coligo - Tumblr blog

[coligo]

          you came into my life just like  ANOTHER SEASON.

the four seasons as experienced by jet / 002, albert / 004, and joe / 009.   drawn by the immensely talented dcsart;  thank you so much for bringing my childhood to life.

[coligo]

                    you and atlas are one and the same,  my dear:                     cursed to hold a weight you can’t bear                     and  STILL STANDING,  not because you can,                     but because  YOU HAVE TO.                     (  joe shimamura.   cyborg no. 009.   //   cyborg 009.  )

[coligo]

                      i lose my balance on these eggshells you tell me to tread.                       i’d rather be a  WILD ONE  instead.                        (  jet link.   cyborg no. 002.   //   cyborg 009.  )

[coligo]

accepting: aesthetic and drabble prompts.

leave a character or ship and/or a prompt in my inbox and i’ll make something of it! either an aesthetic or a drabble, or maybe even a playlist. results not guaranteed; you’re more likely to get a response if you pander to my inner masochist. 

preferred fandoms: aph, code lyoko, cyborg 009, httyd, marvel. pluses: code lyoko (ulrich, yumi, william, jeremie, ulumi). cyborg 009 (002/jet, 004/albert, 009/joe, 42, 29). angst. fantasy au. nsfw with plot. minuses: high school/college au. nyotalia. nsfw without plot.

[coligo]

C009 drabble #3.

     prompt:   If you're still doing prompts, can I have some familial fluff for the C009 gang?

“...and that’s when I told Shinichi to — Joe, are you listening?”

Joe is listening. His hypersensitive ears pick up everything, from the whoosh of breath in and out of Mary’s lungs to the clicking of her synthetic vocal chords as they open and shut. It gives her familiar voice a clipped, tinny quality that the human Mary never had; it betrays her cybernetic nature far quicker than the auditory void where a human’s heartbeat would be, or the buzz of electricity as her synthetic muscles work to keep up with his steady pace, or the quiet humming of the wireless communication device built into her artificial cerebrum. Joe realizes with a start that, though he’s been listening intently, he hasn’t actually heard anything she’s said, and he hides how unsettled he is with a stilted laugh and an apology.

“S-sorry, Mary: I was lost in thought.”

She gives him a quizzical look. Joe feels like a gun is being pressed to his forehead, and he does his best to quiet the static coming from his own communicator.

“About what?”

“Old times.” 

It’s only a half-lie: Joe sees the real Mary — the soft, sweet, gentle little girl who always gave the best hugs — behind this killing machine at his side, and his heart aches for her. Oh, Mary, he thinks with a quiet huff of breath, why did this have to happen?

Mary’s gaze softens, and her hand brushes against his; Joe is torn between pulling away and moving closer, and he tries to turn the discomfort in his eyes into fondness. He suspects he only half succeeds.

“Oh, Joe,” she coos softly, and Joe hates that he can’t let his guard down and be vulnerable with this woman who used to be his sister. “I think about them too, all the time. Oh, won’t you come back to our house? Shinichi and Masaru miss you so much. We could be a family again, just like those old times!”

There’s a light in her eyes that Joe wants to believe is honest nostalgia and love. How he longs to go back to that simpler time, when nothing was more important than Eucharist wafers, lighting the candles, and gathering his little homemade family around to recite the Anima Christi.

Joe mentally recites it, and as his little sister gazes fondly at him, a shiver creeps up his spine: from the malignant enemy, defend me.

“Maybe some other time,” he manages in a finite tone; Mary looks crestfallen, and for a moment, Joe thoroughly hates himself. “But right now, I have to get home — these presents won’t wrap themselves.” He gives her a sheepish smile as he pointedly jostles the bags he’s been carrying; he prays he didn’t break the wine glasses he’d bought for Françoise. 

Mary perks up again. “Maybe on Christmas Eve, then? You’ll be at mass, right? I’ll make the guys come if you’ll be there!”

