tushanshu_logs | [OPEN] Eshai Memorial Hospital May catch-all

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[OPEN] Eshai Memorial Hospital May catch-all

Characters: Hospital staff, volunteers, patients, visitors, and everyone else!
Date: All of May
Location: Eshai Memorial Hospital, Metal Sector
Situation: General Hospital a la Turtle-back
Warnings/Rating: It’s a hospital, there will probably injuries/blood/etc at some point.
OOC Note: Everyone, feel free to add your own thread headers for whatever you might need!

There are still signs of the damage taken in the bombings, but repairs are taking place and are obviously not keeping the hospital from its usual busy schedule. Some of the work seems to be plumbing related: with the city water contaminated, they are trying to get a back-up system in place easier to keep purified, and sometimes some of the staff and volunteers can be found doing just that. Everyone needs sanitary water.

Some of the rooms have been reassigned uses until the repairs are finished, usually in favor of keeping intensive care as flexible as possible. First aid training still takes place in the classroom on the third floor, along with classroom-friendly aspects of field training.

Upon request, the list of active field medics will be provided by the front desk, along with who is currently on-call.
Active Field Medics:
Septimus
Raine Sage
Frank Zhang
Zelgadis Graywords
NPC kedan healers

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Enjolras appeared at the memorial hospital not quite certain what he might do to help, but wishing to do something all the same. Appearing at a front desk, he looked, perhaps, a bit unsure of what to do here; this was much more Combeferre's sort of thing than his, but the need for help was obviously great.

Though he has very little healing skills (he's helped Combeferre at his clinic and can bandage and a few other things, most of them extremely basic, but he's here to help with running errands, helping with sanitation, or anything else needed just now.

Septimus is coming out of a shift in intensive care when Enjolras arrives, and from the way he's scowling at his hands and still drying them off, he is most definitely displeased with the state the water is in. Having to purify small amounts of it himself just to get his hands clean is frustrating, to say the least.

Still, an uncertain face--and one vaguely remembered from the network but otherwise new--is definitely the call for him to put aside his return to paperwork upstairs. "You look a little lost. Anything I can help you with?"

"I would like to be of help here, if I might." Enjolras answers, as he gives Septimus a little nod. "I am not so good at medicine or particularly skilled in the way of purification, which I've heard are your main focuses but..."

And there is a very earnest look that he is giving Septimus here. "I had thought that I may be of use in other ways, perhaps? Cleaning or fetching things or near anything else. I can learn things quickly as well. It simply...is not right that this has happened, and whatever can be done to improve conditions, well, I would like to be there for it."

That earnest look touches Septimus' heart, and honestly it cheers him up more than a little as well, especially coming off a working shift. As a result, he smiles warm in return.

"Any help can be used around here," he assures the man, "and the healers--doctors--can't do everything. How about we head up to my office to talk some more? After I change into something new," he adds with a rueful glance down at his clothes.

Solomon would give this universe its due: it certainly felt as though it was at war. The general air of disarray, the damage, the mobile injured. If it was an elaborate hallucination, it was obviously drawing on his memories of a war long past.

He wished it was a hallucination. Being insane would have made matters so much easier. Then again, hallucinating one's own broken leg was hardly the pinnacle of mental fortitude. Of course, that was the point of insanity, wasn't it?

It was a bad sign, Solomon reflected grimly as he took another limping step on his crutch, when he began to ramble even in his mental processes. The pain radiated up his leg and snatched the air in his chest, and he paused to catch his breath and muster the will to take another step. He had to make it quickly, given he was standing in the doorway, but after a moment he managed, moving slowly to the side and out of the medics' ways.

At least the kedan who'd delivered him to his current accommodation had been good enough to split his leg. Given the obvious recent attack, his situation could have been worse.

It's the sort of look that once pulled the people of Paris to the barricades in 1830, and one that urged his friends and their recruits to the cause two years later, even as things grew grimmer.

