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extremelyblackandwhite · 3 years

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scrubs - 2.

pairing: doctor!sebastian stan x biomedical scientist!reader

warnings: angst, mentions of death. if you are not comfortable with these warnings please dni.

< previous chapter

- Where are you going? - Miriam rose her head from the work bench as Y/N took her gloves and googles off, disposing of both in the yellow bin. - Y/N, where are you going? Don’t leave me alone with the trainees.

- I’m going to get dinner. No eating in the lab, remember?

- Urgh, couldn’t you have gone to dinner when Michael was here? You’re leaving me alone with the trainees ... and the ask so many questions. - she whispered the last part, afraid the trainees would hear her and hit her over the head with their very heavy portfolios. - I’m going next.

- Hour break, don’t you dare page me. - she pointed her finger menacingly at Miriam before clocking out and heading out for dinner. If they had told her during her sleepless nights spent revising for her least favourite modules the most exciting time of her shifts would be the bland food served by the hospital cafeteria, she would’ve just become a pharmaceutical researcher. Yet again, you need to start at the bottom if you want to get to the top and Y/N was more than ready to climb that moment.

She pressed the button for the lift, leaning against her own hand as she tried to wake herself up. Turns out studying and staying up all night applying for PhD projects and then coming to work at 7AM is not the way to go for energy. Luckily, the black tea she had drank this morning had managed to keep her awake, however the caffeine was starting to slowly leave her system and she still had a few more hours awaiting her. As she was about to fall asleep while waiting for the lift to make it to the lower floors, she heard her name being called out.

- Y/N? - she looked to her side to see Peter standing next to her. They’ve known each other since freshers and if there was someone who was always wide awake during twenty four hour shifts it was him. He worked currently in the clinical biochemistry laboratory, mostly coming over to visit Y/N whenever they were working on cardiac infection cases together. - I looked at the file you gave me. CRP is actually present but quite low, could be recovery phase from an infection. My guess with abdominal pain would be a UTI.

- You reckon it hit recovery phase by itself?

- Listen, some pharmacy assistant might’ve given him antibiotics. Who knows but I’d get a urine analysis, do some cultures and see how’s it going but from my point of view, it’s in recovery phase.

- You’re a superstar, Peter. - she hugged him just as the lift doors opened. - You’re going up?

- Yeah, it’s dinner time. I think they’re serving meatballs today. Exciting stuff. - the two stepped onto the lift. - Miriam said Dr. Stan came down today. You’re still giving him hell?

- I am not giving him hell. He’s just constantly sending samples either mislabelled or misplaced and he expects me to lecture his nursing staff about it.

- I don’t know, Y/N. Back at university you spent 2 hours arguing an answer with a lecturer, I just think you like arguing. - he chuckled as the doors opened onto the floor where the cafeteria was. - Or maybe you like arguing with Dr. Stan.

Before she could complain about the snide comment, Peter took to having a chat with a nurse he was particular sweet on leaving Y/N with her mouth open ready to argue and a finger pointed at him. She rolled her eyes, collecting herself as she released her hair from the ponytail which held it safely high up so her scalp could rest for a few hours before it had to go back up. Walking into the green lit cafeteria, the room was filled with half asleep medical staff digging through the bland food like mindless zombies. She did not blame them, she too sometimes would switch off her brain during breaks but lately all the free time she had was dedicated to applications after applications, despite the fact she kept getting rejections every single day.

The scientist grabbed a worn out plastic blue tray, getting a batch on weirdly shaped meatballs from the cafeteria lady as well as some odly too yellow noodles. Hey, it is food, her brain told her as she grabbed a diet Pepsi and a slice of apple pie which was the only eatable dessert around.

- Didn’t you owe me dinner?

- You almost made me drop my tray. - she gave the resident doctor a dirty look, gripping tighter onto the tray. - And I’ll be damned if I ever owe you dinner but I do have your blood culture results and we did sort out your weird infection case.

- It is not my infection case.

- Fine, your patient’s infection case. God heavens if any interns knew that you had an infection, that way they wouldn’t fawn over you. - she rolled her eyes at him, setting her tray in the first table she came over. He did the same, placing his tray right in front of hers before sitting in the metal chair with a cocky grin. - Go away, I’ll send over the report to your office.

