2012-10-09 No Appointment Necessary

It's fairly standard practice, really. Mercenaries get banged up a lot while out on their various jobs. Such damage requires someone on call who's proficient at fixing them, straight-up cash in exchange for services rendered without question nor record, bedside manner optional. Domino went through the usual channels, got herself a name and an address, and decided to go pay this guy a visit. Problem was, no one answered the door. So she let herself in. It took a bit of crafty manipulation to get around the shotgun that had been wired to the main entrance, but it was a hasty jury-rigging job. She could have done much better.
The lights are left off inside the spartan living space within. Dom crashes upon the couch in a way that lets her keep an eye on the door, even if that requires moving the couch itself in order to get the right angle. There she rests, the shotgun removed from its ambushing point to rest across her thighs with one hand loosely held over the trigger. There's only one other person that should be coming through that door but, much like the owner of this apartment, she likes to have her bases covered.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. One is wearing what he seems to have adopted as his uniform. Simple, dark slacks, a white shirt, a black tie, and a stylish overcoat. All are cut to accentuate his long, lithe frame. A heavy black satchel dangles from one hand as he makes his way up to the apartment that serves as his office. He's moving a hair slower than usual today, but seems in good spirits. He's humming a nameless tune under his breath as he fits his key to the lock and opens the door a scant inch. When he reaches up to unhook the wire that should be strung to a shotgun's trigger, his fingers encounter only air.
Several things happen very quickly. He drops his bag, draws a heavy revolver, and kicks open the door. It's all one smooth, seamless motion. When he lays eyes on his invader, he cocks his head to the side and lines up his crosshairs. He doesn't fire, though. Not right away. "Comfy?" he asks.
And there it is. In that same flurry of motion Domino's got the shotgun up, aimed, and very audibly chambered with a motion she's practiced thousands of times before. Some things never go out of style. There isn't much physical tension involved with her, she almost seems lazy about the exchange. Something -else- that she's done thousands of times before, meet and greet by mutual gunpoint. "As well as can be expected, did you pull this thing out of an alley?" She won't even get started on the sanitary conditions of this joint.
"I'll make this simple for you, One. Your name's on the roster, your skills are well credited. I've got money and an injury. I'm told you can fill in the blanks." That said, she makes a point of lifting her right hand away from the trigger then sets the shotgun aside with her left. Ball's in your court, but the money's still in hers.
"What's the nature and location of the injury?" Apparently, the magic words have been said. One already has his weapon tucked back into its holster. He pokes his head out into the hall long enough to retrieve his leather satchel, then he's back in and standing next to the couch. His coat is removed and tossed across the desk that's at the other end of the room. He leaves his shoulder rig on, though. The Webley rides high on his chest, but he moves as if he's accustomed to wearing it.
Quickly, he rolls up his sleeves, pulls a sealed, sterile pack of gloves from his pocket, and tears them open. "And that trench gun is a family heirloom. If you left any fingerprints on it, you'll be oiling it down after we're finished."
Domino sits herself upright, with a small bit of difficulty but no audible complaint. "Bullet wound, chest. Thirty cal full jacket, passed clean through. "Had the wind been a little stronger from the East I wouldn't be sitting here, do tread lightly." The trench is already rolled up off to the side and her combat harness has been undone down to the hips, making things as easy as she can make them for getting to the wound, itself. As she separates pasty skin from shiny black, the area in question shows to have been treated already, though it's in clear need of getting touched up. Not easy treating wounds like this on her own, after all.
"These things can be had for less than two-fifty, what the hell are you stringing up an heirloom for? I'd be more worried about damage to the finish from that wire you had it hooked up to, Boyscout."
One snaps the top of his bag open and starts pulling out supplies. A stethescope. A bottle of alcohol, some distilled water, and two disposable cups, which he fills with a bit of each. A few basic tools, which he drops in the alcohol to sterilize them. Sealed plastic packages full of bandages make an appearance. The works.
"I won't question your GSW if you don't question my methods," he offers. "Now hold still. You're lucky it passed through."
Clincally detatched, he takes in his patient's pale skin and studies her injuries thoroughly. He cleans them at the same time; first with water, then with alcohol. After his initial exam, he presses and prods the area surrounding the wound while he listens to her heart and lungs through his stethoscope. "I'll be damned," he mutters. "Center mass, but it didn't hit any of your vitals. You really are lucky."
