After a long hiatus, I'm finally continuing some serious writing. I told myself I'd do it, and here it is- the start of my RED Engineer's story, the one from http://tf2chan.net/fanfic/res/89.html and http://tf2chan.net/fanfic/res/94.html . Comments and crits are welcome! -------------------- Hospital rooms weren't exactly the best environment to put one's mind at ease. The lights were always a little too bright- the trappings a little too white- and they tended to smell of antiseptic. They were always too cold, and footsteps could be heard echoing up and down the halls at all hours of the day and night. Benjamin Wallace was trying to recall how he had gotten there and, subsequently, trying to figure out why it was so hard to think. He was also trying to figure out why he felt so dizzy, and even downright sick. His right arm felt weird- but, then again, his entire body felt weird. The man stole another quick glance around the room, and finally noticed a vase of flowers on the stand next to the bed. There was a card hanging from it, but he couldn't quite get his body to cooperate enough to reach out and take it. It was safe to assume, however, that it was from his wife- their neighbors back in Grape Creek, after all, didn't care for them much, anymore. That was a rather bitter thought, really. Benjamin had been born and raised in the little Texas town- hell, he'd known some of his neighbors since he'd been a little kid. It was amazing, though, given the climate of fear that had been whipped up across the nation over the 'Red Menace', how little it had taken to get long-time friends to turn on him. They had only been rumors- he had never even met anyone from Russia, let alone spied for them. That didn't stop the resulting suspicions, though, and he simply wished that Madeline hadn't had to suffer for it. She had been the one to leave the flowers, Wallace thought to himself, as he stole another glance back at the vase. That only made him more frustrated at the fact that his arm wouldn't quit hurting or feeling weird long enough for him to grab the card so he could actually read it. It would have been some comfort. That train of thought, however, was quickly derailed by a small, but insistent knock on the door. "Mister Wallace?" the nurse asked as she opened the door and stepped inside. She was a young little thing, and Benjamin couldn't help but feel slightly indecent at the fact that he had nothing more than a couple of sheets covering him. "Ma'am," Wallace greeted in return, giving a faint nod, and as much of a polite smile as he could muster. He was about to ask her how he had gotten here, but didn't get the question out fast enough. "I need to change your bandages, Mister Wallace," the young woman stated. "I apologize, but this will probably hurt some- they'll have to be changed a lot until you're all healed up from your surgery." 'Surgery'? That just raised a hundred more questions in Benjamin's mind, and he almost didn't notice the fact that the nurse had lifted his right arm up just a little. His attention was very quickly drawn, however, by the distant, throbbing pain in his right arm as the bandages were being unwound. "Looks like you're healing well," the nurse remarked as she worked. Wallace turned his head just a little, his curiosity piqued by the statement. It was then that he discovered why it was that his right arm hurt so much- why it felt so weird. Most of it was gone.
Well, the response is a bit discouraging, but... oh well =U ________ "On a scale of one to ten, how is ze pain?" Benjamin didn't hesitate for long before answering with a strained, "eleven." The doctor just looked at him for a moment- seemed to appraise him. It was difficult to tell, though; the man had a gaze like Antarctic ice- sharply cold, and seemingly impenetrable. If the eyes were the portals to the soul, then this man had locked the windows, and closed the shutters tight. His expression revealed nothing as he clicked his pen to write a note on the patient file on his clipboard. "Zhis happens often?" the Medic questioned, adjusting his round-rimmed glasses briefly before lifting his gaze to look at Benjamin, again. The Texan almost wished he hadn't. "Every now and again," the Engineer replied, "usually not this bad, though." No, it was usually just a tingling- or perhaps a dull ache, at worst- not the sharp, crushing sensation tormenting him as he sat on the exam table in RED base's infirmary. It was a terrible feeling, and not just because of the physical agony; it was a reminder of what had happened. It had happened lightning fast- but, at the time, it had felt like slow motion. The metallic crack of the jack giving way had been almost deafening, and the Texan's brain had scarcely processed the sound before over a ton of steel had come down on his arm. For a moment, nothing felt different, and the redhead had caught himself wondering if he had lucked out, and the truck had just missed him. His hopes were dashed, however, as the initial shock faded, and was rapidly replaced by the sensation of the crushing, stabbing pain shooting up and down his arm. He reflexively tried to jerk the limb towards his body only to discover that, yes; it was well and thoroughly pinned to the concrete floor. The man couldn't hold back a scream of pain, or the tears starting to sting at his eyes. There was nobody in the house to hear him, though- not with Madeline and the kids out of town for the day. They wouldn't be back for hours. To top it off, the garage door was closed to keep out the heat of the day, leaving him well out of sight of any passers-by. That did not, however, keep the man from trying to yell for help as loudly as he could, in the hopes that anyone walking by might hear- if there was anyone walking by. No help arrived, though, and Benjamin's voice was getting hoarse. Really, why would anyone in the little town answer the pleas of a 'dirty Commie'? He was left, however, with a clear view of the clock hanging in his garage- left to watch as seconds became minutes, and the minutes dragged on to well past an hour. It hadn't taken even that much time for the fingers on his right hand to start tingling, and burning, before feeling chill, and then completely numb. By the time the second hour was rolling around, the redhead's arm was not only still in agony, but the rest of him was starting to hurt from lying on the concrete floor. It was hard to find a comfortable position when one's arm was pinned beneath a truck. He tried to comfort himself with the fact that his wife would be home in another four hours, and if he had managed to stay alive for two, then he'd surely last until then. The most difficult thing, by far, had been trying not to pass out. Benjamin's vision had started to go gray around the edges once or twice- but he had managed to snap himself back to attention. He was glad he did, because he finally heard the sound of someone outside. He could hear a basketball bouncing on the sidewalk, drawing closer, and when it was right in front of the driveway, the man felt as though he'd used all the breath in his lungs to manage one last, hoarse yell for aid. Apparently, he had used a little too much air in his condition, because everything went black. Whoever was outside must have thought to open the garage door and peer in, though. How else would he have woken up surrounded by doctors? "Herr Wallace," the RED doctor said, snapping the Texan out of his thoughts and back to base's infirmary- and its caretaker. "Vhat methods of pain control did your previous physicians prescribe?" The truth was they had tried almost everything. "Morphine," the Engineer started. "Worked for awhile, but once the post-op pain was done… well, it didn't do much." He gave a small, tense sigh, trying to focus on the question, and not the throbbing pain in his right arm- in flesh and bone that no longer existed. "Codeine," he continued. "They tried ice packs, heated pressure bandages'n even massage." None of it worked, though- not very well, at least. "Vhat about an electric current?" the German inquired, his tone and expression unreadable. The only indication of concern (or, perhaps, morbid curiosity) was the content of his question. "Heard some of th'docs in Dallas mention somethin' like that," Ben said with a little shrug, trying to seem politely indifferent. It was difficult to get his hopes up after such a long string of disappointing failures, and he was a little wary. After all, Doctor Engel wasn't bound by most of the ethical restrictions that were imposed on physicians working outside of the company. The Medic gave a little nod, and quietly excused himself for a moment. He walked over to one of the infirmary's many supply cabinets, and unlocked one of the drawers to remove a hinged metal box. He brought it over to the exam table, and set it down before undoing the hasps, and opening the lid. Benjamin couldn't help but peer inquisitively at its contents- a black plastic box with dials on it for regulating electrical current (frequency, amplitude, amps, volts- a rather complex setup), and four leads with electrodes on the end of them. The little device didn't look terribly intimidating- the amperage rating printed on it didn't go anywhere near high enough to be fatal. The Engineer was still wary, but growing increasingly curious as the box and its leads were removed, and set on the table. "Well, Doc," the Texan started, "I must admit you have me stumped." "Zhese are fairly new, Herr," Engel replied. "You might even say somewhat experimental. It's a TENS unit- transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation. Zhey have shown promise in trials vhiz ze treatment of chronic pain." The Engineer couldn't help but wonder if that was what the doctors several months had been referring to. He had never heard them use the term 'TENS', though, nor had they attempted using one of the things. The man tried to tell himself that maybe those 'promising trials' were new enough that the doctors wouldn't have had reason to even consider a TENS. "It's painless," the Medic continued, "but it might be a little uncomfortable. If you vant to try, zhat is." Benjamin didn't hesitate for very long before giving stiff, pained nod. At that point, he wouldn't have minded if the leads were jabbed right through his skin- it couldn't have hurt worse than his arm. "Alright, Herr," Engel said with a little nod of his own. "I'm going to need you to take off your glove, bitte."
