futurespacemom: (Default)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
There wasn't a lot going on today, so Hera was going back to that pile of unknown metals she'd been through with Cassie and trying to identify some of them. Chopper was happy, because that meant getting him to burn and shock them to test melting point, malleability, and conductivity.

It was a hobby.

The junkyard was open, but mind your step!

[No OCD!]
futurespacemom: (Default)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
Hera didn't usually open the place herself on Sunday, but Eliot's guest had been interested in finding metal, and she seemed like a nice person, so here Hera was.

Trying to convince Chopper that nothing strange was going on.

"No sharks, no gourds, no anything weird, Chop, I promise. Unless one of the strangers stops by, it's just the same as always."

Syndulla Scrap was open, and the droid was suspicious.

Not that that was new.

[Open post! No OCD.]
futurespacemom: (devious)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
The gourds had been cleaned up, the place didn't smell of shark anymore, no-one had dropped off more than the usual amount of scrap, and Chopper was actually in a good mood.

Somehow, Hera didn't trust it.

She was just going to spend some time giving the Ghost a thorough cleaning and tune-up.

[Junkyard is open!]
futurespacemom: (devious)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
The junkyard was full of gourds today.

Whether some of the junk had become gourds, or the gourds had been added to the junk...Hera was still trying to figure out. Also, the entire place smelled of spice. Which, granted, wasn't as bad as the fish smell that had taken over until a week or so ago, but still - Hera rather liked the smell of ship oil and metal.

"Stop poking them, Chopper. It'll just make a bigger mess."

Chopper made a rude noise.

The junkyard was open!
futurespacemom: (determined)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
The junkyard was hazardous today.

Not that the usual junk was any more precariously balanced or dangerous, but there were boxes scattered around it.

The first one Hera tried to relocate scattered feathers all over her. She was still finding them stuck to her clothes when the second one exploded with confetti.

Okay, fine. The island was being strange. Strange but benign.

When the third one exploded salt all over Chopper, it was less fun.

Now she was spending most of her day cleaning salt out of a grumpy droid. Island, you were On Her List for today.

[Open post!]
futurespacemom: (Default)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
Well, things were sorted again - or at least as sorted as they'd been before the storm - and the fish smell was slight enough to ignore.

Also, Hera had some of that delicious peppery sauce that Kanan had brought back from Luke's, and plenty of bread to put it on.

Today was a good day.

"No, Chopper, you can't just shoot the squirrels!"

Mostly a good day.

[Open post!]
futurespacemom: (Default)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
The junkyard was, to put it bluntly, a mess.

Apart from just being a junkyard in general.

She and Kanan had managed to get all the larger things tied down and tarps over the rest before the storm hit, but one of the tarps had been torn up, and its contents scattered across the yard. Most, luckily, seemed to have missed the ships, but Hera was wondering whether she ought to ask about getting a wall put up between the junk and the hangars.

Today she was splitting her time between cleaning up scattered parts, and cleaning frozen fish remnants out of her cargo holds (and dealing with the smell).

She'd had worse days, but few smellier.

[OOC: The junkyard is open!]
futurespacemom: (maaaaaybe not)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
Most of last week's unexpected delivery had been taken care of, and now Hera was back to sorting through the rest of it.

Which at this point mostly involved trying to figure out how to google "large metal object" specifically enough to figure out what things were.

It was going a bit slowly.

[Open post! No OCD.]
futurespacemom: (Default)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
Hera had, at this point, mostly organized the junk yard. As much as one could organize massive piles of scrap. Now she was mostly just trying to see if she could sort the "obviously Earth stuff" by function.

And then some guy dropped by and dropped an entire hoverbus worth of scrap metal and circuitry in the middle of it.

When she was done telling him off (mostly politely), she sighed. "Come on, Chopper. Looks like we've got our work cut out for us."

[OOC: Open post!]
firstofitskind: (shuttle)
[personal profile] firstofitskind
Shortly after he'd been escorted to the Sheriff's office last week, a Trooper had informed Liam of where there was available space for his shuttle to park that wasn't the middle of the... park.

