(no subject)
Bitch.
Someone is going to have some explaining to do about security. Damnable telepathy.
7/10/2006
Logfile from Emma.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lennox Hill Hospital - Hospital Ward(#1938R)
This ward is used to keep recovering, and non emergency surgery patients. The ward is split into private, semi-private, and shared rooms, 1 bed, 2 bed, and 4 bed rooms respectively. The same white walled, and black and white checkered tile pattern carries on from the waiting room, giving the whole area a cold, sterile feeling to it. Long, flourescent lights line the hallway, that runs between rooms, set along either side of the hallway. Near the entrance to the Emergency room, there is a nurse station, with several nurses always on call behind the desks.
It's not hard to discover where the secret is if one knows there's a secret. A room at the end of a nearly empty wing, the occasionally misplaced looking individual hanging around nearby, a bevy of doctors and nurses passing time either looking frantically harried or inexcusably bored. And a familiar telepathic presence at the end of the hallway that fluctuates between strong and bright with awareness, and doused to almost flatscan levels. Right now, it's pulled in tightly, wavering in that half-aware state between wakefulness and sleep.
Given the tendency of the medical profession to swap anything interesting and not covered under doctor/patient privilege like kids trading lunchbox goodies, it's even less hard to discover where the secret is if you're one of Lennox Hill's doctors. Nurse Williams grumps about having to clear rooms in a busy urban hospital to Nurse Goodman, who passes it on to second year resident Dr. Akabari as sweet nothings murmured after an interlude in one of the empty rooms. Dr. Akabari passes it on to Dr. Sheffield, who spots his friend and former colleague Dr. Grey leaving an operating room with a discouraged slump to her shoulders, and a dead teen killed by their own powers manifesting. She needs to cheer up, thinks Dr. Sheffield, and leaves content when Dr. Grey's eyes light intently at the news.
Dr. Grey, therefore, goes a-hunting, lab coat aflutter and stethoscope at a jaunty angle. The guards are a little bit of a complication, though. She stops to eye them consideringly, once she's made it to the end of that too-empty ward. Right. Plan B. << Emma? >>
One of the guards flips a page of teen magazine and entertains entirely inappropriate thoughts regarding the Olsen twins. The other snoozes behind a nearly abandoned nurses station. And Emma? Well, her awareness responds sluggishly to the unfamiliar (yet oddly so) mind's communication, answering with the mental equivalent of a handshake. Her shields are reduced and more concerned with filtering background noise than stopping the curiosity of a skilled telepath.
<< Up for a visitor? >> Jean wonders next, looking from the pervy guard to the napping one and snorting softly to herself. Regardless of the answer, she decides that inattention needn't be rewarded, and pushes forward to let herself into the hospital room. A little slice of time is lost, like a lone sock left abandoned and alone in the laundromat of eternity. "If I'd known you were here," the former Black Queen greets the White, tone dry and her mind kept behind enough barriers not to be intrusive. "I'd have bought flowers."
Emma struggles to full wakefulness as something trips her mental alarm, and by the time Jean lets herself in, Emma has recognized the telepathic touch and turned baleful eyes on the door. "It's the thought that counts," she answers saccharinely. A blanket is pulled up, despite warmth of the sunlight streaming in the open window and not quite disguising the track of bandage on pale skin curving up and over her right breast.
"May I?" Jean wonders, nodding towards the dressing and the rest of Emma's health by inference. The chart at the end of the bed is looked over as she explains that "I'm filling in for your regular nurse. She looks just enough like Mary-Kate Olsen that one of your guards leers at her whenever she wanders by. I gave the poor woman a coffee break." That said, she flicks an eye to heart rate monitors, and wonders, face turned away, "So Sabby's really dead?"
Heart rate is fine, though breathing is still a touch more shallow and rapid than is liked. Emma's chart confirms the story, adding details that justify a four hour stint on the operating table and explain the current lethargy. She sighs and rolls her eyes but simply turns her head away from the sight of the wound. "So I've been told."
"I guess it's not very -saintly- of me to feel that it's a shame you weren't the one taking a fatal shot, if there had to be shooting," Jean murmurs, still to the heart monitor. She pats the device once, and then turns back to Emma once she's sure her features are under control. Sadness, weariness and a thread of guilt colour the edges of her mind, as much as she allows to show, and all she asks next is a more businesslike "If you had to rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10, where would you put it?"
