Ensign Doz Finch - Spiel of a Magpie
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Doz Finch
Jan 11, 2023, 8:43:31 PM1/11/23
to sb118-...@googlegroups.com, Doz Finch
((Sickbay, USS Gorkon))
Doctors Namura and Loxley must have come upon a spare moment of respite in the eddy of end-days patients flowing in from the planet below; she had half wondered if the physical appointment would have been cancelled, all things considered. But compounding duties was a particular skill that all doctors and medics alike seemed well-skilled in; it was something she did admire. That extremely particular ability to carry three tasks at once, despite only having two sets of hands—unless of course you counted Caitian’s who had enviable tails.
Namura pointed in the direction of an office within which Doz suspected her eyeballs, as perfectly operational as the day they gestated, would be the subject of an interrogation that would put the Spanish Inquisition to shame. After all, Namura had just injected something into her neck, and whatever the substance, she imagined it gave her a boost of confidence–a bit unnerving, she thought–the likes of which one inhaled before heading into battle, scalpel-wielding.
But the only battle currently taking place was the one within Finch’s very own mind; and by god, she wished it would shut up. Sickbay wasn’t as bad as she had anticipated, and although the coppery scent of blood lingered on the air–or so her nose believed–it wasn’t unbearable.
But the longer she spent there, the riskier it felt. Too easy it was to remember the passing of Mur….the passing of Murp…
She swallowed. Then she jumped off the biobed, militaristically adjusting her posture in tow. With a sharp point to the office–to acknowledge Namura’s request, and as if to focus her own attention–she strode over, chin lifted high.
Namura: Take a seat, would you, Ensign? It shouldn't take long. Warp speed, as you say.
Finch: Now isn’t this cosy? ::she said, looking around:: could do with a sprucing up though. A bit of wallpaper, or a frame. A little board game nook in the corner there wouldn’t go amiss either.
Loxley: I’ll get the door.
As the room darkened, so too did the windows, glazing themselves over with that particular Sickbay window frostiness; reminiscent of black ice.
Namura: You said you use ocular enhancers for your daily work. Have you ever thought about undergoing cell regeneration?
Finch: That’s right, I do. But I use them to make bigger things really small; they’re brilliant when I need to do nano-repairs, things like that. ::she turned to Loxley with wide eyes:: but they’ve always turned my eyes grey, when I wear them. I left them in when I met the Admiral and the First Officer. Might surprise them when they see me next. But cell regeneration? No, no, I don’t need that. ::she squinted:: Unless It’ll give me laser eyes—wouldn't shy away from a set of laser eyes.
Namura: Nothing so harsh, unless you really want the engineers to tremble with fear before you. Laser eyes and phaser hands are what I'd associate with security. ::The device in her hand beeped and she handed it to Loxley.:: Have you had any headaches recently? Any soreness of the facial features?
Finch: Only the usual headaches, nothing out of the ordinary. Only if I stare at something for too long, but I've always thought it was more to do with the lack of sleep.
Suddenly her expression changed and her skin wettened a touch; she had slipped up.
Finch: Look, I'm a bit of an insomniac–always have been–nothing all together serious. I’m as fit as fiddle!
As Namura–placid as she seemed–collated the information and prepared the equipment, the other Doctor, Loxley, worked more quietly, doing his own collating. Whatever he was reading, Finch knew it was full of nonsense and hearsay. She’s sixty, starting to lose it. Has issues with her eyesight, won’t accept any help for it. Not to mention all those accidents she had had on the Marigold in those last few months. A string of small mishaps—completely unlike her, but could anyone have blamed her after what had happened there?
Namura: Response
Finch: Forty or so minutes, here and there. I do sleep but it’s as and when. ::she placed her hands on her knees again, gripping them tightly with a nervous smile:: it’s healthy for the body, I’ve heard. ::she leaned over to Loxley and winked:: Often better than sleeping, is a good nap!
Namura: Response
Finch: No, no, no... no medication needed. Best not to waste it on me, when there are people who need it more.
Namura/Loxley: Response
Finch: Where am I looking, there? ::she squinted at the image holographically floating in front of her, with a table of letters in all different shapes and sizes::
Namura/Loxley: Response
Finch: I can read the top three lines, but the bottom one’s in Tellarite, which is a bit unfair, isn’t it?
It was not, in fact, in Tellarite. It was just really small.
Namura/Loxley: Response
Finch read the first three lines quite well, and gave the bottom two rows a good go, getting a couple right, and a couple completely off, though she was convinced that she had gotten them all right, smiling with satisfaction afterwards. As was her own ignorance; her eyes functioned adequately, and her squinting truly was just the byproduct of years of hard focus and bad habits. But she had wondered over time if her eyes had become somewhat reliant on the enhancers; if they had developed an expectation, a dependence on them, which was a sickening thought. Finch had never dependend on anything or anyone.
Doctors Namura and Loxley must have come upon a spare moment of respite in the eddy of end-days patients flowing in from the planet below; she had half wondered if the physical appointment would have been cancelled, all things considered. But compounding duties was a particular skill that all doctors and medics alike seemed well-skilled in; it was something she did admire. That extremely particular ability to carry three tasks at once, despite only having two sets of hands—unless of course you counted Caitian’s who had enviable tails.
Namura pointed in the direction of an office within which Doz suspected her eyeballs, as perfectly operational as the day they gestated, would be the subject of an interrogation that would put the Spanish Inquisition to shame. After all, Namura had just injected something into her neck, and whatever the substance, she imagined it gave her a boost of confidence–a bit unnerving, she thought–the likes of which one inhaled before heading into battle, scalpel-wielding.