I admit I was afraid it was going to be really depressing at first. Anyway, it's interesting and I wanna know more!
Keep it coming, I wanna see if Red Engie makes it out ok!
>>3 >>4 Thanks, you two. And, trust me, I have a history of making things very depressing. Crits welcome, as always ________________________ "On a scale of one to ten, how is ze pain?" Benjamin didn't hesitate for long before answering with a strained, "eleven." The doctor just looked at him for a moment- seemed to appraise him. It was difficult to tell, though; the man had a gaze like Antarctic ice- sharply cold, and seemingly impenetrable. If the eyes were the portals to the soul, then this man had locked the windows, and closed the shutters tight. His expression revealed nothing as he clicked his pen to write a note on the patient file on his clipboard. "Zhis happens often?" the Medic questioned, adjusting his round-rimmed glasses briefly before lifting his gaze to look at Benjamin, again. The Texan almost wished he hadn't. "Every now and again," the Engineer replied, "usually not this bad, though." No, it was usually just a tingling- or perhaps a dull ache, at worst- not the sharp, crushing sensation tormenting him as he sat on the exam table in RED base's infirmary. It was a terrible feeling, and not just because of the physical agony; it was a reminder of what had happened. It had happened lightning fast- but, at the time, it had felt like slow motion. The metallic crack of the jack giving way had been almost deafening, and the Texan's brain had scarcely processed the sound before over a ton of steel had come down on his arm. For a moment, nothing felt different, and the redhead had caught himself wondering if he had lucked out, and the truck had just missed him. His hopes were dashed, however, as the initial shock faded, and was rapidly replaced by the sensation of the crushing, stabbing pain shooting up and down his arm. He reflexively tried to jerk the limb towards his body only to discover that, yes; it was well and thoroughly pinned to the concrete floor. The man couldn't hold back a scream of pain, or the tears starting to sting at his eyes. There was nobody in the house to hear him, though- not with Madeline and the kids out of town for the day. They wouldn't be back for hours. To top it off, the garage door was closed to keep out the heat of the day, leaving him well out of sight of any passers-by. That did not, however, keep the man from trying to yell for help as loudly as he could, in the hopes that anyone walking by might hear- if there was anyone walking by. No help arrived, though, and Benjamin's voice was getting hoarse. Really, why would anyone in the little town answer the pleas of a 'dirty Commie'? He was left, however, with a clear view of the clock hanging in his garage- left to watch as seconds became minutes, and the minutes dragged on to well past an hour. It hadn't taken even that much time for the fingers on his right hand to start tingling, and burning, before feeling chill, and then completely numb. By the time the second hour was rolling around, the redhead's arm was not only still in agony, but the rest of him was starting to hurt from lying on the concrete floor. It was hard to find a comfortable position when one's arm was pinned beneath a truck. He tried to comfort himself with the fact that his wife would be home in another four hours, and if he had managed to stay alive for two, then he'd surely last until then. The most difficult thing, by far, had been trying not to pass out. Benjamin's vision had started to go gray around the edges once or twice- but he had managed to snap himself back to attention. He was glad he did, because he finally heard the sound of someone outside. He could hear a basketball bouncing on the sidewalk, drawing closer, and when it was right in front of the driveway, the man felt as though he'd used all the breath in his lungs to manage one last, hoarse yell for aid. Apparently, he had used a little too much air in his condition, because everything went black. Whoever was outside must have thought to open the garage door and peer in, though. How else would he have woken up surrounded by doctors? "Herr Wallace," the RED doctor said, snapping the Texan out of his thoughts and back to base's infirmary- and its caretaker. "Vhat methods of pain control did your previous physicians prescribe?" The truth was they had tried almost everything. "Morphine," the Engineer started. "Worked for awhile, but once the post-op pain was done… well, it didn't do much." He gave a small, tense sigh, trying to focus on the question, and not the throbbing pain in his right arm- in flesh and bone that no longer existed. "Codeine," he continued. "They tried ice packs, heated pressure bandages'n even massage." None of it worked, though- not very well, at least. "Vhat about an electric current?" the German inquired, his tone and expression unreadable. The only indication of concern (or, perhaps, morbid curiosity) was the content of his question. "Heard some of th'docs in Dallas mention somethin' like that," Ben said with a little shrug, trying to seem politely indifferent. It was difficult to get his hopes up after such a long string of disappointing failures, and he was a little wary. After all, Doctor Engel wasn't bound by most of the ethical restrictions that were imposed on physicians working outside of the company. The Medic gave a little nod, and quietly excused himself for a moment. He walked over to one of the infirmary's many supply cabinets, and unlocked one of the drawers to remove a hinged metal box. He brought it over to the exam table, and set it down before undoing the hasps, and opening the lid. Benjamin couldn't help but peer inquisitively at its contents- a black plastic box with dials on it for regulating electrical current (frequency, amplitude, amps, volts- a rather complex setup), and four leads with electrodes on the end of them. The little device didn't look terribly intimidating- the amperage rating printed on it didn't go anywhere near high enough to be fatal. The Engineer was still wary, but growing increasingly curious as the box and its leads were removed, and set on the