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Monday, 8 October 2012 16:59![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouYep. You can work on shaping the fuck up.
8 October, 2012
The moon is in the waning Half (Philodox) Moon phase (46% full).
Mouse is sitting in a computer chair that's decidedly more supportive and expensive than the ones provided to the breakroom, armed with a blanket, a nearby coke, a plastic grabby stick, and three computers, including her laptop. She's not touching any of them, but she does seem to be rather focused on all three screens, on which various windows open and close. The one holding most of her attention has several DOS-like programming windows open, and notepad. The Walker elder looks focused, but tense; there's a muscle in her jaw that doesn't seem likely to unclench any time soon.
Flint hasn't been seen very much in the past week, not very much at all, once he'd finished cleanup duties. But now he enters the breakroom in glabro, lugging two of what seem to be… table legs, and other miscellaneous parts. Very nice table legs, in fact. The cliath pauses in the doorway, and then moves to deposit the pieces where the old table used to be. "Evening, Mouse-rhya," he offers, quietly.
"Evening." Mouse's tone is clipped. Neutral. She glances toward Flint, but only briefly, and the work on the computer resumes as soon as she returns her attention to it—though her hands aren't even anywhere near the keyboard.
Flint nods, and promptly disappears right back out of the breakroom as soon as the first load of things have been put together, coming back about ten minutes later lugging two more table legs, and sawhorses, and a corded drill. "Table's finished," Flint states, perhaps slightly redundantly. It appears to be sturdy white oak, in a style that's drawn from colonial furniture styles and Shaker styles as well, some embellishment but mostly plain and functional. And then the cliath turns to head back out into the hallway again.
"Good," Mouse says in the same clipped, neutral tone, though this time she doesn't even look back at him. Whatever she's doing with the computers—as presumably, she's doing it, and they haven't suddenly gained minds of their own—seems to be holding her attention.
The cliath returns again, taking longer this time with the tabletop, deposits it somewhere in the middle of the breakroom and for the moment very much in the way, then moves off to the kitchen, breathing slightly heavily from the exertion of lugging things up. Flint doesn't seem to have any desire for further conversation, but he does ask, when he gets to the kitchen, "Can I get you anything, Mouse-rhya?" as he gets himself down a glass and fills it with ice and then water.
And for the third time, in the exact same tone, "Nope." As if to demonstrate, Mouse takes a gulp from her nearby coke, as the screens continue to change at dizzying speed.
"'kay," the boy says, with a nod, and with that lets there be silence. His water is finished and he goes, setting up the sawhorses and lifting the tabletop onto them, then quietly going about the beginning of assembly of the table.
Mouse doesn't seem likely to break it. At some point, as he works, she pulls earphones on, though only one speaker is set over her ear.
Flint glances every so often at what Mouse is doing, though he's not in such a place as to have an easy glance at the computers. This goes on, and then the galliard gets up, moving to plug in the drill. At which point he just stands back and stares at the table, humming quietly and aimlessly to himself.
Coding, it looks like. There's certainly a whole lot of numbers and letters involved, but what exactly it's for isn't evident. Nor does Mouse look as though she's likely to volunteer the information.
Flint shrugs his shoulders and returns his attention to his own task of putting the table together, setting the drill down on the floor, pacing around it, then going back to it. Two table legs end up fully attached, then four, and then Flint grumbles quietly as he settles down on the floor to attach the bracings. It looks like he tried to make the table very sturdy.
Mouse takes another gulp of soda. Another window opens, a few things seemingly type themselves, and then it closes. She narrows one eye.
Flint definitely seems to know what he's doing as he puts the table together, scooting over to attach first metal and then wood angle bracing to the next table leg, the drill functioning as a screwdriver at the moment. And then the next leg, and then the next, provided he's not interrupted. The places where the wood screws are used are joins that aren't visible, the visible joins are done through wood pegs.
No interruptions are forthcoming, nor do they seem likely at all. Mouse is all but ignoring him now, in favor of whatever she's doing over there. There's a tinny sound coming from the earphone not covering her ear, but too quiet to make out what it might be.
