01-01-2014, 04:53 PM
DNA molecules streaked across the air over Torri's desk, glowing like little hologram shapes. Her fingers swiped two pairs of code forward, one above the other. The data all came from their servers back at the Facility. The system worked beautifully back there, but of course out here in the bloody desert it meant it could barely load let alone focus in on a string of polymorphisms, tiny little differences between the genetic structure that should have little impact on the encoded proteins.
She slumped back in her chair and realized the clock about the time a knock sounded on the office door. She shared the room with the base's MC, Captain Taggart, who for all purposes appeared to be Torri's equal. The two may share the same pay grade, but as Torri rubbed her shoulders and flatly examined the flickering DNA code, she envied Taggart's menial job. What she wouldn't give to stick vaccines in a hundred arms lined outside the building.
"Come in."
She said, stretched and started to rifle through the cabinets behind her. The metal doors sealed off basic supplies: boxed up cotton, sterile swabs and the like, but it was also where she stashed her tea cup and saucer. Everyone in medical corps learned early-on to lock away anything that matters on base, and since she didn't have an office of her own, stashed behind extra jars of enema lubrication waited a pale white saucer and matching cup.
"Dr. Weston,"
she turned at the sound of her name. A public health nurse technician was in the door. For the life of her, she couldn't remember his name. He continued.
"Sorry to interrupt, but there's a bill of permit for a merc group applying for Custody approval. Dr. Taggart is stuck in surgery and asked if you have time to go over their records. Major Dobowski wants them off base asap."
Torri's shoulders sank, and she nodded. Taggart's "surgery" was a run of the mill knee-replacement. It should take him half an hour at best, but she didn't blame him skipping out on this kind of shit. It was boring as hell. She locked the screen. She might as well make herself useful. "Load the applications and I'll be there in a few minutes."
Maybe the thing would be fully visualized by the time she was back.
On her way to the lounge, she stopped to take care of important business. It was tea time after all, and a woman had standards. So by the time she graced the foreigners with he presence, she'd skimmed their application on the mil. grade secure Wallet now nestled in the pocket of her physician's white coat. It was hers rather than Taggart's, thank God. His would have fit her about as well as a kid throwing a sheet over their head at Halloween. This was tailored to fit at the waist and fell only a few inches shy of the skirt of her uniform. The matching jacket she wore only for dress-occasions; one of which was not today.
She walked in balancing the saucer in one hand and fingers of the other curled through the cup's handle. A 2LT was posted at the door looking irritated. She shot him a glare upon entering, and he smoothed over well enough. Good. She hid an accompanying smirk. Taggart kept a tight ship (figuratively speaking of course) around here. Torri had no intention to mess with the mood. Besides, try working in the Kremlin.
Over the rim of her tea cup filled with a deliciously warm swirl of herbs and leaves, brown as her eyes, she noted with no shortage of amusement that the applicants enjoyed their own with not but Styrofoam cups. A magic marker lay untouched on the middle of the table.
She placed hers aside. It was steaming hot, after all, and she intended to take her time enjoying it during the course of the interviews.
"I'm Dr. Victoria Weston,"
she announced and offered to shake hands with the representatives of the Legion Premiere. Her accent was crisp and educated, but thinned compared to her British parents.
"I'll be the one to sign off on the public health approval of your permits. I was just looking over your medical records for the members of your Company."
She shook her head like she was unimpressed and returned to the other side of the table. They could sit opposite her, conference room style. Or they could stand. It didn't matter to her either way. She made the gesture none the less, "Gentlemen."
"I'll need to run your company's records through the appropriate databases to look for red-flags. This will require a transfer of information on every individual's birth records, vaccinations, exposures, blood works, DNA analysis, urine, prostatic and fecal tests. Also genetic analysis of flora harvested from colonic, genital and integumentary tissues. fMRI and imaging analysis. And of course any and all hospitalization records since the inception of The Sickness."
She unfolded the Wallet screen from her pocket, sounding bored, and studied their reactions.
"Understand gentlemen. You're applying for more than work VISAs, and its my job to take the health of the public and service sectors very seriously. Any aspect in which I am not appeased and your permits will never see the light of day."
