ArchivedLogs:Contagion

Contagion
Dramatis Personae Kate, Corey	March 15th, 2015 Part of the Future Past TP.
Location <NYC> The Mendel Clinic - Lower East Side
With its sharp crystalline edges and sleek lines knifing up into the sky, this building is one of the most /distinctive/ new additions to the neighborhood. An angular structure in glass and steel, the tall tower has a deceptively slender look to it that is belied by the heavy security as soon as you enter the doors. The front doors are frosted with the Clinic's logo -- a rising sun over a rod of Asclepius -- a motif echoed in many places throughout the building. Visitors to the clinic must first pass through a small mantrap, guarded by some of the Clinic's security guards; once they make it through the metal detector and airlock's double doors they emerge into the much more hospitable lobby. With dark wood floors underneath and comfortable black and red couches at its edges, the high windows give the room an airy feel. A bank of elevators to one side carry visitors to the many destination floors, while the wide welcome desk at the other side is manned by a security guard ready to help point visitors in the right direction. It's been one of those nights. Midnight. Abdominal gunshot wound; the patient is unconscious, packed into the back of the 'meatwagon'. Phil Lamorte -- Corey's new partner of three weeks -- is driving, with Corey in the back. They've tried to bring the patient to two ERs so far; both rejected him on the basis that the patient is a potential health risk to their personnel. This is probably because the patient in question is somewhat scaley. He's sixteen, maybe seventeen; his skin is a ruddy brown, covered in an unusual crust. His eyes are closed, his breathing regular -- face fitted with a mask. As the ambulance swings into the back of the clinic, Phil's already throwing it in park, climbing out to help Corey with unloading him and into the clinic proper. The gurney unfolds as the doors are opened, smoothly delivering the patient to the ground; Phil pulls as the doors open. "Hurry up," Phil huffs -- he's a 30-something overweight man with ruddy cheeks, a big nose, and lots of tattoos that swirl over his arms. "Relax, kid. We've got you--" The doors are already popping open; Kate and one of the clinic's doctors are waiting for them. Checking the iv drip bag on the transport gurney is firmly attached, and double checking the oxygen won't be impeded, Corey nods to Phil as he swings open the back door to help disembark the patient. "At least this place should take him. Otherwise, I think we're running out of options." He's already done everything he can short of lighting up the ambulance, and with the way the past weeks have gone he can't risk the loss. " Dressed in his NYC EMT uniform, he is practically the opposite of his partner, tall, muscled and healthy as a team of oxen. The year has been kind to him, and he's been more careful with his facial hair as he remains as clean shaven as he can and his hair is short enough to pass muster. "They've got good people here, " he says, and as he see's Kate, his smile goes wide "and there's one now." "With all my training and experience, it never gets easier to handle another kid comming in with a gunshot wound," Kate sighs to the doctor waiting with her, before the ambulance arrives. Dressed in a set of clean, pale blue scrubs, worn over a gray long sleeve top to ward off the late spring chill, though the sleeves of her under shirt are shoved up and out of the way. Her long hair is pulled up and back into a no-nonsense ponytail. Purple nitrile gloves protect her hands, and a bright pink stethesope dangles around her neck, caught on the name badge pinned to her pocket. The young woman bounces nervously from one foot to the other, but stops her worried motions as soon as the ambulance doors are thrown open. A brief smile is given to Corey, but otherwise it is all professional dealings for now. As the patient is wheeled in, she falls into line behind the EMTs, helping to push the cart towards whatever triage center has been set up in the clinic, taking mental note of answers given to the doctor's questions. "Do we know what happened? And don't say 'kid was shot," she says, following along at a quick pace, "That much is obvious." Her powers, even without being in contact with the unconscious kid give her a general idea of how dire his situation is. The boy's situation is not -- /immediately/ dire. With proper medical care, his chances are actually pretty good; the bullet's lodged somewhere in his belly