#WE NEED A MEDIC

[valend]

this is how epilating your arms and legs feels

[heaven-s-black-box]

Play Pretend- We need a Medic

Return to File

Recovery date: December 13th, 2023

Description: In order to ensure the protection of the alpha, Agent Michigan has been deployed alongside Agent Florida to Blood Gulch outpost Alpha as Blue team’s medic. Her disappearance from the project will be explained through emotional distress over the recent break in and loss of personal; as a medic she has demonstrated an extraordinary amount of care towards the lives of her project mates, far beyond what one would expect of a war torn soldier.

Notes: N/a

Chapters: 1 2 3 4

Word count: 346

Back to directory

A loud thud and the sound of Church yelling echoed down into the base where Y/N was meditating. Instinctively she cracked an eye open and took a slow deep breath.

Church and Tucker’s bickering barely made its way into the base, so she huffed and ascended the ramp just in time to catch-

“If you dented my forehead, Tucker, I am gonna be pissed.”

She snorted, trying to stifle a laugh, making the three men turn to her. In an attempt to pacify them, she waved her hands in surrender and offered them a gentle smile. Before she could apologize, Church spoke up again.

“Let’s try this. I”ll jump outta Lopez’s body real quick…” As he continued on, Y/N came between the other two blues, side eyeing Caboose once she pulled her helmet on.

Lopez shook for a moment, and Tucker leaned around Y/N to address Caboose.

She felt kind of bad for him. Tucker had been hiding behind her when Caboose was around more frequently. Omega seemed to really like picking on the teal soldier, though she wondered if it was less of a preference and more of a safety measure. After all, he probably wouldn’t get much of a rise out of Church, and she was sure he was playing it safe with her to avoid detection. It also meant he picked on Tucker less when she was around. However, if she found more excuses to hang around the two, then that was no one’s business but her own.

“Yeah,” Church’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts, “back in the spirit world. All right.”

Blinking twice, she looked around and then felt her eyes widen. As Church continued to relish in his lack of corporeal bonds, she activated her helmet’s zoom and scanned the horizon. Damn it.

“Hey, what did you guys do with my body?”

“Why do you care about your body?” Tucker asked, and Y/N dropped her head in shame. These boys really were idiots. “You can’t even move your… Oh hey look, your legs work.”

[ask-copperright]

[ opens a portal next to reginald ] ....Uh Hi?- [ notices the battle going on ] ...wth is happening

Ellie: I'M WINNING!!!!

Ellie falls flat on her face on the floor, bleeding out.

[lovely-mogai]

SOMEONE HELP HIM PLEASE

a tardigrade has fallen and scraped all eight of his little knees

[800db-cloud]

i’m literally shaking buy them brown contacts pls

[killldeer]

UPS WORKERS HAVE REACHED A DEAL THAT MEETS THEIR DEMANDS AND AVERTED A STRIKE!!!

EDIT 7/27/23: please reblog this version of the post instead! it provides a fuller picture of what’s going on and explains why this isn’t over yet.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

A fierce duel commences!

[patheticrafeenjoyer]

genuinely one of the most life-ruining things i've seen today. what the fuck what the fuck what the fuyck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what t the fuck what in the fucking fucking fuck seriously what the fuck im about to start screaming what the fuck what the fuck dnt you know how abnormal i am about them what the motherfucking fuck aHELP ME

[wackarat]

You should draw Scout hugging the Science Party fusion in the Tf2 x SU. Bc they are his dads fr

alr alr

The TF2xSU is from @lenny-link

[heaven-s-black-box]

Medics- We need a Medic

Return to File

Recovery date: August 7th, 2023

Description: In order to ensure the protection of the alpha, Agent Michigan has been deployed alongside Agent Florida to Blood Gulch outpost Alpha as Blue team’s medic. Her disappearance from the project will be explained through emotional distress over the recent break in and loss of personal; as a medic she has demonstrated an extraordinary amount of care towards the lives of her project mates, far beyond what one would expect of a war torn soldier.

