Day 023: Render Unto Soccer
Summary: Grey and Lark have a discussion of current events, ancient rulers (or salad creators) and sports.
Date: 14 June 2016
Related: Several generally, none specifically.
Lark Grey 


Grounds, The Camp

With the removal of underbrush and a half-dozen small trees, there is now a tiny clearing around the dropship. It has begun to fill with detritus from the ship, including all of the seating, padding, and removable plates or bulkheads.

Several tents have been set up within the clearing, set close together within the confines of the surrounding trees. A small collection of weapons sits under a parachute-cloth shelter by the door of dropship, open for community use. A three-holer latrine is set up downwind of camp in the prevailing breezes, and a rough wall stretches between trees at the edge of the clearing, dropship plates and felled tree-trunks stacked up and lashed together as best as the Delinquents can manage. There is a gate at the north end, a single panel that can be rolled aside at need.

The forest immediately surrounding the camp has been cowed into near-silence, but is still vibrant and green to a people used to stark metal bulkheads all around them.

23 Days After Landing

No doubt many of the technicians were busy following the direction of some in the camp. Lark was preferring to do her own thing - helping where she could see an issue, making minor repairs upon the wall, helping Stone and Jumar occasionally…

But right now, it was time for a break.

Fingertips dirty, hair disheveled, and jacket kinda scuffed, Lark finds a spot nearish the entrance of the dropship to just… sit - lifting up her makeshift canteen to her lips to take a sip, her quasi-tools set beside her. A hammer, that was basically a rock, and a screwdriver, that was a flat, thin, piece of scrap with cloth around one end. Could probably double as a weapon.

Grey looks up from his seat just to one side of the dropship's ramp, where he can lean his assault rifle against the comforting bulk (right by the 'LG' carved into the ceramic surface). Setting down the bit of metal that he's twisting into something resembling a caltrop, and then stripping his hands out of the dropship-seat cushion mittens he'd been wearing to protect them, he rolls his neck, "How you holdin' up, Wood?" Apparently she's been 'upgraded' to the ex-C last-name-use at some point. "Startin' to recover from the Odyssey?" Did he just make a classical allusion? There must've been a movie about it.

Glancing up from what Lark was looking at - sorta a glassy-eyed stare at a conversation happening between two delinquents in the distance, focus returns to her eyes and she glances up towards Grey. A wryness touches her lips. "I'm recovering pretty good, Grey," she says. That was his last name, huh? Realizing that makes the wryness blossom into a smirk of sorts, before she lets a sigh pass her lips, rolling her shoulder.

"Like everyone in camp - at least the ones that mean somethin' - I think I'm working to try to get our defenses up in time for the Grounders to tear it all down again. It's tiring - I can't help but think we're all gonna be exhausted when they finally do come," she states. That reference, though, she kinda gives him a long look, a ghost of the smile returning.

"How about you? I mean, you did take an arrow to the shoulder and all."

Grey snorts softly at the pessimism, "Screw that noise. I don't know where all of these people are gettin' their damned ideas, but I plan on livin' through this. And I plan on as many people as possible makin' it too." Lifting his right arm a little, he shows off the paired burn-marks from cauterization, "Yeah. Hurts like a bitch. But it's not gonna keep me off'a the wall." A crooked grin twists his lips, "Folks don't seem to realize there's only fifty of the assholes out there," for now, at least, "And we got the guns."

A pause then. Lark cants her head a little bit to one side, her eyes drifting down towards those same burnmarks. "Well, hope for the best, expect the worst. That way, you're always pleasantly surprised, right?" asks Lark, that grin touching her lips again.

"I'd hope not, you're one of the best shots, I hear. Or Kai is," she says, kinda waving a hand dismissively, her eyes tucking back down towards the makeshift tools. She picks up both rock and screwdriver, and starts drawing the edge of the 'screwdriver' along the stone sorta idly.

"Why do they think they are powerful enough to make that demand, then?" she asks, glancing back towards Grey. "You seem in with the groundpounders, so… what's going on there? I mean… do they really want peace?"

Grey shakes his head, "People keep sayin' that. Usually it means they're figurin' that they're already dead, and are just goin' through the motions." The commentary on shooters causes him to nod back into the tent city, "Stone edges us all out. But I'm solid. So's Adams, and Greery, and Q." The mention of ground-pounding, however, causes him to clear his throat and look down at the makeshift mittens, "Uh… well, some of them do, and some of them are pissed as hell that seven hundred of theirs are dead and scared, and want to blame us. But mostly, I think they've forgotten how powerful rifles are."

