Nar Shaddaa

Yesterday had been a success, in Cole’s opinion. He didn’t think twice about heading into the Red Light District with Private Yongo, looking for a different ‘clinic’ in Kidaja’s territory.

He found himself at a place calling itself a Hospice. It stank with raw sewage and vomitus and rotting flesh. Pt Yongo looked distinctly green and Cole almost took pity on the fellow; but the real reason he sent the soldier to stand guard outside was that a puking infantryman standing behind him was going to be less than helpful with the patients.

Every one of the patients crammed into the leaking, half-falling down building was dying. Some wouldn’t last out the day, some wouldn’t have been here if they’d been able to get basic medical treatment, some could still be saved. He pulls out his datapad and forwards his coordinates to Ashla, in case she was interested and available.

Hope you haven’t eaten recently, but I doubt you have a sensitive stomach.

(( Finding a Place, voluntary Setback from Scrutiny: Success, Triumph = Kidaja's Territory, Threat = noticed? ))
(( Sending an Untracable Message, voluntary Setback from Scrutiny: Success ))

A woman walked in, a scarf over her mouth to cover the stench. However, she also had a hood over her hair. At the very least, she had her goggles down so Cole could see her eyes. "You're doing good work for the people here. Though I must say, it's even worse down in Shadow Town."

Cole looks up from the suppurating wound he's cleaning. It was septic, but if it could be kept clean long enough for the antibiotics to take a hold, this patient might survive. "I can imagine," he answers, but he can't afford to pause in his work until the wound was clean and covered.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" The woman took a step closer. "Or do you prefer to work alone?"

With easy, practised gestures, Cole peels off one of the disposable gloves he's wearing and flicks open a pouch at his belt. Drawing fresh gloves, he flicks a pair to the newcomer, drawing on a clean glove to replace the one he removed, "put those on and grab that kolto irrigator."

The woman nodded. She put away her leather gloves and put on the disposable ones Cole had given her. She picked up the irrigator as requested and stood by for further instruction.

Cole is carefully peeling back a flap of muscle and sinew to reveal a pocket of fetid green pus trapped underneath, "I'll hold this, use the kolto to flush it out."

"Right." The stranger put forth the irrigator and applied it liberally to the pus. "Definitely can't say I envy you."

Cole dug a long, slender finger into the cavity, making sure the kolto washed out the crevices. Picking up another, similar tool, "you have a strong stomach, I'm impressed," he applied the tool and it shed a fine coating of a crystalline white powder into the wound.

"I've seen my fair share of gore," she stated plainly, "A younger me would have been out the door by now though."

Jigsawing the shreds of flesh back together, "seems like that's... hey, hold this here," he indicates to flap of skin he's gently pinning in place with one finger, "that's everyone's story these days. We've all seen it all."

The woman complied and placed her finger where Cole's had been. "I don't think I need to tell you that this sort of thing is common around here. Sure, you can turn a blind eye to it, but once you get involved it's like a whole new world." A pause. "Or moon, I suppose."

Cole snorts, darkly amused, and begins placing memory-plastic sutures strategically along the ragged edges of skin. "Is that why you're here? getting involved?"

"I am already involved," she corrected lightly, "But it is connected. I was hoping you could help even more to help the people of Nar Shaddaa."

Raising an eyebrow, Cole laid a rectangle the synthskin over the injury and sprayed the activator over the area. Peeling off his soiled gloves, he dressed the injury, "what would you need me to do?"

The woman looked up to him through her mask. "That depends on what you're willing to do." She looked to the patient and then back to him. "Medics are in high demand. But I'm wondering how hard you want to work to make these people's lives better."

He pressed his lips together in a thin line. "I'm not interested in talking around corners. If all you needed was a medic, you wouldn't need to be so mysterious. So how about we drop the crap and you tell me what you're after?"

"Secrecy is necessary on Nar Shaddaa, sir. I am sorry for being indirect." She looked him straight in the eyes behind her cowl. "We heard about your run-in with the Hutts. If you are the sort to let that slide, then we have nothing more to discuss."

Cole's expression hardens, "the Hutts murdered a soldier in cold blood and burnt a homeless shelter to the ground, and I'm still here, under Kidaja's nose, doing what the Hutts won't. You tell me if I'm the sort to let it slide."

"You are defying his wishes, which I appreciate. But I'm curious if you want to take a more active role in opposing him."

Moving on to the next bed, Cole ran his mediscanner over the patient, "I'm listening."

"I would need to know what other skills you have in your repertoire," she elaborated, "But I think you would do well interrupting Hutt business." Her eyes showed her smile. "Teach them not to extort everyone they come across.'

"Interrupting," he says slowly, injecting something into the patient on the bed. He watches the compact hand-held diagnostic computer as the mediscanner fed its data to the device. The Bith became still, deathly so, Cole's eyes hard and guarded until he moved on to the next bed.

"First and foremost, I'm a medic. I heal people, I don't harm them. But I can turn a good word when the mood takes me. A little coercion, a little negotiation, a touch of deception, a dash of charm; some I'm better at than others."

"That could be useful," the woman remarked. She looked at the other patients and then back to Cole. "I understand that oath although I must argue that cutting off the problem before it happens is also a viable strategy."

Cole indicated to the patient he'd been operating on when she arrived, "tumours and dead flesh must be cut away before they rot the whole." Then, he indicates to the Bith on the next bed, "and when there's nothing left to save, you can ease their passing."

"There's a reason for the term surgical strike."