i n t e r l i n k e d

---- TOM, Team Paramedic

[paramedic-tom-blog]

nacremcnamara‌

     “Sure,” they said, adjusting their posture in their seat so they could lean forward and stick a hand out for him. A few questions, a few tests, and it’d be over with, hopefully without too many intrusions: they were used to this, they’d had to take probably half a dozen more medical tests than anyone else before getting their place on the team, and they’d spent almost two years after their injury dealing with Vodin’s doctors, just checking in. They’d give him the answers he wanted to hear. “Eight hours a night. Working hard, so I drop off like a rock the second I’m back to my bunk.”

He clamped the thermometer to their outstretched finger, the readings being automatically sent to his tablet for him to analyze later. “I have to take a bit of blood now. It’s only a pin prick. Is that alright?” The sample didn’t need to be any larger than a drop. Nodding at their reply, he removed the clamp. “Any pain? Unusual fatigue? Respiratory anomalies?” He expected a veiled truth, if a truth at all— no one was ever truly honest with medical personnel. He’d learned over time to try and find what truth he could in small tells; a flicker of pain, a lopsided gait.

[paramedic-tom-blog]

johanpetterson‌:

Johan felt uncomfortable by the weight of the other man’s stare, he often felt this way when faced with any sort of health care professional. In his vast experience, they only bore bad news– your leg now has titanium pins in it, you’re concussed, we’re releasing you from the mission early. The question made him snicker, “Like one of those temples in Erebus that they’ve gotta hose down after a long weekend.” The engineer rubbed at his cheekbone. “Can you sign me up for a dose of Vitamin C or something? Wouldn’t wanna get sickly.”

Tom shook his head slightly at the crude joke as he reached into his bag for his tablet. His finger print scanned in the reader and he opened up Petterson’s file—a document that was filled with the dry reports made by combat medics like he’d once been, indicating a lengthy career in the military. “It says here you haven’t had your immunity booster shot.” He looked up at the man, a smile twitching on his usually serious face, “It’s like a candy multivitamin, but for adults.” Tucking away the tablet, Tom nodded towards the medical facility. “Might as well get it all done in one go. You need your base line tests too.”

[paramedic-tom-blog]

nacremcnamara‌:

     “Questions, sure,” they said, sitting back, setting the gun down. “Though I don’t know how medical my concerns’ll be,” they added, patting the bulk of metal strapped at the side of their thigh: the suspension on their legs hadn’t been adjusted fully, yet, for the slight difference between Arcadia’s gravity and Terra Nova’s, so they were stuck walking around like an old man with arthritis until one of the engineers had a spare minute or two to take a look at it. Other than that, they’d found the adjustment pretty unremarkable: distracted enough by work to get through the adjustment shock they might have expected. As it stood, they were a little tired, a little cranky from cryo, and a little bored that they hadn’t had the chance to get out an explore yet. The rest was only natural. 

“Can I take your temperature?” He asked softly, reaching into the bag slung over his shoulder. He pulled out a small kit, that when opened displayed a small screen set into the lid, as well as a variety of tools inside. “You just have to extend your hand.” The thermometer clamped onto the tip of the thumb, and it would also measure blood pressure and heart rate and send them instantly to the data bank at the main medical centre. He was trying not to compare Arcadia to the memories he had of care done against the backdrop of a war-- this was a new beginning. He was something new. “How many hours are you sleeping?” 

[paramedic-tom-blog]

johanpetterson‌:

“Now that sounds to me like the opinion of a medical professional. Are you one of the docs?” He made no effort to raise himself from his reclined position, but he grinned, offering a hand. Light eyes cast down at the name embroidered onto the other man’s shirt, “Nice to meet ya Tom, I’m Johan. Engineer.” His own tag read Pettersen, and he offered that too, a natural pronunciation wrapping around the syllables. “You seem to have well adjusted, do they have something in the med tent for that?”

“Not quite.” He didn’t bother to make the full correction-- there was only a small medical team, he’d figure it out eventually. He came closer, the scent of the burning cigarette wedged between the man’s fingertips sharp against his sensitive senses-- they were still calibrating properly, trying to reach the appropriate balance. Tom nodded at the introduction. He knew the man’s name and his position. He also knew most of the intricacies of his medical history-- how his father died of a heart attack and his aunt had diabetes. He could see from the shade of purple brushed under his eyes that he wasn’t sleeping right, a side effect of cryosleep and the intensive work schedule. “Melatonin and a vitamin shot. Are you treating your body like a temple?”