There's a sound reason for Domino's detached state of mind, having already rounded up some of her own stash of pills before making the trip out here then downing a few to coast through the waiting game in a state of partial awareness. Some things she'll suffer through and be done with it. This one..? It kinda hurt. It's the kind of hurt that gets further irritated regardless of what she happens to be doing at any given moment, like breathing. Frankly, she's not a fan.
"I don't see reason to question your methods, only your security measures." Hah, yeah. Real lucky. If she had been facing it at the time she probably wouldn't have gotten shot at all! It's a frustrating thing to be reminded of. Pay better attention, girl. If the rookie gets gunned down, it's not on your shoulders.
Except..that it would be. As you work she sits there and keeps most of her thoughts to herself, remaining mostly still and relaxed. Good pain killers, whatever she's on. They can't cover for everything, however. Some of that prodding does gather a wince from her. "He was somewhat distracted at the time." Sure, because that's the only thing that kept it from being a killshot. "So, how's business?"
Despite the relatively normal ambient temperature, One has started sweating. He pauses to pull a towel and a second bottle of water from his bag. After dabbing his brow, he cracks the bottle open and downs it as if he hasn't had a drink in days. Once it's empty, he tosses it aside and gets back to work.
A second set of gloves is donned, right on top of the first, then he picks up a hypodermic needle and loads it from a small bottle that's labled 'MORPHIUM'. "People buy guns," he says, tapping the air from the tube and then squirting out a thin stream of liquid as he sets the plunger. "They shoot each other. I enjoy a certain level of job security. And I make housecalls, just so you know. Okay, you're about to feel a little prick. Try not to clench up." He smiles, but it's a joyless, thin-lipped expression.
The distraction which interrupts your work is enough to pull Dom back into a semi-coherent state, her eyes slitting open enough that she can watch you tend to yourself for a time. "Don't treat a lot of women?" she asks in a teasing manner. A bullet wound shouldn't be anything new for someone like you. What, then, would have you so worked up?
"I'll keep that in mind for next time. Keep me alive and there's bound to be a lot more business for you in the future." The words are spoken through a mental fog that keeps threatening to consume her, for once choosing to follow the words of the grapevine in being able to trust you with your work. That, and she forgot that these are the pills which you really don't want to take with alcohol. Whoopsie. "Little to start..lot to finish. Do what you need to." What's one needle after having a hole bored through her ribs?
One thinks about the question for a moment, then purses his mouth thoughtfully. "No," he replies. "I guess I don't. But don't flatter yourself. I have a metabolic condition."
Before she can delve any deeper, he sticks the needle in his patient's arm and depresses the plunger. "That's going to act fast," he warns her. "And it'll last a while. I hope you don't have anywhere to be."
He's efficient, that's for sure. He already has a suture kit open and a needle threaded. "I'm going to stitch you front and back, bandage you, and give you another injection when we're done. Plus some antibiotics to take with you. Follow the instructions." The final stitch for the entry wound is tied off just as he finishes his explaination. "Turn over."
"That's a real shame," Domino replies in a sleepy sounding voice. Whether she's referring to your condition or that you don't see a lot of women in your line of work is left unspecified.
Yeah, so, needles still suck, and getting injected with things doesn't sit so well with her, either. The alternative kind of stinks in this situation, so she puts up with it. "I'm sure my next crazy bender can be put off a few more hours." It's hard to tell if she's joking or not, there isn't much energy left in her words.
The next handful of minutes pass in a peculiar delusion, somewhere between daydream and nightmare. She can feel the pain, she can feel the thread working through her skin as it brings the wound closed, but her mind and body are too disconnected to comprehend. She knows the feeling as she knows it should hurt, her thoughts instead interpreting it all through a chaotic collision of shapes and colors. Reality isn't so much as a distant memory anymore, to her it may as well have never existed from the start. That 'turn over' seems to echo down a long, dull grey corridor, drifting off into directions only M.C. Escher would be able to visualize. Domino turns over, though she doesn't remember ever moving.
"Not all the way. Stay on your side. And get used to it, because you'll be sleeping like that for a while." One checks the woman's pulse, listens to her heart and lungs again, then gets to work on the exit wound. By definition, it takes more time and is a bit messier than the entry point.
Though bedside manner isn't his speciality, he glances up and makes eye contact. "Hey," he says, raising his accented voice to cut through the drug-induced haze. "Stay with me. I don't want you conking out right now. Talk to me."
The next sound out of the merc is nothing more than a low groan, not in the 'that hurts' way so much as the 'I want to rest' way. Lots of drinking, lots of self-medicating, lots of strenuous activity, and not enough sleep have taken a toll on her stamina of late. "I'm still here..." It doesn't sound like it. "Don't wanna ..flinch while you're working on this one, One. Tad too close to the ticker thinger." Pause. "God, this shit's fantastic. I can see my own color."
