(2016-04-04) Their Purpose is to Divide
Their Purpose is to Divide
Summary: Quinton goes to talk to Monica about the events of Snapped. He finds out there are two sides to the tale.
Date: 2016.04.04
Related: http://5thwave.wikidot.com/log:2016-04-03-snapped

Mon's been getting enough to eat for a while and it shows. The eyes are a sharper blue, the dark circles under them are practically gone, and her face has softened and smoothed as befits her age. Her face is still a riot of varicose veins and arteries, but even so, they stand out less with more soft tissue under them. Her skin is more than a little tanned, and shows a little crinkling at the corners of her eyes from sun exposure. Mon may never look normal without plastic surgery, but she looks better.

Mon's wearing a tattered button-down shirt, stripped of its buttons, with its hem rolled up and tied tight just below her bustline. Likewise, the sleeves are rolled up past her elbows. The bottoms were clearly part of a fashionable bikini once, hipster cut and scalloped at the top. In case you wondered, yes, the damage to Mon's face extends to all her visible skin, and no, she hasn't shaved anything in forever. Being a pale blond works in her favor in this case: there's not that much to shave. Mon's clearly getting enough to eat. Her body has filled out to normal and there are even some curves that don't usually show through her clothes. And yes, that is a six-pack to go with the wiry muscle of the rest of her.

Quinton is a thin man, with an almost bird like appearance. It doesn't help he tends to move in twitchy, sharp motionsHis nose is a touch too long, and his pale green eyes focus too sharply on things.His hair is a perpetual mess, gong from dark blonde to light brown, depending on the light. There's usually a pair of reading glasses somewhere on his person, and his attire, when the weather permits is almost always a sweater with a t-shirt underneath. His jeans are worn, but funcional.
a 6-sided die(#520TV)

Quinton's having a rough day. Bad brain day, weird, uncertain not-a-talk with Piper. He's got his backpack on and gun strapped to his back as he returns headed towards the apartment buildings. He stops when he sees Monica washing the clothes, roman wine style. He frowns, the half story from Piper racing through his mind. A thumb hooks behind the strap of his backpack and he'll start walking towards her.

Monica has her back to Quinton, and is splishing in the water. Her hair's still wet from washing herself, which came first and necessitated many trips up the stairs with the water jug, but she felt contaminated in ways even months without washing at all didn't leave her. She stops, drains the wash tub into the grass, and refills it with clean water, then resumes wash-stomping. That's when she turns to notice Quinton. She stops, glancing down, and looking embarrassed. At least her gun isn't on her It's over there, on the table next to her. "Hi."

Quinton flashes her a soft, quick smile and he waves instead of answers her. The frown returns as he looks down that tub and clothes inside. It seems a little…excessive. So he makes a questioning face and points.

You say, "Laundry. I'm washing yesterday's meth lab out of my clothes. And hers and little Quinn's. Sorry about the bikini. Didn't want to get my other stuff wet.""

Quinton might not be able to speak, but his observation skills aren't hampered at all, now he;'s frowning at what Monica says. A small head shake, he doesn't seem overly bothered by the bikini, although he keeps his gaze up to not be a creeper. "…tell….what…" He licks his lips , frustrated at his inability to just ask, so he does a hand motion at her to hopefully continue his train of thought.

You say, "What happened?" She stomps at the laundry more. There's a certain degree of frustration relief involved. "We were scavenging at the trailer park. Went into a trailer, and I was like "Well the floor's solid." I was afraid she was going to fall through and hurt little Quinn and herself. It stunk, but I mean there was a corpse in it, so that's not unusual. And then I opened the door to the bedroom. Total meth lab. Zillions of sudofed packages everywhere, unidentified chemicals everywhere." She takes a slow breath. "All I could think of was little Quinn's lungs shriveling up like raisons in his chest. We got out without blowing the place up, but when I finally made it clear what it was she kind of freaked out. And then I touched her shoulder, and she about tore my arm off bodychecking me into the wall of the trailer." Mon kicks at the laundry in frustration. It will be thoroughly rinsed, that's for certain. "Then she started crying, grabbed little Quinn and ran. I managed not to shoot her.""

Quinton manages a chokes out, "Where?" They need to mark the trailer so no one else stumbles into it. But then she says that last and…he straightens, eyes widening slightly, "..Shoot?" There's a flash of anger and his jaw tightens. He's gotten angry at plenty of people here, but he's never drawn a gun on anyone of the group.

Monica looks at Quinton. Her expression is a strange mix of determination and nausea. "I. People get killed when they attack me. " She looks down, and curls her arms around herself, still stomping laundry. "It's not like I missed. I didn't… shoot. She's my friend. And I didn't shoot." She sniffles and wipes her eyes angrily. "Barely."

Quinton looks a combination of angry and ill himself. He shakes his head, almost disappointed. "Too few…." His hand tightens on the strap and he glances away from her, not towards the apartment but back out. He doesn't think he wants to deal with anyone right now. If friends can attack friends, if friends can draw weapons with the intent to shoot…the world is far more gone than he thought.

Monica 's eyes blur up and she turns away, sobbing and stomping the laundry. It wasn't how she wanted this information to get out, it wasn't… any of it… what she wanted. She holds onto the table for balance, sobbing worse.