<< Up your-- >> drifts immediately to mind before Emma manages to bite the thought off and tuck the rest of it away behind shield reinforced with some effort. "Trust me, darling. The feeling would be mutual. 6."
"Of course, removing -me- wouldn't make the world a better place," Jean muses, although this doesn't prevent her from wandering over to Emma's morphine drip and upping the dosage just a little higher. "Nice job with Wide Awake, by the way."
"That depends entirely upon who you ask," Emma replies, lifting her left hand and running her fingers through lank sections of hair. "/Don't/, Jean," she warns, voice low and dangerous. Well, as dangerous as a half-wheezed whisper can stand, but a sudden spike of monitors acknowledge dangers of other kinds.
"Emma, you're weak as a kitten," Jean advises, monitors grabbing her attention and her eyebrows drawing together in concern. "There's nothing -I- can do to stop the damn thing, I just feel the need to say 'I told you so'. Have you been feeling any tingling in your arm or leg on the right side?"
Emma hakes her head in a minor negatory. "Then save your 'told you so's.' Wide Awake becoming known to our government was not /my/ doing."
"Oh?" Jean's eyebrows raise at this assurance. Heading to the foot of the bed, she picks up a clean needle from a crash cart kept parked in the room and pokes lightly at Emma's big toe.
Emma flinches and pulls her feet in, wincing as the sudden movement jostles more painful areas. "/Bloody hell/, Grey. I /told/ you /no/."
"It's a pinprick, Emma, not an amputation. You didn't actually answer the question clearly, so I had to check for myself." Jean is bland in the extreme, her eyelids lowered. "Honestly. Now, I'll need to get a liste to your lung sounds -- are you comfortable if the bed is tilted up?" she wonders, medically solicitous.
"I'm going to /kill/ whoever let you in, Grey," Emma growls, gesturing irritably at the bed's elevation buttons with her left hand.
"You'll have to get better first, before you go melting anyone's brain," Jean replies, smooth again. She's got a surreptitious eye on Emma's heart monitors, however, even as she continues to take a page in bedside manner from House, M.D. Up goes the bed, and out comes Jean's stethoscope. "On that note, you'll need to go on a higher calorie diet than your personal physician's got you on, according to your chart. Your mutation's got you needing an extra thousand calories a day, just at baseline activity. Deep breath in, please." The stethoscope has not been warmed.
Bitch. "I'll be sure to pass your professional opinion on," Emma answers snidely before inhaling. A flash of pain creases her shields, and the breath is neither clear, nor deep.
Skank. "Hmm." Jean's eyebrows knit together again, and she moves the stethoscope to the other side of Emma's back, expression concerned. "Deep breath again," she prompts.
Emma complies, though she can't resist resist a purring << You've always wanted to have me panting for you, haven't you? >> and a smug, slant-eyed glance up at the other woman.
"Only in Warren's dreams." Jean's tone is absent, indicating just how deep the subconscious reflex to snark back at Emma truly goes. She listens. She moves the stethoscope back again to compare. She moves it again. She eventually steps back, green eyes humourless behind her glasses. "You've got some fluid collecting in your lungs," says Dr. Grey.
"The right lung, to be precise."
Emma's expression sours and she leans back and brushes past the other woman's mind with bit of reflexive telepathy, trying to suss out the meaning of her words for herself. "Lucky me."
No dice. Jean's thoughts are kept firmly behind a mental wall that reeks of iodines and antiseptics. Fortunately, she explains that "If it's bleeding, you may need additional surgery if it doesn't stop. If it's fluid, you could be working towards pneumonia. In any case, I'll go see that your undoubtedly highly-paid doctor leaves the golf course and comes in to run some tests."
"You're too kind, darling. Don't let me keep you from your errands." Emma turns her head pointedly away, while her left hand twists a section of blankets into a wrinkled, compressed mess. Until, "Wait." << How did /you/ know? >>
"That you were here?" Jean selectively answers, over her shoulder and near the door. "This is a hospital, Emma. Doctors and nurses talk to each other." With that, she's out the door and down the hallway at a quick pace. The pawns' minds are a mire of confusion, and a few strains of dread. Oh, they're gonna get it.
