What Really Happened

Health Clinic 

A small and compact space has been carved from the rock of Ungstir, the natural rock sculpted to form a coffered ceiling from which drifts soft illumintion. Pragmatic from floor to ceiling, each square inch of the clinic has been efficiently laid out, from the front desk and triage station to the racks of crash carts waiting patiently in the wall niches.

To the left and right the space opens out a bit, creating two nodes of activity. Left is the health clinic itself, a common space opening to a series of offices and exam rooms for everyday medical needs. To the right is the emergency suite, utilitarian and no nonsense. Its century old floors have been stained over time, ready to accept the worst from the bloodiest mining accident to decompression sickness. Nestled between are banked the treatment and recovery rooms, always a quiet bustle.

At all hours there is activity here, the staff grim and dedicated, having to face each day the true cost of what it is to live and work amongst Ungstir's shattered rocks.

Kit is nearly invisible beneath bedding, bandages, and various monitoring devices and tubes. Nearly bled as white as the sheets, her dark hair is the only shock of color in the corner of the clinic which she occupies.

Clutching a PDA in his right hand, Kip Caspar walks into the clinic. He wears the uniform of a soldier in the Ungstiri Militia. He stops at the nurse's station. A squat, stern-looking woman with a bun of dark red hair peers at him from the other side of the desk, sizing him up. "Matrose Caspar to see Kittiana Trevelyan," the soldier says. He waves the PDA and adds, "Committee business."

The nurse does not disappoint, and lives up to her demeanor with a suspicious squint of her eyes, somehow managing to give the impression of peering down her nose at a visitor despite their advantage in height over her seated position. "The one caught with the murderin' bug?" She tilts her head toward the back. "She's the only female in the critical ward right now. ID please," she more demands than asks, holding out a hand.

Kip nods, reaching into his shirt pocket and producing a laminated ID card that reads: CASPAR, KIP - CURRENT RANK: MATROSE - SERVICE NUMBER: 171875. "The Polkovnik heard she is awake. He wants me to ask some questions. I won't take long."

The nurse, a long time resident of her post from the well-practiced movements that swipes the card, matches the record with his features, and then hands the item back while her eyes return to her terminal within the space of a single breath. "I'll be monitoring her vitals from here. Don't overstress her in her current condition - doc likes to have his breaks uninterrupted," she notes blandly, already dismissing him from her attention.

"Thank you," the soldier says to the back of the nurse's head, before pocketing his ID card and walking down the hall toward the one room whose door is flanked by other Ungstiri Militia soldiers - a pair of starshina-ranked men, so they get a salute from Kip. Like the nurse, they check his ID card, and then one motions for him to enter. Kip steps into Kit's room. "Ms. Trevelyan? I am Matrose Kip Caspar of the Ungstiri Militia. We have some questions for you."

It is a moment before Kit responds, her brow furrowing as if contemplating whether to scrape together the energy to confront law enforcement at this time or not, before finally conceding and opening her eyes; gaze still hazy and slightly off-focus from drugs and pain.

"I will keep it brief," Kip says, activating the PDA as he settles into a chair at Kit's bedside. "You need your rest. We just need a few questions answered before any charges are filed."

There is the barest twitch of her cheek at his words; weary, ironic amusement not quite able to tug her mouth into a one-sided smile. "Plenty of time...to rest later, yes...?" she husks, the words dry and labored.

The soldier nods. He taps a couple of buttons on the PDA, creating a new file and activating the device's audio capture system. "Matrose Kip Caspar interview with suspect Kittiana Trevelyan. Date is 11 September 3007. Time is 0430 hours." The opening completed, Kip says, "Please identify yourself for the record."

Kit's eyes close as she licks her lips, drawing in a cautious breath with a grimace before declaring in a slightly stronger voice, "Kittianna...Trevelyan. Sivadian citizen."

