Big Corp only calls him in when somebody fucks up. Augmented "agents" are always thinking they're God. Throw a new pair of hypoallergenic, industrial metal in someone's arms, legs, lungs, and they think the world is theirs.
There's seventy-nine floors in the building because sponsors wanted builders to skip the thirteenth. The elevator ride up seems slow only because Reggie is left leaning against the back corner of the box and watching the blinking buttons as he rises. The display at the top ticks: thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five.
Finch smells like an ashtray and has a potty mouth. You can't miss 'im.
A part of him wishes he could get a few years off his sentence just for running a patch-up on the other guys. As if working his way around electronics isn't enough--bombs, hackers, mass-murdering domestic terrorists too poor to afford the zombie prescription and too hyped up on the illegal ones.
The NSA wasn't joking around. When he's deposited on the sixtieth floor, he can smell cigarette smoke lingering in the office with no opening windows.
Naturally, Reggie didn't know what to expect. Everyone is different, but most guys here are loud, brash, and built like a freight carrier. The ones who do the dirty work.
The legs stretching to the desk are lean, the shoes too casual, not steel-toed boots. Carefully, he reaches up and flips the light switch on the side of the wall, banishing the darkness and the city light filtering in through the windows. Wow. Definitely not the run of the mill criminal.
Man, what Jesse would pay for a pair of hypoallergenic industrial metal lungs. Then he'd never have to worry about lecturing ever again. You keep smoking and you'll get cancer - yeah, yeah, whatever. He doesn't care. He's stuck in this hole of a company for the next forty years of his life anyway, might as well dick over the Man by dying early, right? Right.
Jesse's got a lit cigarette and a nice view, and he's having a great time with both of them. Granted, it'd be better if his left arm actually worked, but whatever. That's what the tech guy is for. He glances over his shoulder when he hears that voice, flashing a quick grin and a two fingered salute at the newcomer. With his working arm, of course. His working, still human arm - the one with all his originalink still in place. His other arm's made to look real, and he's got the same amount of sensation there, plus all his old tattoos transferred over to the synthetic skin, but. There's really nothing like human nerves.
"Sup," Jesse hums, tilting his head back. He looks the tech over for a moment, grinning. "Fuck. Wouldn't mind getting a physical from you, Mr. Doctor. You got a name?"
The bluntness makes him laugh. He's just gonna have to start taking the NSA's word more often.
"Parnell," he says, shifting the duffle bag from his shoulder and dropping it in a close chair. "Reggie Parnell. I don't do the physicals, though. License is a fraud. Physicals belong to the six-foot tow truck in Security. The one with the mustache"--he doesn't know if Jesse knows who he's referring to, so--"and the bald spot, and the gut."
He nods his head and half points at the non-responsive arm. The integrity of a man who puts tattoos on synthetic flesh; he wonders if they are new additions or duplications. Hobby curiosity. "I figure I don't have to tell you that it isn't gonna feel great.
Okay, but Mr. Reggie Parnell has a good sense of humor, which means Jesse is even more immediately endeared to him.
"Hey. Don't kinkshame me. Maybe I'm into boys like you and bald spots," Jesse hums. As for the rest of it, he sort of just shrugs. "Job hazard. Sometimes you go in to beat the ass of some fuckface who can't be bothered to respect a lady, and sometimes that fuckface knows how to break a synth arm in two seconds flat."
Both hands fold up in surrender. He'd be a liar if he said a part of him wasn't embarrassed.
A good distraction is to just fumble around with opening the duffle bag. "Let me guess," he says, then pauses like he's organizing his thoughts, "they didn't bother to offer you an extension on reducing your sentence for it."
First things out of the bag aren't so bad: a zipper pouch likely full of small things like screwdrivers or pliers for fine-tuning, a little can of liquid grease, a clip-on magnifying lense and flashlight combo.
But then he pulls out a miniature, electric handsaw. The blade has a cap on it, and he puts it on the table without any commentary before going back to digging a few more odds and ends out of the bag. A pair of gloves that won't conduct any kind of static electricity.
"How far up it go?" he asks. "Elbow? Bicep? Shoulder?"
"Do they ever?" Jesse responds idly, watching Reggie dig through his bag. He raises an eyebrow at the electric handsaw.
"It uh - it goes up to the shoulder, but if you're planning on cutting it off, m'gonna have to ask for a second opinion, dude." Seriously. Please don't cut his android arm off.
A funny smile turns Reggie's lips up--very Mona Lisa like. He doesn't look up from organizing the things around on the table, and he zips the duffle bag after.
"Careful. Most doctors don't like their patients trying to get second opinions." He opens the small pouch and rolls up his sleeves. Finally, his eyes glance at Jesse. "Don't worry. S'not for you. It's for me. Well, I guess it's for you, but only if you try anything stupid." The back of his heel catches the closest chair, and he slides it toward the adjacent edge of the table while sitting down.