- Have you not figured it out yet and trying to buy yourself more time? Or are you trying to escape the dinner date you set up with me?

- That might work on your interns but not on me, Stan. Besides, it is an infection.

- But there’s no worrying levels CRP besides, what about the abdominal pain? Surely CRP and white blood cells would be off the roof.

- Okay, since you probably missed Biochemistry in med school I will explain it to you. The CRP levels are high during initial phases and lower down during resolve. Your patient is probably on recovery phase already. Recovery means it is fixing itself. Do you need me to explain CRP to you?

- If you pulled that out with any other doctor, you would’ve gotten told off.

- Other doctors don’t ask me stupid questions. - she pointed her fork at him. - Dr. Mackie never sends the samples in the wrong vials.

- What about the blood cultures?

- Congratulations, Dr. Your patient is not septic. It’s most likely localised but I’d suggest ordering some X-rays if you wanna localise where it actually is. I wash my hands of your troubles. - she shrugged, wrapping her fork in the spaghetti laying on her plate. - Need anything else, Dr. Stan?

- I remember being promised a dinner date.

- You should get your ears checked, the only thing I promised you was data and you’re lucky I also gave you a data ana ... - the scientist was interrupted by her pager beeping loudly against her belt. She grumbled, looking down at her belt with a look that would scare anyone. - Duty calls.

- How convenient it went off now.

- Unlike you, Dr. Stan, I have a team to lead.

- Sounds complicated, Y/N. You sure you don’t need a babysitter?

She turned around as she was about to leave, raising his middle finger at him before rushing down the hall as her pager beeped uncontrollably. So much for not paging her during dinner time. Someone better be dying, she thought to herself as she slide her card into the door slot to get access. What she came in contact with was not what she was expecting from a laboratory of trained professionals. Miriam was holding one of the trainees head forward whose nose was bleeding all over her worktop bench.

- Miriam, what the fuck?

- Don’t look at me. Thomas ... - she squinted at the boy whose head she was holding forward. - Started bleeding when he smelled the knee aspiration.

- Oh no. - Y/N put some gloves on before walking over to the two. - Okay, Miriam call a code orange. I’ll take Thomas upstairs and get him sorted.

- It’s so stinky.

- I know. - Y/N handed them two cotton balls from the jar to her left. - Put them up your nose.

What would be a day in the laboratory if a newbie didn’t either faint or got nose bleeds from samples? Definitely not a day in her laboratory. She looked around the busy hospital grounds, trying to find any free, available nurses but they were all overworked. No wonder why, whenever midnight rolled around, people started coming in left and right from club brawls and the grounds were always a nightmare.

- What you got there, Miss Y/L/N? Is this how you lead your team?

- Fuck off, Stan. I do not have time to listen to your comments, I need to find a nurse.

- What happened, kid? - Sebastian looked to the 19 year old medical laboratory assistant holding cotton against his nose. - Lab that bad? Come on, I’ll fix you up.

- Thanks. - she mumbled, following the two men into one of the free areas. Thomas sat on the table while Sebastian pulled up a chair to sit in, Y/N remaining up on her feet.

- So kid, what happened? Y/N rough you up too much?

- He got a nosebleed from the smell of a knee fluid from an aspiration. - Y/N replied to him, much to Thomas delight who felt more than embarrassed about the situation he was in. - Is this what you’re doing now, Dr. Stan? Minor cases? Did the chief of medicine finally realised you’re unqualified?

- No. - he spoke as he pointed out his light at the trainees nose, to look for any specific damage. - One of my patient’s in critical care but it seems to have stabilised for now at least.

- Oh ... sorry. What happened to them?

- Sepsis. - he turned off the lights. - Listen kid, it’s nothing to bad. Just stay sat here and firmly pinch the soft part of your nose, just above your nostrils, for about 15 minutes. Don’t forget to lean forward and breathe through your mouth. Me or one of the nurses will come check on you after to see if it has improved but so far, so good.

- I’ll return to the lab. Page me when you’re ready to return, okay? - she gave the young starter a kind smile before pulling the curtains and letting him be. Unfortunately for her, Stan would not let her be. - Keep it.

- How weak are your staff? How are they gonna react to when they actually see infected body parts?

