Gyles wanders into the waiting area, still bearing the slightest of limps, and settles into his usual chair to await the attentions of a medic. And take care of that darn Maxwell request. Bah. Gyles fidgets in his chair and decides to try counting all the specks on the cieling.

Gyles sighs, squints around the room, pulls an empty chair around to use as a footstool, and tries to nap.

Infirmary(#403RAM)
The main infirmary is a bustling place with medics, orderlies and patients constantly moving about. The floor is covered with a sterile-looking white tile, the walls painted with stripes of various colours. A velvet black stripe leads past several medical offices to Long Term Care, while a dark red stripe leads off in the direction of Short Term facilities. At the nearest end to the lifts, a large administration area has been set up, complete with monitors and computer equipment lining the walls behind the long counter. Towards the other end of the room, several examination tables sit quietly amongst movable privacy screens and sterile cabinets. Since the infirmary is so buried so far underground, only the strongest Passover storms produce any sub-vocal resonances. The ever-present smell of medicines and antispetics hangs in the air. The lighting on this level has been set to a subtle glow for the morning hours, more than enough to see by but soft enough to refrain from straining the vision of patients.
Contents:
Dr. Bear
Catering Unit
Obvious exits:
Medic Shuttle Private Door Long Term Care Short Term Care Lift

Quinn walks softly from the lift area. Quinn enters, whistling. He's not wearing a lab coat or anything that would normally indicate that he's on duty. He stops and looks over at the Singer, "Gyles?"

Gyles is sitting relaxed in a chair, feet propped on another, half-asleep. He looks up at the person and stifles a yawn. "You're on duty?"

<look Quinn>
Average height, average weight - and a face that you could lose in a crowd of three. Someone who'll never stand out, someone who you'd be hard put to even remember the color of their eyes - the only thing on which to hang any form of image being his stride, a lightfooted, almost mincing bounce of a gait.
Right now, he is a study in black. His black jumpsuit hides the majority of the leather choker around his neck, leaving only the caduceus-shaped gem to twinkle in the light. Invisible but for a moment is an earplug of some sort.

Quinn shakes his head, "Not supposed to be, but I can go on for a bit. I wouldn't mind." Right. Like Singers don't mind cutting crystal in their color. "What can I do for you?"

Gyles shrugs and gestures at his ankle. "I twisted that the other day, figured someone would want to look at it," he says. "It's still a bit swollen."

Quinn nods, "Sure. Not a problem. Need a hand to one of the beds?" He steps around to one of the hooks and pulls on a white lab coat. "How long were you out this time?"

Gyles pushes the chair-turned-footstool out of the way and rises easily, "No, I'm okay." He steps to the nearest bed, still with a slight limp, and sits. "A few months," he answers.

Quinn nods, following Gyles halfway to the bed, branching off to go wash his hands in antiseptic soap. He asks, while doing so, "Find anything good?"

Gyles shrugs and lies back, propping himself up on his elbows. "Not much worth cutting. All I've got now is a lousy blue vein so pale it's almost transparent."

Quinn steps back over to the Singer, and nods, slipping off his slippers to have a look at the foot beneath. "Might be worthwhile thinking about pairing off with someone from a new class." He looks up, "Not that you're not good, no. Just that, with the injury count rising severely after a new class goes out, they must be finding something." He snorts, "And could probably benefit from your experience. Might be a good trade-off." Quinn places his fingers around the swollen ankle, pressing gently against it to see whether it's still painful.

Gyles shoots the medic a hard glance. So, he's read his messages already. "Daline and I are planning on leaving tonight to see what we can find," he mutters, "assuming we both have clearance to leave." His foot spasms suddenly. "Hey, that tickles!"

Quinn looks back at Gyles in surprise, "You and Daline? I'd thought that was just a rumour. But, all the same, that's good. A lot of times, Singers also need something to remind them of, well, reality. I wouldn't want to see you end up the way Tance was, Gyles." Quinn frowns at that reaction, "Shouldn't tickle. Does it hurt at all?" He glances up at the biobed scanner, muttering something quiet into his throat microphone.

Gyles snorts at that comparison. "Not for a few dozen decades, at least. And yeah, Daline and I have flown out a few times now. I was her shepherd, you know. She has this thing for waterfalls." He shrugs. "Not to mention, no."

Quinn nods, "Well, for the ankle, we'll try an icepack and see if we can get the swelling down. I don't think there's much to worry about here. You can go out with Daline - I didn't know you'd been her shepherd, no. Once they become Singers, I only deal with them when they come mess up my infirmary, pretty much."

Gyles nods quietly, "So she's cleared to leave, too, then?" He doesn't ask why she's been held from the ranges for so long, her claims of resonance stress make enough sense.

