David Waters' Authorization Application

[Hazard Time]

Player Section

Steam Name: Hazard Time
Age: 19
How long have you been Roleplaying? (can be any game): 5 years
How long have you been playing Serious GMod RP?: 4 years

Character Section

Authorization(s):
Trauma Surgeon Experience

Name: David Waters
Age: 37
Gender: Male
Affiliation: Rebel?

Write a detailed in-canon back-story how your character obtained these authorizations.

Spoiler for Pre-War:

   “Keep monitoring his vitals!  If something comes up, don’t be afraid to yell it at me!”  It was 3:00 in the morning on Valentine’s Day, and David had the luck to be working the night shift at the hospital.  Not that he had someone waiting at home for him, he wasn’t exactly the most charming or genial person you ever met.  Trying to find a personally engaging subject aside from morbid tales from the ER was more than a challenge, and a challenge that he preferred to keep.
   One downside of the trauma ward was it did horrors for your personality.  In his decade of experience as a trauma surgeon, he had damn near seen it all, from tragic falls, to amputations, and even a child on a skewer.  Nothing seemed shocking anymore, not even tonight’s call.  After a wild party, a group of guys decided to drive home drunk and tired along some dark country roads.  After swerving to avoid an oncoming car, the passengers, none of whom were wearing seatbelts, were thrown from the vehicle.
   The x-rays had just gotten back, and it didn’t look good.  EMT had been slow getting out them, and his particular patient already had signs of major brain herniation.  He wasn’t going to make it.
   As David stood there looking at the photos, he was approached by an aid, “We’ve got an IV in, should I ready a catheter to keep his ICP in check?”
   “No need”, said David as he put the x-rays down.  “Severe brain herniation has already set in.  Have his next of kin arrived?”  The aid simply stood there shocked, “But…we can’t just let him die!  There has to be something!”
   “You think I haven’t given it thought”, David’s voice cold as ever.  “He’s not going to come out of this, no matter how hard we try.  He’s a vegetable now, and he’ll be dead by dawn.  Now, go inform his next of kin.  I don’t want his family to see his brains coming out of his nose.”

Spoiler for 7 Hour War:

   Several more loud rumbles came overhead as the lights flickered.  The generator would hold, but David wasn’t sure how long.  Ever since the portals opened up in the sky, any and all patients that could be moved were moved into the basement.  He almost felt relief when people stopped coming; they were running low on body bags.
   Approaching a stretcher, he looked at its occupant: A woman about his age, burn marks all over her body.  He looked to the doctor beside her, “What’s her status?”
   “She’s lost a lot of blood, David.  It’s like she was hit with some sort of energy weapon.  I’ve done what I can, but I don’t think she’s going to make it.”
   “Then let her go in peace,” he replied coolly, walking to the next stretcher as a body bag was being readied.
   The man in the next stretcher had a gaping hole in his center torso.  It seemed as if something incredibly large had skewered him. “Why is he not in a body bag?”
   The same aid from before approached him, replying, “Er, David, that was the last one,” as he pointed behind him.
   “Then use a blanket, just get him out of sight,” David snapped.  Frustrated, he continued to walk amongst the dead and dying, the wall on the opposite side piled high with body bags.

Spoiler for In the City:

