03
UnwelcomeStorm
BARK! BARK! BARK!
- Location
- United States
December 26 - 31
Action: Find a way to repair the flute
Extra: Start exercising
Taylor waited a few days before venturing outside to find an instrument repair shop, and even those few days just to let the crowds disperse were nigh unbearable. She still woke up tired, but it was a fatigue that vanished as soon as she got up and moving, to be replaced by a restless energy. It got so bad that at times, she'd find herself pacing her room like a caged animal, unable to settle down even to lose herself in a good book for more than an hour at a time.
Taylor's father caught her downstairs after he came home from work (even without much available work, there was no rest for the Dockworkers, she supposed) heating up some milk on the stove with a bit of honey, in an effort to calm herself down before bed. He suggested, only partly joking, that she try doing some jumping jacks or something. And actually, that sounded pretty appealing; the thuds from jumping on the old floors didn't, but some push-ups and sit-ups in her room worked just fine as an outlet. A jog sounded tempting too, but… really, who voluntarily goes outside and works up a sweat in late December? Getting drenched by sleet and catching pneumonia was not one of Taylor's goals. Perhaps if she kept up the habit of doing a simple work-out in her room, she'd be fit enough to give running a try by the time the Spring thaw came around.
On Thursday, once the post-Christmas Retail Returns crowd had finally thinned, Taylor made a list of instrument stores she could find in the phone book, and started calling. Two of the numbers she dialed were dead ends, the stores having gone out of business at some point since the Heberts had purchased a copy of the Yellow Pages, and a few more denying that they did repairs narrowed her list rather uncomfortably down to one. Taylor wrote down the address of her last remaining hope, and walked to the bus stop. Once there she hunched over in her coat and hoodie to wait, and once the bus arrived she continued being hunched over in her coat and hoodie while she rode. The man who ended up sitting next to her was listening to something on his smartphone, but after a few minutes he cursed and pulled the headphones free to try and fiddle with them. Whatever result he wanted, he didn't get, and instead he turned up the volume on his phone and tried to listen over the rattle and groans of the bus.
"...update on our ongoing story from this morning: Animal Control was notified today after three men were brought to Brockton General Hospital after they were apparently mauled by a big cat just before six o'clock this morning. Authorities confirmed that a number of half-frozen paw-prints were found near the scene of the attack near Archer's Bridge, but a definite identification of the species of feline has not been made, only that the prints recovered were large enough to rule out a cougar. The Brockton Bay Zoo, when contacted, did a head-count of their big cats and denied that any were missing. Residents in the area are advised to keep pets and small children inside…"
"Huh. Assholes," the man muttered. He caught Taylor glancing at him and, instead of scowling, continued his line of thought. "Heard on the radio, the cops got calls about a lion or something two days ago, but it was brushed off as a prank. Lazy fucks only took it seriously after someone got their face chewed off, looks like."
"...I guess it's easier to just pretend bad things don't happen," Taylor muttered in reply, already making a comparison to Winslow. Like the police, the staff and teachers seemed to think looking the other way was easier. It was pretty rotten of her, but Taylor couldn't help the swell of satisfaction at the thought of the police now getting caught with their pants down because of their complacency. Not that taking things seriously after the fact helped those attacked, of course… at least she could take some comfort in knowing that, for as bad as the Trio were, they hadn't done anything major to harm her.
Well. Physically, anyway.
* * *
Reinhart's Music was the only store on her list, and predictably, it was the one closest to the Boardwalk. That and the Heights were about the only two areas of town that benefitted from having thriving businesses. Taylor stood outside the doors for almost a full minute before she took a breath, wet her lips, and pushed her way inside.
"Hey, welcome," said a man behind the counter, speaking over the chime of bells on the door. "How can I help you today?"
"Uh… you-- you repair instruments, right?"
"Sure do."
"I have a flute," Taylor managed to say, before her throat closed completely. She swallowed, and moved closer to the counter.
"Professional, or student?"
The question caught her off-guard, still trying to muster the nerve to speak. "What?"
"The quality of the flute. Is it a professional instrument, or is it a student's instrument?"
"Oh. Uh, professional. It's… metal, with maybe silver inlays?"
"Alright. Do you have it with you now?"
She did. It was a trial to pull the cardboard coffin, now stripped of its festive wrapping, out of her bag and set it carefully on the counter. The store manager winced when he opened it, and quickly started to glare at her.
"I didn't-- do this," Taylor said, barely louder than a whisper. "Can you fix it?"
"Ergh… maybe, yeah. The dents don't look too bad, though most of the keys need to be replaced…"
He trailed off into a mutter, and poked at the flute in the box. "Look-- ballpark estimate here, we're looking at about $800 to get this old girl back in shape. Maybe more, maybe as low as $600, but I wouldn't count on it."
Eight hundred? Maybe more? Taylor squeezed her eyes shut, and at her side, curled her hands into claws. Emma. Fucking Emma. Anger, raw and seething, filled her. If her dear friend had been there in the store, at that moment? Taylor couldn't say for sure if anyone would be walking away.
"Uh… miss?"
"...yeah. Okay. You take payment plans? No? I'll… be back, then." Taylor snatched the box and its contents off the counter, then stalked out of the store. Eight hundred dollars, how the hell was she going to get that? Probably not quickly, that was for certain. She needed to think this through.
One week of break left. Do something?
[ ]Write-in
[ ]Write-in
Hunt: January 2 - 8, 2011
[ ]Choose a target or action and available form.
