Don't Shoot!
Don't Shoot
Summary: Tak doctors on the Lost Boys.
Date: 114 ACH
Related Logs: Lost Boys
Players:
Sloane..Micah..Jax..Gosling..

Thankfully, his supply kit behind the Viper is still intact. Pulling it out, as well as his spare oxygen, Cornbread hobbles on the one leg and tries to get a look around. Turning on the flashing beacon on the side of his suit, and flipping on the SAR beacon on his Viper, he hobbles towards Micah.

Once Sloane's out, Micah clambers down off the wing and offers his shoulder for the pilot to lean against, slinging an arm around him for support. Thank the gods he's wearing a helmet, at least it keeps the blowing sand out of his eyes and mouth. Then, no doubt slowly, he starts heading for the downed raptor.

[Tac1] "CIC-TAC" Drusus says, "Alright, guys, well, have a good sleepover, then. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Just report in every hour until the morning, so we can all be sure you're not dead, okay?"

Several other lights appear in the direction of the other lights in the distance, for those paying attention. After a while, those lights grow brighter, and can be seen to move gently up and down at a pace indicative of an average human trudging through sand.

<Trait Roll> Micah rolls Awareness and achieves a degree of Fair (3).

One arm around Micah's shoulder, Cornbread is hopping on the one foot and causing the process to slow down. It is, thankfully, extra weight against the blowing sand. Keeping his eyes open despite the lightning bolts of pain so that he doesn't topple over with the dizziness, Cornbread goes wherever Micah leads him.

And if the interloping source of those gently bobbing lights is paying attention, there seem to be a few downed ships out here, being quickly covered in blowing sand. They all look Colonial, a few vipers and one raptor. There are people in flight suits moving around, it seems in the general direction of the raptor.

Just be glad it isn't the other way around, with Micah having the broken leg and fifty pounds of extra weight against the smaller pilot. Guiding him toward the raptor half-plowed into the sand, he ducks into the shelter created by its wing, and reaches up to bang on the hatch noisily. Sand gusts and skitters about them, pelting the backs of their helmets while they wait.

The bobbing lights are already headed in the direction of the downed vessels, whether from seeing them (as is unlikely in the dark) or from intelligence pre-existing their emergence from the Peerless. The bobbing lights are, of course, held by people, conveniently decked out in Colonial protective gear to keep them safe from the sandstorm. Boots to help them walk, goggles, respirators. The respirator, of course, makes communication difficult when one of the gear-clad figures with the lantern comes close enough to actually look like a figure holding a lantern, even if not much more than be discerned. The figure shines the light from pilot to pilot, in an effort to attract attention, since shouting is impossible at present.

Jax waits until he hears the fist banging on the side before he hisses the hatch open, not wanting to get an excess of sand into the interior of the Raptor. He leans against the open hatch heavily, offering out his right hand to assist the pilot's in, while his left remains lifeless at his side.

The instant Micah catches sight of one of those flickering lanterns in the dusty gloom, he's going for his sidearm. No ifs, ands or buts about it. It's out of his holster, safety flicked off with a -ktchk- and aimed steadily at the nearest figure. He's still got one arm around Sloane, having halted in his efforts to load the injured pilot into the raptor.

Sloane's left arm works just fine. It takes a little bit of working, but he gets his sidearm out as well. Not in his dominant hand, of course, but it is a two gun combo. Lining up a shot on the incoming, he clicks off his safety as well.

The figure tips its head to one side at the sudden show of hostility from the other— Colonials? It leans down to set the lantern at its feet, arms out to its sides to display itself unarmed, palms forward in a gesture halfway between 'I'm unarmed' and 'seriously, WTF?'. One keen-eyed enough would note the familiar design of the Colonial Blues, though the pins are obscured by the respirator.

[Tac1] "CIC-TAC" Drusus says, "CAP, CIC, are you all tucked in yet?"

Jax sinks down against the frame of the bird, not having a weapon himself at the moment. An arm raises to shield his face from the onslaught of the wind kicking up the gritty debris of sand. "Sir?" He asks, awaiting orders from Micah.

The other figures are hanging back. They either don't see the guns being leveled at the one who stepped forward, or aren't armed to do anything about it.

