#10 Booze, Please

Goose woke up the next morning feeling no more well rested than when she'd fallen asleep, not refreshed in the least. Sleep had not come easily to her that night. She had been restless the whole time, unable to calm herself down. Not only had those men been grievously wounded, many had been left for dead, abandoned to die. It troubled her. Goose had no way of knowing that it was not normally the case, and things had only gotten so bad because they were losing control of the city and there hadn't been any men to spare. Even so, it horrified her even more than their injuries that no one had helped them.

She felt like there was so much more she could have done to help. Maybe she could've found a medic to assist her, so she would have helped more troopers more quickly. Or she could've organized a team of stretcher bearers to find more of the wounded and bring them in sooner. She might have even been able to work faster, if she had tried just a little harder…

In truth, Goose had done an exemplary job. Thirty-seven of the thirty-eight men she'd treated lived, a ninety-seven percent survival rate. Not only that, but she had done remarkably well at keeping her cool, not once panicking or freezing up. As much as the experience had terrified her, it was a great success, and she should have been proud of herself.

For some reason, she was not. Something was wearing away at her mind, but she didn't know what it was. She could feel it, a festering thought worming around at the back of her head, only she couldn't quite name it. Whatever it was, it had kept her up all night tossing and turning in bed, and it still bothered her.

Miserable, she decided the best way to feel better would be to take a shower, which she hadn't done last night. She shuffled blearily into the 'fresher, and was dismayed to see her reflection. A Gamorrean at his mother's funeral probably looked more composed than she did. Her face was still smeared with long-dried blood and dirt, her face drawn, and an expression most akin to a hungover grimace.

She looked like she was falling apart, and felt like it too.

"Come on, Goose. It's just a war, after all." she laughed humorlessly, "You can handle it, can't you?"

At that moment, she wasn't sure if she could even handle the next five minutes, let alone the rest of the war. She felt more drained after yesterday than she had after a forty-six hour deluge of casualties back on Virgillia. In fact, she had seen equally horrific things back on that hellhole of a planet, and it hadn't bothered her nearly as much. One time, there had been a pen of livestock near the first aid station Goose had been working in. Some wayward artillery had struck it, and when the smoke cleared there was nothing left of the animals, not even smoldering chunks of meat. They were just gone. Vaporized. She still shuddered to remember what happened when it hit a group of soldiers.

Even so, the day before would have been a trying experience for even the most hardened veteran, and Goose was definitely feeling the effects. But it frustrated her that it affected her so much, especially because all this emotional baggage was not something she needed at the moment. Why couldn't she just shrug it off and push it to the back of her mind, like she usually could?

Maybe she was slipping, or losing her touch. What if she was losing her touch on reality as well?

Angrily, she stripped her clothes off, kicking them into a corner before stepping into the shower and furiously scrubbing away every last trace of blood, sweat, and grime from the day before. Then she sat down on floor of the shower, letting the hot water cascade over her as she tried to remember what she had done to stay sane back on Virgillia. She had to get back in control, and she had to figure this out.

It seemed to Goose that the only thing that had really changed was that she hadn't seen a drop of booze in days. She was by no means an alcoholic, far from it in fact, but it had always been a comfort to her to be able to share a drink with the other surgeons and just forget the war. Even if it was only temporary, hitting the happy juice had at least kept her from a complete nervous breakdown.

Then again, it could be that she missed the camaraderie she'd had with those doctors. The Virgillian surgeons hadn't been the greatest in the galaxy, in fact they were sub-par, but they'd all shared a sort of gallows humor that had made her unwilling tenure there halfway bearable. She remembered something one of them had said to her on her first day there, after she watched on in horror as they played a lunatic drinking game involving throwing scalpels at each other's feet. Sometimes you've gotta act crazy to stay sane in a place you don't wanna be. Wise words.

"I have got to pull myself together," Goose groaned and rubbed her eyes. "I had one rough day, and now I'm wishing for Corellian whiskey. It's pathetic."

She sighed and stood up, then turned off the water. Drinking was not the answer, so she'd have to find another solution. The only way she was ever going to fix her head without booze was to ignore what was bothering her, though she hadn't quite been able to figure out what it was yet. Of course, every psychiatrist in the galaxy would tell her that ignoring her problems would just make them worse, but it didn't really matter to her. No one can completely ignore a war anyway, so she'd have to face reality someday. For now, she decided to pretend everything was normal. As normal as anything could be, in a war.

