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ax_main2018-02-16 08:10 pm
ax_finesse) wrote in ax_main2018-02-16 08:10 pm
Entry tags:
Jeanne and Hank, Backdated to 2/16
After the sparring match with Fatale goes awry, Jeanne goes to the infirmary to get herself sewn up. She also does her part to try to cover for the Brotherhood assassin.
Well, the bleeding hadn't escalated. Thankfully the infirmary was in decent proximity to the Danger Room. Fatale's knife was now visible in her arm, which also clued Jeanne into the idea that Fatale needed to be in a certain range to manipulate light the way she did. Which was an interesting fact, one that was registered along with the pain of being stabbed. Which, she admitted, was a first. And now, she was going to attempt, probably foolishly, to cover for Fatale and sew herself up on her own.
She entered the infirmary, perhaps a bit too calmly for someone with a knife sticking out of their upper arm. She wasn't even really cradling the injury, just occasionally glancing to it to make sure she wasn't bleeding on the floor. "Is anyone present?" she asked, as she entered, looking around. Hopefully there wasn't. Someone, if given cause, could probably review security footage and see what happened, but Jeanne was going to do her best to cover for Fatale's... error? She'd admitted feeling sorry about it.
At the very least, Jeanne was going to return her knife. That was, after all, only polite.
With a faint scraping sound, a massive blue figure wheeled himself from the periphery into the center of the room, spinning in place slightly as he came to a halt. In an oversized white labcoat and clothes that had obviously been tailor-fitted to accommodate his unusual proportions, he was obviously a mutant. He was also the schools biology and communications instructor, when he wasn't pursuing his own research in the labs.
"I'm almost always here," came Hank McCoy's grand reply, spreading one long, blue furred arm in welcome. "I find the privacy conducive to--" He stopped abruptly, pushing his glasses up his pug nose and scrutinizing the new arrival carefully. "Young lady," he began carefully, "are you aware there is a knife protruding from your arm?"
"Doctor McCoy," Jeanne said, her tone betraying no disappointment to his presence. "I am, yes. If you would be so inclined, I could use assistance in removing it and treating the wound," she said, hopping up to sit on the table.
"Try not to jar it unduly," he chided gently, tapping down his alarm in favor of maintaining a calm and friendly atmosphere. Pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves--extra durable, so as to be in little immediate danger of being shredded by his clawlike fingernails--the blue-furred mutant collected a laceration tray, clean bandages, antibiotic, and a simple saline irrigation for the initial cleaning of the wound. Setting all these on an instrument tray that he pulled up beside him in front of the examination table, he regarded the knife jutting from his patient's arm critically. "I don't suppose I ought to ask, hm? Do you feel you need a painkiller or local anesthetic before we begin?"
"An accident, nothing more," Jeanne said, and to his other inquiry, she nodded. "A topical anesthetic should be sufficient," she said. Pain was of little consequence to her, mentally. It was just data feedback.
Grunting noncommittally in response to her initial statement, Hank nodded at her choice of painkillers, returning to his desk briefly with a syringe of combined lidocaine and epinephrine and a clean needle, and in a moment he was gently slipping the nerve-deadening mixture into the tissue around the knife. Once he was satisfied the medication had taken hold--and the Jeanne was experiencing no adverse reaction--he readied the laceration tray. "You may feel a slight pinch," he cautioned her as he quickly but carefully extracted the knife, then prepared to clean and stitch the wound.
"This isn't the sort of sharp metal object one might encounter in a kitchen," Hank commented, nodding toward the implement in question where its bloody end rested inside a small stainless-steel bowl. "In which case I would presume this 'accident' occurred in the Danger Room? At least, I certainly hope so. I'd hate to think that conditions at the school had devolved to the point that the students are shanking each other in the cafeteria."
"That is where it transpired, yes," Jeanne acknowledged, though now she had to think about how she might get rid of any videotaped evidence. She hadn't started a recording in the first place, but she was worried that perhaps some sort of automated system may have recorded it. "I was practicing knife disarm techniques, and how to defend against them, with another student. Using live steel was... an oversight on my part," Jeanne said.
"Young lady," Hank told her mildly, "I feel it prudent to advise you now that I am currently bound by the strictures of doctor-patient confidentiality. If I am obliged to review the Danger Room automated recordings, and conclude you have been less than forthright ... well, if nothing else, I will be forced to conclude I can't simply trust you at your word. That would be extremely awkward, given my dual-role as medical support staff and educator. Please spare me the anxiety--I have a tendency to shed profusely when I'm anxious, and there's a great deal of very delicate equipment in here."
Jeanne blew a breath out through her nose, considering her options. She couldn't guarantee she could get to the footage before Doctor McCoy.
