theintercessor: (Default)
Jude Sullivan ([personal profile] theintercessor) wrote in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs2017-08-03 08:14 am

[closed] while i calculate and calibrate; don't make me explain

WHO: Jude Sullivan
WHERE: House 19; House 10; The Inn
WHEN: Early August, morning to evening
OPEN TO: Credence, Jax, and Samantha (see comment starters)
WARNINGS: May contain references to epilepsy symptoms


The journals have taken some doing, gathering or making enough materials, deciding how to put them together. They’re nothing as clean as the pads he picked up from the piles of supplies in the Hall, but they’re functional. The paper takes his pencils, the binding holds when he opens and closes the covers, folds open pages.

For how long, he can’t be sure, but it’s not like anyone’s buying the things from him.

After a couple of dry afternoons on his porch--after getting the house sorted; after staking the sheets into the yard and finding a few more window screens on houses too far gone to matter to anyone; after boiling every bit of leaf litter and shredded cloth as he could--Jude has three journals to show for it. They’re thick with hand-torn pages, enclosed in old encyclopedia covers recovered from the ruins of the school, and bound with a combination of rubber tree sap and braided grass. He’d had to punch the holes with a skewer from the kitchen, and they’re still a little rough at the edges--all of it’s a bit rough at the edges, but he kind of likes that about them.

Now he just has to track down the people they belong to.
thegreatexperiment: (Surprised)

[personal profile] thegreatexperiment 2017-08-03 02:54 pm (UTC)(link)
Sam's shark-like tendencies had been dialed up to an eleven lately. Sitting still was hard work. Even harder, she realized, than forcing herself to eat. And equally nauseating. Her walks were getting longer and longer, but increasingly aimless too. There was no winning. Every outlet she took, along with every turn in the path, felt increasingly pointless.

How much could you accomplish in a Skinner Box, really?

At the very least, she hoped she was as boring as hell to whoever was watching the clown rodeo.

After more than a little bit of unhealthy pacing, she made up her mind to take a walk down to the area that had been split open by the earthquake. If nothing else, it was something new. But when she walked out of her door, she nearly barreled straight into Jude.

He was pretty much the closest thing she had to a friend here. So it figured he'd be the victim of her almost-hit-and-run. "Dude!"
thegreatexperiment: (Thoughtful)

[personal profile] thegreatexperiment 2017-08-03 11:48 pm (UTC)(link)
She blinked in surprise, first at Jude's unexpected snark. And then at the journal. Mostly at the journal. "Holy fuck," she said, reaching out to gently take it from him. "You made these?"

He was either a true hipster or Amish. Maybe both. There could be an Amish hipster, right? Maybe out on Rumspringa or something?

Didn't matter.

Carefully, almost reverently, she turned the journal over in her hands, examining it from different angles, admiring the craftsman ship and the strange beauty of it. Sam was both artistic and scientifically minded. But she was also a 21st century girl. The idea of making paper, making a book, seemed remote and abstract. But Jude...Jude followed through. It was more than a little impressive.

"They're sexy. I'm impressed."
thegreatexperiment: (Skeptical)

[personal profile] thegreatexperiment 2017-08-05 01:36 am (UTC)(link)
"I did."

But Sam wasn't exactly used to getting she wanted at the drop of a hat--or word. That was one of her first habits to break, as soon as she left Lake Forest. And she was weirdly proud of herself for it.

Still. She wasn't about to complain.

She looked up from the journal to Jude, blue eyes honestly earnest for once. "I wish I had something to offer you in return."
thegreatexperiment: (Upset)

[personal profile] thegreatexperiment 2017-08-08 01:23 pm (UTC)(link)
She gave him a wry smile, earnestness slipping away. Sarcasm and cynicism. Her two trademark coping mechanisms. Her protectors. "I'm not sure I get much of a say in how long I stick around," she said dryly.

Or, for that matter, where she went if she didn't.

There had been stories going around. People spontaneously disappearing. And only myths and legends to explain where they went.

Sam couldn't help but shudder a little at the thought.

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beallmysins: (018)

Re: Jax - House 10

[personal profile] beallmysins 2017-08-04 03:36 am (UTC)(link)
Jax stubs out the cigarette he's smoked to the bitter dregs and his mouth turns up in a half smile. He's happy to have something to write in, something he can pour his thoughts into so he doesn't have to have them rattling around in his brain day in and day out. He doesn't have any real craft to it or anything like that but it's nice to just let the ink flow onto paper and his brain to stop turning for a while.

"Hell of a gift," Jax says, holding his hand out for one. He's been known to write on things as ignoble as post-its and old receipts so having actual handmade paper that some hippie out on the Bay would pay thirty bucks for is some shit he'd never thought he'd be writing on.

"Back home, you could charge out the ass for this shit. Handmade paper, locally sourced? Hipsters eat that shit up."
beallmysins: (017)

[personal profile] beallmysins 2017-08-05 10:44 pm (UTC)(link)
Jax laughs a little and shakes his head. "Sorry, it's gonna be the same old shit. I'll try to sound like I know what I'm talking about, though, so I don't waste the gift or the time. I'm not much of a writer."

