(2016-02-26) Ignition
Summary: Mon enlists Terry's help to finish fixing one of the generators Nora found.
Date: 2016.02.26
Related: Better Living Through Other People's Garbage

Monica knocks on Terry's door. She's greasy to the elbows, with little dabs of grease on her face here and there, and she smells a little of gasoline. "Hi. Um… I'm working on a generator, and I need to bolt the magneto back to the main shaft, and I need someone to hold the drive shaft from turning while I bolt it up. Do you mind getting a little greasy?"

The door opens, revealing one of the camp's guards on the other side. He steps aside to allow Monica into the apartment. Terry glances up from his position at the center of the living room, half a dozen sketches and things scattered across the coffee table not even four steps away from the door. Organized chaos, if there is such a thing. "Oh, hey Mon.. The guys and I were just going over some ideas for camp security protocols. … Sure, I can spare a few minutes." He glances around to the gathered group. "Take five, guys." And with that, the group disperses, leaving Terry and Monica alone.

Monica blinks. "Shit, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." She looks over the obviously military guys and then at Terry and nods slightly. "You're a military man, aren't you?" She motions toward the door. "It's in my livingroom, stinking up my apartment."

"Joined the Corps in '96. Got out in 2007." Terry nods, offering a smile. "Africa, Asia, Europe.. Here, there, everywhere, more or less." He rolls his shoulders, stretching and shrugging at the same time. "You need somebody to give a high-speed shave from 2.4 klicks, I'm your somebody." He fishes a fifty-cal round from his pocket. "A work of art, these rounds. Effective, very.."

Monica whistles. "Well they should be. Browning meant them for shooting tanks." She opens the door. A small gas generator is disassembled all over the floor on what looks like paper trash to keep from staining the carpet. "Back home, I'd use a vice and a cheater bar for this, but… you know how it goes." She hands Terry a pair of water pump pliers. "Grab it… here, on the drive shaft. Don't get down in the splines or I'll never get the alternator back on." She gets a socket wrench and kneels next to the engine. "So… your stock and trade was look through sights, pull trigger, watch the bodies fall, right?"

"Front-sight, trigger-press… yeah. If it came to that. Sometimes it'd just be surveillance. Nobody sane goes into a war-zone hoping to kill. I didn't. I went in knowing I had a job to do, and ready to do it when it came down to the wire." Terry grips the pliers, and slips them into position. He's used to heavy-lifting, and exertion, so there's not much exercise to be had. "Over there, everyone can potentially be hostile, so you're always on guard. Sure, they had guys ready to put up for the higher power.. but they used women and children as well. It.. it wasn't pretty. During one mission, I had eyes on a guy planting an IED. I called in, got the green-light, and handled the issue. Before the clean-up crew could come in and render safe, a couple of kids came in. They were playing soccer… football. I couldn't stop them. One of them must have bumped it, because the next thing I know… Boom. The kids are gone."

Monica leans forward slowly, and snaps her body back like a whip, jerking the wrench hard toward her. She's not hugely strong, not after starving for as long as she did, but she knows how to generate some force. She repeats this a few times. "I'm a reenactor. I was never supposed to be a real soldier. All these things… quick draw, precision shooting… they were just for show." She yanks again. "How do you go home after that? How do you live with it, when there's nothing on TV, not much to read…" She yanks again. "Do they teach you to live with it when you're real military?"

"It's like any other job.. when you're on the clock, you leave your troubles at the door. When you're at home, you leave work at the door.. or, at least, you try. Over there, even when you're off the clock, there's always a part of you that's still "on," ready to spring into action at the drop of a hat. They drill that into you all through Basic." Terry observes Monica with piqued interest, though his focus remains on his own task. If it goes well, it could be of use to the camp. If it doesn't.. well, everything can be used in some way.

Monica heaves on the wrench once more until a /click/ sounds from it. "There. Finally. It's torqued up." She wipes her forehead, which is obvious how the smudges of grease get there. "Now. Let's see if I'm right about the mag." She sticks a screwdriver in the spark plug boot and holds the metal shaft of it, then rests her elbow against the cylinder head of the engine. "Give the starting rope a pull will you?

<FS3> Monica rolls Mechanic: Good Success.

Terry reaches around and grips the starter, giving it a firm *YANK!*

Monica flinches, dropping the screwdriver and jerking her arm away "Hah! That hurts!" She doesn't seem upset. In fact, she's beaming. "It works! It works! It was just a bad field coil!" She looks over at the alternator, still shaking out her hand. "Obviously I can't test that one the same way… since I don't want to electrocute myself…" She crouches by the alternator and begins putting it back together.

<FS3> Monica rolls Mechanic: Good Success.

You say, "Feels right… I'm feeling magnetic resistance." She looks up at Terry. "On a related subject, if we cut loose with a 120v generator and the Outsiders notice, how much danger do you think we're in? I mean… would they drop an asteroid on us?"

Terry winces. "Damn. Are you sure you're not a Marine?" He grins, playfully. "You took that like a champ." He pauses to consider the question. "And.. I honestly don't know. In any case, we've got enough guns to fend off most folks.." Except Kamo Kids, he thinks to himself.

