xkelasparmakx

Doctor Miran had been working overtime that night, pulling threads behind the scenes of the emergency ward. Something about Cardassia had changed drastically within the two last days – the amount of drunken brawls gone really badly had doubled, and although most of her patients were swift to be treated, they lined up really fast.

Keeping up with the most mundane mendings had gone completely south, and to make matters worse, two of her colleagues had straight up vanished, which didn’t keep their patients from needing care. The patient they’d gotten had been badly beaten, and while most damage was soft tissue – bloodied nose, bruises – and could be fixed quickly, his transverse ribs had taken enough of a beating to be fractured, and the only treatment available for that was surgery, which the emergency care couldn’t offer him, due to his lack of status.

Miran never felt good when a patient left her establishment still in pain – the resources to treat them were there, but laws forbade her, and she preferred to keep in line, she didn’t have the guts to go against order, and knew consequences would come down pretty hard if such would happen.

But, that didn’t mean there weren’t other ways. There were people more daring and open to possibilities than herself, and one of them was one Doctor Parmak. She was nervous about calling him – not because she thought her errand might be an inconvenience to him, but because she’d heard some of his seminars, and reckoned he was quite good. Good enough that talking to him was out of the question, the people she admired coincidentally happened to be the people she therefore feared the most.

Still, braving herself with confidence as she sat there in front of her com panel – midnight had come, and she’d finally finished her last patient (ruptured aorta) – she comforted herself with the fact that the reason she looked and sounded tired, was that she’d done good work.

Any doctor could appreciate that.

So, there. That was what had to be done – she had said she’d do it, so she’d do it. Really, she’d just been digging around with surgical tools in a person’s chest cavity, surely pressing a button to make a call should be infinitely less intimidating in comparison.

"My bedside manners to myself certain leave a lot to desire,” she muttered in defeat and just pressed the button, sending away a com signal.

It was then that it struck her that maybe, just maybe, she should’ve waited to the morning.

Kelas groaned as his PADD chimed on a table beside his bed. He had just gotten to sleep after a long day but he grabbed the PADD immediately to investigate. He had two patients who were both commanded to summon him at any time of the day or night given that both were having high-risk pregnancies.

One was carrying twins– not two separate eggs but the even rarer sort–two fetuses in one egg. There were few recorded identical twins that had ever been birthed and only in recent times had technology been developed enough to allow for better methods that might see such an egg survive and hatch two healthy infants. The egg would need to be delivered prematurely, by excising it from the womb rather than delivery by ajan, and then it would be kept under very special conditions in the medical lab and with much skill and a bit of hope–all would go well enough for everyone involved.

Another was in danger of uterine rupture should her egg grow too large and Kelas was keeping a very close eye on her, employing several medications to help maintain the elasticity of the malformed organ, but the risk was still great. They had discussed in depth of aborting the egg early on, an option that very few doctors would ever offer, but after much consideration his patient had opted to continue with the pregnancy. It was neither of these contacting him, which Kelas was grateful to see. An indication that both patients were–assumingly–still well enough at the moment.

Instead the name “Dr. Miran” flashed back at him in the darkness.

"Computer, lights to 50 percent,” Kelas said, and then he answered, forgetting to consider that he wasn’t wearing any clothing.

Kelas always preferred to sleep without it. His gray hair was piled into a heavy bun atop his head to keep himself from tangling it at night. At the last moment before the doctors face appeared onto the screen Kelas remembered his glasses and snagged them from the bedside table.

“Doctor Miran, hello,” he said, and then finally remembering that he was not dressed he clamped a hand over a very obvious bite-mark-bruise on his exposed neck ridge. The rest of his neck and chest she would just have to ignore. It was her fault for contacting him so late at night anyway. “To what do I owe the... hm. One can not exactly label it ‘pleasure’ at this time of night. Even physicians must sleep at some point, my dear.”

It was an unruly, but not entirely inappreciable, display that met her. Now, she’d treated enough patients to know a bite mark when she saw one, but that hadn’t prepared her for this – at least it wasn’t recent enough that she would’ve interrupted the activity. Amusement took over her otherwise anxious state and she failed to suppress a hearty grin, evading eye contact for just a moment to better compose herself.

