9 o'clock Notes(OPEN) ((Leader Office))

Old threads from the RED base.

9 o'clock Notes(OPEN) ((Leader Office))

Postby Connal Reid » Sun Jul 29, 2012 5:50 pm

« Thread Started on Jul 18, 2011, 6:41pm »


Tom Cucinotta wrote:Sharp on time, as always. As he had dictated in his notice to the laughable members of his own Team, the Medic sat expectantly at his desk, a Medical book open, and his gloved hands clasped over each other. It would be like any other day, wouldn’t it? No one would show up. And he’d seen the numbers that were going to BLU. He figured that he would have to call the Announcer about it later today. Yes, that would be best, wouldn’t it? He could find out why on earth there were so few coming to his team. An unknown mystery that he hoped to solve. Tom simply had to know-if he didn’t, he would go mad. And as a Leader, the last thing he needed was to set a bad example for the two… no, the one, that had shown up. There was only one. He didn’t consider that joke of a beast, that inhuman.. whatever it was, to be a member of his team. Hopefully it would simply get shot and die, and he wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.

Sighing softly, the salt-and-pepper haired man leaned forward, one hand going to rub at his weary face. He had one other teammate. A Spy. And the other team, well… they had a handful. He wasn’t sure exactly how many, but he’d seen them trickle in. Perhaps when he called the Announcer, he could inquire about that. Yes; that would be good.
Looking around in a rather bored fashion, the older man flipped a page in his medical book, glancing down at the diagram of the major muscles in the human body. As much as he loved studying and learning medicine, he found himself getting tired of it. Maybe it was time to change things up a bit, he thought. Standing from his desk, the Medic went to the door behind him and took a key from around his neck, popping it into the lock at the door. Thus with a click, the Medic went into his Private Quarters, which was neat and rather.. sterile looking. A neat bed with white sheets and a single pillow, and a dresser with nothing on it. There was a wardrobe as well, but Tom neglected that in favor of a large case sitting on the ground. Picking it up by its’ handle, he moved back out into his office, clicking the door to his room shut, and then checking to see if it locked itself-which it had. He didn’t need anyone going in there.

Putting the case –which was about 4 feet long by 2 feet-down on his desk. Clicking it open, he moved to pull out.. a small, wooden Violin. Delicately he placed the treasure on his desk, and then removed his close, letting them rest over the arm rest of his chair. Lovingly he picked up the small instrument, and ran his fingers over it, plucking at the strings with a Surgeon’s gentle touch. It had thankfully not been damaged on the way here. Going back to the case, he flipped through a few musical sheets, before pulling out one. Vivaldi- Winter. Modified for the Violin, anyways. A lovely piece by a fellow Italian-even if he was long dead. Taking the sheet, he moved to put it on a small stand on his desk, and then sat back down in his chair, moving back a bit to give himself room. The man then picked up his violin, putting the instrument’s rest under his chin, the bottom of the violin following soon after. Picking up his bow, he placed it against the strings, his left hand resting near the bottom. He adjusted himself accordingly, glancing up at the sheet of music, taking note of the first few sounds he was to play. Light, and sharp. Right.

Tom began to play, practicing the first few notes gently-and then again, harsher, and bolder. They were simple sounds, which the Medic was very appreciative of. Sharp and quick, repeating, and then-a fast tune, and a hum. He notably flinched as he messed up, and stopped. He then tried again, patient, repeating the second until he got it right, listening for any imperfections. Then he moved on, again and again, until he was playing longer sections, his fingers tuned to the slightest twitch needed. He seemed to become fully absorbed then, in playing this music, the sounds of the violin going underneath the door to his office, and out into the hallways, for anyone that passed by to listen to.


Anton Markovic wrote:Anton walked through the base, trying to learn every floor and match it with the blueprints he had been given before his arrival. He was glad he was able to change out of that stuffy posh suit and back into his normal black t-shirt and jeans and his worn-out trainers. He kept the mask on, though, he didn't particularly want to go about advertising the fact that he was a gang (ex-gang? he wondered) member to everyone around, nor show off the rather conspicuous scar marring his throat.

He walked quietly down the halls, scanning the walls for any bit of information he could. He needed to know every nook and cranny of the base: weak spots, hidden entrances and exits, hiding places, air vents, storage, everything. Information was vital for survival, almost as important as unity and numbers.

