Log Date: 2/14/99 Log Cast: Bronwen, Tance, Fiana, Hannah, Neva Log Intro: Tance's latest round of injury has been the result of his unthinking failure to pack a crystal in the carton where it belongs -- with rather catastrophic results. He's not only had that crystal explode, he's crashed his sled, and has wound up dazed and battered and signed up for another extensive stay in the Short Term Care ward. Which has set him up to be fair game for visits not only from Singers who have as of late taken an interest in him, but also from concerned medics as well... and it's also left him wide open for any manner of fascinating conversations that might happen to spring up around him.... ---------- Short Term Care This area is dedicated to fixing minor emergencies, such as broken bones and severed fingers. Medical cabinets on the walls are filled with bandages, ointments and medicines. The gleaming white walls help to sooth anxious nerves while providing medics with bright light to work by. The room has a sterile, antiseptic smell. Movable gurneys can be used to transport an injured Guild member from place to place. There is a button next to each bed that can be used to summon medical help. Telandra is checked into bed one, and Elrick is checked into bed two. Contents: Hannah Obvious exits: Infirmary Bronwen walks into Short Term Care looking for medical assistance. Bronwen has arrived. Bronwen leans against the door jam, it seems this is her way of entering this room. Her hair is out of its normal long braids and hangs loosely and slightly damp down her back, as if she has recently washed it. She looks over at the bed, that Tance has been occupying of late. It is perhaps to the relief of the orderly staff of the Infirmary that someone thought to bring Tance books, for the pair of mystery novels has insured that CS Vokrim has stayed, even if grudgingly, in his bed and has allowed his symbiont to do its work of putting him back together. He is sitting up, but propped against pillows piled behind him, gingerly cradling one of the two novels in his workworn hands and scanning slowly across one of its pages as if desperate to emblazon each word in his faulty memory.... but then, perhaps he's just engrossed in the story. Bronwen smiles softly at the sight of the book in his hands, an odd look crosses her face. She stands up right and clears her throat softly, announcing her presence to the Singer. "Master Tance. I see that the books are being enjoyed." Tance starts, not quite dropping the book or losing his place in it, but nearly coming close. Brown eyes blink a few times, as Tance shoots a startled glance to the newcomer. Disorientation flashes across his gaze for a moment -- but less than has been evident in his expression since this latest mishap of his. Not the disorientation of injury... but rather, what seems to be his more characteristic confusion of trying to make his recalcitrant recall provide a name for a stranger's face... no, not quite a stranger, he realizes all at once. He stares for a moment in deep bemusement at the glint of rings on Bronwen's ear, and then mutters gruffly, "Uh... hiya..." Bronwen nods and takes a few more steps into the room, "I do not mean to interrupt, but I...well I did want to check on you." She frowns slightly at that and folds her arms across her chest. "How are you feeling, Master Tance?" _Master_ Tance... bemused by this, too, and frowning vaguely, the Singer in the bed shifts a bit against the pillows. His gaze drops down to the book and then moves restlessly around the room. "Bit more awake," he allows grudgingly, while trying to remember connection what this tall fair-haired woman with the rings in her ears has to him... aside from that she brought him the books. He can remember that. Bronwen nods able to see that the rest has done him good. She remains where she is, almost as if her arms are wrapped around to hold something in. She smiles slightly as she watches him try and remember, slightly curious what he does remember, and for yet another time, rather glad that he has that faulty memory. "And the books? They are keeping your attention? Or would you prefer another sort?" "They're, uh, they're pretty good," Tance answers, his voice uncertainly hovering somewhere in the middle of what seems to be his range of vocal inflections... neither tenor warble nor baritone rumble. "Kept me from gettin' too bored." A pause, and then he appends roughly, "Uh... thanks, girlie..." Fiana walks into Short Term Care looking for medical assistance. Fiana has arrived. Fiana bustles right into Short Term Care, carrying a covered tray. "Hello there," she says with a warm smile. "How's everyone doing today?" Bronwen grins. "Welcome Master Tance, do let me know if you need more while you are here." She looks at Fiana, and shrugs. "Fine, though the cast itches. And