Summary: Mika, eager to be away from Ungstir, convinces Swiftfoot to assist her in an "unauthorized transfer"

to a hospital on Sivad, despite Torr's objections.

Cast: Swiftfoot, Mika, Torr
Air Date: 2005.07.17

Private Cubicle <Ungstir>

Small and efficient, the single private little room is carved out of the rock of Ungstir, its form simple and spartan. Built in racks and shelvinghold specialized medical equipment along with an expanded headboard unit. A night stand, a single chair and a patients bed are the only furnishings. A camera allows monitoring of the room from the nurses station, and a single door with a narrow vision panel provides access back into the main clinic.


Alas and alack, fair Mika is yet the captive of the wicked Ungstiri villains and held prisoner in their torture chamber, where they hath subjected her to their foul gruel. It's two AM and she hasn't even touched her supper, which was likely delivered hours ago. Every now and again her tummy rumbles and she sort of glances over at the bowl of potato soup with a wrinkle of her nose, but doesn't touch it. Her suffering is ignored in favor of watching late-night infomercials. How she desires that multi-function wristwatch.

Torr sniffs as he steps into the room. He mimics his partner without thinking, nose wrinkling at the smell of the Ungstiri speciality. "Christ," he mutters. "Gotta get you the fuck outta here babe, that shits not cool." He carries a cup of coffee in his hand, and sips at it as he moves toward his usual seat. Eyes flick momentarily toward the holo, then back to Mika. "Hows shit, babe?"

Swiftfoot pads softly in from the hallway, sniffing the air as she comes in. "What -is- that smell?" After entering the room and seeing the so-called potato soup, she sticks out her tongue. "They don't rrreally expect you to -eat- this, do they?" She glances over at the holo and states, "I think they've shown this one everrry night that I've been in herrre, only the prrrice drrrops by a few rrrubles everrry night. Huh."

The musky scent of coffee is underscored by the smell of booze and cigarettes -- pleasures denied to Mika of the High Blood Pressure, Failing Liver, and Blackened Lungs by hospital staff -- clings to Torr's clothing. She finds it absolutely enchanting, an evocative tease of her senses that leaves her craving for freedom even more. "Y'guys gotta get me outta 'ere," she tells Demarian and Martian alike with utmost frankness.

Torr tenses momentarily as the Demarian enters, then relaxes. As relaxed as Torr gets anyway. He takes another sip of the late night, or early morning, coffee. "Easy," Torr replies with a slight smirk. "Get your clothes on and we'll go. Fucking quiet as hell in here, no way they're gonna have a full fuckin' crew on at two am."

Swiftfoot blanches slightly as Torr tenses, ears laying halfway back along her head. As the tension leaves him, she pads the rest of the way into the room, tail flicking nervously. "I would tend to agrrree. If we'rrre just going to leave, now would be the time to do it. Otherrrwise, who knows when we'll get out of herrre?"

"What 'bout Nekovich?" Mika asks worriedly, a crease forming in her brow, and then lowers her voice to repeat the question. "What 'bout Nekovich? 'ospital's 'bout th' safest place I coul' bloody be, bollocks, an' we're stuck 'ere s'long as Jackal's gettin' r'pairs done..."

Torr nods slightly. "Yeah, that shits true," he shrugs a little, then takes another sip of the coffee. "So we fuckin' go check out Jackal, see how shits goin. If its fixed, we get the fuck off Ungstir. If not, we get you back here, they probably don't even know you were gone." He takes a sip, smirking a little at Swiftfoot's response to his tensing. "And shes gonna talk our asses outta this, she likes fuckin' lying so much."

Swiftfoot snorts in Torr's general direction. "Yeah, yeah. You'rrre not going to let that one go anytime soon, arrre you?" She shrugs and continues, mostly to Mika this time, "I haven't hearrrd anything about the state of the rrrepairrrs, but maybe we'll get lucky. I want to get the off this rrrock same as you two."