Someone is going to have some explaining to do about security. Damnable telepathy.
7/10/2006
Logfile from Emma.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lennox Hill Hospital - Hospital Ward(#1938R)
This ward is used to keep recovering, and non emergency surgery patients. The ward is split into private, semi-private, and shared rooms, 1 bed, 2 bed, and 4 bed rooms respectively. The same white walled, and black and white checkered tile pattern carries on from the waiting room, giving the whole area a cold, sterile feeling to it. Long, flourescent lights line the hallway, that runs between rooms, set along either side of the hallway. Near the entrance to the Emergency room, there is a nurse station, with several nurses always on call behind the desks.
It's not hard to discover where the secret is if one knows there's a secret. A room at the end of a nearly empty wing, the occasionally misplaced looking individual hanging around nearby, a bevy of doctors and nurses passing time either looking frantically harried or inexcusably bored. And a familiar telepathic presence at the end of the hallway that fluctuates between strong and bright with awareness, and doused to almost flatscan levels. Right now, it's pulled in tightly, wavering in that half-aware state between wakefulness and sleep.
Given the tendency of the medical profession to swap anything interesting and not covered under doctor/patient privilege like kids trading lunchbox goodies, it's even less hard to discover where the secret is if you're one of Lennox Hill's doctors. Nurse Williams grumps about having to clear rooms in a busy urban hospital to Nurse Goodman, who passes it on to second year resident Dr. Akabari as sweet nothings murmured after an interlude in one of the empty rooms. Dr. Akabari passes it on to Dr. Sheffield, who spots his friend and former colleague Dr. Grey leaving an operating room with a discouraged slump to her shoulders, and a dead teen killed by their own powers manifesting. She needs to cheer up, thinks Dr. Sheffield, and leaves content when Dr. Grey's eyes light intently at the news.
Dr. Grey, therefore, goes a-hunting, lab coat aflutter and stethoscope at a jaunty angle. The guards are a little bit of a complication, though. She stops to eye them consideringly, once she's made it to the end of that too-empty ward. Right. Plan B. << Emma? >>
One of the guards flips a page of teen magazine and entertains entirely inappropriate thoughts regarding the Olsen twins. The other snoozes behind a nearly abandoned nurses station. And Emma? Well, her awareness responds sluggishly to the unfamiliar (yet oddly so) mind's communication, answering with the mental equivalent of a handshake. Her shields are reduced and more concerned with filtering background noise than stopping the curiosity of a skilled telepath.
<< Up for a visitor? >> Jean wonders next, looking from the pervy guard to the napping one and snorting softly to herself. Regardless of the answer, she decides that inattention needn't be rewarded, and pushes forward to let herself into the hospital room. A little slice of time is lost, like a lone sock left abandoned and alone in the laundromat of eternity. "If I'd known you were here," the former Black Queen greets the White, tone dry and her mind kept behind enough barriers not to be intrusive. "I'd have bought flowers."
Emma struggles to full wakefulness as something trips her mental alarm, and by the time Jean lets herself in, Emma has recognized the telepathic touch and turned baleful eyes on the door. "It's the thought that counts," she answers saccharinely. A blanket is pulled up, despite warmth of the sunlight streaming in the open window and not quite disguising the track of bandage on pale skin curving up and over her right breast.
"May I?" Jean wonders, nodding towards the dressing and the rest of Emma's health by inference. The chart at the end of the bed is looked over as she explains that "I'm filling in for your regular nurse. She looks just enough like Mary-Kate Olsen that one of your guards leers at her whenever she wanders by. I gave the poor woman a coffee break." That said, she flicks an eye to heart rate monitors, and wonders, face turned away, "So Sabby's really dead?"
Heart rate is fine, though breathing is still a touch more shallow and rapid than is liked. Emma's chart confirms the story, adding details that justify a four hour stint on the operating table and explain the current lethargy. She sighs and rolls her eyes but simply turns her head away from the sight of the wound. "So I've been told."
"I guess it's not very -saintly- of me to feel that it's a shame you weren't the one taking a fatal shot, if there had to be shooting," Jean murmurs, still to the heart monitor. She pats the device once, and then turns back to Emma once she's sure her features are under control. Sadness, weariness and a thread of guilt colour the edges of her mind, as much as she allows to show, and all she asks next is a more businesslike "If you had to rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10, where would you put it?"
