Terrelle

*Name:* Terrelle Grüneherz
(He doesn't seem to mind being called “Terry”.)

*Class:* Medic.

*Station:* His Team is quite nomadic, and they typically deal with payloads. He's spent a fair amount of time pushing carts in Frontier, Hightower, Thundermountain, and Badwater, with a few other frequented but not-as-familiar locations.

*Gender:* Male.

*Sexuality:* Aro-Ace.

*Age:* Just about 56.

*General Appearance:*

Although it doesn't *exactly* seem all too soon, Terrelle's untamable and generous head of hair boasts a hue of sterling-gray that would be better fitting of someone just a touch older. (According to him, it started going pale in his forties. So it *was* too soon, simply for the record. He would've liked to blame the interns, but they actually weren't all that bad at the clinic.) His eyes are a rather wintry shade of blue, and they don't look half bad paired with the blues of his uniforms, if he does say so himself.
Upon the topic of wardrobe, aside from the standard BLU-issued lab-coat, Terrelle insists upon a rather dated sense of fashion, preferring waistcoats and cravats over shoulder-pads and ties, along with the occasional wide-brimmed hat. (He's claimed once or twice that he is in the possession of a top-hat that came from the Victorian era, but there's yet to be proof of such.) It does seem, however, that he thoroughly enjoys scarves- whether they be vintage or modern- even the doldrums of summer. As of now, his favorite one is a handsomely-knit thing of mingling greens and golds that just *nearly* reaches his middle.
When it comes to battle, Terrelle dons a nearly ridiculous number of satchels and packs, each containing an assortment of objects and tools that he, at one point, had deemed entirely necessary to lug around. Light armor protects the upper half of his body, as well as a portion of his lower legs. (Mobility seems to be at the forefront of his thoughts in such terms.)

*Personality:*

He's an amiable goof and a relentless optimist, with plenty of idiosyncrasies and a terrible habit of being clumsy. (He's lost track of how many times he's been sent back through the respawn-machine.) Chatter comes easily to him- whether it be with another Merc, or himself, or, most typically, some animal or another, despite how one-sided those conversations might seem. In said conversations, he tends to talk with his hands just as much as he does his mouth; his gestures and flourishes seem to be as much apart of his vocabulary as anything else. Despite how whimsical he can get at times, there's the odd little glint of wisdom that likes to dig itself into his words at random- whether it be through some snippet of advice, or an off-beat observation.
In terms of activities and duty, he just doesn't seem to get bored, and appears to be perpetually whistling- show tunes, folk songs, radio ballads- you name it. Due in part to how easily entertained Terrelle can be, he can be awfully childish… he has learned, however, when to take things seriously, and his demeanor can turn on a dime when things require serious focus.
In other miscellaneous habits and traits, Terrelle either can't sit still, or he'll be as close to a statue as possible… it depends on the day, he supposes. He often wrings his hands when they don't have something in them, and tends to pace if he's lost in thought. He's a very nature-loving fellow in general, but he does have his favorites: pigeons, for example. And geese. (And he can't seem to get enough of the smell of pine trees.) Despite being less than hip in fashion, he's rather up-to-date with books and films, and loves to quote such things at rather inopportune moments.
>>

Now… upon the topic of his job as a Medic.... Terrelle isn't quite sure what to think of the transition from a small-town veterinarian to a mercenary with equal parts blood and dust on his boots. (Which, of course, will be explained shortly.) To be honest, he's not a fighter. He never has been, and it would be a terribly bleak assumption to assume that he'll *ever* be one. He's far too clement to take any satisfaction in wielding an Übersaw, although, when push comes to shove *(hah, get it, because of Payload-)*, he seems to be able to hold his own. But at the end of the day, he just… refuses to kill. It's almost as though he physically *can't.* Even if the foe in question would respawn a few minutes after their fall, there's just something blocking him from dealing any sort of final blow. He signed up out of desperation, not bloodlust, and he just can't deal with the idea of a list of snuffed candles hanging over his head.

