Post by Solomon Moon on Sept 4, 2019 14:13:42 GMT -5
Solomon
The sharp tang of antiseptic, the fibrous odor of gauze, the thick pulpy smell of adhesive, the Haven infirmary smelled just like a hundred thousand other rooms Sol had passed through over the course of the last three years. While the gross details varied, size, shape, and content, each sculpted singularly by the various pressures of function and resources, the smell was always consistent, as if every doctor's office, field hospital and infirmary had been the works of a skilled but sadistic artist and the smell was his signature in the corner of every panel.
Sol absently wondered if surgery were every performed in this room, or one like it somewhere on the school grounds. There had to be some facilities available for triaging and treating the seriously wounded. Students being maimed or killed in the course of their educations were rare but not unheard of tragedies inherent in the act of preparing hunters to tackle the creatures of Grimm in all their forms. It was the cost of doing business. The travel time to the nearest trauma center meant that most critically wounded casualties would need stabilization on site. Sol knew all too well what "Stabilization" in that sense meant, namely doing what was necessary to prepare the patient for a lengthy transport, and a triaging of injuries that would mean a lot of hacksaw surgery. He suddenly felt quite ill, and pushed his perception out of the poisonous confines of his mind and out into the world.
It wasn't much better, as his gilded gaze fell upon the shelves stacked shoulder deep with materials that he only knew some of the uses for. Bandages and abdominal pads were simple enough that even a child would have recognized their general purpose, but what caught Sol's eye(singular) were the less explicable instruments. There was a bucket of what looked like the types of pegs used to pin up laundry on a line. Beside that on the next shelf up was series of color coded tubes of various lengths and thicknesses, with what appeared to be inflatable balloons at the middle and one end, the other end seemed to match the male attachment for a pile of bag-valve ventilators on the shelf above it. Sol could only guess the purpose of that article, and decided that it was only fit for the most critical patients. There were syringes, blunt needles for drawing up medications, beside a collection of tubes that Sol recognized as the devices field medics used to brace and secure the airway in unconscious casualties who were in danger of choking on their own tongues. He had a vivid image arrive uninvited at the forefront of his mind, that of a boy not much older than himself having one of those tubes forcefully inserted into an airway that was missing a generous portion of its mandible. He had to turn away, skin prickling from wrist to the base of his skull with gooseflesh. It was the first intrusive thought he'd had all day.
On an impulse he snatched a pen, the kind that had a piston on the back that pushed the nib out of the housing and then fixed it in place with some cunning little mechanism, and clicked the quill into the writing position. He fumbled the pen, the mechanism was not exactly where his thumb expected it to be, and he needed to adjust his grip awkwardly with the assistance of his right hand until his was holding the pen correctly. A blossom of frustration bloomed in his chest, the whole exchange seeming to take many times longer than what was acceptable. He clicked the pen again, then again, and again, and again, making a little rhythm out of the ratcheting clicks of the writing tool's internal machinery. Finally satisfied that he would not fumble the quill onto the floor, he pulled a small leather bound notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped open to a page marked with a golden ribbon.
His handwriting was messy, and required him to brace his elbow against his midsection so that he wouldn't accidentally slip off the page. He used to have beautiful handwriting that flowed gracefully in a compact elegant script. Now he was lucky if he could make his own name legible. He glanced at the clock on the on the wall, recorded the time, where he was, what he was doing, and what the intruding vision had been. It looked like the scribbling of an illiterate child, but perhaps that was for the best if he was the only one who would be able to read it. The transcription had enough layers of separation to not risk re-exposure to the trigger, but even so he did not risk rereading what he'd printed, before closing the book and slipping it back into his breast pocket.
Having now learned his lesson of the day, the one eyed lordling resolved to keep his hands and eye to himself. He positioned himself in the center of the room, and fixed his gaze on the sliding panel door that lead into the office. It was generic enough to be harmless. He crossed his arms behind his back, and wrapped the fingers of his left hand around his right wrist. He'd used to do it the other way, but now he couldn't bare to have the treacherous object touching him. He slid his heels apart until they were in line with his shoulders, and allowed his weight to settle into his boots.
He looked ready for morning inspection. His uniform was pressed completely free of wrinkles, and the front panel of his blazer positioned perfectly in line with the second belt loop on his left hand side. His boots were polished to a dim shine, a razor sharp crease stretching from the center of the superior aspect of his boots straight up towards his belt without kink. It had taken Sol years to master the art of standing in his uniform such that none of the creases bunched at the joints. Being able to afford even his school uniform customized by one of Haven's best tailors certainly helped.
He waited. Mind as sterile as the surgical tools nearby fresh out of an autoclave, posture and attire of a classical sculpture.
