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PSL - Closed Log
Jul. 23rd, 2019 07:00 pmThe Nexus Project had been gracious, indeed, in allowing him back into their fold. Cole had, however, made a few stipulations. Highest on the list had been a private working space - no more co-opting other places: offices, apartments - for the great work.
They had "rewarded" him with a tiny, tiny rented flat in a low-rent neighborhood, and enough of a budget for supplies and hush money. Most of the budget, as expected, went to the hush money, and he got the majority of his supplies from the myriad of shops and pharmacies around the hospital where he'd taken up a thankless job as an emergency triage nurse. He'd hoped never to have to lower himself to that level again, but it was what it was, and he still got paid if he came up with any worthwhile results.
It was, however, a little hard to get those results with one arm still in a sling. Thankfully, it had been a handy enough prop to help him secure a subject, but ... running everything one-handed was another story. He backed his way out of the pharmacy, plastic bags hanging from each arm, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder full of the less ... ordinary supplies from the occult shop three blocks over.
As he left the pharmacy, one bag caught on the door handle and broke, sending rolls of gauze and tubes of salve tumbling over the tarmac. He knelt quickly to retrieve them and risked losing a selenite wand that poked out from beneath the flap of the messenger bag.
"Bollocks," he swore under his breath.
They had "rewarded" him with a tiny, tiny rented flat in a low-rent neighborhood, and enough of a budget for supplies and hush money. Most of the budget, as expected, went to the hush money, and he got the majority of his supplies from the myriad of shops and pharmacies around the hospital where he'd taken up a thankless job as an emergency triage nurse. He'd hoped never to have to lower himself to that level again, but it was what it was, and he still got paid if he came up with any worthwhile results.
It was, however, a little hard to get those results with one arm still in a sling. Thankfully, it had been a handy enough prop to help him secure a subject, but ... running everything one-handed was another story. He backed his way out of the pharmacy, plastic bags hanging from each arm, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder full of the less ... ordinary supplies from the occult shop three blocks over.
As he left the pharmacy, one bag caught on the door handle and broke, sending rolls of gauze and tubes of salve tumbling over the tarmac. He knelt quickly to retrieve them and risked losing a selenite wand that poked out from beneath the flap of the messenger bag.
"Bollocks," he swore under his breath.