*Bit O’ History:* Back in the summer of 1968- that fateful time of recruitment for oh-so-many RED and BLU mercenaries- Terrelle found himself in a bit of a pinch. You see, up until around that point, he had harbored a relatively stable income. He had been a fine veterinary surgeon; skilled as far as skill went, *extremely* invested in his labors, and had even managed to have an award credited to his name for a bit of innovative research, a good number of years back.
As far as his clinic's popularity went, ‘renowned’ would have been an *excellent* description. Perhaps not the fanciest. And perhaps not the *very* best. But it was certainly safe to say that he was well-taken as far as the patients (and their counterparts) went. Entirely sociable with the humans, entirely gentle with the creatures. Each ailment was treated to the fullest; each operation, successful or not, made an enthusiastic endeavor.
He wouldn't have had it any other way.
He was satisfied with his niche in life. *Beyond* satisfied. It was… close to perfect, was it not? His interests and curiosities and passions all furled up into one neatly-wrapped little corner of the world- and to be able to make a *living* off of such a thing? An absolute dream.
Thus, with all being said, there wasn't a single desire nor a flying, *fleeting* fancy to trade his own for the rough-and-tumble makings of a mercenary.
But alas.

As is the way of life.... Every so often, some twinkling icicle must fall and shatter. Every so often, some seashell must crack as it's tossed upon the shore. Every so often, some splendid tree must be blasted asunder by some rip of lightning.
It's every so often that something terrible has to happen.
And every so often, a good man's name must be tainted gray. *Someone,* harmless and happy, has to be blamed for something they simply did not do.
It began with a mutter. Some rumbling just below the whistle of the kettle in the break-room. A rumor had been spotted- by chance, really, in one of the back pages of the local newspaper. (Rare was the occasion that Terrelle would read the paper… unless, of course, he was craving the Sunday comics. This actually *had* been one such occasion, and, as was marked by his disappointment, it had been a comic-less issue.)

“Grüneherz Veterinary Hospital a Potential Tie to Black Market Affront,” the two-hundred-and-something-count article had declared, tucked swift between the latest Mann Co. advertisement and some promotional caricature of the local handyman.

*”A number of crates of exotic viscera- including, but not limited to, fossa stomachs, kinkajou tongues, and baboon hearts- were allegedly reported to have been delivered and distributed on-site, with credit to an anonymous witness….”*

The rest of the unsettlingly curt report went on to describe that the dealing had, apparently, taken place the spring previous, and that no direct accusations could be made at the time.
But it had been enough to send tongues (of the *human* sort) a-wagging.
The following week was full of strangers’ prodding questions. Not-so-subtle insults and degrading assumptions. Fax machines being unplugged, windows being closed, shifts ending early simply for the fear of being caught walking home alone by one of the opinionated, tape-recorder wielding journalists that began to circle the clinic- almost *literally*- like half-starved mongrels.
And then came the false reports.
They were... almost amusingly inaccurate. Just about every other line held some contradictory statement or near-ludicrous train of “logic” that could've been spluttered out by a half-distracted seven-year old. And even if they *had* been true…? What could have *possibly* constituted the events that followed? What *evidence* did they have? What sort of madness was at the helm of their district?
And the headlines. Good gracious, the headlines….

*Veterinary Nurse Steps Forward with Shocking Confession: Exotic Animals are 'WELCOMED’ into Grüneherz!*

*Grüneherz Employee Found Guilty of Owning Fur-Lined Coat!* (Right beside a taxidermist's ad, of course.)

*Former Grüneherz Frequenter Demands Refund for Kitten Vaccinations: “I Don't Deal With the Dubious!”*

*DNA Evidence Positive: Baboon Footprints Outside of Grüneherz Clinic a MATCH!* (He had no words for that one.)