“Of course,” Joe replies, forcing a chipper tone into his voice. He tries to pretend the excitement in Mary’s eyes is just for Christmas; for the joy of meeting him again; for their family.

Family. Joe turns the word over and over in his mind as he waves Mary goodbye and disappears into the crowd. I’m lucky Shinichi and Masaru didn’t show up, too, or else I’d have been killed by my family.

“These are gorgeous; I think she’ll really get a kick out of ‘em.”

Joe reaches across the paper-strewn table and snags the glass out of Jet’s hand.

“Careful, butterfingers: those were hand-made in Italy, and I want Françoise to have a complete set for Christmas.”

“Whatever.”

Joe feels Jet’s eyes on him, feels the fondness in his gaze, and for an instant, he sees Mary’s hungry gaze clearly in his mind; a shudder passes up his spine and he does his best to shrug it off, but not before his American friend seems to notice and leans over the table to stare intently into his eyes.

“Somethin’ on your mind, Greased Lightning?”

Jet cocks his head to one side, giving Joe the impression of a curious cockatoo.

“Yeah, you’ve been acting jumpier than Claudius at Hamlet’s play. Did you kill someone’s father for those glasses?” Great Britain pipes up from his chair beside the fireplace. Joe throws a wad of crumpled-up wrapping paper at him while Chang scolds him for being insensitive.

“What have I told you about Joe and father-killing jokes, you egghead? I should scramble you for that!”

“I’m sure it’s personal,” Pyunma quips as he looks up from his novel, clearly annoyed at 6 and 7′s loud bickering. “Joe would tell us if he was comfortable, right?”

Joe feels a lump beginning to form in his throat, and not just because his friends haven’t referred to him by number.

“I’m fine, guys, but thanks for your concern,” he lies, averting his gaze from Jet’s clearly unconvinced stare and busying himself with Françoise’s present. He tries to ignore how badly his fingers shake as he tapes the wrapping paper in place.

“Lying is a sin, Joe.” 

Albert’s dulcet tones rattle him just as much as his words; he can hear the smirk on his friend’s lips. Damn him, using religion against me. His fingers go still, and he feels his shoulders sag.

The room is quiet. The scratching of 007′s pen goes silent; the pages of Pyunma’s book stop turning; there’s no more clinking of ornaments against the metal of Albert’s fingers. Joe feels five pairs of eyes on him, but he doesn’t feel uncomfortable. These eyes radiate kindness, concern, and a love that he can only imagine God must feel for his children.

This is what it’s like to have a family, he reminds himself. Don’t shut them out just because they care.

“I ran into an old friend today,” he says after a long pause, “and she’s not what I remember.”

More silence. Joe feels someone’s fingers bump up against his, and he’s surprised when Jet eases the half-wrapped box out from beneath his hands.

“Easy, Joe,” the American coaxes, his tone as sweet as honey but laced with something mischievous. “You want Françoise to have a complete set, right?”

Joe looks down to realize that his clenched fists have put small dents in the box; he immediately pulls away, cursing his enhanced strength and hoping that the glasses inside are all in one piece.

“Shit, you’re right, thank you Jet, I just got so worked up—”

“It’s okay.”

There’s a familiar, distinctly metal hand on his shoulder. Albert smells like pine and woodsmoke, and he has errant bits of red glitter clinging to the ends of his silver hair. Joe wonders if he’s been decorating the tree all by himself.

“Don’t push yourself; you can tell us whenever you’re ready. We’re here for you.”

If anyone understands losing family, it’s Albert. Realizing that, Joe feels himself relax, feels the warmth of the room fill him up, and the overwhelming emotion of the moment gets the better of him: he impulsively goes in for a hug, planning to play it off as a joke when he’s feeling more put together. 

