BCH #007: Checking In, Checking Out
Log Title
Summary: Trask checks in for his mandatory medical check-up.
Date: 19 Feb 2041 AE (02/19/2010)
Related Logs: None
Stavrian Trask 

— [ Sickbay ] ------ [ Deck 10 - Battlestar Cerberus ] —

Being able to accommodate combat casualties requires room, and the Sickbay has it. Beds line each side of the room with privacy curtains strung up and readily available. Large vaulted lockers hold access to the supplies at the far end of the area. Nearer the front, a Petty Officer sits ready to dispense simple items like ibuprofen and aspirin. Further to the rear is an area prepped twenty-four hours a day for emergency surgery. To the side are a set of double doors that lead to the Recovery Ward where patients can recuperate.

-=[ Condition Level: 3 - All Clear ]=---------

The rush of initial medical check-ins is largely over, lines having settled down to manageable levels. Marines with training bruises, snipes with sprained fingers and the usual lacerations. White coats and scrubs-clad staff pass through the lobby from door to door, carrying charts and equipment back and forth. At the duty nurse's station, a young blond man sits at the desk filing through some prescription orders.

Lifers tend to not be among those who comprise that initial rush. They've been around long enough to know that they won't be tossed into the brig, or put on toilet scrubbing detail, or even airlocked should they not be checked-out 'zOMG ASAP!'. That kind of thing is left for ensigns, privates, and apprentice crewmen. Not one to dawdle, however, a certain ECO figures it's time to get around to getting checked-out, ergo he's here. A quick survey of the reception area gives way to signing-in and then getting in line.

It's not a long wait. A good thing for some, bad for others. "Trask, Kal." That's the duty nurse calling. "Exam two." He points the ECO to the area, on past the desk and to a gurney with a curtain waiting to be pulled. "Doctor'll be there in a minute. Jacket off, down to the tanks. Don't worry about the trousers."

A two-finger, scout-style salute is offered the nurse in-passing, as if to relay 'Gotcha. Thanks.' As he walks, the jacket is removed and flung over his right shoulder. Reaching Exam Two, aforementioned curtain is then pulled by aforementioned ECO, and Trask steps inside, drawing it closed just far enough to indicate that he's ready to go. Never mind that he quite isn't; he will be by the time the doctor arrives.

Curtain snicks on the ceiling rods, finally. Stavrian has Trask's chart in hand, shoved into his arm by the efficient duty nurse. In scrubs like most of the staff, a royal blue makes the color of his eyes stand out in a startling way. "Lieutenant Trask?"

Lieutenant Trask has stripped down to tanks and trousers, as he had been instructed. He also is lying down on the examination table, using his hands to idly drum on his well-toned mid-section. "Repoooorting…" is the relaxed reply, the pause only there to allow the tappity-tappity-tap to have some extra oomph before his hands still and he concludes, "for duty, sir." Beat. And then he is swift and fluid to sit-up. The slight canting of his head and cocking of one brow amply inquires 'and you are Doctor…?'

"For duty?" Stavrian puts Trask's chart down on the counter, raising an eyebrow. "Are you in the air wing or the new nurse?" He pulls a pen from his pocket, clicking the back of it. A quick scribble records time and date, after a glance at his watch. "I'm not a sir. Junior Lieutnenant Jesse Stavrian, PA-C. You're here for…" Glance at the top. "Check-in?"

"Air Wing, although it seems like you really could use a new nurse, seeing how blondie up front told me a doctor would be here in a minute, and you're not a doctor, although you were here before the end of the allotted timeframe." Kal doesn't seem annoyed, however. Just somewhat cheeky, especially as he adds with a small side-to-side head wobble and a widening of his brown eyes, "So, yanno, 'sir'. But it's cool." Truly, he appears untroubled by this plot-twist. "An' yeah. For duty, as a matter of speaking. The physical exam is mandatory, so I'd be derelict in my duty if I weren't checkin'-in to be checked-out. Medically speaking." Getting checked-out, that is.

Stavrian waits patiently for Trask to finish talking. "Tell you what, Lieutenant. If you go on back out there and shove your head into a table saw, you can come back and get yourself that doctor you always wanted. Until then, you're stuck. 'Kay?" His head quirks left, and he flashes Trask a nice sweet toothy smile, accompanied by a wrinkled nose. As it fades, he pushes in the pump on the wall, squeezing a bit of antiseptic gel onto his hands. "Had any tobacco, caffeine, or strenuous exercise in the last thirty minutes?"

From what lack of emotional response that results, the PA-C could've just as well told the ECO that the toilet is just down the hall and to the left. "Well, first of all, Lieutenant, I've always wanted a dog, not a doc of my very own. I'm sure plenty of OB/GYNs are plenty cute, but I'd still rather have a Gemenese Shepherd. Second of all, my head is so big it barely fits into a Raptor, so there is no way it'll squeeze between the baseboard and the saw guard. So, unless medical keeps chainsaws in wherever you keep cutty things, we're destined to be together." That last bit is spoken with a deadpan romanticism. "Last of all, I wish I had but I have not. For the record, however, I'm all prepped to simultaneously shoot-up some espresso, smoke six unfiltered cigarettes, and do a frakton of squats, all within 15 seconds of being dismissed."

Hands clean, Stavrian rubs them together briskly both to warm and get rid of the last bit of gel. It has that particular smell, one which many associate with hospitals. "And here I thought Viper pilots were supposed to be the ones with deathwishes." He takes Trask's right wrist, fingertips finding the man's radial pulse. Fifteen seconds of counting and it's released, and he reaches over for the blood pressure cuff. "You're with the raptors, aren't you?" He noticed that much from the glance over the chart.