At the mention of unity, his thoughts turned to the rather violent encounter between his two other teammates. Only two other people, against who knows how many on the other side, and they were fighting. And this was no quick scuffle. He had seen those eyes before. Eyes filled with hatred and pride, the kind of eyes that belonged to people that wouldn’t back down until they had won. They were the kind of eyes that broke gangs apart, dividing them into sides, tearing them to shreds from the inside out and leaving them to be wiped out while they were weak and alone. If the two of them could not resolve this before the so-called ceasefire ended, they will have lost before they even got out the door. They are powerless alone.

He wandered into the area the map held within his bony hands stated was the hallway outside their Leader's office. He came to a halt in front of the door, wondering if he should bother entering. The base was empty, and Anton found himself growing restless and nervous without the presence of others. But the short older man seemed to dislike the company of others and would probably not welcome him if he tried to enter. He had no idea where the ‘Sniper’ went, and he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to find him...it, much be alone with him for an extended period of time.

Anton was about to continue on when he heard music coming from within. It sounded like some sort of string instrument, though he could not tell which one. He wondered if there was a record player or something inside. He silently opened the door and strode inside, immediately picking out possible escape routes and potential weapons around the office. The music was louder now, no longer muffled by the door, drifting out from a room situated on the far side of office. It was obvious now that it wasn’t some old recording, but someone actually playing an instrument in the back room. Shutting the door quietly behind him, Anton walked towards the source of the music.
He stopped in the doorway, leaning up against the frame as he observed the medic play what seemed to be a violin (he never really cared much about instruments). He watched for a while, picking out different movements, brief expressions that flitted over the man’s face as he played, the strength in the arms as they slid the bow across the strings.
After a few moments, he reached into the pocket of his tattered jeans, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. It probably wasn’t the best place to smoke, especially if he wanted to continue to go unnoticed, but damn if he didn’t need a fag right then. He quickly lit it and just as quickly placed it to his lips, taking a deep breath and filling his lungs with the toxic smoke, before blowing it back out, watching as the fumes dispersed throughout the room, filling it with the smell of tar and nicotine.


Tom Cucinotta wrote:Tom’s bright eyes were lowered as he played, watching his fingers. He didn’t need to, really; he knew where all the strings were. It was simply out of habit. And a chance to occasionally glance to the musical sheet in front of him. Though, after a while he began to play without needing it. Enough practice had helped him pick up things quickly. He wouldn’t be good at this if he wasn’t able to learn and adapt when needed-and in a timely matter, of course. Deep in concentration, the leader of RED continued to play-sharp, cold notes coming from his violin. And as he got further into the piece, he seemed to become more excited, moving his head and shoulders along as he played, a muffled sort of passion for the music and playing bubbling up. Blue eyes flickered up when the door opened, though he made no other movement to acknowledge the other man. He would in time, however. But for now… The music became excited, playing loudly and quickly, in a tune that was rather peppy. And then it faded into one, long, drawn out note, as Tom slid the bow across the strips, letting the music fade out.

And then he stopped, holding his violin carefully, and watching the other man-A spy, clearly-pull out a cigarette to start smoking. He stared for a few moments, and then moved to stand, placing his instrument down on his desk. “May I help you with something?” He began, his voice thickly accented, and deep. “.. Anton is your name, is it not? Please-come and sit.” The Medic added, motioning to the chair closest to the other RED, on the other side of his desk. He moved to slide his violin in it’s case, gentle and worrisome as always about his precious instrument. That, and he figured the Spy had come here for something, after all. Or perhaps not. Maybe he was simply lonely in this old, abandoned base? Tom could not blame him. But… such emotions.. well, it was a cease fire. It was acceptable.
Moving to sit back at his desk, the smaller RED leaned forward a bit, his hands folded on top of each other neatly. Quite a change from the screaming, fighting man from before. He was more… composed.


Anton Markovic wrote:Anton took another drag as the short man finished the piece that he was playing. He considered leaving right then, remaining would mean having to talk, to interact, and frankly he had the social skills of a potato. But leaving would mean going back out into the eerie silence of the base, and that was even worse than anything he might have to go through here.

He watched carefully as the man put down his violin on the desk, ready to duck out if the man looked like he would turn violent. He didn't budge when the man's eyes fell on him. He stared dispassionately back, watching the man watch him. When he moved to stand, Anton wondered if he was going to be thrown out. It was obvious now he knew he was there while he was playing, and he hadn't kicked him out then, but you never know, he might just've not wanted to interrupt the piece.

