Stirring up a little Resistance
Stirring up a little Resistance
Summary: Homer and Anthem discuss some of the potential fundamentals of the survivors future. Later on, they are joined by Daphne, Damon and Salazar.
Date: PHD08
Related Logs: Resistance Planning

Anthem sits on the floor, his usual weapon next to him. He's in the process of going through some of the hunting rifles owned by the lodge - cleaning, oiling, basic maintenance. Various parts of the weapons are arrayed in an orderly fashion in front of him.

Homer enters the lodge, a hunting rifle of his own slung over his shoulder. However, as he nears Anthem, he unslings it and sets it on the floor nearby the man. "Hey Sarge." In one hand, he has a sheet of notebook and a pen. "I had a question. Several, actually. To ask you. Nothing personal or invasive. Just your opinions on a few… let's call them crucial matters. Is now a good time?"

Anthem looks up at Homer a moment, then nods. He seems to be adept enough to be able to do what he's doing while only paying half-attention. "Now's probably as good a time as any, Homer. Go ahead."

"Alright. Let's start with… what do you think, in your opinion, is going on in the world at large. You're a military man. Militarily, what is your mind thinking, based on what you've seen and heard the past week or so?" Homer asks, flipping his notebook open.

"Well. I'm under the assumption that the Cylons were able to nuke most major cities and military installations on the ground. Daphne said that we lost at least five battlestars, and that the situation ain't unique to Scorpia. Most likely, a good portion of the Colonial Fleet is still out there, and still fightin'. Or so we gotta hope," Anthem states. "Militarily, it means we don't got many choices. We hunker down, and wait for the Fleet to find us and free the colonies - or just deal with whatever the Cylons are gonna do and hope we survive. We don't have the weapons or manpower to fight meaningfully, but if they're occupyin' we could play at terrorists and guerillas. Or, we try to contact the fleet, make our way to them. But, it's been a week. Nothin' is set in stone."

"What do you think of our current set up here, long term survival-wise?… Last time I checked, we don't have a perimeter established, we haven't decided yet how the hell we're making our group decisions here and we haven't been out to forage meaningfully for the supplies that we're going to need," Homer puts forth next, writing little notes as he goes while Anthem speaks.

"You hit the salient problems," Anthem replies as he reassembles a rifle. "Perimeter is doable, decisions haven't mattered yet, and we seem to be in a good position to get food if we need it. Monty said the huntin' is good. Assumin' the fallout ain't too bad and the wildlife don't die off in abundance, we should be fine. Biggest problem is if this lodge is obvious or not to outsiders. A bunch of Cylons, hungry refugees, and assholes bent on plunder are the biggest short to medium term threats that I see."

"Last time I checked, no one has taken the time to head back towards the resort and start erasing signs of this places existence, either," the younger man points out, looking up from his notepad to eye Anthem thoughtfully. "How do you feel about a democratic rule in the camp? All voices will be heard on long term decisions. We need a plan for escaping this place if we're found out. A place to fall back to. Or we need to find another place to set up camp and this place will be our fall back location. Either way, we need to hedge our bets. The way I see it, we can't be wishy-washy about this. We have to go all in or not at all."

"There's caves nearby, and we should start settin' up a secondary camp in 'em. Mostly water, but food and the like as well," Anthem says, look back at Homer. "As for leadership, I'm happy takin' order if someone competent steps up to give 'em. But, I think on most issues we can prolly agree on the best course of action. I ain't gonna impose my will on no one." He pauses. "No good reason to do anythin' to the hotel, to be honest. Burnin' it down or blowin' it up might cause unwanted attention, and realistically you wouldn't expect so many of the guests to survive on their own. What difference, realistically, do a dozen people make?"

