no one laughs at god in a hospital, no one laughs at god in a war [rp for rude_not_ginger]
Martha was used to sticking plasters on scraped-up elbows after a mission - no matter whether they succeeded or not, people would insist on getting themselves hurt in the field. (To be honest, it was a bit, well, annoying to be pulled away from her work researching viral mutations to perform basic medical techniques anybody without a medical degree was perfectly capable of doing themselves, but it was all part of the job.) They'd finished commandeering a small outbuilding for a makeshift field hospital on-site just before the main squad had radioed back and told them to set up the portable decontamination showers - decontamination for what, Martha didn't want to know. The last time they'd used them, she'd ended up being unable to leave her flat for nearly a week due to the stench that had stuck to her.
And then once the showers were up, the second squad, which had been split to facilitate an ambush, started pouring in, and Martha and her assistants were up to their elbows (literally) in a bright pink slime. She eyed the slime on her patient's arm suspiciously as she strapped him into a gel splint (just a greenstick fracture, nothing to worry about). It wasn't acidic, which was good, didn't seem to have any discernible odor (also good), but did have a tendency to leave a nasty stain behind, she'd noticed. Hopefully nobody would mind having pink fatigues. Or pink skin. Or pink hair.
"Well," she muttered, "if you can't incapacitate your enemy, demoralise them." Not that she was ruling out any potential effects that might appear later - it was going to be a long, dull night sitting in quarantine till they got a decent chemical analysis run.
Martha was trying to remember if she'd brought a book or a pack of cards with her when she caught sight of her next patient and groaned. "Oh, not you," she huffed. "Honestly, don't you know better by now?" It was a completely futile question to ask; she knew he'd never learn.
And then once the showers were up, the second squad, which had been split to facilitate an ambush, started pouring in, and Martha and her assistants were up to their elbows (literally) in a bright pink slime. She eyed the slime on her patient's arm suspiciously as she strapped him into a gel splint (just a greenstick fracture, nothing to worry about). It wasn't acidic, which was good, didn't seem to have any discernible odor (also good), but did have a tendency to leave a nasty stain behind, she'd noticed. Hopefully nobody would mind having pink fatigues. Or pink skin. Or pink hair.
"Well," she muttered, "if you can't incapacitate your enemy, demoralise them." Not that she was ruling out any potential effects that might appear later - it was going to be a long, dull night sitting in quarantine till they got a decent chemical analysis run.
Martha was trying to remember if she'd brought a book or a pack of cards with her when she caught sight of her next patient and groaned. "Oh, not you," she huffed. "Honestly, don't you know better by now?" It was a completely futile question to ask; she knew he'd never learn.