He relaxed a bit when the man addressed him, the talking wasn’t good, but at least he seemed much more calm and composed than before, and more likely to let him stay.


He shrugged in response to the questions. He knew it wasn't really an answer to either of them, but didn't really have a reason to be here, and he’d much rather give a vague answer than admit that he came in only to be around another person. He just ignored the one about his name; it was probably just out of politeness and wouldn’t warrant an actual response.

He eyed the chair for a second, unsure about how to proceed. If he sat down now, there would be no escaping conversing. But before he could think much about leaving, another image of the quiet base flitted through his mind and, after another second of hesitation, he sat down.


Tom Cucinotta wrote:Tom blinked, and the corner of his mouth twitched down for a moment. A shrug as an answer? But, he thought a bit more. This man could not speak, could he? It was no wonder then. Breathing out, he moved to lean back in his chair, on leg crossed over the other, and rested his hands on the armrests on either side of his chair. His mouth was a firm line, and his bright eyes watched as the Spy took a moment before deciding to sit down. “No questions then, si?” He spoke, one hand coming up to his face, the index knuckle pressing against his cheek. Then a faint smile appeared on his lips, and Tom lifted his arm, his fingers spread in an open gesture. “I see. You must have just been worried about the lack of teammates going about. It is understandable. It is only you and me at this point.” Making various movements with his hand as he spoke, Tom glanced down at his medical book, flipping a page idly as he thought.

“It is only you and me, signore spia. And,” He paused for a moment, raising a hand as if to quiet the other man. “It IS just us. There are no other teammates here yet. I have not received the papers for any other members of RED.” Lowering his hand, he began to drum his fingers against his wooden desk, still playing the tune of the song from his musical sheets.


Anton Markovic wrote:Anton was mildly amused as the man in front of him carried on a conversation all on his own. He was very animated while he talked; just watching him move was interesting enough. He had wondered why, when they were in the middle of some inter-company war, there were so few people around, but it was obvious that the older man was projecting and venting his own worries at him. It was funny how often people seemed to do that to him, but it's not like he could complain, it usually led to some very interesting information and he wouldn't need to say a word.

He quirked his eyebrow at the omission of the other teammate. Sure, it was a freak, he wasn't even really sure what it was, but even though it was defiantly the weirdest looking thing he had ever seen, at least it's personality(or what little he had seen of it) was pretty normal, and they needed as many people as they could get. But if that's how the leader saw it, then who was he to argue?

Anton started at the word 'papers'. They had files on them? How? He remembered briefly the résumé he had sent in, maybe that was it? Or maybe medical files? He hoped not, he hated people knowing how weak he was at the moment. Or was there something else? He remembered a brief history check during the registration process, would that have been included? How far back would they have gone? The last thing he needed was for anyone to find out his history, he had spent so much time covering his tracks, and with his body in the state it was now, he could not afford to be outed now. He had to ask. Shit.

"Papers?" he ground out, wincing at his voice. It sounded like the grinding of a motor that had not been oiled in years, and felt like he was trying to swallow gravel. He rubbed his throat through the balaclava, looking questioningly at the man in front of him, who was now idly drumming his figures on the desk. He hoped he would not have to repeat himself. One word was enough to remind him why he so rarely spoke.


Tom Cucinotta wrote:There was a pause, and a small, cruel smile as Tom heard the other’s voice. “Excuse me?” He said, a smug look on his face. Oh, yes, he knew. He knew the other could not speak properly. He knew a lot about the Spy, and was hot hesitant to show that off. “.. Yes, papers.” He finally added, appearing to have heard the other RED the first time. “HQ sends us.. a rather thick folder on all of our teammates. Medical, Historical.. Personality and Psychoanalysis, along with other things.” Stopping for a moment, the Medic’s lips curled again, and he leaned forward, his hands folded.

“Tell me, signore Anton. Your heroin addiction has not resurfaced, has it?” Tom had a hand full of cards, each card being one of the other man’s secrets. And he was proud enough to show them off, to show the power by which he had been given. “If it has, and I find out, well.. I’m afraid that puts me in a position where I’ll have to keep you isolated to detox. But that won’t happen, now will it?”
His voice was low now, a near purr. Clearly this man liked to remember that he was in charge, and that his teammates were not simply that, but rather his subordinates. Moving to get out of his chair, Tom lightly walked around his desk, moving behind the Spy, and placing his large hands on the other’s thin shoulders. “… As long as you do your job, and do it well, everything will be fine, signore. I have confidence in you and your abilities, Anton. And I hope, I honestly do, that you will not disappoint me. Because we cannot have that.” Staying still for a moment, as if to intimidate the Spy, Tom waited. And then he released the other’s shoulders from his grasp, moving back over to his desk, and sitting on his chair, seated like a man of power.


