[ti]Ep 2.5[/ti]It's Just Medicine (Patch, Jazz)
Jul 28, 2019 2:33:12 GMT -5
Post by Patch on Jul 28, 2019 2:33:12 GMT -5
Week three, day four
Shortly after the end of "Standard Operating Procedure"
It had been an eventful morning in sickbay.
Illness. Fuel tests. Status checks, paperwork; at least Patch had gotten to meet some new people today. It was kinda like speed dating in a sense; bring the person in, sit em down say ‘Hi! How are ya?’ then jab em with a needle. It was clean cut, it was simple, it was obvious what the goal was; that didn’t make it easier, however, for Patch’s young, overactive processor to focus on such a repetitive task for as long as she had.
Luckily/unluckily for her, there was still yet another duty to attend to. There was still one mech in this base ((which Ratchet had mentioned -quite literally- days prior)) who neither the surgeon nor Patch had seen today… Nor had anyone else, it would seem, for… Reasons Patch was yet to fully grasp. However, the rather unfortunate result remained.
He needed fuel drawn. He hadn't had fuel drawn, and that needed to change.
At said time, a few days prior, Ratchet had spoken of a very clear plan as to how he expected to remedy this fact. A plan Patch had been very much appalled by. She had snapped at him, The surgeon had snapped back, ((Remarkably the young medic had survived)) it had heated and cooled in the span of an nano-click… But the feelings remained. Patch’s feeling’s remained;
She absolutely would not leave this mech stranded, only to watch -what Patch considered to be- the worst case scenario for a person with belonephobia come to realization.
She would not let them hold him down.
Patch -apparently on the contrary to the older surgeon- had already formulated several plans. Several hundred, in fact. Bobbing and swirling around in her helm. The first of which, was that she had no intention of waiting around in sickbay, for someone who may very well decide not to show up.
No. Patch was a combat medic. She took pride in that. She wasn't going to wait in sickbay for him to come to her! In Patch’s book? it was her job to go out and get him.
Armed with options, the short young medic had begun to search the halls, and the rec-room, even the storage rooms in hopes of finding Jazz before Ratchet lost his patience. Finally, after what felt like a solid few hours of searching to the restless young femme, Patch had thought to try the roof.
It was mid day. The sky was blue. Streaked in bright white wisping clouds every so often; appearing ever closer from the height of the mesa. A light ‘padunk’ echoed off the landing pad as that white and red and rounded little medic stepped out into the sweet sweet open air. Patch hadn't noticed at all how long she’d been cooped up until this very nano-click.
The instant, however, that the sun and breeze brushed across the freckled metal of her faceplate? The stress in her spark from everything going wrong in the base right now was instantly eased.
“Hey.”
A quiet word to make the mech aware of her presence. Calm, gentle, standing resolute against the near silence of that mesa. A tired tone, though small in stature. Not a child, not an adult, a voice which Jazz may or may not have recognized, depending on how careful he was to keep track of the personnel in Omega.
Shortly after the end of "Standard Operating Procedure"
It had been an eventful morning in sickbay.
Illness. Fuel tests. Status checks, paperwork; at least Patch had gotten to meet some new people today. It was kinda like speed dating in a sense; bring the person in, sit em down say ‘Hi! How are ya?’ then jab em with a needle. It was clean cut, it was simple, it was obvious what the goal was; that didn’t make it easier, however, for Patch’s young, overactive processor to focus on such a repetitive task for as long as she had.
Luckily/unluckily for her, there was still yet another duty to attend to. There was still one mech in this base ((which Ratchet had mentioned -quite literally- days prior)) who neither the surgeon nor Patch had seen today… Nor had anyone else, it would seem, for… Reasons Patch was yet to fully grasp. However, the rather unfortunate result remained.
He needed fuel drawn. He hadn't had fuel drawn, and that needed to change.
At said time, a few days prior, Ratchet had spoken of a very clear plan as to how he expected to remedy this fact. A plan Patch had been very much appalled by. She had snapped at him, The surgeon had snapped back, ((Remarkably the young medic had survived)) it had heated and cooled in the span of an nano-click… But the feelings remained. Patch’s feeling’s remained;
She absolutely would not leave this mech stranded, only to watch -what Patch considered to be- the worst case scenario for a person with belonephobia come to realization.
She would not let them hold him down.
Patch -apparently on the contrary to the older surgeon- had already formulated several plans. Several hundred, in fact. Bobbing and swirling around in her helm. The first of which, was that she had no intention of waiting around in sickbay, for someone who may very well decide not to show up.
No. Patch was a combat medic. She took pride in that. She wasn't going to wait in sickbay for him to come to her! In Patch’s book? it was her job to go out and get him.
Armed with options, the short young medic had begun to search the halls, and the rec-room, even the storage rooms in hopes of finding Jazz before Ratchet lost his patience. Finally, after what felt like a solid few hours of searching to the restless young femme, Patch had thought to try the roof.
It was mid day. The sky was blue. Streaked in bright white wisping clouds every so often; appearing ever closer from the height of the mesa. A light ‘padunk’ echoed off the landing pad as that white and red and rounded little medic stepped out into the sweet sweet open air. Patch hadn't noticed at all how long she’d been cooped up until this very nano-click.
The instant, however, that the sun and breeze brushed across the freckled metal of her faceplate? The stress in her spark from everything going wrong in the base right now was instantly eased.
“Hey.”
A quiet word to make the mech aware of her presence. Calm, gentle, standing resolute against the near silence of that mesa. A tired tone, though small in stature. Not a child, not an adult, a voice which Jazz may or may not have recognized, depending on how careful he was to keep track of the personnel in Omega.