Not-So-Private Practice

[Chiangtao]

"I ain't wearin' it!," spat the surly doctor. He tossed a deep blue uniform on the ground at the feet of his supervisor.

The supervisor let them sit at his feet and gave the doctor a cool, managed look. He paused to let the tension release before speaking in a measured tone. "All employees are required to wear uniforms when they are on-the-job, Mister Snyder. It is not just a branding issue. We want our cusomters to quickly identify who is an employee and who is not. They expect a professional level of service when they procure a good or service from Exigo - they key word there being, 'professional.' It is important to look the part if you want to continue your employment."

Doc Snyder quickly replied, "I don't want to work here - git that straight. This salesmanship and merchandizin' ain't fer me by a longshot. I ain't here to make you money. I'm a doctor, damnit; not some hair-combed, broad-smiled, fake-intendin' shopkeep!"

"Calm down, Mister Snyder," returned the supervisor. "I want to work with you, but I don't deserve to be yelled at. I don't want to get Human Resourced involved, but we need to come to an understanding. Whether you 'want' or 'need' to work here isn't my concern. You do work here, under my supervision. And, there are rules that need to be followed.

"Before you get angry, I want you to think about the equipment in your tent. The fine medical tools and endless supplies of pharmaceuticals are expensive. The space we've given you would cost upwards of two thousand gold, weekly, if you were out on your own. This company has provided you with the best it can for your business.

"I understand you want to strike it out on your own as soon as possible. We can work that into your annual goals for employee development. I want you to understand that I truly support you in this. You are a skilled doctor and we want to see you succeed, whether with us or on your own. But until you can afford it on your own, you'll need to follow the rules like everyone else."

Doc stared daggers at the man. He couldn't argue with what the man said, and that just made him angrier than he was before.

I got me a goal, thought Doc - private practice. But I can't afford to do it on my own right now. And I sure as hell wouldn't throw my lot in with the Triad. Politics have no place with a healer. I won't turn away nobody that needs His care, and I know for damned sure those white-armored, horseblinder-wearin' zealots would turn back more than some who done wrong before.

Doc stooped and picked up the uniform with his left hand. He stood nearly toe-to-toe with his supervisor, giving the uniform a good shaking. But he bit his tongue, and said simply, "Alright then."

(( Again, please chime in DMs if I've taken too many liberties. This conversation did not happen in-game, but I thought it made for some fun writing. ))

[Chiangtao]

A horse can't escape its reins, thought Doc. Private practice - got me a boss. Church work - got me a zealot. Nothings for free anymore. Not even charity.

He turned over the mattresses and changes the sheets on his recently-used cots. He had three patients resting in his tent. Maybe one of them was healthy enough to go home for bed rest. Maybe. The other two were still sick, even if it didn't sound like it. The worst of their coughs had passed, but they needed an extra day of hospital rest before he was comfortable turning them loose. Clearly, his supervisor did not agree.

It wasn't the first time his boss had pulled this. "An empty bed is an opportunity," the boss said once. The man would set down a book's worth of paper for any patient who needed an overnight stay. Most could barely make their mark, let alone file a medical claim. The man had a gentle hand, but it was firm as he pushed them out the tent flaps with nothing but soothing words.

Medicine and money. Doc wouldn't have stood for it years ago. But he made his stand with his church a decade ago, and this is where he wound up. Everything comes with something else, alright. There was no way around it, no matter how you approached the matter.

He stood in his tent flaps, taking a long pull from a tin flask. He spied the caravan coming down the trade road. There were a few Broken Ones walking beside the bedridden. Squires carried makeshift cots with the sick. They carefully wove down the dirt paths at the trade post, artfully dodging the wares. They were careful not to rustle the sick.

Everything comes with something, Doc thought with a grin. You want me, this is what you get, Exigo. He took another long pull from the flask. Doc pulled the tent flap open and let the wounded inside.

[Chiangtao]

He asked the Triumvirate for their pestiest, most persistent ill; they did not disappoint.

Bill Trevors had a broken leg from a fall off a horse. It wasn't life-threatening, but the break was bad. He needed to stay off his feet for three solid months, and the man knew it. He had Doc's assistants hopping for lemon tea and decent reading whenever he caught them available. The assistants were Exigo slugs - underpaid and highly lazy in Doc's eyes. Doc didn't mind the extra errands one bit, so long as he wasn't in need of them.

The Druthers twins had caught goat pox while on vacation in Aquor. It was a little surprising, considering the rural setting required to catch such a disease. He imagined one of the girls had snuck off to a neighboring farm to fool around with the stable boy. The other twin probably caught it from the first while it was still contagious. At least, he hoped they weren't both sneaking off for a roll in the hay. Girls will be girls, but he was pretty sure by the look in their eyes he had figured out which was victim and which was catalyst. They were both past the contagious stage, but their boils needed frequent draining by a sterile, alchemical silver tool. They'd be able to go home in ten days if they were lucky.

