| abstract
| - Beep. Beep. Beep. The sound of Ambrosia's heart-monitor sets out a steady, if sterile beat over the low dampened hum of shipboard life. Beep. Beep. Beep. The small room is easily twice as large as her cell, though the presence of medical equipment consumes much of the space. The styling could not be more spartan. Where the cell's hard, sloping lines and dark colours created a claustraphobic feel, the medical isolation pod is pristine surgical-white, ambient light seeks to replicate true day-light a luxury anyone accustomed to life aboard a starship is not quick to dismiss. Beep. Beep. Beep. The articulated bed on which Ambrosia lies is rooted to the deck, softly padded restraints secure her arms and legs. Beep. Beep. Beep. She could almost touch him. Eyes, like twinkling, cobalt gems bright as day. His voice, tugging at some thread of her memory. She was home. She made it. She knew she could. For the first time since her inhabitation of the Nemesis, the expression upon Ambrosia's face harbors nothing but peace. Serenity. That may of course, be slightly attributed to the muscle relaxer, administered to surrender her body fully to the wonders of medical science. Intubation can be a violent enough process without the patient's trachea fighting back. She could smell him, see the line of stubble where he'd been too lazy to shave. But as she reaches for him, he takes a small step back, tormenting her with his teasing smile "No, baby...not yet." And his words punch like an electric surge, knocking her back into the world of the living. She was almost there. And now... Crazed orbs, blended pools of scarlet and green, snap open to gaze bewildered at the ceiling. She'd been cast back into hell. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. The heart monitor briefly quickens as Ambrosia returns to consciousness. The sounds of footsteps are muffled, sedatives in the bloodstream dulling the Ambassador's senses - wearing off now, but leaving her groggy and disoriented. "Can you hear me?" a voice that sounds as if its speaking through a mouthful of cotton balls edges its way in on the peripheral of awareness. "Blink twice for yes." a bright light floods one eye briefly. Then the other. Its quickly removed and the pod comes into focus. "Tiv..." Only, when one's trying to speak around a hose in their airway, it sounds more like an indecipherable gurgle. Ambrosia blinks a few times in rapid succession, pupils all over the place in response to the light. Her muscles tense at once, neck straining against the dead weight of sedative holding her head to the table, while legs and forearms find that their reanimation is most restricted, courtesy of something, or someone, pinning her there. Aside from the restraints, there are many somethings. Tubes, catheters, having delivered the life force in liquid form and flushed away her body's toxic concentration of gross. Ensnared in this web of beeps and pinching and slowly registering pain, Ambrosia gurgles a bit more forcefully, trying to heave out the respiratory probe. "Ok..." the voice begins again. "...Pupil dilation is good." The sound begins to warp as it comes into focus, the cotton balls virtually spat out one by one until the sound of something soft and feminine can be discerned. "This is going to be a little uncomfortable..." the voice cautions. "...I want you to just try and relax your throat." a tray for the inevitable flow of saliva and bile is readied beside Ambrosia's lips as the breathing tube is removed. "There you go..." encouraging coaxing. "...easy does it." *HURGHL* Goes the awakening ambassador, failing to simultaneously suck air IN while gag reflex is in action. Gag reflex wins, this round and the tray is put to good use. Having enough sense to turn her wobbly head aside, rather than choke on her efforts, Ambrosia gags a second, drier time, just for good measure. Her vocal chords warm up with a low moan and she flops her head back against the table, blinking up at the pod lights. Bruised ribs heave shallowly at first with new-found air, to the arhythmic tune of a broken whistle. "Wh..." the word fades away, and she closes her eyes against the brightness. "Why?" A little directionless, the question goes unanswered while the tray is removed. "Do you know where you are?" the concerned feminine voice enquires, breaching the sanctity of Ambrosia's closed eyes - while bright, the lights lack the harsh oppression of the cell to which she'd previously been confined and eyelids provide an efficacious barrier. "Not home," The reply sounds a touch mournful, punctuated with a tear that seeps from beneath her right eyelid. Opening her vision anew, this time with a bit more focus, Ambrosia tips her chin back, rolling her skull around in attempts to find the owner of that voice. Her fingers stretch and flex, toes doing the same, while she makes a mental count of them all. The voice has a smile. Its thin, even slightly pained and as the haze continues to clear the sound is sympathetic. "No, i'm afraid not. You're in a medical