Next up, after Muh-suh, the dead-beat, Olympic gold-medalist runner super Kenyan, and himself, was a semi-pretty lady by the name of Thea Sheridan, which, Carson thought, was quite an odd name- chick was named after a tank for godsake. What was even more odd was her occupation, Carson thought. Nothing quite says Thea Sheridan like flowers and welding beads. It was at this moment that Carson started to question whether he was the right person for this job. With a factory worker and a botanist/welder combo, an over-glorified paramedic really wasn’t needed to make a few calculators and study trees. What also seemed a tad bit off key was the fact a handful of civilians were picked over trained policeman and soldiers. There were plenty of combat effectives at the prison. Hell, Carson sees them day and night come through the medical ward, walking the perimeter, or standing fire-watch. Instead of taking from the pool of professionals, it seemed the men with the reigns seemed to be doing a science experiment. Carson didn't particularly care for being a guinea pig.
He kind of felt bad, in a sense. Here he was, making fun of everyone for their skill, or lack there of, in his mind and they all look like they were rode hard and put away wet, specifically, speedy gonzales who collapsed.. Who didn’t look like Death nowadays, however?? With that, Carson wasn’t about to take a leave of absence when men with guns were standing at the perimeters. Not to mention Winston Churchill, the fucker who dragged him here, seemed to have it out for Carson.
"C. Rola, Liberal Arts major."
Yeah, that’s what this rag-tag bunch needs. A know-it all college kid with mosquito-bite tits, the physique of a tooth-pick and a worthless degree. Not to mention a really short first name, despite Carson not giving his. This day just kept getting better. Whoever picked all of us is either retarded or has no sense of strategy. Or both. If it’s military, probably both. Yeah, definitely both. His mind was a whir of wit as the ever so quirky group got weirder and weirder. Despite his sarcastic ways, Carson had no use of judging anyone at the moment. Everyone was definitely not at their best and medical care doesn’t discriminate, no matter how stupid liberal arts and botany is.
Carson’s interest was automatically piqued by Olivia, who had hurried to the collapsed man’s body and checked his vitals. He was surprised, that someone else knew how to take care of people. He looked on with supervision as he looked her up and down. Nothing particularly stood out about her, but she looked to be of decent character. In fact, she seemed a little familiar. Perhaps he had seen her in the infirmary a few times? Carson was definitely a regular there. He had performed a few dire, intermediate surgeries and he pulled his fair weight with basic doctoring around the prison. That’s where it had to be, the infirmary. Olivia announced she didn’t really have a background in medicine, or in anything really, but if you could tell a bruise from a cut, the medical ward used you at Sing Sing.
Carson looked around. Surprisingly, he didn’t even notice a man was gasping on the ground until people started paying attention to him. My hearing must be getting bad… I guess I should sue all those IED’s in Afghan… Everett had a puzzled look on his face as his body was carried off the field. Haven’t even been given a mission yet and they already had a casualty. How fuckin’ lucky this group was. However, Carson’s puzzlement was over the man’s condition and why he was being carted off. “I suppose we get a ticket to the infirmary if we’re tired and a little thirsty,” He looked alive to me, anyway. Give him an adrenaline shot, a cup of water, he’ll be alright. “I got a paper-cut a few days ago. Guess I better make my way over…” He kept his sarcastic comments under his breath. He has had his fair share of getting chewed out by Officers for having a big, sarcastic mouth before. Everett was certain this ‘adventure’ was going to be no different if he kept going down this path. He was, however, glad to see other people who were concerned with first aid. Everett would have hated it if he was the only one who could apply a band-aid.
After a rather large, fat , Danny DeVito looking man, a Marine, which Carson immediately got a figurative hard-on for because of his background, and an English paratrooper, Carson took role. British smart ass, unskilled laborer. Check. Track star speed addict, check. Dashingly handsome EMT, Check. Botanist... Check. Itty bitty titty liberal arts specialist, check. Human shiel- er, Fat man, check. Bad ass marine, Prince Harry, check. Herr Fuhrer and his trusty side-kick Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity- the dynamic duo - check. “A real group of professionals, eh? It’s a fuckin’ party. Trained killers, really,” Carson looked to his left and right, giving a curt nod to the man named Mercer.
After all was said and done, it was finally time for Herr Adler and Mister Parkes to give their piece on things. All this talk about FOBs, munitions, and bases got Carson in an even worse mood. He thought he had left his military life behind, and now, only a handful of years after his discharge and slowly slipping into civilian life, he was thrust back into the world of destruction, death, and uncanny friendship. How lovely. Unfortunately, one of the pet peeves he picked up in the military, was he got very irritated when people spoke a different language Carson didn’t know. He doesn’t know why, it just bugged him and it made Carson very, very curious. In doing so, he leaned over and whispered to the Brit factory worker. “Psst. D’you speak pig-latin? ‘Cause I have no idea what Hitler over there is saying,” Carson grimaced and took his former position, a form of semi-attention and his hands clasped behind his back. Almost as if adding a verbal period to his sentence, Carson concluded, “From what I’ve read, he was a good speaker, though. Very motivating. Sounds like nails in a blender.”