(no subject)
Some days at work are more of a mess than others. Anything involving the words 'sudden death', for example. Not that the Medic objects, necessarily, since it's the kind of mess where he gets to roam the battlefield afterward with a cooler and leave with as many parts as his black and scaly heart desires, but it's still literally messy. There's more blood than usual, and usually more fire and smoke as well. Certainly the latter two are in evidence as he stomps through the door today and heads straight for the bar. "Is Frau Vance here zis afternoon?" he asks; he gets no answer, which is no more than he expected. "Very well-"
The pile of wreckage he drops onto the Bar is a jumble of twisted grey and red metal. At some point in its past it used to be a kritzkrieg.
"Zis is for her. See to it zat she receives it und I shall be very grateful. In ze meantime I require coffee und a newspaper for somevhere ozzer zan Central America."
Bar provides.
"Sank you," he says, and stalks over to the nearest available table.
[tinytag: Scaramouche]
The pile of wreckage he drops onto the Bar is a jumble of twisted grey and red metal. At some point in its past it used to be a kritzkrieg.
"Zis is for her. See to it zat she receives it und I shall be very grateful. In ze meantime I require coffee und a newspaper for somevhere ozzer zan Central America."
Bar provides.
"Sank you," he says, and stalks over to the nearest available table.
[tinytag: Scaramouche]