Iris Davine:
Do you want the truth?

Doc Davine’s medical facility is spotless. The silver haired woman leans back in her rolly chair with an almost incredulous look on her face. She scans her patient up and down. From his sheared and bandaged head to the soles of his well worn brown and grey spats. The Bombastic Bronson Box rotates his injured shoulder causing a slight grimace to pass across his face. The injured look saying all he needs in response to Doc’s question.

Iris Davine:
Your shoulder isn’t healing well at all, that wooden splinter almost nicked an artery. You are severely concussed, from both your match with Murray but exacerbated tenfold by those chair shots the other night against Miss Reaper. Add to that the fact you're an almost fourty f…

Boxer weakly raises his injured wing dismissively.

Bronson Box:
Kayfabe Iris dear.

The Wargod continues to work out his shoulder, rotating it tightly this way and that.

She gives him a few minutes of silence to hopefully let her diagnosis sink in.

Iris Davine:
In my personal opinion, Hollis, you need…

The usually quite cordial relationship between Boxer and DEFIANCE’s resident medical expert melts ever so slightly with a very “Bronson” look from the Wargod at the mention of his “shoot” name. Even from her we can tell just how prickly Boxer gets when it comes to his personal life.

Bronson Box:
What? Do I need a vacation? To take it fookin’ easy? Come on, lass…

He reaches for his suit jacket, draped neatly beside him on the exam table. 

Iris Davine:
I was going to say you need to think very seriously about retirement actually. 

The Original DEFIANT pauses for only a moment before grabbing his coat, hopping off the table and gingerly slipping his injured shoulder through the arm. He ignores and breezes past Iris’ mention of the dreaded “R” word, giving her a narrow eyed look underneath a raised eyebrow.

Bronson Box:
Anything else of note, Iris my dear? Am I free to go?

Doc Davine breaths a deep disappointed sigh as Boxer points himself towards the door.

Iris Davine:
What am I supposed to do here, Bronson... hum? I’m a doctor, and you seem pretty intent on killing yourself with the way you’re barreling forward. What am I supposed to do with that?

Reaching the doorway, Boxer looks back over his shoulder with a strange little grin.

Bronson Box:
Watch in awe, lass.

Leaving.

Bronson Box:
Watch in fookin' AWE.


End.

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