Ensign Doz Finch - The Camel's Back
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Doz Finch
Dec 30, 2022, 5:59:38 PM12/30/22
to sb118-...@googlegroups.com, Doz Finch
((Corridor Outside Sickbay, Deck 7, USS Gorkon))
Doreen Finch stood on the precipice of the cold doors separating herself and the main medical centre aboard the Gorkon. From her point of view, standing carefully and boldly in a corridor filled with passing medics, little stirred her olfactory senses, except for the precise smell of dust dredging finely upwards from the permeable carpets beneath her—just how she preferred it.
It was nothing to do with her primordial nostrils; her nose was more than efficient, thank you very much. In fact, her pinprick nose hairs worked so efficiently that she could literally smell the spores billowing up from the flouncing feet that passed her by. But those soft smells paled in comparison to what lingered on the other side of those disagreeable sickbay doors.
Inside those doors–square harbingers of death–quivered scents the likes of which she hated the most. The unmistakable stench of antiseptic with undertones of artificial soap. A malodorous concoction whipped together to sanitise and subdue those all too obvious tales of the flesh; scents that tormented, teased and agitated the pinprick hairs. The bitterness of a bruise, the mustiness of blood, the deteriorating fragrance of a decaying bouquet, dropping its petals minute by minute upon a side table.
She wasn’t a heartless woman, by any measure. My god, she really wasn't. No; in times of strife and woe, she was always the first to volunteer herself, to make herself useful, a small but spare hand among many. She wasn’t afraid of death, or dying, and she was most certainly not afraid of those that were. It was the inaction of those things that disturbed her—it was the decline of a person’s sense of self, their pride, their drive to keep on going. The all too willing acclimation of end-days, and the downtroddenness that came with it. It all reminded her too much of her mother Iris and those last few years, even now, forty odd years on.
And doctors loved to agonise themselves, and antagonise her. If it wasn’t a nutrient deficiency, it was her lack of sleep. If it wasn’t her lack of sleep, then it was her proclivity for chewing on metals. If it wasn’t this, then it was that. This and that and this and that. For years she entertained doctors and their bloody annoying stethoscopes, letting them prod and poke her chest, listening in to her heart as if sending a probe out into an undiscovered region of space; a vast expanse of asteroids or a vibrant pinkish nebulae as far as the eyes could see, within which a beating sound could promise a trophy worthy of taking home.
It’s impossible, Doctor Yibim had told her. It’s improbable, said Doctor Chasuk. Despite her diet–lamentable as it was–and her insomnolence, she remained energised, upbeat, and as capable as ever of doing her job. Evidence that she was made of the very material she was charged with maintaining—But when Doctor Ziao told her she had to pack in the English tea in favour of more herbal ones, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Still, nothing good ever came from standing idly by in a corridor. She had work to press on with, pipes to dismount, relays to adjust. She had a job to do, and this examination was the only thing between her and it at that moment. With a long and hard inhale, and an even longer and harder exhale, Doz checked the time on a nearby chronometer, then strode forwards and through the now whooshing doors to Sickbay.
Doreen Finch stood on the precipice of the cold doors separating herself and the main medical centre aboard the Gorkon. From her point of view, standing carefully and boldly in a corridor filled with passing medics, little stirred her olfactory senses, except for the precise smell of dust dredging finely upwards from the permeable carpets beneath her—just how she preferred it.
It was nothing to do with her primordial nostrils; her nose was more than efficient, thank you very much. In fact, her pinprick nose hairs worked so efficiently that she could literally smell the spores billowing up from the flouncing feet that passed her by. But those soft smells paled in comparison to what lingered on the other side of those disagreeable sickbay doors.
Inside those doors–square harbingers of death–quivered scents the likes of which she hated the most. The unmistakable stench of antiseptic with undertones of artificial soap. A malodorous concoction whipped together to sanitise and subdue those all too obvious tales of the flesh; scents that tormented, teased and agitated the pinprick hairs. The bitterness of a bruise, the mustiness of blood, the deteriorating fragrance of a decaying bouquet, dropping its petals minute by minute upon a side table.
She wasn’t a heartless woman, by any measure. My god, she really wasn't. No; in times of strife and woe, she was always the first to volunteer herself, to make herself useful, a small but spare hand among many. She wasn’t afraid of death, or dying, and she was most certainly not afraid of those that were. It was the inaction of those things that disturbed her—it was the decline of a person’s sense of self, their pride, their drive to keep on going. The all too willing acclimation of end-days, and the downtroddenness that came with it. It all reminded her too much of her mother Iris and those last few years, even now, forty odd years on.
And doctors loved to agonise themselves, and antagonise her. If it wasn’t a nutrient deficiency, it was her lack of sleep. If it wasn’t her lack of sleep, then it was her proclivity for chewing on metals. If it wasn’t this, then it was that. This and that and this and that. For years she entertained doctors and their bloody annoying stethoscopes, letting them prod and poke her chest, listening in to her heart as if sending a probe out into an undiscovered region of space; a vast expanse of asteroids or a vibrant pinkish nebulae as far as the eyes could see, within which a beating sound could promise a trophy worthy of taking home.
It’s impossible, Doctor Yibim had told her. It’s improbable, said Doctor Chasuk. Despite her diet–lamentable as it was–and her insomnolence, she remained energised, upbeat, and as capable as ever of doing her job. Evidence that she was made of the very material she was charged with maintaining—But when Doctor Ziao told her she had to pack in the English tea in favour of more herbal ones, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Still, nothing good ever came from standing idly by in a corridor. She had work to press on with, pipes to dismount, relays to adjust. She had a job to do, and this examination was the only thing between her and it at that moment. With a long and hard inhale, and an even longer and harder exhale, Doz checked the time on a nearby chronometer, then strode forwards and through the now whooshing doors to Sickbay.
((Sickbay, USS Gorkon))
She was met not by all those hideous smells she foretold in her mind, but the oddly pleasant image of medics smiling at their new and grateful patients, in a long and warm room, enough to wash away any preconceived notion.
At least until the grilling.
With the information she had read about the Chief Medical Officer, she approached a woman taller than she was, with dark features, proffering to her a wide smile that almost suffocated her beady almond shaped eyes.
Finch: Doctor Namura! I’m Ensign Doreen Finch—Doz. ::she held out her hand to shake:: Pleased to meet you. I’m here just on the clock for my physical, and not a moment later.
oO Or sooner Oo
Namura: Response
At least until the grilling.
With the information she had read about the Chief Medical Officer, she approached a woman taller than she was, with dark features, proffering to her a wide smile that almost suffocated her beady almond shaped eyes.
Finch: Doctor Namura! I’m Ensign Doreen Finch—Doz. ::she held out her hand to shake:: Pleased to meet you. I’m here just on the clock for my physical, and not a moment later.
oO Or sooner Oo
Namura: Response
She turned to the other Doctor, chin held up and eyes squinted to get a good look at him.
Finch: Ah! Hello Doctor Loxley. ::her hand stretched outwards again:: How are you? No, really, how are you?
Namura/Loxely: Response
Finch: It shouldn’t take even a fraction of a minute–it’s honestly a bit of a waste of time–I’m the picture of health! Always have been.
Finch: Ah! Hello Doctor Loxley. ::her hand stretched outwards again:: How are you? No, really, how are you?
Namura/Loxely: Response
Finch: It shouldn’t take even a fraction of a minute–it’s honestly a bit of a waste of time–I’m the picture of health! Always have been.
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