bakerstreet | (Potentially Post-Apocalyptic Thanksgiving) Homesteading Meme

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(Potentially Post-Apocalyptic Thanksgiving) Homesteading Meme

The (Possibly Post-Apocalyptic) Homesteading Meme

The apocalypse is over, you’ve reached the new world, the colony ship has landed, the bunker has opened, your inheritance has been bequeathed. Wherever you came from, whatever horrors you’ve survived, you’re here now. You’ve made it, and this is going to be your new home. Finally, you’ve found a little patch of land that wasn’t destroyed, or you saved up enough pennies to buy a farm, or you found the perfect fortress to keep back the monstrous hordes outside.

1. We’ve Earned This - Maybe you fought for it, maybe you’re the only surviving humans, maybe you just saved your pennies from your soul-crushing desk job. Either way, you earned this new life, and your own piece of land. Now it’s time to make it a home.
2. Robinson Crusoe - No part of this was planned. But here you are, washed up on this foreign island or distant planet, and you have no choice but to survive. There’s no way to send a message, and no one’s coming to save you. You’re just going to have to use whatever you can salvage from the wreck to make this barren place into a livable home.
3. Hermits Do It Alone - Ever dreamed about just running away from it all? Now’s your chance. You’ve purchased a piece of land somewhere so far remote that you don’t have neighbors anywhere within miles. This is what you want. And yet… you’re not entirely alone. Maybe someone has shown up on your doorstep needing shelter, maybe you just got a new neighbor, or maybe you brought them along (willing or not).
4. Manifest Destiny - Welcome to the new world. Your colony ship has arrived, and whether you’re coming from another planet or just across the sea, this land is yours now. It’s your destiny. You might have to fight the natives for it, or maybe you’ve found somewhere so unappealing or undiscovered that you’ll only be fighting against the elements—and whatever strange new foreign infections reside here.
5. Manifest Zombies - Maybe your manifest destiny (and the zombies or monsters chasing you) has led you to an established settlement. They have safety and food, but they’re not willing to let you in. You’re going to have to prove your worth to them, or you’re going to have to take it.
6. Louisiana Purchase - Expand! Settle! Homestead! Your home country or planet has just made some valuable new territory acquisitions. They’re unoccupied, rich with resources, and going cheap. Pack your trowel and buy plenty of seeds, you’re going homesteading.
7. You, Me, and this Bunker - The apocalypse has come, but you were ready for it! You’ve got your bunker, your water filtration system, your underground crops, and a room full of unwatched DVDs. Get ready to play a whole lot of two-player games of cards, because the two of you are stuck in your new home until the half-life of the nuclear disaster above ticks down to manageable levels. So, probably not within your lifetime.
8. I Think We’re Alone Now - You had your bunker, and you survived. Maybe it’s been only a few months, or maybe you were born inside that bunker, a descendant of the original survivors. It’s safe to emerge at last, into the ruins of what was once our modern society. No one’s alive out there, unless you can find another survivor like yourself. But you can probably find a nice farm somewhere, raid some abandoned grocery stores, and plant some crops.

tl;dr - Farming, housemaking, homesteading. Possibly after the apocalypse or on a new planet. Or just because you want a farm.

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He suddenly remembers what she'd said the first time he came, that just because he'd been caged and beaten didn't make him a bad dog. He'd just about started crying when she said it the first time. Feeling a little steadier, today-- but only a little-- he just looks down at his pasta, swallows once, and focuses on eating instead of trying to answer.

To argue. Because there's definitely still something in there that vehemently disagrees with everything she said.

Knowing better than to take that silence as agreeing, she opts to not press the matter. He won't feel it for a long, long while, probably. And that's fine. His life, his business. Support can be offered and she'll settle for doing that as consistently as she can.

He's a good person. She feels it.

"Once you're done and the dog's tired himself out, I'll try the music."

Subject changes are awesome. He swallows his current bite and says, "I'd like that." Then, after another bite, he admits, "That stuff stayed in my head for weeks. Like it lived there."