Likewise the cliath seems fairly engrossed in what he's doing, going about it quietly, until the plastic bag of screws is emptied, and then he gets back to his feet, moving over to unplug and put away the drill. The table sits on top of the sawhorses, a few inches off of the ground.
The sound coming from Mouse's earphones abruptly gets louder, then quieter again. The corners of her mouth quirk upward. It's a faint smile, but unpleasant. A few windows close.
Flint returns to where he can stare at the table, and grumbles to himself, then slowly and measuredly shifts up into crinos, hunching over the table long enough to carefully pick it up, and kick out the sawhorses. And then sets the table down with a *thunk*, and then shifts back down to glabro, and then all the way down to homid. Flint crouches to pull out the first sawhorse, carrying it to out of the way by the door.
There are a few more spikes of noise from Mouse's earphones. It sounds like a few people shouting, really, though there doesn't appear to be any video in the multitude of open windows on her computers. They rather abruptly cut off.
Flint's brow furrows for a moment and he glances at Mouse, from carrying the second sawhorse to the door. There's no question asked aloud, though, and Flint heads back over towards the kitchen.
If she notices the glance, Mouse gives no outward indication of it.
The teen doesn't press, doesn't even ask anything, getting himself another glass of water and leaning against the kitchen counter, glancing back to look at the dining table. Eventually, he does speak up, though. "Anything else before I go back down to the workshop again, Mouse-rhya?"
Mouse repeats, "Nope." There's not a single change in her tone or expression. Not even a pause in the ghostly typing.
Flint grabs a ziplock with pizza in it from the fridge, and heads towards the door, but when he reaches his sawhorses, pulls out his phone, instead, staring down at the text on the screen for a long moment. "Devon emailed me—just me and, and not. Anyone else," Flint says, then takes a long breath, and a long pause before he speaks. "He says something happened and the floor is up, I think he got Wyld-tainted when the last time he ran into a plant, and it's getting worse. Or. o-or something." Flint frowns, stutter and hesitation returning at the end of the speech, and clearly that Flint doesn't know what much to do with this.
There's a visible twitch to Mouse's eyebrows now. "Tell Devon," she says, in a tone that's deceptively neutral, but with a decidedly more aggressive edge, "That he's a fucking moron for not telling me that straight off, a fucking moron for only emailing you about it, and a fucking moron for the fact that I had to first hear about it as secondary hearsay from kinfolk. Then tell him to get on the fucking horn to Nieve and get that shit settled yesterday." And finally, she looks at Flint. "And tell him now."
The galliard doesn't put his phone away. Instead, Flint taps at the screen a few times, composing what must be a reply email. "Yes, Mouse-rhya," he says aloud. Then pauses, then looks at the Walker elder. "Those exact words?" Flint asks, a little hesitantly.
"You're the Galliard," Mouse says, as she twists back to face the computer screens. There's a visible wince, there and gone.
Flint continues to tap at his phone for several long moments, and then worry and concern furrow across his brow. "Mouse-rhya, is there anything…?" Flint asks more quietly than before and the concern still clearly in his voice, before the question trails off into talking to himself, barely above a whisper of 'yes I know no I know yes it was stupid shut up shut up shut up'.
"Yep," Mouse says. "You can work on shaping the fuck up." To his litany of self talk, however, she doesn't respond. In fact, she does a good job of pretending that it's not happening at all. "If you're going to do something as stupid as challenge an Adren, next time be prepared for the challenge. Or leave."
Flint eventually quiets as Mouse speaks, leaning against the doorframe. "Yes, Mouse-rhya," he says. "I'm… trying to work on it. None of the stupid shit, no cutting or any of the… other things that I just did to substitute for it, just… learning to figure it out and get things straight." This is said entirely seriously, and then Flint works on gathering the things that are to go back down to the workshop. "I should have six chairs done in a few weeks. For the table."
"Don't tell me," Mouse says, simply. "Just do it."
