Scum...thats what was currently between the hands of Doctor Toma, a previously licensed and acredited physician. The Geshrin had seen many years as his eyes and wrinkles suggested, but his hands were ever steady as he pulled the bullet from the arm of one of the local residents. It was never his hands that had gotten him in trouble on Yamatai, but his head...after all why should he work hard to save those who were the lower levels of society? They didn't deserve his expert care.
A few failed operations, and the evasion of some local planetary authorities that wanted him for some silly criminal investigation had placed him in this little overturned cargo container in the tunnels of Blackmoon. His tools weren't exactly the best (nor were they exactly clean) but he hadn't lost a patient yet here, after all, they paid before hand here...and quite the sum for his excellent services.
So, this scum would live, only because of the pile of hard cash that he had placed on his desk before he had collapsed. He could stand the scum, if they paid him well for his time that is. His hands were steady as ever, plucking the bullet from next to the young man's femur, and starting to sew up the wound, blood covering the top of his makeshift table (also known as a clean peice of armor plating, sterilized before each operation) as he worked.
A few failed operations, and the evasion of some local planetary authorities that wanted him for some silly criminal investigation had placed him in this little overturned cargo container in the tunnels of Blackmoon. His tools weren't exactly the best (nor were they exactly clean) but he hadn't lost a patient yet here, after all, they paid before hand here...and quite the sum for his excellent services.
So, this scum would live, only because of the pile of hard cash that he had placed on his desk before he had collapsed. He could stand the scum, if they paid him well for his time that is. His hands were steady as ever, plucking the bullet from next to the young man's femur, and starting to sew up the wound, blood covering the top of his makeshift table (also known as a clean peice of armor plating, sterilized before each operation) as he worked.