- I said keep it. - she crossed her arms, ready to leave and return to the laboratory until she remembered something. She turned around on her heel, passive aggressive smile on her lips as she leaned her head on her shoulder. - Also, Dr. Stan, the infected tissue samples you sent us had the wrong birthdate on them.

- C’mon Y/N.

- They’re on hold until you speak with the laboratory manager about them. Good luck.

He opened his mouth to fight with her but she had already gotten into the elevator. The rest of her shift was pretty uneventful with her and a few of her colleagues having to pick up the pace to get everything sorted before they left. Miriam and her fiance left first at 1AM leaving Y/N to count the minutes til 2 AM rolled around. Once the clock read 2AM, like a speeder, she was out of that laboratory and into the elevator before anyone could call her. Walking to her parking spot, the sky was dark, the lot light by harsh yellow barely brightening. As she walked over to the second handed baby blue Fiat 500, she noticed someone hunched over and sat on the top of a black new model Audi, smoke coming out from his cigarette. Normally, she would’ve just avoided it and gotten into her car to go home but the turquoise scrubs were much too familiar at this point.

- Dr. Stan? - her boots hit the gravel as she stood just a few meters away from him. - Do they not teach you in medical school that smoking increases the chance of lung cancer?

- Not now, Y/N. - no sarcastic remark? That was a new one. He threw the cigarette butt onto the ground once it was all over, feet rubbing it against the gravel. - Not now.

- I thought your shift finished at 1:30? Pulling overtime hours? Someone needed your assistance? Death time?

- My septic patient died. - she immediately wished she hadn’t said anything. Death was not something she particularly dealt with. Surely, some results were awful, specially in cases of ultra resistant bacteria showing up in the blood but that’s what they were, results. She didn’t see the patient, in all honesty all she would know the patient would be by a barcode number. - Sepsis quickly lead to organ failure. I don’t understand ... she was getting better.

- Sepsis is unpredictable. You did the best you could do.

- And you’d know? All you do is be in the laboratory and do tests. What would you know about it?

- Okay ... - she put her hands on her hips. - Are you on any antibiotics, prescription pain killers, sedative drugs, statins or any antidepressants?

- I don’t see the point.

- The bar nearby has a discount for hospital staff. It’s only a five minute walk and everyone else is so miserable, you don’t feel bad about being miserable.

- I’m not going to the bar in my scrubs, Y/N.

- If you’re okay wearing those ... - she pointed at his scrubs. - Then you are okay wearing them at the bar.

She was right, the bar did look miserable. Not in a miserable way which would require regulation to shut down the place but miserable in a way one would just be at home wallowing in their pity with a pint of beer and right now that was all he needed. He sat in a sticky red booth, in front of her with a pint of beer while she picked a cocktail from the menu.

- You don’t seem like the type of girl who’d come here.

- And I’m not but they sell really cheap burgers at lunchtime. - she put her hand under her chin. - Besides, I’ve done this before.

- When did you convince someone to come to the bar because their patient flat lined?

- You know Dr. Liam Watts?

- Surgery residency? I’ve heard about him before. - her lips tensed in a straight line as she leaned her head on her shoulder. - No. You’ve been here with Bucktooth Watts before?

- Yeah... even after he clearly needed support after he couldn’t save his first patient, he still decided to take me on a date here.

- I’m sorry, you dated Bucktooth Watts? - he chuckled, downing whatever was left of his pint, signalling the bartender to bring him another one.

- This is why we don’t hang out. He’s not bucktoothed.

- Sure, sure. I see the appeal, I mean over Christmas at least you have someone to cut the carrots.

The night went onwards with a bunch of maybe irresponsible drinking. Y/N was two mojitos in and she was already tipsy and giggling like a school girl, not really used to drinking. Sebastian was in the same state as her, trying not to laugh at everything as they stepped outside to grab a taxi. At least both of them were conscious enough to decide not to drive.

- No, you did not get locked in the vroom cupboard during your residency. - she held her belly as she laughed.

- I did and my senior doctor did not notice I was gone. I was stuck there for 5 hours.

- Oh god. - she held herself against the wall. - I always knew you were a clutz. You know, you’re the only doctor who hasn’t told off his nurses about the blood bottles.

- Can I tell you a secret? - he whispered mid laughter. - I am afraid of them.

