The slow repetitive sound of dripping water came to Vincent’s ears but mentally, he was unaware of the faint sound. Consciousness had left him shortly after his tumble into the library’s back office. A violent coughing fit hit him as he had gasped for oxygen after his desperate flight and sitting on his haunches against the wall in that dark office was the first relief he had had in hours. As pain and realization came back to him the revolver he carried fell from his limp aching fingers and the toxic nature of his body, brought on by his failing liver, overwhelmed his weakened and battered immune system and mind. The passage of time left him as his narrow little world blacked out and the taste of metallic bile filled his mouth and nose. 

Later, the falling droplets of water became louder, awareness returned to Vincent and with a weary push he managed to get himself to his feet, grasping the revolver in his right hand as he did. Sight was slow to return to his rattled mind, the edges of things blurred and faded into indistinct blobs at first. The concussion of the blast still rang in his ears which, coupled with the meager amount of fading daylight working through the shuttered office window, told him no too much time had passed since he blacked out, chronic drunks like Vincent were good at gauging blackout times. He stumbled for a moment in the dimming light, balance failing him before he was able to catch his balance on a desk chair and standing straight, attempted to shake the fatigue and general malaise from his bones. [B]“Get a fucking grip man.”[/B] He told himself, using the back of his arm to wipe away some of the beaded sweat from his furrowed brow. Vincent’s eyes began to adjust to the rooms poor light, the ambient light being just enough to focus, allowing him to appraise the office. A couple of desks, chairs, file cabinets, and all the accoutrements of clerical duty surrounded him including phones and computers. With steps that were becoming more confident he went from desk to desk, toggling power switches on computers and lifting receivers to phones. Nothing worked. His whole reasoning for moving to the library was because he thought there would be some ability to contact someone from within its walls. That had now turned out to be a false hope. As he tested the last phone Vincent again registered the sound of dripping water and realized just how parched his throat was. The big man pushed his way through the office space and into a small workplace restroom where a faucet slowly dripped into a porcelain bowl. Vincent moved towards the sink, setting the revolver on the sink's edge and turning the faucet’s cold knob over, opening the valve to some cool water. Quickly he cupped his good hand under the running water and brought it to his mouth slurping noisily, droplets of water running down his long white beard. He shoved his hand under the sink again and got a second handful of water before a violent rattle of the pipes, worked its way along the walls and burst from the open faucet with a rush of air, heralding the last of the water from that line. 

Retrieving his weapon and moving from the small restroom Vincent stopped for a moment, leaning against the door frame and allowing a shock of pain in his side to pass. As he waited he became more frustrated with the lack of any success in contacting the outside world. Once the pain subsided Vincent moved across the office and to the door that opened to the library’s main lobby. The door was slightly ajar and he squinted through the crack attempting to see out into the vast lobby area with little real effect. With a small degree of difficulty and a sharp twinging of nerve pain Vincent grasped the door knob in his left hand and slowly eased the door open, using the frame and door as concealment from one side, he kept the barrel of the revolver low and swept the other side of the open lobby. Seeing that the lobby was empty, as far as he could tell, he lowered his gun and walked over to the reception desk and as he moved up beside it he heard a muffled thump come from the upstairs area, the stairs of which were just behind the desk. Vincent hefted the barrel of the gun towards the stairs, expecting to see some of those things, whack jobs, come trundling down the stairs but nothing moved, and for a moment no sound followed. Slowly he moved along the edge of the desk bracing his hip against the side for support and balance as he watched the stairs, eyes flitting back and forth from the stairs to the lobby. For a moment nothing else moved or made a sound and just as Vincent’s nerves and paranoia were starting to calm his eye caught something that started him worrying again. A can of food sat on the reception desk, opened. Vincent moved over and inspected the cold canned pasta and sauce and subsequently spotted the bag tucked away behind the reception desk. Frustrated again, in pain, and really needing a drink to calm his nerves Vincent was becoming irrational, anger starting to boil over.

[b] “If there is someone in here that would rather eat fucking spaghettis than my face then why don’t you say something instead of creeping around damn it!” [/B] He nearly bellowed.

Vincent hefted his bulk onto the reception desk next to the can of food, set the revolver on his lap, and scooped the can up, peeling the lid back again and downing half of what was left in two mouthfuls, some of which he would need to brush from his beard later. In truth Vincent didn’t know if anyone was there, the thumping sound could have been the wind, boards settling, books falling, living people, or more whack jobs. The food was cold and canned and could have been the receptionist’s lunch before shit hit the fan, Vincent knew nothing about who or what he shared this library with but he was getting tiered of creeping around like some mouse in a room full of traps waiting for things to happen. [B] “Be my luck anyway…”[/B] he shouted between mouthfuls, [B] “…stuck in a library where nothing works with a bunch of whacked out twits outside trying to fucking eat me and who the hell knows what in here!”[/B] He shook his head, setting the now almost empty can down and searching for his flask which he found to be empty due to his earlier escapades. 

[b] “Should have found a bar instead of a damn library.”[/B] he mumbled.
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Summary: Vincent gets up, gets some water, gets some free food, and begins to rant and rave at no one in particular; on one hand he wants to vent some pent up stress, on the other hand he may be aiming to see if there are people that will answer.