#Operation theatre equipment

[silverior968]

Comic based on an incredible conversation I had with my dad yesterday

[Image ID: A traditional pencil comic. The first panel has the artist, a teenager with glasses, short, shaggy hair and a hawaii shirt excitedly explaining something with their hands moving. The speech bubble has the text "...and it's gonna be so funny, because my friend is Princess Zelda! So it's like "Princess Zelda and her new bestie - a car!"" The text next to them says "talking about cosplay". The next panel has the artist's dad, a bald man with stubble and a T-shirt, nodding with a speech bubble that says "a car made of flesh". The next panel has the artist grimacing, their hair fluffed up like a cat. The fourth panel is of the artist looking horrified, arms crossed with a speech bubble that reads "DON'T SAY THAT" with emphasis on that. The fifth panel has the dad with the speech bubble "well if he's a human version of a transformer he has to transform!" The sixth panel has the artist looking thoughtful, with the text "hmmmm" next to them. The seventh panel has them shrugging with a speech bubble that reads "Drag Queen?". The 8th panel has the dad smiling, with his eyes closed and arms crossed. His speech bubble reads "His drag name shall be IRON MAIDEN". The 9th panel has the artist saying "I was thinking more oldschool" and the dad's speech bubble, reading "like Miss Daisy?". In the 10th panel the artist has a speech bubble that says "or Dorothy" and the text "he seems like a Wizard of Oz fan" next to a small drawing of Dorothy and Toto. The next panel has the artist looking enlightened, with the speech bubble "Oh I know, medical puns!". The 12th panel has the dad looking thoughtful, with his eyes squinted and a speech bubble reading "Sara Bellum?" The 13th panel has the artist doing jazz hands, smiling, with their speech bubble reading "Mal Practice". The 14th panel has the dad saying "Mel Practice". The 15th panel has the artist looking shocked with a lightbulb next to them. The text above them reads "ENLIGHTENMENT". In the 16th panel the artist is leaning their head on their hands, smiling in a way that makes it seem like they're making an evil plan. The speech bubble reads "VIVI SECTION". The next panel has them with stars in their eyes and jazz hands, exclaiming "DIANNE GNOSIS". The 18th panel has the artist with one finger raised and a speech bubble that says "You know what my drag name would be? SIR JERRY*" and small text next to them reading "*I've had about 12 surgeries". The second to last panel has the artist saying "Oh, Mister Echtomy would also be good". The last panel has them with their head in their hands, with a speech bubble that reads "But would I be a drag king? Or a drag queen?". / End ID]

[co-worm]

[sayruq]

The US military has completed its 500th flight airlifting over 50,000 tons of weapons and equipment to the Israeli army for its over ten-month onslaught against Palestinians in Gaza, the Israeli Defense Ministry announced on 26 August. In addition to the weapons and equipment airlifted to Israel since 7 October, Washington has sent Tel Aviv 107 shipments of military supplies by sea. A Defense Ministry statement said the shipments include “armored vehicles, munitions, ammunition, personal protection gear, and medical equipment, which are crucial for sustaining the IDF’s operational capabilities during the ongoing war.” The weapons shipments – that have enabled Israel to kill over 40,000 Palestinians, mostly women and children, and render Gaza uninhabitable – come as White House officials claim that US presidential candidate and current Vice President Kamala Harris has been “working tirelessly” for a ceasefire agreement. Muhammad Shehada of EuroMed Human Rights reported on 25 August that, according to multiple senior officials in Doha who were directly involved in the Israel–Gaza ceasefire talks, “There are currently no negotiations, only a sham theatre play.”

[jkengineering]

https://jkenggworks.com/

[modular-hospital-equipment]

Modular Operation Theatre - Advantages and Disadvantages of Modular OT

A modular operation theatre (OT) is a type of operating room that is constructed using pre-fabricated modules that are manufactured off-site and then assembled on-site. This type of OT is becoming increasingly popular because it offers several advantages over traditional OTs.

Advantages of Modular Operation Theatre:

Faster construction: Modular OTs can be constructed much faster than traditional OTs because the modules are manufactured off-site. This means that the construction time is reduced, which can help hospitals to start using the OTs sooner.

Customizable: Modular OTs can be customized to meet the specific needs of a hospital. This means that hospitals can choose the size, layout, and equipment that they need, which can improve the efficiency and effectiveness of the OT.

Easy to expand or modify: Modular OTs are easy to expand or modify if the needs of the hospital change. This means that hospitals can add more modules to the OT if they need to increase the size of the OT or change the layout.