Mika busies herself with disconnecting her bony wrist from the EKG, glancing between her partner and the felinoid pensively. "I got'n idea," she announces. "One that'll give Swifty 'ere a chance t'prove 'erself, too, after 'er li'l con 'bout bein' militia. But we gotta be quick."

"Love your ideas, babe," Torr replies with a smirk. He takes another sip from his coffee, then stands from his seat. He quirks an eyebrow slightly, looking toward the cat for a moment before looking toward Mika. "So whats the plan?"

Swiftfoot looks at Torr, blinks, and looks back at Mika. The big cat nods to nobody in particular, and continues to twitch her tail nervously. "What exactly do you need me to do?"

Hurriedly, Mika scootscootscoots to the edge of the bed and kicks her bruised, cut-up legs over the side, double-checking the bandages on the worst of her wounds. "Th' longer I stay'n Ungstir, th' more I risk gettin' caught 'gain," she explains, smoothing down a rather dog-eared adhesive wrap on her calf. "Wherever they bloody see 'otshot an' th' Jackal where they'll blinkin' 'ssume I am. So," -- she sends a green-eyed gaze over her shoulder to Swifty -- "Fuzzball an' I will go t'Sivad by shuttle, check inta th' 'ospital there under'n 'ssumed name, bollocks. 'otshot, y'stay 'ere with th' ship an' finish whatever y'n Ace'r doin' 'fore y'follow." Up onto her feet she gets. And hello, atrophied muscles. You've been in bed a week! With a yelp the rogue crumples to the floor.

Torr sighs slightly, frowning as she collapses. He moves to her side, kneeling. "Uhuh, and how do you plan to get to the fuckin' shuttle? Crawl? And what the fuck happens when they come for you again, fucking fuzzy gonna protect you?" Torr snorts, shaking his head slightly.

Swiftfoot moves as if to assist Mika, but seeing that Torr is already there, hangs back out of the way. Her brow furrows briefly in a look of concentration. "He's got a point. A Demarrrian carrrying an injurrred human would drrraw unwanted attention." Her tail flicks and she goes silent again, seemingly in thought.

Grunting, Mika struggles to a seated position, emitting a whimpering sound at he pain shooting through her mangled body. Her eyes scan the circumference of the room. "So who says she's gotta carry me?" the captain asks, nodding in the direction of a collapsible hoverchair in the far corner. "Look, ain't a goddamned person'n th' Perseverance system't don't know we're bloody 'ere, bollocks. I blinkin' slip offworld, bloody buy us more time'n if'n I stick 'roun'."

Torr nods slightly. "Fuck. Look what fuckin' happened the last time you fuckin' wandered off. Jackal got blown to shit, they almost got you." He frowns. "Fuck babe. I'm not likin' this shit."

Flick, flick, flick. The Demarian's orange, furry tail hasn't stopped moving yet. She turns her golden-eyed gaze from Mika to Torr, and back to Mika as the discussion continues. "Whateverrr the two of you decide, it's good with me. Eitherrr way, I'm herrre to help."

Mika would set her jaw if it wouldn't uncomfortably stretch the stitching along her chin. Training her eyes upon Torr, she concedes, "so what d'ya s'ggest I do? Stay 'ere on th' blinkin' Rock? Go sit on Jackal, with all'a them workers goin' on'n off all hours'a th' day'n night's they blinkin' please?"

Torr shrugs. "You been safe here so fucking far," he replies. He takes another sip of his coffee. "But fuck, you wanna go run off to Sivad, thats your call. I'm not forcing you to do anyshit babe."

Swiftfoot shifts uncomfortably as the discussion continues. The cat's ears swivel back, and she tenses as she apparently hears something outside the door. However, it seems that it passes on by, because she relaxes in fairly short order. "I hate to interrrject herrre, but if we -arrre- going to get you out of herrre, we'll want to do it soon."

"I ain't stayin' in s'blinkin' 'ospital 'nother bloody second," Mika states matter-of-factly. If Torr allows her to do so, she uses him as a prop to shakily bring herself to her feet. If not, she uses the bed's edge, but either way, she's heaving herself onto the bed again. "Swifty, grab that 'overchair'n s'get outta 'ere. 'otshot," -- she inclines her head toward the storage cubby where her belongings are kept -- "grab m'stuff, please, sweet thing."