He knows Albert’s not the hugging type, so he’s more than a little surprised when he feels those smooth arms come around him, uncanny valley-esque even through his itchy wool sweater, but comforting all the same. And suddenly, there’s more than one pair of arms to give him solace: Jet’s nose digs into the side of his neck as he crowds up against his back; Pyunma’s warm hand cups the nape of his neck, and Joe feels his forehead press against his temple; Chang is surprisingly quiet as he presses his face against Joe’s hip; and Great Britain is the opposite, spouting something dramatic about love as he embraces Joe as best he can through the sea of bodies surrounding him.

Joe knows that, were the rest of the team — no, his family — present, they would be hugging him, too.

[coligo]

[coligo]

First, a note: I ask that people please reblog this to spread this since the tags are kinda unusable right now, especially when a post has external links within it.

Dreamwidth has been my main active posting platform for a year and a half now, and I’ve noticed a lot of bloggers talking about jumping ship over to DW with tumblr’s uhhhhhh current state of affairs.

But DW is kinda bland and boring if you’re too young to have been of the LiveJournal generation, and therefore don’t know where to look or start in order to build your friends list and find communities, so I’m going to do some of the legwork for you.

the_great_tumblr_purge: I made a dw community specifically for people jumping ship from tumblr to reconnect with each other.

addme: a friending community where you pimp yourself out and find other people with similar interests that you might want to see on your reading page.

addme_fandom: similar to above, only with a stronger emphasis on finding people based on your fandoms.

fandomcalendar: a community where you can find fandom events, such as big bangs, exchanges, challenges, bingos, etc. and other fandom communities that might suit your interests.

questionoftheday: for when you don’t know what to post.

If anybody else has communities they want to add, go right ahead and add them in a reblog.

Please reblog this.

[coligo]

Commission

Very fun bust commission of Cyborg 002 and 009 in 50′s-ish outfits!

⭐ Check out my blog for commission info! ⭐

[coligo]

C009 drabble #2.

 prompt:   did you know that artificial hearts have no heartbeat?

❝ Dear Jet— ❞

No, no, that’s not right. Too formal. I’m not writing a will — not yet.

Frustrated, Joe clicks his tongue against his teeth and balls the paper up, throwing it across the room before he thinks better of it. There’s an immediate pain in his shoulder, and he cradles his bandaged arm to his chest with a hiss of pain; he waits for the soreness to ebb away before returning his garnet gaze to the blank page before him, hoping that simply by staring at it, the words trapped in his mind may leak out onto it. The tip of his pen digs into the paper, but no words spill across its surface; come on, pen — write something honest, he thinks glumly, resting his cheek in his upturned palm.

You know what to say, and you know how to say it. Why are you hesitating? After all, he may never read it — he may never read again. He may never wake up.

With a beleaguered groan, Joe buries his face in his hands, ignoring the twinge of pain from his injured shoulder. Behind him, the EKG monitor beeps once, twice, three times, more. The ventilator lets out a long hiss; he can mentally picture Jet’s chest rising and falling. He’s alive, but he’s not living. Joe feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he doesn’t acknowledge them: he’s tired of feeling terrified and isolated, and to give any attention to those bitter tears would only make more fall. He’s tired of crying, tired of internalizing his fear and loneliness, tired of waking up dreading that his best friend and near-constant companion is dead.

Joe’s tired.

He scrubs his still burnt fingertips through his messy hair, shoulders sagging as he lets out a sigh laced with green tea and rice. As he picks it up, the pen feels warm and welcoming; in spite of the jagged teeth of attempted letters before, the blank page beckons.

Honest. Right.

❝ Jet...

I’ve never heard your heartbeat.

Well, not really — Professor Gilmore tells me that artificial hearts have no audible beat, but I can hear the valves clicking open and shut if I listen closely enough. Enhanced hearing, I guess.

And no, the EKG machine doesn’t count, don’t be a smart-ass. That’s a pulse, not a heartbeat. Machines have a pulse — humans have a heartbeat.

The point is that I’ve never heard your heartbeat, and it drives me crazy. ❞

He hesitates. His fingers tremble where they grip the pen, and he has to consciously try not to shatter it.