Yep, Micah's playing it safe right now. Besides, he's pretty hostile at the best of times. The stranger — make that strangers, plural — are glanced over for a moment or two, and then there's a slight nod from the pilot. He flicks the safety back on his sidearm, holsters it, and makes a few hand gestures: three people walking, one hobbling, one lying down. Out cold? Maybe. He's apparently not going to give these people their radio frequency, even if they are Colonial. Turning briefly back to Jax, he shakes his head; he's not sure, yet.

[Tac1] "Jailhouse" Micah says, "CIC, Jailhouse, we've got guests. Goin' to wager they're the crew of the Peerless, and that they're as stranded as we are."

Seeing Micah put away his weapon, Sloane follows suit. Clipping the gun back into its holster, he goes back to Micah's shoulder and starts to hobble along in the direction that his human crutch takes him. Left leg busted, his face is a wash of complete pain, fighting to hold on to his lunch as well as fighting off the vertigo.

[Tac1] "CIC-TAC" Drusus says, "Jailhouse, CIC, you've also evidently gone down on a penal colony, so just be careful, alright?"

[Tac1] "CIC-TAC" Drusus says, "Don't drop the soap."

The figure stands there in silence, of course, then slowly lowers herself to lift the lantern again, making sure not to make any sudden movements to make the trigger-happy pilots nervous. The figure's head slowly nods, and its free hand moves underneath the respirator, again, slowly, pulling out a pin from its collar and holding it forward, shining the light from the lantern on it and taking a step further forward to show the stylized Staff of Asclepius pin. Doctor. The figure gestures to itself with the pin before putting it in a pocket.

Micah has his hand off his sidearm, though it's still within easy reach should the figure with the lantern start making any sudden motions. Like reaching for.. what's that now? He squints a little behind his helmet, shifting his weight to account for more of Sloane's dead weight against him. A pin. A staff. It's familiar enough, and has him nodding vigorously. He gestures again, how far to your ship?

[Tac1] "Jailhouse" Micah says, "CIC, confirm, penal colony? I thought we were dealin' with Colonial fleet?"

Cornbread opens his eyes after a rough bit of sweat fell into them. Shaking his head a little, getting farily dizzy in the process. Breathing heavily from the pain, he glances to Micah and says something that doesn't register due to a busted transmitter.

[Tac1] "CIC-TAC" Drusus says, "Jailhouse, CIC, penal colony, no confirmation, that's just what Ensign Peters told me, I have no idea how she knew. The Peerless is a Colonial Military research vessel. Also evidently stranded on a penal colony."

The figure just sort of stares at the new bout of sign language, and points backward toward the lights in the distance. Then, changing tacks, it gestures to the downed raptor, then to itself, then the raptor. Might be easier to chat if they can all take their helmets off and respirators out. But the figure is waiting for something that looks like an invitation. Getting shot is not on her list of things to do today.

[Tac1] "Jailhouse" Micah says, "Copy, CIC. Will proceed with caution."

With that wind gusting harder, and wildly blowing sand making visibility virtually nil, Micah considers the stranger's request and seems to concede finally. Enlisting Jax's help to get that hatch open, and ease Sloane inside, he draws his sidearm again once his arms are both free. It's held loosely in the left, while his right is offered as a hand up onto the raptor's wing.

The Doctor (if that IS her real name) grabs hold of the offered hand, making her way up with some efficiency, evidently used to the winds. She gives the pilot a nod of her head in thanks, again waiting for his okay before heading into the hatch, either before him, or after him, as he seems to prefer. Again, with the not getting shot.

Taking a seat on the bench inside, Sloane sets his supply pack down and rests back against the bucket seat. Tilting his head back, he bobs his head back and forth a little bit. Even outside of the flight suit, there's a jutting bit of something solid poking through where his shin is. The pain is horrifying.

Micah gestures for the doctor to head inside first. He'll bring up the rear, thank you very much. Once they're all in, and the hatch is shut and repressurised, and only then, does he ease his helmet off. Hello, helmet head. "Broken leg," he explains gruffly, nodding to Sloane. Jax seems mostly fine, but he'll let the one wearing the cadeuceus make the call on that. He, meanwhile, is fumbling with the ship's systems and trying to ascertain how long they have breathable air in here.