Torr sighs. "Christ, fine," he mutters in response to her. A few steps and he has the locker, a few more motions have it emptied. He holds onto the contents for her, except the clothes which he hands over. "So you shuttling your ass over to Sivad, lay low babe."

Swiftfoot pads silently across the room and retrieves the hoverchair, moving it up beside the obviously-shaky Mika. "As soon as you'rrre drrressed and rrready to go, we can take off."

Not having the time or strength to change out of the hospital gown, Mika instead just throws on the brown leather jacket she stole from Torr so long ago, zipping it up before easing her way into the chair. Her hand rests naturally on the control levers, which she plays with for a few moments to familiarize herself with them. "Jus' give me a buzz if'n y'need somethin', darlin'," she says to her partner, fishing out one of her two pistols from her things and passing it to him. "Take this an' watch y'self. ... No gettin' killed, a'ight? Swifty, c'mon, s'go."

Torr snorts. "Aw, thanks. Get my ass fucking locked up for possesion of illegal firearms. Sweet babe." He smirks a little, taking the weapon none the less. He sips at his coffee. "Yeah, don't get your ass killed either. Or captured."

Swiftfoot finally stops flicking that thrice-bedamned furry tail as she watches the weapon change hands. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but seems to think better of it and clamps her jaws shut again. She peers out the door, whiskers bristling.

"Yeah, well. Leas' I can do," Mika teases, circling the chair around and gliding out of the cubicle as fast as that contraption will go. Puttputtputtputt.

Ungstir Landing Pad <Resilience: Ungstir>

Rough hewn walls of iron and basalt, grooved by machinery used to carve this spaceport facility out of the glinting black and gray rock, rise on all sides and arches above of the broad pad that provides ample room for starships to rest during their stay on Ungstir.

Bright sulfurous lights seem to cast the chamber in permanent daylight despite the gloomy darkness and stars that loom beyond the huge portals, protected by the hazy shimmer of the prot's atmospheric containment fields. Through the force screens, silhouetted by the glow of the distant star Perseverance, one can make out the rolling, drifting shapes of rocks and planetoids - remnants of the world to which this chunk once belonged.
Squat, dark-haired technicians with pale skin and gruff demeanors move from ship to ship, checking fuel levels and mechanical fitness of the vessels. An archway leads out of the landing facility and into the city of Resilience, via the customs station.
Several large bays are set aside for ship maintenance and repair, serving as a general purpose drydock facility.
You can hail a Transport Rockhopper from this location. Type +hopper/hail.


Vroom-vroom, down the dark caverns carved into the planetoid chunk that is Ungstir-Two comes a hoverchair-bound Mika. Decked out in a hospital gown and jacket, she cruises easily through customs, flashing her identification when necessary and easily navigating the empty decontamination corridor to enter the landing bay. Her eyes dart around furtively, and she sticks mostly to the shadows.

Swiftfoot pads closely behind Mika, ears swiveling to take in the sounds all around her. She peers this way and that, whiskers abristle as she walks. She tries to stay mostly out of sight as she trails the hoverchair, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be doing.

Hess is lounging near the Red Branch #1, reading over a technical manual. He does not seem to notice the approach of the hoverchair or the large Demarian following after it.

Which is great, really, because the rogue in the hoverchair is really gunning for that whole not-being-noticed thing. Rolling the trackball under her thumb, she adjusts her course to carry her along the row of docked commercial ships toward the shuttleport. "Dig'n m'bag an' get out a couple 'uundred credits," she requests of Swifty.

Swiftfoot nods, rummaging around in the indicated bag for the aforementioned credits. After a few seconds of rifling the contents thoroughly, she finds the elusive currency. "'Kay, got em." She continues to pad after the hoverchair.

Hess hears something in the shadows just beyond the ship he is leaning against, and looks over in that direction. He spots Mika and Swiftfoot. He raises an eyebrow at the pair.