The least lively of the bunch was poor Miss Eulon. The lady was pushing eighty already, but her lungs had begun failing her last week. It would be a slow, lingering trot for her to the finish line, so to speak. Beyond frequent regeneration, there was nothing to be done for her. Fluid was building up in her lungs regularly, and it got slightly worse every day. She didn't want anything for the pain, but Doc was sneaking pinches of luhoc powder into her food. She was quiet enough, but had resigned herself to dying. It was depressing to chat with her. "The good lord cursed me, he won't take me home to Pa," she'd moan. He gave her compassionate care, but he hadn't the patience to reassure her through conversation.

In all, the lot kept Doc busy. And, more importantly, they kept his beds full. He reveled in the burr he planted in his boss's saddle over the reduction in business for Exigo. Every three hours, the man checked in to see how the patients were doing. He was a kind enough man, Doc had to admit. He seemed to genuinely care about the sick, at least when he had to see them. He had a gentle touch for everyone and a reassuring smile. He was genuine as well - so long as the conversation strayed from money.

"What's the prognosis, Doc?," he'd ask at the end of each visit. "We need to clear the beds. There are many more patients, and the company can't afford to let them stay on if they don't need to be."

"They ain't goin' nowhere no time soon," Doc would reply, smiling slightly. "They're sick and will only get worse at home. I don't turn no one aside who needs care - that was the deal."

"I know, I know," the supervisor replied, exasperated. "Believe me, gods, I know! I review your damned contract every day. It doesn't have to be like this, Doc. It isn't 'you versus us.' We're on the same side; we need each other to make this work."

"The only need I give a shit about is my patients," Doc replied. "Now g'wan, I got work to do."

The supervisor shook his head and left Doc alone. Doc had won for now. Somehow though, he knew it wouldn't last.

[Chiangtao]

It didn't last, thought Doc, as he tossed a second bail of vomit into the bushes. The supervisor got wise to his scheme. Not that Doc made any effort to disguise it - there were small litters of sick being paraded through the trade post nearly daily, always carried by squires, Broken Ones, or other devout of the Triad. Doc was certain some stooly would report back to the bosses about his little "scheme," but it just didn't matter to him. These were folks in need, and he wouldn't let some two-bit, wannabe banker keep them from good care.

It started with the books. Doc's supervisor began snooping in the paperwork, checking receipts and records of every last patient that had come through the tent flaps since he opened. The man wasn't happy at all. Doc kept poor records, at best. He even fudged it a little: shorting the price of a set of crutches here, reducing the quantity of iodine used there. Straight arrows don't shoot nearly so far as you think, thought Doc. But the supervisor caught his little mistakes in his audits. They were clearly in the red.

Then the man cut back on the staff. "If you can't keep clean records, we have to cut costs. The money has to even out somewhere," said the supervisor. He was down to one orderly - an elderly man who was making minimum wage. Doc swore he wasn't even on the Exigo payroll and figured him for a volunteer, until the old fellow finally donned a uniform. The man was helpful and kind. He had a gentle voice and soft feet, rarely disturbing the sick from their sleep. But, he couldn't lift more than a sack of empty bean pods. Doc had to do all the heavy lifting, including the sick pots. The manual labor didn't bother him - the loss of his time did.

Fed up, Doc decided to settle up his tab. He marched into the Exigo headquarters purposefully and made for his supervisor's office.

The supervisor sat behind his polished oak desk chewing on a pen quill. He was reviewing some papers on the desk, looking worried. Two-bit penny-pincher, thought Doc.

"Boss," Doc said firmly. "This ain't workin'."

The supervisor looked up from his work. He leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his brown hair. There was more grey in that hair than Doc remembered. The man measured Doc at the door for several moments before weighing in.

"I have a favor to ask, Doc," the man said, his voice sounding fraught.

"You ran outta favors when you..."

"Here," interrupted the supervisor. "I've settled your books." The man pulled out his desk drawer with a loud grating sound. He fished in the back with his left hand and extracted a small coin purse. "Put the rest toward the children's wing in the temple," he said, tossing the purse to Doc.

Doc's face ran from red to white. He was so surprised, he fumbled the coin purse, spilling some of the gold on the floor. He stooped to pick up the coins as they rolled about at his feet. He counted three hundred gold by the time he was finished. When Doc looked up from his coin collecting, the man was standing by the window. Failure was in his silhouette, and a blue baby bonnet was in his right hand.

Doc crouched, taking that very picture in, committing it to his memory forever: the white light piercing the window, the black shape of a failed endeavor, and a blue dream long gone. And then he gave the man his mercy.

"Help me move 'em back," said Doc. "We'll do it together."