[paramedic-tom-blog]

Construction of the medical facility had completed earlier that week. The tent was one of the more substantial structures on the grounds, with the interior sectioned off into neat rooms. The process of transferring and calibrating equipment to the newly built examination, treatment and quarantine rooms had been more intensive than they anticipated— Vodin had sent top of the line technology. The mandated base medical assessments for the entire crew had been overwhelming, but the small medical team had managed. The questions and tests were standard, and a few samples were taken. Tom found himself slipping into an easy rhythm as he took temperatures and recorded blood pressure. This was a comfortable place to be— too busy to require any introspection.

What was proving to be the most challenging was tracking down the few stubborn colonists who were avoiding their assessments, a job that was awarded to Tom. The camp was fairly large, and this task provided an opportunity for him to explore the areas of it he wouldn’t normally be found in. The tablet he held was open to a list of his targets, and he scanned the empty clearing looking to make a match. There, leaning against the wall of the mess hall with their head ducked. He nodded in their direction before he came towards them, pulling closed his Vodin issued jacket that identified him as medical personnel. “I heard a rumour you’re dodging us,” he said, the corners of his lips curling up slightly. “Why don’t we get your base line test squared away? It’ll only take a minute.”

[paramedic-tom-blog]

nacremcnamara‌:

     ( open )

Still unfamiliar with the people they’d be sharing a home with now, Nacre had taken to spending what little time they had free doing something very familiar: hunkered down somewhere near weapons storage, they were cleaning guns, making sure that the long transit here hadn’t left any parts rusted or jammed, disassembling each individual one to check for any flaws. The one currently in their hands, its last piece finally snapped back into place, was nice, and even with the safety on they aimed down the sight just to get the feel of it in their hands– 

                             –and directly at somebody headed right their way.

     “I’m not going to shoot you,” they called, their voice as dry and close to humor as it came as they watched the figure warily approaching them, but they didn’t set the gun down, not yet. “Long as you don’t get too close, at least.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t.” Tom replied easily, giving the other crew member a wide berth. He kept his expression open and friendly as he inched a little closer.  “You’re Nacre, right?” He knew who they were from the medical files he’d spent the journey to the colony studying-- he’d poured over the files while the rest of the crew slumbered, learning how best to treat any of them should the need arise. “I’m Tom. I work on the medical team.” His gaze flicked down at the gun in their hands, the one they hadn’t quite lowered yet. “I’m taking reports on how everyone is adjusting. Do you have a moment to answer a few questions?” There was a great deal that he could discern from where he stood- the sensors he’d been built with were sensitive.

[paramedic-tom-blog]

johanpetterson‌:

“I’m no doctor,” Johan drawled, leaning against the frame that made up the recreational building. “But I feel like throwing us right into sixteen hour work days right after a month of cyro is really bad for the body. I’m on Neos time, I’m basically jet-lagged still.” 

“You’re not wrong,” Tom said, catching the complaint as he passed. “Realistically, strenuous activity should be avoided for up to 72 hours after cryo-- especially as the body adjusts to changes in atmosphere and gravity.” He gave the man a sideways smile. “At least, that’s what’s recommended. It definitely won’t kill you.” 

[folox-unorthadox]

What is a ghost? A tragedy condemned to repeat itself time and again? An instant of pain, perhaps. Something dead which still seems to be alive. An emotion suspended in time. Like a blurred photograph. Like an insect trapped in amber.

The Devil’s Backbone (2001)

[marielreads]

But a chair, sunlight, flowers: these are not to be dismissed. I am alive, I live, I breathe, I put my hand out, unfolded, into the sunlight.

Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale (via tellmefive)

[atimelessdream]

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“Everything seems to have a soul – wood, stones, the wine we drink and the earth we tread on. Everything, do you hear me, absolutely everything.”

— Nikos Kazantzakis, tr. by Carl Wildman, from “Zorba the Greek,” wr. c. 1946