Gosling takes off her goggles and respirator, leaving them on a seat nearby. "Nice welcome," she tells him briefly, "Can't blame you, though, you're going to want to keep those guns on you," she warns him, "I didn't bring any equipment from the ship, is there a—" she glances from side to side, eyes lighting on the medical kit. "Ah, grand." She fetches the thing, if she's let, and goes to crouch beside Sloan to take stock of the damage. "Hm, probably not going to want me to cut holes in this suit, I'm guessing. We're going to have to get you out of it."

When the pressure seal light turns green, Sloane takes off his own helmet and lets out a sigh of relief. Sweating and breathing heavily, Sloane extends a fist to Micah and blinks a few times. "Can't believe I crawled out of that…" he says. Not moving much, he's being very, very careful with his leg. He looks to Gosling and his eyes contort a little bit. "…oh you've gotta be frakking kidding me." He swallows, looking to Micah.

"Playin' it safe, sir, no offense." Though the way Micah talks, it sounds very much like an offense. "Ah'm no welcome frakkin' wagon, but ah'm also told we came down on a prison colony. You know anythin' about this?" Sloane's given a brief look over his shoulder that borders on sympathetic, but he's not going to intervene. Not while it looks like the doctor is helping, anyway. He resumes fiddling with the ship's console then, sidearm's safety flicked off, and it's set down next to him as he works.

Gosling eyes Sloan frankly, "What, did you not wear clean knickers today? Either stop blushing or I'll have to cut up the leg of your suit, which will leave your leg, not to mention the rest of you, in an awful funny position if you ever have to pop out of one of those aeroplanes of yours." Aeroplanes? She looks back to Micah, "None taken. A prison colony?" she asks, actually sounding surprised for a moment, "Yes. I know all about the situation with the prisoners on this moon. They've killed off most of our crew. I wouldn't be surprised if they tried to kill you, too. I'm supposed to tell you not to try to fight them. There are almost nine hundred of them on board the Peerless."

"No I'm not worried about that, Doc…" Sloane blinks. He starts to unzip the suit. "It's just I think that getting this damn thing off is going to have to force my bone to rub against the inside of he suit. You can imagine why I'm hesitant.." He adds, still preparing to change out of the suit. He's a trooper. "So…for a recap, your crew is being attacked by prisoners and we're crashed here with broken bones…wait…they're in CHARGE over there???"

Nine what? Micah turns sharply upon hearing that, focusing on the Captain administering first aid to his fellow pilot. Roz is probably sprawled nearby, still out like a light, though breathing. He abandons his fiddling with the console, and shoves some loose electrical wiring out of the way to thump closer. "You want to tell us exactly what the situation over there is, sir?" Maybe he catches the use of the word 'aeroplanes'. Maybe he spots that look of surprise. Either way, his expression's not happy. Oh, and he brought his sidearm with him, and hunkers down to study Gosling at roughly eye level.

Gosling looks down at the leg of the flight suit, "Yes, that'll be uncomfortable. I can -try- to re-set it, blind," she coughs, "But I might have to then set it all over again once you're out and I can actually see what I'm doing. Fair warning. Yes, they're in charge over there," she re-iterates. "There are about nine hundred -rather- irritated convicts aboard Peerless. There are about two hundred members of the crew still alive. A lot of us died in the crash. They killed more of us when they boarded. They run things now. If you can call what they're doing over there running things. They aren't putting any of our extant engineering crew to work at actually fixing anything," she mutters quite bitterly, "They're letting our stores of supplies -rot- in our cargo hold." She shakes her head as she narrates. "And I spend most of my time filling 'prescriptions' so they can run around the damned place high as kites and we can waste medical supplies."

Gosling scavenges in the medical kit, speaking of, for some manner of strong analgesic to administer to Sloane.

Sloane grunts, getting his flightsuit half off. Wincing, he sets his pistol down beside him and keeps it out of Gosling's reach. Tired, in pain, and a little paranoid, he shakes his head. Leaning up on one foot, he grabs the handhold above him. Gripping the catches in pain, he nods to Gosling. He's good to go. "Do they know we're here? Did they see this crash?" He asks, the next important question.

