DEFIANCE’s on staff physician Dr. Iris Davine quietly sings to herself as she bustles about the main medclinic of the Wrestle-Plex restocking shelves and re-sterilizing counter tops. Her back to the door, lost in her own world she doesn't notice the bald mustachioed potential patient standing quietly in the doorway of the room. She slowly turns, quite into whatever it is she’s listening to, she catches the figure in her peripheral vision and emits a little surprised shriek, yanking the earbuds from her ears in fright.

Iris Davine:
CHRIST… Jesus, Boxer. Sorry, I… just didn’t expect anyone was left in the building this late. Come in, come in.

The Original DEFIANT walks a few steps into the bright florescent lights of the exam room, allowing Dr. Iris an eyeful of the mess his face wound has become. The slightly pained expression on Bronson’s face makes it evident something’s wrong. We can also tell The Wargod is more than a little uncomfortable with this sort of… well, normal human interaction.

Bronson Box:
I need you to, erm… that’s in saying that, I can’t seem ter’ em…

The platinum haired doctor smiles sweetly as she can, if not a bit wary… this is Bronson Box we’re talking about here. She points to the exam table she’d just gotten done wiping down and turns around to gather some tools.

Iris Davine:
Have a seat. I’ll try and make sense of it.

With shoulders tense as granate Boxer sits awkwardly on the little paper covered table, feet dangling over the edge… just overall not a position Bronson Box would feel all that “Wargod-like” sitting in the middle of. Iris wheels over the tray of instruments, rolling herself over on a stool that puts her at a height with the nasty red weeping mess the right side of his face has become.

 Iris Davine:
What in God’s name… you should have stitches by now, these staples are...

Doc pinches her nose breathing a little sigh.

Iris Davine:
Bronson. Have you been keeping this closed all by yourself... no doctors? I know I might be risking life and limb saying this but that was tremendously stupid, son.

Bronson remains in awkward silence as Iris snaps on some pink latex gloves and goes to work removing the jagged medical staples from Bronson’s face, slowly cleaning the wound ass she goes. A ballsy woman to begin with, she starts in with the idle doctor patient chit chat almost out of instinct.

Iris Davine:
Do I need to worry about my safety, poking at this mess like this? No flailing limb or violent outbursts. Promise?

Iris is laser focused on the task at hand. Her mouth seemingly on autopilot. For some reason unbeknownst to us the Wargod decides to take a swing at being human with a little levity of his own.

Bronson Box:
Aye, well… I ‘aint gunna’ hurt ye’ lass, I make it a point te’ only… [wincing as Iris removes the last staple] strike woman in wrestlin’ boots these days.

A polite smile at Bronson’s awful joke and a little silence probably would have been the best option at this point… but something about that comment obviously digs at the usually very sweet and accommodating “stay out of the wrestlers way” staff physician. She makes the comment right at the moment she affixes her first stitch to the lower end of his wound.

Iris Davine:
You know thinking back, I’m not sure my friend Stephanie owned a pair of wrestling boots when she worked here.

You can see on Iris’ face she immediately regrets how that sounded. It takes Boxer a moment but he quickly comes around realizes what she’s referring to, you can see it on his face as his eyes sort of glaze over.

Bronson Box:
The wee production assistant years ago, aye.

She didn’t really mean anything by it, but Bronson’s mood immediately changes from pleasantly awkward scary to quiet scary reeeeeeal quick. Iris tries back stepping best she can, but she’s known Box long enough to know that was about all she wrote. He’s lost in that labyrinth he calls a mind.

Iris Davine:
Ummm…yeah. That was... quite the record breaking temper tantrum at the time, if I recall. Though I think you might have lost that distinction to your friend Mr. Dewey after the last few weeks, I swear my twelve year old nephew is more mature than that boy. 

Her weak attempt at changing the subject falls on deaf ears. Bronson looks ready to call it quits and go kick something to death just to balance out the forces that rule his strange little universe when she sloooowly rolls her stool in front of his offset gaze.

Iris Davine:
Bronson it was years ago. She’s fine, happily married in fact. You have a temper and I’m well aware shit does indeed happen. I’ve worked with wrestlers for faaaar too long hold grudges over outbursts like that. I honestly don’t know why I brought it up, I let my mouth run away with itself when I’m working...

Box raises a hand.

Bronson Box:
It’s fine, lass. It’s fine. Let's... just move this along, eh?

She does as she’s asked, continuing on with the meticulously tiny facial stitches… aaaaand her idle chit chat.

Wargod be damned, good bedside manner isn’t an option for this doctor.

Iris Davine:
You do seem to have mellowed a little bit since then. Not as much broken furniture and wrecked locker rooms following in your wake since you came back. I mean… as mellow as you being you could ever possibly be, I suppose…

It’s like he doesn't even hear her. He’s thinking hard about something. Rolling it around in his mind. She shakes her head to herself, thinking of several colleagues in the field of psychology who would love to crawl inside that big bald head of his and poke around.

Iris Davine:
You don’t have to ruminate so hard Bronson, I didn’t mean anything by it.

Bronson Box:
Mmm… aye.

Just mumbling. Iris moves up to the wound above the eye now. His silence isn’t awkward now, just… there. She continues on unabated.

Iris Davine:
I guess we have Ms. Katze to thank for your new outlook? I have to say, I do like that Jane… she’s always very kind to add anything I need to the expense reports. She even green lighted my idea of opening the dental clinic to the public to turn a little profit for the facility… you found yourself a fine business manager, Bronson. … There. Done.

She snips a few nearly invisible threads, rolling back a little so Bronson can stand and look at himself in the mirror. It’s obvious he’s genuinely pleased with her work. The jagged edges, the red weepiness, the self applied medical staples all gone.

Iris snaps off her gloves and tosses them overhand into a nearby bin.

Iris Davine:
Better?

Bronson Box:
Aye. Many thanks, lass.

Boxers level of discomfort with this sort of pleasant exchange is still evident. Doc reaches into her back pocket and produces a prescription pad.

Iris Davine:
I’m going to give you a script for some antibiotics, [narrowing her eyes] it’s a miracle your face isn’t infected, Bronson. Honestly. Now, I can also write up a script for some painkillers, I really think it might…

Bronson immediately shakes his head. His response more than a little terse.

Bronson Box:
No. The antibiotics’ll be quite sufficient.

She walks over and tucks several prescriptions into his front shirt pocket. She gives him a motherly look and a reassuring pat on the arm.

Iris Davine:
You don’t spout versus from the Bible anymore but something tells me you wouldn't mind ending some sort of a martyr for this place, would you? That would make you the patron saint of… what? Beating people up? Suplexes? You don’t have as much to prove as you think you do, son. You’ve proven your worth to this company many times over, and at great expense to yourself might I add...

The Wargod raises his eyebrows slightly.

Bronson Box:
Patron Saint of Suplexes? Might make a bloody good t-shirt, that.

He nods at Iris as he moves towards the door.

Iris Davine:
Be in here AT LEAST an hour before the show next week so I can give that a once over before you go out there and pop all those stitches I so meticulously applied with my hard earned decades of medical training okay, superstar? 

Boxer forces a single chuckle of acknowledgment as he steps back out into the darkened hallway.

Bronson Box:
Aye, that I will Ms. Davine. I’m man enough to admit this is preferable to “my” way. Staplin’ closed ones own face after every match does get a wee’ bit tryin’ after the fourth or fifth time doin’ it.

Iris Davine:
You know if you’d have just stopped carrying that awful spike in your boot like I recomended years ago this would never have happened, right?

Bronson Box:
Ahhh, aye... but where’s the fun in that, lass? Eh?

Boxer manages a weak smile, patting the doorframe a few times before vanishing on down the darkened hallway.

This leaves Doctor Iris Davine to sigh to herself as she pops her earbuds back in as she goes about cleaning up the tray of used tools and bloody gauze.

 

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