william tsang (
dogbane) wrote in
ataraxionlogs2015-08-12 07:41 pm
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15. MEDICAL TRIAGE dundun medical triage song
CHARACTERS: Anyone/OPEN
LOCATION: Triage Tree, eventually appropriate shelter
WARNINGS: Up to R for injury/gore
SUMMARY: Wound care, pain management, crazy crewmember restraint, beside-manner/other excuses for CR, and all manner of survival/technological/architectural/medical MacGuyvering.
NOTES: I have the permission of a few people to namedrop, and will likely edit to add more. But please start your own threads-- do anything you think could be in the scope of this log! I may NPC some psychotic crewmember attacks.
Days 1-5
LOCATION: Triage Tree, eventually appropriate shelter
WARNINGS: Up to R for injury/gore
SUMMARY: Wound care, pain management, crazy crewmember restraint, beside-manner/other excuses for CR, and all manner of survival/technological/architectural/medical MacGuyvering.
NOTES: I have the permission of a few people to namedrop, and will likely edit to add more. But please start your own threads-- do anything you think could be in the scope of this log! I may NPC some psychotic crewmember attacks.
Days 1-5
Rain comes down in hard, cold needles, every now and again. In between, the sunshine is oppressively fierce.Days 6+
The first iteration of the triage tent is crude. Overlapping medical tarps have been thrown up on the branches of the nearest tree to create a roof that leaks irregularly at the corners. For walls, other sheets have been fastened over crude grids of tree branches, stopping the worst of the wind. It's not great work, but Kate, William, and the other well-meaning amateurs who start it are nearly always on-hand to repair what the weather peels away. Others are in and out, running supplies, and carrying their wounded.
Within, there's enough space to contain twelve gurneys comfortably; twenty uncomfortably. Neither the tiny wheels and electrical hover functions are suitable to the environment, where mud sinks and outlets are nowhere. The personnel are left to wedge the legs between tree roots or over rocks, dead branches. It smells perpetually of mud; a pleasant backdrop for the crewmembers screaming or passed out in their restraints, and the dispirited mix of lucid natives and varyingly fantastical interdimensional travelers that pass through for treatment. Look anywhere, and someone will try and help you get to the triage center. Natasi appears like an erratic ghost, with more damaged passengers or concussed crewmembers over her shoulder. Every lunatic brought in for restraint is one less to attack the shabby tent in a fit of paranoid pique. It's a little totalitarian, but safer than nothing.
But Leo and Tadashi pull apart a few unformatted prosthesis for their power converters and rig some stuttering lights powered by kinetic energy. There's a lever to feed it, rather than a human hamsterwheel.
Some of the old Medbay staff remember enough to help, and volunteers are welcome. Emergency surgery, bandaging, antibiotics, cleaning, cauterization and medical prescription. The plasma is doled out rather than budgeted, for now; they don't know how long the Tranquility will keep supplies refrigerated for, or what will be stolen without the nanites to secure them.
No doubt, other construction and shelter projects are going on elsewhere-- but the medical triage tent hasn't been forgotten. Ailanne, England, and the still-mysterious man formerly-from-level-x update the shelter to something far more hospitable. In a few days, there's a broad, low tent with a peaked roof. Water only gets in sideways, at about knee level, and the wooden frame holds up under the friendly mauling of the wind. The gurneys now rest on stable footing of compressed layers of rushes, beaten scrap metal, and slightly drier ground, accompanied by a few beds that were unbolted and hoisted up out of the ship.
The lighting is better, feeding off wind and into a battery; they're even working on a turbine-turned fan for ventilation. They've gotten enough handheld scanners out of the gut of the Tranquility that everyone who wants can get a technologically-assisted once-over, but the devices are powered off between uses, for conservation. They're keeping notes on paper-- mostly the dangerous medications, surgeries, contaminants, IVs and other single-use items... laundry. What the fuck are they going to do about laundry. Inevitably, the crewmembers who remain of questionably lucid disposition are observed with skepticism and intrigue, but all bulky equipment like MRIs are still nailed to the ship. Research there is going to be creative.