Notes: N/a

Chapters: 1 2 3 4

Word count: 634

Back to directory

“Y/N! Y/N!” Church called out, running across the canyon.

“I-” there was a sharp, pained gasp, “I’m here!”

The self appointed captain scrambled up the hill and dropped to his knees beside the medic. Y/N was sprawled out in the grass, her helmet heavily damaged with her visor cracked and she was completely covered in dirt.

Church carefully removed her helmet, watching her face contort in pain as she lifted her head. There were a few small cuts where the visor had fractured the worst, and there was some blood pooling in the corner of her mouth.

“Church!” Tucker’s crackly voice filled his helmet. “Did you find her, is she okay?”

“She needs a medic! Call command and have them send one.” He turned back to Y/N and wiped some of the blood from her mouth. “What can I do for you now?”

“Where- Where’s Tex?”

There was a brief silence before he grunted, “Dead.”

“Fuck.” Y/N coughed, wincing and whimpering as pain spread throughout her body. “Bring… med kit… table…”

“Caboose! I need you to bring Y/N’s med kit, it’s on- what do you mean you can’t? Oh for fucks sake, Tucker?”

Y/N watched with blurry vision as Church gave Tucker the order before staring back down at her, his hands hovering over her as he tried to figure out what to do.

“Church… base.”

“Right, uh… shit. Tucker?” He paused for a minute. “I’m bringing Y/N back to base. I know I told you to bring it here but we can’t stay this close to the reds!” Church stood up to look around before bending back down. “Can I pick you up?”

Carefully, Y/N nodded before saying, “Shot… abdomen… car-” Church scooped her up, making her cry out in pain, “careful!”

“Sorry, sorry. Let’s just get you back to base, okay?”

With a tired hum, Y/N let her head fall against Church’s chest plate and her eyes slip closed.

---

“Who’s the purple guy?”

“Huh?” Church asked, turning away from his scope.

He and Y/N were up on top of the base, watching the reds and going through their inventory. Y/N was leaning back on one hand, scrolling through the tablet while Church stood beside her.

She’d looked to find someone in purple armor bobbing around. Church realigned his scope in the direction she pointed.

“Maybe command finally sent-”

“Church!”

Y/N leaned forward to look down at Tucker, finding Caboose with him.

“Church!”

“What?!”

“Caboose is doing it again.”

Church threw his head back with a loud groan. “Ugh, I’ll be down there in a minute.” He looked down at the team medic, lowering his voice to ask, “Can’t you deal with them?”

“Nope, you wanted to be the captain.” She clapped the back of his calf as that was all she could reach. “Now I’m gonna suit up, keep an eye on Mr. Da- Mr. Purple.”

Dragging his feet, Church made his way out to the front of the base.

“Medic?” Y/N heard Caboose say as she stepped out of the base. “That was, like, three months ago.”

She stifled a snicker as the medic asked where the patient was and Church pointed out Tex’s grave. Rolling her shoulders to try and alleviate the chill in her chest that came with talking about her dead friend, Y/n strode up between Tucker and Caboose, slinging her left arm over Tucker’s shoulder.

“And this one’s doing fine.”

“But if you could, I wouldn't mind a proper examination.”

“Bow Chika-Ack!” Tucker cried as Y/N tightened her hold around him.

Caboose laughed softly, muttering something about killing Tucker, and earning himself a side glance from Y/N behind her visor.

“Of course,” the medic nodded, “let’s just head into the base. By the way, who’s in the other grave?”

[homkamiro]

You're feeling very sick inside, well, okay...

So you've had a bad day?

I don’t know what to say...

Look what’s become of my doctor...

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

*tries to organize my thoughts*

*remembers i'm not in school and therefore beholden to neither heaven nor hell nor any man's grading system*

*joyously shredding & tossing all my carefully arranged 3x5 mental notecards into the air like so much beige confetti. raising my arms in victory, cheering raucously until i accidentally inhale bits of homemade confetti*

(*coughing up itty bits of paper like a cat evicting a hairball with a firm understanding of tenants' rights*) wait wat happens next

[nerdgirlnarrates]

Even though it's been months since I switched from neurosurgery to internal medicine, I still have a hard time not being angry about the training culture and particularly the sexism of neurosurgery. It wasn't the whole reason I switched, but truthfully it was a significant part of my decision.