The dam breaks.

❝ YOU drive me crazy.

I hate that you pulled such a stupid stunt. I hate that you’re always recklessly striking out on your own. I hate that you might die because you had to be the hero.

I hate that you might die because of me. ❞

A tear smudges the period of his last sentence. Joe’s shoulders are shaking.

❝ I hate that you put me before yourself; I hate that I feel like I NEED that right now. I hate that your smile keeps me awake at night; I hate that I can’t sleep and you won’t wake up.

I hate that every time I look at you, every time I’ve ever looked at you, this heart of mine that doesn’t beat manages to skip a few.

I won’t write a love letter for you on your deathbed — that’s too cliché. I don’t want you to be a footnote in my story when you were willing to write your final chapter for me. You’re a fucking idiot, Jet Link; but you’re MY fucking idiot, and I’ll tell you to your face as soon as you wake up, because you will wake up. You will wake up.

You will wake up.

Until then, I’ll keep on listening to the clicking of your heart valves. ❞

Joe sets the pen aside and inhales sharply to push back the sobs that threaten to choke him. His sensitive ears filter out the steady beeping of the EKG machine, searching for the telltale click-whoosh-click of Jet’s heart instead; he finds it, and it’s faint, inaudible to all but himself and Françoise, but it’s a comfort.

Joe doesn’t think he’ll ever feel such comfort again.

« ...whatcha reading, Greased Lightning? »

Joe freezes like someone pushed his (hopefully) metaphorical off switch. His transmitter must be on the fritz.

« ...earth to Joe? Literally, earth to Joe? Is it too soon to be making earth puns? »

He must be losing his mind; he must be hallucinating. He thinks back to when his accelerator switch was stuck, and he knows that if he turns around, he’ll find Jet comatose and unresponsive, like he has been for what feels like a lifetime.

« ...goddamn, my ass is sore. How long have I been laying here? Can I get a hot nurse to roll me over and check for bedsores? »

Swallowing his fear of disappointment, Joe snaps his head around so fast it would give a normal man whiplash; and he’s not disappointed, because he’s immediately met with Jet’s intent stare. He isn’t moving, isn’t making any effort to — but those sharp blue eyes look Joe up and down, and for a moment, he’s sure he hears a low whistle pass through their shared data link.

« You look like shit. You should lay down, get some sleep: it’s done wonders for my already stunning physique. »

A disbelieving laugh escapes from Joe’s throat, and he’s surprised when the corners of Jet’s lips twitch upwards into a weak smile.

“You’re awake.”

« Thanks for the fact check. »

There’s a sparkle of good humor in Jet’s eyes before they move away from Joe’s face and glance around the room.

« Where is everyone? Thought the whole team would be here, weeping beside my deathbed. That’s gratitude for you: one foot in the grave and none of those fuckers can even spare a moment to—...Joe, that can’t be comfortable. »

But Joe doesn’t care; he buries his face in Jet’s chest like he hasn’t seen him in years, even though he’s been keeping vigil at his bedside for the past month. His injured shoulder protests the awkward position, and his burnt fingers struggle for grip on the starchy fabric of Jet’s hospital gown, and yes, it is uncomfortable, but Joe doesn’t care if he’ll ever be comfortable again.

“I’ve missed you,” he manages in a strained voice. He thinks of the letter lying forgotten on the desk, remembers all the anger he’d poured into its pages, and for the life of him, he can’t summon an ounce of it now. Maybe he’ll let his companion read it, and maybe he’ll tear it up: Jet is awake, and that matters far more than some words on a page, even if they are the truth.

A familiar hand shakily cards itself through Joe’s hair. Beneath the sea-green checkers of the hospital gown, Joe can hear the valves of Jet’s heart click back and forth almost gleefully; the thrum of his pulse almost sounds like a fond purr.

