But try not to be too solemn;; [open]

[haruka]

I am obnoxious
King Queen of the Sick
Insane Mortician
Obscene Pathologist
Depraved and vicious
Vampire of gore
Mortuary abductor
A vulture in the morgue.

- In general, Jaina Kandel wasn't one to drink. Sure, she'd been to her fair share of parties with the boys and ended up with some killer hangovers back in the day, but it just wasn't something she ever felt compelled to do. Perhaps it was her handle on liquor, or she felt guilty drowning her sorrows in alcohol when it was only serving to further ruin her body. Good doctors, or at least doctors that could do the job well, were hard enough to find, and at the moment Dr. Kandel was probably the main surgeon running the wards. She really couldn't afford to think only for herself. When doctors think only about themselves, people die. Scratch that, a lot of people die.

- It was nine in the evening, and the sun just barely tinted the sky a deep rose. The humidity was ridiculous at the moment, and only proved to worsen Jaina's mood. Luckily, the sandy-haired surgeon was free from the hospital the second the hands on the clock hit nine. And just as soon as it did, Jaina had practically flown out the door, dragging behind her substitute for a brief case which ended up thrown carelessly into the trunk of her navy Ford Edge. Never had she been so eager to get out of work, and though that was probably over-doing it she'd settle with that.

- Pulling into the drive way of a modest urban two-story brick house, Jaina hurried to get into the house, and once she had her papers were forgotten on the kitchen table while she reached into the cabinet only to rummage about until she found a package of Advil. Swallowing the pill without bothering for a sip of water, Jaina spun on the tiled floors and began her wild race to the top of the stairs. All the while unbuttoning the shirt which had been bothering her all day, and struggling to free her belt from the loops along the waist of her jeans. Now partially undressed, she flung open the door to her bedroom, also serving as Jaina's private work space. Paper littered a desk in the corner, where a laptop sat off to the side awaiting the command to draw up hundreds of medical records. Off on the opposite side of the room, was her queen sized bed. Why a queen, you ask? Simply because Jaina thought it was comfy. The only other main feature that really drew the eye was the entrance to the closet.

- Now stripped nearly to her birthday suit, Jaina sauntered into the closet in nothing but her underclothes. Now, one might expect a white bra under a dressy white shirt, but the pink and black polka-dotted panties? Yeah, that's Jaina for you. Women aren't usually surgeons. General doctors, pediatricians, dermatologists, hell even dentists. But surgeons were considered to be the jocks, they dealt with big things like diagnosing tumors and fun stuff like that. Still, Jaina never really was a conventional woman. Just another one of the boys, only one that operated on people and wore pink and black polka-dotted panties while doing so.

- After a few minutes, Jaina emerged from the closet in a jean skirt that left little to the imagination when it came to her svelte legs (from a fair bit of swimming and surfing attempts) while still managing to not look like a hooker. She wasn't up for sexy tonight, if she ever was at all. She was just going down to the bar to sulk, or whatever it was that just made the ache go away. Over her upper body was a tank top of sorts, in a deep maroon that still managed to appear charming with it's adorably ragged lacy straps. Somehow a light sweater found it's way into her hands, as well as her wallet containing ID and the precious green stuff. It didn't take more than a minute in front of the mirror for what little make up Jaina preferred and a few deft twists of the hand through sandy wisps and a hair band. Then once again, Jaina was scrambling down the stairs and out the door, leaving behind a whirlwind in her wake. Because that's who Jaina is; the unorganized woman who doubles as a surgeon that apparently saves lives.

- Starting the navy SUV, a sandaled foot shoved against the gas pedal in frustration. Zipping down the road and down a few blocks to the red-light district. Jaina had chosen to park elsewhere, she'd take her chances in walking their and back, and began the short walk to the bar with only the barely functioning street lights to guide her. Once the woman had sidled up to the bar, she considered the array of drinks behind the counter. Unfortunately, they probably didn't have Kriek, which Jaina preferred for it's fruity yet entirely not sweet taste. So, a daiquiri would have to do, with it's dash of rum that would leave the surgeon a little light headed, perhaps just enough to rest easily for the night. That, or up retching violently alone in her house, wishing the graveyard shift she had tomorrow night would just hurry up and come.

