>>>Freeside, October 20, 2282<<<

It was just before sunset, as Arcade sat in his office waiting for his shift to start, with a mug of coffee that had gone cold on him while he reflected over his misfortunes of the day, that he heard Julie call for him. With a sigh he put his mug down and left the building.
“Over here!”
Looking up towards the gates he saw two men come in, Julie already on her way to meet them, and he realised that one of them was Dylan. Well that was quick, he thought, and then he realised something else: Vincent had talked about an injury, but not about feigning one.
Having reached the former powder ganger who was now a frumentarius and/or a kitchen porter in the Tops, Arcade could not only smell the hot grease but also see the damage it had done to Dylan’s left arm. It was bright, dark red from wrist to elbow and covered in big, weeping blisters. Arcade swallowed, not because of the injury, but because of the fact that Dylan must have done this to himself on purpose.

“Second building on the left”, he said to the two men, the second one obviously a colleague who was helping Dylan along. And to Julie, he continued: “It’s minor, don’t worry. You call it a day, you’ve earned it.”
Julie gave him a tired and relieved smile. “Thanks, Arc. I do feel a bit under the weather today.”
“Get some rest.” Arcade smiled at her. “And have Aaron give you a foot rub.”
“I’ll tell him you said that”, Julie gave back with a chuckle and headed for the gates.
With his smile slowly dying on his face, Arcade then turned around to follow Dylan and, reaching the open door, he listened to the end of their conversation.

“You just go back, Al. I’m fine, really.”
“Okay. You’re really sure?”
“Sod off, Al. You’re clocked out and we both know you need the money.”
“Right then. See ya, Dylan.” Giving Arcade a nod the other man passed him by on his way out just as Arcade was about to step in.

After closing the door behind him Arcade turned around and wordlessly shot a look at Dylan’s arm.
“You’ve been lucky having gotten away with blisters. Burns from hot grease…”
“It was boiling water”, Dylan fell in. “The smell of grease is my apron. I ain’t stupid, man.”
Arcade felt his eyebrows shoot up and shook his head. “All right”, he said slowly. “Now let’s see to this.

“I assume you’ve got something for me?”, Dylan asked as Arcade prepared his equipment on a trolley.
“I would have”, the doctor gave back. “Only… well, I guess it doesn’t pay off to be the widely known tall, blonde and handsome doctor of the Followers, not in times like these in any case.” Turning around and wheeling the trolley over to the stretcher on which Dylan was sitting, Arcade suppressed a sigh, then noticed Dylan giving him a puzzled look.
“Believe it or not”, Arcade went on. “No matter who or where I asked, no one has ever heard of anyone or anywhere where you could buy drugs in Westside.”
“Oh.” Dylan shrugged. “I see. Well, if you have some caps then I’ll go over there as soon as you’ve finished patching me up and see what I can get my hands on, right?”
“Right.” Arcade pressed his lips together, then went over to where his overcoat was hanging over a chair and produced a small, clinking bag from one of its pockets that he handed to Dylan. “I feel like a fool for even trying.”
“No need.” Pocketing the bag, Dylan watched Arcade’s every move as the latter rinsed the arm with sterile water and after that, with disinfectant. “I could’ve told Vincent that, had he asked me beforehand.”
Not knowing what to answer, Arcade remained silent as he carefully wrapped the arm in a bandage.