Where the Wounded Gather
Posted on 22 Mar 2026 @ 7:29pm by Lieutenant Commander Claire Dunross MD
1,102 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission: Arawyn’s Itchy Trigger Finger
Where the Wounded Gather
// Auxiliary Sickbay :: Deck 16, USS Arawyn //
The first sign was the tea.
Claire Dunross had just set the cup down beside a console, steam still curling faintly from the surface, when the vibration reached it. Subtle at first. A tremor that sent a faint ripple across the liquid. Then stronger. The porcelain rattled sharply against the metal surface before tipping, striking the deck and shattering in a brief, brittle crack.
Claire’s head lifted.
Below.
The realization came an instant before the explosion.
It did not arrive as sound alone, but as a force that seemed to press through the bulkheads themselves. A deep, concussive wave that rolled upward through the ship’s structure. The lights flickered violently, then snapped into emergency red as the klaxon cut in, sharp and immediate.
Claire was already moving.
“Seal the ward,” she said, voice calm, carrying with quiet authority. “Emergency protocol gamma. All biobeds active. I want full readiness, now.”
The auxiliary sickbay was small. Designed for overflow. For localized injuries. Not for this.
But it would serve.
“Doctor,” the technician said, hands already moving across the console. “Comms are not responding.”
Claire tapped her combadge once. Silence answered.
“Transporters?”
“Offline.”
Of course.
She drew a steady breath, mind shifting, recalibrating without hesitation.
“No external support,” she said. “Then we are the support.”
Her gaze swept the room. Three staff. Limited supplies. Tight quarters.
Enough.
“Listen carefully,” she continued. “We triage at the door. Red to biobeds. Yellow to floor stations. Green assist where able. We stabilize. We do not solve. Understood?”
A series of quick nods followed.
Claire turned to Ensign Nissa Camparda.
“Ensign.”
Nissa straightened immediately. “Yes, Doctor.”
Claire stepped closer, pulling a trauma kit from the wall and pressing it firmly into her hands.
“You’re going out.”
There was a flicker of surprise, quickly mastered.
“Corridor triage,” Claire said. “There will be those who cannot reach us. You assess, stabilize, and direct. If you can move them, do so. If not, keep them alive until we can.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Claire’s expression softened, just slightly.
“No unnecessary risks. We need you back.”
A brief pause, then quieter, “Bi faiceallach.”
Nissa nodded once, sharp and certain, and moved. The doors parted just enough to admit her into the corridor beyond before sealing again.
Claire turned back to the room.
“Positions.”
The first casualty arrived moments later.
Two crewmen carried a third between them, his body slack, uniform scorched along one side. The smell of burned fabric and skin followed them in.
“Engineering,” one of them said, breathless. “He was near the conduit when it blew.”
“Here,” Claire directed, guiding them to the nearest biobed.
She worked quickly, scanning.
Severe burns. Respiratory distress. Possible internal trauma.
“Airway compromised,” she said. “Analgesic, then stabilizer.”
The nurse moved, hands steady now.
Claire adjusted the biobed controls, watching the readings fluctuate.
“Stay with me,” she murmured, low and steady. “You’re doing just fine.”
The next group came almost immediately.
Three more. Blood. Fractures. Shock.
The room filled with motion.
“Pressure here,” Claire instructed, placing the technician’s hands over a deep abdominal wound. “Do not release.”
To another, “Immobilize the arm. Gently. We will set it when he is stable.”
A crewman tried to wave her off, insisting he was fine.
“You are not,” Claire said evenly. “Sit down before you make yourself worse.”
He sat.
Another tremor passed through the deck. Lighter, but uneven.
“Power is fluctuating,” the nurse said.
Claire did not look up. “Then we use what we have while we have it.”
The doors opened again.
Camparda returned, soot smudged across her uniform, eyes focused.
With her came another patient, supported on either side, breathing shallow and rapid.
“Crush injury,” Nissa reported. “Pinned under debris. Respirations worsening.”
Claire was already moving.
“On the bed. Quickly.”
The patient was transferred. Claire scanned.
Collapsed lung.
“Tension pneumothorax,” she said. “We decompress now.”
There was no hesitation.
The procedure was swift. Precise.
Air released. Pressure eased.
The patient’s breathing steadied, just slightly.
“There we are,” Claire said quietly. “Stay with me.”
The rhythm continued.
Patients. Injuries. Decisions.
The floor became an extension of the ward. Supplies were pulled faster than they could be replaced. Voices overlapped, but never descended into panic.
Claire remained at the center of it, a constant point of control.
“Rotate stations,” she instructed. “No one stays on one patient too long.”
To Camparda, “Report.”
“Corridor is still passable,” Nissa said. “Damage control teams are working below. More coming.”
Claire inclined her head. “Good. Keep routing what you can.”
Another wave arrived.
A young crewman, conscious but fading, internal injuries evident in the way he struggled to breathe.
Claire knelt beside him, assessing quickly.
There was only so much they could do.
Her hand found his, steady.
“I’m here,” she said softly. “You’re not alone.”
His grip tightened briefly, then loosened.
Claire closed his eyes with care.
A breath. Controlled. Measured.
Then she rose.
Because there were others.
Because there had to be.
The ship groaned around them, a long, strained sound that spoke of damage, but not defeat.
Still holding.
Claire lifted her head briefly, listening, as if she could read the ship itself.
“Aye,” she murmured under her breath. “Hold fast.”
Then, louder,
“We continue.”
And they did.
LtCmdr Claire Dunross, MD
Asst Chief Medical Officer
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