(A/N) Hey everyone! Here's a new update from everyone's favourite medic, Private Killian Jay! Three guesses as to whom he's patching up. Written, once again, by the incredible Casaric. I know you'll all love this one.
Once again, I'm announcing a new link, revealing all of the four new established Freelancers available for applications:
hddp:/rvb,wikia,com/wiki/User:NicKenny
As before, change the ds to ts, the commas to full stops, and add a / after the first :
Unfortunately, we have lost contact with Ausphin, who was our writer for Agent Wyoming, so we have been forced to recast the character, which means we are also taking applications for him.
Our forum is now open for new applications for those five characters, OC Freelancers, and Freelancer Personnel, which includes the Counselor and 479er. Please, read the thread entitled Rules! No posting in order to get the DL on what we want you to do. You may submit as many applications as you want, but we have decided that no new writer will be assigned more than one character, and no writer at any stage will be writing more than two.
We thank you for all your applications in advance, and promise to get in touch with you as soon as possible. Applications will close on Saturday the 30th of March, and we will announce the accepted writers immediately after.
For those of you who just want this author's note to end so you can read this chapter, your wish is my command! Enjoy!
Chapter Fifteen – Healing Hands
Killian Jay – Private First Class, Medic
Written by Casaric
"Any idiot can face a crisis- it's a day to day living that wears you out." – Anton Chekhov
The workplace of Killian Jay is...rather boring actually. The walls and floor are grey and undecorated. The equipment that lines the walls may have some flashy lights and buttons on it, but the noise they make is really irritating. And, for reasons beyond Killian's comprehension, the lights were always dimmed. Not the best place to catch up on your reading.
Then again, it's not like you'd be there to read in the first place. It is medical wing. People go to the medical wing because they're hurt. If you're Killian, people go the Medical wing because they're stupid. Because really, why would you stick that up your nose? Killian's never slapped a patient before, but he's come close...
It's not that Killian dislikes his job, he just dislikes people...well, the majority of people. This is because the majority of people are mentally retarded and stick scissors up their noses. Or their just assholes who give him triple-overtime because they want a day off. He's not very fond of those types of people either.
So, as Killian worked alone on a patient, an Agent Pennsylvania who was barely stable, at six in the morning, in a cramped operating room lined with machinery that made annoying noises, his mood was less than exemplary. ...Hell, it down-right sucked.
"Jesus dude, the hell did you piss off? A god-damn bomb?" Killian said exasperatedly as his suit performed a scan of his patient's wounds, sending images to the monitor above the operating table. It showed a lot of shrapnel fragments, places where the bullets had struck bone, and others where they had just passed clean on through. "...Fuck, it might as well been a bomb with the amount of shrapnel you have lodged in there..." Killian muttered, scanning the images for a brief moment, before turning back to his patient, glancing at the man's heart monitor. It was stable, but it would undoubtedly start to spas out once Killian started to root around in his chest.
"Well, time to get to work..." Killian sighed, shaking his head as he activated his med-suit's medical functions, working to keep the Pennsylvania's heart-rate stable as he undid the bandages around his torso.
It was grisly sight. The guys down in the ER had done an on-the-spot patch job using some heavy-duty biofoam, but had left all of the shrapnel and bullets inside. Internal bleeding had caused the freelancer's chest to swell up a good couple inches, and turn a disgusting purple colour, accompanied by some ugly scars by the botched biofoam job.
It would make a lesser man want to hurl... Killian was the lesser man. Swallowing back the rising bile with a shudder that left a horrid taste in his mouth, Killian steeled himself for what was to come, a compact laser-cutter coming to life at the end of his pointer-finger.
One cut was all it took, and out came buckets of blood from the swollen chest. This is where Killian had to act, and act fast. He used his suit's augmentations to slow down the man's heart-rate just enough to stop him from pumping all of his blood out of the newly-made hole in his chest, while simultaneously manoeuvring a small hose into the incision and connecting the other end to a pump, letting the machine suck out all of the blood that had gathered in his patient's torso.
After a few seconds, he removed the hose and pulled out a Verzes shot, shaking it up to make sure the chemicals were well blended before injecting it into the freelancer via arm, helping to staunch the bleeding.
