Tucked behind a cannister, a squat, mucked filthy on which starkly clean blue bannisters waved softly, was a linen-tarp pavilion cast in shadow and reeking of sterility. This was Micah's clinic, an unassuming tent of brown and gray against browns and grays. To some, it was vital charity. Dr. Micah Scofield (dr. being an honorary title), groundbreaking scientist and Cypher doctor, offering his medical service pro bono to poor, aching citizens of the Stronghold Slums.
Little did they know what the doctor drew from their bodies, or worst, what contaminants he inserted into the bloodstream. What the doctor tapped away on his datapad, what thoughts and intentions ran behind those thin-rimmed glasses perched at the bridge of the his nose, none was predictable.
If they wondered or feared, it showed not to Micah. Over his datapad, his fingers tapped away briskly, eyes flashing past the device to the infectious, blackened sickness that sprawled over his patient's frail arm. Above that arm was a face pulled tight in a frown and eyes lined in defeat.
"It hasn' gotten bettah, Doctor," the man said. No, the boy. Even as he claimed to be of twenty four years, he appeared no older than sixteen. Micah was quiet, made no response or indication that he heard the patient at all as he calmly typed: Ashagia D-18 appears to have spread over the patients entire right bicep since injection approximately 10 days and 13 hours ago, rendering that arm useless. However, there appear to be no signs of mental or psychological disability. Observation shall continue 7 days from now.
He set the datapad down and rewrapped the charcoal affliction in clean linens. Confusion sprawled over the patients face, as the doctor had not appeared administered any treatment. Stoically, Micah spoke, "As of now, the condition doesn't appear life-threatening. We'll continue to track the progress of the disease-"
"Not life-threatening!?" the patient's blue eyes flared with outrage. "I can't use my entire fuckin' arm!" As if to demonstrate, the patient made an attempt to life the arm, only to wince, double over and growl in pain.
Micah's steady, impassive gaze was unmoved at the deafening complaint. "I've strict orders not to expend Cypher resources on non-lethal wounds." The patient was not assuaged. Micah sighed, voice lowering as he conceded, "I promise it will be cured, before we have to resort to amputation or surgery."
The patient looked unconvinced, but made no motion to protest any more. Only slid off the operating table and stormed out through the tent flaps. Micah gave no attention or thought to their anger, only returned his gaze to his datapad. It seemed only a few seconds before footsteps told the approach of another.
"First time check up or returning patient?" he said with a flatness that denoted its routine nature.