Anton Markovic wrote:Anton’s heart dropped when it seemed like the man would make him repeat himself. He knew those games, and he would not play them.

He relaxed a bit when he continued on without prying; only for it to drop again as he listed the information they had on them. He knew that smile, he had seen it so many times, right before someone got the crap kick out of them or their life ruined. The smile of a predator playing with his prey before going in for the kill.

Anton’s blood ran cold when he mentioned the heroin addiction. He kept a straight face, but he couldn’t stop the way his muscles tensed at its mention. Why did-? How did they-? It doesn’t matter. He relaxed himself. They had hired him, so they obviously didn’t care about his past. They’ve got nothing on him that he couldn’t take. He’d been clean for months, and was planning on staying that way. And he wasn’t afraid of the blue brick either, he’d been in before, would probably be in there again, and they had nothing on him that could result in a serious sentence. He was not intimidated by the threats. But he now could see what kind of leader this person was.

He knew this type, and he knew that the best option right now would be to duck his head down and be a good little follower. He nodded his head slowly, keeping his eyes down on the ground in front on him and rubbing his shoulders where Tom had gripped them. Submission. He would be a good subordinate, follow orders when they were given, duck his head and pay his dues. It’s what he’d been doing his entire life. It’ll be just like old times, he thought. Just like old times.


Tom Cucinotta wrote:Eying the other’s nod, Tom remained silent for a few moments, and then make a small noise of approval. “.. To be honest, Signore. I do these things for you, not for my own entertainment.” Looking off to the side, the man held his hand up, and then pointed upwards. “I do this, because there is someone above me. Someone, who if they find out you are not doing your job, will do things worse to you then I could ever even imagine doing. I keep you in line for your own safety.” His expression softened then, and he ran a hand through his short hair. “Understand, Signore. I am not a cruel man. I have my reasons for the things I do. Although I do not always explain them. But they are there. I am not needless, or reasonless in my actions. I simply try to keep things as professional as possible. Lord only knows we don’t need anything more difficult than they already are.” He trailed on, waving his hand lightly, and then leaning back in his chair.
“I am a man of honor, and respect. I believe without those things, and without dignity, we are simply mindless, screaming children. Signore Anton, I will not treat you like filth. I will not spit at you. I will not abuse you for the simple sake of my own amusement. The only time I do these things are when you have shown to me that you deserve to be treated that way. Do not disappoint me, and you will be treated cordially.” There was a pause, and then Tom smiled, his blue eyes lidded. “And if you exceed my expectations, instead of simply meeting them, you will find yourself in a very good place. I assure you. I am a man of my word. Capirmi?”


Anton Markovic wrote:Anton listened silently as the other tried to rationalize his actions. He did not need to defend himself in front of him, he would follow a raving lunatic if it got the job done. But the man in front of him somehow felt the need to explain his motives. No matter how he tried to rationalise and convince both himself and Anton of his good intentions, though, he had seen that smile. That small smug smirk of superiority that crept over his face when he thought he had complete control over him. That cruel little twist when he held those powerful little cards in his hands. He could see a bit of the real Tom in that moment.

He wondered briefly who could be orchestrating all of this. Judging be the amount of information they had gathered on him, a mercinary grunt, this fight was either extremly important, or his employers were insanly powerful. He was leaning towards the latter. He knew so little about this mysterious RED company.

His thoughts turned back to Tom. He almost snorted. Honor? Respect? Honor did not exist, especially not in the battle feild, and respect had to be earned over many trails. But still, even attempting to be a decent person was good. Leaders did not last long without respecting their subordinates, at least a little. He could earn that respect. He looked up at the man's face. He was smiling a much softer smile right now, his blue eyes looking at him expectantly. He nodded, a bit sharper and faster than his first one, straightening his back a bit in the chair.