table. "Well, Doc," the Texan started, "I must admit you have me stumped." "Zhese are fairly new, Herr," Engel replied. "You might even say somewhat experimental. It's a TENS unit- transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation. Zhey have shown promise in trials vhiz ze treatment of chronic pain." The Engineer couldn't help but wonder if that was what the doctors several months had been referring to. He had never heard them use the term 'TENS', though, nor had they attempted using one of the things. The man tried to tell himself that maybe those 'promising trials' were new enough that the doctors wouldn't have had reason to even consider a TENS. "It's painless," the Medic continued, "but it might be a little uncomfortable. If you vant to try, zhat is." Benjamin didn't hesitate for very long before giving stiff, pained nod. At that point, he wouldn't have minded if the leads were jabbed right through his skin- it couldn't have hurt worse than his arm. "Alright, Herr," Engel said with a little nod of his own. "I'm going to need you to take off your glove, bitte." *** "I'm going to need you to take off your shirt und glove, bitte," the Medic stated, adjusting his glasses just a little as he picked the stethoscope up from the supply cart to drape it over his shoulders. Benjamin had managed to avoid taking off either his shirt or glove thus far. He had stalled some- trying to strike up small talk, trying to distract the doctor. It was a foolishly futile gesture, he knew- but, anything to delay the inevitable. He couldn't dodge the Medic forever, though, and the intake exam was, he had been assured, very necessary. No sense making things too difficult for someone just trying to do their job. He still hesitated, however, before complying with the German's request. The Texan was still hesitant, however- taking his time in using his left hand to un-tuck the sleeve from the thick leather work glove covering his right. Engel just stood there waiting patiently- or impatiently- it was hard to tell. Benjamin cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, and hesitated for just a moment more before carefully tugging the glove free, and setting it on the exam table. The doctor's gaze shifted to the redhead's right hand, but, given his expression, he seemed unfazed by the steel appendage. "Your shirt, bitte," the Medic said, raising his eyes once again to the younger man's face. Benjamin wasn't sure whether he should be relieved or unnerved that the doctor made no comment on his hand- seemed to be ignoring it, altogether. Regardless, he did start to unbutton his shirt, causing the German's gaze to be drawn right back to his hands. As subtle as the doctor was trying to be, it was obvious that he was watching- observing how the joints of those metal fingers extended and flexed. Once the Engineer had his shirt off, however, there was considerably more to see. Engel glanced once more to his metal hand, and his gaze drifted up the length of the prosthesis to where it terminated, at mid-bicep. The rig was heavy- considerably heavier than a human arm should be- and the redhead had compensated for it by attaching a harness that spread the weight between both of his shoulders. The Medic hesitated only a moment before inspecting the harness- checking, no doubt, to see if the padded leather was harming the skin. "Vould you mind," he started, "taking zhis off, Herr? I vant to make sure it's not causing any irritation." "Uh," the Texan started, still somewhat wary of the prospect, "sure doc." It didn't take him long to get the buckles of the harness undone, and the straps slid loose. Once the weight was off of the tops of his shoulders, however, it all pulled at what remained of his right arm. "I can get you somezhing to rest your arm on, Herr," the German offered, no doubt noticing the way his patient's weight shifted as the harness was removed. Benjamin, however, just shook his head. He didn't really want this to take any longer than it had to- and, besides, "it don't hurt, s'just a bit uncomfortable. Starts t'ache if I leave if like this for an hour or two, though." The older man gave a small nod, a gesture that didn't seem to match his cold expression (or lack thereof) at all. The Engineer wasn't sure whether it put him at ease, or only made him more wary. Regardless, he tried to keep still as the doctor checked over his skin. The man seemed satisfied, at least- then again, the harness had been specifically designed to prevent the sort of irritation that was being looked for. "Everyzhing looks good," Engel said with another nod, leaning back just a little to stand up straight, again. He did steal another glance, however, to the thick, circular, metal base plate that the prosthesis attached to. The plate was also thoroughly attached to what remained of the Texan's flesh and blood right arm. "I don't see any signs of infection," the doctor started, "but I vant to double-check your lymph nodes, and ze bloodvork to be certain." Fortunately for the Engineer, everything seemed to check out- he had no swollen lymph nodes, no inflammation- nothing at all, really, that would indicate an infection of any kind. He would also have been lying if he said he wasn't impressed by how professional the Medic was. The man only asked for medically necessary information; whether there was any pain or numbness, where and how the base plate attached, and a list of all of the materials in the arm- and their approximate percentages. An x-ray was taken as well. Once the doctor had checked the placement of the hardware- felt reassured that there was no danger of the bone degrading or fracturing- his focus seemed to leave the metal prosthesis entirely. The rest was, in truth, a very standard exam- temperature, height, weight, reflexes- that sort of thing. A little blood sample was taken at the end, and that was that. Now, the Engineer had only to go back to his job, and that seemed simple enough.
>>5 Um.. wow.. I managed to repost an old section before the new one, and I can't delete it. Please disregard everything before the '***'
Did they try the TENS thing yet? I'm enjoying the details of your story, it helps me picture everything so well.
>>7 Thank you, thank you. And, the TENS will get addressed, I promise. I just have an odd way of writing, I guess - I like to flip-flop with flashbacks. _______________ Benjamin's job was not as simple as it had seemed. It had started off innocently enough - he was an educated man, and one with a talent for making things - so the Department of Defense had been happy to offer him a position. The job description, he realized, had been vague enough that he should have had a number of second thoughts about taking the work. He was supposed to be helping to develop technologies that would help protect American soldiers on the battlefield. It was a subject that a number of organizations had a budding interest in as the patriotism and zest of the second 'Great War' faded into the paranoia surrounding a considerably colder conflict with Russia. There were dozens of hypothetical scenarios to defend against - a growing fear that the Soviets would launch an invasion on America, or one of her outlying posts. They couldn't, of course, be left with inferior defensive capabilities if the Reds did attack. The Texan had quietly wondered if half of the government's fears were even founded, but there was no harm in helping to save a few lives, right? The pay was extremely good, to boot, and he only had to be away from his wife and daughter for a couple of months - only a few days at a time. His job was made doubly easy by the array of resources his employers gave him access to. Benjamin had started his work in the engineering and implementation of ballistic -resistant materials - specifically, anything that was lighter in weight than steel. He had managed to make some considerable strides with some ceramic materials, and had been starting to consider other, lighter things when his project was suddenly changed. He was pulled from ballistic -resistant materials - and placed on a project for weapons and ammunition specifically designed to negate it. The Texan had felt a small sense of pride, before - hearing of a life here and a life there that the new materials had saved in a skirmish or two. He could not feel that same pride, however, when he began receiving reports of how many lives his work had taken. It wasn't much longer until he had handed in his notice. His employers had at least acted as though they had taken his resignation graciously. There seemed to be only a mild disappointment that he was leaving. Just as well - Benjamin had little reason to stay. He had saved up a considerable amount of money from the work he had done (a large chunk of change for someone all of thirty -eight years old) , and he simply couldn't continue in the direction the job had wound up taking him in. He had to keep the nature of his work a secret, of course - but that was perfectly reasonable. It was a term that Madeline was well aware of, and she'd only given him a little humorous chiding in regards to his secrecy. In truth, Ben was happy to be leaving the job - he would have more time to spend with his daughter - and his wife had a baby on the way. Really, it was easy enough for him to pick up work fixing up cars, tractors, and the occasional busted appliance for folks back home. It was a good, honest living. It also gave him the chance to get back to personal projects. When Annabelle was at school, and his wife minding the chickens out back, he could get back to the parts and blueprints in the garage. Between working on cars and other projects for the neighbors, Benjamin had been spending time on his own devices. Most of them were rather simple, really; more consistent heating on the toaster, an electric timer on the oven, and a prototype for a better cutting torch. It was while the redhead was making that prototype that he got an anonymous message; it was a 'request' to stop his inventing work - but, it sounded more to Benjamin like a thinly -veiled threat. At first he wondered if it was some sort of cruel prank - maybe someone from his old job that was feeling a little spiteful. The Texan at least, however, wanted to finish his cutting torch. It would certainly make his repair work a lot more efficient and, really, a cutting torch wasn't the sort of thing that the Soviets could steal and weaponize. He also had the feeling that the DoD wouldn't spend a bunch of taxpayer funds to stop him from making a simple torch. He was wrong. It was scarcely a week after his torch was finished - mere days after Jonathan had been born - that he had a rather unpleasant surprise. There were sirens outside of Benjamin's garage, where he was working. His first thought was that old Mr. Caruthers across the street had had another heart attack. He hadn't expected the sirens to draw even closer - for three police cars (Grape Creek's entire force) and the county sheriff's truck to pack onto his front lawn. Benjamin only had time to take a step away from the engine he was working on, before all of the car doors had flung open and he had three guns pointed at him - all but the sheriff's. "Put the guns down," the latter insisted. The city officers only reluctantly complied - though they kept their pistols in hand. "With all due respect, Dean," Benjamin started, turning to face the sheriff, and keeping his hands well in sight, "what th'hell is goin' on?" "By order of the federal government," the sheriff started, his tone disinterested, as though he wasn't too thrilled about the whole ordeal, "you are to be brought before a loyalty committee. You will be held at the county jail until such a time that the committee is ready to process you." It sounded as though the man was reading from a script - like he'd repeated the words so many times that he had it memorized. "You can't be serious," the redhead started - even though it was obvious by all of the guns that he was. "Sorry, Ben," the sheriff muttered, taking a few steps forward as he almost casually pulled his handcuffs from his belt. He knew he wouldn't have a fight on his hands. The redhead practically bristled, however, when Madeline opened the front door - he didn't want her to have to get involved in this. It didn't take but a moment for their daughter to slip out beside her mom when she saw the cuffs go on. The girl had no compunctions in running right up to the sheriff and giving as him as much of a kick in the leg as a six year old could muster. "I thought you and daddy were friends, Dean!" she yelled indignantly. "Why are you being such a big jerk?!" The scowl that Annabelle had leveled at the sheriff could have peeled paint, and it stayed firmly in place even as her mother walked over and (only just) managed to shoo her inside. She waited right inside the front window, though - peering through the glass with an accusing glare. Madeline, of course, demanded to know what was going on (with considerably more grace than their daughter). The sheriff tried to reassure her that someone had called in a tip and that, really, this was a formality. He insisted that they didn't know for sure that anything suspicious had actually happened, and that most people who wound up going before loyalty committees were acquitted. The woman didn't seem reassured - especially when one of the city police took Benjamin by the cuffs and rather roughly started pushing him towards a squad car. Officer Dresden was someone that Benjamin had known for years - but, the man wasn't being at all gentle, and was looking at him as though he'd run over his dog. He was also, the redhead thought, much rougher than necessary in getting him seated in the back of the car. It was only after Dresden had gotten into the car and started the engine that he said, "you're in serious shit, Wallace." The older man sighed just a little, shifting a bit in his seat to try and take some pressure off of his cuffed wrists. He knew his 'captor' was a patriotic man, but he had never imagined he would be so zealous. "I ain't done nothin' wrong," Benjamin insisted calmly - if a little indignantly. "Save it for the committee, ya fuckin' Commie," Dresden practically spat in reply. The redhead offered a small, defeated sigh in return. He wasn't going to be able to talk any sense with Dresden. He only hoped that the sheriff hadn't gone off the deep end, as well. He didn't get to speak with Dean, though - he was put straight into a cell when they arrived at the county jail. First, however, he was told by one of the deputies that he stood accused of selling military secrets to the Soviets - a very serious crime that could fall within the boundaries of treason. It was rather difficult for the redhead to get any sleep that night - not when he knew that Madeline was home alone with both the kids, and they were probably worried sick. There was an unpleasant thought floating through the man's head, as well - the realization that he might be waiting a long time to see a committee. Worse, he could be found guilty of whatever injustice had been concocted against him, and never see his family, again. By morning, Benjamin had finally managed to get to sleep on the little jailhouse cot. It was a lonely cell block - nobody was there other than himself and the town drunk. The latter had passed out some time ago, so at least it was quiet. His restless sleep was interrupted, however, by the sound of a nightstick rapping lightly against the cell bars. The redhead only just managed to pry his eyes open before sitting up to see who was there - Dean. "Ben," he greeted, giving a little nod. "Y'all got a phone call." The redhead's first thought was that it was his wife - but, no, she would have called sooner. The warden had, no doubt, not been keen on letting personal calls through. He just nodded in return, though - waited for the sheriff to cuff his hands before opening the cell door. It was definitely not his wife on the phone. The voice, however, was all too familiar. "Mister Wallace," it started, steady, and even, and business -like, just like Benjamin remembered his boss. Somehow, the Texan wasn't surprised to hear the man's voice - nor was he remotely pleased. He didn't want to land himself in hotter water than he was already in, so he tried to keep his own tone calm. "Sir, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Benjamin asked, trying not to sound too snide. "Are you the one that set this up?" It certainly seemed like it. "That's an awfully nasty accusation coming from someone in jail for being a traitor to their country," the man on the other end of the line pointed out. "We miss you an awful lot back at the Department, Mister Wallace -" "If you think I'm returnin' t'that outfit, y'all got another thing comin', sir," the Texan stated. "Y'all are a bunch of two -timin' snakes." There was a rather mirthless, unnerving chuckle from the other end. "I wouldn't dream of asking you back, Mister Wallace - not after that nasty little surprise you left in your last set of plans. Don't try to tell me it wasn't intentional, either. Do you have any idea how many man -hours we lost because of that fire alarm?" Benjamin couldn't help but chuckle just a little at that. He knew the 'experimental' auto -targeting machinegun wouldn't be a fire hazard in the test chamber - but when the thing melted, it was sure to have put out a hell of a lot of smoke. "I'm glad you think this is funny, Mister Wallace," the man on the other end stated. "I don't think you'll be laughing when you have to explain to your wife and daughter why you're going to go to a federal penitentiary." The Texan went dead silent at that - felt his blood run cold. "Y'all waited an awful long time before springin' this," he started, his tone back to low and serious. "I retired months ago. If this was about the 'smoke bomb', I figured I'd have heard from you sooner." "The 'smoke bomb' was a minor nuisance, all things considered," the redhead's former boss noted. "We are much more concerned about the ramifications of your current work." "Sir, I been fixin' cars and the like for folks in town," Benjamin stated matter -of -factly. "I hardly see how that's a 'seditious' activity." "I'm talking about your little 'side projects'," the other man stated. "You have two options," he continued without the slightest pause. "You can stop with your little 'side projects' - stick to fixing what's broken - or you can take your chances in front of the loyalty committee. I'll be honest, Mister Wallace, your chances of passing the review are not terribly good." The Texan had been afraid of that. Really, his old employers could simply make up whatever evidence they wanted - nobody would take his word over theirs. "Fine," he murmured. As much as he loved his projects - loved being able to create something useful with the knowledge he had - it wasn't worth destroying his family. "I'll just… stick t'fixin' things." "Good," the redhead's former boss said. "Hopefully we won't be hearing from each other again. Have a good day, Mister Wallace." There wasn't another word before the line went dead. Benjamin just held the phone for a moment, though - hesitating before he finally hung up. It was only a few minutes later that the gravity of the conversation sank in - when the Texan fully absorbed the fact that he very well could have wound up rotting in a prison or, worse, at the end of a noose. He couldn't quite stop himself from breaking into sobs - from covering his face to try and hide the tears. He felt like the luckiest man alive when Dean walked in and undid his cuffs. That feeling wasn't going to last.
And I remember why, sometimes, I sincerely and completely abhor my home country. The paranoia of the Cold War ruined so many peoples' lives, and everything else that was going on behind the scenes, motivated by the fear of the Red... And then I look at the politics of today and I want to go punch holes in things until I stop wanting to pummel the sense back into the American public and resign myself back to grumbling in front of my computer.
>>9 Thank you so much for the compliments, but, don't be silly. Apologizing for McCarthyism would be like me apologizing for slavery - we personally had nothing to do with it. On a nicer note, I did finally get another chapter done (it's been slow at work, lately). ____________________________________ The feeling of the TENS unit's adhesive pads being stuck to the Engineer's bicep (the organic remnants of it, at least) was a strange one. It wasn't a sensation that the man could really focus on, though – not with the pain shooting up the length of his limb. "Alright," Engel started, once the pads were in place, safely atop a layer of conductive gel. "I'm going to start out on a pulse of low amplitude und frequency. I will titrate ze dose, as it were – just let me know if you feel any discomfort." The Texan gave a little nod in response. He would have been lying if he'd claimed he wasn't at least a little nervous about the procedure. At least he could draw some comfort from the fact that it was something new that might actually work. He tried not to get his hopes up too high, though. Instead, he just gave a little nod, and silently watched as the device was switched on. There was nothing, at first – nothing but the near-crippling pain that Benjamin had been in for nearly an hour. He shook his head at the doctor, who jotted something down before starting to slowly turn up the dial on the amplitude. The Engineer did finally feel something, though – a faint, warm tingling that started at the electrodes and spread over his skin in slow pulses. Engel must have noticed a change in his expression, because he asked, "everyzhing alright, Herr?" "Yeah," the redhead replied somewhat hesitantly. "I mean… s'doin' somethin'," he added. It was only at the doctor's behest that he rested his head back on the recovery bed pillow, and at least tried to relax. In all his fiddling with the dials, Engel finally seemed to find a line – any more started to become too intense, any less was teasingly almost right. Once the Medic was certain that he had found the ideal setting – the one that caused his patient to finally give a sigh of relief, and genuinely start to relax – he jotted down the magic numbers he had discovered. Each pulse seemed to lessen the pain just a little more, until it had gone from 'unbearable' to merely 'awful.' Still – it was better than any other doctor had managed to do for the Engineer. They had all wound up throwing in the towel and sedating him to wait out the pain in a mental haze. "Thanks, Doc," the Texan said with a small, tired sigh before letting his eyes fall shut. He quickly opened them again, though. "Herr, if it isn't imposing," the German began, "I am terribly curious as to how you managed to attach zhat prosthetic on your own. At least, I can't imagine it vould have been easy to find a doctor to aid you in such an endeavor." *** Benjamin couldn't go to a doctor for this. Ever since the man had had his arm amputated, doctors had failed him at every turn. An appendage that was no longer attached to his body was causing him near constant pain – a fact which he had to lie about to Annabelle's face almost every day. He could barely even keep up with her, anymore. She had been remarkably accepting of his condition, thank God, but she was a young, energetic child who wanted to run around and play. The Texan's left arm worked well enough – better than most people's, he guessed – but it still wasn’t a substitute for having the use of both limbs. His work had suffered tremendously. It was difficult, nigh on impossible, to do repair work with the use of only one arm. That hardly mattered, though; barely anyone in town brought anything in for him to work on, anymore. Benjamin may not have been prosecuted, or been forced to go before a Loyalty Committee, but word had still gotten around town. Nobody wanted to entrust their car or even their icebox to a 'Commie' – nobody wanted their friends or neighbors to think they associated with one, either. It was difficult to hold his baby boy and even harder to play with his daughter. More than once, she had tried to toss something to him – a ball, or a stuffed animal – and he wound up momentarily confused when the object sailed past, and there was no impact against his right palm. She would smile and say it was okay, but Ben could tell that she was getting frustrated. He had to do something. The man started to pull what strings he could to get every book, magazine, and journal that was relevant to the project he was going to undertake. He still had a few friends in universities around the state – old professors, mostly – who weren't keen on the 'Red paranoia', and were at least willing to send him things in the mail. More than once, packages had arrived which had clearly been cut open and then taped shut, again. The contents were still there, though – apparently medical journals weren't considered 'seditious material'. Steel, rubber, and plastic were very easy to procure, given Benjamin's profession. The titanium, however, had to be discreetly purchased from one of the man's old chemistry professors. It had taken a rather hefty chunk of change to put the metal in his hands, but it would, he was sure, be worth it. Given his recent operation, the redhead had a rather easy time stockpiling other materials that he would need. The hospital and pharmacy had seen to it that he had plenty of antiseptic, bandages, and painkillers. Getting his hands on a few ampoules of Novocain and some clean syringes had been a simple matter of complaining to the pharmacist about some very localized post-operative pain. It was almost a year after his surgery before Benjamin had finally managed to get together all the materials and have them shaped and ready for assembly. Once everything was ready, the most difficult part was convincing Madeline that he would be alright at the house by himself while she took the kids to visit her parents in Dallas. They had barely made it down the street when the man had started to sanitize his tools – drills, pliers, vice grips, scalpels, and a slightly modified reciprocating saw. All he needed to do was install the titanium base plate – its circuit boards were already wired in – all of the contacts had been tested, retested, and tested again, and all of the moving parts were functioning. He had gone over the motions a thousand times. Everything was working, and Benjamin was scared as hell. He knew he had reason to be, too. There were countless things that could go wrong, no matter how well prepared he was, and he was a doctor – but not a medical doctor. The Novocain and an ample supply of ice packs went a surprisingly long way in numbing the remnants of Benjamin's right arm. It was almost frighteningly easy to cut and peel away the skin to lay bare the underlying tissue. To the credit of his surgeons, they had cut the muscles and tendons he would need very cleanly, and the blood vessels had long since been closed off – he just had to avoid cutting or tearing them. The redhead had to move quickly, though; the surgical tubing further up his arm could only remain in place so long before it started to cause damage of its own, and the effects of Novocain and ice could only penetrate so deep. The man had broken into a sweat and had tears in his eyes when he started attaching the moving titanium rods, pins, and clamps to the ends of what muscles and tendons remained. He had to hold his breath and fight back a sharp wave of nausea as a long titanium screw was placed to marry the base plate to the sawed-off end of his humerus. Benjamin was both terrified and relieved to undo his makeshift tourniquet. No blood started gushing, or even dripping, from his arm, though. It was all the man could do to wrap the bandages around his arm and swallow a couple of painkillers before simply passing out. He could only hope that this would work – and console himself with the knowledge that he had done the best he could. "Did th'best I could, Doc," the Engineer murmured with a small, exhausted sigh, "at th'time, at least." The doctor gave a small chuckle at that – a somewhat fond sound that did not at all match the cold lack of expression on his face. "All zhings considered," he started, "it's very impressive. After all, it's vorking – und, you're still alive after…" "About a year, now," the Texan stated. His voice was considerably less strained than it had been, before, and the pain – the pain was still there, but it was something he could almost ignore. "Get some rest, Herr Wallace," the Medic said, leaving the TENS unit on the table and, for the moment, switched on. Benjamin heaved a sigh of relief, and offered the German a little nod, letting his eyelids slide shut, and trying to get settled in. "Thanks, Doc," he half-whispered. "Means th'world t'me."
Okay, seems sort of pointless, but I guess I'll post, anyway. ________________________ "Benjamin, this meant the world to me." He hated to see Madeline so upset – especially over this matter. At least Annabelle and Jonathan were out of the room, and hopefully wouldn't hear. "Now, darlin'-" "Don't you 'now darlin'' me, Benjamin," Madeline continued. "After all that happened – after all we've been through – after you promised…" after he had promised to call it quits with making, instead of just fixing. The redhead just remained quiet for the moment – remained sitting across the dining room table. He couldn't stop himself from clasping his hands on the table. Really, it was hard to get over the fact that he even could clasp his hands, again – that he had two hands with which to do so. "Take the glove off," Madeline started, giving a little sigh. "Please." Benjamin gave a small, hesitant nod at that. He had put the leather glove on for a reason – it gave, for the most part, the appearance of a normal hand. It also helped cushion, to some degree, the feeling of the steel it was concealing. Nevertheless, the glove came off. His wife just stared for a long moment before saying, "and the rest?" That just made the redhead hesitate, again – but he bit back a sigh, and unbuttoned his shirt before shrugging it off, revealing not just the entirety of his self-made prosthetic, but the leather harness lying over his undershirt. He had initially felt rather proud of his work, but with the way Madeline was looking at him, he mostly just felt self-conscious. The fact that she kept hesitating to reach out and touch his hand at all didn't make him feel any better. "Can you even feel that?" she asked when she finally did rest her hand – gingerly – on his. Benjamin heaved a sigh and shook his head just a little before saying, "no. Not really." He wished he could, but the pressure plates he had installed in the device needed a little more force exerted on them before they would register anything. He had gotten some feedback in a test where he had squeezed his artificial limb with his left hand – but a hand lightly resting there did absolutely nothing. "I can't quite hold a Styrofoam cup without at least dentin' it a little," the redhead started, quietly, "I ain't accidentally broken any glasses yet, though." No, their glassware was perfectly safe. The pressure plates under the rubber pads at his fingertips were more sensitive – and, any resistance to his grip provided a much more tangible pull and pressure on his remaining muscles and tendons, comparatively faint though it was. He had done a great deal of planning and testing to make sure there would be no accidents – hell, he could hold a fresh egg without cracking it (though the brooding hens hadn't been happy with him raiding the nests). "Doesn't it hurt?" Madeline asked, her eyes drifting up to where the bandaging was still wrapped around her husband's bicep – and the base plate. "Still sore from uh…" Benjamin trailed off, trying to choose the word that would frighten his wife the least, "from putting it on. But, it's a lot less painful'n it was." His 'post-op' pain had been awful, but nothing he couldn't contend with, especially once he actually had the prosthetic attached to its base plate. His arm had stopped hurting, then – that crushing feeling in a phantom limb had gone away with a speed that had surprised the man. It was more than he had ever expected, and that thought caused just a little smile to form on his face. His wife, however, did not smile. "Benjamin," she started, "someone threw a brick through our front window… while the kids were in the living room. What are people going to do when they see – when they see this?" "I can remove when we go out," the redhead insisted. "It comes off the base plate real easy, nobody'll ever know." There wasn't a moment's hesitation before Madeline said, "the kids will know. I'll know." Benjamin had hoped he would be able to win Madeline over – that maybe he could get her to see the situation as something anything better than some sort of disaster. She kept bringing it back around to his promise, though – a promise that he could never honestly deny that he'd broken. He had also, however, promised that he would do everything in his power to take care of the kids. He tried to explain that this would help matters – that with the use of two hands he could go back to repairing cars, or at least play a game of catch when Jonathan was old enough to throw. She said it wasn't enough. She said it was too risky – that someone was going to find out – that the loyalty committee was looming over him, again. And, what if it wasn't just him? What if they were both questioned? It wouldn't be much of a stretch from there to declare them unfit parents. Especially, Benjamin thought, if his old employer found out and got involved. He had been so careful, though. There had been no mail, no mysterious calls – just his inability to play with his kids, or finish even the most mundane tasks in a timely manner. The more he insisted that things would work out, the more Madeline insisted that they wouldn't. For every reason that Benjamin came up with that this was a good thing, she came up with two more that it was bad, and why hadn't he told her before he had done this to himself? "Because I was afraid," the redhead started, giving a hard swallow, "that you wouldn't approve." And he had been right – damned right, she insisted, through the tears that were starting to streak her face, and each one that fell just made Benjamin feel guiltier. "Benjamin, you're lucky you didn't die," Madeline stated. "What did you expect me to do if we came home from my mom and dad's, and you were layin' dead in the garage?" "But, I wasn't," Benjamin insisted. "Not this time, no," his wife retorted. "You were lucky – nobody stays that kinda' lucky forever, and how long before you decide you want to make an improvement?" "Darlin', s'fine just like this," the redhead insisted, gesturing to his arm – his new arm. "Right now it is," Madeline said with a small, tired sigh. "The second y'get your hands on somethin' better'n steel… what? You'll risk cuttin' on yourself again for an 'upgrade'?" "It's quite an upgrade, Herr," Engel murmured as he inspected the prosthetic laid out on the workbench. Benjamin had asked the Medic to come to the shop just to get a look at it, and felt a certain pride as it was inspected. It was quite the upgrade. No more surface plates made of steel – just lightweight, carefully-shaped carbon-fiber. The underlying frame, instead of being heavy steel, was a mixture of titanium alloys and more carbon-fiber composites. It had all the strength of steel – no – more than steel without being nearly so heavy. It also freed up a hell of a lot of room. "I see," the older man started, "zhat there is a new base plate, as vell." He picked up the object in question, and carefully inspected it. Benjamin knew he was intrigued, though – even if it didn't show on the man's face. "Yeah," he said with a little nod. "I had a lot of free space to upgrade electronics'n sensors. I had t'make a new base plate almost from th'ground up. Unfortunately, the old screw's gonna have to come out…" God, he wasn't looking forward to that. Putting it in had been bad enough – but, it had certainly done its job admirably. "Well," the doctor started, "it won't be ze most difficult operation I've ever done, but it will certainly be one of ze most interesting. Don't worry, that's a good zhing." The Engineer worried a hell of a lot less than he had that night in the garage – but, there was always the chance that something might go wrong. Nevertheless, he gave a little nod. At least this time the deed would be done in a sterile operating room, with proper equipment, and an actual medical doctor – or, he hoped Engel had a real medical degree. It was hard to know, really, given the company's hiring procedures, and the fact that the man had been issued a gun that fired toxin-filled syringes. "Well, Herr, whenever you’re ready." "Whenever you've got time, Doc." They all had a little extra time. McKinnon had indulged a little too heavily in his favorite scrumpy before the team's last skirmish and – well – it was amazing what an angry, black, one-eyed Scotsman could do with explosives when he was in the right state of mind. BLU was out two mercenaries – maybe three; their Sniper had been hauled off the field still alive, but with a considerable amount of shrapnel in him. He wasn't supposed to, but Benjamin silently hoped that the other team's Medic had managed to patch the sharpshooter up. His conscience was hurting enough, already – especially knowing that it was his sentry gun that had wound up, however unintentionally, chasing the small pack of BLUs right into the trap that McKinnon had placed. "I can have everyzhing prepped and ready by tomorrow morning," the Medic stated, before starting towards the shop door. He only paused in the doorway long enough to add, "zhat means, of course, that you will have to abstain from supper," before walking out.
Yay an update!
The End __________________ Benjamin Wallace was apparently going to abstain from supper. The meatloaf he'd made was getting cold, and the mashed potatoes were mostly just being pushed around by his fork. That was fine, he supposed – a pan of meatloaf that wound up being a meal for one meant plenty of leftovers. It felt strange eating at the table by himself. Madeline and the kids had left that morning, though, to go to Dallas. They were going to stay with her parents for 'the foreseeable future.' Signing the divorce papers had been painful for both of them. They were both upset leading up to that morning – vulnerable, even. He had the feeling that Madeline's mother had exploited that to pressure her into taking full custody. The woman had never liked him, especially after he'd been arrested for supposed treason. If she had her way, Madeline probably never would have even dated, let alone gotten married. Agnes had looked as though she could have strung him up right then and there when she had shown up that morning to help her daughter pack. She was even more wound up when she found out that he hadn't started to help her pack, already. He had tried, though. Madeline had refused – had asked him to get some rest before her mother arrived. Benjamin had insisted that she needed the rest more, and then they went round and round until he finally threw in the towel. He didn't want the marriage to end with an argument. Once the woman had shown up at the house, though, things had quickly gone downhill. There was no yelling, no – no thrown punches (no matter how tempted Benjamin had been) – but Agnes's underhanded comments were offered up in just the right manner to go over the kids' heads, and stab straight into him. Madeline hadn't said anything about it, though Ben could tell that she really wanted to. There had never really been any way to appease Agnes. Every time the woman had come to visit, there was every subtle indication in her mannerisms, tone, and expression that she didn't think Ben was doing well enough for her daughter. There was nothing to be done for it, though – he could only give all he had, and he already was. Taking care of the family was easy – getting along with her was not. She even found a reason to criticize the way he was carrying things out to her car. The redhead had needed to remove his prosthetic before the woman arrived, and hauling things from the house to the car without it wasn't impossible – but, it was difficult. Madeline was standing there when he walked back inside, and offered him just a small, weak smile. "Why don't y'take a rest," she offered. "You ought to go see the kids. I know it's a little late, but Jonathan's got a birthday present for you." Benjamin tried to protest – at least in order to continue helping – but was promptly shooed into the house. He managed to muster up a smile, at least, before walking into the kids' room. Annabelle was sitting on the edge of her bed next to her brother – whose entire head had nearly disappeared under a wide-brimmed black cowboy hat. It was a rather comical sight when he turned his head to face the sound of the door opening, and his father couldn't resist giving just a faint chuckle. "I think that might be just a little too big for you, pardner," he said, delicately plucking it up off of the boy's head. Jonathan apparently thought this was hilarious, and broke down into a fit of giggles. It was infectious, really, and Benjamin actually managed to smile just a little more as he sat on the bed next to the boy and his sister, putting the hat on his own head. Perfect fit – and a Stetson, to boot; he'd always wanted one. Of course he appreciated the gift, but there were more pressing matters at hand. Jonathan was young enough that the gravity of the situation wouldn't weigh on him – not like it would weigh on his sister. "You alright, princess?" he asked as he looked to Annabelle. The look on her face said 'no', and he hated to see that. Things certainly didn't get any better when she fell against his side and started sniffling. Ben put his arm around her, of course, and rubbed her back a little before extending his reach to hug Jonathan as well. The boy wasn't upset – saw no reason to be – but it did make his father feel better. Benjamin and his wife had tried explaining to their daughter the best they could why they were – why they were going their separate ways. He'd never imagined he would face such tough questions from a seven year old; 'why are you getting divorced?' 'do you not love us anymore?' 'if you do love us, then why are we leaving?' It was the last question that kept chasing its tail inside of Benjamin's head as he continued pushing his mashed potatoes around. They had long since gone cold, of course. Ben usually loved good mashed potatoes, but, given his mood, they hadn't looked appetizing to begin with. Yes, he would definitely be abstaining from dinner. He felt a lot of things, right then, and not one of them was 'hungry'. He felt tense, and nauseous, and terrified, and lost, and, more than anything, he felt tired. He felt more tired with every breath he took, and the Engineer was fairly certain that it had more to do with the anesthetic than anything else. It was proper anesthetic, too – not some Novocain and a few ice packs. What a relief. He had a (probably) real doctor, too, and that was another vast improvement on the redhead's attempt at self-surgery. How strange. Last time Benjamin had started to black out like this, he'd woken up missing one arm. Now, he expected to wake up with a new one. He was fading fast, too; the beeping of the heart monitor was distant and hazy, same as the Medic's voice, calmly telling him to breathe normally. 'Normal' wasn't a word that could be used to describe his home, now – not unless a pseudo-military base housing eight other mercenaries, each crazier than the last, could be considered 'normal'. Then again, Benjamin's life hadn't been normal since he had taken that job with the DoD , let alone had his arm taken, and decided to make a new one. He believed, in a way, that meant he fit right in at the base. It was slowly growing on him, really, and he supposed that in time he might actually start to see it as a home. It was certainly more of a home than Grape Creek had been in the last several months. Nobody there questioned his career choice, or knew (or, perhaps, cared) that he had been branded as a ‘Communist traitor.’ Very seldom was he bothered in the shop, and he was given materials to work with that the DoD had only just started to toy with. Nobody complained about him using those materials to create things, either – so long as they served the base, somehow. Most of the other mercenaries were like him, too. Sokov, their Heavy Weapons Specialist, was running from the Soviet regime – Benjamin could relate to that. McKinnon was running from boredom and society’s legal restrictions on the use of explosives for entertainment. Their Scout was running – faster than others, perhaps – from a broken home. Alright, the Pyro just seemed to be there because they liked to set things on fire, and their Sniper had openly and shamelessly admitted that he was a ‘big game hunter’ looking for more excitement and a bigger paycheck. The Spy, as far as Benjamin could tell, was exactly that – that might have just been another disguise in his arsenal, though. And, ‘Sarge’? Well, okay, he was running to the opportunity to be given military-grade weapons, and finish what he’d ‘started with the goddamn Nazis.’ Benjamin doubted the man had ever set foot in Germany, though – he was more than a little off his rocker; perhaps he was running from an intrepid bunch of social workers. The man was filled with an amazingly strong, and disturbingly familiar patriotic zeal, and at first, the Engineer had expected him to blow their Medic’s head off in the middle of the mess hall. The doctor had a way with people, though. His face was a frozen mask, and his eyes were always cold – but he always had the right tone and right things to say to get Sarge to peacefully back out of any of his rants. Everyone had theories on the Medic; why he was there, if he was a real doctor, his employment history. He was like a suit of armor, though – an impenetrable cover that only vaguely outlined what was underneath. All the suits of armor that Benjamin had ever seen had been empty, though; the doctor often seemed the same. Then again, perhaps he was an even better actor than their Spy – it was impossible to tell. Benjamin, though – he knew he’d been running from an empty home with too many memories that were, now, more painful than comforting. Things had gotten worse when he’d tried to pull money from his bank account, something he could send to Madeline and the kids, only to discover that his former employers had seen to it to freeze his assets. He had expected the police to arrest him for another ‘investigation’ as he left the bank, or to tail him home and arrest him there. There were no police waiting for him at home, though; just a letter. It was the first thing to come through the mail in months that hadn’t been cut open and at least partially redacted. It was a job offer – one for a position that, eerily enough, seemed almost tailor-made for his circumstances. He would get to fix things – make things – work with the most advanced materials there were to offer. They didn’t care about any criminal records, or investigations. They didn’t care about his past, at all, barring his education and abilities. They did, however, offer to go over the Department of Defense to unfreeze his assets and, on top of that, offer a paycheck bigger than anything his former employers had ever given him. He’d have more than enough money to send both kids to college and set Madeline up for life in less than a year. All he had to do was survive that long. For the moment, however, he had nothing to worry about. He had just to fall asleep, and let the Medic do the work that no other doctor had been willing or able to. It was a comfort that for the first time in a long time, when he woke up… …things would be better.
This is sad and depressing and very, very good. Awesome work, seriously. This needs more attention. I just want to give poor Ben a hug and kick some goddamned sonsabitches for him. You did a really good job writing him, to be certain. And now I will go and check out your other writings...
>>14 Thank you so much for the kind words. This was a labor of love, and a chance for me to jump back into some serious writing, so I'm glad that someone enjoyed it. I think First Do no Harm and Comorbidity have been pushed to the back page of /fanfic. Oh well.
I really, really enjoyed this story, and I also appreciate it being an expansion of the universe set in your other fics. Throughout the entirety of it, I really feel for Ben, in all of his circumstances...and really, not just him. I feel for Madeline and how difficult everything was for her, and for their children as well. I also really liked the small insight into the rest of the team and their situations. (In the mention of different team members running from different things, adding that Scout was running faster than others really made me smile.) I can't say I have much to offer in terms of concrit, though I would mention that occasionally, the memories of the past and the current happenings aren't very clear-cut...they go straight from one to the other without any sort of indication that a time shift has taken place. Don't get me wrong, I really like the way these shifts transition into one another with similar ideas. I just think a break of some sort between them would really help, since it's a little jarring to just continue reading and all of a sudden realize that the scene changed entirely. The chapter breaks serve this purpose well, but within the chapters, a break of some sort would be helpful. On much smaller notes... "Mister Wallace," it started, steady, and even, and business -like, just like Benjamin remembered his boss. The repetition of "like" here is a bit distracting. I think "as" instead of the second "like" might flow a bit better. In the last chapter, something about the use of abstain doesn't quite click for me. I mean, I understand that it's the same sort of transition from current to past, but...I guess it just seems an odd way to phrase it. This probably isn't of great importance, but just my two cents. Anyway, I hope this was helpful to you in some way. I also hope to see more stories from you, in this universe or not.
oh my god that was really great. also: "Well, Doc," the Texan started, "I must admit you have me stumped." pfffhafhsdaihsdfjihsd
Careful with the bumping. At least this story's finished, so you're less likely to get complaints for getting people's hopes up for an update.