1734/Doctors and Rangers

Doctors and Rangers
Date of Scene:	30 July 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	1061, US Agent

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Dr. Mid-Nite (1061) has posed:
    Late at night in Manhattan and it's been a long day. For most of the people in Riley's off 31st, they're tourists or they're well to do townies, having a round of drinks and enjoying the night life. Some people have clearly stopped in from a night at a show, dressed to the nines and laughing together as they reminisce about the experience on Broadway. But the rest of the crowd are dressed down, enjoying the beer and the occasional order of steak since Riley's has a decent rep as a grille as well.
    But at this hour, after his third shift, the man known as Dr. Charles McNider is finally taking a break to himself. He left the free clinic in the hands of his second, started to shuffle off home, but ended up feeling wired... not quite ready to retire. So he stopped in at Rileys.
    Not the usual type to go to such a bar, the tall blonde man with the dark glasses and the white and red cane causes a few second glances, maybe even a few third looks as well. He makes his way down the aisle between the tables and past the bar. A hand lifts as he passes, "Hey Red,"
    "Hey Doc," The bartender answers, "Usual?"
    "Yeah, I'll be in the back."
    And as he says that he starts to wend his way down, past the jukebox and the poll table.

US Agent has posed:
John Walker isn't super recognizable - enough small surgeries over time and enough years have passed since his parents death that it'd take a dedicated hero or villain to recognize his face. He's in a polo shirt and jeans - they don't do anything to hide his 6'4" height or the 280 lbs of rippled muscle that he wears thanks to the Power Broker's treatment years ago. The polo shirt is loose enough over his beltline - enough to hide the pistol, the watch on his left wrist hidden enough to pass muster as a thick 'been there, done that' military watch and not the projector for his shield. His accent is pure Georgia as he settles up to the counter. "Draft - Coors," he says in his drawl. "Y'all got any good barbecue 'round here, y'reckon? Pecan pie?"

Dr. Mid-Nite (1061) has posed:
    "Not here, fella." The bartender looks over at Mr. Walker even as he's pouring the beer for the man. Doesn't take long and then it's set in front of him, frothy and cold. He reaches for a menu from the small rack that holds them in front of his seat behind the bar and slides it across the bartop to him. "Mainly different flavors of grilled cow, burger and more. Bar food, nothin' too fancy."
    The tender gives a nod, "Though the doc, he might know where to find some good 'cue."
    With that said he lifts his voice, "Hey, Doc!"
    The answer from the blind man who is sitting just a few tables away comes back, "What?"
    "What was that 'cue place you were talkin' about in Gotham?"
    "Melvin's?"
    "Yeah, was that it?"
    "That place is trash."
    The bartender laughs a bit, "Not that then, the good place."
    "Oh Auntie's Ribs, in the Narrows."
    The doctor is sitting there in his seat, both hands on his cane and his head turned in John's general direction. "Good place, tough neighborhood."
    The tender then starts to walk the doc's beer out to him.

US Agent has posed:
"Thank you, thank you kindly," says John as he takes a sip from his beer with a nod, and another sip, tilting his head in a polite salute to the doctor. "Doc, right? Y'all know if they got a good pork sammich there?" he asks. "Prolly too much t'ask fer a good slaw an' Georgia saw, ah reckon. And hell, sir," he says to the bartender, "Cold beer is halfway t'heaven!"

Dr. Mid-Nite (1061) has posed:
    Of course the doc doesn't see the salute as he sits there, but then the bartender is dropping off his drink and guides the man's hand to it. Though not being able to see it doesn't stop the doctor nodding his thanks in turn to the tender. "Up this way if you tell people you put slaw on your cue sandwich they look at you funny." The man at the table smiles a bit.
    "But they have a good pulled pork with a sort of dry rub that you can get some barbecue sauce added to. Probably not as good as what you could get in some places down south. But still. Good." He lifts his beer and takes a sip even as the tender gets back to the bar, waiting on John to make his order.
    "Is it worth the trek to Gotham? I dunno."

US Agent has posed:
"Can't be that bad," allows John with a grunt and a smile at the bartender, offering up a ten for the beer and making his way over to the doctor. He offers his right hand, "Jack," he says, "Ah'll make note of that place. Ain't been 'round here for a while, so ah appreciate the kind word and the direction. Been outta the country for a li'l bit, gettin' my legs out under me - figuring out the ranges, gyms, place to stay, all that jazz and whatnot," he says. "He said doc, mind if ah ask what kind? Mind-doc type, philisophy doc type, or hands in the guts type doc?" he asks with a grin.

