Log:Pull My Finger
Pull My Finger
OOC Date: February 24, 2016
Location: Resistance Base
Participants: Ambrosia Greystorm, Sesti Gath
< Medical Lab - Resistance Base, D'Qar
This medical facility is an averaged sized room with a total of twelve medical beds that can be retracted into the dark metal walls when they're use is not needed. Each medical bed has a station beside it for the doctors to monitor their patients and tend to the wounds that they may be suffering from. The floor of the room is a dark hard polished stone that is in fairly good shape as the base itself isn't that old. Small circular spotlights are the primary source of lighting in the room as they shine down over each med bed station and can be adjusted in brightness levels by the console aside each bed. On the wall opposite of the room's entrance there is a large glass wall that has a doorway leading into a room with two Bacta Tanks where severely injured personnel can be tended to.
"If you only had this can of bolts to talk to all day, you would be bored, too," Alk's voice can be heard as Sesti stands at the cupboard over to the side, cataloging and putting away the new med supplies.
"You would think that world revolves around bacta to listen to him. As if it takes any skill to hook someone up to an oxygen mask and dunk them in a vat." The servos shift as he clicks his pincer appendage in irritation.
"It does make things a little easier when the patient can be stabilized and healed faster with a bacta tank," Sesti acknowledges, while the medical droid that mans the bacta tank seems to be paying no heed to his 2-1B's complaints.
"Well. Makes me embarrassed to be a 2-1B, sometimes."
"You can feel embarrassment?" Sesti ask curiously, turning to regard him. "Maybe you would like me to fine tune your receptors, and then you can be rid of those pesky feelings?"
Speaking of pesky feelings... It's a cold day in Desolation Canyon, when 'the major' walks into a medbay of her own volition. Today, those Jawas must be huddled in their sandcrawlers. Taking a casual glance around the interior as though seeing it for the first time (she's not), Ambrosia follows the sound of idle banter and strolls on soft-footed steps towards the Doctor. She's not limping (not a guarantee of well being), not in tears (definitely not a guarantee of well being), and doesn't seem to read as 'disgruntled' either, which, as many souls will attest, is also not a reliable indicator of mood.
"Now you are truly trying to insult me," Alk replies and sulks off to his charging station. "Change my settings, indeed."
Looking up to watch Alk move off, there's a little smirk playing at the zabrak's lips as she succeeds in temporarily shutting off the droid's complaints. She finishes the drawer, closes it, and opens the next one. Going through, she starts taking the out of date packages from the drawer. It is when she turns to drop them in the bin next to her that she notes the Greystorm matriarch. "Major Greystorm," she greets. "Not expecting to see you today, are we?"
"No," Ambrosia answers simply after stepping around Alk with a wide berth. "But I had some time. Do you?" She glances around again, double-scanning the beds. No concern for who or what may be on the other side of the glass wall, swimming in bacta, though.
Dropping another couple outdated supplies into the bin, Sesti nods. "Of course." The drawer is pushed quietly closed, and the cart up against it. "What is it you need?" Although the purple eyes have already done a quick once over, they didn't linger at any point before returning Ambrosia's face, waiting patiently for the answer.
"Nothing big, really. Just some parts gettin' old..." Inhaling as deep a breath as she can without taking in /too/ much of the disinfected aromas, Ambrosia sweeps a hand over her scalp, brushing back some wayward strands into line with the bun from which they'd fled.
"Thing is," she takes a half step to the left and plants her right hand on the counter, hip leaning in tandem. Her left hand uplifts to eclipse an overhead glare and illuminate the veins. The Major smirks, eyes narrowing at something seen there before she offers the hand to Sesti as though for the shaking. All the fingers fold in, save for the index, which remains pointed directly at the doc. Her voice drops, deadpan, eyes locked on target.
"...Need you to pull my finger."
"Is it not working?" Sesti asks, reaching forward to grasp the finger offered to her. Her clinical demeanor slips into place as she looks down at it, the practiced eye noting the practically invisible seam.
"Oh, it does," Ambrosia flexes it stiffly in Sesti's grip, then presses at the base of the digit and slides her hand free, leaving the Zabrak to hold a piece of her. Wouldn't be the first time, after all. Upon severing, the thin core of filaments dangles about two inches from the finger. She reaches out with another fingernail and pokes at another hidden button near the base and the core suddenly stiffens into a sharp, rigid wire.
"First bit'o tech I ever wore. 'Major' had this installed as a little 'welcome back to the land of the living' gift. Got me out of a few binds since then, severed a few arteries, blinded one doof...anyway. She's locking up a little too often when attached and /that/ is a problem. Think you can fix it?"