Monica chuckles ruefully, and rubs her elbow. "You're supposed to do it jumping a spark from the screw driver to the cylinder head. I never got that to work. And nah. Even my /persona/ is an irregular. One of Quantrill's raiders. Your basic Confederate guerillas. Jessie and Frank James were in the real deal." She goes back to screwing the alternator together. "It was fun when it was just make believe.” She gestures toward the alternator. “Can you give me a hand with getting this back on, or do you need to go back to planning strategy? Oh, one more question. How are we fixed for ammo around here? I keep worrying that in a few weeks or a few months or a few years, the only guns that work will be mine and Caitlin's crossbow.

Terry shakes his head. "I've got time. Just let me know what you need me to do." A beat. "And.. we could always use more ammo. I thought I heard something about getting an armory set up, reloader and all.. Haven't heard anything lately, so.." He shrugs, continuing to hold the engine shaft.

Monica squats down and hauls up the alternator to the shaft. "Wiggle it?" She nods. "Do you already have the tools for it? If not I have books about that. How to cast them out of beercanium." She laughs. "I never got around to trying that. There. That's got it. Watch your hand."

Terry gives the part a wiggle, and waits for a reaction. "I've been scavenging for parts, thinking I might be able to build my own tools, if I can't find any ready-made.." He raises an eyebrow. "Beercanium? Hah." (re)

Monica nods. "Any old scrap aluminum. Really they break up car wheels or sometimes engine blocks. But beer cans would work." She puts the bolts in. "We should work together on the armory. You probably wouldn't care much for the guns I know how to make, but they're sustainable. I could see you with a Spencer, once we get to the metallic cartridge stage.

Terry nods. "I'd love to have a second set of hands on the armory. We could make it all snazzy and stuff, with push-latch flip-racks and stuff.." He chuckles.

You say, "Push-latch flip-racks? Um…" She gestures toward herself with the screwdriver. "19th century gun bunny here. I'm assuming those are accessory attachment points on a long arm? Also, let's haul this thing outside and see if it works.""

Terry shakes his head. "Basically, it's a piece of wall, or another surface, with a gun-rack attached to it. It flips around into the wall, or otherwise hides itself. The latch is magnetic, and can be 'unhooked' with a little tap, or bump." Terry begins hefting the generator toward the door.

You say, "Ohh… okay, I see. So every Tom Dick and Harry can't come in and loot the armory when we're out battling aliens. Or whatever." Mon blinks as Terry just lifts the thing bodily. "Right. I'll get the door." This she does, and helps guide the gas generator out the door and down the steps." You say, "So is there a Mrs. Terry? or… was there one?""

Terry shakes his head. "Nope.. Just my brother, and me." He continues hauling the engine block.

Monica leads Terry to a spot near where her wagon is parked, once again with the camper back on it. "I gotta get a workshop. I should look for that tomorrow." She gets the can of gasoline out from under her cart. "You can put it down here." She watches Terry a moment, trying to beat down the thought that, 'He could pick me up and carry me away without breaking a sweat.' Apparently the battered circulation of the skin on her face is not too battered to blush.

Terry sets the block down in the indicated spot, pausing to fix his shorts as he returns to an upright position. "My workshop and my room are one and the same. It's a pretty nice setup, if I do say so myself.."

Monica nods. "Yeah. But gun oil smells a lot better than old gasoline. Plus, fire hazard, you know." She screws the spark plug back in, wrenches it down, and plugs in the ignition wire, and fills the tank with gas. She blushes again at something that wanders through her mind. "Um. /Wish/ me luck."

"Good luck, Mon." Terry says, stepping back a half-step, clasping his hands behind his back, and assuming a 'parade rest' stance.

Monica fans her face a moment. "Bleah, automatic mixture control. Guess we just choke and pray." She turns on the choke, pushes the prime button a few times, and gives the starting cord a yank. And another. And another. She primes it again, and on the fifteenth pull, the engine coughs once or twice. "Almost there…" She primes it once more, pulls and… the engine coughs to life, spewing exhaust for the first few revolutions, then cleaning up as it picks up speed. Mon is ecstatic, jumping up and down like an excited five year old.

Terry fist-pumps. "Booyah!" He grins, and inhales deeply. "Oh yeah, that's the smell of success right there."

You say, "I love the smell of exhaust fumes in the evening! Smells like…VICTORY!" Mon laughs and offers Terry a high-5"

Terry high-fives, and then pulls Mon into a hug.

Monica hugs Terry back. Well… she smells /better/… a little gasoliney, a little sweaty, but not like hugging the hind end of a (dead) horse like last time. She maybe lingers just a little bit too long but lets go after a moment. "Now we just gotta find something to plug into it.

Terry nods. "What were you thinking?" He makes no attempt to break the hug before she's good and ready.

You say, "Something without a lot of inductors in it, so… a light bulb that's been in the spares drawer or something, or like a nightlight even. The output meter's dead. Probably it got fried by the EMP when the alternator coils got it."

Terry nods. "I'm sure we can find something." He pauses. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" He raises an eyebrow.

Monica looks up at Terry and smiles after a moment. "Mm. Nah, I'll track something down."

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