InsaneJournal

Goodnight Saigon
Who: Miguel, Peter, Sean, and Leto
Where: Promenade Shop Storerooms, Security Room, Chapel
When: Early to mid-morning



Miguel was just doing his job. For him, it was an ordinary day -- except for the strange message in his room. It was written neatly on the corner of his dresser, as though it had always been there. Miguel couldn't remember ever seeing the message before.

And it was strange.

Although he was trying not to, Miguel found himself pondering the meaning of it as he began his rounds. Today, he began in the storerooms. It was light duty -- clean up the garbage, sweep, and mop. If any of the basic supplies were out, he was supposed to replenish those as well...although he rather suspected the ship had already done the job for him.

That was something else Miguel preferred not to think about.

Miguel was surprised to find a woman in the storeroom when he walked in. From the angle of the doorway, he couldn't quite see her face -- he could tell, however, that she was laying on the floor. Confused and a trifle concerned, the man abandoned his cart to creep forward.

"Lottie?" Half-formed worry instantly hardened into fear. "Lottie!" Miguel gave her a gentle shake, then mimicked what he had seen doctors do on Tv. Searching for a pulse was not as easy as it looked, and her skin was cold besides. "Por favor," he begged Lottie -- and God Himself. "Please," he repeated in English, in case Lottie could hear him and might wake up. "Por favor, no..."

He was a man, but he was not afraid to shed a few tears. They fell on her cheek in warm, salty splashes, and he moved to tenderly wipe them away with his finger tips. "Lo siento, Lottie," he told her softly. This poor girl -- this poor, lovely girl... "/I need to leave to find help./" He didn't like the thought of leaving her alone, but he had no choice.

Miguel's fist slammed into the cement beside her head as he rose. He had no way of knowing what had killed her, but his immediate suspect was foul play. She had been young and healthy; she would not have simply dropped dead of some sort of attack. It was impossible.

The staffmember locked the storeroom behind him. Before he left, he tried it twice to be sure it would remain that way until his return. The thought of someone walking in and desecrating Lottie's body made his stomach flip-flop. She was a good woman -- and, now, she deserved her eternal rest.

The security room was empty when Miguel arrived. He looked around himself, but there was nothing to indicate where the staff on duty might have gone. Of course, even if they had left something behind, Miguel likely could not have read it. Fear beginning to boil into anger, he turned to the one place he had always gone to seek help: the Chapel.

Miguel had little time for tradition as he opened the chapel door. It banged roughly against the wall. The dramatic entrance did not go unnoticed; Peter had been kneeling in prayer before image of Christ when the echo of the slam reached his ears. His rosary tumbled from his shaking palms and was left dangling as the old man stared at the visitor.

"Padre," Miguel began at once. After that, Peter's ears were treated to a flood of Spanish, of which he could not make out even a single word. He tried -- several times -- to tell the young man that he spoke absolutely no Spanish -- but Miguel barely stopped to breathe, much less listen. Eventually, Peter began the ever-lengthier and more painful process of standing from prayer. At this, finally, Miguel stopped speaking long enough to help him stand.

"Thank you. Now, if we could..."

Miguel cut him off again, gesturing wildly for the elderly priest to follow.

It took them some time to reach the storerooms again. Once they had, Miguel opened the door and stepped back inside. He had not turned the light off; it had seemed a crime to do so. He gestured to the body, clarifying for Peter, "Es mi amiga Lottie."

The breath caught in Peter's throat. "Is she...?" He had seen many of the dead in his years of service. Right away, he knew that she was, and he instantly crossed himself and offered a prayer to God. Miguel followed his example after a moment, and both men remained in silence, with their heads bowed and lips forming soundless words to their God.

When the moment ended, Peter turned to Miguel. He was upset, he saw, but Peter had only English to comfort him. Putting a hand on his shoulder, he said gently, "She is in the Lord's Kingdom now. Can you stay?"

Miguel seemed to understand the gesture, at least. He nodded, but, when Peter turned to leave, he took a step to follow.

"No," Peter said, trying to be patient. "I need to get Cath." How did you explain this to someone who didn't speak English? "You. Stay here." He put out both hands, fingers splayed. "Stay."

The Mexican blinked at the man, looked at Lottie once, and then he nodded. "Stay," he echoed dully, as though this were a school lesson.

This time, when Peter turned to go, Miguel only sank down with his back against a shelf. Somehow, he managed to look as though he had melted into a puddle without going through the trouble of actually doing so. For all Peter knew, the staff member had killed the girl -- but someone had to remain with the body, just to be sure...

Peter rubbed his old, tired eyes with his hand. He was too old for this -- and the boy on the floor too young. He thought he had left death behind in Vietnam -- oh, how wrong he was. The old feelings -- the helplessness, the fear, and the frightening way in which it unerringly affected them all and made them one -- came flooding back to him.

But he would have to find Cath... Cath would handle this delicately and with some sense...which was more than could be said, he was afraid, for most of the ship.