I quickly got worn out by constantly being questioned over my family plans. Within minutes of meeting me, attendings and residents felt comfortable lecturing me on the difficulties of having children as a neurosurgeon. One attending even suggested I should ask my co-residents' permission before getting pregnant so as not to inconvenience them. I do not have children and have never indicated if I plan to have any. Truthfully, I do want children, but I would absolutely have foregone that to be a neurosurgeon. I wanted to be a neurosurgeon more than anything. But I was never asked: it was simply assumed that I would want to be a mother first. Purely because I'm a woman, my ambitions were constantly undermined, assumed to be lesser than those of my male peers. Women must want families, therefore women must be less committed. It was inconceivable that I might put my career first. It was impossible to disprove this assumption: what could I have done to demonstrate my commitment more than what I had already done by leading the interest group, taking a research year, doing a sub-I? My interest in neurosurgery would never be viewed the same way my male peers' was, no matter what I did. I would never be viewed as a neurosurgeon in the same way my male peers would be, because I, first and foremost, would be a mother. It turns out women don't even need to have children to be a mother: it is what you essentially are. You can't be allowed to pursue things that might interfere with your potential motherhood.

Furthermore, you are not trusted to know your own ambitions or what might interfere with your motherhood. I am an adult woman who has gone to medical school: I am well aware of what is required in reproduction, pregnancy, and residency, as much as one can be without experiencing it firsthand. And yet, it was always assumed that I had somehow shown up to a neurosurgery sub-I totally ignorant of the demands of the career and of pregnancy. I needed to be enlightened: always by men, often by childless men. Apparently, it was implausible that I could evaluate the situation on my own and come to a decision. I also couldn't be trusted to know what I wanted: if I said I wanted to be a neurosurgeon more than a mother, I was immediately reassured I could still have a family (an interesting flip from the dire warnings issued not five minutes earlier in the conversation). People could not understand my point, which was that I didn't care. I couldn't mean that, because women are fundamentally mothers. I needed to be guided back to my true role.

Because everyone was so confident in their sexist assumptions that I was less committed, I was not offered the same training, guidance, or opportunities as the men. I didn't have projects thrown my way, I didn't get check-ins or advice on my application process, I didn't get opportunities in the OR that my male peers got, I didn't get taught. I once went two whole days on my sub-I without anyone saying a word to me. I would come to work, avoid the senior resident I was warned hated trainees, figure out which OR to go to on my own, scrub in, watch a surgery in complete silence without even the opportunity to cut a knot, then move to the next surgery. How could I possibly become a surgeon in that environment? And this is all to say nothing of the rape jokes, the advice that the best way for a woman to match is to be as hot as possible, listening to my attending advise the male med students on how to get laid, etc.

At a certain point, it became clear it would be incredibly difficult for me to become a neurosurgeon. I wouldn't get research or leadership opportunities, I wouldn't get teaching or feedback, I wouldn't get mentorship, and I wouldn't get respect. I would have to fight tooth and nail for every single piece of my training, and the prospect was just exhausting. Especially when I also really enjoyed internal medicine, where absolutely none of this was happening and I even had attendings telling me I would be good at it (something that didn't happen in neurosurgery until I quit).

I've been told I should get over this, but I don't know how to. I don't know how to stop being mad about how thoroughly sidelined I was for being female. I don't know how to stop being bitter that my intelligence, commitment, and work ethic meant so much less because I'm a woman. I know I made the right decision to switch to internal medicine, and it probably would have been the right decision even if there weren't all these issues with the culture of neurosurgery, but I'm still so angry about how it happened.

[yo-yo-yoshiko]

I wanna laugh and say the Ghost/ExAid movie was the most un-serious thing i've ever seen but it was actually so stressful. Nice job writers!!