The palm of his hand gently slaps the top of the table, beckoning Jesse to put the metal arm up, and he clips the magnifying lens-flashlight combo to his ear. "Let's see how bad of a job your previous doctor was." The scalpel he takes out of the pouch, he twirls a little between his fingers. "I'm gonna cut the synthetic as best as I can--it's expensive. We'll peel it off, then stick it back on, and I'll patch it. You won't even be able to tell."
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There's seventy-nine floors in the building because sponsors wanted builders to skip the thirteenth. The elevator ride up seems slow only because Reggie is left leaning against the back corner of the box and watching the blinking buttons as he rises. The display at the top ticks: thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five.
Finch smells like an ashtray and has a potty mouth. You can't miss 'im.
A part of him wishes he could get a few years off his sentence just for running a patch-up on the other guys. As if working his way around electronics isn't enough--bombs, hackers, mass-murdering domestic terrorists too poor to afford the zombie prescription and too hyped up on the illegal ones.
The NSA wasn't joking around. When he's deposited on the sixtieth floor, he can smell cigarette smoke lingering in the office with no opening windows.
Naturally, Reggie didn't know what to expect. Everyone is different, but most guys here are loud, brash, and built like a freight carrier. The ones who do the dirty work.
The legs stretching to the desk are lean, the shoes too casual, not steel-toed boots. Carefully, he reaches up and flips the light switch on the side of the wall, banishing the darkness and the city light filtering in through the windows. Wow. Definitely not the run of the mill criminal.
"Doctor's in."
no subject
Jesse's got a lit cigarette and a nice view, and he's having a great time with both of them. Granted, it'd be better if his left arm actually worked, but whatever. That's what the tech guy is for. He glances over his shoulder when he hears that voice, flashing a quick grin and a two fingered salute at the newcomer. With his working arm, of course. His working, still human arm - the one with all his original ink still in place. His other arm's made to look real, and he's got the same amount of sensation there, plus all his old tattoos transferred over to the synthetic skin, but. There's really nothing like human nerves.
"Sup," Jesse hums, tilting his head back. He looks the tech over for a moment, grinning. "Fuck. Wouldn't mind getting a physical from you, Mr. Doctor. You got a name?"
no subject
"Parnell," he says, shifting the duffle bag from his shoulder and dropping it in a close chair. "Reggie Parnell. I don't do the physicals, though. License is a fraud. Physicals belong to the six-foot tow truck in Security. The one with the mustache"--he doesn't know if Jesse knows who he's referring to, so--"and the bald spot, and the gut."
He nods his head and half points at the non-responsive arm. The integrity of a man who puts tattoos on synthetic flesh; he wonders if they are new additions or duplications. Hobby curiosity. "I figure I don't have to tell you that it isn't gonna feel great.
"How'd you bust it?"
no subject
"Hey. Don't kinkshame me. Maybe I'm into boys like you and bald spots," Jesse hums. As for the rest of it, he sort of just shrugs. "Job hazard. Sometimes you go in to beat the ass of some fuckface who can't be bothered to respect a lady, and sometimes that fuckface knows how to break a synth arm in two seconds flat."
no subject
A good distraction is to just fumble around with opening the duffle bag. "Let me guess," he says, then pauses like he's organizing his thoughts, "they didn't bother to offer you an extension on reducing your sentence for it."
First things out of the bag aren't so bad: a zipper pouch likely full of small things like screwdrivers or pliers for fine-tuning, a little can of liquid grease, a clip-on magnifying lense and flashlight combo.
But then he pulls out a miniature, electric handsaw. The blade has a cap on it, and he puts it on the table without any commentary before going back to digging a few more odds and ends out of the bag. A pair of gloves that won't conduct any kind of static electricity.
"How far up it go?" he asks. "Elbow? Bicep? Shoulder?"
no subject
"It uh - it goes up to the shoulder, but if you're planning on cutting it off, m'gonna have to ask for a second opinion, dude." Seriously. Please don't cut his android arm off.
no subject
"Careful. Most doctors don't like their patients trying to get second opinions." He opens the small pouch and rolls up his sleeves. Finally, his eyes glance at Jesse. "Don't worry. S'not for you. It's for me. Well, I guess it's for you, but only if you try anything stupid." The back of his heel catches the closest chair, and he slides it toward the adjacent edge of the table while sitting down.
The palm of his hand gently slaps the top of the table, beckoning Jesse to put the metal arm up, and he clips the magnifying lens-flashlight combo to his ear. "Let's see how bad of a job your previous doctor was." The scalpel he takes out of the pouch, he twirls a little between his fingers. "I'm gonna cut the synthetic as best as I can--it's expensive. We'll peel it off, then stick it back on, and I'll patch it. You won't even be able to tell."