"Why do I get all the hard jobs?" Killian asked himself with a sigh, grabbing a pair of capillaries off of his tool tray, before turning back to face the freelancer. He opened up the incision he made earlier, easing in the capillaries, as his med-suit sent him a live-feed of the capillaries progress through Pennsylvania's chest cavity, removing shrapnel and the occasional bullet as it went.
Half an hour later and the last piece of shrapnel had finally been removed, landing with a clatter on a tray with over forty blood-covered pieces like it.
"...I fucking hate you..." Killian told his patient flatly, falling back into his surgeon's chair with a heavy thud. It had been half an hour since he started rooting around in the freelancer's chest with the capillaries, and Killian's give-a-shit levels had hit zero around three am. It was now seven-thirty.
"You know, I could be asleep right now. Having a really awesome dream with flying whales and laser-shooting dinosaurs. But you had to be an asshole and go and get yourself shot, didn't ya?" Killian said, glaring up at the ceiling.
A minute or so passed, and Killian sighed, forcing himself out of the surgeon's chair. "Whatever, we're almost done anyway..."
Killian walked back to Pennsylvania, activating another one of his suit's augmentations, watching as a high-grade biofoam enveloped his patient's chest cavity, healing the man's muscle tissue, repairing the sinews and fibres of his damaged organs, and knitting the skin back together all in a matter of minutes.
"...God-damn, only took me, what, twelve hours? ...Fuck..." Killian sighed, falling back down into his chair again. He stayed like that for another couple of minutes, basking in another job-well done. "I better be getting paid triple-overtime for this shit..." he muttered, standing up, stretching his sore muscles, and making his way out of the operating room.
As he walked out of the small, cramped, and now, to an extent, blood-covered room, he was met with the sight of one of the medical wings many nurses waiting for him in the hallway leading to the lobby.
"Killian Jay?" The man asked.
"Yeah?" He really was too tired for this shit.
"You have visitor waiting for you in the lobby." The nurse replied, leaning up against the wall.
"Name?"
"Massachusetts."
"Ah. So he-"
"She."
"...Right. So she must be one of those Freelancer's then."
"Yep."
"...Okay. Thanks Tod." Killian said sleepily, waving back at the nurse, whose name was apparently Tod, as he walked down the hall to the lobby. "...Ah...good ol' Tod."
The lobby was a bit of sight. It was as if they had a lot of leftover space when they were done building the medical wing and decided to start moving chairs in there to make it look less empty. Because, really, that's all it is. A big room with a lot of chairs. The room also sports an Agent Massachusetts, complete with cappuccino maker and cup-holder.
The agent was sitting in one of the chairs that littered the room, armour forgone in favour of black track pants and a dark green "Freelancer" T-shirt, clothes more suitable for waiting for who-knows-how-long, just to hear: "Sorry, yeah...he's dead...have a tissue."
Killian took a second glance at her shirt, his face quizzical beneath his visor. 'Wait a second...they sell those here?'
He shook away the thought. 'Come-on Killian, at least retain some of your sanity...It's not that late,' and replaced it with another.
"...Agent Massachusetts?" Killian called out across the grey chair-filled room.
She turned her head to meet his visor, but didn't say anything. She had bags underneath her bloodshot eyes, and her eye lids dropped dangerously low.
"...Your friend's gonna make it. Give him a couple of days and he'll be back up to ass kicking status. There were some close calls, sure, but he's fine now," Killian stopped to yawn. "Cause I'm the best medic ever." "
Massachusetts nodded sleepily in reply. "...Can I-"
"See him?" Killian cut her off.
She nodded in reply.
"...No. Not tonight. He still needs time for his wounds to heal properly."
"Right..." she replied, looking a little dejected.
"Tomorrow...probably...Now do yourself a favour and go get some sleep." Killian said as he directed her out of the waiting room, and into the hallway beyond.
Killian had finally made it back to his room, and to his nice soft bed that promised him wonderful dreams and, more importantly, no cramped operating rooms. Or, it would've, if Killian hadn't have glanced at his alarm clock. It was 9:45 A.M. The workday started in fifteen minutes.
"...I fucking hate overtime."
