SD241812.10 - Joint Duty Log - CMO, NPCs (Grey) - ”Rent Asunder”
Posted on Mon Dec 10th, 2018 @ 4:14pm by Brigadier General Jonathan Grey & Lieutenant Commander Irja Niva MD
1,866 words; about a 9 minute read
Mission:
Tremor Trouble
Location: =^=YaDalla Capital=^=
Timeline: Overlapping with the end of YaDalla
The pale half light of an YarDallan dawn stole into the makeshift office through transparent panels in the walls of the enormous tent. Irja woke up with a start. For a moment confused as to where she was and why, she luckily remembered in time to avoid bumping her head into the underside of the table she was sleeping under. There simply were no more beds to go around.
“Dr. Niva” The Vulcan doctor, T’Mir, had noticed her sudden movement and hunched down next to Irja. Her dark hair streaked with gray was gathered in a bun on the back of her head. “All is quiet at the moment, and your shift will not start for an hour yet. You can sleep more.”
Irja considered the offer. “I think I’m pretty awake, thank you. I can take over your shift from here, if you would like?”
“I appreciate your offer, but it is not nessecery. I will be able to continue for at least another day without any urgent need to sleep.”
“Just let me know when you need to rest.”
With a friendly nod, Dr. T’Mir stood up. “I will go and check on the farmer they brought in late last night.”
Irja stretched out for a moment in her Starfleet issue sleeping bag, promising herself, not for the first time, to get her own sleeping bag for times like these. This one was adequate, but no more than that.
She reflected for a moment on the fact that she had really started to like T”Mir. Her quiet competence, dry wit and the solid feeling that they had each other’s back. For a fleeting moment, she desperately wished that the Vulcan doctor was part of her own staff at Versailles.
Irja was experienced enough to realise that part of the feeling came from the closeness that working intensively together during challenging circumstances usually resulted in. She had no indication that the medical staff on the station would not be up to par. Indeed, during the short and uneventful time she spent on the station before all hell broke loose on YaDalla, the crew had given the impression of working like a well-oiled machine. Perhaps that was just it. A well-oiled machine where every part had it’s place. But she was alone. “You chose this yourself.” she muttered to herself. “No use complaining about it now.”
Plus, she just really liked T’Mir.
Irja was up and dressed and just rolling up her sleeping bag when loud noises shattered the quiet morning outside.
Dry rocks clattered across the ground outside as a man in bloodied rags shuffled and clanked across the cracked paving stones. He struggled to put most of his weight on a make-shift crutch, a one-meter pole with cloth wrapped around the top, but a hurried glance behind him drove him to even greater speeds. Ragged breathing passed through his lips, teeth bared in a grimace as stabs of agony fired up his spine.
And yet, his speed only increased.
Bursting through the tent flap, the injured man banged his way past a couple of cargo crates, stumbled over his own crutch, and fell in a tangled heap. A hiss of agony burst past clenched teeth; one hand darting to put pressure on some unseen chest injury. He rolled onto his back and gasped at the pain, wild eyes darting about beneath his dust-streaked hair.
Irja grabbed her medical tricorder and rushed across the room. She kneeled down next to the man on the floor. “Welcome. I’m Dr. Niva.” She flipped the instrument open and moved it across is body in a fluid, practiced motion. “Can you tell me your name?”
"Arrgh, urgh!" he grunted, finally registering the doctor's presence. One hand lashed out to grip her uniform, while the other pressed harder against his abdomen. For a moment the furrows across his brow tightened in wild rage and panic, before the eyes beneath finally alighted on her doctor's uniform.
"Murfurst." he told her, releasing her tunic. Dust and blood left several marks as the hand withdrew from her chest, only to mar it again when he put a hand on her wrist. "Murfurst."
“Well, Murfurst. I can see that you are a bit worse for wear, but don’t worry, you have come to the right place. We will patch you up good as new.”’
With her free hand she closed her tricorder and placed it on her belt. The nurse she met last night, whose name she still didn’t know, had noticed the new arrival and approached with a wheeled examination table. “There’s some internal bleeding, but we should be all right moving him. Can you give me 10 ccs of terakine?” The nurse handed her the hypospray. “Thank you.” She raised the hypospray to the prone man’s neck. “This will take the edge of the pain. You should feel a bit better in a moment.”
The quiet hiss of the hypospray was drowned out by the sound of scraping rock, as another man (younger, with shorter hair) came skidding to a halt in the doorway of the massive tent.
"Hey, is this the Starfleet medical place? Ma'am?" he gasped, remembering his manners at the last second.
“That is right. Please come on in.”