But the only battle currently taking place was the one within Finch’s very own mind; and by god, she wished it would shut up. Sickbay wasn’t as bad as she had anticipated, and although the coppery scent of blood lingered on the air–or so her nose believed–it wasn’t unbearable.
But the longer she spent there, the riskier it felt. Too easy it was to remember the passing of Mur….the passing of Murp…
She swallowed. Then she jumped off the biobed, militaristically adjusting her posture in tow. With a sharp point to the office–to acknowledge Namura’s request, and as if to focus her own attention–she strode over, chin lifted high.
Namura: Take a seat, would you, Ensign? It shouldn't take long. Warp speed, as you say.
Finch: Now isn’t this cosy? ::she said, looking around:: could do with a sprucing up though. A bit of wallpaper, or a frame. A little board game nook in the corner there wouldn’t go amiss either.
Loxley: I’ll get the door.
As the room darkened, so too did the windows, glazing themselves over with that particular Sickbay window frostiness; reminiscent of black ice.
Namura: You said you use ocular enhancers for your daily work. Have you ever thought about undergoing cell regeneration?
Finch: That’s right, I do. But I use them to make bigger things really small; they’re brilliant when I need to do nano-repairs, things like that. ::she turned to Loxley with wide eyes:: but they’ve always turned my eyes grey, when I wear them. I left them in when I met the Admiral and the First Officer. Might surprise them when they see me next. But cell regeneration? No, no, I don’t need that. ::she squinted:: Unless It’ll give me laser eyes—wouldn't shy away from a set of laser eyes.
Namura: Nothing so harsh, unless you really want the engineers to tremble with fear before you. Laser eyes and phaser hands are what I'd associate with security. ::The device in her hand beeped and she handed it to Loxley.:: Have you had any headaches recently? Any soreness of the facial features?
Finch: Only the usual headaches, nothing out of the ordinary. Only if I stare at something for too long, but I've always thought it was more to do with the lack of sleep.
Suddenly her expression changed and her skin wettened a touch; she had slipped up.
Finch: Look, I'm a bit of an insomniac–always have been–nothing all together serious. I’m as fit as fiddle!
As Namura–placid as she seemed–collated the information and prepared the equipment, the other Doctor, Loxley, worked more quietly, doing his own collating. Whatever he was reading, Finch knew it was full of nonsense and hearsay. She’s sixty, starting to lose it. Has issues with her eyesight, won’t accept any help for it. Not to mention all those accidents she had had on the Marigold in those last few months. A string of small mishaps—completely unlike her, but could anyone have blamed her after what had happened there?
Namura: Response
Finch: Forty or so minutes, here and there. I do sleep but it’s as and when. ::she placed her hands on her knees again, gripping them tightly with a nervous smile:: it’s healthy for the body, I’ve heard. ::she leaned over to Loxley and winked:: Often better than sleeping, is a good nap!
Namura: Response
Finch: No, no, no... no medication needed. Best not to waste it on me, when there are people who need it more.
Namura/Loxley: Response
Finch: Where am I looking, there? ::she squinted at the image holographically floating in front of her, with a table of letters in all different shapes and sizes::
Namura/Loxley: Response
Finch: I can read the top three lines, but the bottom one’s in Tellarite, which is a bit unfair, isn’t it?
It was not, in fact, in Tellarite. It was just really small.
Namura/Loxley: Response
Finch read the first three lines quite well, and gave the bottom two rows a good go, getting a couple right, and a couple completely off, though she was convinced that she had gotten them all right, smiling with satisfaction afterwards. As was her own ignorance; her eyes functioned adequately, and her squinting truly was just the byproduct of years of hard focus and bad habits. But she had wondered over time if her eyes had become somewhat reliant on the enhancers; if they had developed an expectation, a dependence on them, which was a sickening thought. Finch had never dependend on anything or anyone.
She exhaled, eyes crossed over in thought. A moments thought.
This wouldn't do, the sooner she could crack on with her day, the better.
Finch: Come on, then! Next test. Tell me it's one of those colour tests, where you’ve got to read a number but it’s all camouflaged in little multicoloured dots. I’ve done one of them before. Doctor Ziao–the Chief Medical officer on the Marigold–did one on me too. Had the same suspicions you did. I told him he’d be swallowing his words once the test was over. ::she harrumphed:: Horrible man, had it all wrong he did. Nutritional specialist. Always blamed bad health on what we consumed, as if genetics didn't play a part, or stress or anything else. Told him, you could spend your life drinking gasoline, and still live to see a hundred, with the right genes.
Her brummie accent chattered on like a magpie throughout the examination, filling the dark room with her distracting spiel; portents of her plot to escape Sickbay at a moments notice, if convincing enough.
Finch: Come on, then! Next test. Tell me it's one of those colour tests, where you’ve got to read a number but it’s all camouflaged in little multicoloured dots. I’ve done one of them before. Doctor Ziao–the Chief Medical officer on the Marigold–did one on me too. Had the same suspicions you did. I told him he’d be swallowing his words once the test was over. ::she harrumphed:: Horrible man, had it all wrong he did. Nutritional specialist. Always blamed bad health on what we consumed, as if genetics didn't play a part, or stress or anything else. Told him, you could spend your life drinking gasoline, and still live to see a hundred, with the right genes.
Her brummie accent chattered on like a magpie throughout the examination, filling the dark room with her distracting spiel; portents of her plot to escape Sickbay at a moments notice, if convincing enough.
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