Since then, he'd made it a part of his daily routine to stop in and check on the shuttle. Not that Liam particularly expected any tampering, since it seemed no one here was familiar enough with Taelon technology to do so, but get sent to an alternate universe due to engine sabotage once and it tended to make you a little wary.

So here he was, sitting in the pilot's chair and running through a standard set of pre-flight checks before moving on to ID core analysis.

[ooc: open post is open!]
futurespacemom: (pissed off)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
For once, the cursing coming from the Ghost wasn't in binary; that would be because Hera was painted in various shades of purple, red, and blue. And was busy setting up shields to hopefully keep the worst of it off the Ghost.

"This had better not be permanent!" she yelled at the island in general.

The junkyard was open, but Hera wasn't coming out unless you had an umbrella.
futurespacemom: (Default)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
The junkyard didn't need a whole lot of looking after, but Hera was still trying to organize it a bit, and still finding...things...she couldn't quite figure out.

"Chop, have you been welding again?"

[Open post! No OCD.]

Syndulla Scrap, Thursday

Thursday, May 4th, 2017 12:36 pm
futurespacemom: (Default)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
Chopper had been feeling neglected lately.

Hera could tell, because there were an inordinate number of objects welded together at random today.

Or maybe he'd just unearthed some of the previous occupant's things again. It was hard to say.

But the junkyard was open!

[Open post! No OCD.]
futurespacemom: (Default)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
Hera headed out early, stopped for coffee at the shop, ended up getting something they called "matcha" because they said it was all they had today, and then spent the morning giving Chopper a tune-up.

After lunch, she mostly set about cataloging and inventorying what there was. It was an ongoing project.

[Open post! No OCD.]
futurespacemom: (Default)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
So Hera was managing a junkyard now. Which basically meant she was making money to berth her ship and had the run of whatever this place considered junk.

Some of which was just scrap metal, sure, but some of which was...decidedly odd.

Like a piece that looked like half a kloo horn welded to an arc emitter sitting on a null-grav trampoline.

...maybe she shouldn't ask.

[Open post!]
futurespacemom: (Default)
[personal profile] futurespacemom
After debating back and forth, and a lot of input from Chopper (honestly, some of his ideas...), Hera had finally, reluctantly, settled on a name for her new business.

If nothing else, it'd serve as a sort of early warning system; if anyone complained about it, she'd know who to avoid. Which was also partially why there was a security system going in around the gate.

Also, her father would probably hate it.

In durasteel green and orange, the new sign proclaimed: Syndulla Scrap.

And Hera was going back to straightening up the piles of terrible paperwork. Maybe the old guy hadn't wanted anyone too bony because they couldn't lift all the stuff. Ugh.

[Open post!]
intotheout: (Default)
[personal profile] intotheout
Tip had been going out for donuts, but then she ran into the Chief on the way, and after a little bit of her denying that he was anything more than a particularly vivid figment of her imagination, the donut run had turned into a "show the Chief everything about Fandom" run.

Which, since he'd been the junkman in Roswell hiding an actual junked spaceship, started with a trip to Fandom's junkyard full of bits of spaceships.

"I know," Tip said, grinning from ear to ear. "It needs more tin foil, right?"

[ooc: mostly for the guest, but also open for anyone else who might have a reason to hang out in the junkyard!]
thatwaslucky: (Default)
[personal profile] thatwaslucky
With the end of the semester looming, Rey was trying very hard not to focus on how long she's been here. The tally marks on her wall were getting depressing, and she wanted to get out a bit. Return to something familiar.

Scavenging here wasn't the same as it was on Jakku, but that was okay. Rey was okay with piecing through everything, seeing if there was anything interesting. Maybe she'd even find things to sell there when she was able to go back.

Someone was a persistent optimist.

boneyard_girl: (Default)
[personal profile] boneyard_girl
It was warm-ish out, or warm-er, and Ada had the itch under her skin to get outside and away from the walls that closed everything in, and, to be honest, she'd been jumpy ever since she'd heard about that girl getting snatched right off the island from the radio.

