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The Circle had a surprisingly efficient (if paranoid) mail system for the quantity of its members. Bentley supposed you had to be careful with your mail in a business like this, after all. In fact, his packages were a few days late as it was - unsurprisingly, considering the contents could seem suspicious. Not to mention that you had to use certain sellers that wouldn't abuse the knowledge of a giant mafia station's location, but he guessed there was some middle man that did the pick up then brought it to them. (Maybe he'll ask the boss about that later.) It finally checked out, and the doctor was notified that all was good for pick up. Bentley's mood was particularly cheery as he made his way to the meager 'post office,' ID ready.

Luckily, the office wasn't busy today. Most people were working, while Bentley had other duties to perform today; duties that involved the packages that were almost in his possession. Bentley checked the small slip of paper in his pocket, confirming the locker number his mail would be in. Approaching the tall locker marked A-23, the doctor lifted out his ID, sliding it into a small slot and pressing his hand to a small monitor on the door of the locker. His fingers widened, then closed in together, and the computer gave a beep and displayed the words, 'Identification Confirmed. Please wait.'

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The metal locker's door unlocked from inside with an invisible but audible 'click,' accompanied by the hiss of an additional inner air-lock being released. The Circle, after all, was very careful with its business, and without that organization and caution, they likely wouldn't be anywhere close to where they stood now. The metal locker slid slightly ajar once all the security was taken care of, just enough for its owner to grab the metal handle and pull the door open. "Oh," said a sudden voice from behind Bentley, right behind his right shoulder. Evan, working in stealth operations, had the uncanny ability to approach without a sound, even to the most trained of ears. Though he wasn't on the job now, it was a practice so far ingrained into him that it became almost second nature. "Whatcha got there?"

Bentley gave a small jolt, turning only enough to confirm Evan's face with his voice, before opening the locker.

"Just some much needed parts," he answered, and that usual nervousness that was usually in his voice was replaced by something more excited. The parts in question were in three boxes stacked upon each other, all labeled with a bright red, capitalized, 'HANDLE WITH CARE.' Lacking the foresight, however, Bentley hadn't grabbed a dolly to wheel his packages out. With a sudden smile, he turned again to Evan. "Want to give me a hand?"

But something occurred to him, and he frowned, mumbling to himself and looking at Evan's side. "Or maybe not, given your wound..."

"What wound?" Evan responded easily, stepping to Bentley's side to take one of the heavier boxes under his arm. There was a padded envelope in his other hand that prevented him from taking more, but no doubt he would if he could. As for the supposed 'wound,' well...there was still a bit of lingering stiffness to his frame when he bent over or stretched back, but otherwise, he was as good as new. The scars on his body were indication enough that he, like the rest of Circle Seven, was no stranger to wounds and healing from them, after all (even if they did also indicate a certain recklessness that would make any doctor squirm). "That scratch has been healed up for ages now, doc. You really don't have to be so uptight 'bout it. We're built better than that. What's in these boxes anyway? It's pretty hefty stuff for medication."

"A bullet wound is good cause for any worry, you know," he retorted with a huff as he lifted up the other two boxes, one under each arm. "Calling it just a scratch..." He shook his head, closing the locker gently with his heel, which then expressed its gratitude with a digital, 'Thank You.'

"Anyway, it's not medication. Any hospital goods get delivered directly to the ward. These are the parts I needed for some prosthetics," Bentley answered, the excitement clear on his face. Being a doctor wasn't exactly fun, but somehow, this 'hobby' - he supposed it could be called that - was a different kind of challenge that he always came back to. (Even if memories of Back Then made its way through particularly when he did)

Waiting first for Bentley to gather the rest of his parcels and then come toward the exit to the mail room, Evan waited by the doorway, having since put his own envelope on top of the box under his care, and holding both up by the two of its bottom edges. "Prosthetics?" he questioned, frowning at the weight in his arms. There had to be a considerable amount of metal and gadgetry in there, judging from the feel and sound (when he jostled it around lightly) of the contents. Evan's brow furrowed, and he glanced back from the doctor to his box, to the two additional boxes still in Bentley's possession. A lot of metal, indeed. "For you? Did you happen to lose another arm out there while we weren't looking, doc? This is pretty hefty stuff."

Bentley rolled his eyes, but in good humor. Too caught up in the tasks ahead to think about lost arms. "Fortunately, I haven't. I'm giving someone on board a hand." Naturally, the doctor laughed at his own (terrible) pun.

