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An introduction in which Tailor is annoying and Callahan is annoyed. Life as it usually is.

Initial Setting: Medbay away from humanity

Timeline: before the teg rp with Hercules



Dr. Tailor seems to be taste-testing whatever he's got in his mug, right down the whole hall, squinting like he can't decide whether it's awful or terrible. Maybe he'd sneak some good caffeine in on the goods requisition form... someone else is in the medbay when he gets back. "Oh now hold on - I was starting to think the new staff we'd hired weren't arriving. Are you a medic?" he seems nice enough for his surprise.


Callahan squints up at his apparent colleague from a tiny hill of patient's journals he's shamelessly helped himself to. Reading files about them beats getting to know the cheery twats firsthand, even though half of them are ridiculously full of half-truths at best and aggravatingly sparse at worst (there is one such file belonging to a Mister Doe who surely fancies himself quite the smug little chucklefuck). Although Callahan won’t escape having to make a half-hearted attempt at socialising with said colleagues. “I’m a fuckin’ hobo they dressed up in labcoats an’ promised clean sheets in return fer remberin’ t’not reuse th’ dirty syringes. Though by the standards around here, that’s prob’ly enough to qualify as a medic. So in a word, yes.”


Dr. Tailor stands there a moment, not particularly phased but taking a moment to process how much of that was horseshit. Most of it probably, he decides. "Considering you actually /showed up/," and he mumbles more quickly, glancing away, "and we use the dirty ones for ammo - ...yes, that's probably more qualified than some of the blokes we've hired." he walks over to the pile of folders, thumbing the edges of a few. "Gotten to mine, yet?" he kind of hopes not.


Callahan "Would ye be th' German jobbie who keeps his spare change in his head, or th' British bloke who obviously cut his stiff upper lip on his starch'd collar?" He glares down at the papers as if they've managed to personally insult him somehow. "Nay? Then I've saved ya fer last, fella. It'll be a treat m'sure."


Dr. Tailor on the exterior, a slow little pursed-lip smile as he keeps thumbing through the likely not-nosed-through-yet pile - seems to be the only thing this new medic has in abundance other than skinny and angry. 'Spare change' HAH. "Oh good; it's a waste of time anyway." finding his own, he takes it quietly. "Zachary Tailor. And that would be a massive Nazi and your new boss you described."


Callahan A Nazi. Quaint. At the very least he can probably trust the blonde scowling mountainrange of racial purity to have things done on time. "T'be sure, yer charmin' pers'nality will event'ally outshine anythin' that's written in there anyroad," Callahan comments and fishes out a file at random, not really interested in the other's self-protectiveness.


Dr. Tailor huffs lightly in amusement, and sips at his coffee while he looks for the requisition papers. "I highly doubt that." This guy's complete contempt for everyone was so far more approachable than any of his other coworkers... at least the medics. Julian doesn't count, "So which one are you? We've already got an Irish one."


Callahan "Th' backup Irish."


Dr. Tailor seems to have his attention annoyingly preoccupied with the filing cabinets. "Works for me, Aberdeen only lets the accent out when he's pissed anyhow. You got a name, Doctor Formerly Homeless?"


Callahan flips open the journal and peruses the contents. It proves to be completely fockin' empty, not even a 'funny' attempt at shit-and-corn obvious lies in there, even. Jasusdammit, now that's just offensively /lazy/. This Hercules Hall fella's got another bloody thing coming for fuckin' sure. He doesn't look up, but grumbles: "Callahan," like he's biting into something particularly sour.


Dr. Tailor siiiiip. He settles for 'definitely awful'. "...if you dislike it so much, pen something else down in your files." everyone else seems to anyway.


Callahan "Don' have anythin' else left," Callahan replies matter-of-factly, and continues swiftly: "Plus, it might be th' common pastime t'treat these things as pers'nal colouring books or write-yer-own-adventure dealies, bu' really, 'a rose by any o'er name' 's still gon' get trod on by an unaware cow er summat poetry lark."


Dr. Tailor has found himself some papers to fill out along with some blank sheets, and uses his medical file folder as a clipboard while he hijacks the nearest unoccupied wheeled chair. The coffee can stay with Callahan. "You're a little skinny for a cow, mate."


Callahan "Yous a biteen yappy fer an office rat." A skinny spider-leg-like finger taps with distate at the coffee. "Go an' git yer sewer shite outta my vicinity."


Dr. Tailor peers up from is papers. Somehow he's began doodling spiders instead of actually filling out this form. "...so it really /is/ that awful. I thought my taste buds had finally given up." He pushes the chair once to the desk, gets his coffee, and pushes it again to wheel over to the sink. Clunk. "Office-rat. Hmh." beats the hell out of lab rat, he muses.


Callahan "It smells like hell's gunpowder," Callahan grouses quietly and clicks the pen once for emphasis.


Dr. Tailor can't even make heads or tails of the requisition form, someone else has already placed requests and he /cant read it/. "How would you even know what that smells like."


Callahan "I'd rather not know how, that's th' bloody point o' ye no' leavin' that crap aroun'." He makes a tiny mental note to shove the empty folder into Hall's face the next time he sees him and to probably even try to do something about the missing information after he's done bitching at the useless sod.


Dr. Tailor has a perfectly good folder and such to hide a half-contained chuckle, and he's not even using it. "So I take it 'good coffee' /hasn't/ been written on this list yet. ...You want anything? Large clothespin to keep the devil's arse out?"


Callahan "A sponge big enou' to shut yer gob an' soap up all yer dirty fuckin' ideas." It doesn't really matter what the other, stocky medic said. Callahan's been reading the journal of that hands-grabby little red-head (Gladys NoNameGiven; a common theme) and what's in there isn't exactly fucking cheerful.


Dr. Tailor actually writes down 1 box of sponges, we'll just have to see what Callahan say when that shows up on his desk. "Mmkay. ...mm I better make that three boxes, that'll be one for me, two for you." and one more broken teammate, it seems. He'll have to see if Callahan actually penned anything in his own medical folder later.


Callahan flips over the document and squints at the photographs. Then closes the folder. Absolutely nothing new under the sun. They just get younger and younger. And more freckled. That counts, somehow. "Yous considered th' funny one in th' office, aye?" he asks.


Dr. Tailor wonders if this actually constitutes a nice chat in Callahan's line of work. He shrugs lightly, "You seem to think so."


Callahan plays with the pen. Ponders if he's got the patience to open another likely disaster of a patient's folder. "Nay. I was wonderin'. When th' funny /wou'd/ be rearin' its head. I feel snubb'd, ye ken," he replies, blankly.


Dr. Tailor doodles a rather sketchy still life, if you can call Callahan and a mount of folders 'life'. "I'm /hurt/! ...I hope your medigun fixes feelings." He keeps scratching away without looking up. He really has no potential as an artist.


Callahan "Might as well ask fer a sloppy kiss on yer emotional boo-boo. I's no' got the foggiest abou' that... wossname. Medigun." Medical gun. The oxymoron just seems ill-boding.


Dr. Tailor draws little Frankenstein bolts and a unibrow on before scribbling out the entire thing, this was stupid. He's looking up at the clock wondering when his watch shift starts, but not for a long while. "Euuuh. So they /haven't/ mentioned that to you yet." oh good, maybe we can hate something together.


Callahan "Not in sae many words, no," Callahan grumbles. Guns that you aim at people and they trot off, good as new? What has the world come to. It's fuckin'... odd. "They be sayin' it fixes 'em right up. Point the open end at a screamin' bloody mess annit turns back inta a screamin' bloodfrenzied soldier? It's fockin' mental, that is."


Dr. Tailor winces through a grin, sarcastically relishing how awesome mediguns are. "They just..." he shakes his head grinning, "Make everything you went through medschool for a complete waste of time, so you can hurry up and hurt yourself again." up until this point he hasn't appeared to genuinely dislike anything.


Callahan "I don' mind bein' a walkin' instant-bandaid carrier. Tha' seems at least like somethin' to earn yer keep for. Bu' I'll be bettin' those quick-fixes don't teach those trigger-happy asshats out there a modicum o' caution," Callahan continues, frowning off the side at the far wall, already seeing problems with seemingly wondrous technology left and right.


Dr. Tailor significantly faster on that judgement than he was anticipating. "Mm, no. No we pretty much shoot stupidity encouragement." he peers at his own medical file, everything in there memorized, but still. "So I take it they also haven't told you about respawn?" he's beginning to wonder why Callahan is even here.


Callahan "They tol' me. I just don'..." fuckin' believe it before I see it. Or, as might be a lot more likely, feel it.


Dr. Tailor mouths a little 'oooh' and looks away like that hurt. "Okay well at least you read the contract before signing it." funny things happen when your options are bad or worse and the difference is a piece of paper.


Callahan The thinner man drums the table a mite impatiently. "Mighta been poor but no' blind. Or clinically stupid. Speakin' o', tha' 'shootin' stupidity encouragement'? Might suspect that's jus' a passin' phase."


Dr. Tailor leers over the top of his glasses. "What, like puberty? ...Hasn't passed /yet/." people aren't designed to function with all the big consequences missing.


Callahan "Might it have been too much to ask tha' what passes for adults here do try t'remind th' smallerminded that consequences is a thing that exists." Callahan's returns his gaze to a new journal. The one of a certain fellow Irishman who' built to break bones with his eyebrows, he suspects. He wonders where the matching perpetrator is the one belonging to that Scandinavian looking - and sounding - little fist-toting shrew.


Dr. Tailor pauses, quietly. Rather than look confused he takes the time to process that. "no, that's - that's the point I'm trying to make. Respawn and mediguns doesn't solve injuries it solves consequence. ...what did you think I was saying?"


Callahan "Tha' might be th' accen't gettin ev'rythin' a little crossroads," Callahan replies and rolls his eyes at Zach and the 98% percent of the world who don't possess the higher brain functions necessary to untangle the semantic and linguistic trainwreck that is his Irish-Scottish dialect. "S'pose nobody e'er thought t'use these things fer something else than this ruddy smallscale gladiator ring."


Dr. Tailor sighs. Creatively calling him stupid, are you? How novel. "Hhmhm, no. I rather think if this saw respectable use, somebody would lose money over it." he twists his chair in place. "What I don't understand is why they bother hiring doctors to aim the damn contraptions."


Callahan scans the patient's journal quickly and answers disinterestedly. "In theory," he begins, "doctors be trained to skim o'er such sights as a half-open ribcage wi'out much ado about nothin'. Suppose th' stiffs in charge thought it'd be sensible to have people carryin' medgiuns who wouldn't throw them away in disgust er likewise throw their lunch on th' job."


Dr. Tailor taps the pen against his teeth with a hollow little 'tok'. "...suppose that explains Eberhardt." Haha, that explains nothing. He wheels over to Callahan's desk again and flips through curiously. "Wasn't someone on staff a pediatrician though..."


Callahan "O'course. Dis looks like bloody kindergarten already... just needed th' pedagogues..." Callahan mumbles, but watches the flipped-through journals keenly.


Dr. Tailor par for the course, he can't actually find Julian's file in here to confirm his own curiosity. "Hhhm." he finds Harvey's, but decides to leave it right where it is in the stack while Callahan just.... watches. He slowly turns to look up, quite aware of the surveillance. "Is that why you're here then?" that damn smile's back and he pushes some space between him and the desk.


Callahan returns the look blankly. This colleague of his, with the nicking of his own journal, the subtle inquiries and prods, and now a direct poke in the guts -- he's got the hints of the workings of a mind of someone who likes to keep secrets and poke at other people's so they'll clam up and skitter away. It's not surprising. Everyone's got secrets. Everyone's gots ways to make 'em stay secret.


Callahan purses his lips in pretend-thoughtfulness. "I'm here because no-one else wou'd hire me," he says matter-of-factly.


Dr. Tailor blinks once or twice, well that's obvious and doesn't explain anything. He expected a non-reply though. "...yeh, that happens."


Callahan "Suppose ye were wantin' somethin' else but th' awfully obvious?" Callahan asks blithely.


Dr. Tailor shrugs slowly, hands up still holding papers. Can't blame him for trying. "It was worth a shot."


Callahan "Worth what? I's got nothin' t'hide. I'm poor. Need a job. Need a place t'sleep that ain't the street. Done deal."


Dr. Tailor "Maybe I'm just curious about who I'm to work with...?" a notable weight of 'duh' to his tone. "Shame about the homeless bit though." he doubts that's fact. Also his doubts. Enough of that, self.


Callahan "That'll all be on the files," Callahan replies with an equal amount of 'duh'. "An' ye won't e'en have to wade through me accent t'get at those bits o' information," he adds meaningfully.


Dr. Tailor chuckles as he flicks his hand at the air, "Oh come off it, it's not /that/ hard." he shuffles the papers again and adds a couple more items to the requisition form. Thankfully not more sponges.


Callahan Callahan leans back and stacks the papers somewhat neatly. "Och, if I's had a ha' penny fer ev'ry time a woman said that t'me..." he snarks.


Dr. Tailor turns very slowly to look at Callahan, his face trying very hard not to dissolve into laughter. "It's a damn good thing I'm not a woman then. Wouldn't want to be the first, you know?"


Callahan Some sort of weird facial twist happens near Callahan's mouth. Could be suspected of being a smile, or the symptom of a snapped synapse. "That goes both ways, fuzzykins. I'd ne'er think t'deflower ye, that'd be a jobbie fer men o' less repute than I."


Dr. Tailor awkwardly touches to his face as if wiping a stray tear away. "I just want to be /loved/~" he can barely keep a straight face through this stupid act.


Callahan "They don' sell your kinda love cheap, an' wi' our sort o' paycheck, ye better be savin' up if yous longin' fer a sweet, candle-light first time, fuzzycheeks," Callahan says, deadpan, and shifts a few papers into a marginally-less-messy pile. It's not saying much, honestly.


Dr. Tailor is this a game of chicken? He doesn't want to make this into discussing Callahan's relationship habits, in turn. Not particularly. Hmm. "Okay, okay, enough of the lovey-dovey wooing, I can't tell if you're trying to insult or compliment me."


Callahan "That's up to you, mate. I try not ta judge, regardless o' yer preferences," Callahan replies calm as balls and puts away formulas into corresponding folders.


Dr. Tailor has snapped between degrees of sarcastic spazzy behaviour to very deadpan. The whole act adds up to a pile of very-difficult-to-insult. "Is, is. -is it the beard? It's okay, that's fine, people just. you know. It's okay if you like it. I'm not interested-" he has his hands up signalling for personal space despite being a good ten feet away, "But I'm not bothered. Really."


Callahan doesn't look up from the files. "That sounds great, honeymuffin. Expect a bouquet of long-stemmed roses next payday."


Dr. Tailor rubs at his mouth, hiding what remnants of a laugh could possibly sneak through. "You read the file for that one spy with the roses? I'd be careful. Don't want him to get jealous." he's serious about the spy though. From what he's seen, the guy's probably a nutter.


Callahan clicks his tongue. "Poofy fop don't have a mouse's diddy o' semblance o' humour. Our love cou'd ne'er be."


Dr. Tailor "I think he's married to those flowers anyhow. Loyal man, that." some of the gossip on base was /absurd/ but part of him doesn't doubt the weirdest things to be the true things. "...so. Candlelight dinner?" at this point he's just passing time; he has no misguided beliefs Callahan is going to do anything interesting besides dislike him on principal. Serious conversation would likely wind up a dead end, or right back where they were now.


Callahan sniffs in disdain. "I think we shou'd get to know each other a li'l better foirst, don' ye?" he says with a tone of voice that clearly implies he's not particularly interested either way.


Dr. Tailor "Oh absolutely, sunshine. Don't want to break any hearts." he doesn't miss a beat. ...Not sure if still nonsense of veiled threat somehow though. "you... you have one of those right?"


Callahan taps his mouth with the end of a ballpoint pen. "I was goin' to see th' wizard abou' it one day, but y'know how it is. Things jus' pile up an' ye ne'er get 'round to it. Maybe we kin go together one day... get you--"


Dr. Tailor points a finger at Callahan with a snap, "I already have my fabulous shoes, and seeing as we're already in Kansas, why go home?" he has to wonder if Callahan was going to imply he was the scarecrow though. Now he'll never know.


Callahan drums fingers on the table, mildly bored. "Home is where the snark is."


Dr. Tailor leans further back in his office chair. "You make it sound inescapable. ...Of course, you also said as much you didn't have a home." he squints as if that makes this confusing.


Callahan scribbles something with a too-loose wrist that goes clackety-clack with wild abaondon. "So?"


Dr. Tailor oh way to suck the fun out if it. "Yea. ...So." he rolls his wrist experimentally. Only thing he has that makes that much noise is his nose, and it needs a good helping hand to crack like that.


Callahan apparantly killed the joke of a conversation they had going. He's not too worried. Tailor seems like the bloke who talks for all and probably can do fine with something vaguely humanlike to vomit words at. It's a good thing Callahan is most kindly described as 'vaguely humanlike'. It's like it's meant to be. "Here's good as anywhere. Beats th' homeless shelter by a few clean sheets that's fer fockin' sure."


Dr. Tailor gets that sensation he's being scrutinized again. Well no shit, stupid, you're standing right there inviting attention again. Of course if his role gets cemented as verbal punching bag the conversations ought to remain in it's twilight of shallow honesty. Good. He could cope with that. "Less bedbugs, aye? Don't see where you could keep them, with a frame like that."


Callahan "Ye wou'd be surpris'd. An' mildly disgusted."


Dr. Tailor kind of wonders if Callahan's serious, then decides it wouldn't matter either way. "I'm sure you'll fit right in despite the smuggling."


Callahan "As ye already so keenly pointed out, wi' a frame like mine, I'll fit anywhere. Shite, fold me up like a cheap apartment bed an' I'll sleep in th' broom closet. I's not bloody picky," he grumbles and thumbs through a few folders.


Dr. Tailor still leans further in his chair, these things aren't comfortable. He's run out of ideas for the request form finally. "Pretty sure you were assigned a room, same as the rest of the weirdos we hired. Might be a bit big, with only one roommate, so don't panic or anything." he rambles it off like it's all normal business. ...it kind of is.


Callahan Callahan waves a dismissive hand. "Seen him. Not lookin' impressive. Then again, here? No' much is."


Dr. Tailor doesn't really want to ask questions with actual answers but this one isn't personal enough to think over. "...so who's been shafted with your congenial presence?" his chair's rotated again so he peeks over his own shoulder to see, heaven forbid he exert the effort to turn the damn thing back again.


Callahan pulls out a form and starts to jot down a few notes. "This awkward piece o' lad, long and ungainly, spots like a dalmatian. Great big bandage on his head, t'keep his mind from wanderin' out o' it, I'd wager."


Dr. Tailor pieces that together quicker than he'd like to. He lazily tries to get a look at Callahan's face again and nearly loses his perch in his chair finally. He seats himself again like it's the chair's fault. "...oh. Lucky."


Callahan "Don' know if I am. Don' know 'im." Scribbles on, ignoring Tailor's awkward adventures on the innocent chair. "Do you?"


Dr. Tailor could go for a cigarette, and promptly feels like a bit of a tool for how obvious that stress behaviour is. He puts it out of his mind for now, "Yea, we're friends. Or something like it. He's phenomenally good at not shooting his own teammates." a comment he lets slip considering he can see Callahan's got Ace's folder handy.


Callahan "If th' lad can take two seconds to aim th' gun at the right people, he prolly has better patience than most on base," is the onyl comment Callahan drops before perusing the file with a slight frown. There's a criss-cross of different handwritings in the file; different doctors, too many different doctors. Endless amount of transfers, most likely.


Dr. Tailor "mmh. Sounds about right. just... go easy on 'im, yea? He's... zzhhm-" he rolls his hand trying to think of how to put it. There's more doubt in Callahan than there is mercy for Harvey occupying his voice, "euhh you'll see his folder soon enough." He figures getting up and leaving now would just look like he was hiding something, and he is. He makes a note to himself in the form of roughly-rendered bars of music.


Callahan There's a few moments of silence, only occupied by the faint scratches of pencil on paper and Callahan's bony fingers tapping the paper piles."He's me roommate. Wou'd be sensible to at least attempt t'be civil," the scratchy voice eventually pipes up. Not like he owes the bearded doctor any sorts of half-arsed reassurances. But there is something in that silence that seems to invite it.


Dr. Tailor breathes for a moment, contentedly distracted with whatever he's working on from the looks of it. "Wouldn't try the wizard of Oz jokes on him, if that falls under your purview of civility." damn, he isn't sure who's managed to drop more pointless facts by now. Or unfortunately honest ones. "What were you even going to call me anyway? Brainless?" Part of him feels he ought to be worrying about the batch of tinder sitting beside all that paperwork, but the man's doing a fine job implying he isn't worth the effort. It kind of sucks that the longest conversation he's had in a while is with another medic using the same shitty social tactics he does.


Callahan "I don' get th' feelin' yer lackin' like th' lion did," Callahan replies and closes the folder calmly.


Dr. Tailor "Any rustier and you're going to start squeaking." annnnd we're back to safe derailment.


Callahan "Well, I think we're done fer today," Callahan replies, monotone, and lovingly shoves the files into an unruly bunch, obviously for Tailor to sort out. "Bitch at ya, tomorrow, fuzzies. I'm sure it'll be jus' as pointless. Cannae wait."


Dr. Tailor looks up like that finally got his attention. "I'll mark it on my calendar," in an admission of equal boredom, noting the papers are staying firmly in a mess. Damnit all. "Cheers."


Callahan "Meh." And with that teary goodbye, Callahan shuffles out of the doctor's office, way out of Tailor's hair, and considerably fuzzy beard as well.

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