- Oh my god. - she held her hand on his shoulder covering her mouth with the other one. - See, this is why I constantly argue with you. You’re soft, doctor.

- Arguing with you is the best part of my day. You look really hot when you’re telling me off.

- You look terrible when I tell you off. - the two of them stopped laughing, looking into each other eyes for the first time since they’d been out of the laboratory. Maybe it was the alcohol but at that moment, the best idea to the two of them was to lean towards each other, his hands grasping each side of her waist as they connected the space between them, getting together into a hot long kiss.

#sebastian stan #sebastian stan au #sebastian stan/reader #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan/you #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x y/n #sebastian stan/y/n #sebastian stan doctor au #doctor!sebastian stan #sebastian stan imagine

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doctorbonzo · 3 years

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Doctor Bonzo Book of the Month (October 2020)

“Talking to Strangers” by Malcolm Gladwell

I was really excited to read this book, which was recommended to me by a 4th-year medical student who I met at a conference in Portland, OR earlier this year. The concept of the book, as it was presented to me, was that we (people in general) don’t do a good job of communicating with other people that we don’t know, especially if they’re from different backgrounds than the ones we come from. In other words, we don’t know how to talk to strangers. I have definitely been on the receiving end of this over the past 15 years since I graduated from residency; there are times when I felt like I was from a different planet than my coworkers.

The concept behind the book was proven within the first few pages of the book; it became obvious to me that Malcolm Gladwell was a “stranger,” and my difficulty relating to him might impair my “communication” with him (communicating in the sense of receptive language/hearing what he is saying to me, the reader). The first passage that caught my attention was when he said, “I suspect that you may have had to pause for a moment to remember who Sandra Bland was.” For personal reasons, there are only 5 other deaths/murders in recent years—those of Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, Ahmaud Arbery, and George Floyd—that have had a similar personal impact on me as the death of Sandra Bland. I mean, she was one of the main sources of the “Say Her Name” demand that we often saw from the movement for Black Lives. It’s difficult for me to relate to a world where people don’t remember who she is. If Gladwell remembers her, but suspects that his readers don’t, then that makes me wonder if this book was written for people like me.

Also early in the book, Gladwell frames the death of Sandra Bland as a “two sides” issue, which I feel is ridiculous (“Each side was right, in its own way”). Anyone who watches the video of Sandra Bland’s encounter with Brian Encinia and comes away with any point of view where Encinia is “right,” is absolutely a “stranger” to me. He also described the deaths of several other unarmed Black people in a way that disturbed me, such as saying that Freddie Gray “fell into a coma” as opposed to saying that he had his spinal cord severed. Again, I continued to read thinking that this book might give me some point of view that I had not considered in my communications with people from different backgrounds. After all, he ended his first chapter with a statement that I wholeheartedly agreed with: “If we were more thoughtful as a society…[Sandra Bland] would not have ended up dead in a Texas jail cell.”

Liars

I really enjoyed this key point of the book. Gladwell presented several historical examples of difficulty knowing when people are lying or not. From CIA agents who didn’t realize that Cuban spies had infiltrated their ranks, to Neville Chamberlain not realizing that Adolf Hitler was a genocidal maniac. These were examples of people whose lies went undetected; he also presented some good examples of people that society believed were lying when they weren’t. The most prominent example of that was the case of Amanda Knox who, I must admit, I thought was clearly guilty the moment I saw her making out with her boyfriend outside of the crime scene of her roommate’s murder. I live my life trying to give people the benefit of the doubt—innocent until proven guilty—but behavior that I deem atypical or bizarre often leads us to assume the worst about people. In some portions of the book, Gladwell presents situations where artificial intelligence/computers that can’t see a person do a better job than attorneys and judges at guessing when people are guilty. However, he didn’t mention Bias as one of the reasons for misjudging people once you can see them.

Default to Truth

The book mentioned a concept of the “Truth-Default Theory,” in which we assume that people are telling us the truth until enough doubts are introduced about them that we can’t explain away. Gladwell mentioned triggers that can “snap us out of” the default to truth but I was surprised that, by page 85, he still had not mentioned Bias as one of these triggers. It’s stunning that he doesn’t see Bias as a key barrier to our ability to communicate with or relate to strangers. The sections on espionage had “won me over” after the aforementioned disconnect re: Sandra Bland, but this is when I started to get the feeling again that our perspectives just weren’t aligned.