"As long as my swelled head still manages to fit in there." Not even Trask is safe from his tongue. For a smoker in his early 30s, the guy is in good shape. He might die of cancer, one day, but he's been so physically active for so long, he's hale. Genetics undoubtedly play a factor, too. When the wrist is taken, though, Stavrian would likely notice how callused the patient's hand is. Indeed, both look as though they are highly acclimated to manual labor. If the medic is particularly astute, he might also notice an array of long-faded scars along the arms that are consistent with defensive wounds.

What, exactly Stavrian is and isn't noticing about the ECO, who knows. His own hands, burn-scarred as they are, are rougher than one might expect from a Sickbay denizen, not just the usual writing callouses. Blue eyes go back to Trask's face, looking from right eye to left and back. "Is it ego that's the problem? Or are you just full of hot air?" He hasn't smiled again and doesn't now, but there's something about his voice that isn't unkind. "Lift your arm, please." His hand is there to support Trask's elbow, cuff slipped on and velcro'd into place.

"Maybe I'm full of hot air about having a huge ego," is the somewhat glib reply. Likewise, however, it isn't unkind. In contrast, though, that might be a hint of humor in his voice and a smirk so subtle as to be ninja. Regardless, Kal does as he's instructed, looking quite chill.

Stavrian makes a sound that probably would've been a chuckle if it had a smile along with it. He fits the earpieces of his stethoscope in, breathing a quick blast of warm air onto the metal disc before it's pressed onto Trask's brachial artery. The cuff inflates with a few squeezes of the bulb in the PA's hand, then is let deflate. Hiss. Reading taken, he pulls the cuff off with the rip of velcro. "Been in the air wing long, Lieutenant?"

Flexing a little because that band gets uncomfortably tight, Trask remarks, "Long enough to figure out that you're probably a Corpsman." He's seen his share, along with their far from pristine hands. Easing into a more conversational tone, the ECO shares, "Just hit the one year mark, not too long ago." Never mind that the guy is very clearly going on his 33rd birthday, according to the medical chart. "Was stationed aboard the Assaultstar Victory." Which services some of the worst combat zones on Sagittaron, thus some of the worst in all the Colonies. Yet it is relayed with nonchalance. "Transferred here with my pilot, who's also now my Squad Leader. How 'bout you? You plannin' on becomin' a doc?"

"Nope." Stavrian pulls a small penlight from his scrubs top pocket, thumb clicking the back. "Look straight ahead for me, please." He brings the light up, testing Trask's left pupil and then his right. The mention of the Victory gets no outward reaction, even though the PA's accent is strongly Sagittarian. "What were you before you got the flight bug?"

Trask doesn't sound (and likely doesn't act) as though he could be from anywhere other than Tauron. The strongly Sagittarian accent doesn't appear to matter to him, one way or another. "I feel ya." About not becoming a doctor. "It's a totally different beast out there." Combat zones. Briefly, he works his jaw and then scrunches his face, blinking a few times before his expression is again smooth, brushing it off as though he had something tickling his nose. "Well, since my life story obviously doesn't interest you enough to read my record," he lightly ribs, "and since I don't mind hearing myself talk… I was a deckhand for 6 years, specializing in avionics, although I did it all, as was expected for a Cee-Pee-Oh. Before that, it was 6 years in Engineering, mainly working in electrical." The man definitely is a Lifer. "Your turn. What prompted you to enlist?"

"I like stories," Stavrian offers blithely, as to his not reading Trask's whole service jacket. "The telling is an art when done right." Pupils checked, he holds up the penlight vertically and moves it across Trask's field of vision. "Follow this with your eyes, please." Left and right, then right up close to the man's nose to force his eyes to cross. "Altruism and a deeply ingrained sense of duty to my fellow man," he replies, quite deadpanned. Click, off goes the light. "Or the money. I keep forgetting." He reaches behind him, dropping penlight on the counter and picking up his otoscope. Over to Trask's left side he goes. "Enlisted, then they paid for PA school. Electronics, was it. I'm sort of jealous. Everything I touch shorts out." He taps the otoscope against his hand, turning on the light. "Now that I've said that, let me stick this in your ear, here."

"Yeah, well, if ya want an artful tale, find someone from Scorpia or Aquaria," is the equally blithe reply. "If you want bullshit as an artform, definitely go Caprican, although Virgons and Librans are also good alternatives for the cost conscious." Trask is from Tauron. They tend to call it like they see it and not dress it up to make it sound nice. "You mean you actually get paid? Well, shit. That wasn't the case in my day. You kids, you have it made. Not that I can complain, really. Luxury accommodations… gourmet meals…" In spite of the idle threat, he remains unperturbed and just sits there, letting Jesse invade the ear. "Y'know, the last time a guy said that to me, he at least brought me a box of truffles and a lovely bouquet. Your lollipops better be damn good."

Stavrian is scope-deep in Trask's left ear by now, examining his eardrum with the focused beam of light. "They don't suck." Har. He pulls the scope out and moves around to the right side, black proboscis gently pushed in and peered through. "Luxury, really. I haven't been to the air wing's berthings yet. Do they leave chocolates on your pillows?"

It's a small smirk about the suckers. Kal just keeps on rolling, though. "Oh, yeah. The really fancy kind. Monday is mint, which is my favorite. Sunday is the white chocolate, which I don't much care for, so I trade it for more mint, the following day."


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