rackofbadcds | Hank made it here, we're all sure that you will; but I don't think Hank done it this way

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engineer

Hank made it here, we're all sure that you will; but I don't think Hank done it this way

Any time music blared out the garage late at night, it was a sure sign that Dell was there. Either working on something before the next day's fight or late-night inspired, there was usually something getting made. Tonight, it was a bit of both, and he sure as hell didn't want to be disturbed.

Old blueprints and photographs scattered the wall in front of his workbench. The blueprints were frayed at the edges, drawn on old paper with a different hand than Dell's. They seemed to detail some kind of artificial hand. The photographs are all of one extremely buff man who Dell vaguely resembled, if Dell was at least four times beefier, taller, and had Texas-shaped chesthair. But I mean, he might. You don't know.

Apparently, he built the hand. It's sitting shiny-and-new on his workbench, next to a bottle of Tennessee whiskey and a bonesaw he quietly jacked from the operation room. The bottle was down to the last fourth, and it's pretty evident who drank it by the way the engineer's hand wavered next to the saw, feeling and groping until he finally got a grip on the handle.

It hovers over his arm. The merc tries to force himself steady. He tried every precaution he could think of that didn't require other people. He had a tourniquet. He lined where to cut with marker. He had a dispenser right next to him (turned off for now, otherwise it would just heal what he was about to do). The only downside was, alcohol was a blood thinner.

Oops.

Oh well. It's not like he had any moral quandaries about this. It was great idea, even sober. Saw your own hand off, give yourself a cool-as-hell robot hand, start some kind of weird family tradition. All good ideas. He just knew it was going to hurt.

But hey, that's what he was blaring Willie Nelson for.

He's grateful for it when the first cut goes in deeper than he expected.

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Between that and a natural curiosity, it wasn't hard for him to get those PhDs either.

Engineer can only spare a glance in Medic's direction, but it lingers for longer than usual. He's quiet for a moment - about as quiet as he can be.

"You got guts, doc. I'll give ya that."

Given what Medic just told him, the Engineer's response is almost a mood-killer. Trust him, though. That's a compliment.

Finally, bone. Dell grunts again, having felt the scalpel hit his radius before he saw the flash of bloody white. Speaking of guts, the merc doesn't hesitate this time when he takes the saw.

He knew he already hit two arteries from what he remembered from anatomy books he referenced as he planned. There's also, like, a lot of blood, whiskey notwithstanding. Either way, this was the hard part, and he knew he had to get it done fast.

Huh. Would you look at that.

It's not often the mercs pay each other compliments that aren't backhanded or padded with so much snark that it's damn near impossible to gauge their sincerity. It's so unusual that for a moment Medic can only stand there and blink owlishly, wondering if Engineer has somehow ascended to a higher level of sarcasm that is indistinguishable from honesty.

Then, after a beat, he smiles and shakes his head. Ah, Dell. He sure chose a strange time to be companionable.

"Coming from the man sawing off his own arm, that's high praise."

Also, yeah. That really is like, a ton of blood. Even with the tourniquet, the circulation can only be impeded so much. It's too bad Engie didn't think to borrow a few hemostats while he was getting the saw. Oh well, lesson learned. Maybe next time.

"You'll want to put more pressure going forward than pulling back, by the way."

He nods to the saw, which Engie is holding correctly. Not that there are many wrong ways to hold a saw, but still. The man has good form.

"Heh... thank my grandfather for that idea."

He gestures as much as he can to the photos on the wall before he gets to work.

Yowza. Yep. Oh boy. That's definitely bone. He feels it bite in as he starts to work it through. Per Medic's advice, pressure forward, pull it back. Pressure forward. Pull it back. Hey, he's right. This is about 5% less excrutiating when you find a rhythm.

"He... made it first. I just improved... on it."

Conversation bumps it to 6%.

"Don't ask... about the chest hair."

Medic isn't as tech-savvy as Engineer - then again who is - but he has enough rudimentary knowledge of mechanics to understand what he's looking at, even if he could never think it up himself. After all, he invented the medigun, but that was less a revolution in engineering and more a resourceful use of an old fire-hose.

"Is it a family-tradition, then?"

The amputating your own arm thing, not the chest hair. He's seen all his teammates topless before so he already knows the answer to that question.

"A bit late to be coming-of-age, aren't you?"

"Heheh."

Laughing still makes him sound pretty crazy, he realizes. That's fine. He ain't Medic.

"Not really. I only found out he... did any of this... 'bout a week ago. He didn't even... look like that, most his life."

