[color=00aeef]FRIEDA RICHTER[/color] -- Salem Clinic -- Late Morning

Frieda quietly followed the doctor to the back of the church.  He appeared physically exhausted and she couldn't help but notice he tensed at the mention of caps for the supplies. 

"Look...I can't pay Celeste for the supplies. I don't even have the uh..caps," there was an odd lilt in his voice when he used the word. "But, I need them regardless. The young woman back there needs proper medical treatment to prevent further infection and Eliza..." he pointed upwards, to the second floor, "Is still on the path to recovery. I don't understand what is it with you wastelanders. Everything has a price. Everything has its cost. Every chance is an opportunity to get more money or chems...or..or whatever! And god-forbid we work together communally to actually do something other than live in abject squalor and moral degradation our entire lives! For Pete's sake, there was a woman lying on the floor of the diner dying and people kept on eating their lunch like it was...oh..you know..just a merry ol' average day. Woman just got mugged and nearly shot to death, but hey...just another lovely day in The Commonwealth of Massachusetts right?" 

Frieda's eyes widened, her mouth slightly open, a response not immediately available.  The doctor took a breath to compose himself, then continued.

"Sorry," He said, calmly, "Didn't uh...didn't mean to get heated there. I'm running off well..no sleep right now and I could just about murder for a decent cup of coffee that isn't made with a 200 year old tin of Slocum Joe's....well not literally of course. Figuratively. I wouldn't you know actually...nevermind. Anyway..."He gave a quick shake of his head and changed the subject, "....I don't exactly know what Celeste wants for the supplies, but it can't be caps. That much I'm certain of."

Frieda looked around and behind her, to ensure they were alone.  The brutish man had hung back, or left, but either way his form wasn't visible.  She took a small step towards the doctor.  "Look, I'm with you, on that point.  On [i]all[/i] your points.  For what it's worth, Celeste doesn't really care about being paid, but if I didn't say something, it would have looked suspicious.  I'll handle her."  She glanced around, again.  "I knew you were...different, somehow, from when I saw you last night at the diner.  Familiar, in a way.  Your skin texture, your hair.  You didn't grow up scraping in the dirt like the rest of these," she swallowed hard, "[i]people[/i].  And, neither did I."

She straightened her posture and offered a quick salute.  "It's Richter, Frieda Richter, formerly Class Triple A, air division, of the Enclave.  Division 59N-39."  She gave a small smile, and a nod.  "I don't get a military vibe, but you sure as shit aren't surface dweller, either."

Frieda took the same small step back.  "I'm...not good with people.  I came here to connect with you, not threaten you.  I know how important it is to hide in plain sight, in a way.  I crashed my Vertibird -- by accident, but it's a boon, of sorts.  The Enclave will have found the vehicle totalled and likely assume me dead.  I didn't exactly ask for permission to leave, but they won't be chomping at the bit to find out if I survived.  I know that from experience."

"I think we should...talk.  Later, though, when you're not so busy, or exhausted.  There was a trader in town -- two, actually -- and maybe I can see about getting us some real coffee."  Her expression softened.  "Meantime, let me help you at least prep the linens.  I only have very basic field medic training, which extends as far as, 'cover what's bleeding and call for help'."  Frieda gently pushed some hair out of her face.  "Pass me some scissors, and I'll get to work.  Just going to step out for a smoke."