ArchivedLogs:Medical Decisions

Medical Decisions
Dramatis Personae Hive, Micah, Rasheed
In Absentia	5 November 2014 '
Location <NYC> Common Ground Clinic – Clinton
A dingy waiting room with a line of rickety chairs, a small glass table with a set of permanently out-of-date magazines, a set of plastic holding racks with a number of informational pamphlets about STIs and partner abuse. This place is not, to be sure, the most cheerful on earth, but for many of its clientele it is the best they have. The Common Ground Clinic's staff provides free and low-cost medical care on a sliding scale to many of Manhattan's poorest residents, without checking for insurance, immigration status or many other things that bar entry for many of them to traditional medical care. There is counselling available, too, and once a week social workers to help people find resources for getting on their feet. The wait times are long, but the volunteer staff here is dedicated (if always overworked.) Taptaptaptaptap. Taptaptaptaptap. It's quiet in the examination room where Hive is waiting -- maybe not actually waiting to /be/ examined, per se. Though routine protocol means that a nurse has taken his stats regardless. Now, he just sits slumped in a chair in his jeans and Aperture Science track jacket, fingers drumming restlessly against its arm. Taptaptap. His eyes are kind of glazed-over, unfocused and staring at the wall across from him. The hand that /isn't/ tapping is clenched haaard against the arm of the chair, his teeth clenched as well as though against some pain. Micah sits next to Hive in an identical chair, though his posture is less tense and more /concerned/. His dress implies coming straight from work: TARDIS blue polo shirt and khakis typical of a weekday. He brings a hand to rest over Hive's where it claws at the chair arm, his own grip firm but at a reassuring level as opposed to a hard-clenching one. He doesn't speak, just providing an unquestioning physical presence for the time being. Knock, knock, knock. Three quiet polite taps on the door announce Rasheed's arrival. The doctor slips in a moment later, dressed in plain blue dress shirt and slacks, a folder tucked beneath his arm and one bony finger pushing glasses up further on his nose. The grey in his hair has been spreading prominently over the past few months, the crows-feet behind those glasses deepening. His small tight smile does little to dispel them. "Hive. And Micah. Good afternoon." "S'too fucking loud in here," Hive grumbles under his breath, teeth clenching harder. "Can we just --" But this question is cut off by the knock at the door. His shoulders tense up, head bowing further, and he doesn't return Rasheed's smile. "Maybe by some really fucking liberal definition of good." Out of habit, Micah stands when the other man enters the room. At first, he smiles and extends a hand in friendly greeting and out of friendly habit, as well. The smile wavers after a moment, conflicted feelings more obvious than he'd like them to be in his features. His tone settles into an ambivalent politeness as he returns to his seat, hand back on Hive's. “Afternoon, Doctor Toure.” Hive's comment tightens his fingers over the other man's, head tilting to regard him more closely. The rest of the conflict in his expression is lost in a flutter of hope. “Loud? Honey, it's not... I mean, not out /here/. You hearin' things in your head again?” "Loud?" Rasheed looks faintly puzzled at this assessment, tilting his head briefly as though listening, himself. He meets Micah's hand with a brief shake, tipping his head to the other man. At Micah's comment on Hive's telepathy, though, there's a contrasting (brief) flare of chagrin where Micah has hope. Outwardly, though, his small smile remains. "That would be good, yes? I know it's been -- difficult on you, being without it. How are you feeling?" Hive doesn't offer a hand. Just a continued grimace, posture still tensely closed-off. "I don't know, I --" He trails off, narrowed eyes darting up to Rasheed and then back down again. "Fff. Just a. Fucking headache, I don't. Know. Hurts like a --" He shakes his head. turning his hand up and over to squeeze Micah's hand back. "I'm feeling -- like why the fuck am I actually /here/, I'm dying anyway and who the fuck /knows/ what /you/ really want." “Is there anythin'...dif'rent we could do for his pain management? It's been...not good.” Micah's hand squeezes back harder at Hive's assessment. “Not dyin'. We're tryin' t'do what we can. S'why you're here.” Though his jaw tenses at the last statement. Apparently he has nothing to say regarding Rasheed's motivations. There's a very thin press of Rasheed's lips, and his hand lifts to rub at the hollows of his eyes, briefly. He sets his folder down