"Of course," Sesti claims confidently, taking the finger over to a small work table, and setting it in a clamp. She perches up on the stool next to the table, and pulls a magnifying glass over. She has, apparently, set up the table, because as she reaches for the tools to flip open the 'skin' covered door, and then the pliers, needles, etc, she needs her eyes never actually leave the finger. "The fluid in the joint has gelled, some of it is almost solid," she comments.
"Sounds gross," Ambrosia shifts her weight to her other foot before slowly ambling over to 'supervise' from over Sesti's shoulder. In truth, it's the first time she's ever taken a gander at the inner workings. "Huh. Looks gross."
"At least it doesn't smell as bad as what you would find in your real joints. If your real joints gel," Sesti replies with the tiniest hint of grin at the corners of her mouth as she cleans out the offending gunk into a little dish. "Hopefully you do not feel that any time soon. It is much more uncomfortable." A little hose whines as it sucks up the remaining fluid, and then is set aside in favor of a swab that dries the last of it out.
"Can't be worse than what led to acquiring these fancy bits," Ambrosia mutters and folds her arms gingerly across her front, minding the connection leading into her carpal. "How long you figure it'd take the rest of them to look like /that/?"
Sesti does glance up as the Major mentions the pain that lead to the installation of her other mechanical parts, the lines over one eye curving ever so slightly, then she looks back to her work. "Your other joints?" she asks. "The larger the joint, the longer it will take to look like this. There is more fluid, so it remains in the fluid state longer. This compartment is much smaller, so there is less liquid to keep the mixture soluble." Even though the other joint in the finger doesn't appear to have the same gunk, the little probe attached to the hose is used to suck out the fluid from that one as well.
Ambrosia nods, bowing her head aside to scratch at an ear. "Well, I suspect I'll be dead before that becomes an issue, then. Works out well." A yawn. "So, how deeply have you picked Dr. Mortenson's brain since his retrieval? Been curious myself, but suspect we don't exactly speak the same lingo..."
The tiniest bit of pink flushes between the dark and blue lines, but Sesti doesn't blink as she finishes the cleaning. "I have talked with him a bit. He and his remaining crew were suffering from the trauma of the crash, and being hunted by the creatures that had escaped from captivity." She turns to go through an array of bottles in the drawer to her side. "Despite that, he has been gracious with sharing his expertise. His knowledge of near-humans is astounding, I admit to wondering if he knows more about zabraks than I do."
Ambrosia scoffs lightly. "Not likely, though I guess everybody has times when they question how well they know themselves..." Sounds like a lead into a more serious, insightful conversation, but there's a half smile on the Major's face and she seems to have mentally moved on, staring into...well, nothing. "Still can't get this image out of my head, though. DeLong floundering around in OctoFlang shart. As though he didn't already smell badly enough."
There's a slight curve to Sesti's lips as she slowly injects a pool of fluid into the joint again. "He definitely has studied the genetics and compatabilities of the zabrak more than I have," she allows. A quick glance at the pause, but then the subject changes. "I can imagine that was quite a sight. Unfortunately, I was only able to witness the aroma that he returned with soaked into his clothing. I did not have the humorous image to go with it and alleviate the... discomfort to my olfactory senses."
The Major chuckles, shaking her head. "That's a shame. Damn lucky most of us are still here to laugh about it though. Or lament, if you're DeLong." Aaaaaand the thought of the Private who did NOT make it back (alive) comes to memory, derailing any and all pleasure in that line of conversation. So, naturally, she changes it.
"So what is that stuff?" A point to the fluid she's injecting. "Aside from what must be industrial-grade lube."
There's a short chuckle from the zabrak, following the bit of silence at the mention of people making it back. "That is basically what it is. Industrial-grade lubricant, mixture of grease and oil, which can, over time, separate. The grease coagulates and that is what sticks." The capsules around the joints are closed, and then the finger itself. Sesti turns the clamp so that she can tap the buttons at the bottom to flex the joints, working the grease into it before returning it.
"Heh." That's it. A 'heh' to summarize her enlightenment/amusement at having been sort of on-target with something of science. Ambrosia resumes watching in silence, trying to ignore the continuously tingling screams of open nerve endings while awaiting the re positioning of the finger into port.
With the finger working smoothly again, Sesti re positions it on the Major's hand. Once attached, she turns it over, and requests the woman close her eyes as she reaches over for a good, old fashioned, tongue depressor. She cracks it in half, and does a quick check on the sensory receptors by alternately brushing the rounded edge or the broken edge along the skin and asking Ambrosia to identify which is which. Then Sesti gives a nod, letting her get back to beating up recruits while she cleans up the gunk that was pried out.
