(2016-04-17) Fishing at the Reservoir
Fishing at the Reservoir
Summary: While fishing at the reservoir, Monica and Terry finally meet long-time camp resident Genevieve.
Date: 04.17.2016
Related: None

Stratford Reservoir Stratford
Sun Apr 17, 2016 — Sun Apr 17 00:02:31 2016

This man made lake isn't all that large only about a mile or two around, but it is deep and cold. Quite a few trees grow around it along with a lot of scrubby bushes. One of the only places around that has more than a dozen…but not really enough in close proximity to make a forest. There are no houses around it, though there is a swimming area and a boat launch.


It is spring. The weather is cool and overcast.

Genevieve - Petite, ash blonde hair, hazel eyes.
Monica - 5'7, slender but getting enough to eat, finally. Early 20s. She has blond hair, and if you can see her face, it's a mass of varicose veins.
Terry - 6'1", 175lbs of pure Massachusetts muscle. Brown-hued hair in a high-and-tight haircut. Green eyes. Camo jeans, GORE-TEX hikers, and a black shirt.
Exits: [O] S. Texas Street (STS)

The cool April night air, green grass, trees, bushes.. all of it provides a perfect atmosphere for fishing. The evening hour affords a perfect view of the sun as it sets beyond the horizon, a mix of brilliant purples, blues, reds, oranges, and yellows lighting up the slightly cloudy sky. Terry, standing at one edge of the lake, is decked out in a pair of white tennis shoes, matching jeans, and a blue-and-gray-striped shirt. Presently, Terry fishes with a fairly-high-end rod and reel. A tackle-box sits by his feet.

Monica joins Terry with a much lower tech fishing rig. She has a home made rod (a fiberglass golf club) and line (nylon string). The hooks, at least, are commercially made. And is she seriously bringing earthworms? Does anyone ever catch fish with those? Clearly Mon knows nothing at all about fishing. Hunting, yes. But she never liked trout growing up, so she never did that. She unlaces her mockasins and sits next to Terry. "Thanks for inviting me to do this."

It's moments like these that Genevieve appreciates… they're like a balm. Shreds of nostalgia that cause her to take heed. Once upon a time, Ginny existed in a simple, beautiful place where fishing was a mainstay for the people she co-existed with. While she hadn't taken part often, her appreciation was strong. Long story short, fishing reminds her of /home/; of an island, so precious to her, that was dashed away by the powerful forces of nature as a result of alien whims. Also good, fishing means /food/.. Genevieve puts a lot of adoration into what she prepares. It's the least she can do. Clad in a tattered ivory cardigan and fitted capris, with her bare feet (regardless of chill) pulled up and knees to her chest, the young woman observes Terry and Monica as they make preparations. She is seated closeby in the foliage, in plain view so as to not startle; she looks very content as she inwardly wishes the two luck.

After what seems like hours — but, in reality, is only minutes — of waiting, Terry's line gives a little wiggle, and the bobber disappears below the surface of the lake. With each passing second, Terry's line is drawn out more and more as the fish takes the bait, and runs off with it. He begins reeling in, putting up a good fight against the tough sonofagun.. eventually, he reels in a massive Pike. "Well now… tonight we eat like kings!" He grins, holding up the fine specimen.

Monica laughs. "Nice. Are those good?" She's about to say more when her own line quivers. She yanks it far too hard for just hook setting and winds up with a very startled catfish in her lap. Shortly a very dead, very startled catfish in her lap, as she drops the fishing pole and pulls her knife and clubs the tiny thing over the head a few times with the hilt of it. "Um… you can eat these, right?"

And… 'lo, victory! Genevieve's watchful expression brightens into an honest smile, as both fetch bounty! Monica's efforts to make sure the catfish is /extra dead/ warrants a widening of the woman's smile. Meanwhile Terry hauls in the beginnings of a feast, and that too brightens Ginny's introspective mood. Pushing herself to her feet, she straightens the hem of her bunched-up cardigan and strides purposefully toward the pair. "Well done! Got a feast," Ginny calls out in a singsong, accented (sounds a bit like mutt-Irish) voice. "I'd be lucky to reel in a shoe."

"A cup of white rice, teaspoon of Cajun seasoning, half teaspoon hot pepper sauce, teaspoon each of ground thyme, black pepper, cayenne pepper… teaspoon of salt, half-teaspoon garlic powder, onion powder, paprika, dried dill weed.. quarter teaspoon lemon pepper.. half cup of melted butter, teaspoon of lemon juice, and two eight-ounce catfish fillets.. and you have yourself some delicious blackened catfish and spicy rice." Terry responds, focusing on fishing. A few minutes later, and he reels in a second pike. "Hot diggity!"

Monica looks at Ginny, startled, feeling a little embarassed spending so much energy murdering such a little fish, and being about to gut it with a knife bigger than it is. "Oh…" yeahh. a little flat footed, knife in one hand, dead fish in the other, holding a fishing rod with her foot. She twitches once or twice, then stops. "Wait a second. I've seen you before. Didn't you come in with the refugees and the Army Corps of engineers guys?"

The Newf watches Terry as he recites a rather delectable recipe for Monica's catfish, and her cheekbones flush with the glee of it all. The guy even broke it down to the very spices! Impressive. She rubs her stomach in approval, and sees fit to add her own two cents. "Catfish is great. Needs a few simple ingredients and they can be whipped up into cakes, too. Can do plenty with 'er… good find, love." Ginny says kindly to the blonde, hazel eyes bright with mirth. With timing that is.. actually /perfect/ … her stomach emits a low, insistant growl. "See… critics approve."