but hasn't hit any of the crucial organs beyond possibly breeching the small intestine, which will no doubt require surgery and careful monitoring. But there's something else going on, too; an underlying pathology that thrums beneath the skin -- something she can't exactly get a bead on. He 'feels' wrong. "--kid got shot," Phil responds, almost automatically in response to Kate's request that he /not/ respond with that -- but the EMT is already grinning cheekily as he says it. The grin flickers out of existence as he relates, quickly keeping pace with the other personnel: "Was busking, some asshole says he tried to mug him, shot him with a .38. Seriously, this place gets more like Florida every week--" The kid, meanwhile, is starting to wake up; his eyes flutter open as a low groan escapes his lips. "Nnahhhh... what... no," he says, drawing in a harsh, gulping swallow of air -- arms jerking upward, beginning to move and writhe on the gurney. "No, don't -- don't /touch/ me--" "Relax, kid," Phil replies, reaching out to grip the boy's arm, trying to push him back down. "You're fine, just -- fuck, can we sedate him?" "Don't worry kid, we're at the Mendel Clinic. They specialize in mutant patients, it's not like those government places," Corey tries to calm the kid, and he looks to Phil. "Bad idea, mutant patient, he might be saying not to touch him for a reason, like say, spines or acid. We might have gotten lucky." Training hasn't caught up to mutant cases yet, but enough talk among the EMT's has at least spread some information around. Leaning so the kid can see him, he presents a smiling face, and hopes that the healing may make him a least more calm. "We can't keep calling you kid, what's your name hrm? We're all just trying to help here." He glances over to Kate with a look calling for some help, hoping cute nurse lady may register as safer than burly and tattoos, or burly and huge. Kate rolls her eyes at the initial answer from Phil, moving her way past him to stand up closer to the kid's head, still jogging to keep up with the others. She glances up at Corey, and nods, looking back to the kid, a warm smile on her features, a bit too short to lean over for him to see her though, "Hey there. It's going to be alright. You're in a safe place now, yeah? We'll get you patched up, good as new, ok? But we're going to need you to trust us and work with us. You're safe here, the Clinic is a good place, with good people." Pausing in case there is an answer to Corey's question about a name, her brow furrows as her own mutation pings against his, taking a moment to examine the kid visually. "Do you have any mutations or medical conditions which we might need to acomodate in your treatment?" "--oh, yeah, right," Phil says, retracting his arm -- but by then, the kid's desperate moan has become a hoarse shout, and he's /thrashing/ on the table -- regardless of Corey and Kate's combined efforts to calm him. Phil steps away, grunting as the boy begins to cry out: "N-no! No! Don't -- stay away from me! Don't /touch/ me oh God--" is all he replies to Kate's litany of questions -- and then, there's another shout, coming from directly /behind/ Kate. This time, the shout is from Phil -- one of shock, confusion, and /horror/. He's holding up his own hand -- the hand he touched the boy with -- clutching at his own wrist. As what appear to be /scales/ emerge from beneath his skin, turning it to a dark, rich earthen brown -- molding across his palm and extending over his fingertips, rapidly crawling their way up toward his bicep. His tattoos begin to writhe and 'melt', molding into the scab-like scales. Though he doesn't seem to be in pain, Phil's clearly panicking -- and as he stumbles back, he crashes into the attending doctor behind him, the rapidly extending scales of his hand 'smacking' the side of the doctor's neck. And then the doctor, stumbling back, grunts -- reaching to touch his neck -- as the very same ruddy-brown scales begin to spread across /his/ neck. "What -- the /hell/--" "Shit! Phil, sit there stay calm and try to relax." Corey pulls out a pair of gloves from his belt, not wanting to chance the risk himself. "Hey kid, it's going to be alright. Just stay calm okay? We'll get through this, you'll bleed out faster thrashing around like that." Looking to Kate since this is her jurisdiction more than his, he frowns. "Your call. There an open bed we can take him to? Maybe two others..." he lets trail off, glancing to Phil and the doc, not sure if his healing is helping... or hurting the situation. Kate startles when first