you meditech?" If you pay attention to it, the crystal resonance can be heard coursing through your body at all times. Tance is sitting there on his bed, propped up against the pillows, still uncertainly holding the mystery novel Bronwen had brought him. He starts as Fiana arrives on the scene, a touch of disorientation once more sweeping his lined visage as he tries to place _this_ face in his sporadic recall. "Um... I'm... more awake," he mutters gruffly. "Please," Fiana says to Bronwen, "call me Fiana. I'm not one of the scary medics," she adds with a wink. "I can get you something to scratch with if it's really bad - though the itching is a sign of healing." She sets the tray down. "It's good to see you as well, Tance, even though it's been rather a while. Glad to hear you're feeling better." Bronwen glances down at the cast and shrugs, "As you say, Mistress Fiana. THough I do believe that it is past the time it should come off." She shrugs it off, "I have not found the time to have it taken care of." She knows his name -- does this mean she just knows him as her patient, or that she actually _knows_ him? Confused and not entirely successful at hiding it, Tance rubs one hand across his face and then shoves it back through his shaggy graying hair, blinking between the two women, the novel temporarily forgotten in his other hand. Fiana mms. "Well, I can take it off if the break is healed, Singer. However," she adds with an impish smile, "I've brought a treat down for Tance that you might want to share." She gestures to the tray. "Peach ice cream." Tance goes still, and a strange look -- strange to Bronwen, perhaps, at any rate -- steals across his face. His eyes go a trifle wide, his gaze noticeably startled and pleased, and one corner of his mouth curls up in a hesitant little smile. "Wha..." Bronwen looks over at the tray, a smile toying at the corner of her lips as she looks from the tray of ice cream to the older Singer, curious. "Mistress Fiana, that was kind of you." Fiana laughs softly. "I couldn't resist, hearing you were staying with us for a while, Tance. Know it's one of your favorites - always has been, from what I rememer." She uncovers the tray. On it is a huge bowl of peach ice cream and a number of spoons. "Dig in, you two." For a man who looks solidly into his late fifties, Tance does a remarkable transformation to eager-eyed young boy as he sits up on the bed, attention riveting on the ice cream, the book dropping onto the blanket beside him. "Thanks," he tells the medic feelingly, reaching for a spoon. Bronwen shakes her head, watching the transformation taking place before her very eyes. "MMm...it seems that Master Tance has spent a bit of time down here." This is addressed softly to the meditech. Fiana grins. "You know," she says, "one of my first memories of Shankill is going into the lounge as a recruit and seeing you sitting there downing some of that ice cream." She winks. "Had a terrible crush on you, you know." Picking up a spoon, she scoops up some ice cream. "Oh, all Singers do, from time to time." Brown eyes blink at Fiana even as Tance starts inhaling spoonfuls of ice cream. He does, however, remember to swallow before he blurts in disbelief, "What?!" Bronwen eyes widen as she watches the pair over the bowl of ice cream. "MMm...well at least for now I have my illusions that I may break that tradition. I do hope that you both will be kind enough to let me keep it." Bronwen laughs softly at Tance's reaction, she finds a spot where she can lean against a wall. "I do hope you can, Singer, for your sake," Fiana says to Bronwen. "Not that I don't enjoy your company but extended time in short term care is enough to get to anyone." After eating her spoonful of ice cream, she flashes a quick smile at Tance. "I'm not surprised you don't remember it. I was too shy to really ever say anything. Just mooned over you from afar. You were awfully dashing, you know. Still are." Tance blinks. Seven or eight times. Then, spoon poised halfway to his mouth, he demands, aghast, "What the kark would you wanna have a crush on a fossil like me for, girlie?" Bronwen something in Fiana's words makes her take a longer look at the Singer in the bed, she smiles softly at his words. "MMm...perhaps it is partly that you do not expect it, Master Tance." Her free shoulder raises slightly, then falls. All this talking and moving about. It's enough to wake the dead. Or at least rouse the half-out-of-her-mind Singer. Hannah blinks a couple of times, looks around and sees a whole bunch of people in here. Must be a couple dozen. *blink, blink* Oh, wait, just two. Hannah looks at you for a moment. Fiana chuckles and reaches over to ruffle Tance's hair. "Beneath that gruff exterior, you're a sweetie, Tance. Even if you don't want to let anyone know." Bronwen shakes as she