Putting this one under the cut cause I gave up on it lol:

[creekfiend]

I used to get an arguments on facebook and it bit me in the ass enormously because it turns out that when you get an arguments on facebook habitually, you'll be interacting with a lot of other people who get an arguments on facebook habitually, and most of these people are deeply unpleasant and they will be super mean to you in really fucked up ways. so for a couple of years I just sort of dropped off ever interacting with anyone who said things that I did not agree with. I would just scroll past stuff or I would get upset about it privately and move on. I did not ever engage. and the last couple of weeks I've started being able to say things in response to things I don't agree with in ways that I feel lay out what my perspective is but do not get overly invested in "winning" or "proving" anything -- I will say my piece generally for the benefit of other people who might be reading the conversation and need to hear what I have to say. and then I will turn notifications off and go do something else.

anyway. wow. y'all heard about this? pretty cool shit.

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXIII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts 💚 (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... J'onn broke the news that Danny thinks he's going to be forced into combat in exchange for his medical care. Everyone disliked that™.

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

COME GET YOUR NEW ART HERE 💥🍳!!💥 IT'S FIBERCRAFT!!Shoutout to @rainbowbeansprout for crocheting a fic accurate injured ghost Danny!! That's outstanding!!

💚👻👽👻💚

So, Wally broke all of the bones in his legs yesterday.

Which is…not ideal. Still. He’s pretty used to it at this point, though, and he’s already mostly healed.

It’s just that. Well.

…The rest of healing is kind of…time-consuming.

So Wally’s in basketball shorts and a mask and a t-shirt he’d started using as pajamas when he was in college and he’s on the med floor of the Watchtower, and yet another physical therapist is helping him bend his leg back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, because he’d tripped in the middle of the Speedforce and busted everything hip-down.

So. (Back, and forth. Back, and forth. Back…) This sucks.

“Do we have to do this every time?” Wally asks, as if there isn’t a team of medical professionals kept on hand to deal with Superpower-wrought Super Medical Problems.

“Do you have to shatter your legs every time?” the PT asks back wryly, which, hey! The pressure pressing up against his bare foot is an additional stressor to the sass. “Bend this more for me, Flash. You can do it.”

Wally grumbles, and pretends the angle his leg is bending at doesn’t make him wince. Wow is he going to have to build his flexibility back up again.

The physical therapy room looks just like any other gym, basically; a lot of squishy mats in playful colors, a lot of grippy tape; a LOT of wipeable vinyl surfaces that can be sanitized at a moment’s notice. It smells kind of weird and plasticky and kind of like alcohol cleaner.

It’s not his favorite room in the Watchtower, but, eh. It could be way worse. What’s unusual is the whirrr of the door opening and closing in one of the private care rooms for another patient, since, you know...HIPAA and all that. Wally assumes. Or is it costume confidentiality once you leave Earth's atmosphere...?

Usually everyone knows who’s stopping in for PE through the sheer power of the Justice League gossip groupchats. (There’s at least nine. Wally’s in four of them. He aspires to be in two more by April.) There hasn’t been a big fight that requires long-term medical care in a while, and there’s no one Wally can think of who’d need this kind of recovery.

Something’s buzzing at the outside of his awareness, though. It sounds kind of…

Wally perks up. “Hey, the alien kid’s here!”

The PT holding Wally up at the waist hums. Her name is Cindy, and judging from their previous conversations, she thinks that Wally is the dumbest man alive. “There’s a million of those, Flash. Which one?”

“The one who bit Superman,” Wally adds.

Judging by the face Cindy makes, this clarifies nothing.

“Most recently,” Wally stresses, carefully not wincing as his leg gets stretched out again, only to be pulled back into position as tightly as before. “OW. Cindy, you’re killing me.”

Cindy makes a strangled noise. She asks: “What, again?” which is how Wally remembers that he got torn back out of the time stream not all that long ago, and it may be a big gauche to joke about your own death with the people who care about it.

Whoops. Wally winces. “…Nevermind?”