"The footage will show that I have been... inaccurate in my description of events," Jeanne said. "However, the footage will instead show that the fault was still mine. I ... believe I escalated our sparring too aggressively. I am unused to admitting defeat. I am unused to being exceeded. I believe I pushed Fatale to her limits, and something snapped. She was... remorseful, as she left, and I believe she was panicked." It wasn't the hallmarks of someone who had committed something premeditated. "I am aware of her history as a captive. It was... unwise to spar with her unsupervised. The fault is mine."
"Well," Hank said, reclining comfortably on the balls of his overlarge feet and returning to the task of stitching her arm back together, "let's not put too great a premium on assigning fault. As you said before, it was simply an accident--one that I hope will encourage you both to exercise greater care in the future." He would have to speak to Fatale separately, on that topic, but he was satisfied for now that the situation did not need to be communicated to the faculty, in general. Charles would learn of it soon enough, if he were not aware of it already, but he was reasonably sure the Professor would trust to his judgment. "I will deal with the recording. Thank you for being honest with me. Next time--and, having been a teenager once, myself, I'm certain there will be a next time--please try to keep in mind that I, along with the other members of the school's staff, are much more interested in the well-being and peace of mind of the students in our care than in doling out draconian punishments."
"Of course," Jeanne said, her tone distant and detached as usual. "I worried that this incident may... damage relations with the Brotherhood. I hope that it will not." That much was sincere. The Brotherhood, more and more, was beginning to seem to Jeanne to be a necessary evil, so to speak.
He hummed, the sound low an booming in his furry barrel chest. "Fatale, as you mentioned, possesses a very particular background; I can see how this scenario might place her in a particularly agitated state. I will speak to Wanda--and to Fatale herself, if she is amenable to the conversation. If nothing else, I think the majority of us agree that we would prefer our small community remain on the most amicable terms possible. Any internecine conflict would only weaken us, and we are already the underdogs. Despite our myriad personal advantages."
"Good," Jeanne said, not allowing herself to visibly relax, not that she was overly tense in the first place. Her body didn't move without her command. "I agree with the sentiment. Wholeheartedly."
"I'm a rank sentimentalist, certainly," Hank noted, "but I'm also a lifelong scholar, and a specialist in biochemistry. Even if sentiment weren't a factor, the numbers are not in our favor. If we do not make an effort to help each other as much as possible ... well, the unique and fascinating phenomenon of our existence will be very short-lived, indeed."
Pragmatic. They had that in common, at least. "Agreed," Jeanne replied, nodding. She was periodically observing Hank's hands deftly suturing her wound, taking in the information. It would likely prove valuable in the future, given the current stance on mutants and escalating trends. "If you are amenable, I would like to be the one to return the knife to Fatale," Jeanne requested. "I believe it would be a suitable gesture of apology on my behalf."
Hank's mouth turned downward slightly in a cautious frown; he wasn't sure he was entirely comfortable with the notion of students carrying knives on campus. Then again, the natural advantages possessed by some of them made the threat of a knife quite laughable. And one could argue that Fatale wasn't exactly a student, either. He supposed the faculty would simply have to exercise all possible vigilance, and hope that episodes like this one remained a rarity. For now.
"Let me run it through the autoclave first," he said at last, with only a hint of his actual reluctance showing. He carefully smeared antibiotic cream over the recently-closed wound, and prepared to apply a sheet of soft, absorbent gauze to cover it through the initial healing. "Just to be on the safe side."
"I suppose that method of sterilization is far more optimal than what I had in mind," Jeanne said, who had planned simply on cleaning it with a medical-grade alcohol solution so as to not tarnish the blade.
"Well," Hank murmured demurely, "I do have some experience with this sort of thing." Once the dressing was in place, he sat back in his chair and regarded Jeanne gravely. "The bandage will need to be changed within the next twelve hours or so," he told her. "You can pick up the knife then. If you feel you need any painkillers at that time, we can discuss it. Otherwise ... I suppose we've reached the limits of what medical assistance I can offer."
"Very well," Jeanne said, nodding. "I will return in twelve hours." She slid fluidly from the table, testing her arm's mobility with the sutures and the bandage. "Thank you for your assistance, doctor."
"Please, feel free to call me Hank when we're not in class," he told her. "Though I hope interludes like this will be the exception rather than the norm."
"Very well," Jeanne replied, though she had no real intention of being so casual with a man who had earned the title. She spared the knife that had once been in her arm another glance, before nodding to Hank and turning to leave.
"I'd ask you check in with the medical lab staff in twenty-four hours or so, so we can check how well it's healing," he suggested as she began moving toward the door. "But come back sooner if you notice anything unusual--strange discoloration, discharge, that sort of thing. We can also prescribe a mild painkiller, if the discomfort becomes too acute once the local anesthetic wears off."