Cost-effective: Modular OTs are often more cost-effective than traditional OTs because they require less labor and materials to construct. This can help hospitals to save money, which can be used to invest in other areas of the hospital.

Disadvantages of Modular Operation Theatre:

Limited flexibility: Modular OTs are less flexible than traditional OTs because they are pre-fabricated off-site. This means that hospitals may be limited in terms of the size and layout of the OT.

Limited customization during construction: While modular operation theatres can be customized to meet the specific needs of a hospital, the customization options may be limited during the construction process.

Dependence on the manufacturer: Hospitals that choose to use modular OTs may be dependent on the manufacturer for maintenance and repairs. If the manufacturer goes out of business or is unable to provide maintenance and repairs, the hospital may face challenges in maintaining the OT.

Transport and assembly: The transportation and assembly of modular OTs can be complex and may require specialized equipment. This can add to the cost and time required to construct the OT.

modular ot,

medical equipment,

medical equipment & surgicals,

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[airtechpteltd]

Significance of Clean Rooms in Science And Its Allied Sectors

Cleanliness in the basis of all manufactures, experiments and other variety of scientific activities, that are to be carried out with utmost care and precautions. On a general note there are industries and sectors that demand the usage of cleanrooms, and by virtue of the aspect of what activity shall be carried out, will determine the standard of the clean room requirement. Although cleanrooms were initially used in the high-end semiconductor industries, research and life science laboratories, in recent years and advancement of science and technology there are more industrial sectors that make use of cleanrooms during manufacture of their produce. Various industries that utilize cleanroom and adhere to the mandatory norms about the same, can be grouped as the sectors that manufacture electronic, high end computer rooms and server rooms, biotechnology industry, life sciences including chemistry and medical biology branches, food manufacturing industry, and the automotive industry in which manufacturing of sensitive circuitry pertaining to the recent advanced automobiles are carried out. Factors like high temperatures, humidity and static electricity can cause a lot of damage to the computer parts and the internal circuits during manufacture. Whereas in a cleanroom, these factors can directly be encountered and averted thereby rendering the manufacturing area free from such damage causing aspects. Likewise, the biotechnology sectors, where new drugs are formulated, agricultural and food research which works for production of better foods, research laboratories that work and handle sensitive solutions, live cells and so on require a totally contaminate-free space. Biotechnology sector require a perfectly organized cleanroom because even a slight bit of contamination leads to obtaining inaccurate test results. In the life science sector live cells with sensitive fluids and organic matter are dealt and most importantly their sensitivity to contamination makes it very necessary to facilitate a cleanroom. While cleanrooms require high level of hygiene standards in order to ensure the inhibition of the growth of bacteria and other microbes, the creation of an ideal environment, with controlled moisture-levels, suitable temperature, a regulated air velocity and air pressure need to be maintained. There are specialised organizations which are skilled and experts in constructing cleanrooms along with the other requisites like hospital equipments. One such organization is Airtech. Airtech has been supplying cleanroom equipment, cleanroom technical lighting, and hospital solutions with their dedicated work and within a short span became to be known in the sector for providing high-quality products to the esteemed clients. In Order To Find Out More Details Laboratory Equipment Suppliers in Singapore Please Be Touch With Us Today Onwards..!

[studiesmediain]

Operation Theatre Technician books pdf download 2023

This book focuses on the areas that come up most frequently in pre-PG exams. Anesthetists in training, postgraduate students, and professional anesthetists will benefit the most from this course. For MD/DA/DNB students, this book might be used as a last-minute revision guide. To make reading easier, the text is divided into nine pieces. Italics are used to highlight the most significant elements. Each chapter concludes with a summary of key ideas. An overview of subjects has been offered in a tabular format whenever possible. Disputes that arise often have been attempted to be settled as much as feasible. The most recent pharmacological, equipment, and procedure advancements have been included. The American Heart Association (AHA) updated its cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) recommendations in 2015.

BSc operation theatre & anesthesia technology

Product details

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originally published at https://www.studiesmedia.in 

[kayandcompany]

KAY & COMPANY Head Office: 25, Netaji Subhash Marg, New Delhi - 110002. INDIA Tel. : +91 11 43195600 - 20 Lines

Works: B-316, Okhla Industrial Area, Phase-1, New Delhi - 110020. INDIA Ph. / Fax : +91 11 41613432 / 33

E-mail: info@kay-co.com, sales@kaycoindia.com

[7gmedical]

The surgical light is a medical device that illuminates the operative site during surgical procedures.