Monica asks a question and Ginny, not one to withhold much, nods her pale-haired head. "Yep. S'all a blur to me, actually… but I owe my survival to 'em. My name is Genevieve… Ginny." She offers, her smile wide and kind. "Sorry for sneakin' up."

In quick succession, Terry bags a threesome of Crappe. "Yeah, that about settles it, we're eating like kings tonight," he muses to himself, with a chuckle, before directing his attention to Ginny. "You look awfully familiar.. Did we cross paths in the kitchen or something?" He ponders, not at all accusatory, more inquisitive.

Monica nods slowly. If she's been around this long, Mon reasons, and she were going to detonate or something, she would have done it by now, right? Mon shudders, forcing herself to relax. See, Terry recognizes her too. Mon turns back to her fish. "Monica." She knows how to use that knife well enough but… fish anatomy? Not so much. You don't gut them like deer, at least. And that's what she's trying to do. "Where the heck is its… wait, they don't have those. Do they? Ugh, this is going to be catfood when I'm done with it."

Regarding Terry next, Genevieve mirth does not lessen any. "Mayhaps we did. I've been busier than a…" Pause, she blushes a bit. What would have been a pretty raunchy analogy, she sees fit to keep to herself. Have to be polite after all; best get to know people better before subjecting them to her backwoods humor. "Hit the ground runnin' since finding my way here. But I've been 'round that kitchen, picking up some tricks of the trade. I'm a cook secondary… judging by how you were able t' fire off those ingredients with ease, you know your way around a kitchen in-turn. I'm impressed…. though… don't have your name. Nice to officially meet you all-the-same." Ginny says honestly, flashing the gent a wide smile.

To Monica, she offers next. "'lo Monica. Nice to know your name." She says, before looking at the catfish. "Good to cut 'er behind the gills, remove the fins first. Then hang it up, start down the centre of the back—-" She pauses, blushes.

Genevieve looks to Terry, next. "Least, how I've been taught.. but it's crude, where I came from."

"Terry. Terry Collins, from Greenfield, Massachusetts. Some folks call me 'Buffy'.." At this, Terry gives his proverbial guns a showy flex. "But I also answer to "Oh God," "Oh My God," and "Where have you been all my life, this food is delicious."" That last bit is said with a playful grin. As Gen runs down how to break down a fish, Terry nods. "That's a good method." He begins packing away his fish. "I'll get food started here soonish. Sound good to you folks?"

"Yes please." Monica turns the fish over and cuts the fish behind the gills as instructed, then cuts off the fins. It comes apart more sensibly after that, and once the guts fall out, and she flings them back into the reservoir to attract more fish, she looks at Terry. "Buffy?" She chuckles at Terry's reaction to Ginni, but stops short of commenting on that just yet. Yeah, it'd just figure if this woman was a silencer. Neither Mon nor Terry would ever see it coming. "So I guess don't be a stranger, pull up some shore." Look at Mon, being all social. On the other hand, Ginni didn't hide, didn't refuse to put down a gun, didn't leave a backpack like bear bait… Mon sighs. Maybe she wasn't that far out of line with the last one. She looks back to the fish and works on it some more. "I'm not normally this clueless. Give me a deer, even a prairie dog, I can skin it and gut it and make food out of it. I just don't… fish. Normally."

The slight woman with the ashen hair throws back her head into a bark of laughter. No giggling or tittering behind palms; Ginny's amusement is real and well-voiced. "Well met, Oh My God from Greenfield, Massachusetts. I'll go with that, how's that sound. If there is anything I can do to help you both out, by all means." She blinks once, as Terry flexes the goods. "Next question was the offer of an arm wrestle… but I'm already beat." She concurs, raising both slender arms. Ginny, feeling that she has hopefully broken the ice with her gently humorous (or at least she thinks~) ways, nonetheless gets down to business. She wants to be helpful, and what better way to conclude the evening than to help with these fine catches!

To Monica, Ginny senses.. or at least pins down fleeting feelings of wariness from the young lady. Just as well, with the threats in this world… alas, Ginny would indeed be the last person expected, of being something so terrifyingly deadly. She rolls back her sleeves, but pauses as Monica heaves the guts into the water. "Hah! Well, you're doing fine.. little bit of instruction and you're off to a good start." She remarks, watching the viscera glistening upon the water's surface.

"Alright! I'll go get us started with something to munch on. See you two back at camp.." Terry nods to the two women, packs up his gear, and gracefully bows out. "Come early, come hungry, and be prepared to leave full!" He notes, with a grin, disappearing campward without another word.

Monica looks at the little fish, and then at Ginny. "Nice meeting you." She glances Terry's way and chuckles, without saying why again. She gets up and puts on her moccasins. "Welcome to Camp Hope. It's a good place. Some of us are a mite twitchy, but… good people too."

"I'll take twitchy over murderous any-day," Ginny remarks kindly. Waiting patiently for Monica to don her footwear, "But thank you. It's… good to be here. Been a long few months.." She trails off, as the other two start off back toward camp. As the evening falls further, the chill deepens.. and the young woman is quick to pad along after the victors and their spoils.

Fishing Rolls

2 Large Pike
3 Large Crappe
1 Small Catfish

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