More and more Medbay personnel are getting memories back. Clarke is on deck now, too. Granny Weatherwax and Dr. McCoy-- or "Bones" as the case may be-- have long since been in the thick of it.
As the first week draws to a close, the worst of the medical crises are over-- leaving them with the slower deaths that challenge survival on this planet. No doubt, other minds are on that, too.
Mystique | Day 2 | Closed to Leonard McCoy & Whomever Else Is Assisting
It was useful the yesterday, she's confident, but maybe she's out of practice with pretending to be other people or something because she's beginning to get a headache. She started falling asleep by a campfire, at some point after the rain. Only caught herself, with a jolt, when she saw the freckled skin on her wrist beginning to prickle back, turn blue. She'd crawled off in the dark then found a stick for a cane, grabbed a nap concealed in some ferns a few dozen yards further out, but it had been a poor and fitful sleep, fraught with bugs and paranoid jolts and pain steady in her amputated foot.
Through the heat of the day, she's seen people with pointy ears, and a strange man with skin made of glass and phosphorescent green eyes, or something. But she'd lost track of them, and couldn't find anybody else who was blue.
By the time she makes it to the triage tent, there is a miserable shape to her slouch. She's swinging her tiny foot, but her bandaged stump, dewy again with blood, is motionless beside it. Her curly hair hangs sticky against her cheeks, and she's watching the doctors-- who don't look like doctors she's ever seen-- move between the gurneys and cots. Waiting her turn with more patience than she sincerely feels.]
poor bab :(
Sixteen hours was nothing. Sixteen hours was a cakewalk when he was a resident, he shouldn't be this tired. But the stress of disasters makes everything different.
Looking up from the damp notebook he's scrawling in he sees the small girl sitting on the gurney closeby. Leonard had seen all manner of terrible, untreatable things when he worked as a doctor of pathology in pediatrics but that didn't matter. The sight of her leg strikes him dumb for a moment. When had this happened? How long had she been without treatment? He doesn't remember treating her on board the Tranquility. The fact they've been here two days and he's just now seeing her makes him want to tear someone a new asshole. ]
Hey there, [ he says, voice warm and calm, more-so than it ever is to the adults in his care. ] I'm Doctor McCoy.
Lay back for me, we'll get you looked at. [ He pulls out his tricorder and scanner, keeping his movements brisk but purposeful as he starts to scan her. ] Don't suppose you remember your name yet, darlin'? Or how this happened to you?
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--um. [She eyes the scanner, suddenly. Wondering if what he can pick up is exposing her on some small level. He can see her heart rate speed up fractionally, a little heat gathering on her skin. Maybe that makes sense, considering she can't remember when the last time was that she'd been subject to this technology. What it does; what it could do. It's perhaps a convincing deception, when underneath it she's wondering if he can see her scales.
He can't, incidentally. She looks almost exactly like an ordinary little girl inside. Her bones a little dense, maybe; nothing especially shocking about the low-resolution take on her neural activity. The bacteria levels aren't too high, around her stump, but there's an infection waiting to happen-- if she goes another day without changing the bandages, surely.]
I can't think of a name...
[Funny thing: she lets herself be distracted from the pain with simple conversation. Whether or not that was what he intended.] How did you get yours back?
OTA
So she decides that's who she is. Someone who puts the people here back together. So the injured are addressed with a gruff "Granny's got you." She's stingy with the painkillers, wanting to make them last until she can find something local that will work. But she can clean and bind wounds, set broken bones, do an awful lot without having to rely on technology. And that means she's needed here.
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The young man awaiting services on the gurney is quite disheveled-looking. Even his clothes aside, his dark hair sticks up wildly, to reveal a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. These details are probably somewhat less noticeable immediately, though, than the fact his nose is purple and he sounds like he's talking while holding his breath, easy indications that his nose is broken.