Enjolras, above all else, is a man who simply wants to do good, to enact some measure of justice, and to see it done after such a disaster as this. Perhaps some justice can be found in helping others to heal, in getting out of himself and his own head for a while, as Joly pointed out to him lately. Perhaps his reasons are a little selfish, but he does wish to do something in way of dispensing justice that does not require a gun for a while, and so he is nodding in return.

"Yes, of course. I certainly would appreciate that."

Septimus was a lot like that at home, too, in almost every way, down to the charisma that won so many over and to more radical and progressive causes than would have normally cared for them. He, too, needed a way to contribute that didn't involve sword and fire for a while, and healing reminded him of his wife as well. But he's had a year and a half to heal, and there's a war on. Time to get back to his usual business.

He leads the way up to his office on the third floor--which is conveniently and clearly marked 'Septimvs,' because some things Roman remained with Alerans--and opens the door.

"Have a seat," he waves at a chair in front of his desk as he digs for a clean tunic, "and I'll just be a few moments."

Skulduggery had seen the outside of the hospital many times. He'd caught a glimpse of the inside a week or so ago, just after he brought an injured Captain Amelia there directly after the bombings. But he hadn't, as yet, actually stepped inside. Not because he didn't trust hospitals, but... well, because he didn't trust hospitals. Not with his unique anatomy. Skulduggery didn't even have any blood to donate. He had very little reason to give hospitals more than a passing thought.

Here, however, there was very little chance of anyone being so intent on the impossibility of his existence that they would try to capture him - at least, if the rest of Keeliai was any indication. And since Skulduggery's latest foray towards the Palace of Landed Sky hadn't exactly worked, he didn't see any harm in answering the radio broadcast that had been repeating itself over and over since early that morning.

Skulduggery's bones remained a bright purple, despite his best efforts. The only thing that helped to give him some dignity in the lobby area, in fact, was the new suit he was wearing.

[OOC: This thread is dated sometime after this one.]

His situation was going to get worse.

Skulduggery was still trying to track down the suit of black armour that murdered the white-haired boy during the bombings. He'd tried many different things by that point - locating the victim, who might even have been resurrected by that point; finding any other witnesses; keeping a general eye out. He was avoiding the consoles for how compromised they were, but Skulduggery hadn't hit a single lead any other way, and the frustration was starting to make his head hurt. Or rather, it was starting to make what was inside his head hurt.

That wasn't a very good state of mind for him to be in, which was part of the reason Skulduggery now spent at least an hour each day purifying the hospital's water supply. It was easier to think when he had something to concentrate on, something that could only be considered a good thing to do. The problem was when things broke that concentration. Things like memories, or drifting thoughts.

Things like Solomon Wreath.

In the split second after laying eyes on the necromancer, Skulduggery already knew what must have happened. Evandau wasn't going to give up without a fight, so of course, the technology for bringing other people here would have been salvaged. Of course the people brought would be powerful, useful, regardless of their moral compass. It all made a very brutal kind of sense.

His body didn't seem to be listening. Even as Skulduggery wondered whether the best idea wouldn't be to simply move on as though nothing happened, he was already walking over.

Zelgadis had been going out for field duty, but he did stop by the hospital to see if he was needed and what spots most needed his attention. He also spent his evenings tiring himself out with Aqua Create spells to fill the cisterns.

Right now, though, he was taking a short break, with a cup of (weak) tea and a medical book.

Enjolras too, has had his time to heal, nearly a year in this place now, after his apparent death, more if one counts the time he has been told of by the others that he does not remember, and he's had enough of sitting idly by, and watching as his friends, both those he's known and those he's made here, depart, or are harmed by the other forces. He can still recall facing Malicant, and the shame he felt for the choices that he made in life, and there is nothing to be done for those but helping in some other way.

Noting the Roman lettering is a reminder of school, a bit, and it is nice to see something sort of familiar in a structure here.

