Oh, he doesn't believe in record-keeping! [Please, where is the audience groaning to really underline Palamedes' fussy despair in this moment. He can only throw his hands up and then take to rubbing his temples, like, he won't do paperwork... about using up medical supplies either, probably... That's inventory! Fuck!!]
I shouldn't need to tell you why letting our supplies slip through the cracks unmonitored is a bad idea. Just because you're frustrated with paperwork— what were you thinking, really?
[Because he doesn't buy "already bloated system" as, like, a valid defense, that's stupid. The system, needed overhaul and prodding colleagues or no, does not excuse stealing supplies from a hospital!! He presses his fingers harder into his temples for a long moment before he actually loses his temper, eyes closed, before he can handle trying to explain moral concepts like this again.
Okay. Alright. He's good.]
I want you to fill out your fucking paperwork— [no. nope. temper. take two,] We're running a place of healing here, not a hobby shop. Don't pay me; fill out the paperwork for use of inventory and then replace what you took.
Of course I marked it off for inventory you- [temper 2.0 as well, born mostly from again, it's infuriating how right this man is. did he really let that god damned hellhole of a town drag him down this far-
his jaw works, irritated that any answer he can give anywhere close to the truth is too painfully pathetic to offer. things like this is one of the only places that felt even remotely safe to sleep in, thank you, or that he cannot go bartering with his blood for morphine when he isn't sure his wretched, infected blood might not be dangerous on more levels than he'd care to picture. who knows what these heathens did with the stuff anyway, and what else is he supposed to do when he desperately needs the rest pain will not allow?
ugh. there is an obvious moment of struggling not to snap and say more, leave it a bitter back and forth. 'hobby shop' nearly sends him down that spiral but he musters enough composure to return merely a hard stare.] I cannot replace it, so I would hope that payment in the form of my service will suffice. One I can get back to now, if you would be so kind, dear colleague.
[Too bad for that thick irony, that Palamedes would offer far more sympathy if Daniil just voiced any of his problems or legitimate medical needs, but then he'd be all empathetic and it would be infuriating in the other direction. So instead, he can only stand there and continue frowning, waiting for Daniil to come up with something. Must he go check the inventory records? Or worse, repeat himself and say that the point is using the supplies!!
So, he will wait out this struggle. See, the thing is, he would like some more morphine to put on some shelves, on principle. Maybe everyone needs to have a minister meeting about consequences for actions, he'll think about it.]
What work have you been doing? You were tattled on for plenty of things; I've heard you refused to complete a single training shift.
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I shouldn't need to tell you why letting our supplies slip through the cracks unmonitored is a bad idea. Just because you're frustrated with paperwork— what were you thinking, really?
[Because he doesn't buy "already bloated system" as, like, a valid defense, that's stupid. The system, needed overhaul and prodding colleagues or no, does not excuse stealing supplies from a hospital!! He presses his fingers harder into his temples for a long moment before he actually loses his temper, eyes closed, before he can handle trying to explain moral concepts like this again.
Okay. Alright. He's good.]
I want you to fill out your fucking paperwork— [no. nope. temper. take two,] We're running a place of healing here, not a hobby shop. Don't pay me; fill out the paperwork for use of inventory and then replace what you took.
no subject
his jaw works, irritated that any answer he can give anywhere close to the truth is too painfully pathetic to offer. things like this is one of the only places that felt even remotely safe to sleep in, thank you, or that he cannot go bartering with his blood for morphine when he isn't sure his wretched, infected blood might not be dangerous on more levels than he'd care to picture. who knows what these heathens did with the stuff anyway, and what else is he supposed to do when he desperately needs the rest pain will not allow?
ugh. there is an obvious moment of struggling not to snap and say more, leave it a bitter back and forth. 'hobby shop' nearly sends him down that spiral but he musters enough composure to return merely a hard stare.] I cannot replace it, so I would hope that payment in the form of my service will suffice. One I can get back to now, if you would be so kind, dear colleague.
no subject
So, he will wait out this struggle. See, the thing is, he would like some more morphine to put on some shelves, on principle. Maybe everyone needs to have a minister meeting about consequences for actions, he'll think about it.]
What work have you been doing? You were tattled on for plenty of things; I've heard you refused to complete a single training shift.
[It's time for your training arc, little dude.]