'That' meaning 'disturbingly beefy.' Engie had both hands occupied (and he's losing feeling out of one), so he can't gesture. Dell still hasn't yet figured out what exactly happened to his grandfather, but he's been slowly piecing it together through his notes and drafts.

"You know I'm... third generation... to all this? I just... found that out."

Edited 2018-03-23 03:46 (UTC)

Medic tuts, disappointed that Enginner's grandfather wasn't just naturally a mountain of a man the likes of Saxon Hale himself. It would have been interesting, speculating on why the former didn't inherit the latter's mountainous stature. If only it was a natural condition, then he might have been able to do a little experimenting with Engie's dna to unlock his genetic potential.

Oh well. He'll just have to find some other, more complicated way to turn everyone on the team into Olympic gods.

"--What?"

Sorry Engie, he must have been too busy daydreaming about beefcake to hear you correctly.

"How is that possible?"

Who the hell can keep a secret like that from their family two generations running???

Sorry, Medic. Grandpa just huffed a lot of weird rocks.

With the bonesaw, Engineer could at least afford to look up for a second. He looks to Medic, bullet-sweat and blood and all, and gave a one-armed shrug.

"Dunno. My grandfather... wasn't chatty."

Ow.

"My pop was part of the war 'bout 30 years ago."

Ow.

"I knew that already. But gramps..."

Ow. Why do bones hurt.

"Don't think anybody knew. 'Cept our employer. But, uh... that's where I got all this."

If Mann wanted to keep this all a secret, Dell didn't care.

See, Medic doesn't usually give two fucks where his money comes from, but he'd be lying if he said shady shit like this didn't give him a few concerns. He can think of a few reasons why their mutual employer might have kept this information - and this technology - to themselves, and none of them are good.

It makes him wonder just how in the dark they really are, but he's not going to let himself get all bent out of shape thinking about it.

"Strange, that they would neglect to mention such a thing until now."

It's almost like they wanted to keep his grandfather's work to themselves or something.

"I take it this--" He gestures to the mess that's been made of Engie's arm. "--Is your way of showing them the same courtesy?"

He smiles, because that kind of petty "get fucked" mentality Ludwig can get behind 100%.

Normally, Engineer didn't care either. Money's money when you're fighting and killing the same folks(???) day in and day out. Knowing he had a familial stake in all this, though? That got his attention.

"Yeah, they didn't..." He's grunting. Again. Whatever. Assume he's doing this constantly. "... tell me 'til they wanted me to fix a machine he made."

And somehow, Engie got through the first bone faster than he expected. Probably helped that he could make himself focus now. He shifts his arm and feels dry blood pull at his skin. Better get the ulna over with.

As for Medic's question, he glances back at the doctor with a wry grin.

"I say it's more like takin' back what's ours."

But also: get fucked.

You know, for a grown ass man with stubble and chest hair and everything, Medic sure does giggle a lot. It's not even a deep, manly chuckle. It's high-pitched and manic and bubbly, which, you know. Kind of clashes with the whole "Mad Doctor" aesthetic he's got going on.

There's just nothing intimidating about his jolly little Oh hohohoho, not a single thing. Well, maybe if he was covered in blood like he usually is. Or if he were standing in front of a cadaver.

The point is, every now and again the stars align and Medic manages to laugh without sounding creepy as all hell, and this is one such occasion.

"It's good to see you embrace the schadenfreude, my friend. Spite is a good look for you."

"Heh."

Okay, that's actually encouraging.

"It ain't the first time... I ever been spiteful, doc."

... Speaking of spite. Engineer watches the bonesaw go through for a few passing moments. Then he thinks of something.

"You wanna know what'd be... really spiteful? Me tellin' you... what it is. The machine... I mean."

It's not like he was going to keep it a secret. He fully planned on building something similar for the whole team. It just needed tweaking. It takes a hell of rearranging to make a body-reviving life support chair useful for a battlefield, but Dell Conagher didn't have 11 PhDs for nothing.

"Oh, something terrible I hope."

He's only half joking, honestly.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure you've already begun making...improvements."

He smiles knowingly, because this is Engineer he's talking about. The man has never been one to leave well enough alone - hell, he's lopping off his own arm and replacing it with a mechanical upgrade for exactly that reason.

Speaking of - wow. The blood is really getting to be a bit much now, isn't it? Medic takes a quick glance around the room, wondering where Dell keeps his hand towels.

Ah, there we go. Medic's just gonna go ahead and grab a handful, see if he can't mop up some of the blood pooling around Engie's - well, it's really more of a stump than an arm at this point. Good for him, following through like that.

"Life-extending machine."

No flourish, no build-up. Engineer knew it'd get the other merc's attention plenty.

"He named it."

Oh, right. Blood. Other than the fact that it was a lot, Dell had barely paid attention to it. Some had already dripped onto his overalls. That's fine. Dirty clothes came with the job.

And speaking of the rest of his arm, he was almost through the other bone by now. Again, chalk it up to focus. Or whiskey. Or blood loss. All three, probably. Dell grits his teeth again and gestures to the Gunslinger.

"Nudge that... on over."

Whatever. If Medic wants to bother cleaning up, he can fetch his shit.

It's a what now.

Medic opens his mouth as though to ask Engie to repeat himself, because surely he must not have heard him clearly, but he refrains. His questions- of which there are many- can wait until Dell is no longer in active danger of bleeding out.

He retrieves the prosthetic without needing to be asked a second time, and he only spends a moment or two giving it a curious once-over before setting it on the table and aligning it with Engie's stump.

"Shall I hold it in place for you?" He asks, as though he's not already doing precisely that.

"I imagine you'll need a free hand to connect the wires."

Yeah, sorry to dump that one on you, doc. Engineer didn't expect this part to go this fast.

Especially when he feels the bonesaw hit the metal table and his hand goes completely limp. He stares for a second. Oh. He's done. The hard part is over, and this is actually happening. There's a few beats, via either amazement for the whiskey-plus-blood-loss combo. A pause is all that passes, though, and he gets to work.

He picks up his now-amputated arm by the wrist. He turns it over, looking at for a moment. Huh. He expected to feel something. Like, a sense of loss or whatever .

He doesn't.

The arm drops unceremoniously between his legs and into a toolbox on the floor. He kicks the box closed and holds a boot over it.

"Yeah, hang onto it a sec. If I'm right, this oughta take..."

... a minute, is what he would say if he didn't trail off the way he does when he's focusing. He had this all planned out since last week, and he had to work fast. Next step, he took two wires hanging from the wrist attachment of the prosthetic and held them together. With Medic holding it out, it went by quicker than he planned. Lifting his bloody stump out, he sets them right over his median nerve... probably. He spent long enough with those anatomy books to sure fucking hope so.

Third step. Using his free foot, he kicks a switch near the bottom of his disenser. It comes on and a red glow similar to the medic-gun starts working him over. Skin starts repairing itself, effectively healing over the stump with the wires around it.

Engie can't help the laugh that comes out of him.

"Hah! Who's the surgeon now, sawbones?"

Medic still is.

He helped you do this.

Also, the reason the hand is in the toolbox is because, with dispenser on, it really, really wants to reattach itself.

It's an interesting process, the melding of flesh and wire. How Engie's body doesn't reject the foreign material outright, Medic can only begin to guess - sure, metal implants are nothing new but generally speaking those are adhered to bone, not the nervous system.

It's one thing to amputate a limb and replace it with a prosthetic - making that prosthetic fully articulate and capable of receiving signals from the brain is another matter entirely.

"Unmöglich."

He shakes his head, an incredulous grin spreading across his face as he watches Dell's arm become a beautiful bio-mechanical abomination. It's ugly and unnerving and it spits in the face of nature and he loves it.

"My friend, you are a genius!"

He laughs, delighted by the medical miracle he's just witnessed, and gives Engie a hard clap on the back by way of congratulations.

"We will make a mad scientist of you yet."

Engineer laughs too. He's equal parts ecstatic, incredulous, drunk, and exhausted. The dispenser put some blood back in home, at least. He kicks it off and, after a "thump" from the hand in the toolbox, he slips the bulky cuff over his arm.

The base of the hand follows, which sits over the stump. It takes a few twists to secure everything in place. Once it does, the merc hit several buttons on the cuff, which was attached to the base by two thick yellow wires.

It takes a second. Engineer swallows. Then, finally, an index finger twitches. Then twitches more and more and more until it curls into his hand. The rest of his fingers follow, each one closing more smoothly than the other as Engie makes a fist.

"Well, fry me in butter and call me a catfish! God damn, Radigan Conagher! You crazy son of a bitch, you... oop."

He stops and suddenly stares into the distance. A beat passes.

"One sec."

Now that it's all over, he turns around and pukes.

Holy shit.

No, seriously, holy shit.

Medic takes a step back, his hands flying to his hair as he stares in amazement at Engineer's fully functional robot hand. He can't help but laugh, looking for all the world like he just saw the world's most impressive magic trick.

