A Medic's Job is Never Done (Slovakia)

[Turkey]

Sadik sighed softly as he walked through his routine check of the viles of medicine, gauze, medical tape, bandages, and other things; his golden eyed gaze had settled on the cabinet of antibodies for a moment as he stopped to inspect which cc bottle they needed the most. The dosages seemed to be in good shape though, and it wasn't as though he had several patients coming into the room at once. If that happened, Gupta would definitely share the workload without complaint. Picking up his clipboard, he clicked the top of the pen which ejected the pointed end and wrote a few things down, checking a box or so while he was at it.

[Slovakia]

How much had he drunk? Milliliters, milliliters, five or ten or... ten milliliters of methanol were enough to blind a person. Pure methanol. He knew that it was close to that, from what he could remember of the alcohol crisis of 2012. But he was a Nation, so it would take at least fifty to take out his eyesight. At least, that is what the dark-haired man hoped as he stumbled down the hall, nauseated and dizzy, almost tripping over his own feet.

Reaching the door, Gabriel tried to pull it open—and when that didn't work, he pushed forward without twisting the handle, deciding to rest his head against it for a second. It wasn't for a good five seconds that his stomach was telling him to empty it. Persistent as always, the Slovak opened the door slowly, blinking to clear the dark spots in his eyesight.

Gabriel barely got a word out before the floor tried to lure him down, eyelids drooping even though he wasn't tired. With a furrow of the brow, he shook his head to clear it before stammering out a small, “help.” Confusion took over for a moment, and he had forgotten why he was there, where he was.. why did his mouth taste so weird. “—I think, I think I drank somethin' weird.”