Fumes and Disquiet

It seemed the infirmary had become quite the hot spot.

Vas’ sudden inclination to personally sanitize the habitually sterile medbay had resulted in more than just a night spent filtering the eye watering chlorine fumes through his pillow. Considering the punk’s domination by the woman dubbed “the Ace of Hearts,” Dorian now spent his time considering the personal bonds and their resulting motivations. The observation that Vas’ efforts had failed to dislodge the tiny listening device from a well scrubbed shelf did little to aid the medic who sought to parse fact from growing paranoia. The mind could run amok, he thought before making a third listless attempt at the same paragraph.

Fortunately, there were certain protocols whose observance would help restrain his demons. Since their arrival, Marisol and Kate had both strictly adhered to conversational governance. “Treat each space as if it were bugged.” The adage might not have been Lesson One, but it had been stressed early and often during training. Now, after the accidental detection of both surveillance and surveillant, the possibility of more M-97’s planted about the boat was quite distinct, as were the growing stack of “threat” cards to be either neutralized or discarded. “There are many days until the house opens its’ doors,” Kate had warned him, before doling out his assignment. Given the subject’s visibility, that alone was a puzzlement…

"Doc you there? I sliced my hand up..."

Dorian glanced up from the book. “Ovah here,” he said as he rose from his seat in the patient lounge. The boy cupped his injured hand protectively as the medic led him into the infirmary. “So what happened, Mistah Gill?” he asked. As the deckhand explained the accident, Adler set the table to its chair position. “Hop on up,” he invited his next patient. “Let’s have a look.”

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