Who: Methadone and Ketamine. What: Coffee shop hijinks. Where: A coffee shop near Mount Sinai. When: Wednesday, mid-evening. Warnings: TBD.
It had been a long day and, still, Methadone hadn't stopped working. After a hectic schedule of appointments - not that he had his own, but he shadowed the head of the clinic during his appointments - and a considerable amount of mundane data entry, it was a rather harried Methadone that had left the hospital without bothering to take off his lab coat. And when he stepped into the closest coffee shop, Methadone set himself up near one of the corners, laptop open and, eventually, a decaff - no sugar, no milk - steaming next to the computer. Yes, he'd had quite enough of data entry during the day, as medical charts didn't simply beam themselves into the hospital's computer system, but now Methadone had his own data entry to take care of. Slipping through the four passwords it took merely to get his personal laptop to the start screen, Methadone began the arduous task of unencrypting his personal patient records. It took him ten minutes to unlock the spreadsheets but it was worth it. No, keeping very detailed files on every patient who came through the doors of the methadone clinic - both details from their charts and details plucked from their minds after they took their first dose - wasn't ethical at all, but it was useful. If Methadone wanted to ensure they remained his, he needed to know everything about them. And if he wanted to better his strategies, he needed to chart the progress of each patient and watch overreaching trends throughout the small population of the recovering.
Finally, the files were unlocked and Methadone rolled up the sleeves of his lab coat, ran a hand through his hair and started to work. Taking the details of the new incoming patients' charts from his vast memory banks, he started a new file for each of them, inputting their medical histories and what he saw when they had first swallowed down the mixture of juice and white powder. He ignored everything else around him as he typed furiously, only pausing to take sips from his decaff, which the barista refreshed when he quirked an eyebrow at her. Conversations took place around him, a couple at the next table got into a fight and the young woman ended up storming out. A baby cried in the opposite corner and all that drew from Methadone was a slight pursing of his lips as he inputted the name of a new patient's high school sweetheart. By the time he was finished with the new patients, it had grown dark outside, but then there was the scads of new information gleaned from the patients who came to the clinic to drink down their daily dose. Three decaffs later, and he was halfway through that particular segment of his very immoral record-keeping and it was then that he took a moment to pause, rest. Stretching his arms out in front of him, Methadone cracked his knuckles, tilted his head from side to side, and rubbed at his eyes. Just a few more patients, yes, and then he could go back to his apartment to crunch the numbers. He didn't want the information to float away from him, after all, which could happen if he waited until he returned to his apartment.
Finishing off his coffee, he rolled his shoulders a few times and then settled back into the familiar rhythm of typing, not bothering to look up at what was going on around him, even when he felt a twinge that meant family was somewhere close.