"Stellar," replies Mika, chuggin' along down the corridor that branches off to the offworld terminal. "Now see if'n y'can fin' m'smokes."

Ungstir Budget Shuttleport <Ungstir>

Plastic chairs are arrayed in the waiting area of the Ungstir Budget Shuttleport. A holovid broadcasts the latest news from around the galaxy as passengers stand in line to check in with the ticket kiosk or settle in with their PDA periodicals to await the arrival of the next value-priced offworld shuttle.


Swiftfoot digs around in the bag again, quickly coming up with the pack of cigarettes. and handing them to Mika. "You know, those things are awful forrr you, but whateverrr floats yourrr boat."

Mika slides one of the cylindrical sticks from the pack with her teeth. "Spoken like somebody s'never seen me nic-fit," she mumbles around the unlit smoke as she glides into the short line at the kiosk. Key word: unlit. "Christ, is m'lighter in there?"

Swiftfoot makes a third foray into the bag. She rummages around for about half a minute, an irritated "mrrrrrrr" escaping her before she finally finds the lighter hiding in the bottom of the bag, under some items that she's not going to ask about. She passes the lighter to Mika. "Not surrre I'd want to see that, actually, so be my guest."

There. We have everything. Right? Right. Mika flips back the head on her Nall lighter and is rewarded with both its eyes X-ing out comically and a bright red flame spewing from its neck. Sucking in the first satisfying cloud of poison in days, she emits a contented little 'mmm' sound. That hits the spot. Pack and lighter are slipped into her coat pocket. "Two. Sivad," she tells the woman behind the counter, sliding over the credits and taking a pair of tickets. Swiveling her chair around, she starts for the shuttle. "Ever been t'Sivad, Swifty?"

Swiftfoot wrinkles her nose at the sharp scent of tobacco smoke, and sneezes politely to cover up a giggle at the sight of the comical lighter. As the question is asked, she stops and thinks for a moment, a pensive look crossing her feline features, before continuing to pad after the hoverchair. "I can't say that I have. I've been to a few places, mostly outlying systems beforrre I turrrned up on Sol."

"Yeah?" Mika responds, directing her chair up the boarding ramp with a whirr of servos. "S'where I'm from, bollocks. If'n y'jus' ignore all'a stuffed-shirts 'round there, s'a real nice rock. Real, real nice waves'n good tea'n seafood."

Budget Shuttle - 23287
You are crammed into the packed passenger compartment of a budget interstellar transport. Portholes in the bulkheads on either side of the aisle provide views outside. Stale, recycled air cools the compartment.

The budget shuttle fires its thrusters and launches from the platform, departing for Sivad Budget Shuttleport.

The budget shuttle vibrates slightly as it judders through space, thrusters flaring.

The air grows rather stale and warm as the recirculation ducts and chillers are closed to this budget passenger compartment for a few minutes.

The lights flicker within the budget passenger compartment as the shuttle shifts from primary to auxiliary power generators.

The budget shuttle vibrates slightly as it judders through space, thrusters flaring.

Swiftfoot takes a seat facing Mika, giving her the once-over. "You'rrre from Sivad? Somehow you don't fit the sterrreotype. Especially not dressed like that. Harrrm would have half herrr warrrdrrrobe in a knot if she could see you."

Mika has conveniently parked herself in a handicapped berth, just beneath a no-smoking sign. She directs a long stream of greyish-white from her lips. "M'dad's Martian. Well, Terran," she corrects herself, "did some time with th' Martian Vanguard an' jus' ACTS like a goddamned Martian. Me mum's th' Sivadian. Used t'be a model. S'spect t'was me'n m'sister that ruined THAT whole gig fer 'er." She snorts back amusement. "'armony's m'cousin, bollocks. She's been givin' me 'ell ever since I was a pup. People say we look 'like."

The lights flicker within the budget passenger compartment as the shuttle shifts from primary to auxiliary power generators.

The budget shuttle bounces a little as it encounters FTL turbulence.