The other PTs make various fussy and annoyed noises, but the alien kid is wheeled onto the other side of the medical floor’s only gym. (The actual training floors are on another level. Wally wishes he was there. Alone.)

(Without four PTs clinging to his legs at all times.)

Wally waves. It’s a nice enough gesture, and now that the alien-phantasm-turned-flesh-and-blood-boy is more physically embodied than he used to be, the boy even deigns to carefully wave back.

The kid’s PTs—Wally thinks at least one of them is from the team that supervises Bart and his super-powered-leg-problems—end up encouraging the alien kid’s chair round to the soft mats where the kid can lay down. He ends up in the exact same position Wally is—horizontal on the floor, legs forcibly pinwheeled by enthusiastic but firm PTs.

Wally can physically feel the kid’s astonishment and discontentment buzzing in the air as he figures out what’s being done to him. Wally can’t help but laugh.

The kid angles his head towards the speedster. His face still looks—well, it looks…bad. It looks bad, unhealed and still threatening to weep neon green body fluids; there’s a wet, living crack running up and down his face that makes eye contact kind of hard. His hands are all spidery—this kid can probably hold and grip things, but the previous breakage have left his hands a little too easy to splay, a little too oddly-angled. He’s too thin to keep himself fully upright for long. When he looks at you, his eyes shake like a poorly lined-up television signal.

Martian Manhunter had said that he’d once looked like a healthy, happy human child. His current form is a reflection of the injuries he’d experienced since.

...What a thing for a kid to go through. Wally wouldn’t wish this sort of injury on anyone.

“­Alright, up you go,” the PT above him—Rhys, Wally remembers at the very last second—orders, and Wally is prompted to let the man help him back upright. “Over to the bars for you. You think your legs are up to bearing that kind of weight as you try out walking?”

“…Sure,” Wally lies to Rhys. It’ll be fine. Probably. By the time he gets over there, his legs might have already speed-healed by then. “Hand me the—?”

“Yeah, yeah, here’s the crutches. Don’t destroy yourself trying to make this happen, okay?”

So Wally gets set up at the glorified playground equipment in his least restrictive gym clothes, one long iron bar under one arm, and one long iron bar under the other. Two full-size physical therapists spot him as the speedster completes the most strenuous task available to him at the moment: walking across a very short distance without putting his full weight on his legs.

Wally puts one shaking leg in front of the other. The steps are slow. The urge to zoom to the end of the little bowling lane he’s stuck in—and therefore shatter his legs under the speedforce, again—is irresistibly temping.

Healing sucks. And Wally’s even got the longer end of the stick.

In the end, Wally sticks the landing. He is unreasonably sweaty. He is miserable. But he makes it to the end. Every one of the witnessing PTs applauds as if this is a great success. It’s literally not. It’s the inevitable result of pushing himself too far for the third time this year.

A question buzzes through the air, fluffing through Wally’s hair and the little fine hairs up and down his body. It’s nothing but inquisitive—whatareyoudoing whatareyoudoing?

Wally lets the PT maneuver a chair underneath him. It gives him enough breathing room to turn his upper torso, and he ends up catching the eye of the little alien kid in the corner. He’s sat on a yoga ball, two members of his medical team and one of the kids’ PTs trying to get his attention back to his exercises.

“Hey,” Wally realizes suddenly. “Your casts are gone!”

The kids’ legs are actually bare, which Wally’s never seen before. They’re twiggy, sure, stretched taut over a bone frame, and discolored and pale, but they’re legs. Wally hadn’t even known the alien had possessed legs until he’d formed a physical body months and months ago.

“Dude, that’s great!”

Happy/smug/proud vibrates through the room, making Wally’s teeth buzz. The kid smiles through a half-split lip, and bounces on the yoga ball ever so slightly.

“Good,” the kid says, surprising Wally, his PTs, and the kid’s usual medical team. He was talking already?! He thought J’onn had said—

“Hurt?” the boy asks, concern/concern flooding through the air. Oh. Right. He’s probably here for his busted legs; it would make sense that by virtue of the setting, Wally would be injured too.