<< Up your-- >> drifts immediately to mind before Emma manages to bite the thought off and tuck the rest of it away behind shield reinforced with some effort. "Trust me, darling. The feeling would be mutual. 6."
"Of course, removing -me- wouldn't make the world a better place," Jean muses, although this doesn't prevent her from wandering over to Emma's morphine drip and upping the dosage just a little higher. "Nice job with Wide Awake, by the way."
"That depends entirely upon who you ask," Emma replies, lifting her left hand and running her fingers through lank sections of hair. "/Don't/, Jean," she warns, voice low and dangerous. Well, as dangerous as a half-wheezed whisper can stand, but a sudden spike of monitors acknowledge dangers of other kinds.
"Emma, you're weak as a kitten," Jean advises, monitors grabbing her attention and her eyebrows drawing together in concern. "There's nothing -I- can do to stop the damn thing, I just feel the need to say 'I told you so'. Have you been feeling any tingling in your arm or leg on the right side?"
Emma hakes her head in a minor negatory. "Then save your 'told you so's.' Wide Awake becoming known to our government was not /my/ doing."
"Oh?" Jean's eyebrows raise at this assurance. Heading to the foot of the bed, she picks up a clean needle from a crash cart kept parked in the room and pokes lightly at Emma's big toe.
Emma flinches and pulls her feet in, wincing as the sudden movement jostles more painful areas. "/Bloody hell/, Grey. I /told/ you /no/."
"It's a pinprick, Emma, not an amputation. You didn't actually answer the question clearly, so I had to check for myself." Jean is bland in the extreme, her eyelids lowered. "Honestly. Now, I'll need to get a liste to your lung sounds -- are you comfortable if the bed is tilted up?" she wonders, medically solicitous.
"I'm going to /kill/ whoever let you in, Grey," Emma growls, gesturing irritably at the bed's elevation buttons with her left hand.
"You'll have to get better first, before you go melting anyone's brain," Jean replies, smooth again. She's got a surreptitious eye on Emma's heart monitors, however, even as she continues to take a page in bedside manner from House, M.D. Up goes the bed, and out comes Jean's stethoscope. "On that note, you'll need to go on a higher calorie diet than your personal physician's got you on, according to your chart. Your mutation's got you needing an extra thousand calories a day, just at baseline activity. Deep breath in, please." The stethoscope has not been warmed.
Bitch. "I'll be sure to pass your professional opinion on," Emma answers snidely before inhaling. A flash of pain creases her shields, and the breath is neither clear, nor deep.
Skank. "Hmm." Jean's eyebrows knit together again, and she moves the stethoscope to the other side of Emma's back, expression concerned. "Deep breath again," she prompts.
Emma complies, though she can't resist resist a purring << You've always wanted to have me panting for you, haven't you? >> and a smug, slant-eyed glance up at the other woman.
"Only in Warren's dreams." Jean's tone is absent, indicating just how deep the subconscious reflex to snark back at Emma truly goes. She listens. She moves the stethoscope back again to compare. She moves it again. She eventually steps back, green eyes humourless behind her glasses. "You've got some fluid collecting in your lungs," says Dr. Grey.
"The right lung, to be precise."
Emma's expression sours and she leans back and brushes past the other woman's mind with bit of reflexive telepathy, trying to suss out the meaning of her words for herself. "Lucky me."
No dice. Jean's thoughts are kept firmly behind a mental wall that reeks of iodines and antiseptics. Fortunately, she explains that "If it's bleeding, you may need additional surgery if it doesn't stop. If it's fluid, you could be working towards pneumonia. In any case, I'll go see that your undoubtedly highly-paid doctor leaves the golf course and comes in to run some tests."
"You're too kind, darling. Don't let me keep you from your errands." Emma turns her head pointedly away, while her left hand twists a section of blankets into a wrinkled, compressed mess. Until, "Wait." << How did /you/ know? >>
"That you were here?" Jean selectively answers, over her shoulder and near the door. "This is a hospital, Emma. Doctors and nurses talk to each other." With that, she's out the door and down the hallway at a quick pace. The pawns' minds are a mire of confusion, and a few strains of dread. Oh, they're gonna get it.