There are two basic types of surgical lights, namely, incandescent and fluorescent.

[medcoric]

Abandoned operating theatre 1. 2. And 3. (Featuring discarded various equipment) | source video

[bullet-prooflove]

Taken!Series Part Three: Touch & Go - Angel Reyes x Reader

Tagging: @wakeama @witches-unruly-heart @keyweegirlie @trhett21 @annetje @infinity-mars @emily2003alzaga @danzer8705 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @thatonesexycancerian @expir3dl0v3 @appreciatelove @the-wandering-lunatic @weiwei0210 @anime-weeb-4-life @multifandomloversworld @harperdoodle @cheyrenee @fanfic-n-tabulous @stressed-chas @daydreaming-belle @est1887 @prettyinpunk85 @adaydreamaway08 @thanossexual @briefpersonenemy @creativitybeware @crimeshowjunkie @librarian1002 @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist '@spookyboogyuniverse @spaghettificationandpretzels @nu1freakshow @thebaileybugle @legally-a-bastard @bonsaijoons @sclitvdes @justreblogginfics @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @withakindheartx

It’s touch and go, that’s what the doctor’s tell them. The surgery is a risk, you’ve lost a lot of blood, but you’ll die if they don’t try to repair the damage, so the decision is made before Angel even gets there.

It’s been over four hours and you’re still in the operating theatre.

The longer you’re in there, the worse your chances are.

It’s why Felipe is praying for you right now; despite the fact he has long given up on God. He prays for Valeria, that she’s safe, that Skye has developed some maternal instinct in that time she’s been away. The realist in him already knows the truth but for a brief moment he allows himself to hope.

Beside him Angel is almost catatonic. His eldest son has his head in his hands, his agitation betrayed only be the slight rocking of his body. It’s been years since Felipe’s seen him like this, not since the night that Marisol died.

EZ is further down the hallway, on the phone. He’s been the conduit of information between them and the MC since they arrived at the hospital, scribbling notes down in a tiny reporter’s notebook he keeps in the top interior pocket of his kutte.

The entire club are on the streets, working their contacts, running an investigation that parallels the police. By now they’re all aware that Skye has taken Valeria, the neighbours reported seeing a woman leaving the house with a crying baby in a junker. They’d had no idea what had taken place inside. The authorities are doing their best, but they can’t get intel as quick as the MC, they aren’t equipped for a child abduction.

So far, they’ve discovered that Skye got into town a couple of weeks ago, she was low on cash so started hooking to feed a heroin habit, she’d picked up back in Vegas. She’d been drinking and doing weed when Angel had met her, occasionally a couple of bumps of coke. It had escalated after she had dropped the baby on their doorstep.

Felipe knows there’s something wrong when EZ strides back towards them. His mouth is set in a grim line, his shoulders hunched, his dark eyebrows furrowed. He runs his palm over his head as he comes to stand before the two of them. His hand comes to rest on Angel’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. The other man looks up, his eyes meeting EZ’s and Felipe feels something twist in his chest.

“A contact of Coco’s came through.” EZ says, his voice low so that no one else in the waiting room overhears him. “We think we know where Skye took Valeria.”

Felipe already knows it’s not good news, it’s in the way that EZ holds himself, the tension in his muscles.

“Where?” He rasps. “Where did she take my granddaughter?”

EZ’s jaw tenses before he meets his father’s eyes.

“Meth Mountain.” He tells the two of them. “Skye took her to Meth Mountain.”

Love Angel? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[raisindave]

[Chapter 69] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content warning: Descriptions of injuries that could make some readers uncomfortable.

Is it wrong to feel relief right now? On one hand, your job is complete, and there are no more expectations from the linguistics team. On the other hand, there are still hostages trapped in the theatre, and the riskiest part of this entire operation is yet to begin. You're still expected to be on call, and it's entirely a possibility that you'll be expected to quickly resolve some other unforeseen mystery. It seems your two peers don't know what to do with themselves either, as the three of you stand in uncomfortably still air in the dark void of the vacated restaurant. It felt like you no longer had the authority to draw a breath, like any stray atom might hinder the raid that's moments away from starting, just past those long curtains. 

