(2016-03-23) Glass Houses
Glass Houses
Summary: Mon scavenges the stuff she needs to fix one of the clubhouse windows. Piper and Quinton show up, and Quinton stays to talk. It goes downhill from there.
Date: 2016.03.23
Related: None

The hardware store, near the town center, seems to have escaped total destruction, though part of the roof is missing as is one whole wall, and all the windows were shattered.

Monica scavenges in the hardware store, or the wreckage thereof. She eyes the sky malevolantly through the missing roof. "You think somehow we needed this, do you? A tornado? Really? Don't you fucking understand that tornados break the exact things we can't replace right now? You could have wiped out a freak children camp, or had an asteroid clobber the Other's spaceship, but instead you send us a tornado?" She grumps. "Come on, Mon, work the problem. What would Mark Watney do?" She finds a tape measure. Two of them, in fact. Plus candy, which she takes. "Cheezits. What's in Cheezits? Bleah. Nothing useful." She takes them anyway, for fuel, at least.

<FS3> Monica rolls Search: Good Success.

“I wonder if there's any…” The paint section of the store is a ghastly mess, with quite a few cans of paint exploded on the floor when their shelves were thrown around, and they're still not quite dry, but Mon carefully picks through it, trying not to get paint on her clothes, until she finds a caulking gun and a tube of bathtub silicone caulk. “That'll do. Windows. Windows. Where would they be?”

<FS3> Monica rolls Search: Good Success.

She finds the rack where they are. A torrent of broken glass everywhere, but she can see that not all the windows that were for sale are broken. She takes some measurements with one of her new tape measures. Rummaging through the wreckage, she finds a window unit that is a. intact, and b. about the right size to replace the ones in the clubhouse. "One more like that'd be perfect.

<FS3> Monica rolls Search: Failure.

Monica finds one, but the glass is all gone from where a flying display of bolts went through it. "Crap. Eh, once I get the existing window taken apart, I maybe I can scavenge good panes for the other window." She heads out and loads the window in her wagon. "Come on Chester, let's go." She gives the horse a nudge with the reins.

SGA Club House ShadyGlenApartments
Wed Mar 23, 2016 — Wed Mar 23 19:58:31 2016

This large building dominates the center of the complex. The rear wall is predominatly windows, but the glass is gone and has been replaced for the moment be screening. It serves several purposes. First and for most it is a gathering spot where the apartment residents can socialize and gather for various reasons. There is a large sitting area, with sofas and chairs surrouding a large marble coffee table. They all sit within a comfortable distance of a large fireplace which has a large flatscreen TV hanging above it. Adjacent to that is a small kitchette area, separated by a marble topped bar with barstools sitting in front of it.

On the other side of the large gathering area is a small office area, accessed by a windowed door where the manager and apartment staff did there business for the day. There is also another windowed door that leads to a small fitness room with the usual workout machines as well as some nautilus machines and free weights.

It seems the clubhouse has a few occupants, four young cats. Two calico cats and one gray striped. They are always seeking attention. The gray is named Ramses, the others are Sweetie and Pickles.

Monica has her back to the door, and is presently dismantling one of the broken windows in the clubhouse, hammering a big screwdriver under the sill to dislodge it. Carefully, as not to break any remaining panes of glass. A new window, mismatched and unpainted but apparently the right size, is leaned against the wall next to her.

Quinton and Piper make there way inside, each with a bird slung over their respective shoulders. They've not been defeathered just yet. Sometimes whoever is on kitchen staff likes to save the feathers. Someone is going to end up with a fine feather pillow soon. The poet looks a little more rested, some sleep and a clearer head help that. He holds the door for Piper, "…so….books, maybe?"

A look of releif washes over Piper's face as the pair finally enter the clubhouse. She's trying not to limp as she walks through the door held open for her. The question has her nodding in agreement to the books. Leaning against the wall breifly she leans over to unlace the work boots on her feet and hurriedly slips them off. Look more releif on her face. Soon those boots are going to have to have an accident.

<FS3> Monica rolls Body: Failure.

Monica finally wrenches the sill free and pushes the wrecked window outward, trying to slow its fall so no more panes get broken. That isn't what happens. The heavy window slips through her fingers and comes down on the pavement outside with a crash, and any panes that survived the hail are smashed into small, sharp bits. Outside, thankfully. The stream of profanity that comes out of Monica's mouth is inventive and heartfelt, directed at aliens, tornados, Texas, and gravity, apparently. There are many sexual references, animal references, sex with animal references, and so on. Hopefully there are no children nearby, or they just had their vocabularies expanded. She stops when she notices other people have come into the room. "Um." She blushes. "Sorry."