"Pain is just sensory input," Jeanne replied, coolly, without turning around, as she opened the door and walked out.
Well, the bleeding hadn't escalated. Thankfully the infirmary was in decent proximity to the Danger Room. Fatale's knife was now visible in her arm, which also clued Jeanne into the idea that Fatale needed to be in a certain range to manipulate light the way she did. Which was an interesting fact, one that was registered along with the pain of being stabbed. Which, she admitted, was a first. And now, she was going to attempt, probably foolishly, to cover for Fatale and sew herself up on her own.
She entered the infirmary, perhaps a bit too calmly for someone with a knife sticking out of their upper arm. She wasn't even really cradling the injury, just occasionally glancing to it to make sure she wasn't bleeding on the floor. "Is anyone present?" she asked, as she entered, looking around. Hopefully there wasn't. Someone, if given cause, could probably review security footage and see what happened, but Jeanne was going to do her best to cover for Fatale's... error? She'd admitted feeling sorry about it.
At the very least, Jeanne was going to return her knife. That was, after all, only polite.
With a faint scraping sound, a massive blue figure wheeled himself from the periphery into the center of the room, spinning in place slightly as he came to a halt. In an oversized white labcoat and clothes that had obviously been tailor-fitted to accommodate his unusual proportions, he was obviously a mutant. He was also the schools biology and communications instructor, when he wasn't pursuing his own research in the labs.
"I'm almost always here," came Hank McCoy's grand reply, spreading one long, blue furred arm in welcome. "I find the privacy conducive to--" He stopped abruptly, pushing his glasses up his pug nose and scrutinizing the new arrival carefully. "Young lady," he began carefully, "are you aware there is a knife protruding from your arm?"
"Doctor McCoy," Jeanne said, her tone betraying no disappointment to his presence. "I am, yes. If you would be so inclined, I could use assistance in removing it and treating the wound," she said, hopping up to sit on the table.
"Try not to jar it unduly," he chided gently, tapping down his alarm in favor of maintaining a calm and friendly atmosphere. Pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves--extra durable, so as to be in little immediate danger of being shredded by his clawlike fingernails--the blue-furred mutant collected a laceration tray, clean bandages, antibiotic, and a simple saline irrigation for the initial cleaning of the wound. Setting all these on an instrument tray that he pulled up beside him in front of the examination table, he regarded the knife jutting from his patient's arm critically. "I don't suppose I ought to ask, hm? Do you feel you need a painkiller or local anesthetic before we begin?"
"An accident, nothing more," Jeanne said, and to his other inquiry, she nodded. "A topical anesthetic should be sufficient," she said. Pain was of little consequence to her, mentally. It was just data feedback.
Grunting noncommittally in response to her initial statement, Hank nodded at her choice of painkillers, returning to his desk briefly with a syringe of combined lidocaine and epinephrine and a clean needle, and in a moment he was gently slipping the nerve-deadening mixture into the tissue around the knife. Once he was satisfied the medication had taken hold--and the Jeanne was experiencing no adverse reaction--he readied the laceration tray. "You may feel a slight pinch," he cautioned her as he quickly but carefully extracted the knife, then prepared to clean and stitch the wound.
"This isn't the sort of sharp metal object one might encounter in a kitchen," Hank commented, nodding toward the implement in question where its bloody end rested inside a small stainless-steel bowl. "In which case I would presume this 'accident' occurred in the Danger Room? At least, I certainly hope so. I'd hate to think that conditions at the school had devolved to the point that the students are shanking each other in the cafeteria."
"That is where it transpired, yes," Jeanne acknowledged, though now she had to think about how she might get rid of any videotaped evidence. She hadn't started a recording in the first place, but she was worried that perhaps some sort of automated system may have recorded it. "I was practicing knife disarm techniques, and how to defend against them, with another student. Using live steel was... an oversight on my part," Jeanne said.
"Young lady," Hank told her mildly, "I feel it prudent to advise you now that I am currently bound by the strictures of doctor-patient confidentiality. If I am obliged to review the Danger Room automated recordings, and conclude you have been less than forthright ... well, if nothing else, I will be forced to conclude I can't simply trust you at your word. That would be extremely awkward, given my dual-role as medical support staff and educator. Please spare me the anxiety--I have a tendency to shed profusely when I'm anxious, and there's a great deal of very delicate equipment in here."
Jeanne blew a breath out through her nose, considering her options. She couldn't guarantee she could get to the footage before Doctor McCoy.
