Stroud words: 706
Quenton words: 151

Backdating to January 16th, this rp is in response to [Reg]Business and poetry? (Stroud and Alexandre)


The evening was rather …profitable. Less so of the slam poetry, but that was often just an exercise in laughing at the presenters when their scripted, emotional paroxysms ended up with an accidental face full of microphone. It had been nice to see Alex again, in a general sense, and eye-opening to learn that the bored, artistic teen was actually one of their own Generals in the Negaverse. Not of her own branch, but still a surprise. How young did the recruitment go? She wasn’t against the usage of the young, and the molding early on, but the petite limbs of the watercolourist seemed hardly suited for bearing weapon of war. The influx of chaos did a lot for physical prowess.

She couldn’t wait to see how it all panned out.
So much so that she’d been working on the ideas, had called suppliers already, and now was knocking on her cousin’s ridiculous apartment door at the asscrack of dawn. “Quincy! Open the door already.”

It opened as she finished calling, her cousin in a state of half dress and dampness evident of one recently from the shower. That his shirt was clinging and mostly translucent, as she walked by to set coffees and fixins on his kitchenette table, meant he’d literally left the water and grabbed clothes. At least the shower wasn’t still running. “I’m surprised you’re awake at this hour.”

“I just got back from the studio, actually.”

“Not just, you’ve had enough time to wash up.”

He didn’t honor it with a reply, but picked up the coffee he knew was his- it was the one marked ‘C’ for cream. “You haven’t slept yet, either. You need something.”

“Getting better, Watson. You’ll be cold reading in no time.” Stroud grabbed a hand towel from next to the sink to sop up some of the water that was pooling from Quenton’s hair and making decorative footsteps around the apartment. “I need some work done. In fact, its a rush job. I’ll pay double. I know you don’t have time, but I’m not taking no for an answer. Got it?”

“Maybe if you told me what it even was first.”

“You’re ex- by the way, you never told me you were dating, “ She hung the rag over the back of one of the kitchenette chairs and grabbed one of the towels from the bathroom to bring out and more thoroughly dry her cousin off before he caught chill from being a dumbass and standing around wet and thin as a rake. “You’ve lost weight. Too much. Look, Alex is starting a tea place, and I happened to have met him at a soiree. So I’m helping out with the design. Floor insets and custom counters. Plant motifs. High class. I’ve got some sketches, think you can manage? “

“How rush is rush?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Its a thousand just for resin, 20 gallons at least per counter. Doesn’t include and substrate. Hand paint infusion? And relief?”

“Yes, I believe so. So what, $2000 per counter enough? “

“Alright. How many do you need.”

“That would be the up-in-the-air. He doesn’t have the place yet, so I don’t know how many counters there will be. Or the floor stones.”

“Just pay one of each up front for the tests. Then you can both look over them and see what changes you want made for the final molds and pours. “

“Have you eaten between yesterday and today, Quincy?”

“I…..” He paused, thinking hard, reviewing what was still clear of whatever it was that he’d been up to. “...doooon’t think so?”

“You’ve dropped weight again. You really can’t forget eating. It slows thinking down.”

“Enough to forget things. Like eating.”

“Har, har.” Stroud punched his side, jolting the coffee in his for a combined wheeze and his as it burned over his fingers. “Oops. Guess you won’t be going to the studio for a few hours until that feels better. “

“I thought this was a rush job?”

“Not that rush. I want you alive to be able to at least finish the damn work. Seriously. Here. Money. “ She took out her cellphone and transferred money between their accounts as was familiar to quite a few times previous. “It’ll clear by 5pm. And I’m ordering you some Japanese, it’ll be delivered in thirty minutes, so be here and eat it. And sleep. Then go grocery shopping at 5 when you wake up.”

“I can’t sleep that long.”

Stroud quirked, and then wheel on her heel, hand connecting his temple with a loud crack. He went down without a sound. “Oh, looks like you can after all.”

She retrieved the ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet and water pitcher from the fridge to set near the bed for when he came around. It took nothing to drag him to his bed and stuff him in it. She squinched her nose at the threadbare blankets, but smoothed them over him nonetheless. I’m not convinced this is living, or that you are happy, Quincy. Blankets are a very, very simple pleasure. You live like a damn aesthetic. No wonder you didn’t keep Alex.