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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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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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.

Medic is quick to reach out, his hand hovering near Dell's shoulder, ready for him to fall on his ass the moment he tries to stand. Thankfully, the man's precarious balance is steady enough to keep him on his feet - for now. They'll see how well that goes when he actually tries moving.

"I don't know if that is a testament to your brilliance or the questionable quality of the American education system, but it's impressive either way."

Damn it medic no one asked for your sass.

Nobody did, but Engineer laughs anyway.

"Bit of both. Thanks."

The merc leans against the bench (again, blood, but whatever) and kicks a second toolbox out from underneath. Convenient that he thought to do this!!

"Right now, I can only configure so much to this thing. Gonna work it out later, but... I'm thinkin' this might work out in my favor. Because--"

He nudges the box with his foot, and it starts unfolding like the rest of his sentries, dispensers, and teleporters did. He brings his new arm up and taps a few buttons. Unlike the excrutiatingly long time it took for most of his machines to build themselves, this one was fast.

And, by the time it was done, a lot smaller.

Some would say tiny.

It's a mini-sentry.

"Sometimes you just need a little less gun."

You wouldn't think anyone would look at a literal instrument of death and think "Aww!! It's cute!" but here Medic is, doing exactly that. Then again he makes this same face at Heavy so his definition of cute is probably just a little skewed in the first place.

Delighted, Medic kneels down a bit as though he were speaking to a child and inspects the sentry with a keen eye.

"Hallo, kleine Todesmaschine!"

Along with birds, you can now add inanimate objects to the list of things Medic talks to that can't actually talk back.

"It's beautiful, my friend. You must be very proud."

He says this as though the sentry is is Engie's child, and he its father, which really isn't too far off the mark, honestly.

"Real cute, ain't it?"

Engineer beams like the proud parent he totally is and kneels down (slowly, wobbly) to give it a little pat.

"Ain't built like the other sentries, but it'll still give 'em ain't. Ain'tcha, little guy?" It beeps.
"Aww."

Engie feels himself sway and puts a hand out to keep himself from tipping over. You know what. He's just gonna. Sit here. He's also going to reach up and grab that whiskey bottle. Might as well finish. As he downs a little more, he brings up his hand and studies it again.

"Well... I sure did that," he says as he brings the bottle down. "I think I'm just gonna... sleep here."

On the floor. There's a couch too, but you do you, Engie.

"I was gonna tell you somethin' else, but I forgot what. Uhh. Granddad's machine? Somethin' like that?"

Edited 2018-03-30 06:17 (UTC)

Engie could, in theory, sleep on the floor, or he could allow himself to be manhandled onto the couch by a Teutonic man of medicine. Really, it's up to him - except not really because Medic will drag the man there if he has to.

But first, story time.

Medic drops down next to Engie, resting his elbows on his knees as he settles in for what he's sure is an interesting tale.

"Ja, the life extending device."

He has to admit, he's more than a little interested in this pseudo-immortality machine. Both out of pure scientific curiosity, as well as a keen interest in replicating (and improving upon) the design himself.

"It's strange to think such a thing could exist when the exact cause of aging is not yet known. A problem usually cannot be solved if no one knows where it even is, and yet that is precisely what your grandfather has done. Supposedly."

Engineer shakes his head. Before explaining, he downs another swig. You think he'd stop drinking after puking the once. Whatever. Call it their nightcap.

Besides, he probably will let himself get dragged onto the couch once he finishes the bottle.

"It doesn't stop aging, exactly. You ever met Mann?"

Have half of them ever, really?

"I could peg him for a hundred plus." Years, he means. "Probably is, because I saw him die mid-conversation. Then the machine brought him back. At first, I thought it was just some kinda resuscitation system, but..."

He thumbs his nose with his new fingers. The cold metal reminds him it's still there, and he looks at it anew.

"I'm thinkin' it's a lot more than that."

Medic very nearly makes a joke about Engineer's ability to accurately guess someone's age by their looks, but he bites his tongue at the last second, realizing it's probably best not to open up that particular can of worms.

Besides, interrupting with a wry comment would have derailed the conversation, and he'd very much like to hear more about this resuscitation system - even if he's certain it's not nearly as effective as anything he could make himself.

"You think there may be something unnatural powering the machine?"

Alright, he's more than a little curious now. If there's something behind all this resurrection business, something other than science and medical miracles, he wants to know and he wants to know yesterday.

Look, this is different. Mann actually looks his age.

"Well. Last year we got herded around by an undead spirit with a pumpkin head. I ain't gonna discount ghosts."