laughs, trying to let any sound escape her lips. Vokrim starts turning quite scarlet, especially when the medic ruffles his hair, and he rivets his gaze on the ice cream bowl. Furtively and hastily, as if afraid that the ice cream will vanish if he doesn't eat it fast enough, he starts in on it again. But between mouthfuls he mutters in dismay, "Musta got hit on the head or somethin'. I ain't _dashing_. Crazy women..." Hannah turns her head a fraction and frowns at the meditech and the other patient. "Where's my ice cream?" she demands petulantly. Bronwen sees a bit of motion over at the bed and then the whine. "You may have my share." You feel the resonance tingling in your blood. Neva walks into Short Term Care looking for medical assistance. Neva has arrived. Fiana laughs, her eyes twinkling. "You're so cute when you blush, Tance," she says before turning toward Hannah. "Ah, you're back with us, Singer. There's plenty for you as well. How're you feeling?" Ah, hells, there's someone else awake in the room, and another female, to boot. Tance's generally red shade deepens even further. And as Hannah demands ice cream for herself, he shoots her a half-frantic glance, looking for a moment as if he's considering swiping the bowl and running off with it to hide in the nearest corner. Neva looks at you for a moment. Terrific. Another person to walk around and talk loudly and call this other messed up singer sweety and dashing and who knows what other nauseatingly sweetly sickening names. You'd think it was a romantic holiday or something. Hannah compensates for this by pulling the sheet up over her head, since she's too tired to yell. Oh, wait. Someone's talking to her? Hannah peeks out of the sheet at the meditech. "Hurts. Itches," she mutters. Bronwen notices Tance's furtive motion. "If there is a need I can get more from the catering unit." "Tance?" A peek in the door--Neva, usually hesitant in the infirmary, is slightly less so at this moment. Probably because she's in one piece. No missing fingers, toes, or lungs... good. Right. As she approaches, a pair of novels are tossed down onto his bed. She's not going to call him sweetie. Or dashing, even. "You'd better be thankful. You don't want to know how long it took me to track them down--but here they are, the next two works by the illustrious Jipao. I read 'em first, of course..." Pause. There are other /people/ here? Oh. "Er, hi." "'Mnot dashing," Tance insists, though this is barely audible around the spoon in his mouth. He refuses to meet anybody's gaze, at least until Neva walks in and the two new novels drop down into his line of sight. Then he starts, spoon still stuck in his mouth, and his gaze shoots up to the latest arrival. Bronwen shifts to make room in the rapidly filling room, her eyes falling on the books that land on the bed. She then turns to look at Neva and nods politely. At least Neva's an agreeable sort--"No, you aren't. Your hair looks terrible, and you look like hell." Honest, too. "What'd you /do/, set off plastic explosives in your cargo area?" Leaning over a little bit, she examines the wounds. Finally, figuring out that polite nod, the apricot-clad singer sizes up Bronwen. "Who're you?" The others, at least, bear some passing resemblance to somebody she may have seen around a few times, before. Bronwen blinks slightly at that, then offers an introduction. "I am Bronwen Cinaed. And Mistress, you would be...?" It takes a lot to distract Tance from peach ice cream, but it would seem that the latest arrival has pulled it off. Tance sinks back against his pillows, blushing vehemently, and sneaking the spoon back to the tray when he thinks nobody's looking. "I, uh... crystal... exploded, um...." As Bronwen and Neva introduce themselves to one another, Tance shoots them both an anxious look. Hah! Reminders for their names and he didn't even have to ask for them! Seeing that no ice cream, peach or otherwise, is forthcoming, Hannah grumbles something about the inequity of injured male singers and pulls the sheet back up over her head. "Mis--" Brow shoots up. "What sharding planet did /you/ call from? Ought to be careful with those titles. /Singer/ Neva." Back to Tance; apparently, Bronwen wasn't enough to keep any sort of interest. "Spontaneously combusted, I supposed? Should be more careful. You've been doing this too long. 