on a counter, leaning back against it with a faint wilt to his shoulders that is hard to discern, given his usual state of Slouch. "You were here," he drops his hand back down to press on the counter's edge, too, "to discuss your options, moving forward. If you'd like to work with a different physician from here out, that can certainly be arranged, but all /I/ want here is to help you do just that." "I had an appointment to talk about goddamn /palliative care/, what the fuck do you call that if not /dying/?" Hive's tone has sharpened, though his hand doesn't pull away from Micah's. His other lifts, though, in an unconscious echo of Rasheed's, though he rubs at his temple rather than the bridge of his nose. "Spare me." His teeth grind before he speaks again. "I mean, fuck, I'm not doubting you want to help the goddamn /cancer/ but, you know, meanwhile you're /also/ turning around and working to kill every-damn-thing I /am/. Not actually sure the dying-of-cancer doesn't leave a better taste in my mouth." “It might be best. For 'im to at least have a second opinion t'work with,” Micah offers softly. “You have t'understand. We got nothin' aside from those news reports an' the Clinic cuttin' ties with you t'work from. Makes folks a mite jumpy t'be puttin' their lives in your hands just now.” His teeth meet with his lower lip before he speaks again. “Matt's devastated. Have you spoken with 'im since all this?” It might not be what the appointment was for, but it doesn't seem like things are going forward without addressing the topic first. "As I said," Rasheed spreads his hands in front of him, "you're welcome to go wherever you like for your care. I can recommend some people who I think would be good for you -- or your oncologist at Sinai, I'm sure, will be more than glad to work with you from here on out." He drops his hands again to rest on the counter, giving his head a small shake as his mouth presses downward. "I haven't. He missed his last appointment. I haven't heard from him since." His fingers curl inward against the counter's edge. "Things have been -- pretty rocky since the news started all this. I have to say, it's been a little --" He cuts off this sentence, instead finishing mildly: "As with all my research, I've only been trying to help." "Help fucking what?" Hive's voice is less sharp, now, more tired. "Help those gorram shills at Themis turn us all human? They don't need your help they were getting by fine on all the /torture/.” “If your current guy can keep seein' you from here on, that might. Be easier,” Micah says this to Hive rather than Rasheed, biting at his lip through the others' exchange. “He's been tryin' t'work up...t'be able t'talk t'you. He'd wanted to request copies of the legal documentation surroundin' 'is participation. It's. Very, very hard on 'im. /He's/ been catchin' hell over this. It's just... Is it true? Are y'really givin' parts of /him/ over t'the cops an' Themis? /Themis/ of all places?” Micah's tone doesn't pull off sharp or tired, just hurt and confused. "I haven't given anything to anyone." This is first, quick and a little brusque. Less brusque: "-- I have been in talks with Themis about what could be helpful to their patients. And with MID about what tools might be helpful to their officers. I would think that a less lethal solution than /shooting/ people who've manifested an X-Gene would be welcomed." Hive's eyes scrunch together in a pained wince. "Their -- their patients are -- they're /preying/ on people who -- are already so goddamn fucked over by the world always telling us we're not. Good enough, I don't. The Clinic could help people with all the shit Themis does, only without the overtone of /human/ being /better/." "You haven't? You haven't yet. That's...that's good news. That means there's nothin' /done/ yet." Micah's head shakes firmly. "The police an' Themis've /already/ showed just how responsible they'd be with this kinda thing. The police already /have/ less lethal ways of dealin' with folks, they just /don't/. Y'think they aren't gonna misuse this stuff on folks as don't deserve it? After the fightin' rings? An' false arrests? An' beatin's? An'...for goodness sake, they arrested /me/ for...it's illegal t'/be/ a mutant in public. If the police have this, it's the equivalent of forcin' people with special abilities t'take the treatment whether they want it or not. An' if people /do/ want an' need it, why can't they just come t'the Clinic? Themis is...it's madness. Prometheus collaborators. Brainwashin' an' torture. The Clinic's been the only place that's acted in a trustworthy manner. This /is/ somethin' that should go through doctors. That people should have a /say/ in." His eyes narrow slightly, but in a way that implies questioning, trying