[Surreal, that's what this is. A coping mechanism perhaps? All around them are the smoking fractured remnants of their descent to this alien planet, the scent of blood and molten metal thick on the heavy air, lingering sounds of pain still coming from the wounded, quiet sobs from those still shaken and afraid. Giovanni himself feels rattled and raw beneath the veneer of cool indifference, held together only by the objective at hand, the 'order' to provide aid to those who need it more than he.

And here's this guy, flopping limply against him with all the grace and poise of a dead fish, blathering on about his hair.

It's bemusing, to say the least.]

No, I can't say I've ever had cause to vomit into my own hair.

[Dryly, as he begins to move towards a little clutch of refugees up ahead, where some of the designated healers have established themselves in order to best provide aid.]

What a relief it must be, to think you could have been crushed to death during your descent, but at least your hair is quite unscathed.