming." Ramiro replies, setting the cards down and yawning. "Send out the word, you know? Deckhands, engineers, medical staff. Whoever wants to come. Get some teams together. That'll cover some PT needs, keep morale up."

"Three on a run," murmurs the pilot with a flick of his wrist as his cards are tossed out in front of him. "Ah'll see what I can do. You have plans for people to play under their colony's banner?" He closes his eyes for a moment and swallows. Maybe time for some of those pain meds again.

"It's an idea…might be worth it. I'm sure there's more than enough former league material on the Carina to cover it." Ramiro grunts, laying down a crap hand. He rises. "Hey, take my advice, rest while you've got the chance and let the doctors do their job, allright? It's a pain in the ass, I know, but in the end it's better." Ramiro extends a hand to shake. "You got a friend in the marines, St. Germain."

It would be disingenuous for Micah to offer anything more than a grunt to that part about 'resting up'. His hand's thrust out as well, and his grip's been firmer. "Thanks for the game. And the cigar." Friends? Micah doesn't have friends. He has people who grudgingly respect him, and people who don't. "And the advice. Ah'll see you around, Ramiro."

"See you back in the war." Ramiro replies, shaking and returning his hand to his side. He nods in Novella's direction. "Let her know I might stop by later?" He asks, turning to leave.

"Aye," the pilot replies, cheek turned against the pilow so he, too, can watch Novella. "When she wakes up. Ah'll let her know."

Ramiro stops near the exit and turns to face the wounded beds. He nods slowly and salutes. Without a word, he turns and exits.

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