Tom Cucinotta wrote:The nod in return made Tom smile a bit. Leaning down and to the side, he opened a drawer, and then pulled out a notepad and pen. “I believe you may need this.” Pushing these things toward the other man as he spoke, Tom leaned back in his chair, fingering his Violin carefully. “Are you sure there are no questions you want to ask me?” He mused, plucking at the strings gently. “… I am a.. bit surprised. There is not as many people here as I had hoped for. BLU has been getting more recruits then us. I intend to call the Announcer about this. It’s just a mild concern, really.” Pausing, he looked back to the Spy, his mouth a firm line. “I apologize if I’m not very entertaining. It’s not my job to be. Not here, at least.” His tone was more relaxed now, and he seemed.. a bit nicer. If it could be called that. Perhaps he was just being polite again.


Anton Markovic wrote:The pad and pen hung there for a second before Anton reached out to take them. He was hesitant to write, his script was almost as bad as his speech. His education hadn't gone far before he dropped out, and his reading and writing was passable at best.

He listened to Tom once again explain his worries about the lack of people on base. He said it was just a mild concern, but he seemed more than a little unsettled, it was obviously an issue that was occupying his thoughts. Who was this 'Announcer' he was speaking about? Was that the person he was talking about when he said 'someone above'?

He shook his head when the man apologised. He did not come here to be entertained, nor did he expect his leader to stoop to that level. He thought a bit about any questions he had. Suddenly, a question had popped into his mind.

Quickly, in hasty, messy script he scribbled out on the pad:

'What's with that poncey ciggie case?' and flipped it around so the other man could read it.


Tom Cucinotta wrote:Taking the notepad in his hand, Tom read the line. Or he tried to. It took him a few readings to realize that what was written was intended. There was a pause, and then the man glanced up, frowning. “… Signore Anton, What are you talking about? Can you show me?” He was a bit confused by the language. Poncey ciggie case? Well, all Spies were given a cigarette case. It was their disguise kit. Blinking, the Medic raised a hand as if to silence the other RED, and thought for a moment. “.. You were given a cigarette case, yes? It was a bit.. funny looking, si? That.. that is your disguise kit, signore.” Another pause. “Were you not informed of it, nor taught how to use it?” His voice had an incredulous tone to it, as if he could not believe the other man.
“… Cristo. They’ve been skimping on training…” Sighing, he ran a hand over his face, looking down at the other’s handwriting with a deep frown. “.. I am not very.. familiar with the weapons of the other classes. I will do my best to assist you, nonetheless.”


Anton Markovic wrote:Wincing as Tom read and reread his scrawl, Anton wondered if it was his terrible writing or the slang that was tripping him up. Or maybe he just had no idea what he was talking about. His fear were confirmed when he asked for him to show him the object. He had not brought it with him, deeming it useless and tossing it in his duffle. He faltered for a second unsure about how describe it, when the man help up a hand to stop him, seeming to figure it out.

Disguise kit? He raised his eyebrow. No, he had not been informed of it. Was he supposed to have been? Was that odd thing really supposed to help disguise people? It seemed absurd. But then again, he also had a watch that turned him invisible.

He nodded in thanks when the man offered to help him. He was hesitant in owing people any favours, but this seemed like something he needed to know.


Tom Cucinotta wrote:Watching the other man’s expressions only proved Tom’s assumptions. He would have to speak to the Announcer about that, as well. He wasn’t going to be sent half-assed trained mercenaries. Moving to stand up, Tom left his desk and went around it, moving to stand by Anton, his arms crossed behind his back. “Do you have it with you? I can show you the basics of how to work it. I don’t know how it works, though. That.. field is better left to the Engineers. Funny, though, how they know more about the disguise kits’ inner workings then the Spies themselves.” A pause then, Tom lifting a hand. “Not to belittle you, of course. It is in the same sense how I doubt Scouts know how their guns work. They just know how to use them.”
Shrugging lightly, he moved to lean against his desk, thinking for a bit longer. “I.. I really don’t know how the disguise kits manage to do what they do. Essentially you just put on a paper mask, and the other team sees you as whatever you are disguised as. I don’t know what sort of science allows that to happen, but again, it is not my field.” Tom seemed a bit bothered that he didn’t know why it worked. And if what he was saying was true, then it honestly seemed more like magic then actual science. How the hell could a flimsy piece of paper turn make you look like someone else simply because they were on the other team? It didn’t make sense. And clearly it was troubling the Leader of RED.
Last edited by Connal Reid on Wed Aug 08, 2012 11:54 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Connal Reid - RED Pyro
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Re: 9 o'clock Notes(OPEN) ((Leader Office))

Postby Connal Reid » Sun Jul 29, 2012 6:01 pm

Anton Markovic wrote:He listened as the other man explained the use of the odd device. No he did not bring it, but at least now he had a vague idea of what he was supposed to be doing with it. He could easily figure it out from there. Of course, it wouldn't be of much use to him, his inability to speak would quickly oust him no matter how good the disguise.