The sobs , of course, get his attention and he turns back. He's still frowning, unsure what to do. She just said she wanted to almost shoot Piper, who is he supposed to act? He's already confused enough being mad at Piper, but now he's mad at Monica too. "…stop…"His voice is weak though, he had more there but it's lost.

Monica looks back at Quinton. "I've killed six people, Quinton. Six. Shot five, and lynched one. I've been a killer longer than you've known me." Monica wipes her eyes and coughs, sobbing deeply. "I never wanted this… I never wanted to be… it was supposed to be… just a game… and then the world ended."

Quinton's killed people, in self defense, so that's what he assumes she means until she says the L word. Lynched?!? he can't help it, a small step backwards is taken. The poet again shakes his head, " Game? GAME?" Between her and Piper and what Kayla did, Quin's belief in the good in people is starting to be shaken. A lot.

Monica nods. She tries to get out of the tub, trips, and falls, pulling the tub over on her legs. She groans softly. "A game. Nobody got hurt. We all played… cowboy and outlaw and civil war soldier for the weekend and went back to our real lives. Where there were… movies and books and internet and everything. And then it all went to hell and I had to use those skills. For real."

Quinton's angry, disgusted, but she falls and the tub pins her. his face scrunches up in anger, but he steep over to lift the tub. He's not going to leave her like that. He's vaguely thinking she means reenactments , but he honestly doesn't care at this point. She murdered people. Lynched! He's not looking at her, no eye contact as he tubs the tub right side up. But now his jeans, at least the knees are wet.

Monica draws her legs under her slowly. "And then I found out just what I'd trained myself to be." She gathers up the soggy laundry and throws it back in the tub. "I wasn't a murderer before…" She chokes the words off and shakes her head, sagging to the sodden ground.

Quinton rubs his face, torn. instead of looking at her, he starts looking for a towel or coat for her to drape on her before he leaves. He has to clear his head. He feels like he's going to get sick and his head is spinning.

Monica slowly pulls herself to her feet and wipes her nose with the bandanna that was on the table near her gun. She gets back into the tub. "If you stay… a few more minutes, I'll have these done."

Why does that matter? they're not his. He shakes his head, trying to stop her. There's no water now, she flipped it. "No…just…" Quin shakes his head again, "fix…" You know, fix. Gah, he hates his brain. Days like this, he thinks it would have been better if the fever had just done him in.

Monica wrings out the clothes under her feet, pressing the water out of them without mangling the cloth, pausing occasionally to empty the bucket. "Trying," she finally says, apparently reverting to Quinn's single word habits. "Hers. And his. And I need to stay the hell away from her for a while."

Quinton's guessing Monica never got beat up in high school. Or was beat up a lot. He sighs, shaking his head, "…club house…."his hand motions. He's unsure when he'll see them, he can't vocalize he's upset with Piper too. He's now got too many mixed emotions to really keep them straight. His breathing is a little jagged, but not anything like hyperventilating. Mon seems fine enough, she's back to stomping the clothes so he takes a step back, shaking his head again and sighing. Unless she says something, he's going to turn and walk back into town.

Monica stands and watches Quinton go. "Why? Why won't you see her? Why won't you see Little Quinn? Did you think she was an angel too? Is that it?" She climbs out of the wash tub.

Quinton turns, pale eyes flashing with anger at this whole situation, "Broken!" Whatever that means, "…every…trust.." his hand motions to the side of his head rather aggressively, "..can't….bullets…" Yikes, he really is all over the place.

Monica throws the laundry at the table dejectedly. "I broke your trust. I get that. You're mad at her too? Same thing?" She shakes her head. "What should I tell you? Go to her? Stay with me?" She shakes her head sadly. "I don't know how to make this right. I don't know how to fix any of this, Quinton."

That's…close enough. His whole face screws up in frustrating and anger, although anger at who is hard to say. Maybe himself. "Together…..not…." a hand reaches up to run through his messy blonde hair. "…designed to ….divide…." He then motions upwards at the ever present alien mother ship. He doesn't know how to fix anything either, he's to broken as well. At least today he is.

Monica looks up to the ship. "You think? Or were we already like this?" She squeezes her eyes shut and wipes them with her bandanna. "Too ready to kill… too messed up to forgive? We've heard this story before, haven't we?"

Quinton's head shakes again and instead of arguing he violently points at the ship. He has to believe that, has to. Otherwise, why are they even trying? tars are starting to pool in his eyes, but it's that frustrated kind. He bares his teeth, almost like he is trying to chew the words out, " Point, if?" more head shaking and his hand settles not eh strap of his backpack, which he is gripping tightly.

You say, "Choke points are where evolution happens. You … thin the numbers down and push in one direction… that's how you breed new traits into animals. Maybe they're trying to … no, fuck them. I have to learn to stop shooting humans, but I'm damned if I'll let go it so I can't shoot them." She looks at Quinton. "And if that's what it takes for you to trust me… Then I guess you won't. But don't hold it against her. You're all she's got." And with that, she picks up her gun and slings it, somewhat absurdly around her waist, where it looks awkward with the bikini bottom, picks up the wash tub and her own clothes, and heads toward her apartment, not waiting for an answer.

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