[color=00aeef]FRIEDA RICHTER[/color] - Salem Clinic - Late morning to early afternoon

Frieda had hummed happily to herself for a few hours, shearing linens into strips with the scissors the doc had given her.  She wiped some sweat off her brow, surprised it had accumulated there, considering the task wasn't exactly taxing.  She brushed off some of the resultant lint and stray threads from her hands and shelved one last pile of bandages, wondering what to do with the overstock still in her arms.

[i]Probably makes sense to just take these out into the clinic, proper.[/i]  She left the storage room and stepped into the main room, just in time to watch a stranger hug Arthur before leaving with another man and pushing a patient in a wheelchair.

“Doc, I can't put into words how thankful I am for you and what you did for Eliza. I will repay you, I promise, you name it.”

Arthur appeared unsure of how to react and did not return the hug.  "Yes...well...think nothing of it." He stuttered out once the woman had pulled back. He adjusted his glasses which had become askew and cleared his throat.  "My only request for payment is that you do what you can to return the favor to help the clinic when you can and to..ahem..help me...as well..." His stomach grumbled loudly enough that Frieda heard it, "Aside from that...there is no charge."

Frieda stepped towards the pulpit where an assortment of items had already been assembled.  She attempted to place the new bandages neatly among the items, then slowly approached where the other patient lay. Arthur sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes. He walked back over to the patient and Frieda.

"I'm just going to lie down for an hour or two..I'll just be...just be.." He babbled, so tired he was unable to finish.

Frieda had seen exhaustion like that before.  The doc had clearly suffered from severe sleep deprivation and many hours of adrenaline-induced action, but his body was shutting down.  It wasn't as clear during their earlier chat, but to her defence, she hadn't spent quite enough time with him to see the signs at that point, either.  "You have a place to lie down?" she asked, almost tenderly, though in truth she hadn't been through the entirety of the place and knew nothing of its layout.

Arther gave a tremendous yawn in response and he trudged over to the staircase and up to the second floor, out of sight.

"...so, that's a yes," she answered herself, glancing down at the other patient who continued to sleep through the entire ordeal.  Frieda tapped her fingers on her thighs, feeling restless and a little out of place.  She paced around the main floor of the church-turned-clinic, gazing around, bored but wishing for a task.  She reflected on how the poor doc's stomach had growled and suddenly remembered the bag lunch Brandy had given her that morning.  She retrieved it from the storage closet, tip toed up the stairs as quietly as she could, and had opened her mouth to declare her entrance when she saw the doc had already passed out on a pallet.

"You're a long way from the Vault, huh, doc?" she sighed, with a slight smirk on her face.  Frieda scrawled a little note on the paper bag -- 'There's no free lunch! - pre-war expression - except today, this is a free lunch :) - F.R.' -- and gently placed the bag lunch down on his nightstand, next to his glasses.  She stood, re-reading her little note, and internally groaned.

[i]"No free lunch"?  What's wrong with you?

"Girl's got a crush, I'd say,"[/i] replied her brother's voice in her mind.

She furrowed her brow, as she would if she were really talking to him.  [i]I do not.  He's just...familiar, somehow.  He's softer than us, but still...disciplined.  It's just intriguing.

"Sure,"[/i] Brian's voice again, and in her mind's eye he was smiling.  

[i]Shut up.  You're probably dead.[/i]

Frieda spun on her heel and whipped back down the stairs.  As her feet hit the landing, the distinct, though distant, sound of gunshots rang out in the air.  She paused, a lifetime of military conditioning immediately feeding her instincts, telling her to ready her weapon, find cover, and await further orders.

She reached down for her gun, which...wasn't there.  The memory of it sitting on the dresser back in Brandy's house flashed into her mind.

"Fucking hell," she muttered.  Frieda looked at Summer, back outside, back to her empty belt, cursing herself.  How could she have left her weapon behind?  How careless could she be?

[i]"'Unprepared' is a synonym for dead,"[/i] she heard Brian, and countless instructors over her years of training, echoing in her head.

Frieda growled.  "Maybe I'd rather [i]be[/i] dead!"  She slipped to the door, regardless, and peered out.  She saw nothing indicating a scuffle anywhere near the closest buildings.  Frieda strained her ears to hear more but could hardly pick out any distinct sounds.  Everything in her essence dictated she should ready and prepare herself for a confrontation, but her lack of weapon nagged at her as a snag.  Besides, she couldn't in good conscience leave the clinic, what with the remaining patient down for the count already, and the doctor sleeping above.  If something were to happen to [i]him[/i], well, the town would be hard pressed to find another medic who remained so particularly fixated on cleanliness and generally thorough.

...

She blinked, as she realized her subconscious had picked up on details that had hardly registered, before.  No wastelander, doctor or otherwise, was such a stickler for being precisely clean as he was.  Brandy's house was clean and tidy, for sure, but definitely wasn't organized with such...sterility.  Just another chip in the pile of things that didn't quite add up about the doc.

The clinic was her post, and she'd take it seriously.  In a moment of clarity, she retrieved the scissors -- "Mind the edge, it is sharper than it looks," the doc had warned -- and went back to the door of the clinic, prepared to melee any threat that dared appear.  Several moments passed before a horse, a woman, and a man, came barreling down the street and disembarked at a home next to Brandy's.  Frieda blinked, but turned her attention back to the road, remaining vigilant.  She idly turned the scissors in her hands as she watched.