"I get it. I like having optimists like you around, too, Grey - so please don't ever lose that," says Lark, "And I'll do my best to make sure that your optimistic future comes about," she adds, her grin tugging up the edge of her lip.

A beat.

"We'll see how well we can handle fifty, then - before the main force shows up," she says. A beat. "That's where a lot of our defenses will come into play, I think, but… one step at a time. Maybe we won't even have to fight?" she says, looking back to him and shrugging one shoulder. "I hear we're gonna send someone out to talk, after all. Although, I expect, they're not interested in talking. Not until they understand that we can defend ourselves."

"Who woulda thought a Grey would be an optimist." Considering that Lucian Grey's father was a corrupt asshole (not that his son sees him that way) and his mother was even worse. "But I don't see it as optimism. I see it as realism. And how we all should be thinkin'. We think we're dead anyhow, we're not gonna give our best. We decide we want to live, damn it, and we gotta figure out how to do it? That's our best." He shakes his head at her hopes to avoid a fight though, "Rabid Sonia'll be back on us tonight, assumin' the Camp votes to turn down the offer. But you're right. The Trikru respect strength. I'm hopin' that they see our strength and decide that maybe they want to listen to what we have to say anyhow."

"It's all this fresh Earth air, football dweebus," says Lark, "It brightens Grey skies," she says, with a light, musical laugh. A nod of her head, though, and a click of her tongue against the roof of his mouth as he explains it.

"See, for me…" she says, letting her eyes track down to the edge of the screwdriver. She lets silence - or as silent as this place gets - linger for a handful of moments. "…I'm terrified out of my mind, Grey," she states. "So if I put it in my mind I'm dead already - what have I got to lose from fighting, for trying?" she asks, her voice soft. A beat, and she glances back up towards him.

"The camp's gonna reject the offer. It's a bad deal. It would be a worse deal if we lost people like you, Stone, and the others to it. It'll cull the heroic among us, and leave the craven, right?" she says, kinda gesturing towards him with a limp wrist - with the hand still holding the blade.

Grey chuckles easily enough at her words, getting right close to an outright laugh, even if that causes a twinge of pain to flash across his features and him to press one hand to his side between the cauterized wounds. "Hell, we're all scared, Wood." He keeps his voice low, quiet, but puts some emphasis into it, "I'm scared I won't make it through this," he leans forward there, "but I know that I can." Straightening up with a grimace, he nods at her assessment of the deal, "Me, I figure it's an insult. Says eight-five of us can't take fifty of them while we're in a defensive position. Says we'd rather give up our people for slaughter than try. It also says we're guilty. So screw that."

There was another smile upon her lips, then at his laugh. A bit wan seeming, but otherwise, Lark lowers her voice as well. "That's just the thing, we're all scared, but we're all too badass to really let it on, right?" she says, bringing up her elbow to kinda give him a light, light nudge in the ribs.

"Didn't think of it that way too. When you put it like that, we really have no choice but to reject the deal, huh?" says Lark. "Even if we lose more than seven to do it," she says, her voice a bit tenuous in tone. Eyes shift away from Grey, back towards the wall. And she draws her screwdriver back to stone, sharpening more.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to a slaughter, though. Of us. Or them."

Grey 'oofs' softly at the nudge, although he drops an arm to take it there rather than in the ribs. "Hell, do you know the beating my rep would take if people found out I was scared?" At least he accompanies the question with that broad, shit-eating grin of his. The more serious question causes him to nod, "Yup. I woulda just turned 'em down flat-out, but the Camp made it real clear that they don't take kindly to big choices bein' made without them. And yeah. I don't want to slaughter them. I like some'a the Trikru." Rumor actually has him sharing his tent with one of them, but that's neither here nor there, right? "I mean, the C-Bur folks. Haven't met any of Rabid Sonia or Indra's folks yet well enough to call it likin' them, but hell, first time I met Gideon, she did this." And he gestures down to the now-healed narrow slash across his side, just below the cauterized puncture wounds.

"And if we slaughter them all - when their buddies finally get here, they might be more than a little pissed," says Lark. Instead of a smirk, there was an out and out smile at his grin.

"Your secret is safe with me, Grey," she says.

