ArchivedLogs:Sharing Data

Sharing Data
Dramatis Personae Hank, Bradley Zychova	2015-11-03 "It's generally standard to avoid calling something alarming an epidemic to avoid public panic until the potential to cause harm by releasing the information no longer outweighs the harm of keeping it in." (part of flutp)
Location <XS> Medical Lab - B1
Gleaming and sterile, the school's medical facility is all cool science in contrast to the mansion's old-world old-fashion. All stainless steel and antiseptic tinge, the room is filled with the quiet whir-click of the various implements that comprise its medical equipment -- all state-of the art. The hospital beds are curtained off for privacy when they have patients, and in one of the alcoves there is a small operating theatre visible. More heavy-duty equipment is visible in the lab in the back, where the securely locked cabinets keep sensitive equipment out of the reach of teenage fingers. The school's infirmary has quite a few students here, tucked into its beds. Coughing, sniffling. Hack. Splutter. There's a television playing (/The Dark Knight Rises/) next to one girl's bed and someone else is reading a book; one enterprising studnet is actually working on homework, though many are dozing. Off in the back, Hank's office door has been shut tight. It doesn't /quite/ keep out the mix of sounds from outside, though it does muffle them fairly well. Even so, the doctor wears a worried frown at the coughing. He's not looking at the door; he's looking, at the moment, at his computer screen, one huge hand curled around a mug of coffee while the other is poised over his keyboard. "The news," his tone is rather level, all things considered, "is still reporting all this as a particularly severe case of flu." Dr. Bradley Zychova is a man with thick gray hair, and with a height closer to seven feet than six. Despite that, it is unlikely anyone in the history of ever has EVER found him to be intimidating. His so spindly as to be describable as almost spider-like were it not for the white, scholarly beard, and warm twinkling brown eyes that give him a 'skinny Santa Claus' look. Apparently he and his wife had Ellin later in their lives. Whatever the case, even if he manages warm better than he manages scholarly, he looks troubled. He's got his hand hovering over a laptop in his lap, seated across from the large blue doctor with a briefcase of specimens at his left. Any natural curiosity about Hanks' mutation or the process of the disease has been eaten away by the fact that his daughter is also sick. "It's generally standard to avoid calling something alarming an epidemic to avoid public panic until the potential to cause harm by releasing the information no longer outweighs the harm of keeping it in. It's the uptick in irritability I'm worried about. Without evidence, I'm not going to jump to conclusions, but irritability is a small step to aggression. And from there..." He shakes his head. "I brought some cultures we collected if you wanted to compare them. How well-equipped is your infirmary for laboratory work? What I've seen is impressive, but..." The man shrugs. "I'll help any way I can. I'll be happy to share my data and make any calls I need to. Can I expect a copy of whatever data you've gathered. With respect to the privacy of your students, of course? The clinic may benefit as well." "That is the very reason we have attempted to delay broadcasting the news around the school as long as possible," Hank acknowledges with a small tip of his head. "We are quite well equipped, here. I received a message from the brother of one of our teachers -- just a few hours ago. Voice mail. He said that he has confirmed Mr. Tessier is carrying the illness and is taking him to a hospital for treatment -- though by what means he has tested this, I have yet to discern. He is -- I imagine, too preoccupied at this moment for answering his telephone." He releases his coffee -- his grip on the mug has been slowly tightening -- and moves both his hands to his laptop, typing quickly. "Sans identifying information, certainly, our data is yours. My interest at this moment is only in the health of our students." "Do you have anyone who's showing recovery. I suspect this uptick in vitals is not a true immune response. Just the next stage." The man reaches down to retrieve his briefcase, and opens it. Fitted almost perfectly inside is a plastic case containing carefully labeled speciments and a portable hard drive. This is offered to the man,"I brought this. I know it's a bit of data glut, but I'm of course at your disposal. I must say, it does me good knowing my daughter is in a more closed setting. I'm not sure I'd have the objectivity to care for her on my own. She's never really been sick. I'm worried she'll pay for our sheltering her for so long. With her here, I can concentrate on work." A pause, and then the man goes on,"I'm running some antibody comparisons back in my own lab to see if there are enough exploitable similarities." He begins typing something on his laptop as well. "Just tell me what you need from me, and you'll have it." As for Mister Tessier,"Reliable identification is always the first step. I'd love to know his methods." "Recovery. Unfortunately, so nebulous, with this particular condition." Hank's eyes do not stray back towards the door, but there is a small tilt of his head, ear cocking just a touch towards the sounds of coughing in the next room. "In some patients, the fever has cleared, the coughing has abated. But there are signs -- that in years past I would just as soon have chalked up to the everyday stresses of living in close-quarters. Hormones. Moodswings. Tempers running high, increased reports of fighting. These days, though, I fear we must count the increase in /disciplinary/ actions every bit as much a medical sign as a fever." He takes the case from the other doctor, nodding his thanks as he sets the hard drive down to plug it in to his own computer. "I am just glad to have the assistance. My worry may not be quite the same as that of a parent, but the children are still --" For a moment he simply falls quiet, and then turns back to the computer. A small shake of his head. "We have a lot of work to do." "My wife an I were nearly forty before we had Ellin. We had assumed it wasn't happing. Every sick child that came to us, therefore, felt as personal as if they were our own. Even now with a child of our own, it is difficult not to take it personally with each one. They're young. They have the rest of their lives ahead of them if we can keep them healthy. How could you not take it personally and remain a feeling being. It's not as pronounced at the clinic. With the volume you deal with, it's hard to pin down the average behavior of each patient. Even so, the general attitude has been more crass than I am used to." He pauses to type something down,"In some ways, you have a better chance of finding useful data than I do with a captive population. And without ethical concerns about gathering a captive population. Your children here have a better chance at recovery than most." He stands, then, folding his laptop,"I'm going to examine some of your patients, with your permission. There's no substitute for first-hand observation." "It is," Hank agrees, with a very small flit of smile across his furry blue face, "certainly -- personal." The smile vanishes. His hand tips outward towards the door. "Of course. Just, ah. Stay away from Max. She's been /particularly/ inclined lately to take one's head off." Around here, perhaps literally.