rackofbadcds | 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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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.

Medic follows Engineer's eyes with his own, and once more his attention is brought back to the man's arm - the most popular subject of the night.

He smiles, either because he finds the offer considerate or because he's already thinking of something ethically questionable to do with the abandoned limb. With Medic, you can never tell.

"I'm sure I can think of something."

More than likely, he'll just put it on ice for a while just in case Engie experiences spontaneous rejection and his immune system decides to violently kick the gunslinger to the curb. Even if that doesn't happen, it's still good to have around. You never know when you might need an arm.

"Now, if you're certain you're not in immediate danger of going into septic shock, I think I'll take my leave. You need your rest, and I have... work to do."

Don't ask him what that work is, it's almost certainly nothing good.

When is any of your work not objectionable, Engineer would ask.

But he doesn't, because he and his best friend whiskey have abrupt decided that this couch is really comfortable (it never is, that's why it's in the garage), and he lets himself sink in.

"Yup. You do - you go... you give yourself a hand. Heh." That's hilarious, Engie. It'd be more hilarious if you didn't already make that joke. "G'night, Lud."

Oh no, he's using first names. Nicknames of first names. Definitely drunk. Definitely closing his eyes, though. Definitely not going to wake up in a brief panic wondering what the hell happened to his arm before he remembers, oh yeah.

Regardless, out of all the drunken nights he's had in his life, he's definitely not going to regret this.

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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