Goose toweled off and dressed in some clean fatigues, just beginning to feel more like a human rather than the undead. Then she stuffed her sleeping clothes, robe, and a dry towel into her mostly empty medkit, after shaking the dirt off of it. She planned on restocking it later in the medbay, and was pleased to see there was more than enough space left after cramming even more clothes into it. The battle for Christophsis was going to take a while, Goose knew. It was an entire planet, after all. She didn't mind carrying a little extra so long as it meant she'd be more comfortable later on.

The next thing Goose had to do was find something to eat. She actually hadn't had anything yesterday except for that terribly disappointing mug of caf. That incident felt like it happened a week ago, but it was probably still very fresh in the minds of those serving droids. Goose was so hungry she couldn't really feel her stomach anymore. There was nothing that could get in her way that would stop her now, especially a haughty droid.

She hefted the bag over her shoulder and made her way to the mess hall, mentally preparing herself to bully a droid into giving her breakfast.

Goose was in luck that day, because she'd actually woken up early enough to make it to breakfast on time. The place was nearly deserted, however, with only a few tired-looking troopers who'd probably just gotten off the graveyard shift sitting together in a corner. It was most likely that all but a skeleton crew had been deployed already, so it was not all too surprising. She wondered if she was supposed to be down there too, helping in the only way she could.

She brushed that thought aside when her stomach grumbled insistently as she surveyed the chow. The droids hadn't prepared very much food, probably in anticipation of all the troops disembarking, so the spread was not that impressive. Goose felt free to help herself, and didn't feel bad at all when she took the last of the blessedly hot caf. It wasn't likely anyone else would show up, so it was hers for the taking.

Then Goose chose a seat in the exact center of the room, just for kicks. She'd considered sitting with the clones in the corner, but they looked just as sleep deprived as she did and she didn't want to make them deal with her early morning ornery behavior. So she ate by herself, her plate piled high with lukewarm reconstituted powdered nuna eggs and strips of fried mystery meat. It could have been nerf, but she doubted it.

She was still happy with the resolution she'd made twenty minutes ago, and acting normally was helping a little, but that thing was still bothering her. It kept eluding her, and she didn't like it. However, there was still nothing she could do about it, not yet at least. This wasn't the first time something like this had happened to her, and sooner or later she'd unravel the mess her own mind had made.

The mess hall was actually a very boring place with no one to talk to, so Goose finished up hastily and returned her tray. Then she decided to head to the medbay so she could replenish her medkit and check up on her patients in post-op. She had been more or less in a daze by the time she'd gotten back the night before, so she had no idea how most of them were right then. After a quick jaunt, she was there.

Though Goose didn't like med droids very much, she could not deny that they were efficient workers. When she had left last night, the whole place had been in relative chaos. Now, all the patients were squared away, and all the mess had been nicely cleaned up. She went first to the supply room, to grab the things for her medkit.

On Christophsis, Goose had been very disappointed with the contents of the pre-packed medkit. It had been convenient, but it lacked some of the things she liked to have. She rummaged around for a while until she found what she was looking for: felt-tipped markers. Though they seemed simple enough, they could be lifesavers. Using the markers, she would be able to write directly on the patient his triage number, what medication had already been administered, and what his vital signs were. This way, another doctor or med droid farther on down the line would know exactly what had happened to the patient, his triage number, and whether or not his vitals had taken a nose dive.

Goose grabbed two, then set about finding the other things she needed. She packed a lot more gloves, because it truly had been horrible to have to touch the insides of dying men with her bare hands. A whole package of bacta patches, lots of glue-stats, and a very generous supply of antibiotics made their way into her bag one by one. She did not feel bad that she was looting the supply closet, because she saw it as her medbay anyway. Goose even took a few extra vibroscalpels, because some of the ones from yesterday had started to get low on battery and didn't work as well.

When she was satisfied that her medkit was properly stocked, Goose dumped it near the main door and strode into post-op to do her rounds. There were forty-nine men recovering there, meaning she had personally treated all but twelve of them. These wounded troopers represented nearly twenty percent of the Republic troopers remaining in the city before reinforcements had arrived, and it amazed her that they hadn't lost control of the city after all. She hadn't really seen the clones when they were fighting, but she knew they had to be good if they'd managed to hold off a Separatist takeover with so few men.