Swiftfoot mrrrrrs to herself and looks out the porthole, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. She turns back towards the hoverchair-bound rogue, but something sad has entered the feline's manner. "I'd give anything to have a memberrr of my family back, even -if- they did tease me all the time. Anything. Absolutely anything." The Demarian turns away, and stares out the porthole again.

Either Mika's not the type to care, or not the type to press. But either way, she leaves Swifty's lament with naught but a muttered, "y'can 'ave mine, bollocks."

The budget shuttle settles down on a landing platform and activates the airlock sequencer so that budget fare passengers can disembark.

Swiftfoot chuckles to herself and nods. "Yeah, I know.. I'm whiny. I apologize forrr that. In any case, this is wherrre I'm at now, and clinging to the past isn't going to do me a whit of good." As the shuttle lands and the airlock cycles, she stands and stretches. "Looks like we'rrre herrre."

Sivad Budget Shuttleport <Sivad>

Plastic chairs are arrayed in the waiting area of the Sivad Budget Shuttleport. A holovid broadcasts the latest news from around the galaxy as passengers stand in line to check in with the ticket kiosk or settle in with their PDA periodicals to await the arrival of the next value-priced offworld shuttle.


Following along through the cattle-like herd, Mika nods her battered head slightly, ignoring the funny looks she gets from other passengers. "Now yer talkin'. Live'n th' present, sister," she remarks, zooming on down to ground level and heading toward the bix sliding doors that lead into Independence Dome.

Swiftfoot pads after Mika, trying her best to both keep up while threading her way through the throng, and to ignore the funny looks both she and the rogue in the hoverchair are getting. "I try to... just sometimes... Meh. I'm going to stop rrright therrre beforrre I get all whiny again."

"I know," is all Mika says in reply, shrugging her shoulders slightly. A vague and sort of odd response, but it's left at that.

Enaj Treatment Center <Grand Enaj: Sivad>

This is the Enaj Treatment Center, otherwise known as the Sivad city hospital. A massive building built on eight stories, designed to be big enough to treat a large portion of the populace of the island in an emergency. The ground floor consists of the reception area, ER and the trauma rooms, along with the offices and lounges for those doctors and nurses who work there. The second floor is devoted entirely to the operating rooms, and is mostly off-limits to the public without escort. The third floor is a massive genetherapy area, and also contains the hospitals few research labs. The intensive care unit makes up most of the fourth floor, with the left over space devoted to the buildings admin staff. Finally, the Fifth through Eighth floors consist entirely of wards and private rooms. Four large lifts and a stairwell provide access to all levels.


Through the Sivadian night and Mika's hometown of Enaj the pair goes, travelling northward along Montevedo Street and through the neon and bustling commotion of the downtown nightlife district until they reach the government buildings and ranch off down a side street to the city hospital. It's odd, yes, but doing odd things is sort of what Jackals do. Weaving through the bodies filing through the clinic lobby, Mika makes her way to the nurse's desk and declares, "I need a doctor."

Swiftfoot pads into the Treatment Center, and stops just behind Mika. Her tail flicks nervously as she surveys the surroundings.

If one were to say that the nurse is a tad bit alarmed by this sight, he'd be right, but it'd be a gross understatement. As hurriedly as she can, the Specialist gets a doctor on the line and another pair of identical Specialist nurses help Mika and the hoverchair toward an examination cubicle in the back. "Comin' from Ungstir," she explains to them as she's carted off, "bloody don't know a goddamn thing over'n that blinkin' rock." Swifty, of course, is the one left with the forms. Yay Swifty! Smiling the sort of smile her programming tells her is appropriate, the head nurse passes a data tablet and stylus to the Demarian and instructs her to fill it out thoroughly. A glance at the page count at the top of the display is enough to make one charge headlong into oncoming traffic: page one of fifteen.

Swiftfoot politely takes the data tablet and stylus from the nurse, and takes a seat. She tucks her tail under the chair so it's out of harm's way, and starts to fill out the paperwork from name, age, and address to family medical history. After a good while, the Demarian turns the data tablet over to the nurse, full to the brim with all the information one could ever need about one Abigail Johnson, transferred from Ungstir.

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