Micah rests one shoulder against the bench Sloane's slumped atop, gun pointed down and away for the time being so he doesn't accidentally shoot anyone's foot off. His eyes rove from Gosling, to Sloane for a long moment while the pilot tries to pry himself out of his flightsuit, and back to the doctor. He could mention they have a ship just outside the asteroid belt surrounding this godsforsaken planet, but he doesn't. Trust, right now, is a tentative thing it seems. "How long you been down here?" he asks as a follow-up to Sloane's question.

Gosling doesn't seem particularly interested in the gun set aside. She only really seems prone to paying attention to the pilots' weapons is when they're pointed at her. She holds up a syringe for Sloane to inspect, "This is an analgesic. Do you want me to give it to you?" Since trust seems to be an issue at the moment, she's not just going to go randomly sticking them with needles. "They know. We saw you on DRADIS. Sadly, I still… am kind of shaky with reading that thing, and I assumed you were, you know, raiders. Otherwise we would have been out sooner. How long? A week, two," Gosling just looks tired, thinking about it. "It's all blurring together. Anyway. I can tend to your men better if we go back, but I understand if you don't particularly want to go on board. They'll probably kill you. They -might- not, but they likely will," she speaks with the voice of a woman thoroughly numbed to it, by now.

"FRAK that!" Cornbread hisses, shaking his head. "I'm not going over there. I didn't come this far just to be strangled by some con while I'm laid up in a bed. Leavin a gun with me to defend myself would be like drawing flies to roadkill…" He shakes his head. "No…no no no frak that I'm staying here till we get a pickup, sir." He looks to Micah with a concerned look on his face. He takes his gun and hands it to Micah. Looking back to Gosling, he nods. "Please…do whatever you can. I'm ready…" He then puts his glove in his mouth, biting down.

Gosling sets aside the syringe since Sloane doesn't seem to want it, preferring to deal with the pain. She then tends to his leg. She does the best that she can considering she's working in the dark, as it were. It's not a lovely set, but it'll do for now.

Micah is starting to have trouble focusing on the woman. Maybe he hit his head a bit harder than he'd thought, during that landing. Or possibly he's just worn out. He flicks the safety of his weapon on, then off again, as if for something to keep his hand moving, his mind working. "Not a welcome ah'm particularly in the mood for," he grumbles lowly. His eyes slant to the Ensign, then back to Gosling again, feet shifting beneath his crouched form. "We'll stay here the night, decide what to do in the morning. You mind checkin' on our other pilot-" He indicates Roz with an upnod of his chin. "-make sure nothin's broke too bad?"

"Sure," Gosling replies, "Anything you need, but then I'd better get back. They'll come looking for me, otherwise, and I've got other patients in sickbay and NOT a lot of staff left. I'm Doctor Gosling, by the way. Call me Tak. Everyone else does," she offers.

Cornbread's laid back on the bench, breathing heavily. If the muffled howl from his clenched teeth was any indication…it hurt. Laying down and breathing heavily like he'd just finished the marathon, he speaks between breaths. Finding humor in everything, he chuckles. "How the frak does Tak come from Gosling?"

Micah hasn't got any booze to give Sloane, and he sure as hades hasn't got any comforting words to offer. So he leaves the pilot his dignity and keeps his eyes on Gosling for the time being. He does, at least, shift out of his crouch in order to sit his butt down on the floor, and lean back against the bench. A gloved hand is scraped over his face tiredly, while he watches the doctor work.

"First name. Etakkana," Gosling replies, "Good, there," she adds, encouraging him vaguely through his pain, though her bedside manner's not the best. She binds the leg with an easily removable binding so that it can be re-set later if it needs it, then goes to see about the others while he recovers from his first bout with agony.

"Well…guess there's always that.." Cornbread waves his hand as if to say 'that figures'. Putting his hands on his head, he lets out a frustrated sigh as he remains laying down on the bench. Looking to Micah, he nods to his firearm and holds a hand out. He won't want to be far from it. "Well…Doctor…thank you for the fixing, even if we're not heading back so you can finish the job. How much risk of infection am I looking at?"