It's impossible not to beam at that. It's - good, knowing he had something positive with him. Something he liked, independently and with no evident tactical purpose. People need that. Music's unique power was something she would happily attest to.

"All the more reason for you to make sure you can carry it around in your pocket, huh? That's what good music does, nobody should be cut off from that."

He debates for a long minute, long enough to finish up the second round of pasta and sit back again. He's given her most of what he has, at this point. Maybe she can even help him with this shit. Just talking, or something. So he says: "I remembered it. I'm pretty sure."

It isn't said casually enough for her to interpret it casually. Without benefiting from more knowledge, however, her attention manifests as a tilt of the head. Curious, but politely so.

"From when, do you think?"

"I told you I think I was born in 1917. Yeah?" She may or may not remember, it was in the middle of her trying to tell him he shouldn't want to die. Even if she doesn't, he just gave her a brief refresher.

Bringing it up now probably means he thinks he remembers that music from when it was new.

"You did." Remembered well enough, sad as the attached memories are. It clicks.

"Maybe I'll keep my eyes out for older records, when I'm out. I had my priorities before, but there's got to be more like that kicking around someplace."

The thought is... nice. Kind.

And also makes him think: "If I'm going to be here a little while. Maybe I'll come with."

He's got to lay low. This is going to be a more extended visit than last time. Surely he can help scrounge up supplies-- he can climb things she probably can't, bust open locked doors, he doesn't know if her magic is good for hearing things but he's got that, too. It's the least he can do.

No reason to object to that, is there!

"Once you're in better condition, absolutely wouldn't mind the company. Twice the people to carry stuff, it'll be productive too. Yeah, definitely." Absent nodding grows more confident, more final. "We'll give it a week? You ought to be well back to normal."

That's what he'd give himself before another mission under normal circumstances. He wouldn't be fully healed, but he'd be fully combat-ready. With her magic... yeah, that should be plenty of time.

Mostly he's just glad she didn't shoot the idea down immediately. He's been the only one having to live with his decisions for the past year, but having an actual other person accepting their idea as a good one is kind of novel. His choices on missions had always been tactical only: which weapons he wants, where to place the sniper blind, when to fire. Not whether he was going to do things. He'd been all geared up to deal with a challenge, and now she's agreeing.

So he blinks a couple times, then says, "Yeah, I'll be fine. Sooner if you need to."

Attributing it more or less to more straightforward lack of teammates to sign off on much, she doesn't overthink the blinking upon noticing it. But she smiles while taking his bowl.

"Won't need to. I keep ahead enough as-is, in case...well, disasters, you never know. No rushing it, you'll have plenty of time to be comfortable. Rested up, better fed, some more music in you."

It's a nice excuse to spoil him a little, before there's any kind of labor to be done. The guy needs it.

It's going to take some time to get reacquainted with "comfortable", to be honest. The spoiling will be slow and awkward. But probably appreciated, in the end. "Whenever you're ready, then." He pushes his chair back a little. "I think I'm finally. Full? Jesus. Never feel like this, usually."

And it took a sandwich and two bowls of pasta stuff.

"I'm hoping you stay very used to it here, believe me, it's exciting to have someone around to cook for. Motivation for nicer stuff, and you need it." He fills out his frame enough, but with the energy he must expend - well, a few more pounds couldn't possibly hurt.

Into the living room, then. Dog has just about tuckered himself out, occupied with the last fleeting bats before succumbing to a nap.

"Back in here, phone at the ready."

Even if he didn't get to keep them, just listening again is worth moving and getting out his phone. Even sharing the the number, which he lists off for her.

He even handles getting the record set up. He might be just a little eager, in a quiet, weirdly shy way. This might be a weakness, wanting this music, but dammit, he's allowed to have one weakness.

It's a noticed spark of independence, and it's noted with no small amount of excitement. Bodes well for him, quite possibly. Proof he isn't whatever manner of condemned wretch he may think himself to be.

Likely the first call his phone has ever received goes unanswered as planned, and then the voicemail, carefully timed with the beginning of the song. Old timey stuff being shorter than what she's familiar with, it hardly feels like a slog to get through. Nice stuff, in its way, peppy enough to hold attention. Classy.

