Cristina Yang (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deaddadsclub) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomhigh2018-08-29 12:42 am
deaddadsclub) wrote in fandomhigh2018-08-29 12:42 am
Entry tags:
Humanoid Health and First Aid, Wednesday, Period 1
The students gathering in the Danger Shop for their first Health and First Aid class would find the space empty, just a large room with undecorated, metal walls. Only a piece of white printer paper with "Humanoid Health and First Aid" written on it in sharpie let them know they were in the right place. There was nary a teacher in sight for several long minutes.
Anyone who subscribed to the theory of "if the teacher's fifteen minutes late you're allowed to go home" would be quite disappointed when, at minute 14, Cristina stumbled through the door, looking harried and extremely put out.
"I keep telling you, I didn't sign up to teach any high school class! I barely put up with teaching residents, and they at least went to medical school!"
The sound of chittering echoed away down the hall. Cristina threw her hands in the air.
"See if I give any of you IV fluids the next time you come into the clinic with a hangover!"
The door to the Danger Shop slid shut with a whirr and a disconcertingly final *click*. Cristina let out a long suffering sigh and turned to face the class.
"Okay, the fact that any of you are even still here after your teacher had to get herded in by squirrels is just, like, clear proof that you're all idiots. But apparently if I don't want to be bombarded by acorns and bad mouthed on the radio, I've got to teach you idiots how handle traumas, so . . . congratulations on your ridiculously overqualified teacher."
Yup, this class was going to be awesome.
"Right, so." She looked around the room, frowning. What the hell was she even supposed to use in here? "I'm Dr. Cristina Yang. I'm a board certified cardiothoracic surgeon, which means that I repair hearts and lungs. Or I would, anyway, except I'm stuck in magical exile on an island that likes to kidnap and traumatize people." She heaved a sigh. "Which, alright, fine, is a good reason for you all to know some basic techniques. I'm not a trauma surgeon by trade, but I was married to one for a long time, and I have a fair amount of experience with field work, so they could have made a worse choice for teaching this class, at least."
Someone very short pounded on the door. It opened just a crack, and a piece of paper slid in. Cristina picked it up.
"This says that the first week is supposed to involve introductions." She looked back up at the students. "You're welcome to try, but I am not going to bother learning your names unless you prove it's worth knowing. Probably not by wowing me with your knowledge, since you're high schoolers, but, I dunno, by kissing up and bringing me coffee each week or something. For today I think I'll quiz you on some basic health questions and call you by . . . I'm going to go with Spice Girl names. Because that will entertain me." She pointed to one of the students. "We'll start with you."
Anyone who subscribed to the theory of "if the teacher's fifteen minutes late you're allowed to go home" would be quite disappointed when, at minute 14, Cristina stumbled through the door, looking harried and extremely put out.
"I keep telling you, I didn't sign up to teach any high school class! I barely put up with teaching residents, and they at least went to medical school!"
The sound of chittering echoed away down the hall. Cristina threw her hands in the air.
"See if I give any of you IV fluids the next time you come into the clinic with a hangover!"
The door to the Danger Shop slid shut with a whirr and a disconcertingly final *click*. Cristina let out a long suffering sigh and turned to face the class.
"Okay, the fact that any of you are even still here after your teacher had to get herded in by squirrels is just, like, clear proof that you're all idiots. But apparently if I don't want to be bombarded by acorns and bad mouthed on the radio, I've got to teach you idiots how handle traumas, so . . . congratulations on your ridiculously overqualified teacher."
Yup, this class was going to be awesome.
"Right, so." She looked around the room, frowning. What the hell was she even supposed to use in here? "I'm Dr. Cristina Yang. I'm a board certified cardiothoracic surgeon, which means that I repair hearts and lungs. Or I would, anyway, except I'm stuck in magical exile on an island that likes to kidnap and traumatize people." She heaved a sigh. "Which, alright, fine, is a good reason for you all to know some basic techniques. I'm not a trauma surgeon by trade, but I was married to one for a long time, and I have a fair amount of experience with field work, so they could have made a worse choice for teaching this class, at least."
Someone very short pounded on the door. It opened just a crack, and a piece of paper slid in. Cristina picked it up.
"This says that the first week is supposed to involve introductions." She looked back up at the students. "You're welcome to try, but I am not going to bother learning your names unless you prove it's worth knowing. Probably not by wowing me with your knowledge, since you're high schoolers, but, I dunno, by kissing up and bringing me coffee each week or something. For today I think I'll quiz you on some basic health questions and call you by . . . I'm going to go with Spice Girl names. Because that will entertain me." She pointed to one of the students. "We'll start with you."