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| - Coruscant: Medical Center and Academy - Inpatient Rehabilitation This long white chamber has that unmistakable smell that marks it as a hospital. Sterile white plasteel paneled on the walls and all-too-bright lighting detract, somewhat, from the comfort of this facility. Still, what it lacks in comfort, it makes up for in the quality of care. Beds large enough for any sentient are well-tended with clean white sheets, and they run down the length of the room in two rows. Each of these beds is set with subtly placed sensors, and a display at their foot gives readouts on each one that is occupied. This room is never left alone with the recovering patients. At least one sentient nurse and several of the latest Medical Droids from Cybot Galactica are on duty, feeding the patients and administering their medications. The room is cheered slightly by large transparisteel windows looking out west over the bright green gardens of the Public Park below. To the north, several sets of clean white doors provide access to the repulsorlifts and to the south is a white-curtained doorway. This wing of the hospital is filled with soldiers of the Republic Guard, those who fell but managed to get their way back up again. Two long rows of beds fill the space, separated only by curtains when the occupants or doctors choose to pull them. Many of tose less injured have left theirs pulled open to chat to their neighbors, while others doze in drug-induced slumber. Briseis, for her part, is neither sleeping nor /entirely/ alert, given the rather large blaster wound healing in her middle and the two smaller on leg and arm. Her curtain is only half-pulled, and she peers outward at the world as doctors and nurses scuttle by. There is no mercy in the eyes of the man who now walks into the rehab wing of the medical center. There is only chilly determination. Bozlo beckons for a doctor and exchanges quiet words with him. Once that is done, he starts moving across the area, sparing occasional glances into various curtained rooms. It is not until he reaches Briseis' that he actually steps in. "Can you speak?" How kind of him. Briseis shifts a touch and lifts her head, frowning at Bozlo for a moment just in case she ought to be able to place him. Failing that, she retorts, "Last I checked." Bozlo takes a moment to examine as much of Briseis' as is visible above the covers. "You were in Bespin during the assault." Not a question. "How did you come by the wounds?" That would be pretty much her head and shoulders. And perhaps the arm that lies atop the covers, a bandage wound around her biceps. "I tripped on a rock," Briseis replies. Her frown deepens. "Who are you?" Bozlo does not seem disturbed by the sarcasm. Or anything else for that matter. "I'm the one who makes sure this is the last time the medical center sees this much space occupied. During this war, at least. Tell me about those wounds. Heroism? Lack of proper leadership by your superiors? Outnumbered? I don't know your name. I don't care what it is. All I want is the answers, if you are willing to give them. That's all I'm paid for and I have none of the devotion that sends others into the front lines. You understand?" "Do you have a name? A rank?" Briseis returns, shifting with a faint wince to adjust her position. "I am a soldier of the Republic, and I'm more than smart enough not to hand sensitive information to the first man who walks up to my hospital bed and pretends that he's in charge." Bozlo snorts. "I am not a soldier. I am a stranger. I have no name and no rank. What you consider sensitive information will be available soon enough through more public channels." He leans forward. "Listen to what I'm asking. None of it classified. Your precious Republic would not trust me with such things. I am the bottom of the barrel, soldier. I stand in the sidelines and pick up the bits and pieces left after the battle with my less than reputable skills to try and put it all back together. If you have qualms about any of my questions then don't answer. I get my money anyway." Briseis studies Bozlo for a long moment. The careful brace of her elbows lifts her in return to Bozlo's lean while brown eyes search his face, as if they might turn up some inkling of intent or identity. Eventually she falls backward again, dark hair fanning behind her on the spread of her pillow as her head drops down. "The wounds are from doing my job. A tank took out a good swath of us before we took it down." Bozlo sighs, a hand going up to rub at his forehead. "Why would they send infantry against a tank in a direct confrontation? It couldn't have been a surprise attack." The words are spoken for to himself than the woman on the bed. "Okay. Would you say your commanding officers relied to heavily on numbers and ordered the attacks without any regard for individual lives?" He offers Brisseis an apologetic smirk. "Sorry, love. You know I have to ask. Remember I don't know your name, rank or even your unit." "What sort of disloyalty do you assume of the Republic Guard, that you would even bother to ask me such a question?" Briseis wonders. Her tone has acquired an edge, both anger and insult that join the hot flash of her gaze. "I assume nothing. I do not care either way what strategy is used in your battles. However," Bozlo adds with a shrug, "I am not paid by soldiers. I am paid by people who sit behind comfortable desks while others die fighting their wars. When enough deaths hit their tables, they suddenly decide they *care* and want to blame someone because, clearly, it was not their choices that caused any of it. Do you see? So I have to ask, even if I already know you will take the side of your Guard. The question of being sent on foot against an armed tank directly, though, does beg to inquire." "Then inquire of Marshall Menglor, you piece of scum," Briseis retorts, head lifting enough to send him a proper glare. "You don't /have/ to do anything. And you bloody well weren't /there/." Her voice lowers as she mutters an echo of "Beg to inquire." "I'm afraid when the questions finally do fall on the good Marshall's lap, it will not be me asking them," Bozlo answers. "No, I was not there. Do I look like I would risk my life for others or even follow orders? I am proud of my cowardice and lack of discipline. Now let's put aside all the nonsense about duty and devotion. You are here. I am here. We are two individuals. You have a chance to make a change, to help save the lives of hundreds, perhaps even thousands of fellow soldiers. For once, rather than being faithful to your beliefs, be faithful to yourself. You, lone soldiers upon her bed: would you have done things differently on Bespin?" "Yes," Briseis answers concisely. Bozlo nods slowly, but does not pursue the matter. "I was here once myself. Food is terrible, but it does wonders for the wounds. Thank you for your time, soldier." "I would have dodged faster," Briseis finishes, and she does not particularly bother to disguise the distaste in either voice or expression as her eyes narrow on Bozlo. "Such loyalty," Bozlo states, though there is hardly admiration in his apathetic tone or his icy gaze. "The next time your good Marshal sends your your death and all your brothers and sisters at arms are dying beside you because of his reckless command, remember this day. It was the day you had the chance to make a difference and did not take it. Anything else you'd like to add for my unofficial report?" "The next time you want to call someone reckless, come with evidence, you pathetic excuse for a man. We don't die for nothing, and we're not afraid to do our job. You want to see making a difference? Take a look around you. These people have /already/ made a difference, while you sat at home hiding under your covers like a little boy." Briseis struggles upward, bracing herself on her elbows as she spits the words at Bozlo. "Don't you /dare/ walk into this ward and tell these people otherwise, because so help me, I'm not so wounded that I cannot get up out of this bed and make you wish you hadn't." Except for the part where she is - but we'll humor her, no? "Of course they made a difference," Bozlo replies coldly. "A storyteller from... my home planet once wrote: 'Give me one thousand troops and by the time the last one is dead, I will be king.' Of course he went on to ask 'But king of what?' and all manner of nonsense to criticize warfare, but that one line stuck with me. You all make a difference between while your precious Marshall sits a distance away pushing you like worthless numbers, he is winning without spilling a drop of his own blood. Yet don't take me overly serious. I do not care how many die or who wins this war, but regardless of what you do, the very leaders whose war you are fighting are looking for their own taste of blood and it is Menglor's they want. What you say here will not change whatever fate is waiting for him. It could, however, change the numbers of people who fill this room the next time the Marshall decides to strike at a planet with only brute force as his strategy. I can live with that. I have no ethics. Can you?" "Visit the ward next door," Briseis suggests coolly. A tired-looking, red-headed woman pokes her head out from the curtains at one of the beds against the wall. Half of her face is wrapped in bandages, the other half showing faint hints of scratches and bruising. Her one visible eye is rimmed by a dark circle. The arm she used to pull the curtains with is bound in a cast. "Could ye keep it down, please?" She asks softly, her voice hoarse and scratchy. "Some of us.. trying te sleep." Bozlo turns his head as Rem speaks, then looks back at Briseis. "Perhaps I should visit her? Or the one beside her? I wonder if every single soldier here shares your ideals." "Perhaps," Briseis spits toward Bozlo, with only the briefest glance toward Rem, "You should visit Marshall Menglor. I believe they're treating him as well." Blinks with her one eye in confusion. "Menglor.. here? What?" She pauses, a bandaged hand moving to her head. "Was there a battle recently? No news.. been here since.. yesterday." Her words are slurred and are spoken with great difficulty. "I might just do that. The man deserves to know who his real enemies are, after all. A fair fighting chance," Bozlo notes, incling his head again as Rem speaks. He pulls the curtain open fully so both she and Bris can see each other perfectly. "There. Now you can both discuss the wonders of death and war." Briseis stares at Bozlo for a moment longer and then collapses backwards, tired and angry. Her lips press into a thin line, and she says nothing more. "What? War?" Rem shakes her head in confusion. "Faulty.. support system. Nearly crushed by.. engine I was replacing.." "Ah. Ignorance is bliss." Bozlo examines Rem. "Yes, you two will make wonderful friends. One," he adds, pulling the second curtain fully open, "allows herself to be treated like garbage by her commanding officers. For duty. The other," he continues, eyes going to Bris, "allows herself to be handled like an object in battle. For duty. Such wonderful devotion. Good day to you both." From Briseis, there is sullen silence. Rem glares at Bozlo with her one good eye. "Ye talk.. a lot, mister.. but ye don't seem to do much else!" she finally says, bitterly, before leaning back onto her pillow and coughing. "Not my style," Bozlo answers and turns, walking out of the rehab wing. Bozlo heads through a pair of white doors into one of the repulsorlifts. Bozlo has left. "He's an asshole," Briseis opines with a firm weariness and a brief glance toward Rem. The other woman makes a feeble attempt at nodding, but gives up, her neck thoroughly supported by a brace. "Aye, 'e be trouble, that one. Talk enough.. te get 'imself arrested." Rem finally says, eyes fixed on the ceiling over her bed. Briseis is silent for a moment before she lifts her head slightly and says, "He claimed he was hired to do the talking." With great effort, Rem turns on her side to look at Briseis. "Really?.. I heard 'e was.. hired for something.. else entirely." she manages to say, before getting overtaken by a coughing fit. Briseis shoves herself up on her elbows again, forcing herself into a fairly uncomfortable position as she looks across at Rem. "What did you hear?" The red-head struggles to find her voice. Eventually, a twi'lek nurse brings her some water, which she hastily downs. "'E.. be ears and eyes.. but for who, I don't know.." Rem rasps. "But, 'e be causin' too .. much trouble to be doin' it well, I says." Bri's expression creases with faint concern as she watches Rem, and after a moment she nods and lowers herself back down. "He underestimates the Guard. And he's going to get into trouble." Rolling back over, Rem softly adds. "'Bout time the right people.. were being questioned. Not like Colonel Jax.. arrested fer no reason." She sighs, staring up at the ceiling again. Bri's curious gaze shifts toward Rem again, but she does not ask further. Her head turns away and, after a moment, her eyes close in exhaustion. Soon, she's drifted off again.
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