PHD #396: We're All Tumbled Down
We're All Tumbled Down
Summary: The Sickness claims its first victim.
Date: 29 March 2042 AE
Related Logs: Contagious Party
Bran Circe Clamps DeMaratus 
Quarantine Ward
A hastily erected ward created by sealing off a fifth of the recovery room with a temporary bulkhead, the battlestar's new quarantine zone has enough space for about fifty patients, though fifty more beds can be crammed inside at the expense of patient comfort and privacy. A long faux-wood folding table at the front of the compartment is stocked periodically with tea, coffee, and three square physician-approved meals. Four portable toilets stand at the other end, their blue plastic sides and polished steel bowls cleaned altogether too many times a day for the ship's janitors' liking. Access to the room is restricted to doctors, nurses, and orderlies, though visitors are permitted to enter the premises provided they wear HAZMAT suits.
Post-Holocaust Day: #396

With so many cases of 'space flu' - including two senior officers of the Air Wing - the Quarantine Ward has been excessively busy. So much so that the doctors have been practically falling over themselves to try and treat everyone as well as enlisted the help of anyone with the most basic of medical knowledge to assist them. DeMaratus is making his rounds at the moment, checking on some of the patients who are still talkative and making a few marks on their charts as he goes.

Standing over an unresponsive's bed, Circe is busy making a few notes and checking vitals. A gloved hand reaches down to grasp at the wrist of the woman who is overly pale. Her hazel eyes lower to the wrist watch as she takes the pulse for the next thirty seconds. Curls are pulled and slicked back to keep them from her face and a slow shift of her foot brings her hand down when done. Writing down the information, she then takes the woman's temperature after setting down the clipboard.

Bran is tired, perpetually so. There's the drowsiness, the loss of appetite, the chills: The Space Flu. It all started with a rash. It's one that he casually looks to in lifting his left arm into the light above, currently laid up in one of the beds. Ennui. It's hard to even keep focus while feeling so physically frail and soon enough the hand is dropped down to his side while he looks elsewhere, corners of his eyes tightening as he tries to look out to the rest of the world. There's a nearby doctor-type and so the Lieutenant begins to try and sit up, groaning under his breath in the process. "Hey," he pauses. Being so hoarse, he finds his voice foreign, and clears his throat. "Hey, is Jugs and the baby okay with all of this?"

"If she's been staying off the deck," DeMaratus answers, glancing up a moment from the chart he's writing on before he deposits it back at the end of the bed, "She should be okay. The sickness seems to be centralized there for now." That done, he moves over to the bed of the comatose Laramy and has a glance over her chart. However, something catches his eye and he immediately drops it - the chart clattering noisily to the floor as he runs to her side and grabs her wrist, his eyes going wide, "Frak!"

The exclamation draws Circe's head up and she hurries around the curtains and then over towards DeMaratus. She is tugging up her stethoscope as soon as she catches sight of her. Worry creases her brow, but the medic remains call. She places it down against her upper chest and listens for a heartbeat. Her gaze flits up to the doctor. "Sir.." She trails off.

Sam Bran is able to sit up and he nods, closing his eyes. Something regarding the Lords of Kobol is murmured under his breath, near-incoherently. He starts to speak up or at least look to when there's commotion and clattering charts with him lazily looking down the row of beds to the one two over. Too tired to do too much, he knits his eyebrows and looks on slack jawed: "Hey, what's wrong?" He's trying to stand up from the bed now in order to help, because he's pretty sure he can help if he can just stand up.

There is no heartbeat heard when Circe puts the stethoscope to the chest of the previously-comatose Laramy, no sound at all. For all intents and purposes, she’s dead. But that doesn’t mean DeMaratus is about to give up on her. The doctor points at Circe, assuming copious medical knowledge, and demands of her: "Intubate!" That said, he plants his hands on the crewman’s chest and immediately attempts to kickstart her heart via CPR.

About to tell Bran to sit back, she is given her order. Circe nods her head and finds herself responding despite her nervousness. Turning about, she moves off to grab the tubing needed to execute th intubation. She is back within seconds and moves to Laramy's head. Fingers press past her lips and open her mouth as her right hand starts to guide the tube down into her throat, moving slowly as it bends and presses deeper to keep her air passages open. "In, sir." She proclaims.

Bran isn't told to sit and he sure does try to stand up. He's able to get onto both of his feet and lean hesitantly forward before reaching out to his side with both hands, holding onto the edge of the bed while he glances down. He then shifts his gaze to the side and towards the dying Laramy and the doctors surrounding her. "Hey!" It's his favorite word right now, really. "She's going to be okay, right?" He tries a second time to stand up straight and though the world feels like rolling backwards the ECO blinks, blinks again, and holds himself there.

DeMaratus does nothing by halves, and that’s clear in the way he puts his all into giving the ailing Laramy CPR. He doesn’t look up to answer Bran, entirely focused on the job at hand, and leans back only long enough to let Circe pump air into the patient’s lungs. Things do not appear to be going his way, however, as all Laramy seems to do is turn a forbidding shade of blue about the lips.