The commotion behind you nearly made you jump out of your skin, and you and your peers turned to gawk at the opening door like a pack of meerkats. An unknown man and woman entered, barely making eye contact as they surged into your space. Your fingers instinctively slid over a cloth-wrapped bundle of cutlery from one of the dining sets to defend yourself, but the lettering on their matching coats loosened your tension. Thick navy coats with orange shoulders marked with blocky text reading "sanitäter," they're just paramedics. A tall female medic with blocky glasses and a lanky man with faint yellow hair, making brisk eye-contact as she knelt to reveal a trunk of equipment. 

The male paramedic said something in German directed toward you, but you were too stunned to churn the words into thoughts. Your eyes were out of focus, but the KKpt spoke an affirmation in return that satisfied his statement. You watched as he shoved what's essentially your life's work onto the wood floor, a cascade of papers and pens, clearing space on one of the larger tables. The female paramedic clicked a silvery metal staff into a pillar, hooking a sack onto the device. They worked fast, hijacking your now redundant workstation to fashion one of their own. Just as your mind started to consider that this might be a med bay for evacuated hostages, familiar voices broke through the glass barrier of the front door. 

You'd be easily forgiven for not recognizing them at first. For a moment, your muscles considered raising the alarm that two civilians had just wandered into this top-secret facility until your brow softened at the sight of familiar faces. Blue latex gloves guided the two soldiers to recline on the cloth tables, immediately examining the wounds in a flurry of triage. They muttered to one another, functioning like a well-oiled machine to ferry tools and vials into upturned palms. 

Soap having his bicep exposed, thanks to his tacky sleeveless shirt, made it easy for the male paramedic to point and pinch at a jagged slash just below his shoulder. Unfortunately for Soap's unsightly wardrobe, a second gash along his chin dripped fresh blood across his chest as he was forced to lie on one of your tables. All while carrying on with Ghost about a similar encounter in Thailand. The paramedics pointed wooden sticks at every seeping slash across his body, even probed at pink dots along Soap's wrist, battle scars from a kerfuffle with a pigeon. Ghost on the other hand looked worse for wear, on paper that is, just in time for Gaz to push through the doors. He took no time to make his presence known, catching a nod from his abed comrades with a bold grin pulling at his cheeks. 

"Nice jumper, LT. Does it come in men's?" Gaz boldly snarked at Ghost's eccentric red and blue sweatshirt as he approached. 

"Can't say, Garrick, but I think you come in men enough to be the expert," Ghost cut back cruelly, making Soap holler in laughter and immediately crushing Gaz's onslaught.  

The female paramedic lifted the fated jumper over his shoulders, revealing a tight beige vest underneath, now blooming with red on his right side. Meanwhile, her partner prepared a small tray of equipment, one of which was a long hooked needle that made your skin grow numb. 

"Cheeky cunt," Gaz rocked on his heels after striding to stand at the table Ghost was being treated at, rolling his jaw in agitation as he grinned. 

Soap's expression, however, told the story of a sweatshirt he wished he hadn't leant to Ghost for this mission. Now for more reasons than one, the poor piece was shovelled into a biohazard bag, spattered with your lieutenant's blood and likely that of a few of his attackers as well. Just then did you notice Soap's tattoo along the top of his forearm as he punches Ghost in the shoulder, a circular shape resembling some emblem. It's hard to say for sure. 

"Where is Cricket, anyway?" Soap chimed as one of the paramedics temporarily pinched his shoulder injury shut with a wound closure strip.

The mention of your name made you snap out of your blank, eavesdropping stare at the floor. By the time they had spotted you, an awkward silence had taken hold. Your jaw opened to speak while your tongue fell heavy.

"Hello," you spoke, immediately questioning the eeriness of just standing in the corner silently watching them. 

Luckily, that train of thought was brought to an end as Price entered, and the spotlight was redirected. An odd sense of relief washed over you as he struck up a conversation. 

"You did a good job stopping a trowel from embedding itself into a wall, Simon," Price noted sarcastically as latex gloves pried the piece free from Ghost's chest, not even winging as what looked like alcohol was swiped over the slash. 

"Another brag rag," Soap sneered. 

"I'm starting to run out of room on my uniform," he sighed as the medic applied fibrous tape to temporarily seal the gash. 

"Maybe they'll start sticking them to the back like pin the tail on the donkey," Price huffed, eliciting a snort from Gaz. 

