Logs:Pretty Boring
| Pretty Boring | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2023-04-17 I’m trying to help you. |
| Location | |
There are dozens if not hundreds of rooms like this in the sprawling research complex, and while their specific purposes vary, most of them could easily be mistaken for exam rooms at a regular doctor's office. This particular one has a motorized reclining chair with modular, articulated arms for lights, instrument trays, and various other equipment. It looks rather a lot like a dentist's chair, which would be intimidating enough without the heavy-duty restraints built in. The shelves and cabinets are neatly labeled and stocked with supplies for basic physical exams, biofluid sampling, and minor wound care. There is a highly adjustable (ergonomic!) work station with a wheeling stool, and two stationary chairs, padded though not particularly comfortable, next to the door. Dr. Allred has been quiet for most of this testing session -- a shadow behind a more senior researcher, occasionally getting in the way of the lab technician actually running the the tests in her haste to collect biofluids at different points. She's been taking notes through the whole test, switching between different colours of pen from the five clipped to her white lab coat pocket for, presumably, different notes. She got real up close with Roscoe a while ago, looking directly into his eyes while he was reading a chart behind her, swabbing the inside of his cheek while doing so. The session is winding down, now, but the power suppression grid has yet to come back on -- Allred, who is setting up for blood collection beside the main exam chair, specifically requested, audibly, that they wait. Her labcoat is unbuttoned over a plain hunter-green button down and plain black slacks, a silver chain clipped to one of the beltloops, its other end tucked into the near pocket. Her hair pulled to the crown of her head in a no-nonsense bun. She's wearing large hornrimmed glasses that threaten to slip down her nose when she looks down, as she's doing now to prepare the needle. "This will pinch a little," Allred says. "Take a deep breath." After, she asks, softly but conversationally, as if discussing the weather; "Was this a typical session for you? Aside from all the swabs." Roscoe was twisting the hem of his scrub shirt in his hands, mostly to stave off his impatience to be out of here, but he looks at the needle the doctor is holding and releases it, sticks his arm out with a kind of get-it-over-with bravado and rotates his wrist twice. He’d stopped talking so much midway through the tests, discouraged either by the bland responses he was getting or the irritated tone they came in (probably the former.) He isn’t obviously mad or scared or anything about the extra blood testing, but he doesn’t look at the doctor or the needle in her hand, but tilts his head upward, his eyelids mostly closed but flickering slightly. They flicker more when she addresses him, like he’s rolling his eyes at the doctor’s attempt at (sparkling? interesting? just friendly?) conversation. But he indulges her anyway. “Sorta,” he says. “It’s always pretty boring. I guess it depends who I get. Usually doesn’t take this long.” This last bit is a little pointed. "I'll try to be quicker," Allred says, with not real change in her conversational tone. She screws on one of her collection tubes to the needle and loosens the strap tied higher on Roscoe's arm, letting the blood flow down. "Your old lab probably did collections like this, right?" Her eyes flick up to Roscoe's face for just a brief moment, searching for confirmation. "Or was it exclusively vision testing?" Roscoe rolls his eyes again, and stops fidgeting and shifting as the blood collection actually starts, though it’s clearly taking conscious concentration. His other hand curls back into the hem of his scrub shirt. “My old lab?” he echoes, reflexively; he drops his gaze back down to look directly at her, though it takes a moment to snap his vision back to normal instead of looking up, out, through the ceiling. Then he’s back to looking away. “Not exclusively,” he says, then, “Some of the docs want biopsies instead of just cheek swabs. One of them got really into dilating my pupils. But mostly it’s boring. Like today.” One vial fills -- Allred swipes it out for another. "Biopsies? What kind?" There's a more focused curiosity creeping into her tone, not quite excitement but certainly strong interest. She lifts her head to the lab technician -- a moment later, there is a faint tingling as the grid powers back up, disconnecting any and all mutants in the room from their abilities. Softer -- "What's a not boring day like?" Roscoe’s mouth twists slightly. Since she’s being intrusive he takes a second to look, very obviously, at her bra, and regrets it a moment later when the grid powers up again – he tries to snatch one last look outside, but is too late. His head falls back into the chair with a resigned thump, and only then does he bother to answer. “My eyes or my brain, usually. They put me to sleep if it’s going to be invasive.” He doesn’t lower his voice to match hers: “Sometimes there’s a fight. That’s always pretty exciting.” Allred doesn’t seem to appreciate this smart-aleckry, judging from the firm press of her lips together. Sharper, though still quiet: “I’m trying to help you.” The doctor is looking down, now, switching for a third vial, and not at Roscoe when she says this. “The more I know about your previous testing, the less I might have to replicate from scratch.” Her tone is distinctly less friendly, now. “Unless you would prefer to repeat everything.” Roscoe’s reply is much quieter – “Sorry” – but he rolls his eyes as soon the doctor looks away from him again. “It’s all pretty boring, I guess, just some of it is suckier, like…” he shrugs, heedless of the ride he’s giving her blood collection vial. “I dunno. I hate those tests where they have to look into my eyes, and it sucks doing that for a long time. Or, even if they’re putting me to sleep, I still have to get a shot, and that sucks. Or if they don’t put me to sleep, I can see them coming at me, so they have to get a guard or someone to hold my head still. I don’t know. Read my file. Nobody ever tells me anything." Dr. Allred presses down on Roscoe's shoulder when he shrugs, her grip and arm stronger than her frame suggests. "Please don't move. We're almost done." When his arm is still, she detaches this vial and needle, presses a cotton swab firmly to the puncture in his skin. "Hold that there." Allred reaches into her breast pocket for a thin Sharpie -- twists a fancier fountain pen in the same pocket ever so slightly while her hand is there, so the patterned cap and clip face Roscoe more clearly. "Not everything is in the files. Some things only you can tell me." She's writing on the vial labels when she continues. "You're -- what, sixteen? I imagine you could be still enough now, without additional restrains." “Sorry,” says Roscoe again. His eyes follow her hand to her pocket, but flick back to her face when all she takes from it is a pen, relieved at what seems like a clear signal she’s done with him. He peeks under the cotton swab to assess the damage. “What are they not putting in the files?” This genuinely seems to distress him, as does her next comment. “I’m trying,” he insists, trying at first to sound cavalier, but giving way almost instantly to petulance. “It’s not like it’s easy getting poked in the eyes all the time. You had to hold me down ten seconds ago, and you’re not even near my face.” After a moment he adds, “And I’m only fourteen.” Bloodwork is not Dr. Allred's specialty -- it's going to bruise a little, especially if Roscoe doesn't put the pressure back on. "That's what I'm trying to find out. Yours, for example, says little about how you were secured for the procedure." Her hand stops moving for a barely perceptible moment, just after Roscoe says his age. "My mistake, I must have misread your chart." She resumes writing a moment later, sets down the last vial and unwraps an adhesive bandage for the teenager's arm. "I do not expect my work will require further biopsies. Possibly," and here she does sound a touch apologetic, "it will involve a couple more days like today." “Yeah, but,” says Roscoe, but after a few seconds of searching for a response, he just shakes his head. “That’s not that important, though,” he says, though he doesn’t sound sure about this. He is even less sure when she admits to misreading his chart; his eyebrows twitch slightly upward, though he returns them to their usual slant a moment later. “That’s not so bad,” he says, and grins quickly, toothily. “Just boring.” Allred's lips press together in a thin line as she applies the bandage to Roscoe's arm. Is it important? "It's something," is all she says, gathering the rust-red vials to add to her collection of samples, getting up to leave. "Rest up -- I hope the next time I see you is --" she pauses, giving Roscoe a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes, "-- just as boring." | |
