Bankor

Cole had found his bunk assignment, squared away his belongings, and changed into navy fatigues. From there, the most important thing was an examination of the medical facilities to see what he would be dealing with. He poked around, introducing himself to the staff.

Not that Nai needed medical attention herself (that her player knew of), but she wanted to see if any of her brothers or sisters had ended up here for treatment or burial, considering the rough start of the day.

The tall woman was still in her armor, with helmet tucked underneath one arm as she had first checked the morgue, and was moving onto the other locations where people were being treated.

A look of obvious disgust crossed her blue features as she saw one of the unconscious men who looked like he had gotten the beating of a century. That filthy thief...

Moving to intercept the interloper, "ma'am, do you need assistance?" The man was clearly unarmed, slim and pale, with hollow cheeks and tired, icy eyes. His field uniform looked rumpled, as if he'd been on duty for 48 hours already.

Nai adjusted her gaze slightly down to meet the doctor's. He seemed like the kind of guy she could break over her knee as a warm-up; harmless. Probably good at his job if he was here.

"Any of my brothers or sisters come in as patients?" she spoke in her quiet husky tone, before clarifying who she meant. "... Mandalorians."

Cole didn't seem the least affected by the tall Chiss, expression guarded as he pulled his datapad from a pocket, but didn't turn on the device. "I'll need to know who's asking."

"Nai'tiri Cadera," she said, a touch guarded, though it was more the nature of her visit making her so.

"Some people think it's acceptable to help themselves to our armor and weapons. Including that of the Kryze we're fighting. If dead or dying are brought here, some of them might still be in armor; I want to make sure that this will be a safe place - where such theft will not happen." Nai'tiri glanced back to the man from before for a brief moment. "Making sure it doesn't happen again."

Cole put the datapad away again and ran a hand through his already dishevelled curls. "Sounds like something you need to discuss Quartermaster Badera. Whatever equipment we remove from patients is logged and turned over to requisitions."

The woman cocked her head to the side, muttering a brief few words in Mando'a that were probably swearwords of some sort. Some things just translated its intention universally.

"... And have any such Mandalorian equipment been logged and turned over to requisition that we should be made aware of?" it seemed her annoyance made her more articulate.

“Ma’am, again,” he pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with one finger, blue-grey eyes meeting red, red as Shaisha’s skin, “take it up with the Quartermaster. But whatever deal the Republic has with its Mandalorian allies regarding Mandalorian acquisitions was likely sorted out long before we got here by people who get paid a lot more than me.”

She sighed silently. "Will speak to the quartermaster later. When I find him." Or her. Whatever they are. "But I do not think there is any clear deal that you speak of. Sure did not seem that way earlier."

Cole adjusted his spectacles, “I can’t — and won’t — speak to what happens after equipment is logged and turned over, but that doesn’t seem like the kind of thing to get forgotten when this was all being coordinated. If procedure isn’t being followed, that’s a whole other matter, and you need to talk to whomever it is that you report to.”

"It's for the better that I get this sorter out before I tell Kyr'ad. Not all have my patience. Or calm when dealing with disrespect to us."

She gave a small shake of her head and was silent as a few other things were on her mind as well. "... what happens with the dead, when there are so many?"

Cole pushed a hand through his curls and crossed his arms, I should book this one in for a rectal stickectomy. “Ma’am, you follow whatever chain of command your unit requires, but this is a medical facility, not an information desk.” He nudged his spectacles again.

It seemed this was not the place, or person, to find answers or support. Very well.

She nodded briefly. " Good hunting." There was nothing more to say and she'd wasted enough time.

With that, the Mandalorian turned and left.

Cole grunted and took out his datapad, approaching the nearest patient, pulling up their file and reviewing it.

The human bumped into Rekara as he rushed away from the Chiss. He seemed upset by the conversation he had had with the woman.

"Doctor? I hope all is well." The jedi had in her hands medical equipment as she was treating one of the wounded from breaking through the blockade, who she had prioritized over the wounded resistance that had reached camp, mainly because of the severity of his wounds. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Cole pulled up short just before colliding with the Mon Cal, lowering the datapad, “apologies, I’m trying to familiarise myself with the set up, pardon me for getting in the way.” He ran a hand through his hair.

"Is it okay if you can help me?" Asks the Mon Calamari as she overlooks the wounded soldier at her care. "My name is Rekara, I'm a Jedi healer, and student of medicine, but this might be far too much for me." The soldier under her care was shivering, his skin was pale as the blood drained from his body despite the gauges placed on him. The soldier was crying. He didn't seem like he could make it through, but Rekara had hope as she overlooked the soldier, and tried to trespass her hope to the doctor.

The man seemed to have lost both his legs in some sort of blast. The bleeding had been halted with tourniquets at the level of his thighs. Shrapnel was stuck to his abdomen, and some of it seemed to have gone through the body with a clear open and exit route.

"I'll take care of the legs and you do the abdomen." Added Rekara as she applied alcohol on the the wound of the damaged soldier, clearing the blood while disinfecting. The bone was showing clearly, and the woman immobilized the leg of the soldier as she applied cold packs around the area. She removed the shards of bones. "I think you focusing on work can be of help for you."

Cole’s lips thinned for a moment, Rekara reminded him a little too much of another Mon Calimari Jedi healer he’d met. Still, he snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves, tapped the arm of his spectacles, the lenses shining faintly blue, and studied the man’s wounds as the spectacles linked to the bed’s diagnostic scanner.

With forceps in one hand and a laser scalpel in the other, the surgeon began expertly probing the wounds, removing shrapnel with efficient motions, cauterising severed veins and arteries. Now and then, he reached for the nearby tray of instruments, clamping larger vessels for later repair. The air filled with the steady, soft clatter of shrapnel falling into the collecting dish.

"Great hands at work." She complemented as she watched the man's work. "And yet I didn't catch your name." There was a faint smile on her as she cauterized the wound, and finished up on the soldier's legs.

Without looking up, “Ormont, Captain Cole Ormont.” With all the shrapnel removed, Cole switched out the laser scalpel for a curved needle and began work on the clamped veins and arteries.

"It's an honor to serve in the medical camp with you." She said approving to his technique. He seemed tired, thinned out. She looked at the medal on him, different to the normal ones of a military, probably some personal achievement he had obtained. "Where do you hail from, Captain?"

"Here, there, nowhere," his tone was the clear cadences of surgeon, accustomed to giving orders during procedures, enunciated but without bossiness. As he finished suturing a blood vessel, he smeared a little synthflesh on a finger, letting it become tacky before applying it over the sutures, sealing the repaired artery so it would not continue to leak. Moving on to the next clamp, "I was born on a naval medical frigate, I never really called a planet home."

"It is not only where you have been born which can make you your home planet, it is also that place where you find your links to, that place where you like to return." The jedi observed the wounds of the leg of the soldier, she was content with the result. He may need prosthetic ones from now on to be able to continue walking and running. "I was born in Dac, the planet you know as Mon Calamari, and yet have spent most of my life out of the planet while in the Jedi Academy and my padawan training. Still my home is Dac, it is the place I cherish. There must be something of the sorts for you."

"A place I'd like to return to? No, I have nothing like that," he finally raised his head and glanced at the young woman, then resumed his work. "You can start closing some of these shrapnel wounds," he indicated to the man's abdomen, "make sure I haven't missed any shards."