Truth be told Daemon’s always been acquainted with money. Even before his enlistment, Daemon came from a fairly wealthy upper middle class family. He was raised in a beachfront property home, was renowned as the ‘popular’ suave surfer kid, captain of his high school football team, and if he hadn’t graduated a year early from his prestigious high school academy… he could have added prom king to his list of achievements. Daemon had been accustomed to living with the finer things in life, for most of his life. Of course, his social status and wealth didn’t really matter in the military. Begrudgingly, he was of no more importance than most of his comrades. Training, drills, and deployments were places where his status didn’t matter too much either. If it weren’t for the massive ego he forged around himself so long ago though, perhaps he’d walk with more humility. But… that’s never going to happen.

The distance the young woman kept behind him amid the walk was welcomed. It made it easier on both of them, and spared her from earning a sharp bark if he felt she was encroaching on his space. He stuck his foot out the first time, imagine what he’d be willing to do for a second time. Daemon hadn’t really bothered to look back at the female either, but he could judge the distance between them from the sound of the placement of steps. Someone like Daemon is more in tune with distance between himself and other human beings, so he’s mindful of his placements at all times.

Daemon found the nightlife within German rather enthralling, but not solely for the reason of the free entertainment on night shifts. He’s always been an individual that fares better in more chaotic settings, and in fact he performs best where stability is near non-existent. It makes him a wonderful soldier under pressure, and perhaps it’s one of the greatest things about his performance in the military. Things that are quiet, atmospheres that are still, and a life of simple domestication is just too boring for his taste. It’s mind numbing in the worst way for Daemon. Being surrounded by action as well as taking part in action keeps him busy. And he enjoys being busy, and a vast part of him needs to constantly be busy as well.

"I don't need pity. Especially not Americanized pity. I can take care of myself, I have been for years now and I'm managing just fine." It was only when she finished her final statement that Daemon paused in his walk to cast his icy gaze to her. Briefly making a show of observing her current state, he huffed in amusement as he turned forward once more. “Uh-huh. I think our definitions of managing just fine greatly differ.” Of course her current burns and tattered clothes weren’t really helping her case in the eyes of Daemon, but the young woman did not meet his standards of doing well. There’s a difference between surviving and living to him. Surviving is what it appears this woman has been doing for some time, and Daemon has been managing well enough through his life to be living life to its fullest. Mostly.

"And that's not my name. I get enough name-calling as it is without your big ego adding on to the list." Daemon rolled his eyes, but at least he was facing forward so he wouldn’t have to hear a comment from her about it. Clearly she didn’t know what it was like to truly have Daemon maliciously stick a demeaning name to her. If he had, he doubted she’d still be trailing him. Then again, she hasn’t pissed him off enough to deserve being stuck with a rude name. “Well I certainly don’t remember you offering a name I could call you by.” He remarked, sweeping his gaze over the faces of a few individuals that passed by. Blue eyes glanced to the impending corner he’d be rounding, his fingers beginning to tap at his strap in anticipation. “I am flattered that you cared enough to acknowledge my ego though, this fat cow appreciates it.” Daemon smirked as he threw a look over his shoulder to the woman, chuckling as his sights switched ahead of him again. Quite honestly he wouldn’t even mind if that’s how she referred to him from now until he pawned her off at the tent. It was genuinely humorous to him. At best he was used to being called ‘Dae’ and ‘Cali’, but he wasn’t opposed to integrating ‘fat cow’ as a new nickname for himself in an ironic sort of sense.

Daemon’s chosen name wasn’t necessarily one picked to degrade. Merely, he picked a quality of the woman, and called her by such. In this case it was the woman’s hair that was blonde, so referring to her as ‘blonde’ made sense enough to Daemon. Where he grew up though, usually a derogatory term for a person faring with blonde locks would be ‘toe head’. And for brunette’s such as himself, ‘shit head’ was a common thing to be called. Daemon wasn’t abundantly easy to offend however, so being called childish names didn’t bother him. Until they did… and the few things that have bothered Daemon were met with vile responses.

While Daemon wouldn’t openly express he had already gathered his own judgment of the woman when she had come running out of the burning building, he wasn’t sure his current opinion of her could deteriorate further. It’s not as if he thought abundantly little of her, just perhaps a bit lesser compared to others he knows. However, to a narcissist, everyone is beneath them. This rang true for Daemon. The young man treated and believed most -if not all- people to be inferior to him. That wasn’t necessarily because of the status he had growing up, because truly even if he had been raised dirt poor, and still had endured the experiences he did as a child, this narcissistic nature would still be greatly present.

"Well I'm sorry if I'm not privileged like yourself.” Daemon quipped with a scoff. “Save your ingenuine apologies for someone who cares to hear them.” Apologies in general were something Daemon didn’t like hearing from anyone. The words ‘I’m sorry’ were used too much to have any meaning in this life. They were just a default expression that people used, and thought it would miraculously make everything okay. When in all reality, most apologies solve nothing. Perhaps they provide a sense of minimal comfort to the recipient, but what do apologies really accomplish? Daemon wouldn’t know.

It was the fact that she had neared close enough to him that coaxed him to visibly grow more aloof in appearance. But it was the audacity she had to brush against his shoulder that caused him to flare the elbow closest to her out as he lowered the tone of his voice to hiss. “I understand starvation may lead to the effect of poor spatial awareness as it takes a toll on your sensible mental comprehension, but it’s rude in most cultures to invade an individual's personal space. I would suggest you keep that in mind.” Daemon’s eyes hadn’t narrowed as they were trained onto the figure of the woman, but they did grow jaggedly frigid as they bore onto her. As much as the military had trained him to tolerate being body to body with others, Daemon still just couldn’t stand it. It deeply bothered him, but it was also a small trigger. But it's any soul that’s ever been unfortunate enough to get into Daemon’s face, and God forbid yell in his face that have been hauled off on. His mother knew that first hand, Daemon was simply doing what his father was too honorable to do that one horrid night though; and he slapped her like the bitch she was.

"Why should I give you more privledge over me by knowing my name? All you are going to do is mock my every move." Daemon gave a mild shrug in response, he wouldn’t deny that he may or may not mock her further. “I’ll just refer to you as ‘woman’ then and we’ll call it fair. Or would that be considered too privileged of a thing for me to do, woman?” A phantom of a smirk had pushed at his lips, but he left it at that. As the walk furthered though, and he began to blend better into the sea of fellow American men and women in arms, Daemon lowered his hand from his strap. He didn't need to worry about looking intimidating to his fellow soldiers.

It didn’t go unnoticed that the female slowed dramatically, and that she seemed rather hesitant. But he didn’t care. “Come along now woman, I didn’t walk you all the way here just for you to get cold feet.” Switching his gaze from the medical tent a short distance ahead to the female, he raised a brow. “You do want the medical assistance, right?” He inquired sharply, but he wasn’t keen on her being a waste of time and supplies either. If she chickened out halfway through being examined or worked on, then there goes resources for a braver soul, wasted on a squeamish German denizen. Plus, she would be wasting the medics valuable time. Which would have made this woman overall a waste of Daemon’s time, albeit he was only standing and observing his posted street corner a short time ago. So maybe it wouldn’t be too much of a waste of his own time, but it would still annoy him.

Daemon seldomly intervened in matters involving vastly unruly German citizens, and the German soldiers. Perhaps Daemon would subtly observe how the German soldiers dealt with their people’s vocal defiances, but it wasn’t for him to impede on. Daemon’s seen -and in his younger years participated- in rowdier riots with crowds he shouldn’t have, but unless certain degrees of violence were escalated, words were freely thrown around. Even harsher, detestant words. There were little to no repercussions for speaking where he was from, most of the time anyway, but it did appear to be quite a bit different here in Germany.

When it came to this female though, he was rather enjoying himself. If she spoke, more than likely he could dish out more snarky comments and responses. And if she chose to further silence herself, then he would match that. But invade his space, accidentally or not, he’ll give the grace of a warning bark before he bites. While Daemon could be considered a mildly confrontational individual, he was at least intelligent enough to pick fights he knew he would win. Or at least, fights where he knew he could annoy or tire his opponent enough for him to claim a self-appointed victory over the situation.

The moment of a surprised glance he had been met with by the woman confused him, what was surprising? Daemon was almost tempted to ask, but he decided he didn’t want to know the reasoning that badly. It wouldn’t be intriguing information, or so he assumed. Now if he believed this female had any information at all faring on the spectrum of gossipy and being worth knowing, he would pry. However, she didn’t appear to know anything he wanted to know. So there was no point in wasting his breath in digging.

“As long as they keep their grubby hands off of me and dont dare try anything else." As she neared his side, he did arch his brow as if to give a reminder warning of what she would be met with if she got too close. However, the space between them satisfied him. “Duly noted, woman.” He smiled, deceivingly sweetly before he proceeded forward. Would he relay those exact words to the medic when they got there? Absolutely. Will he be doing it out of the kindness of his heart? No, he’ll more than likely relay it in a manner of mocking.

"Also, it's Illiana-my name.” This time it was Daemon’s turn to cast a surprised look to her, as he wasn’t expecting to get a name from the woman- or Illiana as he just learned. “I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, Illiana,” he smirked, while drawing out her name. “Specialist Daemon Ulrich, that would be my own proper name. Fat cow works just as well though.” The young male smiled, but he wouldn’t be letting that go for quite some time. In fact, he was rather giddy to share that with a few of the other soldiers and military personnel he was closer with.

“Through here.” Daemon gestured with a lazy flick of his wrist in the direction of a larger tent, with the white flaps pulled back, exposing the few simplistic and fairly bare beds within. Leading the way in, shockingly, it was empty. Well, except for the two medics on duty, with one who looked up from her computer at the small desk centered in the middle of the tent. While the other older gentleman was focused on sorting through boxes of supplies at the back of the tent. The first medic rose to her feet, opening her mouth to address Daemon and the female, but Daemon beat her to it. “Delivery.” Daemon chirped as he stood to the side and gestured with his head towards Illiana.

The younger medic -being that of 27, and bearing the name of “Lola Vidale” on her badge-, slowly approached Illiana with a concerned smile. “Quite the day you’re having from the looks of it hun,” Lola said, examining from a short distance the wounds -and general state- this poor girl was in. “I’m Lola, lead medic on staff. Do you consent to a more thorough examination conducted solely by me?” It was probably best that Lola chose to address Illiana, as she was currently the only other female medic on duty at the moment here. And in the medic's experience, most women preferred a female medical professional conducting their exams.

“Lola my love, this wonderful woman has, and quote requested, for medics to ‘keep their grubby hands off of her’. And God forbid you dare try anything else. Because she just might go as far as bestowing upon you a sweetly spoken insult.” Daemon inserted with a cocky grin, with Lola visibly relenting from the urge to roll her eyes. “I appreciate your input, Ulrich, but I do believe she can speak for herself.” Lola smiled at the Specialist, and then her brown eyes warmly moved back to Illiana to encourage her to speak up on her own account.

Daemon can be regarded as quite the character, but he was never cruel without some semblance of a self-decided righteousness to justify his acts. Whether it was selfish -which was common- or not, there was his version of a ‘better’ reason to be cruel. Daemon held no prejudices though; not against Germans, Irishmen, or any other nationality. One could consider him an anti-saint, as he could care less about everyone equally! Why should he give others the satisfaction of being thought about when he can think about himself, the greatest person to ever live. And he truthfully did believe he was a gift to this world, a global treasure in fact.

Daemon wasn’t abundantly merciful when it came to accidents, but he’d never exactly experienced being treated delicately when he makes mistakes either. No, he wanted to be a man at an early age, and thus he was treated as such from a young age on. So Daemon naturally expected other people to take to harsher words, and actions better. If anything, he could believe he’s helping spineless bastards ‘toughen up’. He’s the kind of guy to verbally level someone and finish off by asking ‘oh, you’re not going to cry about it, are you?’... and if he gets punched in the face, for two seconds he would be proud of the puncher. You know, before Daemon has to lay them out on the ground afterwards to establish his superiority. But in the end, at least someone stuck up for themselves in those few seconds, right?

Daemon had only caught the look he was being given a few times, but only once did he offer a minor shrug. She wouldn’t have liked how he could have acted, as it would have been theatrical. “Avert your eyes lads and ladies! Have you no shame in your staring?!” Surely if he dramatically shouted such things, it would have drawn even more attention. And while Daemon enjoyed attention, he doubted the tattered woman would find it as funny as he would have.

In truth, Daemon’s last name is of German origin. Which was interesting, because it’s probably been many, many generations since he’s had an ancestor that actually lived in Germany. Daemon was, as he would say, an all-American mutt. His lineage was a little bit of everything, but if had to narrow it down, he’d say he’s more of mixed European and English descent. And just as his lineage lines were vast, so were his array of smiles. Daemon wore many smiles, smirks, grins, and grimaces. Each expressed what he needed them to. And the one he had offered Illiana? Something between genuine and amused.

For the time being in the tent, Daemon wasn’t much bothered at being near Illiana’s side. She was being mindful of his space, at least he wanted to assume she was purposely being mindful, and if she in fact was… then he appreciated that. If she respected a line he made evidently clear he did not want crossed, then he was more open to returning a single, subtler respectful gesture. However, when Illiana snorted at Lola’s comment about her day, Daemon couldn’t help the smaller smirk that crept onto his face. ‘Quite a day’ was not the term he would have used either, so the snort was well earned.

Catching the glare from Illiana that he was prone to receiving from a lot of people, the soldier oppressed a chuckle. He was only repeating what she said, and this was a relatively safe space. Or at least it was for him. Illiana did not seem to reciprocate the stance of relaxation he did, but then again if she had acted too content here, that would have roused his suspicion. But nothing about Illiana actually screamed out to him that she was a deceitful monster, he usually had an eye for spotting those kinds of people a mile away. After all, it takes a monster to know how to detect another.

"O-Oh, um, it's okay really-if he speaks for me.” Lola hadn’t deciphered those words, but judging from Daemon standing in a more smug stance and sticking his tongue out at her like a child, Lola guessed it was something he found delight in hearing. And in fact, Daemon did. Who didn’t want to be elected as someone’s voice? And Daemon loved the sound of his own voice, so obviously Illiana liked it enough to hear him talk for her. And that’s the only reason he was willing to accept.

"Respectfully, I would prefer not to. I don't see the relevance to why I'm here to have an examination.” A thin smile was what Lola gave in response, with an added nod of her head. “I understand, but the relevance would be to get a better grasp of your overall health. Not that I have any medicine that would miraculously fix your every need, but it would help me decide whether you’re a good candidate for a few hours on an IV, if I should further add any medications to the fluid, and so on and so forth.” Lola explained, delicately trying to express there were no ill intentions. It’s her job to tend to a patient's every need as best she could in a short amount of time. Daemon had crossed his arms with an entertained expression though as Illiana hung her jacket. “Respectfully, I don’t see the relevance in your mouth moving if she said no.” Daemon spoke, effectively pressing on the line of Lola’s patience with him.

"I got burned trying to escape a burning building. Almost didn't make it.” Daemon had met Illiana’s gaze as she said that, a flicker of thought dancing through his eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as he looked back to Lola. While he didn’t think of himself harsh for initially mocking her, now he was thinking… what had she been doing in that particular building? Lola seemed on the verge of pressing Illiana about it as well, but Daemon gave a dramatic sigh as he dragged his feet to the back of the tent. Lola glanced from Illiana to Daemon, growing irritated as she watched him rummage through a box before showing off the first aid kit he found. The other medic not even bothering to glance in Daemon's direction. “You’re not qualified to-” Lola had started, Daemon waving his free hand in dismissal while cutting her off with his own voice.

“I’m not qualified to examine people, but even a monkey is qualified to use a first aid kit. They’re practically idiot proof.” He beamed with a squinted gaze, turning his mockeries to Lola. And tossing it onto a bed closest to where Illiana was standing, he moved his pointer finger from her to the bed. “You can try to patch yourself up on your own, and if you ask nicely enough, maybe I’ll put band-aids in the places your T-rex arms can’t reach.” Daemon smirked, Lola going quiet to see if this girl would actually take Daemon up on that. But he was being genuine… it’s just hard to tell with his suffocating aura of smugness and ego. But he read that Illiana wasn’t comfortable with someone getting up close and personal with an ‘examination’, and that Daemon understood. So, he was offering a chance for her to be more independent. And his odd way of phrasing he was there to be helpful if called upon was genuine as well, even if it didn’t sound like it was. But that’s just who he was; an entity that struggled with expressing well-meaning and genuine gestures. At best, perhaps he could be described as quirky in that way.

Daemon was ritualistically immature, not to mention childish. Not when in moments where things were deathly serious -he still might fire off a snarky comment-, but he knew when it was relatively time to lay certain aspects of his personality aside. And his flirtations practically never have any affection behind them, no real desire shadowed by his antics. And while he can be a rather promiscuous man, there was no time for any real personal down times right now for Daemon. Maybe throwing a few drinks back at the end of a shift, talking with a few other off duty soldiers, and then if he was lucky he’d manage to actually catch a couple hours of sleep.

Daemon hadn’t looked to see what Illiana expressed after he made his comment to Lola, as he was busy not so subtly asserting his authority. No, he was not the highest ranking militant here. And quite frankly he had practically no pull over medical personnel. However, he was an outstanding Specialist, and whether he appeared deserving or not, Daemon has earned his fair share of abundant respect among most of his American comrades. Primarily based on his better decision making. He’s successfully led a handful of battalions to victory, doesn’t hesitate in being the first to brave the front lines, and has volunteered -some may consider it stupidly- to solely go into places occupied by enemies to provide distractions to the rest of a squadron. He may be a royal jackass, but he was a dutifully skilled man. So there was a bit of slack cut for his more confidently abrasive and authoritarian demeanor.

Now that Illiana had sparked a mild sense of Daemon’s curiosity, he debated how badly he wanted to know why she was in that building. More than likely it was nothing of grave interest, but he did mull over one thing. What if she had been up to no good? Did he dare ask her here, and risk getting an honest answer that might get them both in trouble? If Daemon just walked some sort of German anarchist right into the heart of this camp, and Lola overheard, he would have his ass handed to him by every superior on sight.

"Excuse you, your arms are shorter than mine compared to the rest of your frame.” This amused Daemon, enough for him to faintly squint his eyes with a smirk as he placed his hands on his hips. Watching Illiana’s gaze moving down his body in observation, he raised a brow in addition. "Oh yes, definitely shorter." Giving a scoff and dramatically placing a hand over his heart, he began to speak. “That is the meanest thing I’ve heard this week. So now I’m a fat cow with short arms, what a hideous sight I must be.” He remarked. The smirk Daemon had though expressed that he took nothing to heart, once more, he thought too highly of himself to be offended by insults playing off of his appearance. He’s god-tier in masculine beauty in his eyes, and he will stand by that until the day he dies.

As soon as Illiana made a move for the bed and the kit, Lola gave an agitated huff, flashed a glare that said ‘we’ll talk later’ at Daemon, and returned to the computer at the desk. Daemon already knew what Lola would want to discuss with him though, it would be her ‘warning’ before she takes his acts of unwarranted authority to his Sergeant. That didn’t frighten Daemon though, at worst he’ll be “grounded” from the alcohol supply for a few days. Maybe he’ll have to work an extra 16 hour shift or two as well. Daemon would manage.

The soldier still stood off to the side, unslinging his gun and placing it against the side of the tent as he lightly paced. It’s difficult for him to stay still, so this was the best he could do in the space he was in without wandering off from the tent. He cast a few glances in Illiana’s direction at her hisses and strings of mumbled German cursing. “And I thought I had a mouth.” Daemon muttered to himself, but he knew enough of what was being uttered to understand the vulgarity of what she was spewing.

“Would you mind wrapping my wrists up? I know you are supposed to let burns air out but I'm not located in the cleanest area. My major concern is avoiding infection." Daemon paused in his pacing at the sound of her voice, giving a lazy nod in both acceptance and agreement. “I don’t mind.” He replied. From the looks of her already, he was confident Illiana had little access to clean places, so wrapping was a better judgment call. Stepping closer towards her, Daemon tapped his forefinger and thumb together twice on his right hand before lowering himself to a crouch in front of her. He contemplated moving things on the bed so he could sit and wrap her wrists from beside her, but being in front provided a feel of distance for him. “If you try to kick, hit, or even bite me while I do this,” Daemon began as his hands moved to the wrap, and began readying to wrap her first wrist. “I will hit you back. I’m not going to get into how many times that’s happened on the field, but there’s your fair warning.” He finished, his hands working to secure the wrap in an embrace around her wrist that would ensure the wounds are protected and covered, but certainly not loose enough for it to be a worthless wrap job.

But he was used to being hit when trying to help others in the middle of a battlefield. He wasn’t a medic, but sometimes it was Daemon’s creative interventions when a medic was too far out, or bleeding out. But in the moment, some people don’t respond well to being in a lot of pain and being touched. Daemon understood that, but he had no shame in decking someone if they tried interfering with his aid. Sometimes it knocked them out all cold, which in all, made his patch work easier. And other times, it at least got whoever he was working on cooperative enough to stay still and shut up. It certainly warranted Daemon to have some respect for the medics that are berated by angry, injured soldiers constantly though.