02-07-2014, 01:35 AM
The renovations were nearly complete, finally, and he felt no shortage of annoyance that they had taken as long as they had. In the empty lot next to his place, in an old busted up refrigerator open to the air, a few locals had gathered to load up on bits of scrap wood, the leftovers from the last bits of major work he had had to do. The scraps would be used by the less fortunate families in the area in their wood stoves to cook food, or in burn barrels to stave off the night air's chill. Either way, it'd be put to better use then if he just tossed it out with the trash.
Strapped to a heavy duty hook in the ceiling and floor was a particularly heavy punching bag, one of the few pieces of 'furniture' to adorn what was probably supposed to serve as the living room in a normal person's home. A single metal table with four uncomfortable looking metal chairs. A weight bench with a stack of weights and bars to put a proper gym to shame. Tension bars, dumbbells, kettlebells, resistance bands. The drywall was up and painted, the insulation and wiring all done. The floor was simple non-porous stone tile, the sort that blood was easily cleaned off of with no residue for forensics to find later. Even the spare bedroom was done; four simple military-surplus cots sat neatly stacked in the corner, sleeping bags tucked into durable storage bins.
In the yard he had erected chin up bars, and the walls of the seacans were neatly painted in a thick, uniform coat of rust-resistant paint. The roof had been improved as well, a shallow peaked frame to prevent rain from pooling on top, and to make for easy snow removal in the winter. It almost looked like a real home from the outside.
His three uninvited guests were curled up under the porch out of the wind, although one was awake at all times, watching the street. They weren't pets, after all, and survival meant being wary.
Sweat dripped from his brow as Hood finally spent some quality time with the weight bench. The bar sported plates totaling to 300lbs, and was raised and lowered in slow, determined movements that were cut short at the one bark that was sounded from under the deck. The dogs had spotted someone. And since it had been just one bark, he could safely assume it was someone they recognized.
He sighed quietly and set the bar back on the rack, then sat up. A bottle of water was plucked from the floor and a long sip was taken. The sound of footsteps on the deck. He frowned at the door, then stood, picking up a sawed off pump shotgun from where it leaned against the wall nearby. A practiced brush of his thumb to make sure the safety was off, and he crossed to the door.
A flatscreen TV mounted to the wall served as a monitor for his security cameras. He didn't have satellite television, or even peasant cable. Just the security cameras. Satisfied with what he saw, he opened the door a moment after the visitors knocked, and tapped the sawed off against his thigh, eyeing Seth and Rune.
He wore a simple grey sleeveless shirt and black cargo pants. He even had boots on; being ready to leave at a moments notice was apparently important to him. He was silent for a long moment, staring at Seth as if sizing the man up, then nodded slightly and stepped back, glancing at the street outside. "Should call ahead next time. Would have picked up some of that hipster shit piss-water you like so much."
"Four cots in the spare room, pick one. Shelf in the fridge is yours. Market back the way you came, nothing open at this hour though. Rules are simple. One. Safe house. I keep it safe. Two. My safe house. I keep it safe. Three. You clean up your mess while living in my house. I clean up my own. Four. Get your own beer. I can make an exception for the night."
More or less the same thing he had told Rune the last time she had visited.
Strapped to a heavy duty hook in the ceiling and floor was a particularly heavy punching bag, one of the few pieces of 'furniture' to adorn what was probably supposed to serve as the living room in a normal person's home. A single metal table with four uncomfortable looking metal chairs. A weight bench with a stack of weights and bars to put a proper gym to shame. Tension bars, dumbbells, kettlebells, resistance bands. The drywall was up and painted, the insulation and wiring all done. The floor was simple non-porous stone tile, the sort that blood was easily cleaned off of with no residue for forensics to find later. Even the spare bedroom was done; four simple military-surplus cots sat neatly stacked in the corner, sleeping bags tucked into durable storage bins.
In the yard he had erected chin up bars, and the walls of the seacans were neatly painted in a thick, uniform coat of rust-resistant paint. The roof had been improved as well, a shallow peaked frame to prevent rain from pooling on top, and to make for easy snow removal in the winter. It almost looked like a real home from the outside.
His three uninvited guests were curled up under the porch out of the wind, although one was awake at all times, watching the street. They weren't pets, after all, and survival meant being wary.
Sweat dripped from his brow as Hood finally spent some quality time with the weight bench. The bar sported plates totaling to 300lbs, and was raised and lowered in slow, determined movements that were cut short at the one bark that was sounded from under the deck. The dogs had spotted someone. And since it had been just one bark, he could safely assume it was someone they recognized.
He sighed quietly and set the bar back on the rack, then sat up. A bottle of water was plucked from the floor and a long sip was taken. The sound of footsteps on the deck. He frowned at the door, then stood, picking up a sawed off pump shotgun from where it leaned against the wall nearby. A practiced brush of his thumb to make sure the safety was off, and he crossed to the door.
A flatscreen TV mounted to the wall served as a monitor for his security cameras. He didn't have satellite television, or even peasant cable. Just the security cameras. Satisfied with what he saw, he opened the door a moment after the visitors knocked, and tapped the sawed off against his thigh, eyeing Seth and Rune.
He wore a simple grey sleeveless shirt and black cargo pants. He even had boots on; being ready to leave at a moments notice was apparently important to him. He was silent for a long moment, staring at Seth as if sizing the man up, then nodded slightly and stepped back, glancing at the street outside. "Should call ahead next time. Would have picked up some of that hipster shit piss-water you like so much."
"Four cots in the spare room, pick one. Shelf in the fridge is yours. Market back the way you came, nothing open at this hour though. Rules are simple. One. Safe house. I keep it safe. Two. My safe house. I keep it safe. Three. You clean up your mess while living in my house. I clean up my own. Four. Get your own beer. I can make an exception for the night."
More or less the same thing he had told Rune the last time she had visited.