   19374.  That was his CID when it was assigned to him.  As the train pulled up in City 45, he was given a guide on all the rules and regulations of this new world order calling itself the Universal Union.  The rules themselves were easy to follow, but what he didn’t enjoy was the conditions.  No heating, inefficient plumbing, and regular “health inspections” by the less-than-friendly civil protection, he had found hell.  That was a year ago.
   One day, he tossed his citizen handbook in a bonfire in Precinct 3, and started working for a black market dealer working in the area.  The food was better, and medical supplies started coming in for his use.  So too did the alcohol and cigs.
   Ever since his friends and family had been erased, those friends who still remained were Jack Daniels, Bombay Sapphire, and Virginia Slim.  What started out as a habit to calm his nerves soon became an addiction, one that he didn’t care to fight.  As long as he got his shit, he’d take care of you.
   And that was where we come upon him now:  His clinic somewhere in Precinct 3, smoking a cigarette and staring out the window onto the deserted side street.  Unnoticeable at first, the sound of footsteps and frantic voices comes closer and closer until a group of citizens, a young woman accompanied by two men around her age barge into his abode, carrying another man along between them.
   “Are you the doctor?” the young woman asked.  David took the cigarette out of his mouth long enough to say, “I prefer the term surgeon, thank you very much.  Now what’s wrong with your friend here?”
   As she motioned over to a nearby table, the other men cleared it off and set the patient on it.  He started to moan and muttered, “Mon Dieu, ça fait mal…”.  A red stain down by his right calf became visible, and blood already started to collect on the table.
   “We were on our way out of P3 when we saw him running in,” the woman replied.  “Must have been a capital malcompliant; the cops started shooting at him and one got him in the calf.”  David looked over the injury, his poker face betraying no emotion whatsoever.  Looking up at them he said, “Do you have a payment?”
   The woman dug into her backpack and pulled out a bottle of beer, “Will this be enough?” she asked indignantly. 
“For a bullet wound?” David replied.  “It’ll do.”
    Placing the bottle off to the side, he went over to a filing cabinet, rifling through the contents until he could pulling out what he wanted: A scalpel with a set of blades, a pair of forceps, a vial of biogel, a needle with thread, several syringes with needles, a pair of scissors, a roll of bandages, a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and cotton balls, and a vial of amoxicillin.  However, he appeared to looking for something else, pushing things out of the way as the woman began to grow impatient, “This man is DYING over here!”
   “And yelling isn’t going to save him.  Do you speak French, by chance?”
   “Well, I, er, took two years in high school.  I remember a lit-“
   “Good, I’m going to need you to comfort him.”  Closing up the filing cabinet he sets all of his equipment on the table before him.  Pointing to the other men, “You two, secure his arms.”  Pointing to the woman, “And you, get his left leg.  Also,” David says as he takes out a roll of rags, “Put this in his mouth.  I’m out of ketamine, so this is going to hurt a lot.”
   She hesitates a few seconds before nodding and grabbing the rags.  As she finishes up and grabs his left leg, David inserts a blade into the scalpel, “You all ready?”  As they nod he says, “Then let’s get started” before cutting open the patient’s trousers with the scissors.  Tossing the fabric off to the side, he hurriedly soaks a cottonball in alcohol and wipes around the area of bullet hole.  The Frenchman struggles slightly, whimpering as some of alcohol makes contact with the wound, but David ignores it.  Tossing the cottonball over his shoulder, he grabs the scalpel, pressing it down into the flesh near the wound and begins to make an incision across it.
   Immediately, the patient begins screaming in pain through the rags, thrashing about wildly.  Putting all of his weight on the man’s leg, David continues to cut until the incision is of adequate size.  Setting the scalpel aside, he grabs for the forceps, slowly forcing them into the bullet hole.  All four of them struggle to hold on to the Frenchman as he resumes his screaming and thrashing.  Gripping the bullet, David slowly pulls it out, laying it on the table.
   Wasting no time, he takes the threaded needle and begins sewing up the wound.  After a lather of biogel, a wind of bandages, and a shot of amoxicillin, David stood back to admire his handiwork.  The woman went to him and asked him, “Comment êtes-vous?”
   In a hoarse whisper, he replied, “Je me sens mieux. Merci.”  Looking back at David, the woman says, “Thank you, I’m glad you were here.”
   David didn’t respond immediately, taking a few gulps of the beer first.  “I’m not.  Anyways, your friend will be fine, but I would watch him for a few days in case some new shit pops up.”
   As the group exited his clinic, he took another gulp, looking back out the window, towards distant walls towering the distance.  David couldn’t stand it in the city, it seemed like nothing ever happened.  He was a trauma surgeon, damn it, not some ordinary EMT.  Anyone can fix a bullet wound or a broken arm, but what about a sucking chest wound?  Or a good old head trauma?  “I need to get out of here.”

   

What will these authorizations give your character in regards to perks or defects?
Perks
Ability to fix complex injuries that any other EMT cannot handle


Defects
Limited supply of equipment
Human error
PTSD
Alcoholism/Heavy Smoker
Pacifist

What do you plan to do with these perks/defects?
Living amongst civilization in the Outlands and fixing seriously injured victims for a fee.


Will anyone else need these auths? (If so, list OOC and IC name(s))
Negatory


Which server does this apply for?
Outlands


Extra Notes (optional):
My second auth app to date.  Crossing my fingers this one is a success

[Khub]

I must say that I really enjoyed reading this backstory. I'd expect the pre-war story to be a little bit longer, but well. I think it's enough, you have my support.

[Anzu]

You have my support aswell. Could be longer, but it'll do.

[Airborne1st]

I also enjoyed reading the story. It was easy to picture in my mind and see what David's personal character is like. With 2 SA's supporting, I'll go ahead and accept this.

Accepted. Locked. Moved.