John Teller had thought he was, playing at philosophy, but can't be much of a philosopher with a beer in one hand and grease stains smearing the pages. John Teller had pretended to be something he wasn't, had pretended that SAMCRO was something bigger and more noble than it is and Jax isn't going to let himself be that delusional. He knows what he is - good and bad, sometimes with a little more bad than good. He's no hero.

"Did a good job, though. If we ever get out of this shithole, you need to head out west. People pay out the ass for this shit."
beallmysins: (007)

[personal profile] beallmysins 2017-08-08 07:10 pm (UTC)(link)
"Today? Still doing roofs. Pain in the ass to get up there but once you are, it's easy enough work to replace the shingles. They're not too bad but some of them still have hail damage from before."

At this point, Jax thinks there's going to be steady work in construction regardless of what comes next. It seems this place is hellbent on pulling down any structures there are, even the ones built up and provided to them by the Powers that Be, and Jax is just doing patch jobs and fill-ins. He's not building anything from scratch.

"You ever replaced a roof before, Jude?"
beallmysins: (Default)

[personal profile] beallmysins 2017-08-13 06:37 pm (UTC)(link)

"It's not too hard," Jax assures him. "As long as you aren't afraid of rolling off the roof. That's the first part," Jax says, laughing a little. "When I was a teenager, I had to get over that shit quick."

Roofs are good places to carry out illicit business, whether those are drug deals, hookups or gun trades. Most people don't bother looking up or down, just straight ahead with blinders on. Jax had learned quickly that roofs are valuable resources in that way and while he isn't running anything illegal here in the village, the mentality remains.

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repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (24)

[personal profile] repressings 2017-08-08 04:41 pm (UTC)(link)
Credence has been fluttering. Fluttering in this instance is the wrong word, but the only one he can think of. He moves from place to place, helping but never for very long before going to some other place. There's a strange feeling he's getting, and it's not the type he likes to ignore. He's learned to trust his gut, mostly--you don't survive a household like the Barebones' without some form of self-preservation--but there's still a moment of doubt.

After all, he's been here an awful long time. Maybe things are just too happy. Maybe things are just too normal.

Things like getting a knock on the door, for example--Credence is up, Credence is always up, doing chores, taking care of the house--and when he opens the door it's with slight confusion. Not very many people visit him.

The look is wiped off his face, however, and a small ripple of a smile crosses his lips, shy and unsure.

"Jude," He greets, and opens the door a little wider. "Did you come to play chess?"
repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (42)

[personal profile] repressings 2017-08-10 05:12 am (UTC)(link)
"Oh, I just assumed. I don't want to inconvenience..." His immediate apology dies in his throat even though it had been so readily and quickly available, and the pale man looks down at the other's hands, confused, before he realizes it's not just an encyclopedia. The papers are too odd, jutting out but still neat, and Credence's brow furrows. He can't quite tell if it's because of confusion over what it is or confusion over why he's being given something entirely.

He should probably let Jude in. Instead, he takes it and leafs through it, and gasps, startled as he comes to the realization that Jude has made an entire journal. Not just any journal--a journal for him.

There's only one place the book could come out of, too. The schoolhouse. He remembers a conversation, months ago, about the fact that the schoolhouse could never be fixed, but maybe it could be turned into something new. This isn't what he'd been thinking of, but it's perfect. A sort of balance, if he thinks about it.

Making a note to tell Clint later, he runs his fingers across the blank pieces of paper, feeling how strangely rough and exciting it all is. When he looks up, his smile is wider. He can't help himself.

"You really made this for me?"
repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (36)

[personal profile] repressings 2017-08-11 06:44 pm (UTC)(link)
He can't tell if the other is being sarcastic or not, and so he chances a look up, eyes narrowing into a squint, trying to read him. He can't--despite everything, he can never get a good look as to what Jude's thinking or feeling. It makes him nervous, in a way, used to anticipating moods or bouts of cruelty through the tightening of a jaw or a raising of an eyebrow.

Jude is unsettling, but at least it's the good kind.

Credence's gaze flicks down, and he touches the book again, smile bubbling up on his face before he decides to pull it close, wrapping his arms around the journal like he's hugging it.

"Thank you. Thank you so much--I love everything about it," he murmurs, still unused to things like this, still unused to people thinking about him and looking out for him.

Oh. he should probably move, right? He moves off to the side, letting Jude enter. Chess it is.
repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (60)

[personal profile] repressings 2017-08-14 03:35 am (UTC)(link)
"I'm sorry, I don't think I got it." Is it the sort of joke you laugh at? Credence isn't sure, especially with regards to whether or not he should laugh, so he settles for awkwardly shrugging and closing the door behind him.

He's not sure where Mr. Graves is, but it means Credence is alone, and that's a good thing, he thinks, for this. Less explaining, and he doesn't think he'd like explaining what someone was doing in his room alone with him.

He moves to the closest door in the house and opens it, his room filled with a surprising amount of clothes and knick-knacks he's gotten over time. It has to be close to sixth months, he realizes, and blinks owlishly for a moment before picking up a board.

"If you put blankets and the--" what was it called? "--snuggle on the floor, we can make it more comfortable." He feels strange playing chess in the main room. It feels wrong, like he has to wait until he's an expert in order to challenge Graves.

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