Dr. Mid-Nite (1061) has posed:
    Needless to say Dr. McNider doesn't get up, but he gets the gist of the expression as he extends a hand in counterpoint, not quite able to find Jack's but if he meets him half way then there'll be a firm handshake. Nothing aggressive, just two pumps and done. "Charles, Chuck if you want. But yeah..."
    He gestures with the uncurl of one hand towards one of the seats at his table, still holding his cane in between his legs and drinking with one hand around the base of his bottle. "Hand in the guts usually. Though I run a free clinic down the way. And spend some time at another across the river." He gestures absently with one hand, jerking a thumb vaguely in the way of Gotham. "Good to meet you, Jack. But yeah, good cue for the North."

US Agent has posed:
John Walker nods, settling into his seat, "Fair enough, thanks. I'll take it. When ah was in DC for a bit, it was pretty darn rough - came back from the sandbox all ah wanted was some brisket or pork an' some slaw," he says with a grin. "Good on you for that free clinic. Not enough of that going around. Never went into medicine myself - not deep, mind you. Did the Ranger medic training, the SOC-M training the 18-Deltas take - basically, kinda paramedic that c'n do chest tubes and femoral cutdowns and the like. But, mostly all military medicine, trauma."

Dr. Mid-Nite (1061) has posed:
    "Really most of it is pretty esoteric. You probably know enough to do what I do about ninety percent of the time." Chuck takes a sip of his beer and then leans to the side, "You going to order anything here? Usually they bring me some wings but they seem to be SLOW AS SHIT!" The Doctor's voice lifts as he calls out to the bartender... who promptly flips him off.
    "Got your wings on order, Doc." Still flipping him off though.
    To which the Doc looks to JW, "He shooting me the bird?"
    And if John answers the affirmative the Doc will smirk, "Good."

US Agent has posed:
"Yep, he is. Heya, how 'bout double those wings an' fries, some ranch on the side," calls John with a laugh to the bartender, "Hotter'n hell if you can do it," he says. A smile at the other man. "You ever serve, doc? Military I mean, or missions, or Peace Corps, that kinda thing?" As he settles into his seat, his back is to the wall, and as the door opens to the outside his eyes will flicker to it - automatically, quickly, as if he's keeping track of who is where in the bar itself.

Dr. Mid-Nite (1061) has posed:
    "'fraid not." The older man murmurs as he turns his head slightly, head lifted as if looking past the man and faintly towards his shoulder. "Was fresh out of med school and then had an accident. So never had the chance." He shifts his chair slightly to more directly face John as he murmurs, "Though I figured they could just wheel me in to the hospital tent and point me at people. But for some reason the Pentagon wants their staff surgeons to be able to see." He makes a faintly rude noise as if he truly didn't understand.
    Then the bartender answers the extra order, "Alright two wings, two fries." He turns back to the kitchen window and calls the order.

US Agent has posed:
"They're particular that way, ah suppose,' says John with some amusement, draining his beer and making the universe gesture for 'another round' to the bartender. "If you don't mind me askin', how do you finance the clinic? Healthcare ain't cheap - grants, that kinda thing? You loved in the city for long? I'm hoping to settle in around here pretty soon, get settled in." A pause, considering the other man, "You learn to box, doc?" he asks.

Dr. Mid-Nite (1061) has posed:
    A chuckle slips from him, "Some government funding, national and state level. Also a few donations to keep things going. It's not a huge amount but we make do with what we can." Chuck shakes his head, "I used to be a surgeon, but I'm still a pretty decent diagnostician, so was able to get some good support for things here."
    There's a pause as he tilts his head to the side, taking a sip of his beer. "And yah, lived here pretty much all my life. Though I moved around in the cities, but roughly same fifty square miles."
    Then he smirks, "Yah, sorry, not a big boxer."

US Agent has posed:
"Sure, no problem doc. That makes sense," says John as his new beer arrive and a new one for the doc. "Ah was just misunderstandin', thought ah saw some buildup there on yer knuckles and some scarrin' - saw enough of that int he Army, dudes that hit the bag or other dudes on leave during bar fights. Gotta admit, ah did my fair share of that. Ah bet you got a lot to teach your staff about diagnostics though - sense of touch, listening, all that jazz." he adds.