'Least I have an /excuse/ when I hack myself into little pieces. Have to say you did a good job of it, though. It hurt much?" Looking rather shaken by this sudden influx of people he barely remembers, Tance blinks a few more times at Neva, and then blurts, "I, um... I guess... kinda... blurred, at this point... um..." Bronwen raises a brow, shaking her head. But seeing as how the injured Singer seems to have plenty of company, she slips out. Bronwen leaves the busy emergency room. Bronwen has left. Okay, reminder-time... "Passover? We went offplanet, remember? The books?" Neva reaches down, tapping the cover of one of her gifts. "Took turns reading? I know you recorded it... ought to /listen/ to the thing, sometimes." Okay, maybe that'll clear up that confused look a /little/. "I thought these ones were pretty good. Not as good as that first." Tance flicks a bemused glance after Bronwen, and then another up to Neva, his brow furrowing. "Passover," he repeats roughly, and then he peers from the books Bronwen had brought him to the new ones, brought by Neva. Something in his memory goes _click_, and comprehension flickers into his brown regard. "Oh yeah... reading... thanks, girlie..." Still, the man looks rather shaken. And still, there's that peach ice cream. Tance steals a glance back at the tray, temptation wrestling with the confusion in his features, not to mention a considerable amount of trepidation as he peeks at the medic who'd claimed to have a crush on him. "Yech," says Neva, suddenly enough, looking at Tance--but not at his face, really, rather the hair. "I didn't do /that/, did I? Looked a lot better before. Should even that up some, y'know. Looks like one of those trendy-grungy teenager things." You feel resonance tingling in your bones. "Wh-what?" blurts Tance, startled out of reaching for the spoon on the tray again. Tance(#3209POQce) This is a man of of perhaps about 5'10" in height, with a build that might be skinny if not augmented by knots of wiry muscle along his shoulders and limbs. He is deeply tanned, with the look of one who spends a lot of time working outdoors, and his roughly planed face and callused hands show signs of regular weathering. His eyes, a dark and sullen shade of brown, are framed by lines in his skin that suggest that far too often, their owner glares at anything in his sight. His hair has been cropped short into what would be an almost military style if not for the choppy, spiky look of the sun-and-gray-streaked brown strands. He is clad only in one of the utilitarian gowns the Infirmary of the Heptite Guild issues to its patients, a thing of servicable grey cloth that grants at least a measure of dignity and privacy to the wearer while allowing a medic to scan him or her with ease. You notice a rather strong prickling along your skin when you pass too closely to Tance. Whoa, someone really put this guy through the grinder. Literally. This singer's hide might appear as if he was hit, repeatedly, at long range with several blasts from a twenty guage shotgun. Tiny - or, in some cases, not so tiny - cuts, nicks and abrasions pepper his form entier, some large enough to be, and bearing the distinctive 'y' shape of, what might have been shards of crystal imbedded in his hide. By and large, however, these have been cleansed, and the wounds are healing nicely on their own. What _isn't_ healing too nicely, however, is the largeish gash which runs the entire length of his left thigh. Stapled shut, the entirety of the wound appears to have also been coated by a mass of matte black, contour-hugging synskin. The material is so latex-like that the lines of the split flesh, and requsite dermal staples, can actually be clearly made out beneath it. Finally, however, perhaps as a result of that crystal explosion, the singer's gaze might appear rather unfocused, his entire mein somewhat vague, vapid - all but completly listless and staring. A little shrug. "Your hair. I cut it, the once, but I know I did a better job than /that/," offers Neva. How.. tactful she is. "What's the matter with it?" demands Tance, self-consciously reaching a hand to shove fingers through the hair under discussion, and catching himself and switching to the other hand before he involuntarily winds up wearing peach ice cream. Another shrug... more vague, this time, Neva finally taking a seat nearby. "It looks kinda... spikey. You didn't do that on /purpose/, did you?" She obviously doesn't put a lot of stock in his fashion sense. You feel the resonance tingling in your blood. "It was gettin' too long," Tance protests irately, taking the opportunity to wolf down what's left of the ice cream as long as Bronwen abandoned her share. Not meeting Neva's inquiring gaze, he adds, "I-I cut it, so what?" Neva rolls her eyes back. "What'd you do, take it off with a knife? S'what it /looks/ like, y'know. Dunno how to fix /that/, though. Before it was just scruffy. This looks.. well, I think you're a bit past the age you might have been able to wear it well." Tance's brows knit together over his dark eyes, and his mouth tightens up into a strained little line. "So what if I _did_ cut it off with a knife?" he grumbles, voice beginning to rise. "Who the kark cares what my hair looks like anyway?" Hmm. Good question. "Well, I dunno," admits Neva, "But you gotta keep up