That was how he was found when the door finally opened. Staring blankly into the middle distance, in the at ease posture that announced a military background. It took a full half dozen heart beats for his augur of a gaze to finally swivel to face the Doctor.
Sol absently wondered if surgery were every performed in this room, or one like it somewhere on the school grounds. There had to be some facilities available for triaging and treating the seriously wounded. Students being maimed or killed in the course of their educations were rare but not unheard of tragedies inherent in the act of preparing hunters to tackle the creatures of Grimm in all their forms. It was the cost of doing business. The travel time to the nearest trauma center meant that most critically wounded casualties would need stabilization on site. Sol knew all too well what "Stabilization" in that sense meant, namely doing what was necessary to prepare the patient for a lengthy transport, and a triaging of injuries that would mean a lot of hacksaw surgery. He suddenly felt quite ill, and pushed his perception out of the poisonous confines of his mind and out into the world.
It wasn't much better, as his gilded gaze fell upon the shelves stacked shoulder deep with materials that he only knew some of the uses for. Bandages and abdominal pads were simple enough that even a child would have recognized their general purpose, but what caught Sol's eye(singular) were the less explicable instruments. There was a bucket of what looked like the types of pegs used to pin up laundry on a line. Beside that on the next shelf up was series of color coded tubes of various lengths and thicknesses, with what appeared to be inflatable balloons at the middle and one end, the other end seemed to match the male attachment for a pile of bag-valve ventilators on the shelf above it. Sol could only guess the purpose of that article, and decided that it was only fit for the most critical patients. There were syringes, blunt needles for drawing up medications, beside a collection of tubes that Sol recognized as the devices field medics used to brace and secure the airway in unconscious casualties who were in danger of choking on their own tongues. He had a vivid image arrive uninvited at the forefront of his mind, that of a boy not much older than himself having one of those tubes forcefully inserted into an airway that was missing a generous portion of its mandible. He had to turn away, skin prickling from wrist to the base of his skull with gooseflesh. It was the first intrusive thought he'd had all day.
On an impulse he snatched a pen, the kind that had a piston on the back that pushed the nib out of the housing and then fixed it in place with some cunning little mechanism, and clicked the quill into the writing position. He fumbled the pen, the mechanism was not exactly where his thumb expected it to be, and he needed to adjust his grip awkwardly with the assistance of his right hand until his was holding the pen correctly. A blossom of frustration bloomed in his chest, the whole exchange seeming to take many times longer than what was acceptable. He clicked the pen again, then again, and again, and again, making a little rhythm out of the ratcheting clicks of the writing tool's internal machinery. Finally satisfied that he would not fumble the quill onto the floor, he pulled a small leather bound notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped open to a page marked with a golden ribbon.
His handwriting was messy, and required him to brace his elbow against his midsection so that he wouldn't accidentally slip off the page. He used to have beautiful handwriting that flowed gracefully in a compact elegant script. Now he was lucky if he could make his own name legible. He glanced at the clock on the on the wall, recorded the time, where he was, what he was doing, and what the intruding vision had been. It looked like the scribbling of an illiterate child, but perhaps that was for the best if he was the only one who would be able to read it. The transcription had enough layers of separation to not risk re-exposure to the trigger, but even so he did not risk rereading what he'd printed, before closing the book and slipping it back into his breast pocket.
Having now learned his lesson of the day, the one eyed lordling resolved to keep his hands and eye to himself. He positioned himself in the center of the room, and fixed his gaze on the sliding panel door that lead into the office. It was generic enough to be harmless. He crossed his arms behind his back, and wrapped the fingers of his left hand around his right wrist. He'd used to do it the other way, but now he couldn't bare to have the treacherous object touching him. He slid his heels apart until they were in line with his shoulders, and allowed his weight to settle into his boots.
He looked ready for morning inspection. His uniform was pressed completely free of wrinkles, and the front panel of his blazer positioned perfectly in line with the second belt loop on his left hand side. His boots were polished to a dim shine, a razor sharp crease stretching from the center of the superior aspect of his boots straight up towards his belt without kink. It had taken Sol years to master the art of standing in his uniform such that none of the creases bunched at the joints. Being able to afford even his school uniform customized by one of Haven's best tailors certainly helped.
He waited. Mind as sterile as the surgical tools nearby fresh out of an autoclave, posture and attire of a classical sculpture.
That was how he was found when the door finally opened. Staring blankly into the middle distance, in the at ease posture that announced a military background. It took a full half dozen heart beats for his augur of a gaze to finally swivel to face the Doctor.
@tag | 1097 words | notes |
Velvet of WW