"Great, thanks. Hey guys!" he shouted out the doorway, waving with both of his arms. "Over here! This way!"
In moments the doorway was full, as a surge of people came staggering in, covered in dust and blood. A woman with hair in a shawl carried a pair of babies, who were eerily silent. Children clustered around adults, some streaked with blood, and some crying loudly with fear and uncertainty.
One woman, wearing a short skirt and a low-necked top, wore a glazed expression as she entered the tent. A young child was leading her by the hand, biting his nails as he stumbled over uncertain feet.
As the crowd entered Dr. Niva glanced around the room with some trepidation, taking in all the beds that were currently occupied and the tired faces of her coworkers. She was suddenly very glad that they at least had had a few quiet hours in the night. She tapped her com badge, calling T’Mir. “We have a lot of company.” She warned.
The ragged man from earlier tapped the doctor on the wrist again, speaking a little slower this time, but no less firmly.
"Mur furst. Nur thum. Mur." he said, slowly, pointing to himself, the crowd, and then himself again as he slurred his way through his words.
Irja furrowed her brow, trying to piece together some sense out of the words. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.” She told him gently. Glancing up at the crowd, she asked. “What does he mean?”
"Hello George. Warm-hearted as always, I see." said an elderly gentleman, with a dry tone. White hair lay threadbare across his bruised scalp, and bemused eyes twinkled above a wry smile. His arm was bound in a sling, tied tightly to his chest, and the other arm raised in a friendly hello to the doctor.
"I believe George is saying that he wishes to be treated first. Mur furst. Me first." he explained, translating the raggedy man's mumbled demands.
The dust-covered miser on the table parted his lips to croak another demand, but a violent shift in the ground interrupted him before he could speak. Though briefly glad that they wouldn't have to endure more selfish mumbling, the crowd became restless when the shaking didn't subside as usual. Instead, it continued to build, vibrating through their feet to rattle their bones.
A scream split the air as the ground jerked to the side, sending old and young alike to the ground. A few were luck enough to scramble under tables as ceiling panels from the temporary shelter started to tumble down. Made of a lightweight material, the squares still packed a wallop when they struck the assembled masses, striking down those who were foolish enough to try and flee, and beating a thunderous tattoo of drums on the gurneys and table-tops that littered the area.
Volunteers and doctors alike scrambled to shelter the patients as best they were able, some too weak to be moved under cover. More than one volunteer suffered a clout to the head, but the denser metal frame of the shelter would be far less forgiving, and could not be too far behind.
Blood dripping over one eye, George stared up through the growing holes in the ceiling, his teeth clenched at what he saw.
All around them, the skyscrapers that had survived nature's wrath thus far were finally giving up the ghost. A few collapsed where they stood, having the decency to fall in one spot, leaving a tidy pile. Waves of twinkling lights ripples through the fractured windows up and down the city blocks as anyone with a working transporter fused coils and burned dilithium to save as many as they could.
Whether it would be enough, it was impossible to tell.
The closest building was the Borgium; an ancient tower block filled with old families and old money. Reinforced and hardened to withstand even an orbital strike, it had long stood as one of the few symbols of permanence in this world of tree-houses. Existing long before the city had been constructed, it seemed fitting that only now, at the very end, it should be among the last to fall.
Another crack rippled through the air as the tectonic plates groaned with the strain of containing the uncontainable, and one vast fault line ripped its way through the earth as the very plate under the city snapped in two. Suddenly deprived of the foundations on one side, concrete broke and steel tore loose as the entire Borgium tilted on one side, casting a deep shadow over the smaller citadel occupied by the medical team.
George looked up in horror as swift death approached, with the force-field protecting the medics barely visible as it flashed and failed in a moment.
An instant later, the Borgium struck the earth with a roar heard by none.
=^= Low orbit, Medical Bay =^=
Gasping, George jerked up in his bed, looking around in fear and surprise. One moment he had been about to die, and now....
"Easy there! Easy." one of the nurses said to him, laying a calming hand on the man's shoulder. The room was now absolutely packed with people and supplies, and they couldn't afford for anyone to panic.
From volunteers to Versailles medical staff, every square foot of floor space had a person standing on it or lying on it. A few trickled out of the room to make space, but even the hallway outside was thick with people trying to get in, and seek medical attention. The nurse frowned as she turned to face the crowd, trying to triage in her head, and identify those requiring immediate aid.
George reached forwards, and tapped the nurse on the shoulder.
"Mur furst."
=^= End of Log =^=
Lieutenant Commander Irja Niva MD
Chief Medical Officer
Starbase Versailles
&&
George (NPC Grey)
Selfish Git
Civilian
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