Just before eleven AM, I was in the scrub room, pushing a signature concoction of junk into my vein. Against my better judgment, I squinted again at the dark glass of the operating room. The morning's only reported fatality had already been expunged (with gross consternation on the part of Nurse Atticus), so it seemed peculiar that an unattended body should remain on the table. Probably just some prosthetics. Stale organs, or a collection of otherwise hazardous waste.

Properly fixed, I pushed open the door and worked the switches several times, finally coaxing flourescents to cast their stark illumination. The desecration was extraordinary, but there were no signs of operation. No tubes or hoses... Wires, clamps, sponges, or gauze. So (officially) nothing had happened. I was about to call a page when Dr. Kördann rushed into the theatre. She stopped abruptly, her eyes registering unprecedented concern -- or perhaps fear -- upon confronting the station. Before she could speak, Nurse Atticus filed in behind her and announced that, "It's still alive. It was eleven minutes ago." Dr. Kördann frowned, "Notify the military," she ordered. With a curt nod, Nurse Atticus departed, leaving Dr. Kördann to study the artifact. "I haven't seen one of these in years," she remarked, "Didn't think it could happen here." She reached tentatively for the neck, then drew her hand back quickly, "Rapid pulse." She sat down and bit her lip in contemplation, wheeling the stool back and forth slightly while staring at the floor.

(Curious, that the pale green of gas chambers should also be the preferred color scheme of operating theatres.)

Minutes later, after mentally exhausting all options, she shook her head in resignation. I squinted at yellow vapor, and noticed it condensing as a brown liquid on the ceiling. I detected a faint creaking sound... Finally, Nurse Atticus returned carrying a toolbox. "Gotta kill it," she reported. Dr. Kördann's eyelids closed tightly as she knit her brow, "I can't." So Nurse Atticus pulled a hacksaw from her toolbox. "I'll handle it," she declared, "Used to do this all the time back in the Ukraine, especially during the siege." But Dr. Kördann stepped in front of the table and grabbed the Nurse's arm, "No," she insisted, "It's my responsibility." I looked at the doctor, "She's done this before," I implored, "Let the Nurse take care of it." But Dr. Kördann shook her head. "Make up your mind," wheezed Nurse Atticus, "The death needs to be certified before blackout." I looked at the clock, then back to Dr. Kördann. "No one has more at risk than you," I argued, "The Nurse is already compromised. And besides, you took an oath." But Dr. Kördann protested again, "My oath," she said quietly, "requires that I do this."

So Nurse Atticus thrust the rusty saw towards her, "Then perform the operation," she exacted, "while you can." Dr. Kördann grasped the tool, "This is something neither of you need to know about." And with another curt nod, Nurse Atticus departed. I put my hand on Dr. Kördann's shoulder, then reluctantly followed, leaving Dr. Kördann alone with her gruesome charge.