Brittany (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
breezeshadow) wrote2014-02-13 09:13 pm
breezeshadow) wrote2014-02-13 09:13 pm
Entry tags:
Trying to Get Back Into Writing
A mixture of near-black and sleet-grey clouds coated the skies over Rezten, driving the sticky humidity further into the human-slick streets. As she always did in this kind of misery, Kader wished it would just rain already, wash away the smell of piss and desperation that clung to the slums like a starving tick. Her pants and shirt clung to her, soaked with sweat that she wished would vanish as she slimed her way through the crowded streets, hands tight against her small bag, unable to ignore how many strange bodies kept pressing into hers.
That bloody clinic had to be somewhere close. She had grown up in a district much like this one -- ugly stone houses turned black and grey from soot and Mother knew what else. Some were in better shape than others -- basically if it was losing its roof, the Empire probably wasn't in charge of maintaining it anymore. Crumblings remains stood in between mostly-standing structures, and yet all of them equally held people. When one had to stay in the slums of Rezten, no roof and partial walls were a better home than the streets.
And there it was -- a one-floor structure whose bricks and stone were discoloured with what had to be dried blood toward the windows and doors, both of which could be shuttered and locked tightly shut. At that moment, the windows were pushed open, one door of the two open. No guard was posted outside; really, any person who was willing to risk the inside of a clinic for warmth and food was properly desperate enough to need its normal services as well.
She felt in her bag for her training badge -- a ragged dull thing by that point, a copper snake-and-rod with the name "Rezten" imprinted down the side of the rod, barely attached to a woven fabric that was supposed to be sewn onto her smock. Of course, it wasn't, because she wasn't a boy.
Between that and her appearance, she had not much hope. Kader was too big-boned to be scrawny, not to mention at the ripe age of 18 she had birthing hips to pop out the babies and a large bosum to nurse them with. In between she could use a few pounds, though, and her face had never quite grown -- she still had the large eyes, small nose, and delicate lips of a child. Combined with her mens' clothes and barely shoulder-length hair tied back, she no doubt looked like an imposter, some rebellious little girl who had stolen the badge from her brother and wanted to play doctor.
Except she wasn't playing.
Kader steeled herself moments before she stepped through the clinic door. For those next few minutes, she refused to take any of it in. Instead, she marched like an automaton past all of the beds and bustling nurses, past any confused looks, or gasps, or pointed fingers. She briefly recognized the sign on a door indicating the head surgeon was inside, and swung the door open.
The man inside was staring at a journal like he had never read before and wasn't sure how to do it. Upon looking up his face hardened, but before he could stand up, Kader whipped out her badge and tossed it onto his journal, then placed two sheets of neatly-typed paper on top -- paper that had cost her many sleepless nights and a small bribe of wages to get.
"Kader." Authority backed up her claim as she stood ready, arms crossed. "I'm here for my residency."
It just feels like a Kader kind of night, and tonight she's 18-years-old, fresh out of graduating WAY early from the studies portion of medical school, and ready to kick some ass, take names, and maybe perform crude 1800s surgery.
That bloody clinic had to be somewhere close. She had grown up in a district much like this one -- ugly stone houses turned black and grey from soot and Mother knew what else. Some were in better shape than others -- basically if it was losing its roof, the Empire probably wasn't in charge of maintaining it anymore. Crumblings remains stood in between mostly-standing structures, and yet all of them equally held people. When one had to stay in the slums of Rezten, no roof and partial walls were a better home than the streets.
And there it was -- a one-floor structure whose bricks and stone were discoloured with what had to be dried blood toward the windows and doors, both of which could be shuttered and locked tightly shut. At that moment, the windows were pushed open, one door of the two open. No guard was posted outside; really, any person who was willing to risk the inside of a clinic for warmth and food was properly desperate enough to need its normal services as well.
She felt in her bag for her training badge -- a ragged dull thing by that point, a copper snake-and-rod with the name "Rezten" imprinted down the side of the rod, barely attached to a woven fabric that was supposed to be sewn onto her smock. Of course, it wasn't, because she wasn't a boy.
Between that and her appearance, she had not much hope. Kader was too big-boned to be scrawny, not to mention at the ripe age of 18 she had birthing hips to pop out the babies and a large bosum to nurse them with. In between she could use a few pounds, though, and her face had never quite grown -- she still had the large eyes, small nose, and delicate lips of a child. Combined with her mens' clothes and barely shoulder-length hair tied back, she no doubt looked like an imposter, some rebellious little girl who had stolen the badge from her brother and wanted to play doctor.
Except she wasn't playing.
Kader steeled herself moments before she stepped through the clinic door. For those next few minutes, she refused to take any of it in. Instead, she marched like an automaton past all of the beds and bustling nurses, past any confused looks, or gasps, or pointed fingers. She briefly recognized the sign on a door indicating the head surgeon was inside, and swung the door open.
The man inside was staring at a journal like he had never read before and wasn't sure how to do it. Upon looking up his face hardened, but before he could stand up, Kader whipped out her badge and tossed it onto his journal, then placed two sheets of neatly-typed paper on top -- paper that had cost her many sleepless nights and a small bribe of wages to get.
"Kader." Authority backed up her claim as she stood ready, arms crossed. "I'm here for my residency."
It just feels like a Kader kind of night, and tonight she's 18-years-old, fresh out of graduating WAY early from the studies portion of medical school, and ready to kick some ass, take names, and maybe perform crude 1800s surgery.