He saw the troubled face of the man in front of him. The lack of explination and somewhat fantasctical nature of this tech, if he beleives what is being said, must rattle him a bit.

He gave a shrug, trying to say 'Well, what can you do?'

Anton felt that maybe he should be a little more offput by it, but since he had taken this job, weirder and weirder things keep popping up. He decided just to roll with it, he doubted this would be the last or the weirdest thing to happen to him.


Tom Cucinotta wrote:Nodding quietly at the shrug, the salt-and-pepper haired man moved to sit on the edge of his desk, arms folded over his chest. “Well, Anton.. if you do have any trouble with it, you can bring it to me, and I’ll try to help.” Pausing for a moment, the Medic glanced down, and then up again. “Signore, how was your chemotherapy?” There was a pause, and then Tom reached behind himself for the pen and paper again, holding it out as if to offer it to the Spy. “You have not had any problems since then, have you? No lumps, no extra irritations?” He crossed one leg over the other, and quietly flipped the pen through his fingers, toying with it absent mindedly. “I am just making sure. After all, I want you to be in your best shape for when fighting does start. Unfortunately since I am the only Medic at the moment, I will be the one doing examinations. Once another one comes, well, I’ll shift it off to them. I have enough things to worry about besides having to keep track of that. You understand, right?” A medical exam from this guy? That didn't sound pleasant..


Anton Markovic wrote: The question of the chemo made him tense again. He took the notepad and pen, staring down at them in his hands, unsure of what to say. How was it? Hell. Absolute hell. The weeks after hadn't been much better, even now, almost a month past, he still had trouble eating without spewing his guts everywhere. But that was normal, that was expected. He shook his head. No lumps, no irritations, nothing out of the ordinary.

He laughed a bit when the medic said he wanted him to be in good health. It was a dry, rattling cough, accompanied by a bit of black and red tinged phlegm. He quickly wiped it off on his jeans, he did not need any more reminders on the state of his lungs. He was far from healthy. It would take a long while before he was even close to how he'd been before.

Examinations. He was not looking forward to that. Nor was he fond of the idea of more people knowing his history. But he guessed it had to be done. He nodded, he did not like it, but he understood.


Tom Cucinotta]The laugh startled Tom, and he stared for a few moments, frowning as he heard the sound the other made, as well as noticing what ended up coming up from his throat as he laughed. “… They really didn’t take care of you, did they?” The man murmured, his frown going deeper. He then put down the pen and paper, standing and moving to place his hand on the other’s back. “.. Perhaps I should give you a look over. You don’t sound well. Besides you’re inability to really speak, I mean.” There was a hand briefly on Anton’s shoulder, and then it was gone, Tom moving off to the side of his desk, going to the closet door and opening that, before going in. He pulled out a stethoscope, a wooden stick, and a few other things one would see in their visit to the doctor.
“Your voice and your lungs are the only things that are affected, si?” The RED spoke, moving back to his desk and putting his items down, before reaching for his gloves and slapping those on, looking as if he was going to give an impromptu exam. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too intrusive..[/quote]

[quote="Anton Markovic wrote:
Take care of him? What did that mean? His brow furrowed in confusion. He hadn’t needed anyone to take care of him. He could suffer through it without any people prying at him.

The mention of an exam unsettled him. It was inevitable, he might as well get it over with now, but he did not like surrendering that kind of control to someone he knew so little about. He stood up as the smaller man walked to the closet. He stood there hesitantly, watching him gather supplies, unsure of what he should be doing. He took up the pen and paper, just in case.

He nodded slowly, hoping he meant the cancer. He wanted to get this over as fast as possible, with as little poking around his body as possible. It’s not that he was ashamed of his body; it just had a little more to tell than he wanted people to know.