appearances. I mean, shards, man--we're in the most glamorous profession in the galaxy, and you can't even manage a proper haircut?" Neva A Singer if you ever saw one--unburdened by those things she doesn't wish to remember. Terra-cotta waves streaked with flame-red are cut to just above her ears, short to stay out of the way during the hunt for crystal. Tiny sparks dust cheeks and nose, accented by the cool green of long-lashed eyes. Features set on narrow face are prominent but slightly rounded; high cheekbones, delicately arched eyebrows, and almost-snub nose. Slim-figured, almost wiry with accumulated muscle tone, Neva posesses legs long enough to seem more than her quite average height. What skin is visible is, here and there, marked by the faint white mark of a fading scar; from day to day, though, old scars fade and new ones are visible, living evidence of the hazards of Crystal Singing. Work clothing, designed to hold up no matter what's inflicted on the singer within--a sturdy jumpsuit, slightly baggy but fitting close enough to Neva's form so as not to get in the way. A single zipper goes down the front, allowing quick changes of clothing when and if she actually decides to wash it. In general, a rather unremarkable piece of clothing... if you don't consider the color. Apricot with royal-purple cuffs and collar, and even a bright green stripe down the side of the leg--the colors are /just/ muted enough to keep your eyes from bleeding. Hannah managed at least a little nap, somehow. But the words glamorous profession bring a distinct snort from under the bedsheet. Yeah, right. Since when is mucking through swamps and looking like a sandblasted tomato considered glamorous? Tance's face crinkles up further, and he lets out a rather louder snort than Hannah's. "Get real, girlie," he growls. "I ain't hardly glamorous even when I ain't breakin' bones in the Ranges!" He gestures at her sharply with the ice cream spoon, in lieu of the usual finger he points when he's agitated. You feel resonance tingling in your bones. "I didn't say /you/ were. But the profession certainly is," maintains Neva staunchly. "We have a /reputation/ to uphold. I realize, at your age, it might be difficult, but you could at least try to get a decent hairstyle." The crystal resonance is zinging through your body. Tance isn't sure he likes having his hair criticized any more than he liked being called 'dashing'. Indignantly, he slaps down the spoon onto the tray, and grumpily slides down onto his pillow, turning his shoulders to the one visitor that remains by his bed, turning his face away. "Ain't goin' offa Ballybran to be doin' any harm to the Guild's precious _reputation_," he snaps. "Nobody cares what my hair looks like, so I'll karkin' cut it any way I damned well please!" Bronwen walks into Short Term Care looking for medical assistance. Bronwen has arrived. Bronwen makes her way back into the room, she nods to the Singers present. Glancing at both beds she tries not to disturb them if one or the other is sleeping. Neva looks at you for a moment. Tance doesn't appear to be sleeping, at least, not if the stiff set of his shoulders and spine is any indication. In fact, if the way he's lying can be taken as a barometer of his mood, the man is furious. As Bronwen enters the room he can be heard to growl wordlessly, grabbing one of his two pillows and moving it to put over his head. Fine; if Neva wants to criticize his hair, she doesn't have to look at it! The redheaded Singer snorts--hardly 'soft' in any way, shape, or form. "You look ridiculous. Of course, that... /thing/ doesn't help." Probably referring to the infirmary gown. "I'm not saying you should be some sort of model. I'm just saying that you're beginning to look like my great-great-grandfa--" She stops, abruptly, then sighs. "Hey, I'm sorry." "I _am_ old," Tance retorts, though his voice is slightly muffled, coming out from under a pillow. "Oughtta look it, maybe people'll stop gettin' stupid karkin' ideas about me being 'dashing'!" This last word comes out sardonically drawled. Bronwen eyes widen as she notices the current ongoing conversation about his hair. She turns to Neva and shakes her head. "You might cut him a bit of slack, her just had bits and pieces of crystal removed from his skin. I am thinking that his fashion sense is a low priority about now." She grins slightly at the word dashing. "Now Master Tance, you can't fight what you are." "I had a lung removed, once. Without anesthesia. And I /still/ looked better than he does..." Neva then regards Bronwen with a look akin to the one she might give a raving lunatic. "And you call him /that/? Please! He looks worse now than when I cut his hair the first time... and he didn't look /great/, then." Hannah looks at you for a moment. Tance temporarily freezes under his blanket at the