"Wearied"

[Guest Fiona Weber]

Gods. This was why Fiona was a researcher -- or wanted to be, anyway.

 

Grimly, she stared at her reflection, unfazed at what she saw, though certainly not overjoyed by it. The area around her eye was an angry, gleaming, broken purple, punctuated by the white of her eye, which in this case was actually the "red".

 

She frowned, slightly. It wasn't close to the worst injury she'd suffered, nor was it the worst-looking, but it was still... annoying. She generally looked haggard and tired, a few hairs having slipped from her usually-smooth coiffure and a dark circle rimming her good eye. She was exhausted, too, and even if she'd pumped enough caffeine and stimulants into her body to keep her on her feet, her mind was wandering. Dangerous.

 

The doctor loosened her hair-tie, shaking out the dark hair until it didn't feel annoyingly out of place, and considered a quick stop in the 'fresher. She'd already scrubbed up from after the emergency c-section, but... surgery bothered her. It wasn't the blood and gore; Fiona was hardly squeamish. No -- it was the lack of control. Surgeries were unpredictable, with too little precision. She preferred her gore to be neat and well-ordered, and the subject producing said mess... not to be flailing and smacking her in the eye.

 

But could she really complain? No. The removal of the child had gone successfully, and the small Robinson was screaming his head off with equal success. All in a day's work, though Fiona was not positive that this particular contribution was something that many of the nurses would be thankful to her for. Then again, they probably had more tolerance for small, screaming childlings -- Dr. Weber certainly did not.

 

A 'fresher visit and a comfortable flop on her bed later, Fiona had a little bit of energy left for pity for the new parents. But after that...

 

ZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz.