New Beginnings
Summery: Y/n y/l/n is a new intern, she is excited to meet her compitition, and make some friends.
Characters: Meredith, Christina, Izzy, George, Alex, Chief, Baily.
Type: fluff, just doctor life and making friends.
Warnings: everything you would find in a hospital. No gender mentioned. No age is mentioned, assumed to be young. The reader has a famous father, known for his plastic surgery.
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Today is the day, the day i start to work in a real hospital. Part of me is nervous, part of me is so excited, i could pop like a ballon. I reach the hospital and park, i see a group of people walking towards the door. I follow them in and make my way to the OR, where the chief said to meet at. Once i make it i see the chief standing there, looking over everyone.
"Welcome to Seattle Grace Hospital." He says. "Im your chief, Dr. Webber." He says. I turn and see a girl who's a bit later then everyone else. Chief Webber goes on and on about how hard this is gonna be, and i can start to feel my insecurity setting in. I look around and people are glaring at others. I try to smile.
After Chief shows us around, he lets us eat and then go to the locker room. I see a man, whos name is George approach the girl that was late.
"M-my name is George O'mally a-and i uh... wanted to say hello" he says awkwardly. The girl snorts but smiles.
"Meredith Grey." She introduces herself. I pause.
"THE Meredith Grey? Daughter of Ellis Grey?" I ask, slightly stunned. Meredith looks a bit dejected but nods. I sorta feel bad. People must say that all the time and never talk about her. I know that feeling.
"Sorry, lovely to meet you. Im Y/n, Y/n Y/l/n." I smile and hold out my hand. Meredith smiles and takes it.
"I believe my mom worked with your father." She says. I nod.
"They did." I beam a bit. Another girl pops into the conversation.
"Its crazy how you two work together now, like your parents did." She says. She was blonde and quite beautiful. "Im Izzy Stevens." She smiles. I nod and so does meredith. Another guy tells us to shut up. I look at his tag and it says Alex Karev.
"Dont be so prissy Karev. It wont get you very far." I say, side eyeing him. A girl sits next to me and Meredith.
"I like you two already, your not annoying." She says. Her tag says Christina Yang. I smile and in walks a short black women.
"Alright. I need Grey, O'mally, Stevens, Y/l/n, Yang, and Karev." She shouts and everyone she called walks out. I can hear her mutter something along the lines of, "too many interns." We stop walking and she looks at all of us.
"Im Doctor Miranda Bailey. I have five rules. Memorize them. Rule number one: Don't bother sucking up. I hate you. That's not gonna change. Trauma protocol, phone list, pagers" she points to stuff on the counter. "nurses will page you. You will answer every page at a run. A run! That's rule number two. Your first shift starts now and lasts 48 hours. You're interns, grunts, nobodies, bottom of the surgical food chain. You run labs, write orders, work every second and night until you drop, and don't complain." She says as we keeo walking. "On-call rooms. Attendings hog them. Sleep when you can where you can, which brings me to rule number three. If I'm sleeping, don't wake me unless your patient is dying. Rule four: The dying patient better not be dead when I get there. Not only will you have killed someone, you woke me for no reason. We clear?" Everyone nods, but meredith raises her hand. "Yes?"
"You said five rules. That was only four." She says. Dr. Bailey sighs and looks at her pager.
"When i move, you move." She says and her pager beeps. We all rush with her.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
By the end of the day, i have been cursed at, given weird stares, thanked, and thrown up on. I make it back to the locker room and sit down. I cant help but smile. I hear 2 voices and Meredith and Christina walk in.
"Why are you smiling?" Christina asks snarkly.
"When i came here, i thought i would wanna leave. I thought everyone would be against me. But i suppose i can tolerate you guys." I smile and i can see Meredith smiling. Even christina has a smirk on her face.
"Your sappy." Christina says with an annoyed tone. I chuckle.
Yea, maybe this wont be so bad.
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the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.
three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.
two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.
their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.
one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.
i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.
i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.
and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?
you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.
a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.
someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.
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The genus Silurian ("Person of the Silures", in reference to the historical territory of Wales in which they were first found) was initially known only from a single fossil, notable in part for the unusual object fossilized alongside it (1). Though this was generally accepted to simply be a large petrified stick, the "Silurian Artifact" was often a point of discussion in the topic of dinosaur intelligence and the theory of pre-human civilizations. It wasn't until large-scale mining operations began to impede on their extensive networks of stasis chambers that the Silurians themselves finally woke up and were able to meet humankind in person. To the surprise of many (and dismay of a few) the Silurians were not the scaled, humanoid "dinosauroids" so often depicted, but colorful, feathered, and relatively goose-shaped.
Most Silurians who were present in the planet's underground represent the gentry and high ranking military, who were given priority in the earth-based shelters. Most others were evacuated on large, extensive spaceships, all of which are yet to return to Earth. Due to this, the varied mindsets and cultures of the Silurians are in shambles at best, largely replaced by the speciesism and real estate concerns of the upper classes.
(1) Much later, the original type fossil was identified as Rohlik, a student who fell to his death after attempting to drunkenly pole vault over a ravine with a large petrified stick.
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