Bryce "Croaker" Tagren-Quinn - Life, uh, Finds a Way

[Doz Finch]

Another beautifully written sim by Bryce. I really enjoyed how you threaded together Bryce's inner thoughts with the things happening around him (and to him, psychologically) by mentioning other members of the Skarbek, It was done in such a subtle and nuanced way, and I could picture it so clearly and cinematically. I imagined the camera panning slowly away from Bryce and dissolving into other scenes, showing each character as they are mentioned, before going back to him.  Amazingly done! ✍️🎥

Bryce "Croaker" Tagren-Quinn - Life, uh, Finds a Way (google.com)

 

Quote

((Warehouses, Borrel District, Witherington, Indre III))

 

Was the universe indifferent or chaotic, or was it cruel? What is all of the above?

 

Bu. Life emerged and life faded, yet life emerged again. The leaves from a tree would fall as the seasons grew cooler, with new leaves coming in the light of spring. Those fallen leaves would gather on the ground and decay, becoming critical humus, mingling along with other decomposed organic matter—and that would provide for a new life, provide for existing life. Without death, there wasn’t life, and without life, there wasn’t death. 

 

Yet, in that balance—did cruelty exist? Was the universe or nature capable of that, or was it just unique to beings that could feel, could experience avarice, and could have a twisted desire to inflict insult and injury? 

 

The crew of the Skarbek knew all about loss, and injury, and they all had their own way of dealing with it. From Doodle, who he was finding charming, and Blondie, who was uplifting and witty. Red and Stripper (who found each other even in the chaos), Fingers, Blades, and Shades—from Papa Bear himself and Gramma with her almond-shaped eyes that held their own tales that would probably not make suitable nighttime stories for children. The reclusive hacker, Cable—could use a cigarette right about now—, and Greenhorn, who... who...

 

Tagren-Quinn: Speaking of time—the civilian is stable, but we’re at an impasse with the leg. Currently. Finding a complete surgical kit with gloves would be the best-case scenario. I have sedatives, but having some antibiotics and the ability to remove any tissue would be nice. 

 

Heat crept up his neck and ruddied his cheeks. Damp, mussed dark waves of hair stuck out like a terrible case of bedhead. His jaw set, stormy gray eyes roving over the found vehicle. 

 

Gnaxac: Maybe there’s one around here somewhere.

 

Marshall: Worst case, we can sterilize something sharp with a disruptor blast. Cook it until it's hot. 

 

The young El-Aurian hybrid nodded almost out of habit, though his face revealed that he was clearly distracted. 

 

Tagren-Quinn: Penav’arvan. I’ll— ::He scratched the back of his neck.:: I’ll be back, if that’s okay?  I am going to take a few minutes to think, regroup, and see if I can locate some medical supplies. If not, well, we’ll make do. 

 

A few moments to just breathe and clear his head. 

 

Maybe he understood his father a little bit more right then.

 

Gnaxac gave a nod with a thumbs up while Jo offered what appeared to be a sympathetic smile. While he didn’t want to draw attention to his internal conflict, he smiled softly back. 

 

Gnaxac: Go for it.

 

Marshall: Take your time. See what you can find.

 

Tagren-Quinn: Thanks. 

 

And he meant it and was glad that they didn’t probe. Flicking one final glance between the two of them, Bryce turned and shoved his hands into his damp trouser pockets as he contemplated the issue before them. It would do no good to travel down a road that contemplated the inner workings of Cardassians. It was also unproductive to explore the shadowy corners of the cruelty of life, as that was the nature of things. What was productive was finding a strategy that insured that the man on that floor lived. 

 

The words behind him, growing in distance as he went the opposite way of the patient to the rest of the row of crates they had yet to explore, did not register fully. Even if Bryce was completely fully engaged, he was likely far enough away that he couldn’t hear. 

 

Gnaxac: Do you think he’s okay..?

 

Marshall: I don't think so. I don't think anyone is out here. 

 

The dark-haired El-Aurian instead took to whispering to himself as he slowly walked, head slightly bowed, taking in the external markings of the crates. 

 

Tagren-Quinn: We’ve got an anabolic protoplaser though its surgical ability is limited. 

 

It had anabolic, or tissue building, acceleration capabilities, but it couldn’t heal already infected tissue. Surgery and antibiotics was where it was at. 

 

He started to walk back towards Gnaxac and Jo, and the patient.