- First few months at a new job is hell. Everyone says it, and Jaina had finally figured that out. It's also said that behind every good surgeon is a cemitery full of the dead. Today, even if it wasn't while in the operating room, Jaina had added to her list of dead. She had subbed in for a doctor who was dealing with some pediatric work, two children with a case of some illness that required some testing and a period of time in the hospital. It was just incase they needed anything, just so he would know they were in good hands. One day with the pediatrics specialist gone, when they were stable and on the road to recovery, then one of them pulled a Code Blue - Pediatric on the staff and Mica General Hospital. Jaina was there, she had watched the monitor flat-line, and called for a defibrillator. She had tried her best, but today her best wasn't enough. Jaina couldn't help but feel guilty that she was here, at a bar, waiting to nurse her rum infused drink instead of writing a paper and dealing with legal issues regarding the child. She could be the unbreakable wall, but right now she just wanted to be Jaina Carlene Kandel. The girl sitting at the bar, drinking a fruity drink.

I am Obnoxious
Idol for the mad
Necrotic butcher
Scavenger of death
Furtive exhumer
Addicted to Rot
Dismembering corpses
Pathology is my job.

[damiensalv]

It was that time again; time to go down to that dingy little club – Sin City. It wasn’t as though Damien hated his job, or didn’t like it, but…Well, sometimes he just wanted to stay home and lounge around – and not stay up all night. Other than the simple fact that he just didn’t feel like going to work tonight, he actually kind of loved his job. It was easy (if you were used to it) and sometimes it was a bit of fun, being able to meet new people. After all, he’d already met one person he could easily see himself having a great friendship with…Of course, that was a previously arranged meeting, but so what? It was always….interesting to see what kind of people the bar lured in. Well, the norm was, of course, drunks and lowlifes, but there was the occasional one who he found he could sit and have an enticing conversation with. And that was what made his job much more interesting.

Damien sighed, rolling from his bed (which he had just finished his nap on – working all night takes a toll on your sleeping habits) onto the floor, and sighing. He was tired, much, much more tired than was usual for him. Usually, he was already up and about before he had to go to work, and so he was always full of energy. Tonight, he was the exact opposite. Maybe he was coming down with a cold; he grimaced at the thought. Of the many things he hated, he loathed getting sick; of course, who didn’t? It was horrible, no matter who you were. Lucky as he was, though, the worst he’d ever been was with a case of strep throat; and though that was unbearable, at least it hadn’t been life threatening.

He stretched, ruffling his own hair in a laggardly fashion, and moved to hop in the shower before work. He ran the hot water, jumped in, washed, and was done within five minutes. He was always extremely quick at getting ready for anything; except maybe dates. Only at times like those did he stand for thirty minutes trying to decide what to wear. Today he wasn’t feeling particularly bright, and so in exchange for his customary white button-up he grabbed a black sweater; it was summer, but it was also night, so it would be cooler. Plus, he worked in a bar. It was always cold in there. He clad himself in his usual jeans and shoes, ran his fingers through his hair (no need to brush, it didn’t help the messiness) and so he was ready.

When he locked up and ran outside, of course it was pitch black; the stars twinkling here and there in the wide expanse of sky. It was a great night; the sky was clear, not a single cloud to obscure the vision of those winking stars, no patch of rain to dampen his spirits any more, it was even a bit cool out – something he hadn’t even begun to hope for; it was usually still quite warm. And so, feeling a bit more genial, he moved to the little red mustang that he adored, opened the driver’s side door and hopped in.

He drove quickly, pushing past the speed limit by a good fifteen or twenty miles the whole way there. He loved to hear the engine purr a little louder every time he accelerated; maybe it was childish but hey – boys and their toys, right? He managed to make it to the bar ten minutes before the bar opened, and so he had just barely managed to get into the door before a wild-eyed woman ran up to him, panting and demanding a martini. He filled the order solemnly, almost warily, for she seemed to be in a bit of a state. There were a few other people who came up to him asking for drinks, but on the whole it was a very slow night. For quite a while there were no customers at all, and Damien sighed, leaning on the counter in boredom. Finally a woman with blonde hair reaching to about her shoulders, dressed she was here to either party or get intoxicated. Maybe not, who knew? He moseyed over to her, boredom hinted strongly in his eyes. Leaning towards her, he said, ”What’ll you have?” And waited patiently for the answer.