Every one of them had been stripped out of their armor and put into hospital gowns, no easy task to be sure. They were all hooked up intravenous lines of blood, plasma, saline, or any combination of the three. Vital sign monitors beeped steadily, and none of the patients were in critical condition. Overall, it was an idyllic situation. They were all in very good health, aside from their obvious injuries, and would recover quickly. They would be out in no time at all, and back to…fighting, Goose supposed.

It sounds cruel, to send a soldier back to war after they have already been wounded, but that is how it's been since the advent of organized warfare. Back on Virgillia, troops had been so scarce that they were called back to the line before their sutures healed. Goose rarely ever saw her patients again after they left, as was the nature of her work. However, she could vividly recall one such reunion. It had taken place only a week later, in a morgue.

Goose knew that the med droids, many of which had deactivated themselves to save power at this point, had probably checked and double checked all the patients by now. However, droids were known to make miscalculations, especially when dealing with living beings. She trusted her own intuition and gut feeling far more than their circuits and algorithms. Goose made her way down the aisle, checking patient charts, vitals monitors, and IV drips as she went. It was eerie, like seeing the same man hurt in every way imaginable. They all slept peacefully, like you expect of exhausted men resting after a brush with death.

Not only was everything in perfect order, and all of them were doing very well. Spectacularly, in fact. She had known some men who bounced back quickly from surgery, but it was astounding that all of them were recovering so nicely. Goose supposed that, being clones, they were all technically the same man, so it could make sense. The unusual thing was, none of them were in critical condition, even though half of them almost died the day before. Most of them would be ready to go back after perhaps a week or two. She began to wonder if the clone template, the original, had been chosen specifically because-

Suddenly, her mind seized upon it, that thing that had been bothering her all morning. Goose almost laughed at its simplicity, at her own stupidity. They were clones. They didn't choose to be what they were, they were engineered. They had no choice. This wasn't their war, but they had to fight it anyway. The Republic made them, like a product, and used them. And they fought to preserve the very institution which enslaved them.

The realization hit her like a ton of bricks. At the same time, she knew there was nothing she could do except brush it under the rug, ignore it, and just keep plodding along. The entire Republic would have heard about it by now, and it was obvious they didn't care. Certainly, telling them about it wouldn't do them any good, especially if they haven't recognized it themselves. Goose silently berated herself for not noticing this glaring issue back when she'd initially learned they were clones. It should have been the first question she asked, not an unexpected thought three days later. It wasn't really her problem, though. Or was it?

The more she thought about it, the closer she came to suffering an existential crisis. Given time, she probably would have been able to work herself up into one. However, she was jarred out of her reverie by a short chirp in her ear so surprising she jumped a little, followed by a deep voice.

"Doctor Gosling," came the clipped greeting.

Embarrassingly, it took a long moment for Goose to remember she still had her ear comlink in. It wasn't until then that she realized she'd been standing at the end of post-op clutching a datapad for dear life. The voice on the other end could have belonged to any clone, but somehow she knew it had to be Rex.

"Yo," she answered offhandedly.

There was a pause, as if he didn't quite know what to make of her response. Then he went on ahead with it, though he did sound a bit irritated.

"General Skywalker would like to talk to you, doctor. Are you still aboard the Resolute?"

"Yes," Goose replied uneasily.

She'd forgotten all about Skywalker. Given yesterday's minor fiasco, she wasn't entirely sure if the meeting would be conducted on friendly terms. Moreover, Goose really didn't want to go back to the city all that much.

"There is a gunship ferrying supplies to the staging area leaving in a few minutes," said Rex, unperturbed by her hesitance. "Can you make it?"

There really wasn't anything left for her to do here, and she couldn't exactly avoid Skywalker forever. Besides, she was sure there'd be something she could help out with.

"I don't see why not," she puffed out a sigh. "I'll be seein' ya."

The connection ended with a click. Goose groaned a little inside, then trudged to the door and hefted her medkit once more.

"Hold the fort, will you?" she grumbled at a passing med droid on her way out.