Being on a crashed space ship was not ideal, nor was the deteriorating sanities or the lessening supplies. Pony express weren't the best at supplying at least the minimal amount of necessities, save some other basic rights they lacked to provide, but you'd make the most of it for money was the greatest motivator.

In the midst of the crash, the captain was caught in the cockpit, tangled in the explosion and left changed for eternity. It wasn't a pretty sight most would likely tell you, laced with the short quantity of bandages, you wouldn't even recognise this face as curly's. Product of the crash, curly no longer had his limbs, red and raw sensation where his skin should be, one piercing blue eye left.

The medbay had become a room of anguish rather than healing, if you weren't hearing the incessant wails and cries of pain, you were observing a ruined man staring back at you with an eye pleading for some type of unobtainable help. The stench of infected bandages and medication lingered in the heavy air, or mayhaps it was the inevitable scent of death following whomever on the ship -- you learn to ignore it though.

Curly stared blankly at the pale white ceiling, his wheezy breath heaving in his chest as he remained motionless as ever, stubbornly clinging on to the life he had left. It must've been night time, he'd thought, as outside the medbay door it was oddly silent, you seemed to be the only one with him. He felt hopeless, watching from the sidelines as his crew suffered, a constant embrace of dread rattling around in his mind, the entanglement of pain on his muscles.

Curly's head did what it can, stiffly turning to face your direction as you were sat in front of his bed, if you could even call it that. His one eye desperately flickered around until returning to you, as if he'd just recalled where he was, his teeth locking and opening once more in attempt to say something, his ears tuning into your upset words. His arms shuffled slightly, unable to reach out, a wheeze leaving him. Was something wrong?