Phil, and then her co-worker seem to 'catch' whatever skin condition the mutant has, though she takes over assisting the pushing of the cart. Nimbly ducking to avoid any further flailing limbs, Kate "We are not turning him away. We've got open beds down in the isolation areas, we'll head there. We have protocols for dealing with contagious conditions, it just means this could be a bit more complicated," Kate says emphatically, her smile faltering. Taking a moment to tug the sleeves of her long sleeve shirt down to cover as much bare skin as she can, overlapping it with her gloves. She glances around as they head towards the quarantinable area to find another nurse or doctor to explain the situation to for assistance. "Sir, please, lay back and let us help you," she addresses the kid who seems to be panicking, "It'll be okay. Please. I know you're scared, and I know you're in pain. But we can't help you if we don't know what is going on. Does your mutation require skin to skin contact? Do you know if it effects other mutants, or only humans? We won't turn you away, but we need to know what is going on, please." "OhGod ohGod--" the boy is starting to shout, hyperventilating; up ahead, a security guard has noticed the commotion and is closing in -- no doubt to make sure everything's alright. Another nurse is inbound, a second darting off to find a doctor. Phil is continuing to panic, but at least has stopped flailing around; the infected doctor -- to his credit -- is /not/ panicking, but is clearly agitated and not happy at all about the fact that the rough, patchy scales are beginning to crawl their way up his face, over his nose, underneath his chest. "--fuck," Phil gasps, sinking down against the wall, staring at his hand -- his arm -- then back up to Corey and Kate as they move down the hall. "Fuck, fuck, you gotta -- we gotta find a way to -- shit, I'm /turning/ into -- the kid's fucking /contagious/--" "Quarantine," the doctor agrees, reaching a hand to grab Phil by the shoulder -- tugging him along. "Everyone, stay the /hell/ away from us--" "It's not -- it's not -- it's not usually this bad it just -- when I panic it spreads over any skin I touch but it's never been /this/ bad--" the kid says, gasping for air as they rush him toward a quarantined room. "You've probably never been injured this badly before. Now if you try and calm down, we'll see about getting you patched up. You'll need antibiotics, and probably a good number of stitches, but after that you'll be right as rain and have a fancy new scar to show off to the ladies." Corey tries to keep talking to get the kid calm, trying to be the serene eye of the storm. "If you tell us your name and if you have any allergies that would really help us out right now. Just stay calm, and relax. Nice shallow breaths." Looking back to Phil meaningfully as if those words applied to him as well, he keeps up a brisk pace but keeps it professional. Panicing medical professionals tended to panic patients after all. Kate glances up at Corey when the kid mentions that it isn't usually this bad, raising an eyebrow meaningfully. "It's okay. You're doing fine. We'll just have to be careful, alright. We'll get you something to help with the pain as soon as we get situated in an empty room," the nurse says with a soft smile, nodding reassuringly. She listens to the doctor and lets him fill in the others in on the situation, turning to relay the information to another nurse so appropriate precautions can be taken to prevent further spread. "Stay with us. You're doing fine," she echoes the reassurances, guiding them towards a quarantined room through the hopefully cleared hallway. "OhGod, ohGod, I'm -- I'm so sorry," the boy continues to mumble, though the initial flash of panic seems to be settling down. "I'm -- I'm Hamsa I don't know if I have any allergies--" "Clear the hallway," the infected doctor shouts down the hall -- and as the other nurse begins to approach, he shakes his head, waving her off: "Stay the /hell/ away from us. Get everyone in the surrounding rooms out -- we have no idea what the hell this is." The scales have spread over his face, giving him an appearance that matches the boy; dark, ruddy, scaley. Almost /lizardy/. "We're going to all have to be quarantined until we determine whether or not you two are infected," he informs Kate and Corey rather grimly, continuing to pull the hyperventilating Phil along. He then turns to the nurse who is retreating, calling after her: "Call the CDC. Tell them the situation -- we have an unknown, /rapidly/ moving contagion."