It all seemed like compensation - an apology to a race the galaxy had reject in ignorance, blindness to their very existence. Cain slowly brought a cigarette to his lips, a tremor whistling through his tightened muscles as he let it rest between his lips, chapped from years of neglect, years of disregard. Each inhale seemed renewal, long drags of commercial cigarettes burning sweetly through his ravaged lungs.
He glanced at the door to the medical ward, peeling over its worn marker as if it were to change, "There's no way in hell I'm going in there." He hissed, leaning back against the wall.