« Get this tube out of my throat and I’ll show you just how much I’ve missed you, too. »

[coligo]

accepting: aesthetic and drabble prompts.

leave a character or ship and/or a prompt in my inbox and i’ll make something of it! either an aesthetic or a drabble, or maybe even a playlist. results not guaranteed; you’re more likely to get a response if you pander to my inner masochist. 

preferred fandoms: aph, code lyoko, cyborg 009, httyd, marvel. pluses: code lyoko (ulrich, yumi, william, jeremie, ulumi). cyborg 009 (002/jet, 004/albert, 009/joe, 42, 29). angst. fantasy au. nsfw with plot. minuses: high school/college au. nyotalia. nsfw without plot.

[coligo]

C009 drabble #1.

   prompt:   42 post ending? whether jet is found alive / dead is up to you 

For Jet, time is nonexistent.

He drifts in and out of consciousness for what could be minutes, hours, or a lifetime  — he has no reference point other than the changing sounds he hears in his lucid moments. Initially, all he can hear aside from the shrill ringing in his ears is a cacophony of muffled cries and the distant rhythm of ocean waves before he blacks out once more; then, he’s aware of the shuffling of bedclothes and the rapid back-and-forth of footsteps. Somewhere, a door slams. 

Blackness once more.

Then, he’s aware of the high-pitched frantic beeping of an EKG monitor, along with the clink of metal tools and the hiss of a soldering iron.

He’s grateful that he loses consciousness again.

Then the voices start.

They seem to change each time he stirs: once, it’s the rapid-fire English lilt of Great Britain reciting a sonnet, followed by a good bit of overdramatic sobbing from Chang; then, it’s the mellifluous tones of Françoise singing a lullaby, perhaps to Ivan, perhaps to Jet; a third time, it’s the despairing lament of Professor Gilmore and the soft, strained voice of Pyunma reassuring him.

Don’t worry, Professor, Jet thinks before drifting away once more: sometimes, Atlas has to set the world down before he loses his grip.

Though he’s able to identify each voice of his strange little family, that’s about all he can do. He can’t open his eyes: it’s like they’re stapled shut. He can’t move at all, really; his limbs refuse to respond to his brain’s request to move, just a little bit, please, goddamnit. And he realizes with a jolt that he can’t even breathe on his own — it’s the smooth plastic tube pumping oxygen into his lungs, not his own willpower, that’s keeping him alive. In contrast to his devastating plunge through the atmosphere, there’s no pain, no searing hellfire that engulfs his entire being; but he can tell by the smell of overcooked meat and spent gasoline that it’ll take months, maybe even years, for him to be repaired. He can hear the rustle of the well-starched sheets beneath him, but he’s not surprised that he can’t feel them: after all, it’s hard to feel without any skin. 

Will I look like a fish, too? he thinks morosely, remembering how horrified his amphibious friend was at the sight of his new skin. God, I hope not...no offense, Pyunma.

He glumly pictures himself with scales like a dragon, or feathers like a bird, before suddenly losing consciousness again. 

He sleeps deeper than he ever has. 

He dreams that there’s someone at his bedside, someone familiar.

He dreams of soft silver hair resting against his cheek; he dreams of cold steel threading between his fingers.

This time, when he stirs, there’s something new — pain, he realizes with a start. And it isn’t just pain he can feel: he’s aware of the itch of the sterile sheets beneath him; the dampness of his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead; the dead weight of his battered body at rest. Exhilarated, he tries to laugh out loud, but only a ragged hiss of air escapes around the tube in his throat.

His first impulse is to rip the tube out of his mouth, and he’s surprised when his fingers actually respond to this impulse, albeit only by twitching weakly. It’s not much, but for Jet, it feels monumental; maybe I can do more, he wonders excitedly. He musters up all his strength and channels it into one thought: open your eyes.

And he does.

Everything’s blurry, and he has to blink a few times to encourage his unused eye muscles to work again, but he quickly recognizes the whitewashed walls of the maintenance room at the beach house. His bleary gaze wanders over the various monitors and pumps keeping him alive — machines helping another machine, he muses ruefully. How long has it been this way?