"Of course, thank you." Enjolras agrees, taking a chair and gazing around the office for a moment, trying to think of more skills that he might be able to offer here.

The sound of footsteps coming directly toward him made Solomon turn from trying to find a chair from which he could easily extricate himself. What he saw was a skeleton in a suit. He was, in fact, quite familiar with a skeleton in a suit. He was not, however, familiar with a skeleton in a suit whose bones were purple.

Solomon blinked and reconsidered the value of the idea that he was hallucinating, and then decided he was in altogether too much constant pain. A purple skeleton did not rate very high on his list of oddities; at least not enough to simply be dismissed as fantasy, and surely if he'd been rendered insane by mistakenly viewing a Faceless One the progression of current events won't have been quite so logical.

Instead he felt a touch exasperated. Of course, of course, wherever he was, Skulduggery had been there first.

"Skulduggery," Solomon said, rather mildly given that the last time he'd seen Skulduggery was while bleeding into the ground from a compound fracture and watching the skeleton be dragged into a special rip by a transdimensional Cthulu. "Hijacked en route to hell, I see. Lovely new fashion trend you're setting there. Is that in lieu of having hair to dye, or was it a favour?"

That was familiar. Not a meeting went by where Wreath hadn't felt the urge to deliver some sort of barbed comment. Most of those meetings, Skulduggery could ignore it in favour of whatever catastrophe had brought them together.

This time, he walked silently up without a pause and let his fist fly into Wreath's face.

He regretted it the moment it was over - for a given definition of 'regret.' It wasn't the punch Skulduggery regretted. It was not being able to wait until they weren't in public. He'd never seen anything particularly wrong with causing a necromancer pain, particularly now that he knew what their cult's ultimate goal was. And Wreath? He'd stopped caring about Wreath centuries before. The only thing Skulduggery was actually concerned about was the medley of panicked gasps that came from nearby. He looked intimidating enough without adding to the reputation.

Skulduggery, in his own way, was decently predictable--enough that Solomon could guess how their meetings would proceed and, nine times out of ten, be right. This time was that last, pesky one-out-of-ten.

The punch struck Solomon squarely on the chin and sent him flying back against the wall. The crutch slid out from under his arm and he instinctively tried to clutch it nearer, but then the grind of his broken bones registered and for a few moments there was nothing in his existence save agony.

He felt himself slide and managed to grip the wall behind him, but now his leg was shrieking and he could feel the warmth of seeping blood that indicated something had breached the skin again. Solomon gulped down air, and ordered his stomach to remain where it was, and his consciousness to remain firmly in control, and opted not to speak in favour of slumping against the wall and waiting for his body to shut up.

That, he thought dizzily, was not the sort of response he'd expected from a man who'd explicitly saved his life barely a minute before Solomon had arrived in another dimension.

Gene had, at least, in his own mind, been paying tribute to Bianca by helping get the hospital back together after the bombing. Every day he asked the ring if she was back, and every time he got the same cryptic message: Subject is out of ambit.

He was beginning to think she would never come back.

He'd been learning more than just incredibly basic first aid, rationalizing that it was something he ought to know anyway, and he was entering the lobby, he saw enough things that he didn't expect that he was beginning to wonder if he hadn't hit his head in the bombing after all.

First, there was that living skeleton - Skulduggery, wasn't it? - only now he was purple. Bright purple. It was amusing. Second, it became far less amusing when he noticed the purple skeleton coldcocking a man with an obviously broken leg. Hey, not like Gene was in any position to judge, given that he'd just apparently randomly straight-up murdered a guy a couple of weeks ago. Still, he figured he should at least say something - you know, for appearances' sake.

"Hey!" he said, walking towards the angry purple skeleton, sounding more confused than indignant. "What the hell is this all about?"

It took Wreath's scream for Skulduggery to realise that the man's leg was broken. In the heat of the moment, he couldn't say he particularly cared.

