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Hardly anyone is capable of fully coherent thought at 3 o'clock in the morning. 2BDamned would say he counts as one of the unlucky few, and he would be approximately.. halfway to correct.
His eyes had been burning since about 1:30. An ache settled into his bones and only penetrated deeper the longer he sat at his desk, hunched over his tablet tapping away for longer than the majority of people would find acceptable. The meal Sanford had not only cooked but brought to his office and set beside him when he'd refused to come out and get it himself sat untouched, gone cold hours ago.
2BDamned isn't surprised or disturbed by the numbers that glare back at him from the corner of the screen, merely frustrated. His acute awareness of the human brain's necessity for sleep always just had to put a stop to his work. As much as he would love to stay awake through to when there would be a hypothetical sunrise, it'd only serve to make him less capable tomorrow— and he has to be capable every waking moment, so that's out of the question.
The to-do list he racks up in his brain every day is a mile-long ladder with continually shifting rungs. At the realization that he must settle in sooner rather than later, filling out the details of his teammates' current conditions moves up to the top.
He does open up a file and begin typing with sincere intent to finish the task, but it fails in every way imaginable. His mind races yet produces nothing, his hands ache so much he can hardly move them. Muttering a string of curses, he goes for his alternative method, forcing his hands to work just enough to open an application and begin a vocal recording.
"Medic's log," he huffs out, letting his hands fall to his lap. "This is 2BDamned. It is.. ow, son of a bitch— 3:15 in the morning. I'll be updating the S.Q files verbally for brevity." definitely not because of the current state of his brain and body.
"Deimos’—" his voice strains as he stretches his arms above his head, leaning back in his chair. His muscles scream. "—recent bout of psychosis shows no signs of stopping. He's been making Sanford boil any water they take from raids, even if it's in fully unopened bottles, because he's convinced there's poison in them. Psh, I'd be pretty fucking impressed if someone could lace a bottle without opening the damn thing, but there's no reasoning with a delusion. We'll just do whatever it takes to keep him drinking at this point, fuck it. Physically there hasn't been much of note.. minor cuts and scrapes, unbelievable for someone so accident prone. Once he's over this.. whatever it is, I plan to start teaching him more with medical care so he can assist with field injury better, per his request. If he can focus for two fucking seconds.. anyway, not important. He's crazy, but what else is new.
"Sanford on the other hand is significantly less crazy over the past few days, which is fantastic. He hasn't been violent or aggressive during any checkups, almost scarily cooperative really. I think that's him trying to make up for handling his mood swings for months." watching the sound waves move up and down while he speaks is starting to make his head pound, so he folds his arms on his desk and rests on them. "The stab wound he maintained is recovering nicely now that he's actually taking my advice. No sign of infection to be had, et cetera.. he's still got a bit of a limp, but that'll resolve itself. As long as he keeps that attitude in check and doesn't get himself hurt again, this should go swimmingly.
"Hank.." 2BDamned groans, shaking his head ever so slightly. "They returned a few days ago close to fileted. Fingers hanging by skin shreds and all this prick cares about is that they can't hold a gun while their stitches heal. Ungrateful.." he yawns, "piece of shit, they are. They've retained all their organs, and their life.. for longer than a week, so that's something.. Christ alive." he struggles for words in silence for a few moments. "It's.. if they just learned some motherfucking patience, they'd manage so much better.
"As for myself.." I'm so far past exhausted if you look up the word in the dictionary there's a picture of me beside it. I've been having them take any medical documentation they can find in hopes of determining just what is wrong with me, but nothing gives me even a scant idea. The ache is constant and I can cope more often than not, however at times it's so debilitating I can focus on nothing but agony. It's in my muscles, in my bones, and I feel it creeping up to my brain like an unforgiving parasite. I've had to stay off of field reconnaissance for the better part of a week because my body is in so much pain, sometimes even lifting my tablet feels impossible.. I fear if I were to go out with the others, I may not come back. For the sole medic in the state to be this sick is incredibly cruel irony. "I've been faring.. just fine, as usual. I'm going the hell to bed."