Her hand is level, careful not to move in any way that might chance the quality of the sound on later listening. And it passes, without incident. She signals a pause, before the next song starts.

"Want to test it? See if we should tweak anything for the rest?" Sitting closer or farther back, double checking the entirety made it through, so on.

Mostly she just wants to see him look happy about it, if possible. Immediate gratification.

Are you serious, of course he's checking it. He's managed not to zone out, even though the music conjures up stronger feelings of color and motion and a light feeling in the chest this time, mostly by stating impatiently at his phone waiting for it to be over so he could check.

So as soon as she speaks, he's hitting the button for voicemail, volume turned way up. There isn't even a message or a password, just the standard "you have reached number", and the default "hit the star", and "you have one new message".

Tuxedo Junction plays out of the phone's tinny little speakers. He grins fiercely down at it. Music, right there, in his hand, whenever he wants it.

It is incredible, seeing that expression on his face. The energy in the movement. Honest excitement, joy, and at something he can keep. It's so...wholesome, she can't even be heartbroken at this low bar.

"Not shabby, huh?"

"It's great." That seems like such faint praise, looking down at the little bar moving across the screen as the song plays, as he listens to it coming from a thing that's his. (He needs a case. A better case. A box to lock the damn thing in where it can't die.)

But he doesn't know better words. He looks up at last, a rare moment of eye contact, and tries: "It's better than great. Thank you."

It's mind boggling to think, somehow, nobody else has adopted him in just from passing. There's warmth to that, there's warmth in him, and to what feeble extent it can it reaches out. It's a shamefully proud feeling for what amounts to so little effort. They'll need to find him a lot of records.

"It's nothing, really, you like it so much you should keep it close. I'd lose it without my music, this is the best thing I could do long-term for you." Or, rather, do that will last after he leaves.

When you actively avoid people, and generally exude an air of violence most of the time, it's hard to get said people to like you. Misty had the luck of managing to get a hold of him when he couldn't just pass her by without interacting. And now he's just given up, and he'll be whatever he'll be. She's already proved she's not going to hurt him, no matter how dangerous she is.

"Can we do the rest?" He has no idea how big the voicemail box is, but it's not like he gets a lot of calls. Literally no one has the number. (Except her, now.) Maybe there will be enough room for all of it.

Maybe he'll have to try and scrounge up a fancier phone so he can save the files, themselves, somehow, if they don't all fit.

"Of course! Definitely! Whole thing or however much it'll let us, this was just making sure it worked right." She laughs, even, so oddly charming is the enthusiasm. "I want to say it should fit the whole thing, unless you've got a lot on it already. Just make sure we stop at the right times, give me a pause to redial without clipping the end off a song."

So help her god, she's willing this to happen smoothly. If anyone needs a small musical library of their own, it seems to be him. They've got the process down, it's on that sad little phone now.

"I've got nothing on it. You're the only person who has the number." There's a lot of pictures in the storage, and the alarms, and some shit written in the simple notes section... but no voicemails at all.

He shifts to sit more comfortably on the floor not far from the record player, rather than standing hovering as he had been, ready to go through the whole damn record. Hope you're ready to listen to the whole album, Misty. He's ready to go.

His specific zeal isn't met in regards to the record, but by god is it noticed. Eager to nurture it, she'll listen to that thing from beginning to end until sunrise. Whatever keeps the spark about him, whatever will make an inevitable parting less an abandonment of resources. Personal ones.

The whole damn record, they go through. Patiently, with pauses to be sure the entirety of each song is captured without overlap or clipping out early. He is never rushed, spurred on, or subject to suggestion or so much as a yawn. It's a very well spent evening, and hopefully they'll find more to tediously preserve for him.

"--Seems to be the end! I'm proud to say you own a record. How's it feel?"

It feels big. It feels like it should be bigger than it is, looking at the phone, one that he can completely cover in his hand if he closes his fingers. It should look different, with this sudden increase in importance, but it doesn't.

"I'm probably going to kill the battery listening to it," is what he winds up saying, sounding a little vague.

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