"It works!" He says, as though there was ever any doubt it would. "It actually w--"

Oh, oh jeez. That sure is a delayed stress reaction right there. Shock is a hell of a drug, till it wears off. Thankfully Medic has the good sense to look away as Engie spills his guts, awkwardly staring at the ceiling as he waits for the poor man to find his bearings.

"I see the traumatic stress has finally caught up to you."

Helpful commentary there, Medic.

Thanks, Ludwig.

Thankfully, most of it's out in one go. Dell pops his head back up again, albeit panting just a little. Now it smells like blood, oil, whiskey, and barf. Fantastic.

"I'm good."

Probably? Hopefully? He props both hands up (one now slightly heavier) up against the bloody bench.

"God damn, I did it. Wait 'til... wait 'til you see what I can do my machines NOW. Especially sentries. Heheheheh."

Believe it or not, the Gunslinger increases Engie's health so. This is technically good for him? And not just a painful side-experiment?????

Oh, yay. The lunch-losing is done and now they can get back to cackling madly about Science.

...They should probably hose off the floor first, though. And the table. They're both kind of coated in bodily fluids, which is unfortunate but not at all unusual for this place.

Eh, fuck it. They can put it off for a little while longer - at least until the high of this unprecedentedly successful procedure wears off.

"Oh?"

He raises a brow, his head filling with all sorts of wonderful, awful possibilities.

"The hand is for more than just show?" He asks, as though there was ever any doubt about that.

Give him a second to catch his breath. He needs to get his mad cackling voice back up to par. Anyway. Engie will deal with the mess later, but right now he's preoccupied with the fact that he's moving the fingers and they're moving and it's actually responding and listening to his brain because holy shit.

He snorts at the question, like it's the most naive thing in the world. What, Medic, do you think he'd do this just for the hell of it?

Because the answer is yes, but that's not the point.

"Yup. This thing's built mean. The way Gramps designed it, it's got enough pressure in the joints to knock out a horse - if I wanna."

That's a roundabout way of saying that getting hit with a metal fist hurts a lot more than a fleshy skin-and-bone boring fist. Also, he could punch out a horse. Don't punch a horse though, really. That's rude.

"And see this little number?" He taps the buttons on the cuff. "Tweaked it from the original design, but not by much. Lets me remote-operate what I'm buildin'. Hell, probably more than that if I get creative."

Hence the 150% sentry build speed increase.

Medic leans forward a bit for a closer look, adjusting his glasses as he examines the controls built into the cuff of the arm. He had assumed their purpose was regulatory, a means to adjust the functions of the prosthetic, but apparently they're so much more than that.

"Hmm. Remote operation, you say?"

He glances up at Engie, straightening back to his full height.

"How does that work, exactly? Do the machines build themselves upon command, or does the arm act independently of you?"

Because he's picturing the arm popping off and skittering over with a wrench to build things by itself, and he's gotta admit, that's pretty legit.

Leave it to Dell to drink almost an entire bottle of whiskey and still keep up with tech talk. Now that it's all over, he's probably going to fall on his own ass the second he got out of this chair. He'll just stay, for now.

It's going to be a hell of a hangover.

"Little of the former, yeah. I'll still have to some of it on my own, so it ain't entirely automatic. But once I got a spot picked out manually, they'll build themselves. And I can monitor status and everything too, if I wanna."

Edited 2018-03-28 15:18 (UTC)

"Impressive."

That might sound like an understatement, but coming from Medic, it's a high compliment. It takes a lot to impress a man who frequently defies medical science just for kicks, but Engineer never ceases to meet and exceed his standards.

It's good having him on the team, just for that reason alone. It's nice to have someone to talk to who's on the same intellectual level, even if their respective fields of expertise are wildly different.

"Could I trouble you for a demonstration?"

He gestures to the arm, more specifically to the buttons on the cuff. He doesn't doubt they're capable of doing what Dell claims they are, but it's always nice to see for oneself.

You're a good colleague too, Medic. Prepare to be temporarily disappointed, though.

"Why the hell not?"

You know what? Fuck it. He changed his mind in the span of 10 seconds. He's going to get out of this chair. He's getting out of this chair. He almost falls out of this chair.

By some miracle, he's standing on both feet, but the chair clatters to the concrete. Sometimes, you forget you're three sheets to the wind until you're up.

"Oop. Forgot I'm still three sheets to the wind." See. "Welp. I did drunker on my fourth PhD."

Honestly, by the second PhD, Dell Conagher knew he was unstoppable.

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had to get this last one in tonight for the first 2 sentences

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