“Doctor Parmak,” she had to clear her throat, realizing too late that her mouth had gone all dry.

“I’m sorry for calling at this hour, I don’t have the luxury to wait until morning – it’s about a patient who visited the emergency ward today. I had to send him home with several fractured transverse ribs, and what I suspect is a series of withdrawal symptoms. He got into a fight over a hypospray,” she detailed with an eye-roll. "He claims it was just medical treatments he needed, something about hormones, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that was a lie,” she shook her head, hair bobbing in the movement.

“I told him I’d contact someone who occasionally offers a helping hand to those who can’t afford things,” she paused, hesitating a bit before she added, in a more hushed voice, “he doesn’t have an income. I tried to access his file,” she drummed her fingers on the table in front of her, “it wouldn’t load – databases these days – and then I got called into surgery, so I don’t have much more to give you in regards to that, all I know is that he has no money, and that he’s suffering, because I’m not allowed to help him. The entire ward is on its knees,” she had to stop herself there, before she’d say something un-Cardassian.

Kelas listened to her speak intently, frowning a bit here and there. When she was finished he gave her a courteous nod.

“Mother Cardassia sees value in every life–and so do I,” Kelas said, pausing. He was tempted to say more, to have a little rant about certain State policies that he did not approve of. But these days he tended to do better at reeling himself in–most times. Having spent ten years in a labor camp had done nothing to change his ideals but it had done something to remind him when it would be best to be silent. It was an annoyance to have to shy away from speaking ones’ mind.

Kelas drew a deep breath through his nose. He was obviously agitated over the conversation, that the young man should be turned away, but he gave doctor Miran a small smile and softened his eyes.

“Of course I will help, dear,” he said kindly, “it seems fortunate for this young man that I will be in the city tomorrow. I have a prior engagement arranged for tomorrow evening. A lecture in fact over recent advances in the use of hormonal stimulation when a gravid patient is suffering from dystocia due to exhaustion during parturition.” Kelas paused and tapped a claw to his chin in thought, “I can re-arrange my morning schedule to depart earlier than I had planned. But how would I find this young man? If he has no income, is he living on the streets–or has he provided a location?”

Kelas was already thinking of what items he would need to pack to treat the young mans’ injuries, and how many hypos he could manage to take with him and how he could falsify records to explain away their absence–everything must be recorded and all records submitted to the state on a monthly basis. Most physicians were required only to submit their records quarterly but since having his license re-instated after his stay in camp he was watched more closely than others and the guidelines placed upon him were more rigid. Still, Kelas was intelligent enough to find ways around things when necessary.

He continued to provide hormones illegally if the patient was denied access by the State, he continued to preform abortion if requested by his patient, he continued to ignore the law that would require he prescribe hormones to women who were still of breeding age if they came to his office regarding inability to conceive. Kelas would ask them if they wished to have more children–a question that would often surprise his patient. But more often than not he would have an answer, often fearful and in hushed tones, that the aging mother was tired and did not in deed wish to have more children. In the eyes of the State it was not meant to be a question, or something one could refuse, but Kelas offered it as such. What right should the State have to make such important decisions over the body of one person?

Of course Kelas did his duty each time in falsifying records that he had in actuality prescribed hormonal treatment for those patients. That allowed him a perfect way to hide away extra hypos of estrogen and progesterone to provide for patients who were denied hormonal therapy for other reasons.

However if this young man needed testosterone it would take a bit more thinking to come up with a way to disguise the usage of those since Kelas did not have a secret back-supply. In truth Kelas preferred to treat patients with chronic hormonal issues, or patients seeking gender affirming treatments, with hormonal implants. It reduced the use of hyposprays altogether and was much more efficient. But the process for approval was much more lengthy and more likely for denial–which Kelas found particularly ridiculous.

Coming back from his thoughts, he added with a sweet smile–

“Also…if you find yourself with any free time on your hands tomorrow evening, perhaps I’ll see you at my lecture?”