Harry had waited awhile. Hadn't wanted to hog crisis stabilization or emergency services, when all that was wrong with him was a crack in some cartilage. He saw her step away from a young woman after referring to herself as Granny, but he's not sure what she meant by that. A cultural affectation? Or real family connections?
His heart squeezes a little, weirdly, secretly hopeful.
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"What's troublin' ye?" He doesn't look on the verge of death. Always a promising start.
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"Nice to meet you, Granny," he says. "I think my nose is just broken. I had a couple of those whaling on me." He jerks his head at the nearest man strapped down on the gurney, still frothing and snarling. Winces slightly, when the madman jolts briefly. Somebody's going to need their sedatives upped, he thinks, even if the whole notion of their restraints and so on-- it makes him feel a little queasy. "You look to have made it out all right."
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She starts looking over his nose. "That'll be simple enough to set."
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Day 3-4ish? Open TW: Backboard and cervical collar, concussion
Later on, Combeferre had mostly alternated between waking up with terrible shooting pains in his head and down his spine, and a lot of blackness. He'd hid for some reason, some instinct that told him that he must not be found. The guard would like to kill him, kill them all. It had been enough to keep him crouching away from the others, until...
Until he doesn't know what happened anymore. He'd been trying to find food, forcing himself to stand up and walk a few feet closer to where he'd seen and heard other people gathering, and then things had hurt much more and it had gone white and...
The next thing he knew, he'd woken up here, lying next to people who seemed to be hurt but he couldn't be hurt, right? He'd only fallen, nothing else. How had he even gotten here? Were they going to arrest and execute him soon, or...
Anyway, Combeferre's now lying down, some kind of horrible board holding his head and shoulders tightly in place so that he can't move them and it hurts, everything hurts, his neck and shoulders are on fire and they won't stop it, no one will stop, as badly as he wants for...
"Let me GO!" he's pleading, in an odd mixture of French, Provencal, and some Latin, whenever he seems to feel someone walking by. His bones are going to snap if he stays like this much longer, the BURNING, and the pressure and they have to help him soon, don't they?
"Please. I've only hit my head. I must be away from here before the Guard... They mean to kill me, and you for helping me! Please no, don't let them...Oh dear GOD it hurts. My spectacles are gone! I need them, I can't see." Another source of panic right there too. They have to have them don't they?
This alternates with pleas for people who he only knows as names and sources of different forms of comfort. He might not connect them names with specific faces, but he knows that someone named Eponine will pet and kiss and coddle him, that Enjolras, Jehan, Courfeyrac and Feuilly are people he can trust with anything, that Bahorel will protect him and that 'San' will know just how to take his pain away. Much as he doesn't know who they are a part of his mind wants them near him anyway, and here he is, frequently begging all the same, while trying to demand or negotiate his way off the horrible backboard and stiff collar holding him in place.
"Please!" He calls again, clutching at whoever passes by him. "Can't you help me!" And then, even quieter. "Do you know me?" Because he'd like to know that too, believe him.
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the source of the noise was, a handsome man, strapped to some sort of board. setting the basin down, she reached a hand out to touch his sweaty forehead. "m'sieur!" her language was still rough Argot though she didn't recognize it as such. the nanites still did their job. "m'sieur, shh." she turned her attention to the basin and placed the cloth in the cool water. after she wrung it out, she placed it on his forehead. "hush now, m'sieur, you are safe. I do not know who you cry for, but tell me of them if it will help you." no one knew too much of who they were here. but some had an innate knowledge of what to do. With one hand, she pushed his hair out of his forehead, the other mopping his brow.