"More I meant, any signage or maps that might point the way to this place," Homer clarifies, gesturing to the lodge around the two men. He sets his notebook down, the pen on top of it and looks at Anthem. "I know I've been a pain in the ass the past week. I won't say it has to do with the situation. I'm an asshole by nature. But like some of y'all around here, I know how to survive. It's up to us to help those that don't have the knowledge or training to learn it. It's up to us to protect them and to try and preserve as much of our old lives, our freedoms and our way of life as we can. That means not stooping to becoming animals. It means maintaining some semblence of the rule of law, that there's consequences for violating them." He pauses a moment there and rifles in one of his pockets, coming up with a cigarette. "I'm not as optimistic as you. I don't think there's any chance of help coming and the thing I'm most afraid of is not that we'll be completely wiped out. It's that we'll survive as some sort of twisted perversion. We'll give up our liberties completely in the name of survival and forget about our history, man."

Anthem smiles sadly. "There's too many ships in the heavens for them all to be dead," he says with conviction. "So, as far as I'm concerned, the sky will always hold at least a bit of hope." He pauses, setting the weapon he was working on down, then he nods. "But, I agree with what you say, and it's what makes that Achilles character bother me. We need organization, and we need civilization." He chuckles. "I'm a marine, still. That means regimentation, rules. And protecting Colonials. Even assholes like you." The Sergeant pauses, looking away. "But, as for maps, I think this was onna those places that you only knew about if you knew about it. Not gonna be too much in the way of maps. Did you know it existed?"

"My dad taught me to track. I found footprints, first, then a trail that lead up here from the resort." Homer wedges the cigarette behind an ear, rather than in his mouth and toys with a lighter in his hands, not lighting it, but flipping the metal cap open and then shut. "Mind you, if you speak a word of this to the others, I'll deny it and start calling you Surgeon again… but. I'm glad we have a military man here. Hell, I'm even glad for 'Frank.' We need warriors to train warriors and every single one of us, even if we aren't going to engage the Cylons directly, we have to be warriors. We have to be ready to fight. The second we let a coward into our midst, we're well and truly frakked."

"No one seems a coward. A couple too jacked on testerone, sure, but no cowards," Anthem notes, nodding some more. "Even Frank seems to be a decent sort, in his own weird way, but I would never have placed him as a cop." Perhaps he's hinting at something there. "He says he has some history with that woman, and she seems ex-military with a streak of dangerous. So, unless the history is case-work, which I doubt…"

"I'm a gambler by nature. Personally, the secrecy aroma she's been wafting around doesn't sit with me well, but she doesn't strike me as a danger to us." Flipping open his lighter again, Homer says, "I read people fairly well. Let's call it a talent of mine. Helps with the gambling." He pauses, then says, "If I were to call for a meeting to decide these particulars, would you support that?… I'm not asking you to support me any further than just supporting the idea of organizing ourselves."

Anthem grins. "Like I said, I'm a marine. I like rules and structure. So, yeah, I'd support that."

"Okay. Pass the word, then. And I'll post an obnoxious sign reminding folks about it. We'll structure ourselves and we'll start doing something instead of sitting here waiting," Homer says, though his brow furrows at the end of his statement. "I take it you know more than a little about setting up a perimeter and fortifying a position… how about you and I get started on that. It's not something that should wait."

Anthem nods slowly. "It really shouldn't. But, I'd prefer if we didn't make it too obvious. Fighting from a defended position probably isn't gonna be the best tactic, cuz runnin' - as much as I hate to say it - will usually be prudent. But havin' somethin' is better than havin' nothin'."

"Just some cover in the front of the lodge should do. As for the perimeter… The best I've got is setting up all of our used bean cans with wire or string and hide them in the brush. Won't work against someone who knows what they're doing, but if they're just some schmoe stumblin' on us, it'll give us a heads up," Homer says, thinking outloud. "We should have sentries, maybe two at a time. Everybody should have a turn on guard duty while the others sleep, to be fair."

Anthem frowns a moment. "Either you served for a bit, or you watch too much military drama crap."

Homer smirks at that. "The latter. I liked that Band of Sisters thing they did on that all female devotees of Artemis during the Cylon War." He gestures with his hands the outline of an extremely exaggerated female figure. "Riveting, I tells ya."

Anthem grimaces a moment. "It'll be interestin', with the women, once the end of the world and general life as it is hormone kick in," he states. "Prolly be the first major problems we find."

"I don't know about all that. Seems we have a decent mix here. Tattoo chick seems pretty assertive, but we also have that model-wannabe from the resort and that new lady from yesterday… and also the creepy paranoid one that won't let go of Harkin's apron strings for more than a few seconds." Homer rolls his shoulders and looks Anthem in the eyes. "Anyway. What do you think about using the bean cans? Might as well put them to use, right?"

Anthem frowns a moment. "Could work. I'm not sure how loud they are. We might be able to jury-rig something with gunpowder for a bit more boom."

"Good idea. Could always use the cans closer up and set a ring farther out with the gunpowder," Homer fires back, clearly interested in the subject. "Maybe dig some good old fashioned pit traps, too."

Anthem nods slowly. "Pit traps are good. Could even score us some food. Just, you risk attracting attention if something falls in and doesn't die."

"The sentries would have to check the traps during their turns on duty," Homer points out. "Do we have anything more high powered than these hunting rifles?"

Anthem shakes his head. "At least, nothing more high-powered to hand out," he states. "Though, they do have some chance at penetrating Centurion armor. I think." He pauses a moment, then frowns. "Though, we might want to consider making some armor piercing rounds…if we have the supplies."

"Or finding some? Granted, the Cylons, if it's the Cylons, are probably crawling over anything military at this point, we don't have a lot of options if we really want a chance at being able to defend ourselves. Right now we're relying on obscurity to protect us… that's not bet I'm willing to take, long-term." Homer reaches for his rifle and lays it against his shoulder, peering away from Anthem towards the doors to the lodge.

Anthem shakes his head. "It's not a bet anyone ought to take. We could make it a few years, if we're smart, but I'd rather not chance it." He pauses a moment. "Some of our new friends, though, seem to maybe be on the wrong side of the law. I'm willin' to take advantage of that. Weapons a weapon nowadays, even if it were illegal a week ago."

"I agree. Illegal doesn't really have a meaning anymore. The only things we shouldn't tolerate are the unforgivables. Murder. Rape. Theft. You know. The old stand bys," Homer says, bobbing his head in agreement. "I don't think anything is illegal at this point from a weapons standpoint. Whatever will keep us alive, keeps us alive."

"Yup. My thoughts 'zactly," Anthem drawls. "And, Gods damned, I hope no one decides to play stupid. Just cuz I can kill people don't mean I have to like it. But I'll frakkin' do it."

"Just in case you were left to wonder, I'm a fan of corporal punishment for any of those acts. Bullet to the brain, preferably, like a dog. Except for rape. I think the genitals are a more appropriate target. Again, though, the decision would be made democratically, by us. We have to agree that there is a line we will not cross, no matter what. Sure, there's some of us that are boyscouts, but there's some… well, honestly, some people may surprise you," Homer says with a sigh, scratching at the tip of his nose. A little out of left field, he says, "We're all responsible for the Cylons, no matter where people want to lay the blame, you know."

"Wouldn't suggest otherwise. Best to just say circumstances made us all equals," Anthem replies.

"That's a funny notion. The Cylons as the great equalizer. You'd have thought it'd be something more poetic like death or something. Instead it's the more advanced cousin of the toaster oven. Frak us. Up the butt, even." A smirk breaks out across the youth's face and he finally tugs out that cigarette, lighting it up and wedging it in a corner of his mouth. Homer stands slowly, rifle held steady over his left shoulder.

Anthem frowns a moment. "All you young types smoke too much. Fraks up the lung, y'know."
"Well, I'd toke up some of my chamalla, but I'm trying to ration it until I can get a patch growing somewhere in the forest for a private stash." Homer winks at Anthem, trying on one of his shit-eating grins.

Anthem grunts. "That shit'll make you see things, which ain't a good thing." His tone is deadpan, indicating that he doesn't believe Homer, but wants to cover all the bases - just in case. "Although, you didn't strike me as a Geminese whackjob."

"I'm not overly religious if that's what you mean, man," Homer reassures Anthem. "I'm gonna go out and scout out some good locations for setting up the perimeter."

Anthem nods sharply. "I think I heard rumor of some crazy cult out here, or somethin'. Lady with blood in her hair, or whatnot." He grins slightly. "If I hear you shootin', give me five minutes to get there."

Homer is standing in the lodge main room not too far from Anthem, a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. He's got a cigarette drooping from his lips and a grin, which he's currently sharing with the older man. "Some of 'Frank's paranoia must be rubbing off on us, I swear."

Anthem is on the floor, reassembling some of the lodge's rifles that he was doing maintenance on. "Paranoia ain't a bad thing, as long as it keeps you sharp and not jumpin' at shadows."

Daphne has been sleeping most of the time since she was helped into the lodge two nights ago. A mild fever bespeaks of some minor infection, but hopefully her body is doing well to fight it off on it's own, assisted by the sleep and the few around who have been caring for her bandages. Now, she stirs drowsily onto her side, or tries to do so until she hits her spilted arm. That's one way to wake up. She curses rather noticably with a hiss, her proper Caprica dialect missing for a few heartbeats in the sudden jerk into consciousness.

"Granted." Homer takes a draw from his cigarette and blows the smoke away from Anthem. Hearing the stirrings of Daphne, he casts a glance over and perks an eyebrow, "The sleeping beauty awakes."

Anthem's hand darts towards his rifle for a moment at the sudden movement by Daphne. After a calming, deep breath, he grins. "Ain't no way for a proper lady to be speakin', now is it?" he drawls at her.

Daphne returns to laying upon her back, making a scarred sort of mental note not to roll in that direction again. She coughs out a breathless sort of laugh, letting the room straighten once more as she admits…"Not sleeping beauty, but thank you. And no… certainly not proper either, but with good reason. That bloody well hurt." She murmurs softly, shifting her good arm behind her so she can get into the proper position to sit up. "What time is it?"

"Ahm… day… time?" Homer offers after looking at his non-existent watch and around the room for some sort of time piece. "You hungry, thirsty?"

Anthem shrugs, not clarifying Homer's rather imprecise measurement of time. "You've been sleeping a good long while. But that's for the best. I'd ask if you're feelin' better, but it's too soon." He pauses a moment. "If you're up to it, I got a couple of questions I've been meanin' to ask."

Daphne nods slightly, feeling steadier enough that she doesn't half black out just in sitting up. She finishes sitting the rest of the way and then allows her legs to drape down, not standing yet, but at least looking like she's half ready to rejoin the society of the conscious. She looks down a moment, studying her hands, carefully picking free any little touch of lint from the blanket she was sitting in…"Day time words, Mister…?" She offers politely to Homer, "And water… I don't suppose we have soap? Sanitizer?" She inquires softly before looking to Anthem, "Of course, Mr. Hollas… any questions, just ask."

The door to the house opens and in walks Damon. Having spent the night outside, or at least hiding, he comes in freshly washed and wearing the same filthy uniform. Lacking a rifle, he's got his pistol in his holster again, and he's smoking one of his last cigarettes as he enters. Heading for the food, he glances towards the conversation as he goes.

"Some people call me Sugarbritches… but, you can call me Homer," the young man says, adjusting the hunting rifle he's toting to his other shoulder. "Dwindling supplies of soap, I'd imagine. But I can get you some bottled water. Be right back." Homer puffs on his cigarette as he walks towards the kitchen.

Anthem snorts. "Sugarbritches. I like that. Cute." Stretching slightly, he stands and moves towards Daphne at a lazy pace. "Anyway. Your shuttle that crashed. Likely to be anyone else that made it? And, think there'll be anything worth salvaging from the wreckage?"

Daphne smirks over to Homer, looking a hint skeptical about the name. "Homer… will do nicely. You can call me Daphne." She returns, her voice gentle and cultured as ever, the proper Caprica accent heavy in her tones. She then looks back towards Anthem and frowns, shaking her head slowly. "I…I don't think so… Everything looked very… Burnt. I was thrown. I don't even know how -I- got out… I… don't remember much, really. Just… walking. Limping… finding Mr. Harkins…"

Nodding to Homer, Damon leans against the counter and opens a can. This time he's eating a can of beans…again. Just what the soul needs. Quietly, he looks up to watch the conversation as it passes, the sound of a spoon lightly scraping against the inside of a can from his position in the kitchen.

The sound of a cabinet opening is heard from the kitchen, followed quickly by footsteps and Homer reappearing with a bottle of water in his hands. He nods back to Damon and using his awesome body language, indicates Daphne with a jerk of his head and then raises his eyebrows, before heading on over to the woman in question and holding out the water bottle. "Sounds like you're very lucky."

Anthem grunts. "Lucky indeed," he agrees before rubbing his chin. "Thing is, in the scheme of things, humans aren't terribly durable. I mean… well, not an important distinction. But barring divine intervention from the Gods, if a person can survive, then hopefully there will be something left. Even if its a burned half a medkit."

Daphne nods slightly. "We… we could try going back. I don't even know if I could find it again. Deep in the woods. But… I could try." Daphne admits, considering. She looks up to Homer and nods a quiet thank you, accepting the bottle of water. She cracks it open, carefully trickling just a bit on her hands, scrubbing them as best possible before she takes a few gulps of the stuff, mentally acknowledging it's far more important to drink, it seems. Her gray eyes then flicker towards the others who have joined them in the room, giving a slow nod in greeting.

"How big of a crash was it and how far away?" Damon asks all of the sudden, wearing the 'Officer Frank' outfit. Talking between bites while he eats, he looks up to them. "Any chance it'll draw some attention in this direction? Is it close enough to see from a high hill here?"

Homer quiets for now, as others are asking pertinent questions, and settles into a chair across from Daphne, rifle held against his shoulder, non-threateningly.

"With all due respect, Miz Graystone, you ain't tryin' a frakkin' thing," Anthem says brightly. There's a thoughtful pause and frown as he looks at Damon. "If we ain't heard nothin' about a search yet, there's not likely to be one. It's been a few days. 'Course, they could be moving out into a wider search pattern. We can take a peak for patrols, but we're prolly out of the dangerzone on this one."

Daphne looks back to Damon, considering with a slight furrow of her ashen pale brow. "Miles, at least. I… don't know how far I walked. Gods, I was delerious. I don't know how I made it, really. Mr. Harkins would know better about where he found me, and then maybe we could trace from there…" She then looks back to Anthem and nods, taking another sip of water before she offers the bottle to any of the others, not wishing to steal it all for herself. "Whatever people wish to do, I am happy to help. I served the people before… Nothing's changed by the setting now." Ever a politician.

Homer lifts his head, cigarette taken out of his mouth as he notes, "I was just talking to Sarge here about holding another meeting to organize ourselves and deciding on the fundamentals of how this all should work. It's not like Colonial law really has any meaning anymore. The basics, do, obviously, or we hope they do, but we have to decide for ourselves how we're going to make decisions, make sure all voices are heard, and survive without becoming wild animals."

Anthem nods as Homer speaks. "Seems prudent, I think. Make sure we're all on the same page."

Daphne nods in affirmation, "A wise idea. But no…government is… made for vast numbers of people. All we are now is a family. Talking things out, considering the best for everyone, and then setting policy from that for our family is probably the best idea." Daphne admits, rather quiet there, giving up what little position and power she had, which she worked so hard to get… but it's necessary. She releases a slow breath and begins to pushes herself up into standing, mostly on her left leg, the right ankle still swollen but not too badly.

"If everything turns around next week, we can all happily go back to Colonial government, but for now, a direct democracy seems like the most fair course," Homer says with a nod, taking a final puff of his cigarette before holding it away from him in his hand and letting it burn out. "We also need to start worrying about seriously protecting this place and ourselves."

