ArchivedLogs:Vignette - A Win

Vignette - A Win
Dramatis Personae Joe	2013-11-13 Joe picks up some supplies. (Part of Infected TP.)
Location Medical Station for Plague Meds
Joe stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his parka, and closed his eyes against the mass of people ahead of him in line. The temperature was in the mid-thirties, but as far as Joe's frail body was concerned, it might as well have been arctic. His down parka was also lined with fake fur, and he was even wearing ski pants along with two layers of long underwear no one could see. Thick ski socks, and tan work boots rounded out the image. He tugged down on the jacket to make the hood snug around the sides of his head, and fought off a brief bout of shivers. When he opened his eyes again, it was time to move forward. He took the two steps to keep things moving, and closed his eyes once more. With his eyes closed, he could occupy himself with a favorite pastime of cataloguing all the things nearby that his line-mates were carrying. Or at least the guy ahead and the gal behind. He mentally sorted through the man's belongings - a wad of cash, small caliber pistol (magazine half empty), almost empty bottle of water, reading glasses, and a paperback. Concentrating, he noted the book is one he'd already read, and sighed, disappointed. The gun was also not as nice as the one in his own pocket. Resigned, he turned his mental focus on the woman behind and was delighted to learn she was carrying a full backpack. She didn't have much in her pockets, except a chapstick, but he idled away much of the line's wait time sifting and sorting through all of little things she had squirreled away. There wasn't much in the end for him to pilfer, but he did blink the flask at the bottom of her pack to his inside jacket pocket for closer inspection later. It was half full, and probably had something decent inside. And the activity was diverting enough for enough time to pass that he could actually see the tents up ahead. Joe's knees wobbled, weak with the amount of standing and walking he had to do today. When it looked like the line had stabilized for the next group of patients, he sat on the cold, cracked concrete and massaged his legs. When things picked up again, the man with the paperback helped him to his feet again with a bleak smile. Joe musters up a smile that looks warmer than he feels and thanks him, before huddling up in his jacket again. Image is everything. So is the tantalizing dangle of hope which makes Joe's smile possible. Finally, it's Joe's turn in the tents. He sees all the crates as he approaches, and barely suppresses the wild laughter welling up inside of him. It was all happening. It was really going to work. This time, this plan. This was his ticket. And he /deserved/ a win. Finally. A pretty, kind-faced female nurse greeted him at the entrance, and led him through the warren of cots and seats and medical staff. When he drifted near one box on his way through, he caused one of the ampules of medicine inside to appear in the palm of his hand, hidden from all. He rolled it, felt the weight of it and nodded. Quietly, his pockets began filling. One from that crate, two from this one. Each pile of supplies he passed was methodically lightened and Joe could only despair at his lack of preparation. Not enough /pockets/. It would be a little suspicious if he put too many into any one pocket. He'd clank like a bag full of test tubes. So he had to be conservative in his pilfering. When he sat down to get jabbed, he had half a dozen in various pockets. After the shot, on his way out, he popped several more across the intervening space, and left with almost fifteen doses. He glanced around on his way out, allowing himself to be gently ushered, feigning some of the disorientation he saw in many of the other patients. 'This is just one spot,' he thought to himself. How many other med stations were there? They weren't even logging ID's. And he's supposed to be back everyday anyway. Out in the open again, he finally quit trying to suppress the triumphant grin that had been fighting for control of his face. He looked up at the gray sky, just as a fat, lazy snowflake drifted down in little spirals. He stuck his hand out, let it land in the palm of his gloved hand, and laughed. When it finally started to melt, he made a fist around the dot, and looked around to see many more starting to fall around. Joe left with a spring in his step, and a whistle on his lips. The tune: It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas.