[Video] [NOT locked to New Hires]

[wheyoftheadept]

[Saturday is sitting up in an infirmary cot, swaddled in bandages - including her throat.  The tablet is hovering in front of her, near her head, and her heavily bandaged hands are obscured in her lap.  She's focusing fiercely on whatever she's got there, and appears to be typing.

In a moment, the distorted voice of Alexa reads out what she's trying to say.  The speakers on the table are just good enough to hear it, though it sounds reverb-y and echoed.]

 Hey.  Just wanted to join the sickposting club.  It's really fucking boring here -

[The robotic way Alexa breaks 'fucking' into two distinct syllables briefly cracks her up]

 - and I can't talk or even use my hands that much.  Also Alexa keeps correcting my grammar.  Doctor says I am gonna heal up though, one hundred percent.  So, what did I miss?  And does anyone wanna come keep me company?

Comments

[garmr]

Guts takes the tablet and looks, only to find the unreadable markings staring back at him. Even if it'd been same alphabet as a Midlander's, he wouldn't be able to parse it in it's entirety.

"I'm sorry..." he starts, hesitant to admit his shortcoming when Saturday was the one who needed help. This was always a little awkward the rare times it came up.

"I'm sure there's a way to get this thing to read it aloud."

He begins to paw at the device, looking for the familiar little rune that read out the text displayed on page. He's never needed to use a notes program before.

[wheyoftheadept]

Saturday takes it back, moving a bit too fast again and suppressing her wince. She examines it more systematically, and eventually, with the care of technician defusing a bomb, presses symbol. Waits for the program to fully load, and then a bit more. Carefully clicks through the menu, taking each step one at a time. She's found this is the way to - not prevent, but minimize the chances of something going real fucking wrong. Technology is an exercise in patience for her; the magic in her bones disagrees with it, so all she can do is try to gently suggest less fatal glitches.

QU'EST-CE QUI S'EST PASSE JE VAIS BIEN?, Alexa reads out, stiffly. Saturday huffs like a restless horse, and takes another slow walk through the options.

WHAT HAPPENED? WILL I BE OKAY? Then a beat, and she types a bit more. DATA OKAY?