Nar Shaddaa

Cole had been about to roll into bed for a typically dull, early night when he'd been urgently summoned uptown. He arrived at the address he'd been given, running a hand through his hair before pressing the doorchime. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he waited to be permitted entry.

From outside, the penthouse looked as fancy as all the other abodes in uptown; clean, big, luxurious.

So it was probably a surprise when a Jawa answered the door. Its shiny yellow eyes looked up at Cole, before it started a long ramble in Jawaese as it hurried back inside... leaving the door open to the guest, of course.

Cocking an eyebrow at the string of unintelligible noises and a lack of understandable gestures from the Jawa, Cole entered. His usual casual slouch had been replaced with urgency and professionalism, striding quickly after the small form as the door swooshed softly closed behind him.

The interior didn't really fit the image one might have expected from a Sith's home (technically temporarily borrowed luxury apartement). There were no Imperial banners or oppressive imagery adorning the walls, but rather fine works of art seemingly from various cultures of the galaxy, potted plants and exquisite tapestries. A set of stairs nearby led up to a second floor, but the Jawa moved straight ahead into the sitting room.

Where Shaisha was lying down on one of the divans, looking rather uncomfortable in her position. Some of her clothes had been discarded nearby, leaving much of her red-skinned body exposed.

The Jawa continued to babble in its native tongue.
"Yes, I know," she groaned back.
A few more lines of Jawawese.
"Yes, now shut up. Shoo-shoo..." Shaisha gritted her teeth as she sent the Jawa scampering away into another room, and forced herself to sit upright, clearly wincing at the effort.

"Officer Ormont... I'm impressed you came, at this hour."

"Mmm," he grunts and waves her back down, "best you stay down for the moment." He slings the small pack from his shoulder, lowering it to the plush flooring near his boots. With practised gestures, he draws the mediscanner and diagnostic computer from their respective pouches on his belt.

Cole let's his eyes sweep the full length of his attractive patient, head to toe and back again, and the mediscanner follows. He adjusts some settings, expression one of solemn concentration.

"Ugh... yeah, probably for the best," she begins a chuckle, then winces at the pain. "Think I might've broken, or fractured something... one hell of a way to end the evening."

The exposed parts of her body revealed that ridges were not exclusive to the head, as subtle lines could be seen below her collar-bone, along her shoulders and down the nape of her neck.

"Was a great game anyway."

Cole drops to one knee next to his patient. With the beam narrowed, he begins to sweep her torso with greater focus. "You have; broken something, that is. You've got a broken rib and at least three others with hairline fractures. Don't talk, and try to breath shallowly."

He was putting together the things he needed. Between the pack and the belt, there was a place for everything and everything was in it's place. He didn't need to look for anything, knowing exactly where each item he needed was. The only thing he did check on was the medications that he had selected. No amount of muscle memory or self assurance would make up for administering the wrong thing.

"I want to put a flexible splint over the broken rib. I'm sorry, but I need you to sit up, it will be painful, but I can give you something for that before I help you up. I'll also need touch your back, I want to let you know now so it's not a surprise."

She frowns slightly as he tells her to not talk, but she obliges and eases her breathing.

Guess that's what happens when a Whiphid steps on you...

She waves off the offer of a painkiller. Pain was a valuable lesson, after all. And a part of her wasn't overly eager to get drugged by a Republic operative while she's in this state. Not like Jitter can do much against anyone if this got messy...

"Respectfully, I wasn't offering, ma'am," but he helps her up regardless. "I won't force anything on you, if I can help it, but I will be giving you something before I leave here." He didn't know the basis for her objection, but he was not above trying any means at his disposal; whether by charm, coercion, negotiation, or outright deception in the pursuit of providing care.

With cool professionalism, "I'm lifting your shirt at the back here to apply the spraysplint," and he did so, gently palpating the seventh rib, making the broken ends grind together somewhat painfully. "Sorry, but I needed to make sure everything is properly aligned." The spray hisses, cold against the skin, "that will support the rib while it heals. You should be able to breath properly now."

Pushing himself back onto his feet, he sits in front of Shaisha on the divan. "This," he holds up a hypospray, "will help with the bruising, which is the other reason why you're finding your injury so painful. This one," he shows her another hypo, "is an analgesic. You can refuse, if you must, but personally I prefer breathing."


(( Critical Care: 2 success, 3 advantage ))

((Advantages used to learn more about Sith physiology for Cole, from PMs ))

She listens intently as he explains each procedure... a part of her found it soothing to listen to, rather than the slap-dash job of droids, and she wondered if it had to do with his fascination for studying medicine that he was also teaching a little as he was treating her.

