Bitter Reality [active/open]
Characters: Diego "Godot" Armando and anyone good at mediation.
Content: Crisis at the supply center. This is the worst thing that has ever happened.
Time of Day: Afternoon
Location: Madison Square Garden
Warnings: Dramatics. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY, PEOPLE
Tuesday was the day Diego went to the supply center to get some exercise, stock up on his medications, pick up the rations for the week and anything else they might have needed. He hadn't gone alone in a while (after what happened the last time he did), but since he'd picked up another fire axe to use as a weapon he'd felt quite a bit more confident with the journey.
He enjoyed the time to himself, just him, the silent city and the thermos of coffee at his side. Walking was good for the sickly man. Exertion made his lungs hurt, but with every pained breath they got stronger. His muscles ached, but that meant the weakness was going away. And nothing warmed his weak heart like bringing home the supplies his family needed to survive.
He never expected that today, his trip to the supply center would nearly kill him.
"We're out," said the woman working the stand.
Diego paused midway through a sip, and the coffee seemed to go sour in his mouth. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Armando, but we're out of whole bean coffee," she repeated. "Someone came and picked up the last of it this morning. We've been bringing in cans of grounds lately, so if you would like one of those-"
"Grounds? Ha...! An artist doesn't work his masterpiece on a paint-by-numbers canvas!" Diego interrupted her sharply, his hand tightening on the edge of the counter until his knuckles turned as white as his hair. "You can't be out of whole bean coffee. This is Manhattan. There has to be a thousand coffee shops around here!"
"The ones around here have all been raided, and we haven't had time to spread out," she said sympathetically-- though secretly shocked that anybody would get this worked up about coffee of all things. "And it has been many months, and, well... you do use quite a bit of it..."
Diego staggered, putting a hand on his head just above his visor. "You can't be serious."
"Maybe we'll find some next week. But in the meantime, we have more than enough instant-"
He pounded his fist on the counter dramatically. "I want coffee, woman, not sewage! What man subsists on gutter water when there's wine to be had?!"
The woman swallowed. "We have plenty of wine, Mr. Armando."
He made a noise somewhat like an engine trying and failing to start.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Armando. We'll see if we can't find some whole bean next week," she said as soothingly as she could. "I'm sure you-- oh god, are you okay?"
Diego had grown pale and wobbly, collapsing against the side of the counter and shivering. The woman rushed out from behind and put a hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Armando?"
"Ha...!" he laughed mirthlessly. "It's cold. So cold..."
It all went black then, black as the deepest and finest of French roasts.
When he came to, somebody had hoisted him onto a cot a short distance away from the counter. He tried to sit up, though still felt dizzy and shaky. Diego couldn't walk home like this... perhaps he'd have to ask someone to help.
He sat on the edge of the cot, slowly sipping coffee from his thermos cup and trying to come to terms with the grim situation.
Content: Crisis at the supply center. This is the worst thing that has ever happened.
Time of Day: Afternoon
Location: Madison Square Garden
Warnings: Dramatics. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY, PEOPLE
Tuesday was the day Diego went to the supply center to get some exercise, stock up on his medications, pick up the rations for the week and anything else they might have needed. He hadn't gone alone in a while (after what happened the last time he did), but since he'd picked up another fire axe to use as a weapon he'd felt quite a bit more confident with the journey.
He enjoyed the time to himself, just him, the silent city and the thermos of coffee at his side. Walking was good for the sickly man. Exertion made his lungs hurt, but with every pained breath they got stronger. His muscles ached, but that meant the weakness was going away. And nothing warmed his weak heart like bringing home the supplies his family needed to survive.
He never expected that today, his trip to the supply center would nearly kill him.
"We're out," said the woman working the stand.
Diego paused midway through a sip, and the coffee seemed to go sour in his mouth. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Armando, but we're out of whole bean coffee," she repeated. "Someone came and picked up the last of it this morning. We've been bringing in cans of grounds lately, so if you would like one of those-"
"Grounds? Ha...! An artist doesn't work his masterpiece on a paint-by-numbers canvas!" Diego interrupted her sharply, his hand tightening on the edge of the counter until his knuckles turned as white as his hair. "You can't be out of whole bean coffee. This is Manhattan. There has to be a thousand coffee shops around here!"
"The ones around here have all been raided, and we haven't had time to spread out," she said sympathetically-- though secretly shocked that anybody would get this worked up about coffee of all things. "And it has been many months, and, well... you do use quite a bit of it..."
Diego staggered, putting a hand on his head just above his visor. "You can't be serious."
"Maybe we'll find some next week. But in the meantime, we have more than enough instant-"
He pounded his fist on the counter dramatically. "I want coffee, woman, not sewage! What man subsists on gutter water when there's wine to be had?!"
The woman swallowed. "We have plenty of wine, Mr. Armando."
He made a noise somewhat like an engine trying and failing to start.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Armando. We'll see if we can't find some whole bean next week," she said as soothingly as she could. "I'm sure you-- oh god, are you okay?"
Diego had grown pale and wobbly, collapsing against the side of the counter and shivering. The woman rushed out from behind and put a hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Armando?"
"Ha...!" he laughed mirthlessly. "It's cold. So cold..."
It all went black then, black as the deepest and finest of French roasts.
When he came to, somebody had hoisted him onto a cot a short distance away from the counter. He tried to sit up, though still felt dizzy and shaky. Diego couldn't walk home like this... perhaps he'd have to ask someone to help.
He sat on the edge of the cot, slowly sipping coffee from his thermos cup and trying to come to terms with the grim situation.