Refuge Riders: Trauma Center
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All the patter and bustle of an Ul'dahn market was haphazardly crammed into the medical barracks in Camp Broken Glass. In a curtained-off square, on a creaky bed, lay Rorikoa unconsious with wolf-bite wounds all across his body. Hanging over him, pale and dour as the moon, was Galileo.
As the blonde inspected the sutures for signs of infection, an attendant opened the curtain and stepped in. "Enlistee Galeo, the lieutenant has requested a full report on your mission."
The lalafell finished his inspection, then began rummaging through a cabinet. He said nothing.
"Enlistee Galeo," the attendant asserted, "the lieutenant requires--"
"I heard." the astrologian huffed. Without turning his head, he responded, "If he wants it that badly, he's welcome to come in here and get it. I can talk and operate at the same… time…" The healer knotted his brow and turned to the attendant. "Where's the gauze?"
"Rationed." The woman folded her arms behind her waist. "There was heavy fighting with local fauna and flora earlier; we're saving our stock for the seriously injured until the next resupply."
Galileo growled as he stepped aside, putting Rorikoa's wounds on full display. "Do these look like light injuries?"
The attendant brushed off the remark. "You haven't seen what we're dealing with, enlistee."
In a bout of frustration, Galileo chucked the crumpled wrapper of a gauze roll at the woman. "Fine! Last I saw, Storage Room C was well-stocked enough! Pull some from there!"
The attendant sidestepped the projectile before firmly replying, "Storage Room C is reserved for the refugees and their injured, Enlistee Galeo."
"If the refugees want their own supplies…" Galileo clenched his teeth and turned to his brother. "...then the least they can do is not leave us to die! Now get your slow arse--"
The healer then felt something wooden slip into his hand. Rorikoa's prosthetic twitched and the runes along its surface flickered to life.
With a weary voice, the red-head spoke up. "Gali… shut… yer feckin' gob…"
"Oh, butt out. Shouldn't you be asleep?" Despite the circumstances, Galileo felt soothed by his sibling's voice.
Rorikoa's eyes remained shut, but a smile came to his lips. "Takes more'n… some blood-loss an' a-- cough, a pint o' watered-down Garlean goat-piss t'put me asleep."
The blonde rubbed a hand across his brother's forehead, taking the chance to check for fever. "How do your wounds feel?"
Rorikoa started to chuckle, but cut himself off with a wheeze. "Feels like… I'm 'bout t'lose the other arm. 'ow's it look?"
"It'll look better when it's sanitized and wrapped." Galileo turned his attention back to the attendant, who had rooted herself at the curtain. "Look… what about spare cloth? Could we repurpose some of the extra clothing for make-shift bandages? I'll handle the paperwork."
The woman cleared her throat and stood at attention. "I can place a requisition and have another doctor tending to Enlistee Rikoa within the bell, but the lieutenant needs that report. He'll be at his office in five minutes. Move." With that, she closed the curtain and marched off.
Galileo groaned as he stepped away from the bed, barely turning his head to address his brother as he left. "I'll visit as soon as I'm able. Don't make too much trouble for the next physician, aye?"
"W-wait…" Rorikoa's eyes creased open. "Need a favor."
Galileo hummed curiously as he threw on a thick coat and stopped in front of the curtain.
The sellsword softly nudged his head toward the medical cabinet. "Second drawer up, beneath the suture manual."
Checking the storage space, the astrologian found a mostly-full box of cigarettes and a matchbook.
Rorikoa shifted about, pulling his shoulders up to the pillow while his head rested against the frame. With an expectant look, he opened his mouth.
The blonde gripped the items in his fists. "… You quit these moons ago."
A bashful smile crawled across the red-head's features. "Aye, well… frontline life's different, lad. No promise o' t'morrow, so why not 'ave a puff t'day?"
Galileo didn't bother responding before throwing the cigarettes and matches in a trash bin and stomping off.
"Oi!" the sellsword barked, "'em's is mine! Ye cannae jus' toss 'em!"
Galileo flung open the curtain and snorted back, "Then crawl out of bed and get them yourself." And so he left.
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Despite his time in Ishgard, Galileo felt at odds with the demoralizing chill of night-time Garlemald. Whatever fuming frustration was in him before had long since steamed out, even after his decidedly heated meeting with the lieutenant.
There was, however, one comfort readily present. Above him, through the wispy smoke of campfires, a full host of stars was out on display. Galileo found himself hopelessly dazzled by the heavens, seeing constellations both familiar and unaccounted as they sojourned through the firmament.
Though he feasted his eyes, something at the back of his mind kept pestering him like a lone miner chinking away at a node.
It was not his sky.
Soon, and gods only knew when, he would have to return to the front. At present, his beloved brother was too injured to walk. He was countless malms away from home in a foreign land that despised him for his magick, for his nation, for his assistance.
He opened his mouth as if to ask a question of the stars above or the frigid wind, but the words his brother spoke at the start of this endeavor answered him first. "Mercy changes folk, Gali. Ent about what 'em thrice-eyed deserve, 's about suckin' in yer gut an' doin' right."
"Right… right…" The astrologian drew in a long breath and let out a yawn. His day had been full enough; it was time for it to end.