And, sure, Wally busted his legs, but he at least heals with all the swiftness of the speedforce. “Meh.” Wally waves off the question. “I’m fine. It’ll be quick for me; some rehab and some lunch and a few days off, and I’ll be in shipshape.”

Wait. Wally’s eyes scrunches up. Is using wordplay appropriate with this kid…?

“Pain?” the kid asks, and turned his attention to the closest member of his medical team. “He pain?”

The medical professional sighs, which finally clues Wally in that the man is no longer masked. Hey, the kid is out of medical isolation! “The Flash has his own medication, thankfully. His doctors know what to do.”

The kid frowns. He doesn’t get it. He looks at Wally, and he looks at the staffer, who shrugs. “It’s the usual indicator word he uses for pain medication. He’s wondering if you’re hurt enough to need some.”

Wally hums. On one hand, it’s sweet that the alien kid is worried about him. It’s a huge step upwards from the alien who spent all his time hiding in abandoned meeting rooms and occasionally biting Superheroes.

On the other hand, the kid doesn’t just look worried that Wally might not be getting care; he looks scared.

Something happened to this kid. Something he can't shake off.

Wally breathes in, and breathes out.

—And breathes in sharply when Cindy starts wiggling his feet. She doesn’t respond at all to his glare, because she is a professional, and he is not a big baby of a superhero.

Mean.

“I’m fine,” Wally finally responds, trying to alleviate the kid’s concerns through sheer vibes-telepathy alone. Who knows if it’s working, but it makes Wally feel better about trying at the very least. “I’ve got my own team to fix me up, and they do a good job of taking care of me. Even if they’re bullying me at my most vulnerable.”

“Anything for you, boss,” Cindy volleys back cheerfully. “Gimme your other leg.”

The tension in the air slowly dissipates. The kid doesn’t stop shooting occasional looks at the unadorned, half-out-of-uniform Flash, but he does let Bart’s little PT team get to working on stretching out his previously-bound now-physical legs and getting him upright—if only for a few seconds at a time, balanced precariously by humans who actually touch his back and arms and hips and legs.

Wally’s session wraps up before the kid’s does. He’s not in any rush. He gets onto the walking crutches Rhys leaves out for his temporary use and lopes over to watch, occasionally hooting and applauding when the kid pulls off something no one’d been sure he could do.

The double handed high-five Wally offers him at the end is punctuated with shaky eye contact, two working hands, and a green-threaded beaming grin.

*

Diana cheerfully digs into her kebab lunch, plastic cutlery pushed to their maximum limit before threatening to break under her prodigious strength. “You know, Batman,” she starts, beaming, “My charge gave me his name the other day.”

Bruce sets down his muenster-ham-and-whole-wheat sandwich mid-bite. “I’ll need to hear everything,” he says immediately, to which Diana tuts.

“Oh, Batman, I could never break his trust like that,” she says, sweet as anything. She finesses a bite of lamb from the skewer and takes a neat bite.

“…Wonder Woman,” Batman says.

“Hm?”

“Diana.”

“Is there something you needed, Bruce?” Diana asks, pleased with herself. There genuinely is very little that could be done with a vague description of a now-altered human form and a first name alone; besides, she genuinely does feel that hearing the boy’s name come from others’ lips would be upsetting for him. Danny offered his name to Diana alone, and so it shall remain until hers alone he offers it to others.

Still, she is not above bragging.

“I need information.” Bruce’s face underneath his mask is stone.

Diana dips a second chunk of lamb into a little container of tzatziki sauce. “Well, then,” she points out, “Shouldn’t you spend some time building rapport with my charge, then?”

The feared Batman of Gotham, father of a half-dozen highly trained heroes, bristles like a wet cat. The demeanor is almost comical. He knows what he looks like to non-Gothamite children. He knows his suit will make this fight for common familiarity an uphill battle.

Diana smugly works through her lunch and ignores Bruce’s silent brooding as he does the same.