Tom Cucinotta wrote:Taking a stethoscope and putting that on, the Medic moved behind the Spy, gently placing a large hand on his back. "I won't do anything painful, signore. Relax." Murmuring this as he moved to put the medical instrument in his hears, he took the end of it and pressed it against the others' back. Then he pulled back for a moment, frowning. "Perhaps.. well. It would be better if you removed your short and such, Anton. My apologies if it makes you uncomfortable." Drumming his fingers against the side of his desk, the Leader of RED waited quietly, before waving a hand idly. "I am trying to make this as painless as possible, signore. I might end up prescribing you some medications as I see fit-but you'll find out about that later."


Anton Markovic wrote:Reluctantly he pulled off his shirt, making sure to avoid the mask as he lifted it off his head. He forcibly relaxed his muscles, he did not want to offend the man, but he was still tense at the thought of what he was revealing. The multitude of tiny scars, the hidden gang tattoos, the ribs that poked out; all told much more about him than he wanted others to know.

He shook his head, trying to tell the man that it did not make him uncomfortable, but he felt that the lie was pretty transparent.

Tossing the shirt on the back of the chair, Anton stood straight, trying to keep his stance open and non-chalant. Let's get this over with.


Tom Cucinotta wrote:Glancing up when the other removed his shirt, Tom grazed his bright eyes over the frail, and now sickly looking man. He appreciated the human body; admittedly, the male physique more then the female's. But it was of little importance. As was the mask the other wore. He found himself frowning at the others' shape. The thinness and lack of muscle was worrisome. Leaning towards the other RED, Tom pressed the end of the stethoscope against Anton's pale, bony back, moving to find a spot where he could hear the Spy's lungs. "All right now; Breathe in, Breathe out." He murmured, a command hidden in those soft words. "Perhaps you need to take some supplements, signore." The Medic added lightly, a gloved hand lightly touching the Spy's bare back. A few moments later it seemed to realize what it was doing, and quickly pulled away.
"Regardless you will be at least healthy under my watch. I don't want you passing out anywhere because of your lungs, you understand..." Quiet in his words, and professional in his manner, Tom seemed pretty decent. But there was a coldness to his actions. One that seemed to say that this was strictly a professional doctor-patient relationship, and that nothing more would come out of it.


Anton Markovic wrote:The cold metal of the stethoscope drew a small flinch from Anton as it was placed on his back. He took a few breaths, it seemed more difficult now that he was thinking about it, and he could feel the air strain to get into his clogged lungs before wheezing back out.

He thought nothing of the hand on his back until it was sharply pulled away. He had figured it was meant to remind him not to move, but with the way the medic seemed to react, perhaps he had not meant to do it? How strange.

Perhaps supplements might help, since he was having such a hard time keeping anything down. He nodded his head appreciativly. Personally, he was glad for the man's detachment, it was something he was used to and found it easy to work with. He nodded once more, trying to signal his understanding. The last thing he wanted to do was pass out in this odd place, especially during battle.


Tom Cucinotta wrote:Grimacing at what he heard, the Medic let out a deep sigh, pulling away from Anton, and then running his gloved fingers down the other’s spine. He silently marveled at the bumps that protruded from the skin, an innate fascination keeping his large hand there. “You do not sound well in the slightest, signore.” Tom noted, pulling his hand away and stepping back, pulling the stethoscope out from his ears and placing it down on his desk. “Perhaps… well. I believe if I give you some steroids, it may help strengthen you and your lungs. I would also have to advise you to stop smoking.” The look the RED was giving Anton made it clear that by ‘advise’, he mean ‘order’. Taking his things and starting to tuck them back into his closet, the Leader of RED turned back to Anton, picking up the Spy’s shirt and handing it to him. “I think it is best if I simply take you to the infirmary. There we have a supply of various medications, as well as some machines that I could use to better determine your lungs’ ability to function.”


Anton Markovic wrote:The feeling of the rubber gloves on his skin sent a shiver up his spine. He focused his attention off the odd sensation and onto what the man who was wearing the gloves was saying.

He arched an eyebrow at the comment about his lungs, his face deadpanning. Tell him something he didn't know. That look quickly melted to a grimace at the mention of quitting. He had been told many times by many different people, and had no inclination to listen to any of them. But if it was an order....

He took his shirt thankfully and slipped it over his head, again making sure to avoid the mask. He nodded and waited for the man to lead the way, unsure of how to get to the infirmary from here.


((And that's where it cuts off. No more, folks.))
Connal Reid - RED Pyro
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