Three Squares A Day


daphne_icon.gif monica_icon.gif

Scene Title Three Squares A Day
Synopsis Monica is shown to her new home and meets the neighbor.
Date 10/01/2011

Eltingville Blocks

All that Monica Dawson can really see through the bulletproof glass between herself and the front of the van she's in are the two heads of the drivers bringing her to her new home.

After a week in a jail cell, there was no court date, no facing a judge, no sentence, no jury. She was simply given an ugly red jumpsuit and a pair of white sneakers, put in chains and placed none-too-gently in the back of the van. But now, she knows the city well enough to know where she is, despite not being able to see more than a sliver of the windshield. The rumble of the bridge is familiar to her, the smell of the water. The sound of a ferry boat out on the water. She's heading to Staten, so the biggest question in her mind is answered:

She's not going to prison. She's going to Eltingville.

For some, there's little difference.

The van stops at a checkpoint and there's a long delay. She can hear the window roll down and can see the driver talking to someone she can't see. It's all very military in feel. Acronyms are tossed about and eventually there's a "yes, sir" and the van begins to move again. It's not too long before it stops again, and the guards get out, slamming the doors and moving toward the back of the van. Monica can see through more now, the long view of a residential street in front of her.

The van's back door opens. One of the two men holds a taser gun, ready to move if she does, while the other reaches to help her out. "Out you go," he says, not totally unpleasantly.

When she puts it together, where she's going, Monica isn't all that relieved. The difference is a matter of space; a bigger cage is not always a better one. She's quiet during the drive, mostly to focus on where they're taking her, but also because there's a general melancholy around her today. All week.

When the doors open, she takes a moment to look over the men, the taser, the street, running odds in her head and ultimately deciding it would be fun, but foolhardy to make a break for it just now. So she slides to the doors and climbs down, adjusting her jumpsuit as her feet hit the floor. A hoodie-less existance is no way to live.

"I don't bite, you know," she says in a lazy drawl as she glances to the man with the taser.

"Protocol, ma'am," says the man with the taser. At least he's polite.

The first deftly unlocks the chains on her hands and feet, then glances at the other, some silent communication there. He then kneels down in front of Monica, glancing up at her. "I'm putting an ankle monitor on you. You're restricted status, so you can't leave the block. Or we'll know," he says, pulling the device from his pocket and tugging up her pant leg so he can put it around her ankle. Once the two sides click together, it beeps once and a little green LED light flashes to indicate it's working. "There." He stands again and nods to the house in front of them, a shabby little brick townhouse. "11 Scarsdale is you." He reaches into the van to pick up a puffy manila envelope and hands it to her. "Keys, ID, and meal card. Three squares a day. There's a community center where you can probably find some clothes and stuff in the donation bins. Some people can come and go so if you make friends, you can get things that way. Nothing illegal of course. Don't try to get drugs or guns or any other contrabrand or you'll bring more trouble on yourself. Questions?"

"Well, I guess I won't feel insulted, then," Monica says. She understands, of course, that he's just doing his job. And at least he's polite. She watches as they unchain her, fingers rubbing at her freed wrist, nodding her understanding as the man explains her situation. There's a sigh when the little green light flicks on, but she reaches out to take the envelope without a fuss. "Lord knows I don't want any trouble," she says, a little dryly, when he warns about contraband. His last question gets a sideways look. "I think I got it."

"Smart girl," the driver says. "Good luck." He nods to the house to indicate which one is hers, not that she can't read the numbers. The two move back to the van, closing the back, then getting in their respective seats, each door slamming a split second apart. A second later it starts again and pulls away, and she's on her own. Not like they were much for conversation, anyway.

Or so it seems. The door to the house next to Monica's opens, and a familiar face appears in its doorway. The two aren't well known to each other, but the blond speedster isn't a total stranger. "Shit, not you too," Daphne says wryly.

Monica watches them pack up, slam doors and drive off, holding the envelope listlessly as she finds herself standing alone on a strange street. She looks down at her new anklet, then up the street, and just when she's on the verge of really feeling bad for herself, she hears Daphne's voice. She looks over there and gets a crooked smile at the sight of her new neighbor. "Me too," she says, echoing Daphne's tone. "How'd they catch you?"

She steps off the road, coming over to the houses to look hers over before she turns back to Daphne. "Looks like we're neighbors."

Daphne comes down the couple of steps to meet Monica on the sidewalk. Her pace is much slower than it was the last time Monica saw her. "Can't outrun their robots. Or their bullets." The words are grim. There's no sense of the pixyish rooftop thief in this iteration of the speedster. Her dark eyes drop down to Monica's anklet, then back up to study her face.

"The anklets have negation needles in them. Triggered if you get too far away, I think. And there's robots guarding the perimeter. In case you're wondering why I'm still caught," she says. "Welcome to the neighborhood. I'd bring you a pie but I don't think my stove works. What'd they get you for?"

"I hate those robots," Monica comments, but she watches Daphne move with a grimace. She listens to the intel with a tilt of her head, taking it in with a small nod. "I did wonder. I suppose things could be worse," although, by her tone that's not actually a comfort. Maybe she'll give it another try later. "It's the thought that counts, right?" she says, regarding the lack of pie. She runs a hand through her hair at the question, though, like she might be a little embarrassed of the answer. "Evolved Fight Club. Got raided."

"It could be. It is, for others," Daphne says, pushing a hand through her hair. The dreadlocks are almost grown out now, but for a couple of their ends. "Did you win, at least?" she asks with her crooked smirk. Quid pro quo, she adds, "I was scouting out the government in Alaska. Spent a few weeks there recuperating as their little guinea pig, so it definitely could be worse. I guess I should be thankful to be alive." It doesn't sound like she's very grateful, though.

She nods to the house behind her. "You wanna come in? I have a bunch of girly shower gels courtesy of my roommate, if you want a shower. Your place may not even have a bar of soap if it's anything like mine was when I got here. Clean towels and stuff too."

"We didn't get to finish. But I was definitely winning." Monica straightens up a little there, because she's pretty sure how that fight was gonna shake out, in the end. "That sucks," she says, to Daphne's story, because it does, "You still healing up?" As far as thankfulness goes, Monica looks down the street, then up it, and seems to come to a similar conclusion. That it might be hard to feel that way just now.

But the invitation brings her attention around and even brightens her up some. "That would be amazing. Can't remember the last time I had a proper shower." What with jail and safehouses and rooftops. "They said I might be able to get some stuff from a community center. How awful is it?"

"Of course," Daphne says with a brighter smile for Monica's would-be victory. She lifts a shoulder to the question about healing. "Got good medical care in Alaska, at least, so I'm probably 80 percent. That was in February." She turns to head to the house, opening the door and letting Monica go through. "Sorry for the smell." It definitely has a certain skunky quality to it that comes from being roommates with Amadeus Deckard.

"The bathroom's on the left," Daphne says, nodding to the tiny hall where it'd be impossible to not find the bathroom in a matter of seconds. "You can borrow something of mine. But I'll get you hooked up. Skip the donation pile, trust me, unless you want to wear forensics samples as a fashion statement."

"I'm sure you'll be back to top form any time," Monica says, before she turns to follow Daphne inside. She notices the smell, certainly, but is just too polite to comment. "No worries. I was just in a cell for a week. This is an improvement." Which might not be too far off the truth. She glances to the bathroom, then back over to Daphne. "That's what I was afraid of. At least I have this kickin' jumpsuit, right?" It's a statement of its own. "Hey. Thanks. I really appreciate all this." And after proving that there's at least some actual reason to feel grateful, Monica slips into the bathroom, hopes high for a hot shower.

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