The trip from the mail room was fortunately not far from their destination, though it certainly wasn't the living quarters. Their destination was a specialty hall. (A little further down was Calibri's lab - a lot of work stations were down this way, though the chemist's in particular was rather... secluded and sealed off. For everyone's safety.) Bentley stopped in front of a room two doors down, setting down one of the boxes to scan his ID and let his (left) hand be scanned. The door slid open, and Bentley picked up the package again, sidling inside and nudging the light on with his shoulder.

"Welcome to my work area," he said with a smile over his shoulder, setting the parcels down on a table. The room was rather barren, if you looked at the walls and floor, but the tables were littered with papers, bolts, tools, metal, wires, and more. The display screen on the wall that came to life as Bentley flipped another switch showed a mechanical hand from the inside-out, similar to an x-ray revealing a skeleton underneath, though the shown parts were definitely not that of a human's: his current project.

Evan winced a little - that joke was a little far-fetched, even for the eccentric, and merely kept quiet. He had found that often times in life, that was the safest, most beneficial for all parties choice.

The sliding door almost shut on Evan, and though he managed to push it back open with his foot, it jostled him and the box a little. They were in the New Space Age, surely, but technology still had one fault that had yet to be fixed by human and nonhuman hands alike - it didn't always work correctly, and sooner or later, it broke. Nonetheless, he finally managed to slip into the room and plopped down the large box onto the table, its weight making the entire thing shake (despite the obvious HANDLE WITH CARE label on the parcel). Another thing he had learned in space - things weren't nearly as fragile as people made them out to be.

His eyes widened at the 'project' on the work table, if one could even call it that. Without even approaching, he ran through the possible reasons a spaceship medic would need a working, functioning robot, and came up with few choices. Maybe Bentley needed an assistant. Maybe he just wanted some company. Maybe he needed a standing mock-up of every possible prosthetic all hooked and wired up together. Maybe he was just crazy. All were similarly possible.

Evan whistled, and settled with, "You're building a modern Frankenstein here, doc. Boss know you're doing this?"

"Don't be silly," Bentley said, waving a hand as he started clearing one of the very messy tables. In the center, he left a small metal structure that vaguely resembled a hand. "I don't build robots, much less recreate life. And of course the boss knows. Everything's at his discretion, after all." Unfortunately, all the options that ran across Evan's mind were true. (Even the part about being crazy. Just a bit.)

However, mock-ups only did well as a base - Bentley needed measurements for the people he made replacement limbs for, as to match the missing limb's counterpart, which is what the screen showed to the right of the slowly rotating 3-dimensional image of the robotic hand. It looked similar to Bentley's, if lacking the metal forearm.

Something occurred to Bentley, and he turned to Evan with an apologetic smile. "Thanks for you help, by the way."

Evan, who had been preoccupied with staring at the display, blinked to attention. "Huh? Oh, no problem, don't mention it." Technology was all around him in this day and age, but it had been tucked into society and life so seamlessly that sometimes, one forgot the power and existence of it until it was brought to their attention like this. People with prosthetics had been walking the streets even before the pre-galactic era, and there were plenty now that carried about no matter what planet or star system they were docking at, but most of the time, Evan didn't pay much mind to it, and it was hard to imagine that every single artificial limb and digit had this much complication and architecture embedded in it.

He approached the table, waving a flesh and bone finger through the holographic display, pointing to bits and pieces of it. As children, none of the Dominico kids were particularly scientifically inclined (though if some of the younger ones had grown a sudden fondness for it, he wouldn't exactly know). They were a family that had gone through mandatory education as an obligation; there were always more important things in the day - jobs, money, even girls, at times. "What's this? Where's that hook up to?" he asked, pointing to a wire that extended much further than even the elbow joint, if the forearm were visible. It must have hooked up into the body itself.

"Hm?" Bentley looked up from one of the boxes he had opened, pulling out a spool of wire that resembled the wire in question. "Oh, that!" All too happy to answer Evan, he approached the screen, unfurling some of the wire in his hand. He held up the end of it. It didn't look very special - just like the end of any wire, wrapped in thin rubber casing with coppery antennae sticking out.

"They're very sensitive to the electric pulses in your body. They pick those up, and I use that current to trigger what the prosthetic does," he answered. "Unfortunately, it's a bit painful. Some have to be embedded in the muscle to pick up the pulse."

It wasn't a flinch, but Evan frowned nonetheless at the idea of a wire being embedded into human muscle. It wasn't the idea of the pain or the discomfort involved with such a procedure, but more the idea of something mechanical being wired up to something so organic and still somehow working that elicited the expression. "So you have one of these too?" he asked, looking from the physical wire in Bentley's hand to the one in the holographic image hovering at eye-level. Speaking of... "Say, is this yours? All this gear's to build yourself an upgrade?"

Somehow, that just brought to mind of Bentley attaching a complicated Swiss Army knife contraption to his elbow, and though Evan didn't share that particular thought out loud, he did grin in amusement to himself. He had the feeling that the doctor might find that idea actually fascinating.

The doctor nodded at Evan's first inquiry. "Yep, embedded up here," he said, pointing with two fingers just above his folded sleeve. If he were to pull it up, though, the wires would be hidden under a smooth, protective blanket of flexible rubber.

Bentley laughed at the second. "No, it's for someone else. Got commissioned recently by a lady in the fifth circle." On second glance at the 3D model of the hand that was being crafted, it did look thinner and longer than the average (human) male's hand.

For someone with little if any appreciation for the fine art of prosthetics, it was understandable that Evan hadn't been able to tell the difference. In fact, it was doubtful if, despite having it pointed out to him, he could even see that slightness of the wrist or the fineness in form past the neat steel package the arm presented. As Bentley continued preparing his supplies, Evan made circles around the model a few times before pointing at his face and asking "You gonna fix something up for the Boss's eye too?"

For a moment, all Bentley did was stare, before breaking into another laugh.

"Nothing functional! That's not my area," he said, a big grin stretching his mouth, revealing small dimples at the corners. "Though I could probably design something that moves with the eye muscles that are still there, but it wouldn't help him to see. That's a more sensitive technology."

Evan frowned slightly again - as with most times, he wasn't the sort to show displeasure too obviously (it got you in trouble more often than not). Sensitive technology, huh? Perhaps it was something he wasn't seeing, but hooking up a wire to your nerves seemed pretty sensitive to him, too, but then again, this wasn't his expertise for a reason. Intelligence gathering and maneuvering past security systems he could deal with, but a bolt and screwdriver was about as far as he got in terms of mechanical prowess.

Stepping back, he leaned against one of the emptier counters, where he figured he wouldn't be in the way of Bentley bustling about. The doctor seemed quite absorbed, but the company, even if not conversational, wasn't poor. Rather than interrupt with more questions, he began prying open the sticky tab sealing his own envelope shut, quietly ripping the paper and the insulated vacuum wrapping inside of it.

Bentley quieted as he got no response, and though sometimes awkward in conversation, he understood what a frown meant. He busied himself instead with emptying the contents of the open box - from sheets of metal, rubber, spools of wire, tools, chips and the like. Now and then he would look over, curious what Evan himself had gotten. It wasn't like Evan was shy about asking what Bentley's packages contained, right? And he didn't remove himself from the doctor's company to open it. It's fair game. Bentley cleared his throat.

"What've you got there?"

Without even looking up: "Dirty love letters, of course."

"Oh, of c- w-wait, what?" Bentley looked up with wide eyes.

Evan looked up, expression blankly innocent. There seemed to be a certain disconnect between what he was saying and the look he was wearing. "Oh, you know, don't you doc? Some girls can get pretty in-detail with the stuff they write you. Really gets your blood boiling."

The doctor's face almost flushed from the neck up. That's... quite a thing to say. "I, uh... I'm afraid I wouldn't know."

Casting a cursory glance over the papers in his hand, their backs facing Bentley so it was impossible to even catch a glimpse of the supposedly naughty context, Evan folded the stack neatly in half and looked surprised. "What? You've never had any steamy affairs of your own, doc? But you're older than me, aren't you? You've got to get a move on."

"I-I don't have much interest in that sort of thing, really," he quickly admitted, still unloading the contents of the box. When it was empty, he moved to the next, making an absolutely distracted mess of his table.

Evan hid a smile behind his three-fingered hand. "...Have you even gone out with a woman before?"

Bentley looked away, feigning being extremely interested in something inside the next box. "T-that's... Of course I..." A pause, and rather than clear the tightening in his throat, he only cleared out his courage. "I-I told you, I don't have interest in that sort of thing."

The lack of answer was answer enough. "Oh," Evan said, benignly helpful as he pushed off the counter and approached the doctor. "Then you haven't seen this sort of thing before, have you? Want a look?" He began unfolding his papers, right in front of the other man.

Do you, Bentley? A glimpse into the illicit intimate affairs between men and women in the space age?!

No! No, he did not want to glimpse into vulgar writings. How improper.

Perhaps in a show of surprising gentleness, Bentley clamped metal fingers over the letter, keeping it folded. His brow was wrinkled and cheeks still reddened with warmth.

"N-no. That's all right."

Evan stared down at Bentley's iron grip for a second, the hold just strong enough to keep the words out of sight, without even putting a wrinkle or fold in the sheets. For a second, they stood at standstill like that, before, at length, Evan took his other hand, flipping up one corner of the sheet, bending it back over Bentley's fingers until the text could be plainly read. The script was printed, not handwritten, in curt, mechanical letters as opposed to the cursive, flowing handwriting that was so stereotypically indicative of a woman's delicate pen, and rather than mentions of love, passion, and longing, there was only, "Order #35NAS35F: Men's Running Shoes (size 8.5)" in the corner of a straight, proper table.

For a moment, the text didn't register as something separate from the topic. (Who would talk dirty about running shoes?) And then, slowly, Bentley released the paper, still staring down at it.

Oh. He had been teasing.

Bentley opened his mouth to say something, but it never quite made it out, hand falling to his side. His right hand raised instead as he took a step back, rubbing his face abashedly as his shoulders sagged.

"You're awful, Evan."

Now, Evan started laughing, leaving the papers on Bentley's table as he leaned back, one arm around his middle, and a hand slapped over his mouth in a feeble attempt to at least stay in control. The letters spread out for clear viewing, and though it was surprising that companies in this day and age still used archaic paper-confirmations, a glance at the sending address revealed that apparently, this particular vintage store in Erclesse still took pride in its vintage techniques, too. "Did you really-...wow, you honestly thought that I-...hahaha!"

"W-what's so funny about that? I don't know what you do in your spare time! It's not my business!" Bentley threw his hands up, true to dramatic stereotypical fashion, returning to his three-fourths full box, huffing to himself. Should've known, Bentley. (Although, now he knew one thing: apparently, Evan liked to run. Or maybe it was for stealth operations, considering his Circle.)

Quieting eventually, Evan still kept one hand on his stomach as he retrieved his mail. "Believe me, doc, if it were actually my private business, no one here would be tellin' you about. Our type of people...as you probably know too, considering you're one of us now - we're not too keen on sharing."

Actually, that caught Bentley's interest. He looked up, and though he still looked laughably embarrassed, he asked in honest curiosity. "Even though you all seem rather tight knit?"

Evening the edges of his stack, Evan hardly had to think before answering. "It's more like...you don't need to know a guy's history to know if they can do the job or not. Of course, there's nothing stopping you from telling either, but it's just something we never feel the need to bring up." He looked up. "Why? You got some deep, dark past you're hidin' there, doc?"

Edited 2010-11-10 18:32 (UTC)

"I see." Bentley gave a sharp exhale as his eyes lowered back down to his desk. His smile was disarming, no doubt, but that bitter tightening in his brow could be easily missed under all that hair. "Doesn't everyone here have something to that extent?"

Evan knew a withdrawal when he saw one. After all, his job was to extract information from people; he'd be rather awful at it if he couldn't read a sign like that. Sometimes, he had found, it was the very denial of information that was the most telling - people, regardless of race, were more telling than they could possibly know. In not showing, they showed, and in not telling, they told, but Evan had meant what he said - though anyone would be curious, he didn't need to pry into someone's record to know whether they were reliable or not, and judging from the impossible complicated gadgetry being laid out in some organized mess on the counter, Bentley was good enough at this stuff to have warranted that respect.

"Probably!" he said brightly, neither prying nor pushing, and simply enough, he let it go at that. "But should I ever have any real steamy love letters from a current planetside sweetheart, I'll be sure to show you first, doc. And should you ever need advice for letters of your own, my door is always open."

"I assure you, that won't be necessary," Bentley scoffed in response, straightening his vest as though to ensure that he was as proper looking as he was proper mannered. (It was almost comical, the way he held his nose up in the air, too, wearing his damaged pride on his sleeve.) Indeed, Bentley had enough secrets for one man, and while not open about it, he was smart enough to admit it, because everyone hides something - intentionally or not.

After a moment of silence, in which he seemed to be contemplating something, mouth twitching left to right, he added, "Maybe with different matters, though. If your offer stands for other things." For Bentley, this was going out on a limb. As surrounded and crowded as life was in the Circle Station, by strangers and patients alike, and as long as he had been here, he was still much of a loner, and didn't have experience with asking for someone's company.

Evan blinked at him, caught by surprise for once in this conversation. His hands, holding the letters, had stopped in mid-air. "You-...what? Really?" A pause, and then suspiciously, Evan glanced at he heavy boxes. "...With what, exactly?"

"So I can turn you into a robot, of course." Bentley glanced over his shoulder, expression serious.

Because honestly, Evan wouldn't have put it past him, the other man stared, equally seriously flat, before he broke into a smile. "Almost got me there, doc - close, but no cigar."

The doctor smiled in turn. "Simple conversation will do, then."

"I can provide that," Evan answered easily, slipping his letters neatly back into the padded envelope they came from. "But it's a shame that we can't talk about your torrid love affairs."

This time around, Bentley simply rolled his eyes. "One less thing to worry about, to me."

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