Follower of Trouble (Arcade)

Arc had woken up by 4. gotten out of bed by 5, and was with a patient by 5:15. It seemed to him that no one had any sense of respectable time. Who the hell went out and got themselves shot this early in the morning? He'd barely had his second cup of 'coffee', and on most days, he needed three or four to fully wake up. His face pockmarked by stress and his hands covered in blood and God knows what else, he was sent off to someone who was complaining of a violent stomachache. He gave the patient a checkup (after wiping his hands on some sort of material or on someone else entirely) before determining it was appendicitis. Oh, joy.

And so his morning droned on. The removal of that patient's appendix was the only 'fun' thing that happened (surgery was rare as sometimes Arc just had to ask for caps. Who willingly wants to cut another person open?) in the long hours of bullet wounds and blunt trauma. He sort of wished he could brainwash these people into actually having some sort of responsibility for their bodies, rather than flailing about as they wished and getting hurt willy-nilly.

At times he missed his old position. It was simple, it was a bit mind-numbing, but it was there. Being a researcher rather than a top doctor was far less.. tiring. He wiped his brow inbetween patients for a split second, and then remembered he was hungry. It was strange how one forgot about most anything when working this hard. There were a few times when he'd slip up, cut too much or too little, leave in some shrapnel that was more difficult to get out. But so went life on the Wastes. 'Perfection' was nothing more than a pipe dream, or a promise given by some hooker on the Strip itself.

He took a quick break for lunch, downing anything that was edible in miliseconds. Arcade didn't mess around much. He was known to be a bit of a hardass, mostly because he was rarely lighthearted when he worked. It took a lot to make him smile when he was on the job, thinking it was foolish to do anything other than 'work' when he worked. Currently, he was in a tent closer to the back, entitled to some easier work after the rush this morning. He was working with a group of travelers that had been hit pretty hard by some good-for-nothing Raiders.

Arc started to make conversation with a few of them, being witty and attentive. They were only allowed to rest in the fort for so long, before they were flung back out into the wastes to either continue on their journey, or come back with worse injuries. It really seemed like an infinite loop; he could almost remember some patient's names from how often he saw them. He began to fix their bandaging, but a push interrupted him.

He lifted his brows, looking over at the shorter man. "That was rude." Arc spoke bluntly, eyes flicking back to the patient's injury. He slowly unwrapped it, dabbing a cleaning salve over it to hopefully prevent infection; this, of course, wasn't always so effective. It was about 75% oft the time; the other 25% were hard to deal with. "What do you need?" He asked, not aware he had to work with this idiot again.

Cato was sort of.. the village idiot. Sometimes in an endearing way, most of the time in an honest 'what the fuck are you doing' way. Arcade usually took pity on people of such.. low intelligence, which was part of the reason why he tolerated working with him. Now Cato wasn't exactly stupid, but he was rarely compassionate enough to be a doctor. His solution to everything as 'cut it off' instead of actually.. treat it.

Perhaps that was why they sent him to be with him, Arcade wasn't always the most social of breeds, but he didn't mind the company.. as long as Cato behaved himself and didn't kill off any patients he would be alright. He was a little moody, but so be it- he was hot. All attractive men seemed to have attitude problems. For that reason, Arcade remained single, choosing to not have to deal with the bullshit relationships came with. Even though Cato had nice eyes, and nice arms, and a charming voice, he wasn't exactly what he was looking for.

Arc didn't know himself well enough to have a grasp on what he wanted. Currently, he lived in duality, dancing on the dotted line between the Followers and the Enclave. That line was a razor; any one missed step and he'd be severed from one place. His father, or his memories of him, drew him back and back again to the Enclave; while his passion for assisting kept him at the Followers. It was draining, but it was his life. He smiled every once in a while, but a lot of the time it was exhausting. His work was his escape, and even it then, didn't it take more out of him?

Arcade left the infinite loop of his thoughts as Cato spoke. And oh, fuck- his hands were all over his hair. Arcade scowled, reaching up to fix it, put it back the way it was. In reality his hair was too short and fine to mess up much, but it was an nuisance whenever it was played with. He bit his lip, giving Cato a 'if there was no one around your ass would be grass' look. He fixed his glasses self-consiously, alwasy very particular about his appearance, even when situations had no reason to call for it.

"Oh, joy." He mumbled under his breath at Cato's dramatic antics and response. He kind of hoped he'd be alone today, not feeling all too good. He'd had a goddamn headache for a couple of days now, among other things... "There shouldn't be too much stitching. Just rebandage.. I'll follow you around and critique. These people won't be saying much, as they're still in minor shock."

Arcade's brows pinched at the name calling. "I'm not grouchy. I just.." He gave a little huff, wrapping up the patient's wound tightly. He wasn't grouchy. He just wasn't a people person. People were disgusting and clumsy and most of all, fragile. Fragile in ways that mechanics or science wasn't. People died. Perhaps more importantly, people hurt eachother.. all the time. It was only reasonable to dislike them! After what he'd been through, how many people he'd seen hurt, and how many times he'd been hurt himself, he would explain his attitude to others as understandably bitter.

He was pulled out of this thought train with Cato's next words. He gave him quite the glare from behind the rims of his thick glasses, telltale wrinkle forming between his brows as he communicated his frustration with his furthermore furrowed brow. Arc snorted, rolling his eyes. "You really paid no attention during training, didn't you?" He mumbled. Arcade could also be described as.. sharp. He was blunt, sometimes to the point of being rough around the edges. Other people (usually those that were trying to get in his pants) called him sassy. He chose instead to ignore them. He watched Cato go off, letting the metaphorical leash he had on him go a bit further.

If it wasn't for the fact Cato was a spare set of hands, Arcade would have dug in his heels and told him to stay out. However, that would be irrational with the current state of the Followers. They needed everyone they could get, and if it was some half-wit mongrel from who knows where, so be it. He finished checking his patient's vitals in a professional manner, attempting light conversation, but the man was as good as mute.

It was then he noted Cato struggling for something. He refused to let a smirk unfurl across his lips, instead coming up beside him. He was surprised Cato's ego allowed him to ask for help of all things. He snorted softly, reaching it with ease; an almost grace in his lanky figure and long legs. Arc's torso-to-leg ratio was a little off, legs a bit too long for his frame. He tried not to stare at his revealed strip of skin, instead passing him the jar with a straight face.

The scars, however, were not so easy to dismiss. Amused by this daft man and his seemingly sliced=up skin, Arcade gave him a bit of a scrutinizing stare. He spoke next with a sass in his voice that only amplified the way his hips cocked when he stood with his arms folded, as he was now.

"So, where'd you come from, anyway? You don't really seem like the Follower type."

It was hard for anyone to emulate the sassiness that was Arcade. Hip tilts, smirks, and sly offhand comments were trademark with him; it was often what made you love him or hate him. His mouthiness had probably been what had made him stuck at researching for so long (that and hi stubborn claims that he was not a sociable breed) as well as his overall snark. Not to say he was atuck-up or unfriendly, he just had a way of saying and doing things that could be seen as a bit sharp around the edges. The war had changed him from mellow to nearly high-strung; the stress of his mere existence added to that.

Understandably when fools like Cato made the work difficult it hit him a bit harder than some of his colleagues. They thought he was joking whenever he complained about Cato, but sometimes- most of the time- it was serious. Arcade had a way of twisting words into that awkward 'should I laugh or should I be offended' grey zone of communication. It was all part of his getup, it seemed, and somehow it all meshed together. He held back a snort when he could see Cato's hips awkwardly twitch in response to Arcade's own stature. Cato was correct about the state of stance and its meaning; it was something Arcade did when he felt affectionate.

His relationship with Cato was stressing, at times mindnumbing, and at others mildly amusing. He lifted a brow at Cato's first response, giving him a 'really?' sort of gaze. And then Cato started talking, and Arcade naturally took his words with a grain of salt, until the last couple of sentences. If Arcade's face could have paled even more than it already was, it would have. Latin, and the description of whoever 'he' was, fit in perfectly with a certain group that made his stomach churn. His steely eyes narrowd in mild disbelief before flicking back to the patients for a moment. "I'm.. uh.. just going to leave that there." He made a physical pushing motion. "I.. think I'm better off oblivious to that."

Arcade turned back to the makeshit cupboards and table beneath them, making light work of cleaning scalpels. Boring, but blood stuck to the blade quite well. His posture was still there, but now it was a little more wary, shoulders hunched in a bit of apprehension. "I speak Latin, as well. Personal study." Arcade mumbled, hoping to give Cato the benefit of a doubt. However, he was still a little... "Fuck!' Arc hissed, having sliced his thumb on one of the scalpels. He moved his hand to hold it, wincing. His skin was so fucking fragile- "Can you get me some gauze, or something, please? It's just over there, I- dammit." He'd instinctively pulled his hand towards his chest, streaking his lab coat with blood. Just lovely.

Truth was, he had initially not cared all too much about the other man's past; where he had been, what he was doing. It was part of the Followers code to question nothing and accept (mostly) freely, whoever came through their doors. However, if Cato was really linked to them, he might have to break that code for a little while. The Legion made Arcade blind with hatred, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand still, made him almost physically recoil in pure disgust.

For now, he looked at his thumb in dismay. Just great. He held it away from him, nearly forgetting about Cato's words. Speak Latin for him? Why? There was an air of distrust around Arcade, his inner skeptic screaming 'dammit fool, this isn't a good idea.' His lips turned from a thin line to a pout at Cato's words about injuring himself again. It honestly didn't happen that much, but it seemed to happen whenever Cato was about.. ever so conveniently.

His steely eyes were almost soft as he looked at the other hand, covering his thumb with his fingers and squeezing it gently to prevent it from bleeding all over the place. "You don't even want to know." He mumbled, applying the gauze to his thumb. He wrapped it around the digit carefully, a lot gentler with himself than with most patients. A tiny whimper escaped from him; he was less than pleased with the fact he'd almost lost part of his hand.

That might be over exaggerating just a little bit, but ah well. He could be a bit of a disaster prophet sometimes. "Rot? Really?" He murmured, although he honestly wasn't that surprised.

People didn't take care of themselves on the Wastes. And if they did, they were likely doctors. Arcade approached the patient with a stern glare. "Sir, I apologize for this, but I can't give you any painkillers for this next procedure. It's your fault, and we're rather short supplied at the moment, so..." Arcade took off his lab coat, disgusted with the dirty blood. He tried to suppress his nausea at the rot, grabbing the tools necessary.

"I'm going to have to carve out what's wasted and attempt to rebandage it. If this had been left unattended, you could have easily been at risk of loosing your whole limb. So grin and bear it, please."

His voice was business-like; he clearly didn't hold too much pity. His eyes shifted to Cato, and he handed him the necessary tools. "Cut around what's rotted and take it out. Gangrene is quite dangerous, so it's essential that everything is taken out. Try to keep bleeding under control... I'd hate to loose a shirt, too."

With that, he promptly tied off his thigh, and waited for Cato to begin.