*Dr. Grüneherz Seen Reading a Copy of Gray's Anatomy Upside-Down!* (...Nor that one. He didn't even know where to *start* with that one.)
Naturally, Terrelle was called to court for questioning and, apparently, as he learned moments before testifying, to defend his Clinic from a complete ‘wipe and replacement of staff’, to quote the mayor directly.
With hardly anyone (outside of the clinic) left on *his* side- and no possible way to “provide evidence able to deny the *previous* evidence against your sorry hides”, as another direct statement, the case was lost well-before he was called to the stand.

Consequently, it wasn't long before Grüneherz Veterinary Hospital was forced to re-dub itself with some quaint, generic title. And it took even less for Terrelle to be blasted away from his position, far away from that old, familiar life, and into something new. Something… jarring, to say the least.
Where… where could he *possibly* work that wasn't a dozen-and-a-hundred miles away from his home? His name was now all but a punchline to the townsfolk he once held dear... he'd be lucky to earn a couple of dollars sweeping a porch, much *less* to actually land himself some sort of paid job.
He was optionless. And the hole in his wallet was only growing larger as the days grew hotter- he had a flock of pigeons to feed. Bills to pay. Things to maintain. His *own* necessities, on top of all of that.
It was more of a last-ditch effort than anything when he snatched that Blutarch Mann propaganda flier off his neighbor's front door.
However… as it is, *something* was certainly better than *nothing*.
Some old spark of optimism flared up when he handed in his… ah, slightly less-than-truthful application to Builders’ League United. (Honestly, could there be *that* much difference in stitching up something on a human than on a beast? In the end, wasn't a broken leg just a broken leg? A painkiller just a painkiller? Wasn't paperwork just paperwork? Wasn't… wasn't a job just a job? Oh, high heavens, how desperate he was.)
On the day that he officially traded his stethoscope for a Medi-Gun, Terrelle was ecstatic.

Full of hope. Full of vigor. Full of… dare he say… excitement?
But… most *importantly*... his paycheck was full of zeros that came *after* a different number.
Thus, we come to where Terrelle stands in the present.

*Strengths:* His official doctorates lie within avian medicine and veterinary clinical studies, but thanks to a number of very loose laws regarding his profession, he's also certified to operate upon feline and canine patients. (And despite his lack of degrees in that area, he was a perfectly suitable surgeon for most jobs. Y'know. TF2 logic.) Way back home, he has quite the garden- he's always had a bit of a green thumb, although a lotta good that'll do him *here*.
Terrelle is surprisingly agile for his age, and although he's certainly no Scout, there's something to be said about how swift his ducks and dodges have become.(edited)

*Weaknesses:*
He couldn't tell you a *thing* about how the Medi-Gun works. He just knows that whatever it cannot heal can *probably* be stitched or glued back together with a bit of grit n’ spit n’ duct-tape.
But in all seriousness, he honestly doesn't know how to deal with uniquely-human medical problems, and in the case that his issued tools fall short of a solution, he won't be of much help at all…. That being said, he hates to improvise when it comes to dealing with the life of another, and often skips past possible answers if they seem *too* risky. (Unless, of course, there are no other options available.) And all of *THAT* being said leads us to one of our final, afore-mentioned, perhaps most situationally-unfitting aspects: Despite participating in a honest-to-goodness war, Terrelle finds it impossible to kill. He'd rather perish himself. It often leaves him fleeing wherein he *should've* been fighting. Mental stuff aside, Terrelle, physically, is not the strongest man on the block, but that doesn't entail being scrawny. He just has some stiff joints from time to time. (It honestly doesn't help all that much when he brings just about *EVERYTHING* to the battlefield, from his clipboards to his bandages to his extra pair of socks, because *you never know.*... In the end, he'd rather deal with a sore back than a defeat *just* because he forgot to bring that *one* thing that could've possibly done some good. (There's… never really been a situation of such circumstance, but you go ahead and try to tell him that it it'll never happen.)(edited)

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