And then, a much more disquieting thought: is it this way for Joe, too? 

A surge of fear and concern fills him and he feels his throat burn as it clenches around the tube. His stomach muscles contract wildly as he tries in vain to sit up, but an insurmountable heaviness keeps him pinned to the bed. Jet quickly realizes that it’s not only his damaged body keeping him in place: in his peripheral vision, he can see a familiar mop of silver hair resting against his chest.

It takes all his remaining energy to lift his head, and he registers Albert’s prone form slumped forward out of his chair, cheek resting on the thin, prickly hospital gown covering his chest. For a moment, Jet cringes as he imagines who put it on him, but this thought is pushed from his mind when he realizes with a pang that Albert is watching him. Those ice-blue eyes pierce through him with an intensity that Jet had only imagined before, and he’s aware that the EKG machine has skipped a few beeps. 

For a long while, Jet is quiet, and not just because of the tube in his throat; he takes in every ounce of pensive concern and disbelief in those eyes, and every deep curve of sleeplessness beneath them, before reaching out to his companion with his transmitter.

« …take a picture; it’ll last longer. »

It takes a moment, but the disbelief in Albert’s eyes melts away to a warm fondness that would take Jet’s breath away if he weren’t on a ventilator. He feels pressure squeeze around his fingers, and he immediately wonders how long Albert had been holding his hand. This tells him that they’re alone — Albert would never be so vulnerable with other eyes on him. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” the older cyborg says, his usual dulcet voice raw with emotion and lack of sleep. Jet forces a breath out his nose, feels the bleed air vents beneath his arms release a puff of indignant steam.

« Whoop-dee-fuckin’-doo. Are you really surprised? »

He thinks for a split second that he should be less of a prick, because now Albert is shifting away, his mechanical body sitting up in the chair with a series of whirs and clicks. His shoulders droop as though he’s carrying the weight of the world, and as Jet thinks back to his remark about Atlas, he wonders if this is how Albert looked after his fiancée died.

The fluorescent light of the maintenance room glints off of the metal of his right hand as it reaches up to cup Jet’s cheek. Around Albert’s neck, the gold chain glitters.

“I missed you.”

Albert’s lips are wet when they brush against his temple.

And just like that, he’s gone, filling the house with cries of, “Guys, he’s awake! He’s finally awake!”

[coligo]

accepting: aesthetic and drabble prompts.

leave a character or ship and/or a prompt in my inbox and i’ll make something of it! either an aesthetic or a drabble, or maybe even a playlist. results not guaranteed; you’re more likely to get a response if you pander to my inner masochist. 

preferred fandoms: aph, code lyoko, cyborg 009, httyd, marvel. pluses: code lyoko (ulrich, yumi, william, jeremie, ulumi). cyborg 009 (002/jet, 004/albert, 009/joe, 42, 29). angst. fantasy au. nsfw with plot. minuses: high school/college au. nyotalia. nsfw without plot.

[coligo]

accepting: aesthetic and drabble prompts.

leave a character or ship and/or a prompt in my inbox and i’ll make something of it! either an aesthetic or a drabble, or maybe even a playlist. results not guaranteed; you’re more likely to get a response if you pander to my inner masochist. 

preferred fandoms: aph, code lyoko, cyborg 009, httyd, marvel. pluses: code lyoko (ulrich, yumi, william, jeremie, ulumi). cyborg 009 (002/jet, 004/albert, 009/joe, 42, 29). angst. fantasy au. nsfw with plot. minuses: high school/college au. nyotalia. nsfw without plot.

[coligo]

                        see that young man                         who dwells inside his body                         like an  UNINVITED GUEST.                          (  ulrich stern.   //   code lyoko.  )

[coligo]

REGULAR COMMISSIONS ARE CURRENTLY: OPEN

CONTACT

E-mail me at

colinxzain@hotmail.com

if you are interested in a commission.