sound of Bronwen's voice, and then promptly burrows further under his pillow. "I'll cut my hair any karkin' way I damned well please, and I am NOT dashing!" he bellows, only barely muffled by the pillow. Hannah pulls the sheet down and glares at Neva. "Will you keep it down?" she asks, not politely. Then she looks over at Tance. Cropped hair, bits of it anyway sticking out from the pillow. "I agree. He's not, so stop arguing about it. You lose, majority vote and all that. Now shut up." And she pulls her own pillow over her head. "Thanks!" Tance barks brusquely over to Hannah. Vindication! "Welcome," comes the muffled word from beneath Hannah's pillow. Bronwen rolls her eyes, "Never said you were dashing. Just sort of...cute." She blinks a bit surprised that came out of her mouth. She glances at Neva. "Of course you did, but look at what you have to work with and what he does." She smiles pleasantly to her. She looks over at Hannah, "Forgive us. Would you prefer that I leave. The last thing I would want is to annoy a healing singer." "I'm not cute either!" Tance insists hotly. One massively cut and scabbed over arm sneaks out from under Hannah's sheet and waves irritably toward the far wall. "Just go over there and keep it down. Unless you're going to bring me ice cream." Bronwen frowns and shushes Tance. And then laughs at the mention of icecream. "Did you have a preference?" Hannah answers in a couple of seconds. "Butter pecan." She actually sounds a tad bit more pleasant at the thought of getting something decent to eat for a change. Well, Bronwen's getting it--so maybe Neva won't bother. "No, you're not. You look like my great-great-grandfather or something. And you're not /old/ enough for that... what, almost two hundred? We're supposed to have, like, thirty or forty decades beyond the norm, aren't we?" Bronwen nods and looks at Neva and Tance. "Anyone else? I am more then happy to get it." She shakes her head as Neva continues along that vein. A couple of seconds elapse, before Tance mutters, "I'm... old enough!" Bronwen looks at Tance. "You look good for three hundred. More peach?" You can hear crystal resonance rushing between your ears. "Not to look like you do. I realize that..." Neva pauses, suddenly, leaving that avenue behind. "Never mind," she murmurs finally, before glancing over to Bronwen. "No... nothing for me." The blanket and pillow obscuring most of Tance's face and frame shift a bit. One brown eye peers balefully out from the protective nest, and then the Singer growls uneasily, "Don't want none." Hannah just doesn't see what all the fuss is about looks. "Who cares who looks like what? We're stuck in the blasted infirmary, I don't think either of us has enough skin for one person, and my head hurts," she complains. "So who cares how old anyone looks or who cut his hair?" Bronwen shrugs and heads off in search of Butter Pecan icecream. Bronwen leaves the busy emergency room. Bronwen has left. Bronwen walks into Short Term Care looking for medical assistance. Bronwen has arrived. Bronwen returns with two dishes. She walks over to Hannah and hands her the largish bowl of icecream and holds out a spoon too. "I do hope this helps your headache." Hannah peers blearily up at the woman handing her the treat. "I hope so too," she grouses and takes the bowl. Painfully, she manipulates the pillow back around her so she can kind of sit up in bed, and then, bite by bite, she starts in on the ice cream. If she were in a better mood, she might even have thanked Bronwen for getting it. Instead, she keeps quiet and eats. Bronwen doesn't even seem to notice that she did not get thanked. Her eyes are focused on the bowl in her hand. A gooey mess of fudge and coffee icecream all topped with whip cream. She settles to lean against the wall yet again, and takes a bite. Her eyes close as she savors the flavors. "It's not healthy," Neva replies simply. "Not that being here is, either." Tance, beneath his pillow, remains pointedly and embarrassedly silent. Bronwen continues to eat her sundea. She grins slightly as a soft low moan of pleasure escapes her lips. Glancing at Tance. "You gonna let a few girlies scare you into hiding, Master Tance?" "Ain't scared," comes a low gravelly bark out from under Tance's pillow. Bronwen raises a brow as she chews and then shrugs. "Looks like it." A wary eye settles on Bronwen. "If I were him, I'd be frightened of you, too. Do you /always/ make those noises when you're eating?" asks Neva. Not quite innocent... or nice. But then, nobody ever said she was. Hannah does her best to ignore Neva and concentrate on her ice cream. Bending her arm isn't easy with all the healing cuts there, but she persists. Nothing like a little sugar to motivate you after eating tasteless infirmary food for days. Bronwen looks over at Neva. "Mmm...nope. Am I