They banter like they both don't have hooked needles prying closed weeping gashes on their skin, reclining in their positions like it's a day at the beach. Skilled gloves hooking under pale, flayed skin, heaving to pull dark threads through the other end along Ghost's abdomen. Your eyes darted across every movement of her hands, her firm grip and tedious stitching, imagery that would otherwise make you winge. It's a 50/50; either the paramedics don't speak English, or they're simply used to hearing whatever unhinged banter tends to go on in a military hospital. You can't help but be weirdly hopeful it's the former as your eyes absently wander over more of the scene. This is more of Ghost's body than you've ever seen before. While you got to see some exposed shoulders and the whole of his tattoo sleeve back in that Polish hospital, your exploration was cut short by sprawling bandages just under his pectorals thanks to broken ribs. Now, he lay significantly more exposed, forced to expose his soft underbelly by an insistent medical team. But his underbelly was anything but soft. It took every fibre of your being to stop yourself from sweeping over every curve and divot of his lower abdomen, angular lines along the sides of his pelvis and a soft trail of hair leading down to the buckle of his jeans.

"I heard you had to put a guy to sleep out there," Soap nodded to Gaz, resting his free hand behind his head. 

"A little sloppy, not my best work. Captain's guy didn't wake up though," he retorted, tilting his gaze. 

"It was either me or him," Price sniffed. "Like takin' out the trash," a cheeky and arguably cringeworthy reference to his manner of disposal of the assailant. 

"Sick bastard," Soap chuckled, having his jaw wrangled by the male paramedic's grip on his wound. 

"Glad to see we're all in good spirits then," the captain ordered.

At the angle Price was standing, you couldn't help but see some of the printed images on the pages under his crossed arms. Printout stills of the photos Soap took in the oracle's apartment. As he rocked on his hips, occupied by a lively discussion with Soap and Ghost, you managed to spy images you hadn't been sent. Different angles from around the apartment, some blurs of colour and what looks like a cork pinboard, a flash of blue and black, and a grey backpack. Your attention must've been so laser-focused on the cipher that you missed something notable right under your nose, and the building tension in your forehead dissipated when he made his way over to your position. 

"Good work out there, all of you," Price stood before the three of you. 

"These two were a treat to work with," you smiled, nodding at the professor and Korvettenkapitän.

KKpt tapped her forearm on your bicep, looking like she was considering the formality of pulling you into a relieving hug, opting instead to frown and nod sternly. The professor, however, seemed entirely distracted by the view across the room, not even registering Price's presence. What an odd pair. 

"-Now, I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got' to talk to Miss Laswell," Price swaggered toward Laswell as she held the door open for him to follow. 

He left after bumping his fist on Ghost's shoulder, though Ghost looked like he was considering snapping and biting the man like a poorly trained dog. As hilarious as that may have been, your lieutenant's self-discipline prevailed. Ghost's eyes flashed to meet your vacant stare, and you blinked away the blankness. There was an agitation in his eyes that startled you, and for whatever reason, you couldn't find it in yourself to match his challenge. You were just so tired. Days of minimal sleep and exhausted mental faculties were catching up to you, not to mention the early phases of starvation blighting your system. As much as you might want to, you can't return to your dingy motel boxspring until at least a few hours have passed, or as long as it's socially acceptable. The boys are packing up anyway, and Laswell or whoever will be expecting a debrief. 

Your next task was remarkably unremarkable compared to the past few days, noting every strategy and conclusion and wrapping it up in a tidy package that will align with official reports. KKpt was the champion of the idea, though; you initially had every intention to sit and rest your head on your forearms for a few hours, spying through the heavy curtain whenever you heard the commotion. She pushed you to write, and it was a blessing in disguise. Your pen worked to expand on crude bullet points you'd laid out, forcing you to make sense of the chaotic few days. Shouting and uproar outside caught your attention. From your angle across the street, an entry team of what looked like ten German SEK officers stood crouched under the front door of the Kino Der Toten theatre, ducking in synchronicity for a soldier swing a battering ram to crash through the wooden barricade. A flash of silver caught the corner of your eye, and your heart softened as rows of frail schoolkids were ushered in aluminum blankets into ambulances, safe at last. The peace of mind made the remaining hours pass easier, like the elephant in the room had vanished.

It didn't even cross your mind that that may have been the last time you'd see those two, but you were already halfway up the stairs to your motel room with your cake across your forearms before you realized. You'll probably catch up with them in the morning before you head out to whatever shitshow mission they have you on next. That wasn't a concern right now. You fought with gravity to find the key in your back pocket and shuffled into the motel room without a second thought. There's that same mustard yellow floral pattern you'd come to recognize, haphazardly applied to nearly every surface. The boxy TV in the corner will have to serve as a temporary counter, as it just now occurred to you that you have no form of refrigeration for this cake. This birthday cake. Happy fucking birthday. Alone in a run-down motel in Germany, the only friendly faces are people who are paid to be there, allies in a technical sense. Not a word from the friends you'd last seen on your previous birthday; they've not even bothered to take note of the date since your absence.

