Trudy Chacon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hallelujahpilot) wrote2010-09-14 07:04 pm
hallelujahpilot) wrote2010-09-14 07:04 pm
debrief
part i
“Take them straight to the morgue,” Trudy says to the Marines unloading her Samson's cargo-hold, filling out the form on an e-pad and doing her best to ignore the smell. The smell of blood, at least – for once, she's concentrating on the smell of fuel and hot metal and rubber that permeates the hangar. She's also paying far more attention to filling out the form than she normally would.
There are a few too many bodybags for this to really work as a distraction, but dammit, she tries.
“This all of them?” Chief Warrant Officer Kapanadze – normally something of Trudy's ach-nemesis – is just looking queasy.
“Ye-e-ep.”
“There, uh. Aren't enough bags. For everyone.”
With a studied blankness to her voice, she just says, “I know.” Then she says, “Oi, Garcia! Remember to tell 'em that they got to sort who's who. We had to jumble them up.” In a lot of cases, just because there wasn't enough to justify an entire bag. In a lot of other cases, because they had no idea which part belonged to which other part.
She passes the e-pad over to Kapanadze, and tries not to notice how the blood makes her fingers sticky. “Hey, Kap? Could ya do me a favour?”
He just looks at her.
“Clean all the blood off my girl?”
“Sure,” he says, and walks off without cracking any jokes. She would have felt better if he'd bitched at her. And come to think of it, she doesn't remember hearing Garcia acknowledge her order, either. Which means that she should go down to the morgue and tell the med-techs herself.
For a moment, Trudy just stands next to her Samson, clenching her fist and watching the blood on her skin.
She really doesn't want to go down to the morgue.
“Fuck,” she says, softly, and then squares her shoulders to go down and do what is left of her duty to the fallen Marines.
“Take them straight to the morgue,” Trudy says to the Marines unloading her Samson's cargo-hold, filling out the form on an e-pad and doing her best to ignore the smell. The smell of blood, at least – for once, she's concentrating on the smell of fuel and hot metal and rubber that permeates the hangar. She's also paying far more attention to filling out the form than she normally would.
There are a few too many bodybags for this to really work as a distraction, but dammit, she tries.
“This all of them?” Chief Warrant Officer Kapanadze – normally something of Trudy's ach-nemesis – is just looking queasy.
“Ye-e-ep.”
“There, uh. Aren't enough bags. For everyone.”
With a studied blankness to her voice, she just says, “I know.” Then she says, “Oi, Garcia! Remember to tell 'em that they got to sort who's who. We had to jumble them up.” In a lot of cases, just because there wasn't enough to justify an entire bag. In a lot of other cases, because they had no idea which part belonged to which other part.
'Hey, I found the Major!'
'Yeah, I think I found him, too.'
'Yeah, I think I found him, too.'
She passes the e-pad over to Kapanadze, and tries not to notice how the blood makes her fingers sticky. “Hey, Kap? Could ya do me a favour?”
He just looks at her.
“Clean all the blood off my girl?”
“Sure,” he says, and walks off without cracking any jokes. She would have felt better if he'd bitched at her. And come to think of it, she doesn't remember hearing Garcia acknowledge her order, either. Which means that she should go down to the morgue and tell the med-techs herself.
For a moment, Trudy just stands next to her Samson, clenching her fist and watching the blood on her skin.
She really doesn't want to go down to the morgue.
I will never leave a man behind.
“Fuck,” she says, softly, and then squares her shoulders to go down and do what is left of her duty to the fallen Marines.
no subject
Quaritch is standing in the door with a cup of coffee in hand. He wasn't sleeping, but exercise aside? He'd been expecting a relaxing day. That might mean 'watching a game with the troops' or 'accompanying a patrol' (or even catching up on paperwork, as much as he hated it), but one thing it did not usually mean was 'coming into the morgue to check up on his second-in-command being eaten'.
You can blame this particular unpleasant surprise for him being in a visibly bad mood right now...and for his silence as he awaits a response.
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Looks kinda pissed.
(It's the sharpest salute she's given him since he walked into Milliways)
"That's a good question, sir," she continues, trying not to swallow too obviously. "Not Na'vi that we could tell. But they all got...ripped apart. Sir."
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"...ripped apart?"
He doesn't ask the second question that leaps to mind, namely 'How much is left?'. While that might explain some of what happened, it does not seem to be the right question to ask now.
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She resists the urge to shift under his stare, but only just.
"Like...ever seen a dog or somethin' grab a rat and just shake it? Kinda looked like that. With a side of rippin' your sister's dolls apart."
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Frankly, she doesn't care if the morgue-nurses disagree with her - she's gotten real good at telling the difference between 'angry' and 'hungry' levels of carnage.
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Falco would run into a nest of them...just what I don't need, and it happens today.
"Alright, Chacon. Dismissed." He salutes, noting Trudy's fingers twisting. He's going to let her go...do whatever she needs to and pretend he doesn't notice. There are some things that he doesn't need to notice, after all.
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And then a lot of times on Pandora, what you do next is turn on your heel, walk very determinedly out of the room, or around the corner, or whatever, so you are out of sight. And once you are out of sight, then you break into a run to the nearest bathroom to fall on your knees by the toiler and be quite thoroughly sick.
And that's exactly what Trudy Chacon does.
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Once he's back to his office, he makes a call to the brig. Colonel Quaritch has been around the track enough to know exactly how this day is going to end.