Sexual Assault

This is when Malcolm Gladwell just lost me; I think I will never be able to “talk to this stranger” about issues related to sexual assault and pedophilia. He seemed to offer up too many excuses for my comfort level when it came to understanding how sexual abuse runs rampant in certain situations. In the case of Larry Nassar, he seems to absolve Michigan State because even the parents of the abused women were fooled. He said that parents weren’t trying to protect financial interests, but we know this isn’t necessarily true; there are plenty of parents that care more about their kids’ success than they do about their kids’ safety, even if it is subconscious. Just look at the recent issue in my hometown, Savannah, GA, when parents refused to press charges after their 8-year-old son’s travel football coach repeatedly struck their son in the head for not playing well.

Gladwell also gives the leadership at Penn State a pass with regards to their handling of Jerry Sandusky, and I had the impression that he thinks they were treated unfairly. He spent a lot of time trying to poke holes in the testimony of Sandusky’s victims, at one point raising doubt because former victims came to visit him later in life. I have seen people sexually abused by parents and siblings—in situations where the family members admit they did it—who still keep close contact with their abusers and even forgive them. That doesn’t mean that the abuser shouldn’t still be punished or scrutinized. Ironically, he is proving that he doesn’t know much about certain strangers, as there is no way he has spent a significant amount of time talking to sexual assault victims.

Victims of trauma all respond differently, which is one of his main points in the book (see the Amanda Knox section). Someone not remembering specific details, like the month or date that the abuse happens, doesn’t mean that it didn’t happen. Also, this book did not spend enough time discussing the easiest, indisputable point of the Penn State fiasco: a grown man should not be showering with children…period! One of the administrators involved said that Sandusky should have worn swim trunks. Are you kidding me?! How does Gladwell have any sympathy for people with this kind of decision-making? I just sensed too much of a vibe that Gladwell gives people a pass for not protecting victims of sexual assault. He spent a lot of time later discussing the link between alcohol and sexual assaults on college campuses during the section about Brock Turner. Like his views on Sandra Bland, I think we just have completely different points of view that will be difficult to reconcile, because he sounded like a rape apologist to me.

Suicide

Now, I found this portion of the book to be completely fascinating, and I can imagine myself referring back to this section in the future. He describes a concept that I was previously unfamiliar with, known as coupling. Completed suicide is often coupled to “very specific circumstances and conditions,” which conflicts with the idea that if someone really wants to die by suicide, they’ll find a way to do it. As was the case of the poet Sylvia Plath’s death by suicide, intentional carbon monoxide poisoning (by placing the head of the victim inside of kitchen stoves) was a major problem in London during the 1960s. It was a relatively painless way to die without leaving behind too gruesome a scene (relatively speaking, of course; the death of a loved one is always terrible). Interestingly, as town gas was phased out and it became almost impossible to die in this way, the suicide rates dropped significantly.

Gladwell also mentioned the Golden Gate Bridge, which I didn’t realize has been the site of the most suicides in the world since it was first built. For decades, advocates have encouraged San Francisco and/or California to build barriers or nets to prevent people from jumping off the bridge, but there has been push-back. Some opponents of suicide barriers argue that people will find another way to die, while Gladwell does a remarkable job of describing how this is not consistent with the historical evidence in support of coupling (see above). Of the 500+ people who were prevented from jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge in a study conducted over 30+ years, only 25 of them later died by suicide. The whole “motive + opportunity” thing applies not only to crime, but also to people who suffer from depression severe enough to lead to suicide.

Policing

After the Sandra Bland issue that I described above, I had a feeling that Gladwell’s policing commentary would be problematic for me. His foundational ideas were solid, and he described several studies that I was unfamiliar with. He provided compelling evidence that extra policing does not improve the safety of communities. In fact, society’s views of certain cities, or even certain neighborhoods, as unsafe are not accurate; police officers’ views of the most dangerous and violent blocks often don’t match up with actual statistics. Although he argues against more overall policing, he seems to advocate for more focused policing in areas that truly have higher rates of crime.