It tore at scabs too new, too uncomfortable, and those were dark currents in her mind that Ada didn't want to drown in.

But Tali had mentioned a scrap yard ages ago, and so here Ada was, climbing around on things with a tote-bag filled with tools over her shoulder and looking for anything interesting. Because, well, carnie. And she'd probably feel better once she had some grease under her nails.

[OOC: Open! Come play with the scavenger!]
suitably_heroic: (Default)
[personal profile] suitably_heroic
Atton set the Ebon Hawk down in the junkyard as quietly as he could. Okay, this spot wasn't perfect - but it'd have to do until he found somewhere to live outside of the ship.

The original plan had been to hang out on Nar Shaddaa until picnic time rolled along, but after picking up on Meetra's death (or worse) he hadn't really been in the mood to stick around. At least not after he'd finally managed to pick himself up off the floor.

So... now he was here.

In the junkyard.

Leaning his head back against the Hawk's flank and staring at the exit.

Right. "Is it too early to get to Caritas already?" he muttered to himself.

[[ open! ]]
drinks_coffeezilla: (Default)
[personal profile] drinks_coffeezilla
You would think that with the heat the way it was, outside was the last place Dean would ever think to be. Especially not surrounded by reflective metals and black rubber tires. (The tires had reappeared sometime over the course of the week. Dean suspected strongly at this point that the junk yard just kind of re-filled itself based on whatever whims it had, day by day.)

Either way, if you thought that he was going to be inside out of this heat, you'd be wrong. He'd pulled out his lawn chair, grabbed a newspaper, pulled on his shades, and he was reading quite happily, having found a patch of shade that was just the right size, underneath the half-constructed armature for his Alot of Tires sculpture.

All he had to do was be here today. And if being here meant that he could kick back and drink ungodly amounts of iced coffee, then so be it.

drinks_coffeezilla: (Default)
[personal profile] drinks_coffeezilla
To say that Dean had been maybe holding his breath a little as he approached the junkyard today was probably a pretty fair assessment. Last week had been the garbage candy, the week before had seen the disappearance of every tire in the yard, and the week before that had seen an abundance of them.

He let that breath go when he stepped through the gate to see everything just the way it should be, art projects and junk alike all in their proper places.

Just wait a few minutes, until he discovers that Fandom has replaced his espresso with decaf.


Ah, there we go.

McCoppin Scrap is open, and dragging ass today.

[And OCD free!]
drinks_coffeezilla: (Default)
[personal profile] drinks_coffeezilla

So, the tires that had been set aside for that big sculpture project were all gone when Dean had come in to the junkyard today.

In fact, so was all of the junk.

The entire yard, with the exception of the designated spaceship-freaking-parking-lot off to the other end over there, was full of nothing but tiny, plastic garbage cans, in ridiculously bright colors. And when Dean got over that necessary moment of just blank staring, shrugged it off, and went to open one, it was full of that sort of candy that, really, would probably make a half decent sidewalk chalk, too.

Garbage Can-dy. Go figure.

Dean just sighed, headed home for a few minutes to get himself some coffee, a lawn chair, and a newspaper to read, and then settled in near the gate for the day on the off-chance that somebody wanted to put an order down for future scrap. Or art. In the meantime, the candy was free.

[Open, and OCD-free!]
drinks_coffeezilla: (Default)
[personal profile] drinks_coffeezilla
The Alot of Tires had moved along, and had left Dean with just enough scrap rubber left over to be able to make the tire sculpture that he'd been planning to make last weekend.

Naturally, this meant that Dean was mildly concerned that, out of nowhere, somebody was for some reason going to decide that they needed to come in to pick up a spare tire. And if there weren't any in the yard with the exception of the handful that Dean was mutilating in order to make a giant rubber-composite bear-yak-pug, how was that going to reflect on the scrapyard itself?

On the island that didn't have roads for cars.

... Yeah.

Dean was going to spend his day pondering how to work around this by making use of the other materials in the yard. And he was going to do this pondering over a cup of coffee or five.