"And what exactly are you doing Miz Graystone?" Anthem says sternly. "Or, should I say sister. Cuz. Aunt. Mom?"

Daphne nods to Homer, "Sounds about right to me. As for protecting this place…I…" She looks down at herself, still in the tatters of her once pure white suit, and the various bits of bandaging (at least she's not bleeding through them any longer). "I… am not certain how much use I would be on that front, even if I was fully well." There is a slight cross of worry to her pale face, it slowly sinking in that she truly is more of a burden than an inspiration to the people right now. She then looks to Anthem. "I am making certain I don't get too stiff to move so, hopefully, I can be useful down the line." She states flatly, beginning a slow walk towards the kitchen, just waking up her limbs again.

Still against the counter in the kitchen, Damon finishes his can of food and sets it down on the counter to be saved for later. Sipping some water, he's maintained a silence through the conversation that he decides to break. "I see alot of need for the military to run this thing." Damon says, watching Daphne. "…but I see alot of reason for you to help keeping us mentally in the right place. Sooner or later we're gonna get hungry." He drags off of his cigarette.

It must be coffee hour on Salazar time. The door opens, she walks in, unarmed, and heads for the kitchen. It would be clockwork, except she shows up at slightly staggered times every day. "There's always ballast or meat shield." She's cranky when she's decaffeinated.

Anthem moves to follow Daphne, making sure she doesn't collapse. He looks towards Damon. "Harkins says the hunting is good in these parts."

"I agree with Frank, there. We'll need the heavy guns working together if we're gonna survive here," Homer points out, canting his head Anthem's way to add, "Which is good for meat, but what about other supplies. Bullets, for instance." He watches Daphne, but doesn't comment.

Daphne makes it to the counter, leaning there for a few moments and reaching one hand down to carefully smooth straight her skirt, then up to her hair, her left hand doing most of the work with her right arm still in that long splint. Once she's as put together as she can be, she looks back up to the room. "Just because guns will protect us doesn't mean this should be martial law. And if it is, well… Sergeant Hollas here seems in charge because I certainly do not think any of the rest of you are colonial military. I think Homer here is right. Democracy. It'll help promote us all getting along also… As for supplies… well… Does anyone know anything much about radiation? How long will it be unsafe to go down towards sea level?"

"I got a meat shield in mind." Damon replies to Salazar, looking to her for a moment to watch her with a cold pair of green eyes. It's an expressionless look. His vision turns to Daphne. "…democracy will keep people together, lady, but it's not gonna keep these people fed. Lack of food, I guarantee you we're gonna start fighting, and when that happens people are gonna start dying. We don't know eachother here, that trust simply doesn't exist." He says, dragging off of his cigarettes. "Need is what we have, and what we need is people to lead with what they got. Scouting. Food. Safety. Your mind an all that? It'll do wonders for keepin our heads straight, but it ain't gonna keep us safe any other way."

Salazar remains quiet for a while, going about the business of pouring a cuppa in the kitchen. She doesn't really seem to talk all that much, which could arguably be a good thing. The cool, blank sort of look from Damon doesn't phase her. "… Nothing shores up the bullshit like a good old fashioned hail of full auto fire."

"Gunnery Sergeant," Hollas corrects gruffly. "And I ain't dumb enough to declare martial law. It would just get me shot." He smiles lopsidedly, then looks at Salazar. "If you could find us some fully auto weapons, and a stockpile of ammunition to go with it, I'd be much obliged."

"There may not be trust yet, but we have nothing but time on our hands. Last time I checked, we don't exactly have anywhere to else to go. We're stuck here together," Homer says, mostly while looking at Damon. "Need is definitely important. But can you agree we won't be able to address those needs until we're all on the same page as to how to go about it? We have to work together, even if we don't trust each other yet."

