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Valerie It's a quiet day at the Medical Center, with everyone off at the mines in a mad scramble for caps. Val, having recovered from her desert encounter, is sitting at a desk reading a book and looking fairly bored. It's very quiet, with just the wind whistling through cracks in the windows.
Ashur Here comes an incarnation of pain; head ducked low beneath the threshold, lead-footed grace rumbling drawers and shelves, stiff and heavy with every step. There is Ashur, swaddled in his toga, yet revealing as it is -- and it is revealing, exposing the deep grooves between muscles, the striation, the veins that line the skin and the coarse hairs that cover his bullish frame -- he cannot hide the sheer extent of his injuries.

Splotches of burns and stripped hair leaving the skin glistening and smooth. Hardened knots and crinkles in the bone, the result of miniature fractures. Deep cuts, abrasions, and bruises, over battered ribs and organs. And those are merely the fresh ones -- elsewhere, that massive body is testament to a lifetime of suffering, thick with scar tissue of all sorts.

He comes to the examination room and spies Valerie with her book. "Little Valerie," he greets, voice a pained grunt. "Come, medicus, and tend me."
Valerie Valerie looks up lazily, eyes lidded and unconcerned...until she actually gets a look at him and her eyes widen in shock. Standing up without breaking contact, she asks in dismay, "What -happened-?!" Stepping around the desk urgently, she grabs her medkit, trotting over to him with a bounce of her blouse and a flare of her labcoat. "Goodness, sit down on one of the tables!"
Ashur Ashur complies. That vastly-wounded body settles like a small hill, and without a word he lifts a hand and undoes the knot behind his shoulder that binds his toga. It falls in thick woolen waves and pools in his lap. Now see there the bruises, the burns, the battering; almost assuredly, to her trained medical eye, this man's flesh is a dark marvel, all twisted with proof of abuse. There are corpses in better condition than him.

"An Enclave facility in Alberquerque was attacked," the man explains, voice a dehydrated rasp. "I was part of the main strike team. A host of Enclave soldiers and vertibirds arrayed against us -- and one of the immense mechanical abominations they like to field. Imagine a child's fantasy of a scorpion, gleaming metal and mounted with plasma and machine guns, and great piercing claws; tens if not hundreds of thousands of pounds of metal, a weapon made to end the world."

He flattens his hands to the table's top. His gauss fist gleams.

"That which is made by men's hands is unmade by them. I destroyed it, and it became inferno; I was caught in the fires."

And flung hundreds of yards, but hey.
Valerie Valerie's eyes widen ever more as he describes the Scorpion to her, the naked amazement, envy, and /desire/ something that would seem alien on her face, given her utterly cold demeanor toward most other forms of flirtation. But giant death robots? Apparently that gets her going.

Her cheeks a bit flushed, she fans herself, " don't say. I don't suppose anyone captured it? Or maybe a part of it? No?" She swallows and nods, tits bouncing a bit. "Right, wounds. Let me..." She lifts a stethoscope and pauses, staring at a wound. "...That's not natural." Pointing at a large scar, she asks, "...How did you heal that. That's cellular regeneration--not stimpaks, not healing... That's not normal."
Ashur Ashur levels his gaze at Valerie, looking down upon her blushing, heated face with something like curiosity. His mouth cocks in half a smirk and he lifts his hand to her chin; rough fingers grasp it, and the pad of his thumb brushes presumptuous over the swell of her pouty lower lip. "Six legged, three to a side, with an articulated tail it could swing as a club or use to fire its primary gun; the legs were oddly-jointed, and the feet could crush a man, stomping with great metallic hiss. It filled the air with bullets and could unleash enough molten plasma to melt an entire conturbernia at once."

His thumb teasingly pushes in.

"A great engine of death, Valerie, and a testament to the artifice of the old world. It is the fourth I have battled."

At the comment of wounds and scars, he hrms, watching her with a certain possessiveness. "I have always been stout, ever since childhood. But when the FEV and its serum fused in my blood, I became something new. The transformations seem to coax my body to heal, and I have never been sick since; even alcohol fails to stir my head. I suspect I might be immune to.. everything."
Valerie Valerie actually quivers.

Looking a little weak, she comments with only, "Oooo...~" her voice quavering. Her eyebrows raised in the middle, she looks very meek as she nods absently, "Right, blood, FEV, childhood..." She clearly wasn't paying attention to the second part of the information relayed to her, and she stares dreamily for a moment before blinking and jolting back to the present, "Wait, /what/?! You're infected with FEV?!" She hops back a step and stares at him with wide eyes, now entirely shocked and maybe a little afraid. "You're a /mutant/?!"
Ashur The weakness arouses all predatory instincts. To see her cold demeanor broken by something so unexpected as visceral descriptions of a machine amuses and irritates; his hand upon her skin does nothing, but describing a wave of plasma that could melt men makes her heart quicken and her pupils dilate?

He snorts, and lets his hand fall, tracing over the contours of her soft throat, and then lower still, a hand pressed firm to her breast through her blouse. He seems like he's going to reverse positions in this check-up and play doctor with her, but then she's pulled back and is staring at him in wide-eyed shock and fear.

"I am the blood of Mars," he tells her, "and the pinnacle of man. The Enclave forced their virus into me; twisted my flesh, broke my bones, my mind. But I overcame. It lingers in me, part of me -- that terrible strength and power. In battle, when I become angry enough, it happens again, and I transform. I made their curse a weapon."
Valerie Valerie starts at him in disgust and horror at first.

But then her lips twitch. She's almost smirking, then she is smirking, and finally she has an awkward smile on her face, lips parted and showing teeth on one side in her mix of amazement, confusion, and bewilderment. His grope of her chest isn't even acknowledged as she shakes her head, looking at him suddenly with the same amazement she reserved for the Scorpion. "You did it."

She nods, walking back over with a sashay of her labcoat, looking positively thrilled. "YOU /did it/." Spreading her hands with a look of purely delight, she indicates the whole of him. "You're what the USA was trying to create. You're a Super Soldier--with your mind, appearance, and skintone in tact. You perfected the FEV."

Ashur The lack of response to his grope is barely acknowledged; she didn't fuss over it, and he got to cop a feel. His gaze lingers on her heavy as his hand, that golden warmth reveling in her shape with naked intensity, drawn to the flush of her skin as the subject excites her. Women have always been the bull's vice, and having found a button to push for Valerie, he intends to push, push, push. It amuses him.

"I am perfection," he agrees, bolstered by her spontaneous praise. He sits up a little straighter, toga falling a little lower until it's all just piled in his lap to preserve modesty, battered, rent flesh all exposed. "I said it before: I am Ashur, the blood of Mars! I have no equal in this world."

The talk of super soldiers, the USA, and the peculiarities of FEV mean little to him. But fellating his ego? Now that works.

"At times," he admits, "the battle-lust is too strong, and I find myself slaughtering whatever comes close. But such is the price for martial supremacy. A man is a weapon."
Valerie Valerie actually purrs as he talks about slaughtering whatever comes close. "Well..." she comments, breathlessly, blushing crimson as she looks him over, "Perfection or not, it seems there are limits to your regeneration...and if things heal in imperfect configurations, it looks like your body just makes due." Glancing up shyly, as if asking permission, she notes, "...I should probably fix some of these." Getting to work with supplies from her medical kit, she murmurs to herself, "I wonder if that scorpion could be fitted with a saddle..."
Ashur "Perhaps those limits could be overcome," he muses, looking down his bruised and burned torso. "The longevity of the ghouls and super mutants is a marvelous thing; I do not fear death, but what I could accomplish with a divine lifespan, and the ability to recover from any wound, would be a monumental thing! I could remake the world."

But that's a discussion for another time, really; right now, rather than radical global paradigm shifts imposed through force and conquest, he needs medical attention. At her shy look he laughs, and reaches to touch her once more -- this time mussing her hair with an almost paternal affection. "By all means, examine, medicus. There is no lack of time between us."

If she wants to admire him, he'll let her. Even if that involves scientific analysis. He's vain.