Terry descends from his perch, covered in dust, sweat, and other things. He's decked out in his usual brown GORE-TEX hikers, camo jeans, and black shirt. A military green bandana covers his head. He's not exactly happy about something.. but neither is he foaming-at-the-mouth angry. "Someone messed with my weapon. I had the scope dialed in /perfectly/.. and someone messed with it." He lets that hang for a few seconds, glancing around the room, before rolling his shoulders. "Eh. Easy enough to fix. Not like it hasn't happened before." He ambles off toward the kitchenette area to rustle up some food.

Quinton fights the urge to roll his eyes. Instead he focuses on Monica. As the glass tumbles he takes half setp, but not like he's going to be abel to catch it in time. He winces, once from the shattering of glass , the other more amused by the foul language spewing out of the woman's mouth. He smirks, and the usual one worded answer she gets at least has more sylobols today. Must be a good day. "Impressive." He starts moving to set his duck down, before he heads towards the closet to grab a broom. Terry gets a glance and then a shrug, don't scopes shift and stuff?
Terry has partially disconnected.

The woman hasn't worn shoes in nearly a year, a little slack can be cut on account of blisters. Though her socks cover the damage thankfully. The colorful profanities spewing forth from Monica has Piper's eyes widening. There was some words in there she had never heard before…and she knows how to swear in four languages. "Got it." she says in soft tone that probably doesn't carry that far and takes the duck from him instead. With his duck and her turkey in hands she makes her way to where ever it is the game is taken to be dealt with. Terry's ranting gets a bit of a stoic look, but goes without comment, not that she is capable of much in the way of talking anyway.

Monica peers out the window where the now really-wrecked former window lies in state. "I um. I'm fixing the window. If I can avoid this one going the way the last one did." She gestures at the new, unpainted window leaning against the wall. "Should have used the comealong."

Quinton's not going to have empathy, if he shows any, she'll suddenly be barefoot, like…she is now. He nods his thanks though for her taking the bird and grabs the broom. "Don't….worry, I'll sweep it." She gets a soft smile and he'll move outside to sweep up the glass, both big and small. "We'll…find others…" The window is open, so they can still talk as he sweeps.

Monica watches Piper head off with the birds. "Hunting was good today?" She looks toward the outdoors a little wistfully. "I never thought I'd miss the open range, not after the trip here. I need to get out more, I think." She rummages in her toolbox and gets the comealong out. After some figuring, she has the window strapped up and the comealong clamped to the window frame above. She starts cranking it up. "I've been thinking. I think we can have a sustainable economy if we grow wheat, corn, and soybeans. Corn for silage, mostly, but it and some of the wheat, we can ferment into ethanol. Wheat for bread and alcohol. We use the alcohol to feed the little gasoline engines we all seem to love. Soybeans are a reasonable vegetable protein, and a good cooking oil. We can also use the ethanol and lye, which we can make from burned wood, to make soybean oil into biodiesel. With seven billion people in the world, using food stock for fuel wasn't that practical. For thirty of us who need as much mechanical help as we can get? And with all the land we have around us? As long as the water holds out we should be ok.

Quinton lifts a hand and wobbles it. they each got a bird, so that's good, but sometimes they come back with a few each. Pale eyes watcher her briefly through the window and then he offers, "Come with….extra is good." She starts replacing the window, so he gets back to sweeping. There's kids around, he doesn't want any of them to get hurt. Not that they're his kids or anything. That's complicated. Her plan though gets a soft frown, but he nods. He doesn't want to hurts anyone bubble, but he doesn't look completely sold on what she's saying.

Monica wrestles with the window, getting it onto the ledge. "Can you do me a favor? Can you kind of… lean on this window, right down at the sill, so it doesn't slide off?" She looks at Quinton a moment. "You don't seem convinced about soybeans, corn, and wheat." With that, she gets out her screwdriver/socket wrench attachment and one of the big heavy screws that will hold the window in place. Monica adds, "If it starts to tip out at the top, or I yell run, run. This thing's heavy."

Quinton nods, leaning the broom against the wall. "We have…bigger issues… stopping the aliens, or crops won't matter." He does as instructed, leaning. He just nods about running, he can do that.