This is his scientific opinion, of course. He runs his flesh-and-bone fingers over the Gunslinger and bends each individual joint, like he didn't test them a dozen times before tonight.

"But something's powering it, and I ain't figured out what it is."

Again: what's australium.

"Yet, anyway. I'm still deciphering the notes. The old man always wrote like a doctor fighting two badgers at once in the dark."

Medic rewards that last comment with a dry look and a mildly-amused smile. He could take offense on the behalf of doctors everywhere for the perpetuation of that (sadly accurate) stereotype, but instead he decides to use the joke as a segway - a means of easing himself into a project he really doesn't have any business knowing anything about.

"You're not so far gone that you've forgotten you're speaking to a doctor, ja?"

He gives that near-empty bottle a poke for emphasis before continuing.

"If you need help translating, you need only ask."

Edited 2018-04-06 22:06 (UTC)

"Hey."

Engineer points a finger out.

... It sways a little. He brings it down.

"I said two badgers in the dark. That's worse."

So technically, it's a compliment to doctors?? ... Not really. Engineer grips at his new arm with his other hand. He's quiet for a moment. He looks deep in thought about something, until -

His shoulders jerk up and he blinks a couple times. Nope. Just spacing out. Perfect time to finish off the bottle.

"Later, probably. I'm worn out now." Obviously. "And drunk." Obviously.

Medic snorts, which is the only appropriate response to Engineer's stating of the obvious, and shakes his head. He claps a hand on Dell's shoulder, the gesture more practical than affectionate - if the man doesn't have something to keep him grounded to reality, who knows how far his mind will wander.

"And getting more drunk by the minute."

It's a joke, but also the truth.

"Why don't we get up off the floor before while you still can, ja?"

Fair enough. Dell had college days where his mind wandered too far. Those nights usually involved beer machines. A couple of them exploded.

The merc grunts and jerks as Medic claps his shoulder. Like he didn't expect it, like the man's not literally right in front of him. Welp. If anything, he's glad his delayed reaction time only kicked in after his arm was off.

"Look, sometimes you just gotta get a little... inspiration before you self-surgery your... self."

You know what. Nevermind. Even he can tell he's slurring his words now.

"Okay. Yeah. Alright."

Rather than give a small lecture on his personal policy regarding drinking during (or prior) to surgery, Medic simply snorts and shakes his head. Dell doesn't need to be told how horribly ill advised this entire plan of his was, even if it did turn out alright in the end. That much is obvious even to a man as drunk as he is.

"I do not envy the headache you will have in the morning, my friend."

He moves to help Engie up, offering him an arm to grab on to or a shoulder to sling his own arm over. Whichever he prefers.

Pride takes precedent, and Engie grabs Medic's arm to try pulling himself up. He's - mostly successful. There's a lot of wobbling, combined with the sensation of something that's his but different gripping and touching things. He'll get used to it, but not tonight.

"Me neither."

It says something when even the accent is slurring.

They make it do the couch anyway. Pride takes over again, and Engineer flops himself onto the couch. Probably a little too hard. It's fine, he's sturdy. He rolls over on his back and slips his goggles off (safety first when you're dismembering yourself) and brings his hand up to look at it. Again.

He's going to do that a lot.

"Heheheh."

Yeah no he's real proud of this thing.

For a brief, alarming moment Medic feels the hard press of metal against his arm and worries its going to be crushed - not intentionally, of course, but he has no way of knowing just how pressure sensitive Engie's new hand really is.

Thankfully, it proves itself to be more or less on par with his old one, and Medic's arm remains blissfully un-crushed.

After that near-crisis is expertly adverted, getting Engie across the room and onto the couch is a breeze.

"There we are."

He would've helped Engie sit down, but just going limp and letting gravity take over works to. Shaking his head, Medic can't help but smile a little. God, what a night this has been.

"Now, should I worry about you cutting off any more limbs without my supervision, or can I trust you've had your fill of stupid ideas for the night?"

Don't worry it's said with love.

Love you too, doc.

"For the night."

Engie tears his eyes away from the Gunslinger by some miracle and brings it down over his stomach. For all the exhaustion on his expression, he looks satisified as hell.

"Maybe I'll take my foot off next, who knows?"

That's a joke, but it's hard to tell coming from a guy who literally just did the damn thing. He grins anyway. ... Then he thinks of something. He looks over at the toolbox that his former, inferior arm is still in.

"I guess, uh... if you need a hand for any reason..."

He trails off, chuckling as his own joke. Whiskey's makes it hard to find the right phrase. Just take his arm, it's fine.

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