Flint takes a deep breath, nods, and makes his way out of the breakroom.
8 October, 2012
The moon is in the waning Half (Philodox) Moon phase (46% full).
Mouse is sitting in a computer chair that's decidedly more supportive and expensive than the ones provided to the breakroom, armed with a blanket, a nearby coke, a plastic grabby stick, and three computers, including her laptop. She's not touching any of them, but she does seem to be rather focused on all three screens, on which various windows open and close. The one holding most of her attention has several DOS-like programming windows open, and notepad. The Walker elder looks focused, but tense; there's a muscle in her jaw that doesn't seem likely to unclench any time soon.
Flint hasn't been seen very much in the past week, not very much at all, once he'd finished cleanup duties. But now he enters the breakroom in glabro, lugging two of what seem to be… table legs, and other miscellaneous parts. Very nice table legs, in fact. The cliath pauses in the doorway, and then moves to deposit the pieces where the old table used to be. "Evening, Mouse-rhya," he offers, quietly.
"Evening." Mouse's tone is clipped. Neutral. She glances toward Flint, but only briefly, and the work on the computer resumes as soon as she returns her attention to it—though her hands aren't even anywhere near the keyboard.
Flint nods, and promptly disappears right back out of the breakroom as soon as the first load of things have been put together, coming back about ten minutes later lugging two more table legs, and sawhorses, and a corded drill. "Table's finished," Flint states, perhaps slightly redundantly. It appears to be sturdy white oak, in a style that's drawn from colonial furniture styles and Shaker styles as well, some embellishment but mostly plain and functional. And then the cliath turns to head back out into the hallway again.
"Good," Mouse says in the same clipped, neutral tone, though this time she doesn't even look back at him. Whatever she's doing with the computers—as presumably, she's doing it, and they haven't suddenly gained minds of their own—seems to be holding her attention.
The cliath returns again, taking longer this time with the tabletop, deposits it somewhere in the middle of the breakroom and for the moment very much in the way, then moves off to the kitchen, breathing slightly heavily from the exertion of lugging things up. Flint doesn't seem to have any desire for further conversation, but he does ask, when he gets to the kitchen, "Can I get you anything, Mouse-rhya?" as he gets himself down a glass and fills it with ice and then water.
And for the third time, in the exact same tone, "Nope." As if to demonstrate, Mouse takes a gulp from her nearby coke, as the screens continue to change at dizzying speed.
"'kay," the boy says, with a nod, and with that lets there be silence. His water is finished and he goes, setting up the sawhorses and lifting the tabletop onto them, then quietly going about the beginning of assembly of the table.
Mouse doesn't seem likely to break it. At some point, as he works, she pulls earphones on, though only one speaker is set over her ear.
Flint glances every so often at what Mouse is doing, though he's not in such a place as to have an easy glance at the computers. This goes on, and then the galliard gets up, moving to plug in the drill. At which point he just stands back and stares at the table, humming quietly and aimlessly to himself.
Coding, it looks like. There's certainly a whole lot of numbers and letters involved, but what exactly it's for isn't evident. Nor does Mouse look as though she's likely to volunteer the information.
Flint shrugs his shoulders and returns his attention to his own task of putting the table together, setting the drill down on the floor, pacing around it, then going back to it. Two table legs end up fully attached, then four, and then Flint grumbles quietly as he settles down on the floor to attach the bracings. It looks like he tried to make the table very sturdy.
Mouse takes another gulp of soda. Another window opens, a few things seemingly type themselves, and then it closes. She narrows one eye.
Flint definitely seems to know what he's doing as he puts the table together, scooting over to attach first metal and then wood angle bracing to the next table leg, the drill functioning as a screwdriver at the moment. And then the next leg, and then the next, provided he's not interrupted. The places where the wood screws are used are joins that aren't visible, the visible joins are done through wood pegs.
No interruptions are forthcoming, nor do they seem likely at all. Mouse is all but ignoring him now, in favor of whatever she's doing over there. There's a tinny sound coming from the earphone not covering her ear, but too quiet to make out what it might be.
