“If you’re tired of ramen, I hope you like chicken noodle and… looks like clam chowder?” He was hefting heavy cardboard boxes into the kitchen, swinging them up and depositing them on one of the empty tables with a grunt. They smelled of age and dust and dirt, wherever they’d come from, but were still neatly-packed and labelled with their ultimate destination: University Medical Center Brackenridge.
The soldier walked the hallways of the hospital as if he knew them like the back of his hand, gravitating back to the comforting surroundings of the kitchen. The interior of the hospital meant that he’d made it, after all, survived another resource run, and was finally able to offload the precious supplies that kept their near-three-thousand people alive. Cal wasn’t even technically supposed to waste his time in unloading and sorting—there were minions from Resources to do that, like Penelope here—but he liked savouring the low-stress time when he could. Enjoying the decompression, just shooting the shit and talking to someone before he had to dust off his hands and go back out into that wasteland.
Out where raiders killed shelter leaders, and patrolmen and DoR agents died.
There was tension in the lines of his face, his smile a little bit more strained tonight from the news Lansing had blasted across the freenet. Perhaps that was another reason he lingered in the kitchen, content to chat to Pen. Just some human warmth and company.
Cracking open another box, Cal came across another assortment of cans. Brandishing one: “Your thoughts on frosty chocolate protein shakes?”