"On the night of 9 September 3007, you had occasion to visit an infomatrix access cafe in the commercial sector of Resilience," Kip cites. He then asks: "Who is the Odarite that traveled with you and for what purpose did you both go to the cafe?"

Kit is silent for a moment as she gathers thoughts rather than strength this time, before she finally answers, "Akk'kkkr...krk," she approximates as best she can, grimacing. "Why I was there...something I'd rather discuss...with someone else. No offense."

The soldier lifts an eyebrow. He smiles. "Ms. Trevelyan, you are facing the very real possibility of being charged as an accomplice to the murder of Horace Montague. Cooperation with Ungstiri authorities would be taken into account, I think."

"Montague...?" Kit echoes bemusedly before she abruptly chuckles - or tries to. As the first aborted attempt nearly ends in even more painful coughs, she makes do with silence and a bite of her lip as she waits for the fit of mirth to pass before rasping, "Think...that tells me all I need to know...'bout what I should cooperate with. Happy...t'say I had no idea...what the bug would do. Would've been happy...to kill Akk at that point, if I wasn't...killed too..."

"What were you and this Akk'kkkr'krk doing?" Caspar asks. "We have allegations from the Odari Merchants Guild that someone attempted to hack into their computer system from that cafe. Was this you? Was this Akk'kkkr'krk?"

"Akk...had history with the guild..." Kit admits, voice weakening to just above a whisper. "They screwed him over...in the past. I just...wanted some translations."

"Translations of what?" the soldier asks. He leans forward, squinting a little. "You were carrying a portable data device bearing the passcode information for the Trade Minister of Odari. Were you acting on behalf of the Sivadian government? OATO?" He sighs. "And why would the Demarian government be making inquiries about your condition?"

The last question manages to cause Kit to blink, glazed eyes turning toward the matrose before they close again with a hint of amusement. "Maybe someone's finally realizing...we're all in this together. Won't tell you who. Won't tell you why. Not till you know...who framed me for murder...of someone who doesn't exist."

"No one says you committed murder," Kip says. He shifts back in his chair. "The Odarite did the killing." The soldier shrugs. "The polkovnik thinks the story goes something like this: The Odarite had an axe to grind with the guild. He kidnapped you for purposes of hacking into the guild computer network. This Montague fellow was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Odarite killed him. You took the chance to flee. The Odarite chased you." He furrows his brow. "The only real question seems to be where'd you get the flechette pistols? And, obviously, who taught you how to shoot, because you made a hell of a mess of it."

An indefinable tension begins to drain from Kit as he spins out the scenario, her mouth twitching faintly at one point or another before his last remark has her biting her lip against another chuckle. "Will admit...I'm better with sharp edges...than fast projectiles. Maybe OGM agents...caught up with us? Left both of us for dead." She tries to shift ever so slightly, and hisses with a wince, "Not...touching flechettes...ever."

Kip shakes his head. "You were clutching the pistol in your hand when the medics found you. Other pistol was on the ground next to what was left of the Odarite. Best we can figure, you shot each other in that utility tunnel, but you got off lucky. He didn't."

Kit's brow knits, before she husks, "Sorry, can't help. Memory's not too clear...after trying to run. Bug was behind me. Caught between rock...and more rock, yes?"

Kip smirks, but nods. He gets to his feet and switches off the audio capture system on his PDA. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Trevelyan. I will deliver my report to the polkovnik. He will then make a recommendation to the committee. I think your name will be cleared in this." He walks toward the door, then stops and turns to look at Kit one more time. "What did you mean, by the way? About a man who didn't exist? Montague?"

Kit nods faintly in thanks, not bothering to open her eyes until his question, cracking them open just enough to regard him from beneath her lashes. "Did I say that?" she murmurs, before letting her eyes close again. "Sorry...don't always react to drugs...like expected. Still foggy."

"Of course," the soldier says with a faint smile. "Well, get your rest." With that, Kip Caspar steps out of the room, passes between the guards with a final salute, and then he's on his way out of the clinic.

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