It's been a few days. A few shitty days of sitting in this bed, doing absolutely nothing. Doc's orders. He figured that it'd be bad for me if I got up and started moving before I fully recovered. He's not wrong, but I think he figured something was up when he pulled the forty-five out of me that nearly left me a kidney short. I haven't told him exactly what happened yet, considering I'd rather not be thrown out on my ass before I can walk straight.
Today, though? Today is gonna be different. I feel like I'm nearly back to a hundred percent. Definitely not a hundred percent yet. All that sprinting that got me shot? I probably wouldn't be able to pull that off in my current state. Not even close. But I can definitely hobble across town and get whatever the Doc needs done.
I wouldn't mind getting some fresh air, anyways. It's getting kind of stale sitting down here without anything to do. I haven't even turned my commlink back on since I accidentally dialed Ames. Kind of realized a little too late that they could be using the thing to track me, especially since I don't know what kind of connections I'm piggybacking off of out here. I'll have to get a techhead to tell me if it's safe to use this thing, or if I have to ditch it for a new one.
I make my way down the hallway, thankfully knowing the lay of the place from having to get up to use the washroom repeatedly, no part in large due to being on an IV drip for a day or two. It's much the same as the room they had me holed up in, with the same yellowed-blue walls and antiquated ceiling tiles. The ceiling lights don't seem to be buzzing as much out here. Back to the front desk I go, where it hits me just how understaffed the clinic is. Doc is playing both surgeon and secretary, with him speaking a language I don't recognize to someone over his commlink. He's still wearing the surgical mask and thick goggles, for some reason.
It still surprises me that there's actually things out here, let alone a clinic. I don't know why they'd repeatedly hammer it into us that there was nothing out here except wastelanders who want to skin us and take everything we own. Corp propaganda, I guess. Corpaganda. Especially if someone's nice enough to not charge you six months worth of your pay to treat your injuries. What's the worst he's going to do, tell me to deliver some packages?
“Ah! Mr. Chambers. I see that you are walking well enough on your own. How are you feeling?” The Doc grabs my attention. I didn't notice him finishing his call. Once again, getting lost in my own thoughts too deeply. Maybe the crew was right to make fun of me for that one. Oh well, something to work on.
“Still feel like I was shot in the side, Doc.” I force a laugh. “Good enough to go outside, though. You got anything for me to do?”
He nods, lifting up a tan-brown paper wrapped package from behind the secretary's desk. “I can promise you that it is not an illicit substance. What with you being—how do I say it—a cop and such. I would not have you risk your moral compass doing something that you would not do otherwise if you did not feel indebted to someone.”
“I couldn't care less if it was drugs.” I actually manage a real laugh. I'm going to turn into the Doc with how jovial I'm both trying to sound and actually sounding. “If it was, I'm out of my jurisdiction. Besides, I'm probably out of a job at the moment anyways, so it's more than likely that the better term is ex-cop.”
“You can never be sure. Metroplex people are strange, after all. Everyone goes on and on about how everything out here is wrong, and then they come out here to partake. I do not mean to preach.” He reasserts the package towards me again. I'd take it, but I'm still buck ass naked under the hospital gown.
“Uh, Doc. My clothes?”
“Ah, yes. Right. I've completely forgotten—I threw them out.”
“You threw them out?”
“Security officers aren't that well-liked around here, and they were covered in mud and blood. And as you might remember, a bullet hole in the side. No good. I kept your shoes.” He clunks the muddy pair of boots onto the counter with a single shouldered shrug.
I run a hand down my face. I don't know if he expects me to walk outside in a hospital gown.
“I can tell what you are thinking. I do have a selection of leftover clothes here that would fit you very well, though!”
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I spent the next while rummaging through, looking for anything that could possibly fit me. Most things were either too small, too big, or clearly for someone of a much different height. The best I can scrounge up is some distressed jeans and a plain white t-shirt that simply says BANDNAME on the front. I have no idea what this is a reference to, but I'm going to have to take what I can get.
I'm already halfway through getting the shirt over my head before the Doc chimes in.
“Those were on dead bodies, by the way! I hope that you do not mind. I cannot save all of them, but the ones that cannot be saved can sometimes help the ones that were.”
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He could've just said nothing. That would've been a much, much better thing. Given my situation, I guess I can't complain that I'm wearing some dead guy's clothes. Or multiple dead guys'. Who knows, maybe these clothes are frequent flyers and have been back to the clinic multiple times, worn by one dead guy after another. I should probably stop thinking about this and get whatever he wanted delivered. He's still continuing to shout.
“Ah, right! You are to deliver the package down the way. Sidbano's garage. It has a very large sign out front, I would think you would be hard pressed to miss it, maybe.”
I stroll past the front desk on my way out, offering a brief wave to the Doc, and sallying out with the package in hand. Faster I get this done, the faster I can figure out my next steps.
Back up the stairs I go and—
It's the middle of the night, and the market is still open, from what I can tell. The sky is clear and I can actually make out dozens more stars than I could see while in the metroplex. I guess light pollution does that to the sky, huh. I figure I must've lost track of time staring upwards, because by the time I snap back to reality, I realize how sore my neck's gotten. Ow. Time to get a better lay of the land now that I'm not on death's doorstep. Here's hoping that nobody recognizes me from a few days ago.
Not that it matters.
I turn on a heel and make my way down the road, only realizing a few paces in that Doc didn't give me actual directions. Just a location. That's not helpful whatsoever, considering my situation of being the new face in town. More reason to get an idea of where I am. Maybe the Doc did that on purpose?
The more I walk, the more I'm amazed by how intact the place is. Everything we get told in the city is that the place is a husked out mess, but here? It's… a bad neighborhood, sure. Not as bad as the worst we have in the city. Maybe it'll get worse the further out I go? I'm expecting a fight to break out every other step of the way.
Though, the crowds seem to defy my expectations, with people of seemingly all walks filtering through the market and buying their goods and groceries. The kind of groceries that I wouldn't see outside of the most high-end of banquets, given that none of it seems to be synthetic. It all looks naturally grown.
The goods, on the other hand? They seem to be on the illicit side of things. There's a whole lot of home made weapons and 3D printed rifles patterned off of the popular brands. It makes sense, though. Not everyone out here is going to be law abiding, and considering the state of things on the way in, I wouldn't be surprised if there were some sort of would-be highwaymen in those ruins I saw.
Baggies of drugs and otherwise, too. Just being sold in the open. I don't know how to feel about that, but none of it seems like the especially hard kind of stuff. Mostly things that you'd see being offered up as medicinal pain relief. The heavier stuff definitely could be abused. Just not in a way that would leave you tearing off skin while walking through a hail of bullets like they're raindrops.
I really feel like a stranger in a strange land. It was like an open air market that you'd find in the metroplex, but with a far, far wider selection of things you could buy. A whole lot less corporate shills, too. These people all look like they're doing their own thing independently. No pins or logos on their stalls, no loud advertisements besides the stall-owners shouting above each other to try and fetch attention from passers-by. It's sort of charming, actually.
The only annoying part of all this is the crowd. I can't take a step without being bumped into by someone. I'm not sure if it's my current lack of coordination, or if the crowd is actually that dense. I'm sure I'd have been pickpocketed several times over if I wasn't actively walking with my hands in my front pockets to deter anyone sifting through them. It'd be a bad look to lose what I was explicitly told to deliver, especially when it's an apparently easy task. I can't say I'm not curious about what's inside. Hopefully not a mail bomb.
No sign of Sidbano's, though. I'll try asking around, maybe. Though, the fact that there's a myriad of languages being spoken here makes me a bit uncharacteristically anxious about approaching a stall. I'm not sure how many people speak Common around here.
The first guy I talk to refuses to talk about anything other than the smokes he's trying to hock. The second person only seems to speak Traditional Dwarvish. I can tell this is going to be a headache. Nobody I talk to wants to tell me anything without me spending creds. The bad news being, I'm sure that my bank account has been frozen by now, given that I'm more than likely to have been reported dead or missing at this point.
I'm going to be at this for hours at this rate.
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Up and down the road. Twice now. There's no sign of this garage that I shouldn't have been able to miss. Maybe my leg was being pulled?
“—'scuse me. You lookin' for something?”
An older fellow. He must have noticed me meandering around repeatedly. I'd have spun around when he spoke up to get my attention, but frankly, I'm too tired. It takes him patting me on the shoulder to get me to turn around.
“Uh, yeah. A garage? Sidbano's?”
The old fellow nearly doubled over in laughter. With how hunched over he was in the first place, I was almost concerned that he'd face plant his wispy-haired skull into the plascrete below.
“You've been walkin’ up and down the wrong street, lad. Turn right by the fishmonger just up ahead, and keep walkin’ until you see it.”
“Oh. Uh. Thanks.”
Somehow it never occurred to me that there was more to this place than the few blocks I've been pacing up and down. I wave the kind fellow off, before making my way. Right past the fishmonger and—
I take a long pause. My mind had assumed that there wasn't much more to this place besides maybe some people living in hovels around the outskirts of this market, but this is a full blown district beyond. Actual houses—fairly old looking ones—and I can see apartment buildings off in the horizon as well. I continue my march forwards, looking for— I mentally sigh. The garage that I supposedly can't miss.