Gladwell describes one study as a “miracle,” but it sounded like a nightmare to me. In Kansas City, they focused their energy on a small, high-crime area known as District 144. The police used any excuse they could to stop people who looked suspicious between the hours of 7pm – 1am. Gun-related crimes were cut in half, but Gladwell didn’t mention all the innocent people who were pulled over, harassed, and traumatized. He comes off to me as an absolute “stranger” who doesn’t know how to communicate with African Americans like me if he couldn’t see how much of a nightmare this sounds like. Gladwell ends this section describing the police officers being in “constant motion,” and describes 948 vehicle stops in a 200-day period of time, resulting in 616 arrests, 532 pedestrian checks, and 29 guns seized. Are you kidding me?! More than 500 pedestrian checks?! You don’t see a problem with that?! This idea sounds a lot like the “Stop and Frisk” behavior in New York City during the Michael Bloomberg era. Also, he doesn’t say what the arrests were for, so I have no idea if they made the community any safer. Finally, he was oblivious to the fact that his stats meant that >300-400 people were stopped for no reason whatsoever.

I wonder if Malcolm Gladwell has ever been profiled by police. Has he ever felt the humiliation of being yelled at and treated like a criminal because you were trying to ask a police officer for directions? Has he ever had a police officer point a gun at him? I’m going to go out on a limb and say no based on his view of policing.

Sandra Bland

Similar to his introductory comments on the Sandra Bland case, the final chapter of his book (titled “Sandra Bland”) was very upsetting to me. He repeatedly says things that I can’t relate to like, “…we have decided that we would rather our leaders and guardians pursue their doubts than dismiss them.” Speak for yourself! I would rather the police dismiss their doubts about me as a law-abiding citizen instead of pursuing the idea that I’m up to no good. Gladwell did highlight something that I was unfamiliar with called the “Reid Technique,” which is a disgusting training program used by 2/3 of police departments in this country. However, similar to the sexual assault chapter, I felt that he passed the buck and blamed Brian Encinia’s behavior on the poor training that he received. He believed Encinia’s lame story that he actually feared for his life.

If he led off the book with this entire Sandra Bland chapter, I doubt I would have finished the book. At one point, he said that Sandra Bland was “mismatched,” or that she looked like a criminal to Encinia even though she wasn’t one (he said that Encinia was “terrified” of her). I don’t see how anyone who watched that video could come to that conclusion. Gladwell has an obvious Eurocentric point of view that does not match up with my life experience. Her behavior was clearly annoyance at being pulled over, and Encinia did everything he could to provoke her; when she lit up a cigarette to help her relax in the situation, he made up a law so that he could assault and arrest her. The fact that Gladwell doesn’t see this, and the fact that he never mentions her race as a potential contributor, means that this book wasn’t written for people like me.

In the last few pages of the book, I had difficulty determining if Gladwell was being naïve or dishonest. He actually states that Encinia was empathetic to Sandra Bland because he asked her “What’s wrong?” The question was clearly said in a sarcastic and provocative way if you watch the video. Gladwell believes the officer’s assertion that he was frightened by a “dangerous woman,” but he doesn’t try to explain why he would escalate things and become argumentative if he was so afraid of her. The author also tells the story of a young Black man playing basketball in Ferguson, MO who was profiled by police and accused of being a pedophile with no evidence. He describes it as a “mistake” and portrays this police behavior as police officers’ attempts to find a needle in a haystack. He does mention innocent people caught up in the middle, but never mentions that they are mostly Black and Brown people!

Finally, on page 337 out of 346, he mentions in the footnotes that “there is significant evidence that African Americans are considerably more likely to be subjected to…stops than white Americans.” That it took him this long to get here and that he doesn’t see racial bias as a major barrier in “Talking to Strangers” epitomizes my problems with this book. He concludes that Sandra Bland’s death happened because society does not know how to talk to strangers. He never considers that these deaths happen because of racism, or because power-hungry people in positions of power abuse their authority. Until he sees that the problem in the Sandra Bland case began with anti-Blackness as opposed to a faulty police manual, then I doubt he’ll ever get it. On the last page of the book, he said that Sandra Bland unfairly became the villain of the story in the end. Maybe that’s the case in his whitewashed world, but in the eyes of the people I know and love, Sandra Bland was a beautiful soul who had her life snuffed out too early. She was a martyr, and the blame for her death rests on Brian Encinia. Rest in power, Sandra Bland.

As for you, Malcolm Gladwell, your writing style grabs the reader’s attention, you have a way with words that makes it easy to fly through your book. I’m sure I will reference your section of this book on suicide in the future...but I doubt I will ever read another one of your books. You’re just too much of a stranger to me.

{FIN}

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the-colony-roleplay · 5 years

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IRELAND KRII | TWENTY EIGHT; ELITE

House: Calyset Status: Uninfected Elite Specification: Infection Medic, Evolutionary Specialist Alignment: New Age Rebels

HISTORY

Ireland was the third of four brothers, who were all the proud sons of two of the finest (and richest) doctors in western Europe. To say they grew up luxuriously would be an understatement. With two flats in the city, a beachfront vacation home and a couple of seasonal cottages around the countryside, the boys of the Krii family had it pretty easy in many terms.

No, it definitely wasn’t a bad life; it was just a bland life. The expectations were high and the rules were strict. Ireland grew up under the thumb of his parents’ wishes, but excelled nonetheless. He did his duties, went to private school, joined clubs and teams and sports—most proficient in the Science League and on the football team, Captain and centre halfback three years in a row—you name it, if it would look good on his ivy league application, he would do it.

But Ireland never found true passion in any of the extracurriculars he involved himself in for the sake of pleasing his parents and impressing potential universities. His heart was with his studies and with his dreams of someday being a renowned medical scientist. He spent his adolescence building a laboratory in his bedroom, obsessive about human genome and all its curious complexities. His teenage rushes came from watching BBC and medical channels (and, of course, English Premier League, when the occasion called for it) and he treated his own illnesses with antibiotics he’d manufactured himself.

At first, his parents were wary of his zeal, proud of course that he was so dedicated, but concerned as any parent would be that he might harm himself, and that when it came to his health, a sixteen year old boy might be better off leaving it to the professionals. However, many of his research documents were published before he finished school and so by then his parents knew they didn’t have anything to worry about. In fact, Ireland was well on his way to becoming the youngest scientist to design and build a cancer-seeking serum that deliberately and precisely attacked cancerous cells.

When he graduated high school—a couple years ahead of his original class and on an express route to practicing medicine for a living—he sent out his transcripts to universities and medical practitioners around the country, and became the youngest intern to ever be a part of a magnificent biological discovery. He was placed into a team who’s collaborative work led to a breakthrough that made it possible for a newborn’s genome to be decoded and diagnosed in just fifty-five seconds, rather than several weeks or months. He earned his PHD by eighteen.

When D-Day struck, his losses were many. Not only had he lost most of his family, but all of his work had been destroyed—or so was assumed. Rescue parties at the time had much graver things to worry about than mucking through household rubble to find Echo Chip—though that would become more of a concern a few years down the road. He was picked up and herded to safer stays, where he became part of a small clan of fortunate spared lives who were about to face the hardest survival test anyone had ever seen. But when he had the strength, and when it was deemed somewhat safer (not safe enough to risk, others had urged, but he’d ignored them), he made his way on foot back to where his labs once had been, and did his best to retrieve anything that he could that seemed salvageable. Data, Echo chips, research… it was all in pieces, much of it mostly or wholly destroyed, but every day he spent a few hours searching, and came back with an item or two that might help him (and the rest of the human race) in a future of rebuilding.

When news of the forming Colonies began to spread, Ireland volunteered to help in the establishing steps and to act as a medical personnel to those now filing into the colony’s safe houses. It was upon arrival at Colony 22, that he discovered that his brother, Soren (the second eldest of the Krii family) had survived D-Day. He’d been registered at Colony 4, but had left a few months later and there were no official traces of him since.

Now, it goes without saying that no survivor was without change after an immense tragedy such as D-Day, 2157. But the pivotal moments in Ireland’s life that altered him into becoming the man he is now, were three fold: the first, obviously, surviving the first Falling of the skies. The second: the emergence of evolutionary changes in man so drastic and ahead of their time that they defied everything that mankind knew about science up until that point.