Breathing through the tube, Circe looks to the woman's face below her. Drawing back, "Compress." She says to DeMaratus and her eyes lift to look at Bran. "Get back in bed, sir. Please." She intones, but her attention is given back to the woman. "Come on girl.." Whispers the corpsman. She draws a breath, hoping for a response at the very least.

It doesn't look like Mister Bran wants to acknowledge being told to get back in bed since that's been his home for the past couple of days. Instead, he focuses on Circe as the pair continues to work on Laramy. "She's not dead, is she?"

It’s a losing battle by the look of it, and after a time all DeMaratus can do is take a step back and upend the tray of instruments near the bed and send them clattering noisily across the floor. And, on top of that, he kicks the stand that was supporting it. He’s mad, that’s for certain, but the brief fit of rage subsides and he lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and says, flatly, "Time of death, 3:22 PM."

Withdrawing the tube, she flinches as the instruments are thrown about. Circe does not comment, but instead disposes of the tube and moves to record the time of death on the chart. The mask is drawn back up over her face and she gives a look up at DeMaratus from the corner of her eyes. "Sir, I can finish up here if you want to go grab something to drink." She offers before taking the chart and calling over some more medics to move Laramy out into the morgue.

The Lieutenant watches the doctors give up in treatment and he looks to the woman lying there, flinching a second after more things are tossed and clatter about. He breathes out with a lengthened exhale and begins to take a couple hobbling steps forward, left hand draped over the front of the hospital gown worn. His right is reaching out to his side for the bed until he comes to its end. Without a crutch beyond, he settles in standing there, watching the pair closely and occasionally looking over to Laramy. More doctorlies are arriving. Bran ignores them. "Is that going to happen to all of us?"

DeMaratus shakes his head, reaching for his pocket almost on instinct before internally chastising himself and instead reaching over to take the chart and apply his signature to it. When he hears the question from Bran he glances up, frowns slightly and then turns to Circe, "No." He doesn’t make it clear whose question he is answering, "I want to get a team down in the hangar deck to take samples of anything and everything. Even get right inside the environmental systems. I know it’s something down there."

It is Bran that draws the corpsman's attention. Circe moves towards him as DeMaratus refuses. "Not if you rest. Being up and about stresses. Please lie back down sir." She instructs once more before hazel eyes slide over towards the Doctor once more. "Sir, I can get that organized." Its an indirect way of trying to get him to relax some more. The crewman waits, watching him with care as she judges his reponses.

Bran looks at them hard, or as roughly as a sickly guy can do. He demands an answer! Although, when one comes, he isn't quite sure if it was even directed at him and so he looks from DeMaratus to Lagana and switches his gaze between the two. His focus begins to concentrate on Circe now that she is trying to get him back in bed. He lingers in place for a moment longer and then reluctantly begins to meander back toward the head of his bed in order to collapse back into it. Along the way, he's speaking up distractedly, "I've been resting for days now. I haven't Kallistei or Quinn in just as long. You try laying here forever, communing for swift recovery, anything." He mutters the rest incoherently while trying to get in without actually collapsing. His body feels paperlight and awkward without his strength.

DeMaratus sighs, leaning back against the wall for a moment, "I’ll help you." He’s clearly not interested in relaxing, and he takes a deep breath before looking towards the door, "I want to get a close look at everything down there." Bran’s outburst seems to wash past him like water, and he barely even glances in his direction – lost in his own thoughts, apparently.

"Pilot." Circe says, already stretched thing. "If you complain once more, then I will mark you for being unique. Everyone here is worried and tired. Please do not make our jobs harder than they already are." Her hazel eyes rest on him and sternly marks his path back to his bed before she steps over towards DeMaratus. A hand lifts to his arm. "Sir, I need you to sign off on the time.." Medics are covering Laramy and wheeling her away and the corpsman specifically does not look.

Bran climbs into bed and folds his arms over his chest as best he can. He lifts his chin a bit out of idle defiance before speaking up, "Not a pilot." He is fairly unique and he is also fairly tired after just standing up for a couple of minutes which leads into his shutting up and keeping relatively stilled. So he quietly watches the others.

"Yes, sir." Intones the crewman and takes the clipboard back to hug it to her and move off to continue the rounds. One of the beds is missing now and her gaze strays to the open curtained area where Laramy had been. She had found the woman herself and brought her in. Now she was dead. The corpsman moves to a table and begins to fill out the rest of the paperwork to detail the loss of the crewman.

Bran looks over and watches as DeMaratus begins to depart from the area. The ECO turns to look at his surroundings some and then relaxes some, thanks to not being able to do anything but that. He's still quiet but that doesn't last too long now that he's regarding Circe. "What," something makes him pause and looks to where Laramy had been, "What does being unique mean around here?"

Bran's question brings Circe's gaze up towards him. "It was sarcasm, sir." She intones. Her gaze studies him and she moves over in his direction. "Everyone here is suffering or complaining. When on top of having to deal with your symptoms and sickness alone, it runs us down. But when we have to try to keep you in bed and assuage your wears us down further." She says past her mask.

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