But the heat of the moment was a tricky thing, especially where Skulduggery was concerned. He'd made it a habit to check himself if things like this happened without an obvious, justifiable reason. And since Wreath hadn't hit him first, Skulduggery took a reluctant step back, giving Wreath the room he needed to recover while at the same time making it abundantly clear that he wasn't about to leave. In his head, tendrils of shadow started to uncoil; Skulduggery caught them before they went too far and took a single deep breath to keep them firmly where they belonged.

When he released that breath, it was a little easier to think. It was easier to look at Wreath, realise that Skulduggery had seen that precise broken leg before, and make the obvious connection from there. It was easier to hear Gene, walking up and demanding an explanation, even if Skulduggery didn't quite know how to give him one - or whether he should.

So he kept his eyes on Wreath instead. "Old acquaintance."

Aang is a multi-purpose Avatar.

If he's not shoring up the foundation of the hospital, or otherwise using his earthbending to help with the repairs, then he's using waterbending to remove the contaminating impurities from the water they have on hand.

On top of that, he can often be found zipping along the halls on an airscooter moving messages and supplies from one side of the hospital to the other.

Slowly the pain, while not vanishing, at least grudgingly condescended to his control. Solomon took a deep breath, and then another, forcing his heart-rate to slow. He heard the stranger’s arrival, and felt an unexpected whisper of relief. Skulduggery, when he was unpredictable, was very unpredictable. As bitter as their relationship had become, Solomon wouldn’t have expected Skulduggery to strike a man with a broken leg.

Not unless that man was Serpine, anyway.

And then he felt irritated that he should feel grateful for protection from Skulduggery Pleasant.

Carefully Solomon raised his head, aware that he was pale and sweaty at once, and rather less dignified than he would have liked. Still, he managed to enforce some impassiveness into his expression as he looked back at Skulduggery’s faceless head.

“Was that for old time’s sake as well?” he asked, more bitterly than he meant. Something was off here. Solomon did know Skulduggery, better than the skeleton gave him credit for. Unless someone had wronged him in a fashion not even Solomon had done, Skulduggery wouldn’t cause additional physical harm to a man already injured.

Solomon just wasn’t sure what that ‘something’ was, and it was difficult to think clearly when his body was insisting it wanted to faint. He took another breath and rested his head back against the wall. There was death here, and plenty of it. That was the only reason he felt he was capable of reaching out a hand and tugging on the shadow cast up by a bench five feet along the wall. The shadow wrapped around the bench’s leg and dragged it grudgingly closer, enough that he could fumble for the side and lower himself carefully into it.

His leg shrieked and his vision darkened at the edges, but he was pleased when he managed to get himself seated without actually passing out.

"...oh." And Gene decided he wasn't going to push it. After all, there were people from home he'd like to give much the same sort of welcome to...or people from home who would probably like to give much the same sort of welcome to him.

"Though if you're going to have it out, I'd recommend maybe not doing it in the hospital. People will be opposed to that sort of thing on Hippocratic Oath grounds alone," he said, eyeing the newcomer as he dragged himself towards the bench.

And then his eyes went just a little bit wider when he saw that shadow manipulation that happened there. Interesting.

There's not much warning before a small boy in orange monk's robes zips past on what appears to be a medium sized ball of air.

Just as there's not much warning as that same boy, on the same ball of air, backs up in order to take a second look at what he thought was a purple skeleton in a suit of clothing.

Yup. That's exactly what he saw.
And so now there's a small boy, sporting some pretty extensive tattoos, blinking at Skulduggery from atop a spinning ball of air.

"...hi."

If Wreath's broken leg hadn't already told Skulduggery exactly where the discrepancy in their memories lay, Wreath's comment would have done it. Regret settled back in, and this time stayed, with Skulduggery's permission. It helped keep the more dangerous anger at bay.

