driftfleet | (no subject)

Who: Eugene Woods
Broadcast: fleetwide video
Action: Vanquish
When: Now

Hello and good evening, everyone. This is Eugene Woods, coming to you with a few good old-fashioned barter requests.

[It's show and tell time - which means that, along with talking to the fleet, Eugene's sat on his bunk for this transmission, trousers rolled up to above the knee and nothing but his undershirt on top. It shows off not only his thigh-down prosthetic metal leg, but a decent collection of tattoos down both arms and up his right leg.]

After bringing old lefty here in for a tune-up, it occurred to me that, for the last several months, I've actually had a limb that wasn't festively decorated in some way. Of course, it's not exactly as easy as finding a tattoo shop when your leg is some kind of high-tech future alloy, so I'm looking for one of two things. Number one: a two-person team, one artist and one engineer who has bright ideas about how to put designs on this thing without damaging it. Number two: one graphic artist who has some serious chops in working with metal. Bonus points, of course, for anyone who actually has experience making anything like a replacement leg.

Repayment, as always, comes in the form of bread products, moonshine, or loan of myself to cook for your ship for an agreed-upon term. Just let me know who's up for a cyborg body mod project, and we'll get right to that.

[He reaches to turn his communicator off, then pauses, still leaned-in close.]

Oh yeah, and, uh. Any doctors or physical therapists-? Apparently I should be reaching out to you guys too. Same barter terms and all that, and, um. Thanks guys.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Oh- okay. So is there an x-ray on-board, or . . .

[He's already shifting as if to get up or at least reach for the leg he's leaned against the table, when he properly registers that the thing she's fussing with isn't equipment he recognizes. It's about the same time he remembers where he is, and he settles back down with a self-conscious laugh.]

-or I could remember we're in space. Right. I'll just . . . hold still.

[She smiles.] Don't worry, it doesn't take nearly as long as an X-Ray.

[And no radiation! Always a bonus when you're in space. She detaches a cylindrical piece from the tricorder and runs it over him. As she said, it barely even takes a minute before she's done. There's signs of an old infection, but otherwise, nothing out of the ordinary. After studying the results for a moment, she reattaches the scanner and snaps the tricorder shut.]

You're in excellent health, Mr. Woods, though I would still recommend physical therapy. I know it's tedious, but trust me, in the long run, it'll help a lot.

[Whether it's necessary or not, Eugene stays still for the scan, blinking in surprise when it's done. He looks briefly relieved at the results, then signs, leaning back on his palms.]

I was afraid you'd say that. No space-future fix for that one, huh?

[Her mouth quirks upward in a half smile.]

I'm afraid not. But I promise, I won't torture you too much.