"you are safe here, as much as I know. I do not know who you are, nor who I am. none of us do." she cooed softly, her free hand still playing with his hair. Soft. oddly familiar. "Do you know your name, m'sieur? Or shall I name you? I will pick a good name, of that I have no doubt. or tell you a story? I have no voice to sing, but I will keep you company until those you call for arrive- your Eponine and Enjolras."
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The argot was different to his ears, and he knew a smattering of it only, not that he understood how he knew those few words, but they were there anyway. He recognized only that it was different, slightly, in tone from what he was speaking, so that helped a bit. It was like...hearing some kind of slight accent, maybe, or vocal variation that was odd to him. Or that could be from how he'd hit his head. Hard to say.
The cool water felt good on his sweaty brow anyway, much cleaner at least. "I...am not sure myself." he confessed, feeling more alone than ever, and confused. "I do know that we fell and that I...it was dark for a while and my head and neck...Eventually I did end up here but the people that I must have known...I have names, nothing more. I know that they were friends who looked out for me...I think that a few loved me and I loved them." But more than that is so difficult just now. It's hard to form thoughts about it.
He relaxed a little into the stroking of his hair. "I do not remember it, no. Any help in finding one, something...it would be nice to know myself again. And stories are...I do like those."
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"all of us were on that ship, I believe. none of us remember anything so you are not alone m'sieur." she wrung out the cloth and doused it in cold water again to continue mopping at his brow and, slowly, his neck and what of his chest was visible. "But we must think of a name for you. let me think... You are a handsome man, so you must have a handsome name. it is only fitting..." She pressed her lips together as she thought.
as she thought, with one hand she began to undo the buttons on his shirt, to better cool him. A few scars peaked out and she found herself running her fingers along them. there was something familiar there, an urge to bend down and mouth along them. But she stopped herself, forcing herself to think of those names. "Beauregard! no, no, that is too obvious. Elliote, Julien, Alain, Jean- but that is common-, I do like Marius. Perhaps Remí. or Soren. There are many handsome names at your call." To spare him, she returned to his brow, wishing, despite herself, that she could lean down and kiss it.
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"Ah, I fear that I have seen better days but thank you all the same." He could not, despite everything else, fail to be a little, quite a lot, actually, flattered at her words there.
Was she going to...it felt right as she got closer, in a way he couldn't quite define, and then found himself smiling at those names a little.
"Jean does seem a bit...as though it is the name of every man in Paris, somehow." Paris...Paris felt right for whatever reason, though the other names...Hmm...
"Marius does feel...something." He's not sure what, but "Less...foreign somehow to me if that makes sense." It COULD do.
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day 3. closed to william tsang.
But his gaze is set down towards where one of the others that need restraining is restrained, half-conscious from their own delirium, perhaps drugged. Charles isn't sure. He isn't sure of a hell of a lot. Glancing past his shoulder, to ensure no one is going to stop him, he steps towards the man in his restraints, and recognition ripples over his expression. Not the kind of recollection that would be helpful, digging up only recent past. He hadn't gotten a good look at him, in the dark of the medical bay, in the midst of trying to fend him off.
But enough of a good look.
After a few seconds, Charles places his hand on the other man's forehead, and the twitching resistance against restraints cease, the man's expression slacking, eyes closing. ]
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Which spikes William's gut with hope. He steps forward.] Excuse me, [he says, as politely as physically possible, but very fast, as if heading off an interjection or objection that he believes to be on the way.] Sorry, mate, I'm sure you've got a lot on your plate but would you mind-- have you seen, or-- heard, [what is telepathy terminology?] Heather 'round, at all?
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The look he casts William is one of only minimal recognition -- familiarity for the fact he is one of the doctors in charge of dispensing medical care and stability. He listens and doesn't comprehend, exactly, a blankness given in response to strange stumble and phrasing. ]
I don't know Heather.