Likewise the cliath seems fairly engrossed in what he's doing, going about it quietly, until the plastic bag of screws is emptied, and then he gets back to his feet, moving over to unplug and put away the drill. The table sits on top of the sawhorses, a few inches off of the ground.
The sound coming from Mouse's earphones abruptly gets louder, then quieter again. The corners of her mouth quirk upward. It's a faint smile, but unpleasant. A few windows close.
Flint returns to where he can stare at the table, and grumbles to himself, then slowly and measuredly shifts up into crinos, hunching over the table long enough to carefully pick it up, and kick out the sawhorses. And then sets the table down with a *thunk*, and then shifts back down to glabro, and then all the way down to homid. Flint crouches to pull out the first sawhorse, carrying it to out of the way by the door.
There are a few more spikes of noise from Mouse's earphones. It sounds like a few people shouting, really, though there doesn't appear to be any video in the multitude of open windows on her computers. They rather abruptly cut off.
Flint's brow furrows for a moment and he glances at Mouse, from carrying the second sawhorse to the door. There's no question asked aloud, though, and Flint heads back over towards the kitchen.
If she notices the glance, Mouse gives no outward indication of it.
The teen doesn't press, doesn't even ask anything, getting himself another glass of water and leaning against the kitchen counter, glancing back to look at the dining table. Eventually, he does speak up, though. "Anything else before I go back down to the workshop again, Mouse-rhya?"
Mouse repeats, "Nope." There's not a single change in her tone or expression. Not even a pause in the ghostly typing.
Flint grabs a ziplock with pizza in it from the fridge, and heads towards the door, but when he reaches his sawhorses, pulls out his phone, instead, staring down at the text on the screen for a long moment. "Devon emailed me—just me and, and not. Anyone else," Flint says, then takes a long breath, and a long pause before he speaks. "He says something happened and the floor is up, I think he got Wyld-tainted when the last time he ran into a plant, and it's getting worse. Or. o-or something." Flint frowns, stutter and hesitation returning at the end of the speech, and clearly that Flint doesn't know what much to do with this.
There's a visible twitch to Mouse's eyebrows now. "Tell Devon," she says, in a tone that's deceptively neutral, but with a decidedly more aggressive edge, "That he's a fucking moron for not telling me that straight off, a fucking moron for only emailing you about it, and a fucking moron for the fact that I had to first hear about it as secondary hearsay from kinfolk. Then tell him to get on the fucking horn to Nieve and get that shit settled yesterday." And finally, she looks at Flint. "And tell him now."
The galliard doesn't put his phone away. Instead, Flint taps at the screen a few times, composing what must be a reply email. "Yes, Mouse-rhya," he says aloud. Then pauses, then looks at the Walker elder. "Those exact words?" Flint asks, a little hesitantly.
"You're the Galliard," Mouse says, as she twists back to face the computer screens. There's a visible wince, there and gone.
Flint continues to tap at his phone for several long moments, and then worry and concern furrow across his brow. "Mouse-rhya, is there anything…?" Flint asks more quietly than before and the concern still clearly in his voice, before the question trails off into talking to himself, barely above a whisper of 'yes I know no I know yes it was stupid shut up shut up shut up'.
"Yep," Mouse says. "You can work on shaping the fuck up." To his litany of self talk, however, she doesn't respond. In fact, she does a good job of pretending that it's not happening at all. "If you're going to do something as stupid as challenge an Adren, next time be prepared for the challenge. Or leave."
Flint eventually quiets as Mouse speaks, leaning against the doorframe. "Yes, Mouse-rhya," he says. "I'm… trying to work on it. None of the stupid shit, no cutting or any of the… other things that I just did to substitute for it, just… learning to figure it out and get things straight." This is said entirely seriously, and then Flint works on gathering the things that are to go back down to the workshop. "I should have six chairs done in a few weeks. For the table."
"Don't tell me," Mouse says, simply. "Just do it."
Flint takes a deep breath, nods, and makes his way out of the breakroom.