Monica cranks away. The muscles in her forearm bulge. Monica's worked hard all her life, and even half-starved as she was a few weeks ago, it shows. "Well yeah, a settlement you can notice from space probably means something heavy gets dropped on us sooner or later. I don't know much of anything about the aliens though. If I could get my hands on some of their tech… maybe… if it's not too complicated. I'm surprised Lincoln isn't nose deep in that project. Basically we need to know something about what we're fighting, even if it's just what their tech is capable of, or we're flailing away in the dark, ideally with nuclear weapons, hoping to hit something. That could go badly." She starts another screw. "I've been thinking in the longer view. Once we beat the aliens, how do we arm ourselves to fight off the camo kids, keep from starving, have more babies and have the time to raise them and do all that with thirty or forty of us? And that's ignoring the fact that 30 or 40 individuals do not a gene pool make unless you're willing to breed selectively and cull in one way or another." She pauses to look out at the poet. "And if we do those things, are we even human anymore?"

Quinton's nose wrinkles as he holds the window, "We have…drones…" he nods, "crops Later…yes. But now….need to….fight them." Somehow. he frowns, "No…there's more people….than us…"

Monica looks at Quinton. "We have drones? Where?" She perches somewhat precariously by just her toes on the window sill to drive screws in at the top of the window frame. "And yes, we need to fight them now, before our tech level drops any further. But we also need to sew the seeds to live after we win, I think. Literally in this case." Mon shrugs. "Tell me about this Bob guy who runs the camp. I've only seen him the once, and we've never talked."

Quinton gives a small shrug. He personally doesn't have them, "Ask Jason." Whoever that is. The window is held fairly steady, "Like a …truck driver, kinda. Fair, but….opinionated."

Monica pauses and leans against the window frame, shaking out her arm. She changes hands and gets back to work. "Who's Jason? I haven't met him either."

Quinton's jaw works. He knows who he means, but the name just won;'t come out right, so instead he just says, "Tech guy." She'll figure it out. " We've…shot down a few…" Drones, that is.

You say, "Oh… Lincoln. Okay. So he is working on them. Good." Mon looks down at Quinton. "I'll have to pester him for one. If for no other reason than to see if my guns will even touch one, so I know whether to shoot or just run away." She contemplates Quinton some more. "What do you see as our future here? Once we beat the Aliens?""

Quinton takes a deep breath, he varies on his belief that they can win. He glances up to look at Monica, "…Not sure…I'm not….viable…" Whatever that means. He gives a soft smirk, "village…town…then city, I guess."

Monica cocks her head, resting her hands again. "Not viable? Um.." She starts another screw. "I'm a farm girl. Not viable means some pretty specific kinds of damage to a male of the species. Is that… shit this is pretty personal… is that what you mean?

Quinton blinks and then looks mortified. "Oh God…no, not…like that!" Although it's not like he's getting any use out of it. The man even blushes slightly, pale green eyes dart away, embarrassed. There's a brief though of running, but he's holding the window. "My….profession, I mean." Not his manhood. All fine, perfectly fine. Nothing to see here. Well, not, there's things to see…oh god, where's the nearest Silencer?

Monica blushes crimson. "Sorry… And… I dunno, some of the poetry we read in junior college… if you write the way you speak, small bursts of meaning, into like a collage… I dunno." She finishes putting screws into the window sill. "I'll be right out. Gotta screw the flashing to the building.”

Quinton's lips press together, embarrassed now for a different reason. He hates his brain so much, it's made him so much less. At least, in his perspective. Either way, poets are not high on the need list of professions. His gaze stays down, and he just waits for her to come finish up the window.

Monica comes around to the outside. She doesn't read minds, but… "You wouldn't think poetry would be a survival thing for us… but… it's the most portable art except tattoos. And heaven knows, if we're going to stay human, we need art, and we need it bad. You think e.e. cummings is going to have any value now? He lived in a world that doesn't exist anymore.

Quinton frowns, that's all easy to say, but much harder for the poet to believe. "Need to….win first…" No art survives on the losers side. He's still not making eye contact, out of embarrassment or frustration. "He always has…value." There's a shake of his head , his bangs flop, "Done?"

The screws for the flashing are (mercifully) much shorter, and even though her forearms are burning, Mon can get them in without too much trouble. She cuts the tab of what is really silicone bathtub caulk, and caulks the flashing to the siding. "Just about. Did you know that Samurai were expected to… write poetry, do that fancy ink drawing stuff… all kinds of art. It was part of keeping them sane despite what they did for a living. I never understood that…" She squeezes on the caulking gun. "Until I'd shot someone."