bay, aboard His Imperial Majesty's Starship 'Nemesis'." the information is delivered as matter of fact. "Can you tell me the year, and your name?" Ambrosia utters a quiet swear, then swallows with some difficulty, throat feeling raw and dry. She strains her tilt her head forward, then a shoulder, studying what she can of her own skin and its condition. Boy. Most moms her age strive to drop those last few pounds of baby weight, but this? This is probably not the way they'd prefer to do it. Still... "Y...year t-twen..." trailing off, she catches herself and redirects her numbish tongue while visions of expertly-wielded batons dance through her head. "Forty...three." Rolling her tongue around in effort to drum up *some* saliva, she collapses her head again and puts her wrists to work instead, twisting and turning. "Ambassador Delgard." It's a pointless claw to retain *some* dignity, but it's there all the same. There's a soft buzz from behind Ambrosia's head and a gentle vibration sees the top third of the bed rise in a smooth motion. The bright lights no longer directly overhead, the seamless white of the isolation pod reflects them well none the less lending a vaguely ethereal sense to the groggy-minded. "Right you are. On both counts..." the voice replies with a positive, affirming lift in its tone toward the end of each sentence. As vision clears, the young woman enters into view. Her outline remains hazy, a combined effect of the lighting of the pod and the drugs still clouding the ambassador's senses but some details can be made out. For one thing, she's blonde. Slight framed. Dressed in surgical whites of the Imperial Navy Medical Corps, a rank pin rests upon her breast though the colours blur together enough to defy precise identification. "Do you think you can try to drink some water for me?" "Would love to." Testing the limits of her bindings as the bed shifts its angle Ambrosia arches her back and rolls her ankles in a fuller body stretch. And...regrets it. A hissing breath sucks inward, nerve endings reminding her about the torn and shattered knee. And everything else. Her muscles twitch a few more times before relaxing completely, just adding a few, smaller stabs to the existing pain. And a rumble of hunger, as her hollow stomach reminds her it's still around. In case she forgot. But...water! Working to fight through the haze, she affixes the young woman with a dopey-eyed stare. "Little guy's not here to steal it, is he?" "I can give you something." the woman volunteers as Ambrosia tests her mobility and her body punishes her for it. "For the pain. But you need to hydrate first." There's that sound. The wet crash of water, its sloshing echo as it rolls over itself in turbulent waves and the echoing ring as the flow slows and stops. "Small sips." the other woman urges, lifting a soft plastic cup to Ambrosia's lips and gently tilting it to bring the fluid to her. References to guys, little or otherwise, go unanswered. Oh, beautiful stars above, below, and every which way! In spite of the restraints pinning her arms to her sides, Ambrosia's hands go through the motions anyway of snatching the cup. Her mouth reaches for it, lips resting on the rim...and then she pauses. Nemesis. A bead of sweat defies the cool air and trembles on her brow as she cross-eyes to look this gift horse in the mouth. Did she need it that badly to risk it? They did rehydrate her enough to restore vital organ function, probably. What's the catch? What's in there. Unable to slap it away, even if she wanted to, the woman finally relents and takes the tiniest, tentative sip. Pupils...dilating. Better'n sex, that cool, crisp sip. And that's sayin' a lot, for a woman suffering a seven year dry spell. She eagerly goes for another. Poisons and drugs be damned! The water is administered with care - those ribbed indentations on the cup don't just serve for a handy gripping surface, they're measurements. Imperial efficiency - you just can't get away from it. Sip by sip, the level of the cool crisp water lowers. The taste is ever so slightly off, the addition of essential electrolytic salts are not the most palatable accent. "There you go..." the woman soothes softly, her fingers lightly brushing the back of Ambrosia's as she helps her to maintain the proper angle. When she withdraws the cup, it comes with a thin, strained smile. "That's enough for now." she offers in a tone reaching for comfort and knowing it won't come close. "Can you tell me how many fingers?" three distinct phalanges held up before Ambrosia's eyes. "That's fine," Ambrosia manages a smirk, letting her head rest back and savoring the moisture on her lower lip. "Got my two ounces." Grunting, she attempts to adjust her lower back, beginning to feel the press of the slab against the crests of her hips. Her eyes spare the hand a fleeting glance before turning to study other things - like the sleek sheen of the IV ports. "Three." Feeling like a newborn, she watches in fascination as the shape of things sharpen, ever so slightly, the longer she looks at them. Her feet, miles away, are still a little fuzzy, but it's obvious that they're there, attached, and more or less seem to match her skin tone. Having gone without shoes for several days, it's expected they be at least a little worn. "Why are you being so...humane?" Ambrosia queries. No sneer, no venemous sarcasm. Just a simple, honest question, and she looks the petite blonde square in the face. The question seems to catch the young blonde off guard. She'd turned with a satisfied nod at the correct answer to 'can you see and count at the same time?' setting down the half-emptied cup. She pauses, hypo in hand and small vial in the other. "...you're my patient..?" she ventures, her tone suggesting the question were a little absurd but shying short of judgment. "...I'm a doctor." she draws a precisely measured dose of the clear fluid. The sharp chill of rubbing alcohol swabs the skin of Ambrosia's upper arm and the syringe sinks in. "This should make you a little more comfortable." Ignoring the needle, Ambrosia continues to stare, intensity rising. "This ain't my first ride in an Imperial med bay. Or second. Or third. Where are the droids? Why waste personnel, giving attention to prisoner 7-8-4-9-2 when there's a war going on?" She demands with a little more urgency. Something isn't right here. It can't be. Can it? Maybe it's a residual effect of the drugs, this paranoia. "I'm...I'm sorry. I-it's just...unexpected." Expression wary, she still doesn't let the little doctor out of her sight. "How old are you, anyway? I mean...is this a sort of student-teaching set up, or were you some sort of child prodigy?" Yup. Meds are kickin in, and she's feeling a little more...uninhibited. "Me? A child progidy?" There's a laughter. A genuine, musical sound of mirth. "No! I grew up in an orphanage on Dreven..." she sets the spent hypo aside. "Im twenty-seven." the woman answers. "Well, near as anyone can guess. I wasn't properly registered so they just...picked, a birthday for me. Good as any other, right?" she shrugs and flashes a charming smile, drawing up a small chair to the bedside. "Yeah, okay." Ambrosia mumbles, turning her head a little belatedly to eyeball the injection site, brows furrowed slightly in annoyance. Needles. Always with the poking and the burning. "Dreven, huh?" Said with a sigh, she halfheartedly searches her memory bank for details on the planet. "Fudged my birthday, too. Days, years...they don't really matter so much, in the grand scheme of things." Closing her eyes, she takes a few deep breaths and returns to testing joint mobility. "You like it here? What you do?" "You're feeling that?" the young woman asks, her eyes following Ambrosia's furrowed gaze. Her own knit lightly with concern. "...it should pass. Might take a few moments though." she leans into the backrest, turning to take up a pitcher and freshen the cup of water. "Do?" she chuckles lightly. "Medical'y things. Examine patients, treat conditions, manage symptoms..." she tilts her head. "Do you have medical training?" "No," The ambassador negates two things. At the sound of water trickling, she pops her eyes back open and steals a glance with a poor attempt at showing disinterest. "No, I meant...do you like doing those...'medical'y things'." A short, one-two wheezy chuckle presses from abused lungs and she rolls her eyes towards the lights and the halo forming around them. "I'm a terrible patient, but I'd be a worse doctor. Only attempts I've ever made ended in butchery, fortunately on myself. And one other guy, but...he had it comin' to'em." A pause, as she pays attention to the sudden, lighter-weight feeling seeping into her limbs. "You know who *else* has it comin to'em? Those bastards who broke down my door, hunting me and my kid. You don't...don't tempt a mother's fury," she slurs slightly, head rocking aside to cast the doctor a 'ya know what I'm sayin' kind of look. "Sthealin ofthspring...ain't cool." A little hiccup arises from nowhere and the absurdity of it prompts a spontaneous laugh from her lips, but it isn't such a mirthful one. It's bitter. "I do." the woman answers simply, edging closer with the cup in hand she lifts it to Ambrosia's lips and once more, gently tips it for her, maintaining a tight control over just how much can be taken at one time. "Like it, I mean. I get to help people." she smiles once more, the thin expression given with empathetic, soft eyes. "I don't really know anything about that. I just put whoever is in front of me back together. That's what the Empire asks for me, and im glad to do it." "Well..." *sip*sip* "Give it a thought sometime. You think I fell down some sthairs? Thisth ain't the worst of their handiwork, no. Frankly, I'm Thruprised, but...I imagine I'll be seeing you again. If they don't tire of me." *SLURP* Trying to sneak a little more H2O, she almost chokes on it and twists her head aside to cough it up/out. Then, as though it hadn't happened, she continues on with her rambling. "They gave you a satisfying purpose here, so congratulations. I used to