Letting her eyes track down towards Grey's side, she winces. "Well, leaving scars must mean that you really care about someone in Grounder talk." A beat, and Lark kinda raises herself up to a stand, slinging her water back over her shoulder - she was getting low on that stuff - and tucks the 'screwdriver' into her belt. Tossing the rock up in the air kinda idly, she turns and looks back at Grey, catching the rock and tossing it up again.

"You need help with anything mechanical-wise?" she asks. "I would ask Cole, but he kinda ticks me off. So I'm trying to avoid him so I can stay focused."

Grey shakes head, "Naw, it means 'stay away.'" The response is quite flat, for all the amusement that's bubbling up under it, amusement that bursts out as he continues, "Apparently, it's headbutts that they take as flirtin'." He reaches down to gather up his 'mittens' again, shrugging a little at the question, "Hell, I don't know. Maybe some good way to haul water back from the river or the caves? Somethin' to store water in? Cookie maybe could use help on the smokehouse? I know Kai's workin' on," he gestures down to the twisted metal he's been working on, "some caltrops and shit, and there's some folks workin' on traps. Could also talk to Tink if you don't wanna talk to Cole." Beat pause, "Which I understand. Dude annoys me too."

A nod of Lark's head at that. "Headbutts are flirting?" says Lark. "I guess that makes sense. You guys both have that bit of 'I can't think cuz my head is whirling', so that's a bit like love, right? At least the good kind," she says, wryness answering his amusement.

"Could just do what the Romans did. Irrigation. Divert the water towards our little camp, but that would take time - and going outside with Grounders everywhere. But. Yeah, I hear you. Thanks for the ideas there," she says. A beat, and she rolls her neck.

"I think I'm gonna start carrying a rifle, too. I'd like… to be a part of the solution to all of this," she says, chewing on her lip in thought. With a little wave of her hand, Lark then tucks her hands into her pockets, starting to walk the other way, glancing back over her shoulder towards Grey. "Was nice just… sitting and talking a bit, Grey. Let's do it again sometime, yeah? Maybe about sports, and not about… this stuff."

Grey freezes, blinking, "What? No, no one's talkin' about love." He probably says that too quickly, and he definitely clears his throat, "Shit, the only things I know about the Romans is they had some badass swords and they stabbed the guy who invented the salad. But yeah. At some point, we probably are gonna have to move to some place that's got water. But not while we're at war." The mention of the rifles draws a nod, and he pulls on his mittens, "Yeah, you got the background. That's why you're on the list. Any time you're on watch, you're welcome to a rifle. And if you want a refresher course, just hit one of us up." And then he snorts, going less serious again, "You really think we got anything to talk about sports, soccer-heathen?"

"Seriously? The guy that invented the salad?" says Lark, glancing back towards Grey then, her eyes full on his. She was hoping against hope he wasn't serious, but the longer he could maintain a stony face, the more distressed her own would get. Eventually, though, she would laugh. "Stone brought me back up to speed with rifles," says Lark, pausing a moment to glance back towards Grey.

And point at him, "Hey - it'll be way easier to make a soccer ball after all this is done, rather than a football," she says. "Maybe we could end up making grounder soccer teams or something. Hey - maybe - they'll agree to fight their wars with soccer games instead of spears then. That's how inspirational soccer is compared to football," says Lark.

She might be trying too hard with that joke, but she's running with it.

"Soccer will be the sport of peace. Whereas football? The sport of concussions, dude.'

Grey shrugs a little self consciously, "What? I thought it was a Caesar salad?" Her talk of Grounder soccer teams causes him to snort and shake his head, "Oh hell no. Football's way more a Trikru sport than soccer. Already got a couple guys interested in learnin' to play. I mean, they already got the pads for it," he gestures down to the looted Grounder armor jacket he's sitting on, with the curved plastic and metal plates over the shoulder and ribs, "Just gotta get some helmets made. And the ball's easy. I mean, it's a pigskin after all."

"You might have a point. They're already headbutting each other all day, so… maybe they'll play without the helmets?" says Lark, grinning.

"Tell you what, if you get some pigskin, we can try to find someone to sew together a ball from it. Although I don't have any idea how to do that," she says. A beat, and Lark says. "Either way, Grey - I'll catch you around, yeah?" she says.

Turning then, finally, she heads off towards the wall. No doubt ready to do more minor maintenance of the thing.

Grey upnods to Lark, "I figured I'd talk to the Trikru after this shit's over. But yeah, stay safe, Wood." That's a relative thing, of course. And then he's back to working on those damned caltrops. Annoying bloody things.

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