[Open Scrapyard for all your Scrapyard needs! Sans OCD because I'm lazy today.]
drinks_coffeezilla: (Default)
[personal profile] drinks_coffeezilla
Spare tires.

How in the world did an island with no cars have a scrapyard that had managed to amass so many spare tires?

Dean could work with them, sure. After all, he'd seen some pretty amazing art made out of just scrap rubber and this meant that it would be a long while before he'd run out of materials to work with, but he was still pretty baffled as he sat down and worked on some sketches, to see if maybe he could come up with some sort of... rubber monument to the mighty... teal deer, or gremlin, or... furry... fish...

Actual inspiration for an impressive art piece didn't strike until the Alot of Spare Tires wandered through the lot, ate a few of the tires, and then curled up and nested near the front gate. Perfect.

[Open after some OCD!]
drinks_coffeezilla: (Default)
[personal profile] drinks_coffeezilla

So, Dean was taking this whole pony thing in stride, this weekend. Sure, it meant that he couldn't use a welding torch. Sure, it meant that fine motor skills were thrown completely out the window, and he wasn't going to be doing anything remotely resembling art until this all wore off. Sure, he had this crazy urge to go vegetarian for the weekend. Coffee came from plants, and so it was fair game.

Added bonus, he got to drink his out of a bowl. When did he ever get to drink coffee out of a bowl?

The scrapyard was open, still with its Now Hiring sign in the window, and Dean was, you know, drinking coffee. Out of a bowl.




drinks_coffeezilla: (Default)
[personal profile] drinks_coffeezilla
So, the place was starting to look more and more like the kind of scrapyard that Dean could be proud to call his own. It was full of, predictably, garbage of a multitude of sorts, but at least now it was mostly sorted out all neat and tidy, glass from plastic, metal from wood, and all sorts of crap that actually qualified as garbage well out of the way, where he'd arrange for it to be properly disposed of. Small island. Huge heaps of junk in the middle of town, not far from the school? Not the sort of eyesore that people generally wanted just sitting about.

Which was why, also predictably, Dean was contenting himself to go through the lot, picking up a sheet of tin here, a piece of glass there, planning out his next sculpture. Better people complain about his art than his junk, right?

It made sense to Dean, anyhow.

The scrapyard was open, the Help Wanted sign was still hanging on the front gate, and don't worry, Dean hadn't touched any spaceships since buying the place.

[Open for all your junk art/scrap/spaceship parking lot needs!]
drinks_coffeezilla: (Default)
[personal profile] drinks_coffeezilla
And that was that. After a week of hauling scrap, sorting bits and pieces of junk into piles of all-out garbage, and spare parts that he could sell for a reasonable price to anyone with a knack for mechanics, Dean had actually more or less managed to organize the junk yard. Sure, there was still plenty that was heaped up at odd angles, and he wasn't quite sure how to treat what he was kind of thinking of as his own alien landing pad (the crazies back in Rockwell would get a kick out of this), but he felt like the job was done enough for a scrapyard. And that would have to do.

He made himself a cup of coffee, pulled on his overalls and dragged out his welding equipment, and then started working on a piece of sculpture that he'd started earlier in the week. It was spring going into summer. He was feeling inspired.

There was even a sign up on the front gate, advertising that they were now hiring. Hiring for what, he had no idea. But hey, there was still a lot of scrap that needed to be hauled around. Maybe he could put some kid to work until there was a bit more order to this place.

[And McCoppin scrap is open for business! I will fling up an infopost on this place sooner or later, I swear.]
drinks_coffeezilla: (Default)
[personal profile] drinks_coffeezilla
"And that should just about cover it," Dean decided, putting one more signature on the paperwork while sitting in the office at the junk yard, and then standing to shake hands with the previous NPC owner. "Don't be a stranger, huh? I'll try to keep the place as neat and tidy as you left it. No tracking muddy boots through the junk or anything."