Daphne considers this a few moments, "I suppose we'll all have to talk it out at the meeting. And no… I don't have much in the way of martial prowess to offer. But I, and the lady there… and the young woman named Angel have something to offer no one else does, and that's children. Once we're all stable, if we plan to help the human race at all… well, that's the next step. Depends if we're worried about -our- survival, or humanity's." Daphne admits flatly, leaning against the edge of the stool near the kitchen counter, her expression dead serious and practical about the matter.

"I meant at us, Gunny. Full auto fire puts things into perspective." Salazar says that like she's had experience, but that would just be weird, right? Maybe she's friends with terrorists. Or militant beauty queens. "Wouldn't put anything bigger than a pea shooter in most hands around here until we've had a full assessment of skill level and safety rating." She scowls, and looks toward Daphne. "What did you just say?"

"Well played." Damon says with an inward chuckle, dragging off of his cigarette. While it's a valid card to play, it's an interesting one. He ashes his cigarette and scans his eyes across the group. "…which I'll say this openly right now. None of you want me catching you being anything less than gentlemen." He says simply, getting that out there. "…I'm sure I'm not the only one that'd have the same response."

Anthem begins chuckling at Daphne's comment, shaking his head. "Let's hope that people don't have libido problems," he grunts. "Gods above, say somethin' like that in front of a squad of marines, and you'd have at least three marriage proposals."

"I think she just said that your uterus may spawn a whole new nation, sugarpuss," Homer quips, putting up his hands pre-emptively to prevent being stabbed, shot or otherwise injured by the scary tattoed lady. "Seriously though, we can talk about it at the meeting. And all voices should be heard." He nods Damon's way, "Sarge and I are on the same page, Frank. Murder, bullet to the brain. Rape, bullet to the genitals. Only way to be sure it don't happen again."

Daphne calmly looks in the other woman's direction. "I said that you, I, and Angel are some of the most valuable resources left to this colony of survivalists because we are capable of carrying… yes…" She nods towards Homer…"A whole new nation, as he said. Or the start of it." Her eyes then flicker back to all the others, carefully hiding any pain or weakness she might feel behind those prim, cultured words. "I am certainly not saying we should focus on this now, and yes…if someone else takes it in their heads this is a priority before things are agreed upon, well, castration will be too kind. To do something like this it will be a long term project that needs lots of planning and we have to be certain -everyone- is capable of surviving. But… it is a good goal for the future. Something to keep on the back burner as we're setting up for our own personal survival. What will it matter for us to survive if the human race dies out because of our old age?"

Salazar's eyes remain on Daphne for a moment, "You talk about my body again, I will have to hurt you. You may be a window dressing with no discernable life skills, but although my tits and ass are very fine, I will not be using them for that." And then she looks to Homer. "Call me sugarpuss again." For the love of the gods, someone give her the coffee.

"Shame the lot of you are ugly." Damon nods in Homer and Anthem's direction, giving them a little bit of shit as he drags off of his cigarette. He shrugs. "Looks like Achilles is shit out of luck for that matter." He side comments, taking a moment to run a hand through his dreadlocks. "…allright so we doin this or what? Recon? Supplies?"

Anthem frowns at Salazar. "Missy, what you do with yours is your business, but let's keep the threats to a minimum." He pauses. "And we don't need to be talkin' like we're the last dozen people alive. It's a safe bet there's plenty more out there. No need to start volunteerin' as a brood mare, 'specially when you can't hardly walk." He clears his throat before adding, "An' don't mention that type of stuff in front of Angel. Best to keep it unicorns and rainbows around her, I think." He nods to Damon. "Yup. And, y'know, thinkin' on it, ain't never seen a cop with hair like that, Frank. Most of 'em keep it cropped." Just a passing observation.

"Military man would know the nearest military base, right? … Might be crawling with the enemy, but might also be full of gear we could put to good use. Even soap. Marines bathe, right?" Homer asks, glancing between Damon and Anthem. He doesn't comment on the ugly comment, grin firmly in place.