A moment later and she's got her eyes open, only a little but enough to look back at you with a hazy grin. "There's probably a stupid Bon Jovi reference that can be made somewhere here, but the bastard got what he had coming. Nothing like a rocket up the left nostril to cleanse the spirit."
"Not to mention the sinuses," One quips. He ties off the final stitch, snips his thread, and sets his tools aside in favor of some antibiotic ointment. Once the exit wound is slathered up, he places a square of gauze over it and tapes it in place.
There's another pause as he retrieves and downs a second bottle of water, only slightly slower than the first. Then the entry wound is patched over with more ointment, gauze, and tape. "All done," he says. "But you're not going anywhere for a few hours, and I want you to stay awake for at least a few more minutes. Deal?"
Domino starts to chuckle at the thought of a guy with an RPG lodged in his nose, "Maybe I should market this as a one-time treatment for allergies. End your snoring, ask me how. Don't..mind me, I am so fucked up. Been one of those weeks, you know? I've actually had to ..turn -down- a fight... That's not right..!" Still might have been worth it if she could have gotten someone new interested in the merc business, darnit.
"Y'okay, Doc. Think I can give you a few of those minutes, but don't try to keep me up past bedtime." One hand blindly reaches for the spot where her phone usually lurks, finding nothing but bare skin there now. It takes her a moment, patting around the area with a frown. "The fuck..? Oh right, ugh. 'Kay, next time we do this I won't be supplementing your cocktail with my own. These two..they play a little -too- well together..."
Now that he's finished with his patient, One places all the soiled disposables into a bag along with his gloves, seals it, and tosses it into a trash can. Then he stands, unfolding himself a bit gingergly after having been crouched next to the couch for so long.
The only concession he makes to modesty is to turn his back as he strips off his shirt. Underneath, his torso is a mess of scrapes and bruises. He uses what he already has laid out to clean his own wounds. There isn't so much as a hiss or a wince as he wipes himself down with alcohol. When he encounters a bit of gravel stuck in at the small of his back, he frowns, plucks it out, and jams a finger in the hole to staunch any bleeding. "I normally don't advocate self-medication, but I can refill your stash for you if you'd like. For a small additional fee, of course."
Just..keep your eyes open, Domino. That's how you stay awake, find something out in the world and focus on it. Something like you pulling gravel out of your back, the image slowly pushing that drugged mind back into a state of operation. "The hell happened to you, Doc..? Were you putting that off just to work on me?" Perhaps that high praise of your abilities is valid, after all. Either that or you were desperate enough for the money to put off your own injuries long enough to tend to something which would get you paid. Either way, she's rather surprised to discover this. "Hey, it's worth the additional fee."
"I take my work very seriously," One replies. "And you were in far worse condition than I am."
Somewhat awkwardly, he leans down to snag an adhesive bandage and open it one-handed. Quickly, he swaps his finger-plug out for the bandage. Then, one by one, he patches up the rest of his cuts. They're minor, but there's a great deal of them. His back looks as if it got a good ten-foot drag across some pavement. His chest and belly are covered with a single, enormous bruise that's already darkened to an angry purple. He glances down at it thoughtfully. "I won a fight," he finally explains. "Though it certainly doesn't look like it."
"Ah heck, I woulda been fine, Doc," Domino counters. Or tries to, anyway.
"If that's you winning a fight, I'd love to see the other guy. Looks more like you got hit by a car to me. I know the signs... Seen it happen." Grinning slightly, she adds "Made it happen. Though hey, if someone's giving you trouble then you know who you can call, I'll right the wrongs in your world. You stitch my back, I'll cover yours." And pay for it, naturally.
"Hey. I think my few minutes are about up."
"If you think I need help defending myself, you're welcome to test that assumption at your convenience." Rather than a threat, One's tone turns his statement into a friendly jab. "I'm satisfied. No spotting on your bandages. Your stitches are holding well. Of course they are, I put them there."
Another stoop, this time to retrieve a heavy-duty wrap that he winds around his ribs. "I'll keep an eye on you for tonight. Get some rest. You're going to need it. Come tomorrow morning, you're on your own."
All Dom can manage is to bring one hand around and stick one thumb up toward the ceiling, holding it there for a generous half a second before her arm falls across her side like a dead weight. Message received. For now: Naptime. With some very, very screwed up dreams.
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