"The footage will show that I have been... inaccurate in my description of events," Jeanne said. "However, the footage will instead show that the fault was still mine. I ... believe I escalated our sparring too aggressively. I am unused to admitting defeat. I am unused to being exceeded. I believe I pushed Fatale to her limits, and something snapped. She was... remorseful, as she left, and I believe she was panicked." It wasn't the hallmarks of someone who had committed something premeditated. "I am aware of her history as a captive. It was... unwise to spar with her unsupervised. The fault is mine."
"Well," Hank said, reclining comfortably on the balls of his overlarge feet and returning to the task of stitching her arm back together, "let's not put too great a premium on assigning fault. As you said before, it was simply an accident--one that I hope will encourage you both to exercise greater care in the future." He would have to speak to Fatale separately, on that topic, but he was satisfied for now that the situation did not need to be communicated to the faculty, in general. Charles would learn of it soon enough, if he were not aware of it already, but he was reasonably sure the Professor would trust to his judgment. "I will deal with the recording. Thank you for being honest with me. Next time--and, having been a teenager once, myself, I'm certain there will be a next time--please try to keep in mind that I, along with the other members of the school's staff, are much more interested in the well-being and peace of mind of the students in our care than in doling out draconian punishments."
"Of course," Jeanne said, her tone distant and detached as usual. "I worried that this incident may... damage relations with the Brotherhood. I hope that it will not." That much was sincere. The Brotherhood, more and more, was beginning to seem to Jeanne to be a necessary evil, so to speak.
He hummed, the sound low an booming in his furry barrel chest. "Fatale, as you mentioned, possesses a very particular background; I can see how this scenario might place her in a particularly agitated state. I will speak to Wanda--and to Fatale herself, if she is amenable to the conversation. If nothing else, I think the majority of us agree that we would prefer our small community remain on the most amicable terms possible. Any internecine conflict would only weaken us, and we are already the underdogs. Despite our myriad personal advantages."
"Good," Jeanne said, not allowing herself to visibly relax, not that she was overly tense in the first place. Her body didn't move without her command. "I agree with the sentiment. Wholeheartedly."
"I'm a rank sentimentalist, certainly," Hank noted, "but I'm also a lifelong scholar, and a specialist in biochemistry. Even if sentiment weren't a factor, the numbers are not in our favor. If we do not make an effort to help each other as much as possible ... well, the unique and fascinating phenomenon of our existence will be very short-lived, indeed."
Pragmatic. They had that in common, at least. "Agreed," Jeanne replied, nodding. She was periodically observing Hank's hands deftly suturing her wound, taking in the information. It would likely prove valuable in the future, given the current stance on mutants and escalating trends. "If you are amenable, I would like to be the one to return the knife to Fatale," Jeanne requested. "I believe it would be a suitable gesture of apology on my behalf."
Hank's mouth turned downward slightly in a cautious frown; he wasn't sure he was entirely comfortable with the notion of students carrying knives on campus. Then again, the natural advantages possessed by some of them made the threat of a knife quite laughable. And one could argue that Fatale wasn't exactly a student, either. He supposed the faculty would simply have to exercise all possible vigilance, and hope that episodes like this one remained a rarity. For now.
"Let me run it through the autoclave first," he said at last, with only a hint of his actual reluctance showing. He carefully smeared antibiotic cream over the recently-closed wound, and prepared to apply a sheet of soft, absorbent gauze to cover it through the initial healing. "Just to be on the safe side."
"I suppose that method of sterilization is far more optimal than what I had in mind," Jeanne said, who had planned simply on cleaning it with a medical-grade alcohol solution so as to not tarnish the blade.
"Well," Hank murmured demurely, "I do have some experience with this sort of thing." Once the dressing was in place, he sat back in his chair and regarded Jeanne gravely. "The bandage will need to be changed within the next twelve hours or so," he told her. "You can pick up the knife then. If you feel you need any painkillers at that time, we can discuss it. Otherwise ... I suppose we've reached the limits of what medical assistance I can offer."
"Very well," Jeanne said, nodding. "I will return in twelve hours." She slid fluidly from the table, testing her arm's mobility with the sutures and the bandage. "Thank you for your assistance, doctor."
"Please, feel free to call me Hank when we're not in class," he told her. "Though I hope interludes like this will be the exception rather than the norm."
"Very well," Jeanne replied, though she had no real intention of being so casual with a man who had earned the title. She spared the knife that had once been in her arm another glance, before nodding to Hank and turning to leave.
"I'd ask you check in with the medical lab staff in twenty-four hours or so, so we can check how well it's healing," he suggested as she began moving toward the door. "But come back sooner if you notice anything unusual--strange discoloration, discharge, that sort of thing. We can also prescribe a mild painkiller, if the discomfort becomes too acute once the local anesthetic wears off."
"Pain is just sensory input," Jeanne replied, coolly, without turning around, as she opened the door and walked out.
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