Quinton snorts softly. "…not a samurai…" Hell, he's been injured enough, he's not even on the level of a street thug. Being subpar at everything but poetry is rough. Or maybe he's being hard on himself. There is a soft nod though, shooting someone, even in self defense changes a person. "See….plenty of…artists…"

Monica sighs. She glances over her shoulder at Quinton, who is desperately frustrating to argue with. She squeezes more caulk out, standing on the window sill even more precariously than before to reach the top. "I dunno, stud duty maybe?" That… kind of slipped out.

It's one of his charms. Just ask his sister or Piper. Or ask him when he's had a recent thump on the head. Lines and lines of not helpful poetry. He freezes, his brain desperately trying to find another meaning for those words than what he thinks she means. Again, he's blushing underneath the untrimmed scruffy. Pale, expressive eyes that truly do belong to a poet blink up at her, giving her the chance to somehow make that about something…anything else.

Monica is also blushing crimson when she turns to face Quinton again. "God, what is it that every time I'm around you I say the dumbest things… Sorry… that was really rude."

Monica could have heard rumours. There's talk that he had two girls fighting over him at Camp Hope, back when they were in tents. Eitehr way, the blonde man nods, Monica confirming exactly what he didn't want to hear. "….ok…Just….It's not….like that…" Oh, can't a probe fly by or something? Please? He seems very flustered, and the words are actually starting to need to be forced when he talked. Seems enough stress affects that issue. He looks away from her, "Screwed …in yet?" The Window! Gosh, get your mind out of the gutter!

<FS3> Monica rolls Body: Failure.
<FS3> Quinton rolls Reaction: Success.

Monica snorts and cracks up laughing. The screwing was done a while ago, but caulking She wobbles on her precarious perch and tries to jump down before she falls down. It doesn't go well. One bobble, two, and over she goes. She's probably not in life threatening danger. The window's sill isn't far off the ground, and she's just falling from her own height plus that. Still. It'll hurt if she lands on the window-destroying-pavement. Quinton, apparently, has other ideas, and catches her as she teeters over backwards. Awkard!

Quinton doesn't know! he's not handy man type! His hands wrap around her waist, catching her before she makes contact with the ground. Again the man blinks, now suddenly with an arm full of woman. His Skinny, skinner than his frame should be, but he's clearly got some muscles, he goes out and does stuff. He lost some weight with this last injury, and gaining it back is harder than it sounds. He misses junk food. "…okay?" The awkward hasn't set in yet, there's just worry in the tone of that one word.

Monica looks up at where she fell from then over her shoulder at Quinton. She nods weakly. "Yeah… thanks." Mon herself isn't at her full weight, and even if she was, she's a lean, stringy thing in the best of times, so Quinton can probably hold her up indefinitely. She scrambles her feet under her. "Does this happen to you a lot? I mean… women getting all… weird around you?"

Well, back to awkward. He makes sure she has her feet underneath her before clearing his throat and taking a half step away from her. He's still not making eye contact, but he answers with a shrug and small Pre-end of the world Quin fact. "Used to." Maybe Quin was a player? "I should….go…" Away.

Monica blushes. "So… it's not just me. Well that's something anyway. I'm… other than my mom, I was the only girl in my family, and I was a huge tomboy and a nerd and… I don't know why I keep winding up in this situation with guys here. It's like I'm trying to put down roots, but I don't know how." Monica was so, so not a player before the world ended.

Quinton's not even sure what that means, put down roots. But as a guy that instinctually scares him a little. He frowns, unsure how to take any of this. "Just…be careful." He can't name names, but not everyone used to be a player. He clears his throat again and spies the bin he swept up the glass into. Didn't Amy say something about them keeping all the glass? He steps over, "…put this…away…" He means him, he will. She gets a slightly awkward smile before he grabs the bin and hurries off.

Monica nods. "Yeah." She nods toward the door Piper went through. "You already have someone. I know. Monica adds, "Thanks. Again." She runs her hands through her hair and only now reaches down to get her hat, pick up the caulking gun, and glance at her handiwork.

Scavenging Rolls

1 Tape Measures
1 Small bag of Cheez-Its
1 Hedge Trimmer
1 Small bag of Skittles
1 Tape Measures

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License