There were a bit more friendly conversation before Dean stepped out of the office to survey his new domain. Okay, so he was going to have to put in some serious hours just sorting this place out. There were heaps of scrap that he could put to use himself for his art projects, and there was a lot that the public might be interested in, for... whatever it was that non-artists tended to buy scrap metal for.

And then there was another part of the scrapyard entirely that had him sort of stopping and staring, perplexed, at what was sitting before him.

"Oh. Right... Spaceships."

Anybody who stopped by the junk yard today was going to find Dean trying to pull some of the junk away from the vehicles parked there by some of Fandom's more extraterrestrial residents and visitors. Parking lots were a general courtesy, though he wasn't exactly expecting anybody from space to want to make any purchases of the local trash or anything. They had been here first, the least he could do was leave a spot on the lot for them to park without scratching up their space-paint on some rusty piece of crap.


[Yeah, Dean is moving to townie status, and taking over the junkyard. The mandatory name-change to McCoppin Scrap is forthcoming, and he'll be hiring in the future, but this post is mostly just establishy, unless anybody wants to stop by to... buy garbage or to check on their spacecraft, which he promises not to touch.]
[identity profile] thefearwasreal.livejournal.com
Today the Mythyard was a hive of activity, with various of the odd, and completely not booby-trapped, contraptions lining the walls moving in their odd and unfathomable ways. There were however no ominous sounding explosions, thanks to the cone of silence, they were merely ominous looking.

"Hello and welcome to Mythbusters: Fandom Edition," Oz addressed his audience. "On today's show we're going to try busting some of those myths unique to Fandom, starting with an old favourite involving decorating supplies and homoerotic behaviour, that glitter leads to boykissy."

He turned to his hapless minion assistant. "Care to explain the myth for those at home?"

locointhecoco: (Default)
[personal profile] locointhecoco
Though she'd initially felt reassured by her talk with Kitty, Pinkie was finding the lack of communication with Equestria harder and harder to deal with. Her mane and tail had steadfastly refused to bounce back up to their usual joyful curliness, instead draping stick straight down her neck and over her face.

In the past, the only thing that could cheer her up when she was in this kind of a mood was a party with her friends. Which . . . didn't really explain why she was now in the junkyard, her saddle bags bulging, collecting together bits and bobs in a large pile and talking to herself.

"Now, that won't do at all," she said, as she finished dragging a tangled mass of electrical wire from one of the piles. "Rarity would never let her hair get in such a state!" She flung the wire to the side with a grouchy frown. "It's not even purple. You saw how upset she was when the Great and Powerful Trixie turned her hair green! Aha!" She rolled a little blue teapot out of another pile with her nose. "Good choice! Rainbow will love it!"

Really, this just couldn't bode well.

[open, should anyone be willing to brave the off-balanced little pony]
[identity profile] weetinyreese.livejournal.com
Kids started showing up that he didn't recognize. That was a sign to Kyle that it was a good day to spend in the junk yard. He put the wrench down where he'd been trying to get a generator working and wiped the grease on a cloth. This wasn't working so well.
[identity profile] hoorayimrich.livejournal.com
Sure, it was a little chilly out for hanging out outside. But there was science to do and Tony got a warm jacket, so it wasn't even on the radar. It was the kind of science that occasionally involved explosions and other things that bespoke CGI.

But enough about horrible animation!

Tony fiddled with the gauntlet as he waited for Ben to arrive. There was no such thing as over-tweaking his designs, damn it.

((For that Jedi, but open like a junkyard!))
[identity profile] weetinyreese.livejournal.com
The girl on the radio was right.

Kyle squinted as his eyes adjusted to the low light in the shed. Everything was where it normally was. The bottle of bourbon was by the beat-up old couch. The crate, some tools, even a jacket was where it was supposed to be. There were no signs of a struggle. The only thing that was out of place, so out of place that Kyle knew Marcus was gone, was that the shed had been left unlocked.

He searched the junk yard to make sure. Everything that Marcus kept hidden was still there.