[ Or you, he doesn't say, but he probably doesn't have to. He also doesn't mention he hasn't got very much at all on his plate beyond surviving. ]
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[William's disappointment is immediate and obvious. His face falls. His mind also droops like a little plant with a machete applied to it, abruptly, the momentary puff of hope he'd fostered shredding apart now. He glances away, thinking maybe looking bothered is rude somehow. It's not Charles' fault, of course; they all went through something like this.]
I'm William, [he manages, when he finally summons some words up inside of himself. Looks up, positions a polite smile on his face, although it doesn't quite reach his eyes.] Former Chief Medical Officer. Is there anything I can do for you? [He puts away whatever he was fiddling with. Chrome utensils and sterilization crap. He doesn't strip the latex off his hands yet, picking a step nearer.]
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He feels like he missed something. It is incredibly frustrating. And yet pride, or something like the absence of pride, stifles down the impulse to ask.
Charles glances alongside at the man flopped unconscious on the gurney just next to him. ] I just came in to get my stitches checked, [ he says, a hand fluttering vaguely upwards at the fresh gauze taped at his head. ] And I was just looking at this one -- he'd attacked me, on that first night.
[ He sets a clear stare back at William. Tentatively-- ]
It's odd, isn't it, how they all think the same.
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Closed to Tadashi - Day 2
He feels his feet touch the ground and he exhales noisily, quickly struggling out from the tangle of ropes. Looking a touch wild in the eyes he glances up at Tadashi, who'd been brave enough to made the trip down first. "Well, kid, let's get this show on the road."
Shouldering a large empty duffle bag he flicks on his flashlight, its white beam cutting through the dim red tint of the emergency lights. "So, I gotta say, swiping kinetic based battery packs from prosthetics? Damn smart idea. Don't suppose you can find a way to rig it so that we can charge our medical devices off it too, hm?"
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He turns from swinging his flashlight's beam into the gloom when Leonard makes it to the ground. He nods, reaching up to touch the strap of his pack to make sure it's still secure -- still ready to ferry some desperately needed supplies from this run back to the barely-established triage tent.
"Ready when you are," he says, but nevertheless he starts to take a few cautious steps down the hallway. His memory still has a few holes in it, so he's careful to take it in slowly, giving himself time to recognize any parts of the ship his flashlight beam sweeps across.
At Leonard's comment, he ducks his head slightly, self-consciously pulling down on the brim of his cap.
Honestly, he's glad that the idea worked. And wishes he could think of some other ways to ease the tech deficit their makeshift med bay is facing.
"The trick there is gonna be how much amperage we can pull off the proprietary conductors. The last thing we need is to burn them out." He considers the problem for a moment, recalling his failed wiring in the hover craft he fooled around with a little while back. "Unless... we might be able to find the parts to take advantage of that system. If there's a running water source we can use, I think I might have a few ideas."
ota | day 2
He lays there patiently, obediently, unsure if he should tempt fate by moving. The adults all keep rushing in and out, intensely focused on their own work. Maybe... he should ask for paper. He likes to draw; he can't remember what he liked drawing exactly, but that's not important. What's important is that when he's not aching horribly (basically, when he's not drugged), he's desperate for something to keep his mind off everything that's happened recently.
He's not very talkative, though, nervous to ask for anything. He hugs a charred blanket close to him, watching everyone over the edge of it with dark, worried eyes.
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But he's a child. And she remembers enough to know that matters to her. "How're ye feelin'?"
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"... M'okay..." he says in a quiet voice. He looks at his blanket, pulling it closer. He thinks maybe she's a doctor, and doctors are usually good — but he can't remember if he knows any doctors to prove this theory of his. "It hurts a little still... I broked — broke it pretty good, they said..."
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"It'll hurt less once it's really healin'. They got it so ye can't move it?" At least they're well equipped to set broken bones, even if other supplies are lacking.
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clarke griffin | ota
it's what she remembers doing first and foremost as if it's ingrained in her and with william having approached her to tell her she was part of the medical team, she sticks with doing what she knows and helps out people where she can because she can't just sit around doing nothing, after all]