It wasn't, however, enough, so Skulduggery ignored Wreath and took those few moments to build himself up to a point he could be a little more proud of. Once he'd reached it, his whole frame relaxed, and he turned to look at Gene. "It's alright," he said, his tone much more cheerful and upbeat than someone who'd just punched an old friend had any right to be. "I wasn't quite myself. I've been known to do questionable things when I'm not quite myself. Gene, this is Solomon Wreath." He deliberately chose not to add all that the introduction should probably have entailed. "Wreath, Gene Khan."

“If we’re to have it out,” said Solomon, “then I’m going to demand either healing or for some of Skulduggery’s bones to be broken in order to remove his advantage. I am, as always, quite happy to oblige in the latter.” His voice was weak, but the sarcasm was quite clear.

Skulduggery’s sudden change of demeanour was sudden, to say the least. Solomon forced his eyes open and looked at the skeleton, really looked. Aside from the suit and the purple, he looked just the same, and yet the feeling of wrongness was heightened. It was only now that Solomon could see the difference enough to tell how tense the skeleton had been beforehand. That made no sense; the last they’d spoken had been as allies on a battlefield. Where this new hostility had come from, Solomon had no idea.

The bright-purple wasn’t helping his lightheadedness, so Solomon glanced toward the youth instead. He hadn’t been too terribly opposed to the punch, in the end, which wasn’t exactly surprising. Solomon was used to people caring less than they liked to pretend. Most people wouldn’t have even bothered to intervene.

The former was particularly unsurprising given the youth was, apparently, already acquainted with Skulduggery. Of course.

“How long have you been here, then?” Solomon asked, returning his attention to Skulduggery and sounding more tired than he cared to admit. Dragging one’s broken leg across half a city with only carts as public transport wasn’t a walk in the park. After a moment he added, “And if one of you, preferably the one who isn’t liable to delight in my agony, would fetch a healer I’d be ever so grateful.”

Wreath's sarcastic riposte made Gene laugh a little, in a knowing sort of way. This guy seemed all right by him, even if Skul had just coldcocked him. It all seemed to be predicated on some misunderstanding or other.

And yet, Gene also knew when he wasn't wanted. Seeing an opportunity to temporarily exit the conversation, he said, "I've been volunteering here, I know a lot of the healers. I'll grab one to get you looked at."

There was something about Skul that made him really uneasy, and it wasn't just the fact that he was a skeleton. Or, you know, purple. The way his mood changed so quickly...it was a little bit frightening.

"A little over a month." Skulduggery had once looked over research which claimed that forcing a smile actually helped make a person happier. He wasn't sure how much of that he believed, or how much applied to him, but he couldn't deny that a lighter tone was really helping do the trick. "It isn't quite as bad as it seems. Or it wasn't, up until the bombs went off."

Especially with the palace now black and covered in spikes.

Gene's comment about volunteering around the healers made Skulduggery glance up. With his mood not quite as black as it had been, it was much easier to note that no, he did still have one lead; and that lead was the hospital. A suit of black armour had been seen during the bombings helping out at the hospital. And while Skulduggery couldn't quite fathom what the armour might have been trying to do, it certainly wasn't going to stop him from asking the questions that needed to be asked.

"Hang on," he said. "Before you go. Have you seen a suit of black armour around the hospital either during or after the explosions? Or, come to think of it, any time before. In fact, you might have dreamed of one. I certainly can't discount dreams."

Not with the 'realm of dreaming' as accessible as it apparently was.

If Skulduggery's surprised by the sight, he doesn't show it. It's difficult to register surprise when one doesn't have eyes or facial muscles.

"Hello," he responds. His skull tilts to the side. "What is that?"

It looks like a spinning ball of air. It was hinted to Skulduggery a while back that he might not be the only person on the Turtle capable of manipulating elements, but until today, he'd had yet to meet one.

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[OPEN] Eshai Memorial Hospital May catch-all

Enjolras: OPEN

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CLOSED to SKULDUGGERY and GENE. may need a healer later though!

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OTA, volunteering for purifying water

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[flagged to Sep, but ask if you want a thread!]

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[OTA]

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