-[ ]Plan of action?
Action: Find a way to repair the flute
Extra: Start exercising
Taylor waited a few days before venturing outside to find an instrument repair shop, and even those few days just to let the crowds disperse were nigh unbearable. She still woke up tired, but it was a fatigue that vanished as soon as she got up and moving, to be replaced by a restless energy. It got so bad that at times, she'd find herself pacing her room like a caged animal, unable to settle down even to lose herself in a good book for more than an hour at a time.
Taylor's father caught her downstairs after he came home from work (even without much available work, there was no rest for the Dockworkers, she supposed) heating up some milk on the stove with a bit of honey, in an effort to calm herself down before bed. He suggested, only partly joking, that she try doing some jumping jacks or something. And actually, that sounded pretty appealing; the thuds from jumping on the old floors didn't, but some push-ups and sit-ups in her room worked just fine as an outlet. A jog sounded tempting too, but… really, who voluntarily goes outside and works up a sweat in late December? Getting drenched by sleet and catching pneumonia was not one of Taylor's goals. Perhaps if she kept up the habit of doing a simple work-out in her room, she'd be fit enough to give running a try by the time the Spring thaw came around.
On Thursday, once the post-Christmas Retail Returns crowd had finally thinned, Taylor made a list of instrument stores she could find in the phone book, and started calling. Two of the numbers she dialed were dead ends, the stores having gone out of business at some point since the Heberts had purchased a copy of the Yellow Pages, and a few more denying that they did repairs narrowed her list rather uncomfortably down to one. Taylor wrote down the address of her last remaining hope, and walked to the bus stop. Once there she hunched over in her coat and hoodie to wait, and once the bus arrived she continued being hunched over in her coat and hoodie while she rode. The man who ended up sitting next to her was listening to something on his smartphone, but after a few minutes he cursed and pulled the headphones free to try and fiddle with them. Whatever result he wanted, he didn't get, and instead he turned up the volume on his phone and tried to listen over the rattle and groans of the bus.
"...update on our ongoing story from this morning: Animal Control was notified today after three men were brought to Brockton General Hospital after they were apparently mauled by a big cat just before six o'clock this morning. Authorities confirmed that a number of half-frozen paw-prints were found near the scene of the attack near Archer's Bridge, but a definite identification of the species of feline has not been made, only that the prints recovered were large enough to rule out a cougar. The Brockton Bay Zoo, when contacted, did a head-count of their big cats and denied that any were missing. Residents in the area are advised to keep pets and small children inside…"
"Huh. Assholes," the man muttered. He caught Taylor glancing at him and, instead of scowling, continued his line of thought. "Heard on the radio, the cops got calls about a lion or something two days ago, but it was brushed off as a prank. Lazy fucks only took it seriously after someone got their face chewed off, looks like."
"...I guess it's easier to just pretend bad things don't happen," Taylor muttered in reply, already making a comparison to Winslow. Like the police, the staff and teachers seemed to think looking the other way was easier. It was pretty rotten of her, but Taylor couldn't help the swell of satisfaction at the thought of the police now getting caught with their pants down because of their complacency. Not that taking things seriously after the fact helped those attacked, of course… at least she could take some comfort in knowing that, for as bad as the Trio were, they hadn't done anything major to harm her.
Well. Physically, anyway.
* * *
Reinhart's Music was the only store on her list, and predictably, it was the one closest to the Boardwalk. That and the Heights were about the only two areas of town that benefitted from having thriving businesses. Taylor stood outside the doors for almost a full minute before she took a breath, wet her lips, and pushed her way inside.
"Hey, welcome," said a man behind the counter, speaking over the chime of bells on the door. "How can I help you today?"
"Uh… you-- you repair instruments, right?"
"Sure do."
"I have a flute," Taylor managed to say, before her throat closed completely. She swallowed, and moved closer to the counter.
"Professional, or student?"
The question caught her off-guard, still trying to muster the nerve to speak. "What?"
"The quality of the flute. Is it a professional instrument, or is it a student's instrument?"
"Oh. Uh, professional. It's… metal, with maybe silver inlays?"
"Alright. Do you have it with you now?"
She did. It was a trial to pull the cardboard coffin, now stripped of its festive wrapping, out of her bag and set it carefully on the counter. The store manager winced when he opened it, and quickly started to glare at her.
"I didn't-- do this," Taylor said, barely louder than a whisper. "Can you fix it?"
"Ergh… maybe, yeah. The dents don't look too bad, though most of the keys need to be replaced…"
He trailed off into a mutter, and poked at the flute in the box. "Look-- ballpark estimate here, we're looking at about $800 to get this old girl back in shape. Maybe more, maybe as low as $600, but I wouldn't count on it."
Eight hundred? Maybe more? Taylor squeezed her eyes shut, and at her side, curled her hands into claws. Emma. Fucking Emma. Anger, raw and seething, filled her. If her dear friend had been there in the store, at that moment? Taylor couldn't say for sure if anyone would be walking away.
"Uh… miss?"
"...yeah. Okay. You take payment plans? No? I'll… be back, then." Taylor snatched the box and its contents off the counter, then stalked out of the store. Eight hundred dollars, how the hell was she going to get that? Probably not quickly, that was for certain. She needed to think this through.
One week of break left. Do something?
[ ]Write-in
[ ]Write-in
Hunt: January 2 - 8, 2011
[ ]Choose a target or action and available form.
-[ ]Plan of action?