[haruka]

The surgeon will cut deep
and shall sculpt a better me
the complications we are yet to see
collateral scars will stick on me.

- Jaina was startled out of her reverie long enough to glance up at the bartender. "What'll you have?" was his question, probably expecting vodka or beer. Not for Jaina, at least not today "Strawberry daiquiri. And whatever rums in there, I sure hope it's potent." drumming her fingers along the countertop in a solemn rhythm. The woman glanced around the bar, filled with some of the lowest of society. And at the same time, some of the highest. Because here, you weren't anybody special. Everyone was here to escape their problems, or satisfy their addictions. Hell, even Jaina was here to escape.

- A sort of guilt made Jaina turn around, and stare back up from her perch on the bar stool up at the bartender. Not a bad looking male, in Jaina's view. She'd seen a few in her day, and even now wasn't terrible and pointing out which were the scruffy sort that most would fawn over and refer to as 'hot'. When you hang out with men a lot that don't want to date you, and the feeling is mutual, you learn to override that behavior. Then with a washed out sigh, she gave a lopsided smirk and said "Bad day at work. I'm not suicidal...yet." chuckling at the last statement, spinning once around in her chair for effect. Or simply because she had never really gotten over how exciting it was to feel physics take over and to kick her feet out as she spun.

- The bright flashes alternating with dim weren't a great bother but made Jaina's eyes spazz. She shook her head slowly, hearing only music, the clinking of glasses and rowdy conversation. There were just those two kinds of people here, and Jaina could make each one out without a second thought. The one stumbling to the back to what she presumed was the washroom? Drowning his sorrows. The two in the corner making out? Party types, here to nurse their drinks in the company of others like them. A girl perching on a stool ordering a daiquiri? Guilt ridden and intent upon forgetting a hospital fiasco.

- Absentmindedly, as the girl continued to kick her dangling feet which were the source of many short jokes, she spun a wisp of hair around her finger. A habitual gesture that was associated with indecision and boredom. She'd wait for the bartender, handsome as he was, and hope he was a damn good bartender at that. The best ones were showy, gave the customers what they wanted, and generally made every drink look like a luxury refreshment even if it was practically poison in a glass. Oh scratch that, it was poison in a glass. Jaina was a doctor, for fucks sakes. She'd seen a mean case of liver poisoning more than once, and had a few dead from overdosing on alcoholic beverages. There was even that one time when she had been called in on her pager for a case of some teen who had decided Purell would be a good substitute for beer. Ugh, stupid people.
- It occurred to Jaina, in that morbid sense of humor she'd come to associate with when things were going bad, that though she wasn't a religious person it'd be a hell of a funny scene to confess in one of those unsettling little booths in a catholic church. 'Yeah, dude. I pretty much killed a whole lot of people by accident, made a ton of careless mistakes, and killed my own son. That technically wasn't my fault, since it was his own damn father that-...well, ya know.' this, ladies and gentleman is why religion isn't for Jaina. But that daiquiri is certainly hers.

The surgeon has cut deep
and has made a better me
function like a human being
for once my clock is ticking.

[damiensalv]

"Strawberry daiquiri. And whatever rums in there, I sure hope it's potent." Damien nodded absently, mixing the drink without really thinking about it. He didn't find it odd that she hadn't chose the usual of most others - everyone had their tastes, he supposed. He caught her peering around the bar; Damien doubted she was the type to spend her life savings drinking alcohol, so it must have been a bit of a different experience for her. It was true - most of the people who came in here were lowlifes, drowned themselves with alcohol and probably some illegal substances as well, and basically just screwed their lives up more and more each night they came in here, It could get a little hectic, he admitted to himself - with shrieking girls and hooting men, raucous laughter and clinking glasses. He was not one to drink on the job, though, so he was always level headed. Besides, it was not good to drink and drive. And Damien was responsible - in some areas.
INC.