(2016-05-22) Close Personal Friend
Close Personal Friend
Summary: Terry and Mon each show off their cooking. Only Terry's is edible.
Date: 2016.05.22
Related: None

In Mon's room, on notebook paper are a series of drawings of some kind of gun. The firearms-astute may recognize the action of the gun as a relative of the Remington Rolling Block single shot rifle, but the lack of an extractor, the aluminum ring seal in the breach block, the magazine and the gas cylinder strongly suggest Mon's taking the design into the 20th century - a gas operated automatic - and beyond - caseless, very-low-drag ammunition. There are more notes about the projectile and cartridge design.

<FS3> Monica rolls Gunsmith: Good Success. (For the weapon design).

(For building this particular rifle:)
<FS3> Monica rolls Machinist: Success.
<FS3> Monica rolls Mechanic: Good Success.
<FS3> Monica rolls Gunsmith: Good Success.

Monica has been… scarce. She shows up at dinner time looking haggard, and is occasionally seen at the butt-crack of dawn, drinking some coffee, having breakfast, and heading to the machine shop. Since last week, she's barely spoken to anyone. Now she's stumbling home, a brand new rifle in her hand. It's a strange beast. Straight line like an Armalite design, but with a swoop in the stock instead of a proper pistol grip. It looks like the magazine goes through the swoop too. There's an external hammer, a gas cylinder, and a substantial muzzle brake on the end of the barrel. "Oh. Hi." Mon smiles at Terry blearily.

The wonderful smell of food being cooked wafts from the SGA club house's kitchen like oil from the Deepwater Horizon rig. Terry's got the kitchen roaring (so to speak) with various appliances, no doubt attempting to whip up one of his (in?)famous dishes. On the menu tonight: grilled venison backstrap, with a homemade barbecue sauce. Recipe as follows: two pounds of venison backstrap cut into two-inch chunks, one quart apple cider, 1.5 pounds of thick sliced baocn, and two twelve-ounce bottles of barbecue sauce. He's already marinated the bacon-wrapped venison in cider and barbecue sauce, and is presently working to grill them on the indoor grill.

Monica wasn't expecting to find Terry behind those yummy smells that reached her on her way here. She was expecting to find Gabriel, and was looking forward to snuggles and food. Still, Terry's a good friend, gives good hug, and Mon's stomach just told her she needs to eat more, and how about we start wtih this dead animal Terry's filled the camp wtih the scent of? All of it. "You know the last guy who cooked like that for me wound up taking a very long, hot shower with me not too long ago…"

Sneak attack! Terry's reflexes start to kick in, and he's just about to drop a judo clinic when he notices—oh, it's Monica. He resumes cooking, and offers a smile. "I took a shower not long ago, but I'm always up for another." He continues to observe the grilling meat, not moving them all that much, letting the drippings fall into the drip pan. He'll save those for later. Maybe do something like a fried-egg sandwich dipped in drippings. Mmm.

Monica tries not to drool on the counter. She chuckles a little and hefts her new toy onto the counter instead. She knows it's not loaded. No live ammunition exists for it yet. That's the job for the coming week. She pauses, wondering if Terry just flirted with her the way it sounds like he did. "I'd probably fall asleep during the initial cuddling, anyway," she admits. "Line from a movie. I'd like to introduce you to a close personal friend of mine. This is the M-Zero-A semi-automatic rifle. Fires a .350 Foreman Nitro-Express ultra-low-drag bullet. It's the only one of its kind in existence. I finished it about… twenty minutes ago, is when the barrel bedding was dry enough to move it.

Terry whistles appreciatively, giving the bacon-wrapped backstrap a quick turn to ensure it grills evenly. "Nice hardware you have there, Mon. I'd love to give it a go some time." He nods affirmatively, gazing over the weapon like a computer geek eyeballing a custom piece of hardware.

Monica nods. "Thanks. I need to figure out something to do with the stock so it's not shiny, and I'll probably need to redo the muzzle brake at least once, and ammunition development is going to take a while. I'm starting to have second thoughts about the little steel javelins and I may just go with a spitzer like god and Browning intended…" She rubs her temples with greasy hands. "But I couldn't get it out of my head until I got one built. Cartridge-wise I'm going for mach two and a half, mach three for velocity, with some weight. Not as much as your 50, but not as expensive to feed, either." She rests her head on the counter. "So is that stuff anywhere near done, or do I need to gnaw off one of your legs?"

Right on cue. "Done," Terry says, plating up the little edibles. They're more hors d'oeuvres than anything, not so much a meal. He didn't see any rice, or salad, in the stockpiles, otherwise he'd plate some as well.

You say, "Bless you." Mon digs into the plate with her fork. Yeah, that hot shower? Might have produced an expression like this. Maybe. "Oh god," she murmurs. "So good… how'd you learn to cook like this? I thought you Marines lived on MREs and they were like, Meal, Rejected by Ethiopians.""

"When you have to subsist on that kind of stuff, you learn how to spice it up and make it tolerable, instead of like eating glue every night." Terry responds. "I just transposed 'MRE' into 'regular food' and went from there." He offers a shrug, nibbling at his own plate. "Not too much sauce, I hope?"

Monica finishes her serving, gives Terry a look, holds her hair back with one and and licks the plate. "Uhuh." she mumbles.

Terry raises an eyebrow, briefly, but remains silent. He continues nibbling on his meal, savoring each bite. The only thing that might make this meal better would be a beer, or maybe a soda. Something cold.

Monica doesn't read minds, but as she draws back from the plate, she says, "man, I could go for a beer right now… Probably some cheap-ass Corona. This kind of weather it's perfect. Light, not too complicated, tastes good ice cold… with lime…"

"You were a guy in a past life, weren't you." Terry notes, deadpan, before grinning. "Hey, you read my mind… I could definitely go for a beer."

Monica laughs. "Not that I know of… but I have…" she pauses, and adds, gingerly, "had…" It doesn't seem to hurt as much to say it as it has in times past. "… three brothers and my dad. Mom wasn't super-girly either. I was just one of the guys most of my life.

Terry nods. "Well, dad sure raised a trooper." He flashes a thumbs-up, and exhales. "Man.. I sometimes wish the aliens had come around sooner. I'm having a blast out here, beneath the stars, roughing it.." He chuckles to himself.

Monica smiles at the compliment, looks down at the rifle and runs her hand along it, like an unfamiliar body. "Yeah… I mean… I was studying machining, I was looking at an apprenticeship … all CNC. My hands are sore and beat up and full of grease and metal shavings but … I made this. And I mean to develop it for mass production." Mon shakes her head. "I'd have lived better if the Aliens hadn't come … my teeth wouldn't hurt … and let's just say be glad you're not a girl facing the end of disposable paper products. I wouldn't have lost … everyone. But. How much would my work really matter? Would I ever have gotten the chance or the time or even the inclination to build something like this? To push… this hard?" Mon shakes her head. "I get what you're saying. And god help me, I am enjoying what I do here… I just wish the world hadn't had to end for me to get here."

"I can sympathize there. I would have probably made Detective by now." Terry nods again, finishing off his plate. "But hey, I'm the Sheriff of this here town.. and ain't nobody gonna bring it to harm while I'm around to have anything to say about it." He fingers his badge, gingerly, and then buffs it up on a shirt-sleeve.

Monica smiles. "Hey. You saved my life. That puts you pretty high up there in my book."

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