The plump strawberries on the chocolate cake were what got you. Recognition softened the muscles in your face, and it took less than a second for tears to sting in your eyes. Those were your sister's favourite fruit. She'd fight you for them with tooth and nail at the breakfast table as little girls, the treats you'd left for her months ago on that mountaintop in your hometown. What would Carolyn think of what you've done with your life? The thoughts were all too much to try to withhold. Tears prickled along your waterline. Your vision had already blurred the yellow florals into a haze that your fingertips couldn't even swipe away. They just kept coming. Heaving breaths crashed into your chest in hiccuping spasms, and aching muscles made instinctive pacing a painful labour. 

Before you could consider burying yourself in those musty sheets, you were already shedding the shell jacket Laswell gave you, shucking layers free as you made your way to the shower. In one way, showering has always brought you comfort, in another, a thorough shower is a luxury you've been deprived of in your days of brutal studies. It also comes with the benefit of washing away streams of hot tears that sting in your throat and crinkle your brow. Water gradually grew in temperature as your impatience forced you to immediately step under the faucet, streaming cold water down your face and hair. You hadn't even fully undressed, haphazardly slinging soggy socks onto the floor of the yellow fibreglass shower unit. Panic and dread wracked your system, and you didn't even bother stifling weeping sobs. Lukewarm water spilled over your senses, forcing you to squeeze your raw eyes shut and fight harder for breath. Electric muscles compelled you to wash yourself and rid yourself of whatever metaphorical and literal filth you've accumulated, not that this hard water stained shower would leave you much cleaner. 

When you glanced over your shoulder to swipe a handful of bar soap over the limb, your heart stopped entirely. You weren't alone in the tiny bathroom, as a dark figure was in the corner of your vision. He stood cross-armed across from you, leaned against a wall-mounted sink, visible in the crack you'd left in the shower curtain when you haphazardly drew it. He didn't look pleased, but it's hard to say when he's wearing that dumb skull plate stitched over his mask every day. 

"What do you want?" you spat, easily translating your despair into aggression. "Did you come to chew me out?"

"I'm thinking about it," he stood, cold and level. 

"Well fucking get on with it," you jabbed calmly, splashing water over your face to drown lingering tears. "Make yourself comfortable."

Ghost took the time to pause, considering his words carefully while you hotly wanted him to spit out whatever you'd transgressed. While one side of your brain was entirely prepared to fight him with bared teeth, the other urged you to relent and surrender to your despair, curling into a helpless fetal position.  

"You can't back-talk to me in meetings, you know this," he sounded irritated. You caught a glimpse of pale gauze under his black tee when he lifted his arms to cross them. "I thought I was pretty clear that you won't be getting any special treatment because of our transactions."

He brought forward memories of you snapping at him for stating the obvious when you were in that restaurant with KKpt and Kraus. Your fuse was short, but you spoke with an attitude to your comrade, superior, in front of your captain and Laswell. That's the kind of shit that'll get you a written reprimand or, God forbid, an Article 15. Far from acceptable in the military, especially in your tenure. It'd long since slipped your mind in the shitstorm that's been the last few hours, though he still made sure to spare you a few scathing glares to make it clear that he hadn't forgotten. 

"I had a lot on my mind. I fucked up, okay? I'm sorry," your voice venomous and hateful. "Just show me where to sign already."

"'You wouldn't act like that to Soap or Gaz,'" he used your same words from back in the bunker against you, challenging you with your own logic. "If this situation is to continue, you have to learn to separate it from work and be professional."

"Fine," you sighed, still hot with agitation but stripped of munitions by his reasoning. "I can't help but remember you being pretty unprofessional with Gaz and Soap earlier when you were getting stitched up." 

"That was banter with my comrade," he tilted his head back. "It's not the same as disrespecting someone's authority in a strategy meeting." 

"So it's only okay when you do it?" 

"It's only okay when it's after the task is completed."

"And what, so you just let yourself into my room? That's also pretty unprofessional," your lip curled into a frown, loosely resembling a snarl. 

"I got you a birthday gift," he shrugged, tilting his head to a small yellow box he'd balanced on the porcelain sink he was leaning against. 

