Chapter Text
A man in a sterile white coat hums to the tune of classical music played on a cheap speaker. A surgical mask covers his mouth, but it cannot contain the great, bushy beard vying for freedom underneath. Strands of silver break through the deep brown brush below his chin. He stands next to an old-looking sink, and next to him stands a small cart. On the cart sits a tray, glistening and gleaming with all sorts of diligently-maintained surgical tools, as well as some... unconventional metal objects that exude a threatening air.
The man smoothly rolls the cart to the fixture in the center of the room. He stands straight. Centers himself with closed eyes and a steady breath, and then looks down. Already he feels the anticipation fill his chest with glee, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
'Hello," he greets.
A subject lays strapped to the table below him. Male, middle-aged, and quite worn by the elements. The latter is quite common in this modern, decrepit era. A rudimentary gag in the subject's mouth prevents it from returning the pleasantry. It looks quite trepidatious indeed.
"It is rude to not provide the barest of greetings to your host, you know." It glares stubbornly at him, probably angry that he is scolding it for something outside of its control. How typical.
"I will precede this marvelous time we will share by offering you an apology. You see, I have found through experimentation that withholding a dialogue provides the subject, you, with an enhanced experience. However, as you treated me with such wounding contempt, I will be quite rude in turn. I have personally found monologues to enhance my own enjoyment of this precious time we have together, and as such, will be sacrificing the intensity of your own experience to supplement mine. I hope you understand."
It rolls its eyes at his ever-so-heartfelt confession and huffs. "Your disrespect is immense, it seems, but that is of no matter. You find yourself on my table, and thus are subject to my will, whether you respect me or not." He clicks his tongue while examining the subject more thoroughly. "I wonder what you've done to end up in my lab, of all places. Something egregious, I'm sure." He feels up its neck. Lymph system seems to be doing fine. "Despite your apparent good health, you were deemed useless to our Organic Mechanic." The mocking tone he uses conveys just how he feels about the absurd title. "Why is that, hmm? Wrong blood type? While your hygeine surely calls for lifelong imprisonment, he isn't known for caring much about that. It's difficult to get proper donors these days, after all. And speaking of hygiene, your fingernails are atrocious." He reaches for his scalpel.
The subject looks at him with contempt and suspicion. Such emotions are well-founded, honestly. It probably has a general idea of what he plans to do to it. But first...
"Ah, yes, I haven't introduced myself properly, have I?" A prize-winning malicious smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. "It is difficult to judge which name you are most likely to know me by. I've been referred to by many titles in the past decade or so. The Doctor, The Mad Doctor, The Chemist... All functional titles, of course. They are descriptive and accurate. To my confusion, however, one other seems to have stuck. Why anyone began calling me Caustic is beyond my underst--ah! There it is," he gleefully grins and gently strokes the now-terrified subject's immobilized cheek. "Recognition graces those... Delicate eyes of yours. You understand your predicament now, don't you?" The subject frantically tugs on its bonds, grunting and making noises that could be swearing. It looks angry, though. It's not pleading. Yet. He will enjoy slowly breaking this one's spirit. The most stubborn subjects are always the most fun. Most rewarding.
Caustic lowers himself to the level of the subject's hand, raising the scalpel under its nails. He begins scraping the dirt from them with the precise blade. "Careful, insect. You wouldn't want my hand to slip now, would you? I've been told deep cuts under the fingernails are quite excruciating. Feel free to test this conclusion of your own accord, but it's not something I'd pursue for myself, honestly." It attempts to pull its hand back in the strap, but the limb is quickly immobilized. It holds its fingertips tense and still.
"Now, where was I...?" The doctor puts on a show of turning to the subject, as if to get a reminder, then turns back to picking its nails clean. "Ah, right, yes. I introduced myself. I'm sure you're familiar with my work. I would confirm every terrible rumor you've heard of me, but there are just so many. It's impossible to keep track of the nonsense produced by the common rabble. If you're concerned about a slow, laborious death from deliberate infection, please allow your fears to be assuaged. My plague rat quota has been filled as of late." He allows himself a dark chuckle. "Your end will be far more precise than an infection, and more importantly, sterile. Or as sterile as one can get your filthy body, I suppose. I enjoy variety just like anyone else, after all."
Caustic leaves his subject to stew on their inevitable fate while he sterilizes the scalpel. He does genuinely want to keep this victim as clean as possible. Watching microorganisms tear apart human bodies is entertaining. It can happen quickly or slowly, in so many different ways, with so many different types of pain reflected in the eyes of the carrier before they inevitably succumb. What he plans with this one is far more intimate, however. All the agony must be inflicted by his own hand.
"I hope you appreciate the music choice. Any music could do, but I've learned over the years that there's some... unknowable property about classical chords paired with simulated vinyl record sounds that just draws out that extra bit of engagement from my subjects."
He returns to the table and injects the subject with a syringe. "This substance will ensure your alertness and awareness for our entire time together today. And if you're wondering, yes. There will be multiple days of this engagement. Death is patient, and so am I."
So many fun options at his disposal, and he has all day to himself to enjoy them. Hot iron rods are always entertaining, and don't result in the subject nearing death. An activity for later in the first day, definitely. He picks up the scalpel and brings it to the subject's shoulder. "Let's start slow." He applies pressure. Barely enough to break skin, not even enough to draw blood. But the pressure is indeed enough such that when he smoothly draws the knife down the subject's arm, it will be as if a papercut spans the entire length of the limb. It hisses through the gag and instinctively pulls away, and when he finishes his first stroke, it glares at him with unbridled fury.
"I will enjoy watching your attitude be smothered under the weight of your impending experience. Shall I repeat this action, or drive needles under your fingernails?" He waits mockingly for an answer he knows it cannot give. Its nostrils are flaring in its fury. "I agree. Another incision is the proper next step." He brandishes the weapon with a smile gracing his eyes, then resumes his work.
Or... he would have resumed, if he hadn't heard a knocking at his door.
At first, it is so unexpected and unprecedented that he can only stand there, stunned, scalpel mere millimeters from the subject's bicep. This never happens. Nobody ever interrupts him while he's having his special time with the unnecessary rejected meat sacks.
When the knock comes again, he slowly straightens his back, outrage rapidly consuming him.
"Hey, doc?" comes a muffled voice from the other side of the door. "Doc, I know you're in there. Need a word with you."
He cannot bring himself to reply.
"Doc! Got orders straight from the boss. Open up or this'll get way messier than it has to be."
Caustic snarls to himself, stomps over to the door, and throws it open. "What. Could possibly be so important as to be worthy of interrupting my personal time?"
The messenger in front of him stares up dispassionately. One infuriating thing about the entire world becoming a hellscape is that insects are far less unnerved when confronting a large, unhinged murderer than they used to be. Caustic wants to wring this lackey's throat. "Commissioner wants you to chase down and murder some important members of a rebel group. They've been gaining traction and he wants 'em fuckin' gone. Orders are to get you on the road ASAP."
What?? "Are there no other Legends up to the task? Are they all so incompetent that I must be bothered when I am not to be bothered?"
"The other Legends are all on jobs. Rev's out committing mass murder somewhere for some reason, the schizo went missing, yada yada. Don't matter. You don't gotta know. What you do gotta know is, Boss wants you on the road. Now." After not getting a response for a few moments, the lackey sighs and continues, "You're the last Legend who's not needed at the Citadel twenty-four-seven and the Commissioner needs someone who he knows is fine with, and very good at, killin' a lot of people."
Caustic finds himself immobilized, staring fiery knives into the space above the lackey's head. He cannot hear their words. The indignity. How DARE he be interrupted! This is his time! His time to do as he pleases! The bastard who runs this place has no respect for those whose labor he employs. Caustic should march himself up there right now and show him the fruits of--
Oh. The lackey is snapping fingers in his face.
His attention focuses back on the underling.
"Man, I literally could not care less about what you think. The War Boys are already getting the Dee-Mo prepped for a long ride. Getcher ass down to the workshop if you don't wanna get thrown to the wastes."
The messenger walks away confidently, leaving Caustic standing the doorway to do what he will.
Caustic licks his chapped lips.
He will do what he is told.
Because despite his martial and intellectual prowess.
He is still an underling.
He slams the door and returns to the surgical table in a whirl of fury, seizing the subject's face in an iron grip, driving his thumb under its cheekbone and positioning a fillet knife over its eye.
"You may consider yourself extraordinarily lucky, little rat, for I have been summoned unwillingly to the aid of those who are so inept that they are not properly capable of slaughter. You may pray to your pathetic god that I return in a better mood than the one with which I left." He whirls around, throwing the knife onto the tool tray before charging out of the room to gear up for his assignment.
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(i picture the car looking like the one in his "failed emissions" banner frame and his suit inspired by the gorilla one but with modifications to it to suit your specific tastes. that's right, your tastes and nobody else's. picture a cooler version of either of these to make yourself happy.)
In the time it took to prepare his equipment, the fiery rage that consumed him has waned into a glowing smolder. With the feeling simmering in his gut, he stomps down to where his vehicle is stored. Throngs of War Boys swarm over the dumbly-named "Death Mobile," a monstrous, vivid green vehicle constructed with bulletproof glass, hard edges, and panes of resilient metal welded into something alarmingly sleek for such an angular contraption. He will admit some amount of affection for the behemoth, and while his attempts to rename the thing never succeeded, perhaps he was glad that the War Boys bothered to spray paint skulls and biohazard symbols in tasteful locations across its chassis. Perhaps.
He watches a teenager scurry towards his vehicle with medical supplies before his attention is seized by an older Boy with a ratty manila folder. This one speaks with marginal authority, thumbing through a few blurry pictures of vehicles and people that looked like they should be in a cheap cryptid documentary. In his free hand, he brings a photo up to squint at it. He can barely even make out the physical build of a couple of them. Unfortunately, this is the best intel they have. He is to hunt these individuals down, cripple what industry they may have, and murder everyone he can. A simple task, really.
The feverish din fades as the Boys finish preparing the Dee-Mo and scurry off to work on something else. He tosses his helmet and the folder inside, hoists himself into the driver's seat, and closes door. The headrest pushes his hair tie into his scalp, but it doesn't matter. Finally, a moment to breathe.
He turns to check the storage section of the vehicle. Chemicals, reagents, filled and empty canisters, extra fuel, a couple shelves of rations, water, and everything in its place in the tiny medical bay deep in the back section. Everything he needs is present. With a huff, he slides the helmet over his restrained hair, places photos of vehicles into clips on his dashboard, and embarks into the wasteland, kicking up dust in great golden plumes behind him.