have a purpose. Worked assembly line. Till I grew up. Tried to bash my own face in a few times, but...couldn't beat the ugly into me fast enough before they'd patch it up again." "They didn't ask you anything?" the woman asks, tilting her head to the side and withdrawing the cup as Ambrosia drinks too quickly, too deeply. She's already reaching for a spit pan but the woman takes care of it and so she gently wipes up the mess with a soft cloth. "Asked me what? This time around? My name and occupation?" Twisting her face away from the cloth, Ambrosia looks a bit harder at the gentle pawn. "I may not think highly of the Imperial Intelligence committee, but I don't underestimate their competence so far as to believe they didn't already own that information - and more. Why waste breath with pointless questions?" She pffts, and lets her eyelids drift closed again. Gotta take advantage of rest when one can get it, right? "Just illustrates their hunger for dominion over the individual, over all. But before...no. They *wouldn't* have wasted their breath on me. Miserable orphan...prisoner of war. I did as I was told...or else." Her right wrists lifts as far as she can force it, straining against the binder, and points to her throat which she more openly bears. "Collar. Not very sophisticated, but highly effective. As you can see, I wasn't a very good listener. And I shouldn't've had to been. People deserve a choice in life. Doesn't matter race, language...we're all alien to someone." "Why didn't you just tell them? she inquires earnestly, leaning forwardly her large eyes blink in quick succession trying to fathom the chain of logic. "I mean, if they already know? Or its not a secret?" Leaning back again, her head bobs this way and that as if balancing one side against the other. "I don't disagree with the sentiment." she concedes. "But the galaxy doesn't work that way. Just because someone says 'you're free now' doesn't mean you have more food on your plate than you did the day before. Or your choices are any better, or even any different." she gestures to herself. "I got to go to medical school because the Empire wanted doctors to look after people. The navy paid my tuition, gave me a placement to complete my training. When my tour's up, i'll go home and work in a clinic...Empire pays for that, too." "It's all a dehumanizing game," Ambrosia sighs, aiming a similar expression at the good doctor. "Breaking the spirit, all that ..." Pursing her lips, she finds herself strangely unable to curse at the woman. "Does anyone really deserve to be tortured because they have a sense of self worth? No. And yet, it happens. Men. Women. Children. The lucky ones die. Thought I got lucky yesterday. But my little girl would thank you for bringing me back to this hell." "It's true, the Empire's government does have stability, and I can see how being a valued employee would have its perks. But...look past the facade. The genocide on scales not matched by...I don't know what. Anything? Entire planets, just...gone? All because their people wanted the chance to govern themselves. That's called tyranny. My 'occupation' is to support peoples who want to oppose it, but are afraid. For that, they call me 'spy'." Groaning, she touches a finger to the side of her belly. "They succeed through terror and very, very skilled manipulation. Maybe you haven't been a fly on the wall during routine meets between members of high command. I have. Invisible, vacant, but open-eared. That was a long time ago...but doesn't look like things have changed much." Extending her palms outward to frame her battered self best in punctuation, she shakes her head. "Doesn't have to be this way." Her lashes flutter heavily, exhausted from the speech. "I uh...hmmm. Needles." "We do govern ourselves." the woman's lower lip turns outward, her back straightening a touch. "Its not how the rebellion wants things, but that doesn't make what they want right. The Empire's made up of people. And we like our government. It has its problems, sure. So does any nation. That doesn't make it okay to pick up blasters and start shooting!" "We respond to those who cry for help...who want librrrmm." Lids too heavy to open, Ambrosia wrestles with syllables. The beeping of the heart monitor slows. "Two ssssides. Difthomasy ffffrst. Demmnt." Limbs grow too heavy to move, as she at last succumbs to the drug and sleep-deprivation cocktail. "We...try." And now, the only thing to come out of her revived, spirited mouth is a dribble of drool. Into her mind she falls, seeking out those blue eyes and warm embrace. As the heart monitor signals an elevation in stress, the doctor turns toward it, rising from her chair in a brisk, practiced motion the return and steady dip toward a resting state allows her to relax and she draws a cleansing breath as the ambassador murmurs her way into sleep. "Im sorry, that was unprofessional..." she bids apologetically as she moves to replace the spent saline IV. "See you in the morning..."
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