bothering you?" She doesn't seem all that worried as she takes another bite of the ice cream. A brown eye peers balefully out from under the pillow again, but still, Tance doesn't come out of hiding. You sense Bronwen winks as she spies you peering out. "Noises like /that/ would bother anybody. Where'd you come from, anyway? Where I was born, parents taught their kids to eat /quietly/." Neva rolls her eyes again, then glances over to Tance. "Comfortable, in there?" A wry smile. Bronwen grins at the Neva, "MMm...they teach us to eat quietly where I come from too. That is what makes this soo much fun." Perhaps it's the exchange between the two women; perhaps he's still mightily embarrassed; for whatever reason, Tance only mutters, "Yes," and keeps peering cautiously out from under the protective pillow. Another eye-roll. "Some people," mutters Neva, then peers down at Tance. "If you don't mind, I've got to get some rest... heading out in the morning. Just got some deep green." Hannah gets about halfway through her ice cream before drowsiness overtakes her again. With a supreme effort, she sets the bowl down in the bed beside her, instead of letting it fall on her or to the ground. Still holding her spoon, her eyes drift slowly closed. Bronwen lets out a soft sigh of contentment as she finishes the bowl of ice cream and her tongue darts out to lick the spoon. She looks down at the bowl and can not seem to over come decades of training. She lets the spoon rest in the bowl and looks up, listening to the interchange between Neva and Tance. "Green...?" mutters Tance, a little more loudly. Is that a flicker of concern in that brown eye? If you pay attention to it, the crystal resonance can be heard coursing through your body at all times. "Mm-hmm. Thankful, too. Too much blue, lately, and all pale! Never make any credits that way," answers Neva. "Don't you like green?" The pillow comes up a bit, enough to show Tance's face again, and the man's expression has turned... odd. "Careful," he mutters lowly. "Don't, don't thrall..." "Green doesn't get me... usually. And when it does, I come back when the sun goes down," offers Neva in an attempt at reassuring tones. "Got practice at singing solo. A good, deep blue..." She sighs softly, wistfully. "Now, that'll get me. But this.. I don't think so." Bronwen listens as they talk of crystal, learning. Tance's eyes go a bit more distant, his gaze lifting up to stare at nothingness, his voice going faint and a trifle dreamy. "Sundown... on the green..." A soft chuckle. "It's sunrise that gets /me/. 'Course, that's the problem with going out alone, huh? Guess you get used to it." Neva smiles slightly. "Sunrise," echoes Tance in hollow, yearning tones, and that's his only reply. Then, suspicious--"How long've you been here, anyway?" asks Neva, peering closer at him. "Starting to sound like you really need to get back." You feel resonance tingling in your bones. "B-back?" Tance blurts, starting, rolling onto his back, an arm coming up and half-shoving the pillow off his face. "Resonance?" asks Neva, grinning a little. "I usually only get that... wistful when it's been a long time since I went out." "I... dunno," Tance croaks huskily. "Buzzy... I, I'm a little buzzy...." "Mm. Ought to spend some in the tub... but then, guess you can't, like that." Neva stands, now, stretching slightly. "I really ought to go. If you don't think you'll be too bored." Tance's face turns... strange, again, and his hand fumbles around for a moment until he finds the books that still lie strewn about his blanketed form. "I... I guess I'll... read," he mutters. Smiling, Neva nods. "I'm sure you'll enjoy them. They're very good books. You know... they say reading helps your memory." They also say this about sheep's brain, so you may want to be wary. That's an odd tangle of emotions in Tance's lined visage, as he looks up at his one remaining visitor. A slight smile tugs at one end of his mouth, but his tone stays plaintive as he mutters, "Uh... thanks, girlie..." "Hey, not my fault I'd like you to remember my name, someday." Then, suddenly, a pen tugged out of a pocket--what all does Neva keep in that jumpsuit, anyway? Snatching one of the books back, she scrawls in the cover, 'Remember me! --Neva'. "There." It's handed back again. You feel the resonance tingling in your blood. "Neva," Tance pronounces it, low and rumblingly. Brown eyes lift up again. "Thanks, Neva..." The redheaded singer grins, once. "Anytime, Tance. Get well, huh?" Tance nods, once, gravely. With that, Neva smiles at him, then turns and exits the room, step picking up a little bit once she's in the main infirmary. Better not stick around--they might start assuming something's wrong with /her/, after all. "Rest up, Tance!" she calls behind her. Neva leaves the busy emergency room. Neva has left. [End log.]