Dr. Mid-Nite (1061) has posed:
    "Best I can," He lifts his hands and lightly massages those knuckles, getting a feel for them. The Doctor nods and smiles a little, "Could be some residual scarring." He offers that as an explanation, but he doesn't offer anymore, probably inclined to let that topic settle for now since the accident that blinded him... not the best of memories.
    "And yourself, what are you looking to do for work around these parts, John?" He shifts his weight to the side slightly, taking his cane in the off hand and reclaiming his beer with the other. A sip is taken, "Military or private enterprise?"

US Agent has posed:
"Got my pension and did some government contracting - so I got a good long bit before ah gotta really worry about it. Might pick some up soe paramedic shifts here and there, jes' to keep my medical training on point and keep those skills sharp. And if the city bores me, ah still got my clearances and in good health so ah could ship out to jes' about any outfit out there t'get some money if need be. Not mercenary work - not about that, no way no how, want to do good work for good people."

Dr. Mid-Nite (1061) has posed:
    "Hnh," The Doc says as he leans to the side, "I might know some folks, but it wouldn't be much. Security for a few hospitals, they're always looking in Gotham since there's a pretty hectic rate of activity and a lot of turnover." Probably has something to do with the rampant criminal and vigilante activity.
    "But my word doesn't hold much water with folks there, but it could at least open a door. A small one. Very tiny." His lip twitches and that's the moment when the tender brings the wings and the fries over, setting them down on the table with a scrape of ceramic.
    "These gonna be good, or should I expect botulism tonight?"
    "Screw you, Doc." The bartender smirks and walks back to the bar.

US Agent has posed:
John Walker laughs at the interplay, thanking the bartender and shaking some salt and pepper onto his fries and the wings. He begins to dig in, "Thanks. Ah appreciate it. Still gettin' into a good position t'figure out what ah want to do here," he says as he pulls out his phone, one handed, "There an email address ah can use? Ah figure you got text to speech and whatnot, right?" he asks before he bites into a wing. "MMm. Damn good. Hot, super hot."

Dr. Mid-Nite (1061) has posed:
    As for the Doc he tends to eat the fries first, though he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small cell phone that he sets down. His thumb swipes across it and it has a menu in concentric circles but not a lot of options. He taps it once and it beeps a few times, then he taps it another time... a few more beeps. Another tap and he says, "There should have that whole blutooth transfer of credentials thing down. So knock yourself out."
    That said he settles in to the wings and starts to eat with some enthusiasm. "Just drop me a line when ya want, alright John? I'll send your information to the heads of HR at the hospitals."

US Agent has posed:
John Walker sends over his information - the cellphone not used for business, the Jack ID, all that jazz. A grin at the other man as he pockets his phone, "Thanks, ah appreciate it. Ah'll doublecheck they still got my creds all on file and all that so I can at least practice at paramedic, ah know some of the hospitals will use medics in the ER, and that'd be OK as well," he says. A few more wings are devoured, "Man,t hese are good. Can't go wrong with bar food, ah reckon."

Dr. Mid-Nite (1061) has posed:
    "Not the healthiest thing in the world, and I tell my patients to NEVER COME HERE." He says a little louder just for the purpose of the bartender who, of course, flips off the Doc. For some reason it makes the older man smile even as he digs further into the wings himself. He's got this steady routine. Pull apart the wing, get the meat off it, eat it, toss the wing aside, wipe his mouth. It's all very clinical and methodical compared to how most people eat wings. "But yeah they're not bad."
    He takes another drink of beer and then murmurs, "Then again kinda hard to mess up bar food. It takes effort to screw up wings or burgers."

US Agent has posed:
"True. But a bad cook, could still screw it up," says John slash Jack with a laugh. A few more wings, wiping his mouth, beer. There's a buzz and he pulls out his phone - a small flip phone, a second phone - and answers it with a terse, military, "Go." He listens and grunts, reaching for his wallet and cradling the phone against his hear, "Uh huh," he says as he pulls out two twenties, putting them under his pint glass. "Roger. Yep. Oscar Mike," he says, the military lingo for 'on my way'. "Doc, I'm sorry," he says as he pockets the phone, "Friend is in town and ah should handle this. Ah do look forward t'talkin' to you again, soon, though! Yeah?"