Before Reformist power, Ireland was as content as he could be with his life in the colony. Flabbergasted by the new biological data that had landed like a bomb in their world, he became committed to the research of these changes in the Infected. No one had seen anything like this before, and though some seemed convinced that the falling of the asteroids had some kind of connection to these evolutions, Ireland was far from content to point blame and leave it at that. The human body was far too complex to do so—if this was happening, regardless of the source, it had to be understood. Because what were its capabilities? Its limitations? Would it both birth and die in those of initial contact, or was it fated to thread itself so deeply into human genetics that a hundred years from now it would be impossible to tell the difference between telepathy and standard, 21st century thought?

Would these genes be passed on to their children? Would they change through generations?

The apocalypse may have been the end of so many things, but it was the beginning of a whole new world. And it was a world that Ireland felt he was both destined and blessed to be a part of. To be here at the helm, at the beginning.

IRELAND TODAY

His research became the only thing that was important—impassioned about the future of mankind, and what these next ten years would unveil.

But there was a third turning point for Ireland—the rise of the NWRF.

Reformist control changed everything—it threatened everything. They wanted his work, his research, an eye over his shoulder and a finger in everything that he did. Suddenly there was new motivation for his research, and it wasn’t to empower mankind with knowledge and an insight into the possibilities of this new horizon of the 22nd century—it was to smother, to suffocate, to exterminate. It was clear that Reformists wanted to eradicate this new unknown, and use it exclusively as a tool that only a select few could control. Illuminate any power that made individuals threatening to the 'purity’ of the human species, because individuals could not be afforded that kind of power. It would surely get out of hand. It needed to be controlled.

But evolution was critical to the continuation of man. And Ireland was convinced that if this was the result of an apocalyptic event that nearly wiped out the entire planet, then this was the design of their new future. This feat of science and evolution needed to be protected. To be understood, and then protected. At all costs.

Ireland will be going into his fourth year of residency here at the Colony, and those who have been here long enough will have seen him go from a man of few words to a man of many. He has always been committed to his work, to the well being of the Evolved individuals he works with on a regular basis, and has always spent hours upon hours bent over his findings, and anything in Echo he has been able to salvage to try to make sense of all this.

But since the NWRF take over, he has been harbouring both an anger, and a fear of which he’s never felt before. In his entire life, nothing has ever or will ever come close to being of this significance. He believes, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this is the most important work he will ever do, and that he was meant to survive so that he could do it. The fate of the world lies now in the hands of those precious few who are able to think clearly enough to accept progress. And these traditionalists stuck in the past, arguing matters of conservatism and a God they put above science, above facts—they had to be stopped. The Reformists had to be stopped.

The key, however, was to find a way to do so without risking his work, his leverage. He couldn’t compromise his position, or the clearances he currently had to accessing the Database, the means to accomplishing his cause. And, being that he did not believe in needless violence, aligning himself with the Radicals was not an option.

No, something else had to be done. Something that had a shot in hell of working. Lasting. And he has yet to decide what that is—but murmurings of a New Age Rebellion has reached his ears and he thinks about it nightly. Perhaps all such a movement needs is a leader? A foot in the door, perhaps?

For the time being, he keeps his head down. Dutifully learning everything possible during his patient time with the Infected, and committing himself to his research and lab testing. He is known as being a level-headed man with a gentle touch and a surprisingly soft word, despite his stoicism. For all the work that he does, all the endless hours of focus and time he contributes to the Colony, he is a man of patience and compassion—and an intensely spirited belief.

However, when it comes to his work in the labs or on a particularly promising (or challenging) research binge, Ireland can appear cold and detached. His work is, after all, immeasurably important, and he fears that with every day that passes, the NWRF gain more and more traction, and it is something no one can afford. They are running out of time. And so his tendency is to shut people and the rest of the world out to allow him solid concentration. His intensity can at times border on unhealthy obsession, and if he feels he is responsible for solving a problem presented to him, he does not stop even to eat or sleep until he has exhausted all of his options.

Nonetheless, despite his introspective demeanour, the friends he has formed he holds very dear to his heart, and once he finally emerges from his shell in a relationship of any nature, his loyalty is steadfast and dependable.

He continues to look for signs of his brother, but it has been two years, and still nothing—he fears that with the Reformists’ purging of the wastelands, that he has not yet shown up in another Colony is a sign he may already be dead.

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col22promo · 5 years