You turned to face away from him as an odd sense of shame made your face run cold. Warm water rained in hard streams against your skin. You couldn't bear the sight of another person right now. What's gotten into you? Why are you turning every situation into a self-flagellating pity party? You used to have so much more respect for yourself, be able to bark back and hold your ground if someone pressed you. You'd failed to uphold your end of the bargain, and he'd come to scold you for it. His work will always be a bigger priority to him than you, and you'll be discarded and forgotten the second you're no longer of immediate use to this travelling circus. 

A bootstep in your direction made you flinch and cringe, but it slid back to its original position over the tile. Tears made the sight of him blurry when you turned to see him again, a mass of black and white standing at the porcelain sink. 

"What if-" a knot in your constricted throat made you tremble. "What if I asked you to leave right now?"

Milliseconds felt like hours, and the steady thrum from a shambling shower head pelted you with water that progressively lost its temperature. It felt like the life was being sapped from you by this shitty water heating. Rejecting another man made your skin prickle with anxiety; the thought of him, too, slamming his fist across your cheek if you rejected his advances flashed into your mind. A flickering lightbulb overhead made your mind imagine the act too, just as said bruise had begun to fade into your cheekbone. 

"Then I'd ask you to lock the fucking door behind me," his voice was just above a whisper, tinted with humour but still bassy and clear. 

He didn't hesitate or even look your way, smoothly lifting himself from his leaning angle against the sink and ducking through the door with a click. It startled you how quickly he accepted your answer, like you were almost expecting some resistance. He's the one who deserves the pity card, he's the one who suffered a serious injury today, though you'd never guess by his disposition. A strange sense of panic swept over you, like you were scared of being alone, scared of pushing another person out. What else do you have now, if not a few government-mandated co-workers and a strictly physical relationship with the man you'd just kicked out. The closest thing you have to any sort of physical intimacy is a person you're strictly disallowed from holding. Despair in isolation never suited you, and your voice shot out as a lifeline in the sudden silence. 

"Si-" your foggy mind almost slipped to break another rule, another transgression for him to chastise you for. "Ghost."

But he'd already gone. The door had clicked behind him, and the sound of heavy water streaming from a squealing facet had drowned out your squeaking voice. He has every reason to leave. You've worked yourself into a hysteric mess. A burden to this elite task force that lacks the emotional control to be worth hanging onto, he's probably regretting laying a finger on you to begin with. 

Why did there have to be strawberries on that cake? A bitter reminder of the passage of time with the symbol of your sister's mortality represented in a nostalgic fruit. That bundle you'd left on the mountain as an offering is coming back to haunt you, scorn you for your inaction. At first, you thought it was a lack of agency, but that fell through. Maybe feeling like you have no control was the root of your dissatisfaction, but that only caused you to make out with your lieutenant and a handful of other ignorant choices. Then maybe it was your lack of mental stimulation, that reading and filling your mind with case studies would soothe your agitation, but that too fell through. Now, your hunch led you to think that a lack of recognition for your work is the downfall of your self-worth. While it was a factor, and one that Ghost has helped you remedy, ultimately, you shouldn't have joined a career like the military if you wanted to have your boots kissed every time you do what's expected of you. 

Here you are, another year of borrowed time lost, time you should've spent in the soil beside your father and sister. And what do you have to say for it? You've filled a role that would easily be substituted by the next bright-eyed linguist and obeyed your wise masters like the good dog you've become. Comfortable with your collar and willfully heeling as it constricts tighter around your windpipe. You're not cut out for this, you're just not. Your fingernails raked over slippery shoulders, trying to spark feeling back into skin that's slowly being sapped of warmth. Splashing water didn't help, trying to drown your melancholy and not spend your birthday as a weeping mess. Again. But there was a presence in the bathroom. You were too numb to flinch, but he was there, back at his post, leaning on the sink. Knees crumpled from under you, and your face twisted into an ugly frown. Your arms shot out for him, and his forearms caught you before the moisture accelerated your fall into his shoulder.

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Master List

[captain-price-unofficially]

Vickers Wellesley medium bomber, an interwar design that served in peripheral theaters during the early years of WWII. The Wellesley was operated overseas in the desert theatres of East Africa, Egypt and the Middle East. The final Wellesley-equipped unit, 47 Squadron, ended its use of the type as a maritime reconnaissance aircraft, during September 1942.

[barkingbonzo]

THUNDERBIRDS Christmas

Thunderbirds is a British science fiction television series created by Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, filmed by their production company AP Films (APF) and distributed by ITC Entertainment. It was made between 1964 and 1966 using a form of electronic marionette puppetry (dubbed "Supermarionation") combined with scale model special effects sequences. Two series, totalling thirty-two 50-minute episodes, were filmed; production ended with the completion of the sixth episode of the second series after Lew Grade, the Andersons' financial backer, failed in his bid to sell the programme to American network television.

