Report Ravenous Knowledge

[Chez]

"Good morning, Doctor."​

Familiar words greet the walking Doctor as they swipe their keycard against a refurbished facilities front door. The blast doors blocking their entry swiftly part, allowing for them to stomp past. Their heavy.. 'feet' being quite audible down the office corridor. With each step, a distinct cla-thump.. cla-thump... cla-thump... Heavy feet, fast mover- fast thinker when needed. The entire office was moderately busy, this far out, not much is being done that requires immediate, fast-acting attention. However, work is still be done, that much cannot be ignored. People are wheeled past in wheelchairs, newer individuals don blue, purple, green scrub tops.. Occasionally, a voice comes on over the intercom. It's a quiet female voice. There is no 'oomph' to it, so to speak, but it gets across.

"Medical Officer Karlston, please come to wing A-2."

Aaaand then it cuts off. The walking Doctor titters, for no apparent reason to those around them. They take a clipped pen and scribble on their notepad- but what goes through their head is a bit different. How odd it is that this comes about. Working together in such occupied times for the greater good of the people and not for war. The Doctor them-self did not even care much for partaking in combat unless it was dire, required. Much more important things come to mind instead of the taking of life. He was no judge. Hopefully never. Time tells all tales in excruciating, unforgivable detail. The Doctor's labcoat sways and flaps by their rather large legs, and it comes all to a gentle stop when they come to a halt within an elevator. Their finger taps a button on the side, and the doors slowly glide shut.

"Hold on- hold on!"

A hand slides through and pushes the doors open. A young male wearing a labcoat pops in as well, holding a small cooler. They look up to the Doctor, noticing that the gaze of them already seems to be locked onto their face in curiosity. The Doctor simply mutters, what sounds like a condescending tone-

"What floor."

The male tries to point, yet their hands seem to be preoccupied. They momentarily fumble about before just blurting out to the Doctor,

"I-..Eeurr-.. Uhh... Three, yeah, three!"

A bit of an oddball. Maybe he's got some social skills to work on. Maybe he needs a hard kick in the ass, the Doctor thinks. Whatever it may be, the Doctor obliges. Their finger strikes the elevator's third button, and the doors finally slide shut, leaving them in the gentle rumbling of the elevator. There is no elevator music to make this trip upwards any less awkward than it already could be, the only resemblance of anything being called 'music' is the rhythmic rumbling of the rollers on the steel cables outside of the elevator.

The Doctor looks down. They seemed to tower a foot or two over the young male. They look at the cooler, marked 'HUMAN ORGAN FOR TRANSPLANT' Neat. The Doctor looks back forward, on time for the double doors in the elevator to glide open, like a message from the heavens for the introvert male to step out. He turns as he walks out, almost going to wave before realizing what they were holding. They just give a simple nod to the individual they left behind in the elevator. His uniform flutters as he jogs off down the floor to his duties, barely being seen turning a corner before the elevator doors slide shut.

"So busy. Working nicely. A synergy between many. Hmh-.."

The Doctor looks at their clipboard. They have somebody they need to speak to on one of the recovery wings. They take their pen, a robotic, mechanical thumb gently whirring as it grips the side of it. They strike one of the buttons with it, and then click the top of it, scribbling down. Their handwriting is by all means, not perfect, typical for Doctors, but it was eligible enough to the point most people could read it, or find somebody to read it for them.

ALEXANDER MITCHELL	INBOUND TO HOSPITAL, GENEVA: 1420 HOURS	STATUS: PRESCRIBE PARACETAMOL 325MG
KYLE KOWABIT	INBOUND TO HOSPITAL, GENEVA: 1909 HOURS	STATUS: RECOVERING FROM SHRAPNEL INJURY. CHECK-UP EVERY 1HR. STABLE.
MORGAN LYLE	INBOUND TO HOSPITAL, GENEVA: 2323 HOURS	STATUS: GUNSHOT WOUND TO LUNG, CURRENTLY BEING OVERSEEN BY MEDICAL OFFICER KARLSTON

What bothered the Doctor was the last one. A lot of their colleagues seemed to be consistently telling them that treatment was of no use, and the supplies were simply being put to waste. They scoff at the mere thought of such laziness. Such an uncaring attitude is unbecoming of medical professionals.

They tap their foot as the elevator slowly comes to a halt. The doors are ready to open. The Doctor scribbles their pen on the clipboard.

'GRENDEL'

INBOUND TO HOSPITAL, GENEVA: 2400 HOURS

STATUS:

For a second, they pause. They did not like taking over patients from other medical personnel, but, unfortunately, they've had enough hearing babble.

STATUS: OVERSEEN BY DOCTOR TEL'VURR, THETA DIRECTOR

The doors open and the Vortigaunt steps out. They open their labcoat and they tuck their clipboard inside of a large pocket. An alert beeps on their PDA, and they pull it out.

They stare into the eyes of the bandaged Vortigaunt on the bed for just a moment.

And they go forth.

The Doctor is in.

 

[DanteeZe]

I thought he was a human until *Plot twist*, he's actually a vortigaunt

very nice