to sort things out. "Matt has /trusted/ you with /himself/. Went into this willin'ly t'help folks. Shouldn't /he/ be involved in anythin' happenin' with this that weren't what it was made out t'be up front?" "The standard tools the police have won't be even slightly useful against a good deal of the people they're dealing with. And that will be /true/, Micah, regardless of whether I help them or not. The treatment is temporary. /Dying/ is permanent. And I'd think all the things the police have already /done/ more than prove they're willing to shoot first and ask questions later. I think it would be a good deal /less/ harmful if people can survive the shootings." Rasheed's head shakes slightly, his lips pressing together again. "And Themis /has/ doctors working with them as well. A small number of them acted without the knowledge and certainly without the permission of the organization. The people actually working there /to/ help did nothing like brainwashing and torture and acting as though they did -- the media does love to sensationalize but." His eyes lift to the ceiling, a slow breath pushed out through his nose. "And frankly, it's /utterly/ ridiculous to assume that the volunteers involved in clinical research should subsequently have a say in every application of it. I shudder to /think/ what the state of medicine would be today if we made that a requirement." Hive's shoulders sag, now. His hands lift, scrubbing slowly over his face, and he slumps further in his chair. "Hnngh," is his first answer to all this, his eyes closing. And, abruptly standing (which, given his subsequent wobble and collapse down into his chair is probably a Bad Idea and certainly renders it less /dramatic/), "-- Fuck it. I'm /glad/ I'm goddamn dying." "Think they'll just use this on people they couldn't get away with shootin'. Or use it on people they /can/ t'make the shootin' /stick/ better," Micah asserts bitterly. "An' that company line from Themis is /such/ an obvious fabrication. I can't think you're gullible or unintelligent enough t'buy it." At this last, his fingers curl into his palms, nails digging into the skin there. "Don't /dare/ even pretend like this was some mass clinical trial that people signed up for. That this wasn't a thing that happened between /friends/ who /trusted/ one another t'essentially take one man's /body/ an' turn it into medicine. The fact that he was never told about this? Means you either /know/ it's wrong an' couldn't bring yourself to, or y'were never his friend at all an' thought of him like some lab animal t'use as y'saw fit. I don't know which is worse, as much betrayal as Matt's been through lately." His jaw tenses, eyes squeezing closed for a moment. "Just for once. For /once/ it'd be good for people with special abilities t'have a say in their own lives. Matt in /his/ own. /Anyone/ with special abilities t'even be /involved/ in these decisions much less be the one makin' 'em. It's not yours. It's not mine, either, but at least I /try/ t'listen." The tense posture breaks down slightly at Hive's words and his slump. Micah moves and snakes an arm around the other man, voice softening considerably. "D'you want me t'help you out? Or I can get a wheelchair an' come back for you?” Rasheed closes his eyes, pulling in a slow breath; his hand lifts towards his nose again but just drops back down to the counter. "Whatever /your/ opinion of them, Micah, there are a /large/ number of people who /won't/ go to Mendel. Ever. Do not identify with the mutant community, do not want to /be/ identified with the community, do not want any part of any of this. /You/ may be alright with letting those people fall by the wayside, but I believe they deserve just as much access to the care /they/ think will improve their lives. I do try to listen. I have /been/ working with the community here at this Clinic since long before Mendel was even conceived of. Just because I don't draw the same --" He quiets, though, when Hive stands. The squeeze of his eyes presses tighter, then slowly opens. "Hive, you don't --" There's another twinge in his mind, regret sharp and acute. "I do hope you'll still make an appointment at Sinai. Good -- day." He stays where he is, watching the other men with faintly furrowed brow. Hive's shoulders tighten, a briefly disturbed look wrinkling his expression. He shakes his head, leaning in to Micah as he stands again. "Don't need a -- chair. C'mon. Let's just..." He drops his eyes to the floor, starting for the door. "... Yeah." His voice is gruff, and though he hesitates he doesn't actually turn back towards Rasheed. "Bye." "We'll take care of him," is all Micah offers in parting as he helps Hive to his feet and to the door. "Get good at takin' care of our own. No one else will."