#stormsurgery

[archiefm]

location: hospital. closed for:  injured besties !! (  @jadenlapointe, @wyliefms, @roswellwinter, @ki-jung, @chibanao​   )​

       he was a very lucky boy. that’s what the doctors who’d been unlucky enough to be on shift when the storm hit kept telling him. had you been a couple inches to the left, we’d be looking at a very different story. wet roads, lightning, a truck spinning out of control in the parking lot. it had felt like a movie when it happened, the truck hurtling into the neon sign of the pony, which in turn had toppled and pinned archie to the ground. in that moment, he’d been almost certain he was going to die, and yet the movie scene playing out in his head was from fucking twilight as the wheels skidded past his head. bridget would probably have called it a bella swan moment if they’d been there to watch. too bad edward cullen hadn’t been there to rescue him. as it stood, archie had a sprained ankle, an arm in plaster, and a probable case of concussion, but aside from hopping around on one leg looking like dear evan hansen, he was doing better than most. locals had trickled in after him, some on their feet and some on stretchers, their injuries varying from mild to severe, and despite the fact that he’d been told he could under no circumstances discharge himself, he felt guilty for taking up a bed.

         it had taken him twice as long as it should have to get across the room to the vending machine, which was slowly running out of the good shit. soon, all there’d be left to consume was the stew, lovingly provided by the hospital, but that didn’t change the fact that it tasted like lukewarm piss. “hey, buddy. you’re up!” archie started, chipper as ever as he hobbled his way back across the ward and dropped down onto the bed beside his, narrowly avoiding the other patient’s legs. “i got you a regular coke — no diet ones left i’m afraid — and i want the m&m’s so you’ll have to settle for snickers.” they hadn’t asked for either, but if he’d just woken up from what felt like a year-long trauma nap, the first thing he’d want was a sugar rush. “sorry, mate. dealer’s choice.” sliding the snickers bar and the room temperature can of coke across to the other patient, archie tore open his packet of sweets and tossed one up into the air, catching it in his mouth. 

[ki-jung]

open starter for the storm surgery plot drop! ft. @chibanao, @archiefm, @wyliefms, @roswellwinter​, @jadenlapointe, & @nicvansant.

Doctors make the worst patients. It’s common knowledge amongst the people who work within the medical field, a cliché only because it just so happens to be true, and Dr. Ki-jung Park is certainly no exception to that. Despite coming in with injuries of his own, and despite the fact that he probably shouldn’t have attempted to come in at all, Key has been spending all of his time here frantically flitting between one person or another. Normally, one of his colleagues might have intervened, might have tried to force him into a bed given the substantial amount of bruising slowly bleeding a blueish-purple spread through his abdomen, but it’s all hands on deck, and nobody has time to babysit him. The cuts he attained were superficial, at least, so there’s only a minimal amount showing on the outside, especially with him still being in his street clothes right now. He hasn’t had time to change into anything else. Not yet.

Uncertain as to whether or not the person whose bedside he’s at has actually been examined (their system is down as a result of the storm; they still have power because of the back-up generators, but accessing charts or even being able to file them has to be on a temporary hold), Key manages to keep the wince of pain that threatens to flit over his features under wraps. Nobody would benefit from knowing how he’s feeling right now. “You should stay laying down. Has anyone seen you yet?”

[ofalma]

​ location: the hospital, during the storm.   for: @wyliefms

              most little girls wanted to grow up to be a princess, or a ballerina ( and for alma, both of those things were now largely true ) but as a child, she’d had dreams of being a surgeon. she’d always loved hospitals ; there was hope within those walls, but there was also a desperate kind of loneliness to them. she got some of her best inspiration in places of intense suffering — when she was training for the ballet, or rehearsing an upcoming production of lysistrata, she’d go to the hospital to see what real emotion looked like, harvesting their grief for her own exploits.  “how’s the patient?” alma asked, when she was eventually allowed into wylie’s ward where a strip of casualties lay recovering from the wrath of the roswell storm. “causing trouble, i hope. i brought you something…” she began, setting a succulent down on the dinner tray before wylie, it’s pot hand-crafted on a potters wheel, pink with yellow polka-dots. “i thought about bringing flowers, but… they die. this is basically impossible to kill. and it’s prickly, like me, so it’ll be like i’m always with you.” lifting the cactus up in front of her face ( it’s sharp bristles a hairsbreadth from her nose ) alma wriggled the plant like a ventriloquists dummy, chirping “get well soon, wylie,” in a pitchy caricature of her own voice. her smile was thin, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, as she set the plant down on the bedside table and began trailing her finger over the bed sheet, an edginess in her she couldn’t quite shift. “the parents of the dancers are having a collection.” she took a seat at the edge of a mattress, so close to the edge she might flit off at any moment. “just in case… i mean, i don’t want to presume anything about medical bills… but you could always put it towards the studio, if not.” shifting her weight, alma shrugged her bag off her shoulder — a garish, furry, cow print tote — and began rifling through it’s contents until her hands landed upon an envelope. “everybody signed a card. even melanie, though i had to help her hold the pen. her entire hand is smaller than my palm.” she shrugged, pushing the card across to her friend, and then busied herself unravelling a loose thread on her cardigan.