Set in the 2060s, Thunderbirds is a follow-up to the earlier Supermarionation productions Four Feather Falls, Supercar, Fireball XL5 and Stingray. It follows the exploits of International Rescue, a life-saving organisation equipped with technologically advanced land, sea, air and space rescue craft; these are headed by a fleet of five vehicles named the Thunderbirds and launched from the organisation's secret base of operations in the Pacific Ocean. The main characters are ex-astronaut Jeff Tracy, leader of International Rescue, and his five adult sons, who pilot the Thunderbird machines.

Thunderbirds debuted in September 1965 on the ITV network. The series was exported to around 30 countries during the 1960s. Alongside tie-in merchandise, the series was followed by two feature films– Thunderbirds Are Go and Thunderbird 6. Widely regarded as the Andersons' most popular and commercially successful series, Thunderbirds has been praised for its special effects (directed by Derek Meddings) and musical score (composed by Barry Gray). It is also remembered for its title sequence, which begins with an oft-quoted countdown by Jeff Tracy voice actor Peter Dyneley: "5, 4, 3, 2, 1: Thunderbirds Are Go!" Periodically repeated, it was adapted for radio in the 1990s and has influenced many TV programmes and other media. It was followed by an anime adaptation, a mime theatre show, a live-action film and a computer-animated remake series; additionally, three new episodes, based on tie-in audio plays and made using the same techniques as the original series, were created.

[modular-hospital-equipment]

A modular operation theatre (OT) is a type of operating room that is constructed using pre-fabricated modules that are manufactured off-site and then assembled on-site. This type of OT is becoming increasingly popular because it offers several advantages over traditional OTs.

Advantages of Modular Operation Theatre:

Faster construction: Modular OTs can be constructed much faster than traditional OTs because the modules are manufactured off-site. This means that the construction time is reduced, which can help hospitals to start using the OTs sooner.

Customizable: Modular OTs can be customized to meet the specific needs of a hospital. This means that hospitals can choose the size, layout, and equipment that they need, which can improve the efficiency and effectiveness of the OT.

Easy to expand or modify: Modular OTs are easy to expand or modify if the needs of the hospital change. This means that hospitals can add more modules to the OT if they need to increase the size of the OT or change the layout.

Cost-effective: Modular OTs are often more cost-effective than traditional OTs because they require less labor and materials to construct. This can help hospitals to save money, which can be used to invest in other areas of the hospital.

Disadvantages of Modular Operation Theatre:

Limited flexibility: Modular OTs are less flexible than traditional OTs because they are pre-fabricated off-site. This means that hospitals may be limited in terms of the size and layout of the OT.

Limited customization during construction: While modular operation theatres can be customized to meet the specific needs of a hospital, the customization options may be limited during the construction process.

Dependence on the manufacturer: Hospitals that choose to use modular OTs may be dependent on the manufacturer for maintenance and repairs. If the manufacturer goes out of business or is unable to provide maintenance and repairs, the hospital may face challenges in maintaining the OT.

Transport and assembly: The transportation and assembly of modular OTs can be complex and may require specialized equipment. This can add to the cost and time required to construct the OT.

[eneiryu]

All this talk about the Dread Doctors make me think about Theo's bedroom in the operating theatre. Like, I understand that he had fake families to live with but probably not for the whole time, right? Not while they they were operating on him and monitoring him and testing him and training him, right? So did he sleep in a cell or a cage or did he have an actual room? 9 years is a long time, was he ever allowed to decorate, was his bed the same one that was there when he moved in, was it labelled with his subject number?

Intriguing question, for sure. I’m a big fan of the fake families theory myself, because especially once he “failed,” I couldn’t see the Dread Doctors wanting to deal with a kid, but when he was around? I don’t think they would have given him a room, or let him decorate, or whatever. I think they would have left him on a table and let him drag himself off of it and to wherever he’d huddle to recover, and never think about him otherwise. In my head, whatever minimal comforts Theo ended up with, he figured out how to build for himself: how to find squats, how to break into motel rooms, whatever. He would have been expected to keep himself out of the way when the Doctors didn’t want him around, and to be around and a willing subject when they did, but I don’t think his wellbeing or his mental health would have ever entered into their interests, insofar as it wasn’t destroying their “equipment.”