Her skin was a muted red, and warmer to the touch than a human's which hinted at a higher body temperature, and the faint ridged lines did indeed seem to continue down from the nape of her neck and along her back. While she wasn't the biggest speciment of her species, she was in no way weak or frail, as her body had the honed muscles of something like a gymnast or a dancer, and it didn't lack in old scars either... some only a few months old, some several years old.

"Fine," she agrees with a quiet tone, more breathing the word than speaking it. "I trust you."

He allows a hint of a smile to curl the corner of his mouth, "I'm glad, I don't think I'm qualified to match wits with a Sith and I wasn't looking forward to having to twist your arm. Metaphorically speaking, that is." He administers the drugs, the first near the site of the wound, where the swelling and bruising make even the subdermal spray painful. The other he casually applies to her upper arm.

"Now, have you had anything to drink since they pulled you off the court?" His eyes, though guarded, didn't exactly make a secret of the fact that he was studying her advantageously displayed body.

"Just don't like drugs." She would of course object to labelling alcohol as a drug.

That he was studying her, didn't bother her really. "Water," she confirms with a small nod. "Not much."

"Then you need more," he looked up. The penthouse wasn't exactly massive, he could probably find the kitchen without too much difficulty. Semi-absently, "not all drugs are drugs. It's a neutral word that got a bad rap. Even the Maquis de Sade would draw the line at not taking painkillers for multiple rib fractures."

"I know," she sighs, eyes narrowing at the stab of pain it produced. "It dulls the senses. Pain... is sometimes a good teacher."

Who the hell is Marquis de Sade? Shaisha wonders, knowing little about revolutionary philosophers of foreign aristrocracies.

"... To your right," her head nods in the direction of the kitchen. The place was big, as expected of a luxurious apartement in Uptown, but not impossible to navigate as it seemed to prefer a very open design that made moving around easy. Not far from the kitchen was a fine set of double-doors of transparesteel, showing that the apartement also had a big outdoors area with an enormous swimming pool.

He waits until he is in the kitchen before indulging in an amused snort, pain as a lesson, maybe I should be worried that her and Ashla have so much in common.

He fetches a large glass of water and brings it back to Shaisha, "I'd recommend you sip slowly, pain isn't going to teach you much if you can't hear anything else." He sits with her, "you should drink it all, you're very dehydrated." Cole chuckles, "looks like I got those scans I wanted, after all."

Cole was edging close to the territory Shaisha hated; other people telling her what to do, especially people inferior to her. But she let it slide... he was a medical expert, and she was not. And so she drinks the water slowly.

"So you did," she says, and takes another long slow gulp of water. "Different than watching holo-images, I take it."

Nodding, Cole runs a hand through his hair, "once I strip the identifying data, these scans will go a long way towards improving my current holomodels." He cocks an eyebrow, "it seems to me that I didn't even have to swear to you my first born son or anything. But I have to wonder why you called me."

"A favour for a favour," she says, her breathing easing a little as the injections started to work her system, numbing the pain of each intake of breath. "Also to test if you really meant that you'd treat someone who is technically an enemy."

"You did not disappoint," she adds in a complimentary tone.

Cole looks genuinely surprised, a test? It hadn't occurred to him that she might think he'd refuse the summons, just as it hadn't occurred to him to question the summons themselves, grabbing his kit and heading out the door before he'd even ended the call.

Running a hand through his hair, "well, then. Glad to be of service."

She gives him a nod of thanks.

The hand holding the glass of water points to his hand. "Interesting scar. From combat?"

He looks down, as if he'd forgotten about its existence. "Not exactly. My anaesthesiologist had been hungover during a surgery. The patient came around and experienced a bout of post-surgical psychosis. They attacked me and turned my own scalpel back on me."

She raises an eyebrow, clearly a bit surprised by the story. "Does that happen often?"

"Which part? The incompetent and hungover anaesthesiologist, the patient waking up, the post-surgical psychosis? Or maybe you meant me getting assaulted by a crazed man with a scalpel and having only this minor scar to show for it?"

"Mostly the psychosis... and getting assaulted by violent patients," she says with a faint smirk and takes another slow gulp of water.

Water tastes like shit on this planet, no matter how purified it is. Miss Ziost already.

He pursed his lips and nodded, "it's exceptionally rare. It was a bit of a perfect storm of shitty luck. That the anaesthesiologist skrog up on that patient, that the patient didn't just flicker and pass out again, and that they suffered a violent psychosis." He shrugs, "people wake up all the time, but the anaesthesia isn't designed to just put you to sleep, it skrogs your short-term memory too, so most just sort half-wake and don't remember that they did."