Fischer's quarters
Hans enters his room and stands at the side of his bed.
He was sorely tempted to just splay across it and go to sleep,Hazmat suit still on...It had been a long day at wasn't even over yet.
Shaking himself he squats down and reaches under the bed,pulling out a battered case. A few moments working the combination lock affixed to the side opens the case and pulls out a revolver,Mateba Model 6.
He had scavenged it off a man who had died in a firefight during the last wars on earth before he joined the Marco Polo. That had been dirty work Hans remembered...Block by Block streetfighting in some shelled out city that Hans struggled to recall the name of.
He couldn't even remember if the man had been an enemy or ally or if it was Hans who had killed him but he had taken his gun anyway and it had kept him safe in times like these.
He does the necessary weapon checks by rote now,his hands skillfully checking the weapon is safe despite the sense of unease that settled over Hans. He didn't particularly like killing,it was a paradox to the medic,but Patterson had lept off that table and slashed a good chunk out of Fischer's arm and neither Him nor Drago knew how a man with absolutely no brain activity had done it.
It payed to be prepared at least...
Hans sighed and stowed the revolver into his medical bag along with a few rounds before walking to medical.