She quirked a little smile, but when Torr sipped from the tea, she winced. Damn thing was already going cold. How hard was it to get insulated ceramic around here?
Edited by Torri, Jan 1 2014, 04:54 PM.
She slumped back in her chair and realized the clock about the time a knock sounded on the office door. She shared the room with the base's MC, Captain Taggart, who for all purposes appeared to be Torri's equal. The two may share the same pay grade, but as Torri rubbed her shoulders and flatly examined the flickering DNA code, she envied Taggart's menial job. What she wouldn't give to stick vaccines in a hundred arms lined outside the building.
"Come in."
She said, stretched and started to rifle through the cabinets behind her. The metal doors sealed off basic supplies: boxed up cotton, sterile swabs and the like, but it was also where she stashed her tea cup and saucer. Everyone in medical corps learned early-on to lock away anything that matters on base, and since she didn't have an office of her own, stashed behind extra jars of enema lubrication waited a pale white saucer and matching cup.
"Dr. Weston,"
she turned at the sound of her name. A public health nurse technician was in the door. For the life of her, she couldn't remember his name. He continued.
"Sorry to interrupt, but there's a bill of permit for a merc group applying for Custody approval. Dr. Taggart is stuck in surgery and asked if you have time to go over their records. Major Dobowski wants them off base asap."
Torri's shoulders sank, and she nodded. Taggart's "surgery" was a run of the mill knee-replacement. It should take him half an hour at best, but she didn't blame him skipping out on this kind of shit. It was boring as hell. She locked the screen. She might as well make herself useful. "Load the applications and I'll be there in a few minutes."
Maybe the thing would be fully visualized by the time she was back.
On her way to the lounge, she stopped to take care of important business. It was tea time after all, and a woman had standards. So by the time she graced the foreigners with he presence, she'd skimmed their application on the mil. grade secure Wallet now nestled in the pocket of her physician's white coat. It was hers rather than Taggart's, thank God. His would have fit her about as well as a kid throwing a sheet over their head at Halloween. This was tailored to fit at the waist and fell only a few inches shy of the skirt of her uniform. The matching jacket she wore only for dress-occasions; one of which was not today.
She walked in balancing the saucer in one hand and fingers of the other curled through the cup's handle. A 2LT was posted at the door looking irritated. She shot him a glare upon entering, and he smoothed over well enough. Good. She hid an accompanying smirk. Taggart kept a tight ship (figuratively speaking of course) around here. Torri had no intention to mess with the mood. Besides, try working in the Kremlin.
Over the rim of her tea cup filled with a deliciously warm swirl of herbs and leaves, brown as her eyes, she noted with no shortage of amusement that the applicants enjoyed their own with not but Styrofoam cups. A magic marker lay untouched on the middle of the table.
She placed hers aside. It was steaming hot, after all, and she intended to take her time enjoying it during the course of the interviews.
"I'm Dr. Victoria Weston,"
she announced and offered to shake hands with the representatives of the Legion Premiere. Her accent was crisp and educated, but thinned compared to her British parents.
"I'll be the one to sign off on the public health approval of your permits. I was just looking over your medical records for the members of your Company."
She shook her head like she was unimpressed and returned to the other side of the table. They could sit opposite her, conference room style. Or they could stand. It didn't matter to her either way. She made the gesture none the less, "Gentlemen."
"I'll need to run your company's records through the appropriate databases to look for red-flags. This will require a transfer of information on every individual's birth records, vaccinations, exposures, blood works, DNA analysis, urine, prostatic and fecal tests. Also genetic analysis of flora harvested from colonic, genital and integumentary tissues. fMRI and imaging analysis. And of course any and all hospitalization records since the inception of The Sickness."
She unfolded the Wallet screen from her pocket, sounding bored, and studied their reactions.
"Understand gentlemen. You're applying for more than work VISAs, and its my job to take the health of the public and service sectors very seriously. Any aspect in which I am not appeased and your permits will never see the light of day."
She quirked a little smile, but when Torr sipped from the tea, she winced. Damn thing was already going cold. How hard was it to get insulated ceramic around here?
Edited by Torri, Jan 1 2014, 04:54 PM.