Gosling hms. "Pretty near a hundred percent," she answers as she goes about tending the other injured with a very perfunctory but entirely capable manner. "Especially if you don't get to a real medical facility. But tell you what, if they let me out to see you tomorrow, I'll see if I can sneak out a course of antibiotics, how does that sound?" Still not looking at him as she makes the offer.

Micah fetches the indicated weapon, and flips it over, grip offered to Sloane. Apparently he trusts the man not to shoot him in the face with it. "With any luck, it won't be necessary, sir. Ah'd rather you didn't tell these people, what condition we're in and where exactly we are, either. Already masked our signal, but ah'm fair sure they've got a good idea by now, roughly where we crashed. Jus' be sure you don't help 'em out any more'n keeps you safe, yeah?"

Cornbread shoves the pistol under the small of his back. Using his flight suit as a blanket of sorts, he lets out a slow breath. "…and if you don't make it back tomorrow? How long do I have until the infection is irreversible?" He pauses, clearly thinking on a particular train of thought. "Frak…" he looks to Micah. "I'm not good to the fleet with a peg-leg…"

"Well, I -was- escorted here, as you saw. They're probably still waiting for me outside. It was only a half-hour walk from the ship to here, with the sand-terrain boots on," Gosling answers the earlier question that her respirator prohibited her from doing. "I pretty much do what they say. They're the ones with the guns. But then, I'm the one who knows how to make LSD in the lab, so there's at least a -little- give and take." She looks up to Micah with one brow quirked. "Not that I take LSD," she adds, then, head wobbling to the side, "Well, maybe I have once or twice." Then, standing, she turns toward Sloane, "If that leg gets too bad you're going to have worse problems than a peg leg," she tells him, her voice clinical. "If the infection gets into your interosteal circulation it'll spread to your entire body."

"Funny kind of escort," Micah remarks, pushing to his feet when Gosling does, "that don't carry any weapons." He's not precisely accusing, just.. putting it out there. The LSD quip draws one corner of his mouth up in a brief smirk, which, with his scar, manages to look not entirely wholesome. Like anything about him is.

Micah apparently doesn't have anything to say to Sloane. He's no doctor, all he can do is try to get his fellow pilot back to those who can fix him, in time.

"So…" Cornbread pauses, taking a deep breath. "I either stay here and risk the possibility of losing my leg or dying, or I go with you and risk dying with two legs…" He says, running a hand over his face. "Any word on whether or not they're pushing an SAR down after the crash? It can't be too long right?" He adds, conflicted. "Frak…whattya think, Jailhouse?"

Gosling snerks. "Oh, they're armed, they just think it's funny to watch me squirm while -other- people threaten to shoot at me for a while, that's all." She looks to Micah, "These two look like they're going to be alright, was there anyone else? What about you?"

Micah keeps his sidearm lowered as he gains his feet and looks down the few inches' difference in height, between he and the Captain. Phelan's probably lurking somewhere nearby, maybe working on getting the sand out of his flight suit. Micah doesn't look injured, though he may well be suffering a very mild concussion. "Ah'm fine," he answers tautly. "Thanks for the help." And that's apparently that. Sloane's given a significant look, perhaps to indicate they'll talk in a minute.

Sloane lowers his head and rests his elbow over the edge of the bench on his helmet. He won't sleep comfortably, but he'll sleep nonetheless. Letting out a long sigh, he closes his eyes. "Yes…thanks for everything so far, Doc." He says exhaustedly, sweaty and tired. It's cold inside of the Raptor, and he looks around, trying to find the cabinet with the camping supplies. Inside there will be a blanket.

Gosling peers at Micah briefly as he attests his being alright, but any presenting symptoms elude her, for the moment, and she just looks back to Sloane. "I guess that's my cue to go." She looks to the cabinet he indicates with his eyes, going over there and finding the blanket he's looking for, coming back to spread it over him. "I'll try to be back," she tells him, voice never quite leaving the clinical register despite the tenderness inherent in her words and actions. "Good luck to the lot of you," she adds, before picking up her goggles and respirator again.

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