Daphne considers Salazar's words, but she finally just nods, not pushing the issue yet. She looks back to the men, frowning a hint, "A military base would be good, but the radation levels closer to sea level are probably still lethal. I've no clue how long it might take to clear away, or if we could go in now, but yes, we'd need a bloody good plan if we're going to slip their notice." She admits with a worried frown, finally shifting her body just enough to actually sit on the stool there instead of lean, taking the weight off of her feet and ankles.

The tattooed woman's eyes go to Anthem. "Salazar. Salazar Nikos." She does have a name! "Hospitals or military bases would be stocked with anti-rad meds, though the bases would more likely be tactical targets. When you're ready to get deadly, page me." She takes her mug of coffee, and crosses through the main room again. "Until then, rest up. You need to know how to handle a weapon, come find me after I've finished my coffee." It's a bit of a gruff invitation, but it's one nonetheless. She pulls open the door.

Anthem grunts. "Good news and bad news. There's a huge base about two hard days travel on foot from here. But, it got nuked a week ago. We'll need some sort of counter to make sure that it's not glowin' still, but it's likely that we're not goin' to be able to go there soon. I'm tryin' to get Angel to mark out anything that could be useful - food, department stores, hospitals - nearby." He then smirks at Salazar. "I'm always ready to get deadly, marine." A guess, but one he's comfortable with.

There's a mutter of something that sounds suspiciously like "Oorah," from the dark haired Salazar as the door falls closed behind her.

"So we need anti-rads before we go on potential supply runs to that base," Homer says simply, crushing out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. "When Angel gets back with the nearest hospital, we should make that our priority. Can't eat if we're dead from radiation. Priorities are a bitch."

Daphne looks over to Salazar again, nodding slowly, her eyes narrowing a touch at the surname. "Nikos… my father… knew a lot of Nikos'. I'm Daphne. Daphne Graystone." The ex-quorum member gives her name still with pride, political and familial military history something she loves, even if it's now entirely in the past. She rests one hand against the side of her ribs, as if to keep them together despite the soreness there, and she nods slowly, "And I will take you up on that weapon offer. I would like to learn. To be useful in…Other ways."

Anthem nods. "That we should," Anthem states. "And rads might make the food situation a little unstable for the time bein'. Contaminants and all. We should also see if we have some iodine, add it to our diet." He frowns. "We might be able to cobble together a radcounter, but I don't know how." Daphne gets a grin. "You'll need two arms, two shoulders, and a set of ribs before you start learnin'. And we'll have to take stock of the ammunition, first."

"Old Man Harkin said he had a good sized stockpile here, far as weapons are concerned." Homer pushes up from his seat at the couch and adjusts the rifle against his shoulder, glancing towards Anthem. "He seemed pretty happy to share, long as we don't use them on each other." He adds, "If you see Angel, Sarge, let her know I don't bite. Even if my sarcasm can sometimes be a little thick."

"What we need is some good solid semi-automatic or automatic weaponry. This bolt action stuff is gonna drive me crazy." Damon says, wrist resting on the butt of the pistol in his holster as he gets some coffee to himself. "Not a bad idea, lady…get used to shooting, never know when you're gonna have to use it." Damon says quietly, his voice dark and overly calm despite the situation.

"I'm gonna go take a walk, see if we can find a natural perimeter to start guarding," Homer says, not to anyone in particular and heads for the doors, pushing out into the (for now) clean air.

"Keep your charm to yourself, Homer, and mebbe she won't bite," Anthem drawls at the man. "But, I don't think she's particularly comfortable with me, either. Kind of in a stage of reluctant acceptance." He pats his own rifle. "We make due with what we have for now, and hope we find somethin' better. But, y'know, if there's a police armory around here, or some black market thing, I'm all ears if you can find some real firepower. And I ain't gonna judge, or tell a soul."

Daphne is quiet now, just listening to the group, content in her little perch, relaxing but awake… not wanting to move for a while again lest her strength prove false. But she does have more colour today than yesterday, which is a good sign. She leans just a bit to the side, letting the counter top take some of her upper body weight as she studies the room and the occupants left inside.

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