 I only accept Paypal!

SFW Art

$30 - Sketch

$50 - Colored Sketch

$15 - Chibi (Colored)

NSFW Art

$40 - Sketch

$50 - Colored Sketch

★INFO ON COLORING COMMISSIONS HERE!

★INFO ON COMIC COMMISSIONS HERE!

Something you want that you don’t see here? Just ask! I’ll most likely be able to make it for you!

More info under cut!

Keep reading

[coligo]

hospitalia: lucis’ hospital au, part i.

saving grace hospital, located just outside of new york city, is a sprawling medical complex where patients with hundreds of different conditions are cared for on both an acute and long-term basis.   as one of the largest hospitals in the region, it sees hundreds of thousands of people a year for a wide variety of care, ranging from routine exams and laboratory tests to emergency surgery to hospice and end of life care.   doctors here are held to the highest standard; nearly fifty medical students will begin their residencies here, but only five may complete them, due to the rigorous training and long hours spent inside the hospital’s walls.   but behind the stethoscopes and white coats are some very colorful characters who all have one thing in common: the love of saving people’s lives.

DOCTORS AND STAFF:

ALFRED JONES.     a fourth year resident specializing in cardiology, alfred makes his rounds with a smile on his face and an impeccable bedside manner.   outgoing, friendly, compassionate, and ingenious, he’s on the road to an illustrious career as a physician.   his treatment style is aggressive, and he refuses to back down in the face of disease or injury, even ones he is relatively unfamiliar with.   as doctor beilschmidt’s favorite resident, he’s been given a wide range of elective lectures and trainings, including a month-long stint in the trauma center and three weeks sitting in on transplant surgeries; but as his attending’s favorite, he’s also his most criticized, constantly scrutinized and observed more closely than any other resident in the hospital.   in recent months, he’s opted to change his specialty to oncology, probably on account of that handsome brunet who comes in weekly for his chemotherapy sessions.

LUDWIG BEILSCHMIDT.     an immigrant from germany and the head attending physician at saving grace hospital, ludwig is a smart cookie who knows a little about a lot.   he watches over all the fellows and residents under his care with a scrutinizing eye, paying special attention to doctor jones; he recognizes the young man’s intelligence and allows him more privilege and freedom than other residents of his year, but due to this, also holds him to a higher standard of care and is more critical of his work.   he’s recently given him almost sole care of a steadily declining cancer patient named toris, in an effort to teach his heroic resident that you can’t always save everyone.   even more recently, he’s been allowing alfred to treat toris with experimental drug therapy, albeit under intense scrutiny.

PATIENTS:

TORIS LAURINAITIS.     a patient of the long-term care and oncology wards, toris is a shy and mild-mannered man suffering from multiple myeloma.   an acclaimed journalist with the new york times, he writes a weekly slice of life article published online for millions of people to read; he also runs a blog, where he writes on his daily successes and struggles with cancer.  he has beaten the odds by surviving longer than five years with the disease, but he’s been in and out of the hospital much more frequently in recent months; it’s anyone’s guess how much longer he will survive.   ludwig has been treating him for four years, and with his relatively stable but declining condition, uses him frequently as a teaching patient for his medical students and residents.

IVAN NIKOLAEVICH BRAGINSKY.     a descendant of the famous romanov family, ivan is also afflicted with their most infamous curse: hemophilia.   an avid reader and researcher and lover of medicine, ivan was a medical student in his home country of russia; he was unable to complete his residency due to an intracranial bleed that left him with chronic migraines and seizures, and he’s traveled to saving grace hospital with his sisters in an effort to reverse these negative effects and try again for his medical license.   brilliant and loquacious, he involves himself greatly in his own care, and he is often approached for a second opinion on other tricky cases; even the head attending physician respects his medical opinion.

this is only the beginning; there are more patients and doctors to come!

[coligo]

That was also my reaction Mr. President