 

The sounds of Gnaxac and Jo chatting and tinkering filled the background, but Bryce remained largely oblivious to their dialogue as he reached the unconscious Bajoran man. Kneeling down beside him, Bryce gave him a look over before reaching for the tricorder resting nearby. Thankfully, with their collective efforts, they were able to get this man into a drier environment and perform what limited, life-saving procedures they could to ensure he would live—with the present dilemma, his banged-up thigh, still facing him. If the man (the man… he had a name, and Bryce wished he knew it) made it out—back to his family, back to possible children, to those that loved him—he’d still need additional surgery, finer reconstruction, and so forth, and therapy, with motor assist bands, but those were worries for another day.

 

Though the hospital here was—well, non-existent. 

 

As Bryce stood back to his full height, taking in the shimmering light of the still-active El-Aurian device, he mentally compared what he knew of its abilities to the dermal regenerator and the anabolic protoplaser in their possession. Surgery and debridement around an exposed artery necessitated steady hands, not half-unknown technology. What he had done previously was risky, but that… choices were limited.

 

Marshall: Even if we did manage to get supplies to everyone, it's going to take something massive to drive the Cardassians out.

 

Gnaxac: Response 

 

That bit of dialogue did reach him as his steps carried him forward toward the nearest row of crates. Scanning against it, the tricorder wasn’t getting much in response back. Pulling out a pocket knife (an artifact of Paul Quinn himself), Bryce stared at it and recalled Jo’s words, her suggestion from earlier. Lips set in a firm, grim line, he wedged the blade of the knife into the seam of the crate and pulled back, allowing it to crack open ever so slightly. 

 

Marshall: Bigger than we can organize. ::Her fingers drilled on her upper arm, her foot ticking away against the floor, mind flooded with creative possibilities.:: We need weapons, more than anything. Tonnes of them, to stick into colonists' hands.

 

An eyebrow raised towards Jo and Gnaxac.

 

Gnaxac: Response 

 

Tagren-Quinn: Kheet’agh.

 

The insult, Bajoran in origin, was hurled towards the crate. Catching Ferengi’s gaze, Bryce sheepishly offered a silent apology. In his hands, from the depths of the crate, was rope. Lots of rope, but coiled in short strands. Why would they need rope?  Brittle, fraying rope at that. 

 

Marshall: If we can get this bucket of bolts working, we can get him, ::she nodded toward the Bajoran on the floor,:: out of here. If we can do that… 

 

Still, a few bundles make their way into his pockets. 

 

Marshall: What if we were to use this as a cover? 

 

Tagren-Quinn: …a cover? 

 

Confusion etched across his youthful features as he started to pull from his thoughts. Blood from the Bajoran still painted his face. 

 

Gnaxac: Response 

 

Tagren-Quinn: What do you mean? 

 

Marshall/Gnaxac: Response 

 

On to the next crate. Please have a greenfield filter or any kind of scalpel, something. 

 

Tagren-Quinn: I’m beginning to think we’re in a section that—

 

The latest crate produced rags. Rags on rags, which might be useful for Gnaxac and Jo’s pet project. He lifted one up and looked at it skeptically. 

 

Marshall/Gnaxac: Response 

 

Tagren-Quinn: ::Tossing aside the rag,:: I’m going to check along the wall here. 

 

Taking swift steps away towards the end of the row of crates and to the wall, he didn’t want to get too far away from the group or his patient, but, at the same time, if there was something here of use, then it would be worth finding. A thought snaked in of a Cardassian unit bursting in and dissolving them all and their plans with a set of disruptors. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. 

 

Tentatively, he flashed the light of his tricorder down the stretching darkness, still washed in blue, and saw a unit affixed to the wall a few rows down. 

 

Tagren-Quinn: It might be a first-aid kit or something. I’m–I’m going to check.

 

The weight of his phaser upon his belt could be felt. 

 

Marshall/Gnaxac: Response 

 

--

 

Bryce "Croaker" Tagren-Quinn
Maquis Doctor
The Skarbek

As simmed by:

Ensign Bryce Tagren-Quinn, M.D.
Medical Officer
USS Gorkon (NCC-82293)

T238909AT0

 

[Bryce Tagren-Quinn]

Aww, thank you so much, @Doz Finch. This means so much, and I'm really happy that you enjoyed it. ❤️