Quinn considers, "I wasn't aware there was a problem. Let me check." He offers the slippers back to the Singer, then crosses into the administration area.
Quinn presses his thumb to the login-port on the terminal, then types in a word or two. An image of Daline appears on the screen - obviously the medic is accessing her medical records. "Hm. All I see here is a caution to watch her resonance levels. As far as I know, she can go out - she's not listed on medical hold."

Gyles nods, "I told her she should soak after every trip out. It's what I do, you know." Sometimes even before he comes down to have ankles checked.

Quinn considers, "You might want to take some time to just get something into your system. Sled rations aren't the most nutritious or tasty - things for one to deal with."

Gyles glances up at the medic, "I eat, really. I had dinner with Daline last night, in fact," he claims, though he doesn't say what the menu consisted of. "And I had my sled completely restocked, too."

Quinn asks, mildly, "What did you eat? The only reason I really ask is that I remember you at other times and you look..." He pauses, "Tired, I guess. And like you have not been eating correctly."

Gyles sits up and slides his feet back into the slippers. "Garlic chicken," he says. "With red chili peppers, and Earl Grey tea." He slides down from the bed, "And does any singer eat 'correctly' in the ranges, given those ration packs they offer us?"

Quinn snickers, "No, not quite. And I can't say that that isn't a good meal. But... well, take care of yourself, Gyles. Sing well - I'm sure you will."

Gyles smiles slightly, fleetingly, and nods, "I'll try. Is that it, then?"

Quinn nods, "You're clear to go."

Gyles nods, "Right, then. You'll let the Guildmaster's office know I came down?"

Quinn frowns, "Well, if you want me to, certainly. But why would they be interested?"

Gyles eyes the medic warily. "Do you think I'd bother Medical for a piddling little thing like a twisted ankle unless I was ordered to?"

Quinn says "I do have to confess to some curiousity as to why you came down for just a twisted ankle." He considers, "The Guildmaster's Office asked you to report for this?""

Gyles shrugs and looks away. "I have no idea why. I was pretty tired when I got back, maybe someone in the Hangar said something."

Quinn nods, "I suppose that's possible. If that's the case, I might be flattered that someone cares enough to look after you. Or insulted that someone feels the need to look after you." He lifts his shoulders, "I'll file a medical report, and carbon copy to the Guildmaster's Office and to you. How's that?"

Gyles glances back at the medic a moment, relief fleeting across his features. "That would be fine, thank you. And I've had worse insults."

Quinn nods, "Not a problem. Just means I'll actually have to write it all out instead of using meditech's shorthand. Not a big deal."

Gyles smirks slightly, "That must really kill you, huh? At least you don't have to write it manually!"

Quinn chuckles, "Considering that shorthand is something like three notes, it might be a little scary. Either way, it's not a big deal. You're fine, Gyles. Just take care of yourself."

Gyles smiles weakly and makes good his escape before the medic can ask any further questions. "Thanks, Quinn!" he calls as he walks through the door toward the lift. With a sigh of relief he heads straight back to his rooms, with a quick detour into the lounge for a small snack. By the time he gets back to his flat, another message light is blinking on his terminal.

Re: CS Gyles Lee

Having checked out CS Gyles Lee, I am forwarding my response as examining meditech.

CS Gyles Lee is in prime condition, especially considering his length of time as a crystal singer singing Black. I treated him for a twisted ankle, no more, no less. Following is an evaluation of his state from a meditech's perspective:

Physical Health: Excellent
Mental Health: Good
Memory Loss: Minimal

My one concern about CS Lee is one that is normal for almost any Singer who has spent a lot of time in the ranges, and that is of exhaustion, particularly the mental exhaustion associated with cutting crystal. This is the reason for his mental classification. However, I do not see any reason to restrict or restrain CS Lee at this time.

Signed this day,
Quinn Maloret, Deputy Chief Meditech, Heptite Guild of Ballybran

Gyles studies this missive with a bit of bemusement. Ten years in the Guild isn't that long, even if he sang no other colors. And what singer wouldn't be tired after nearly six months of constant searching?

Unexpectedly pleased with the outcome of the visit into the jaws of Medical, he clears the message from his queue and settles back to stare at the screen. Finally he starts tapping data queries for news events dating to last Passover, and begins, quietly, to read. Some items he files away for later, others he skims over quickly. Finally, after several hours of work, he has a file of news items and technical data safely stored under his personal file.

Snapping off the terminal once again, he rises from the chair and slowly wanders about his rooms, as if studying it for the first time. Finally he settles down on his couch, throws an arm across the back, and just relaxes, staring sadly off into space.