There's the wind, and the rain, and the mercy of the fallen

[wheyoftheadept]

The Villere clinic is a short, stout building wrapped in wire fencing, with a line that’s generally at least one or two people out the door.  This has something to do with the demand, but more to do with the size of the place, and the amount of storage and medical equipment the Villere siblings keep crammed in it.  They sleep on the roof, in a furnished cargo crate.  More room for needful things below, that way.  Besides, the brothers are trolls; there wouldn’t be room for both of them below even if there wasn’t a big old exam table in the way.

“Makoto!  Tell me you have the latest,” Francis booms at her as soon as she ducks in the door.  She brandishes the box.  “Ah, thank the heavens.  Set it down, set it down - ”  He goes back to speaking with his patient in rapid Tagalog, Saturday catching only about word in five.  She sets it on the counter, as indicated.

“Wait a moment before you go, Makoto,” says Henry, the other twin.  “Let’s see what First Hill managed to rustle up.”

He opens the box, rummages through, and swears.  Saturday peeks inside, not understanding the problem.  There’s packs of gloves and a plastic tub of “analgesic cream,” whatever that is.  Some sharp knives and tong sort of things, in individual plastic wrappers.  And three boxes with “ventolin” written along the side.

“It’s not enough, Frank.”

“How much is it?

“Three - we have five new asthma patients this month alone.  I don’t know what Samuel is thinking. ”

“He can only do so much, Harry.  We triage the worst, and for the rest we have the eucalyptus tincture.”

“That’s not strong enough, and you know it - “

“What’s going on?” Saturday interrupts.  

“It’s not a very useful shipment,” Henry tells her, shifting through the box as if he might find some secret stash.  “We don’t need supplies, we need medicine.  A tub of neosporin and three inhalers isn’t enough.”

“Good god, another tub of cream?  Is there a surplus over there?”  Francis shakes his head, finishing his examination with another few words to the patient.  The dwarven man presses something into the doctor’s hand, receives a little baggie with three pills in return, and leaves.

“Must be.”  Henry shakes his head.

“ - so how would you get more medicine?” Saturday interrupts.  “Is there something I can do?”

“No.”  Henry slams the tub and the three little boxes - inhalers - on the counter, then closes the larger box.  “There’s nothing you can do.  Unless you can get over the wall and steal us more.”

Saturday coughs, somewhat delicately.  “Well, you know I know people…”

“Don’t risk yourself,” Francis interrupts.  “Or anyone else.  I’ll reach out to the other clinics again.  Someone will have something.”

They start to bicker, in a practiced way.  Two well-worn grooves working towards a solution.  Saturday tunes them out, and chews the inside of her cheek.  She’d wanted to ask about helping the Lees, but this doesn’t seem like the time.  Instead she thinks of who she knows who has a lot to do with medical business, and after a moment of weighing one thing against another:

“I think I know someone our side of the wall who maybe has a better supply line?  They’d help.  If I asked.”

Both twins stop and look at her.

“And the catch?”  It’s Francis who asks.

“She’s got HMHVV.”  Saturday puts that out there, hard and blunt.  The twins blanch, and she hastens to reassure them.  “Not with the 162s.  She runs a place just outside their territory, for poz folk who don’t want to be part of all that.”  Not a political ghoul, not one of the crazy and dangerous kind (not crazy in Saturday’s estimation, but very dangerous).  “Alice is good people.  And she’s got medical connections, ‘cause she’s working with a joint over in Brain Haven, trying to find some kind of cure or treatment maybe.”

“What strain?” Henry asks.  

“Krieger.”

“No.”  A flat denial, before his brother can get a word in edgewise.  “The risk of contamination is too high.

“Harry - ”

“I say no!  All it takes is one slip-up and we’re the epicenter of a pandemic.  You know how quickly the Krieger strain spreads.   I won’t risk it again, not here, not anywhere.”

Francis gives his brother a long look.  Henry glares back, unmoved.  Then Francis sighs, and looks at Saturday.

“Sorry.  It was a good thought.”

“..yeah.”  Like Alice wouldn’t be just as afraid of accidentally spreading it.    Saturday doesn’t argue.  She wants to.  But it’s not worth it - never is.  People are too afraid of the virus, and it’s not wrong to be, just… unkind to the people who didn’t exactly ask to catch it. 

Alice has never spoken to Saturday in anything less than full hazmat. 

“She could just get her contacts talking to you?” Saturday suggests, just in case.  “Set up your own thing, no worries about it passing through Ghoultown an’ picking anything up.”

“That could work,” Francis agrees, looking to his brother.  “They’re based out of the Body Mall, I suppose?  They have decent facilities there, the risk wouldn’t be greater than any other supplier.”

“The disease is worse than we could get from any other supplier,” Henry counters.  “No.  I’m sorry, Makoto.  I know you mean well.  But no.”

“I’ll ask around some other place about medicine, then.  I bet I know someone who knows someone.”

“I don’t suppose we could stop you.”  Henry gives her a rueful grin, and she returns it after a moment of reluctance.  He means well.  “Be safe out there, Makoto.”

“Always am.”