Not so much for Marcus, who disappeared from a portal. Kyle played back the words from the radio in his head. He knew that Marcus couldn't leave the island of his own free will, for reasons that even Marcus didn't know. Something to do with the chip in his head had kept him trapped here, the same as how it had brought him here. It stood to reason that that was how he'd left too.

Kyle's jaw clenched and he took one more look around the junk yard, trying to fight the tightness ripping at his chest, a bubbling threat of panic that he refused to acknowledge. He tried to break down the problem into something he could manage. Was Marcus gone? The signs suggested that was true. What did he have to do? Search the area, monitor the junk yard, remove the caches to a safer location. What did this mean?

His friend was gone again.

That wasn't something he could deal with now. He got to work moving bags around instead.
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
Marcus was aware it was Homecoming weekend this weekend. He was also aware that meant the island would be overrun with extra people. Seeing as that particular circumstance had worked out so well for him in the past, he opted for making himself scarce.

The Junkyard, however, was open, gates wide and welcoming, ready for visitors' ships to be parked and denizens' ships to be visited.

[OOC: There is OCD for ships, totally voluntary to use it, and mod your junkyard otherwise!]
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
Marcus had started the day on the distinctly cranky side, partly caused by the fact that he had a hole in his arm (thank you Parents Weekend), partly caused by the fact that said hole was healing rather faster than it should be.

He doubted the island's weirdness was to blame, which left him wondering what was.

The wonderings were completely driven out of his head, however, by what awaited him when arrived at the junkyard.

Baby goats. Lots of them. Whole herds, even. Jumping around the place, leaping off wooden crates, and, very notably, playing poker. They'd also set up a roulette wheel in one corner, particularly impressive given their lack of opposable thumbs.

Marcus took one look at them, shook his head, and disappeared into the shed.

[ooc: junkyard is open and, yes, the kids are gamboling.]
[identity profile] weetinyreese.livejournal.com
Even at full speed, Kyle couldn't keep up, but he didn't need to. He knew where Marcus would go and that Derek would be at a disadvantage once they ere there. He barreled through the park, dodging flamingos, and skidding around the corner to the junk yard entrance.

"Stop!" he yelled at both of them.
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
Marcus was aware there were extra people on the island, and that there'd been some sort of commotion up at the school.

Since it wasn't his problem, he didn't much care. Mostly, he was just glad all seemed to be normal in the junkyard today.

It made a nice change.

[OOC: there is OCD, including a ship thread for those who have ships in the junkyard if they want to use it.]
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
Nothing much surprised Marcus anymore.

So when the first of the flying piranha with the great nasty pointy teeth came at him, he didn't waste time boggling. He just shot it. And then he shot the next one, and the next one and the one after that.

He got bitten a couple of times, and took more than one fin to the face, but he was fast, he trusted the island about as far he could throw it, and he was well armed. In the end, it was just like shooting fish in a, well, in a junkyard. Granted, there were dead fish everywhere by the time he was done, but in Fandom terms that was no big deal.

Marcus glared at the mess, kicked a dead fish out of the way, pulled his knife out of the one pinned to the door, and rummaged around in the shed for something to patch the bites. As annoying as the murderous flying fish had been, he couldn't help being relieved that at least the day's weirdness was out of the way.

Which was right about when the dead fish came back from the dead.

Okay, maybe some things could still surprise him. Zombie fish, for one. And they were coming for what he could only assume were his tasty, tasty brains.

It was the first time he'd ever had to kill something twice. When he was done, and the zombie fish were once more sprawled in the dirt, he leaned in the doorway of the shed, gun in hand, keeping one eye on the the fishy corpses while he kept a lookout for fresh fish.

It was going to be a very long day.
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
The junkyard was a riot of colour today.

No, it hadn't been covered in multi-hued graffiti, nor had the various bits of junk spontaneously transformed into junk-of-many-colours, nor had a passing rainbow fallen from the sky, splashing itself across the yard.

The cause was much simpler than that: the junkyard was full of butterflies. Ridiculously ornate, candy-coloured, curly-winged butterflies, swooping and dancing and fluttering about the place.

It was all very pretty.

It was all too much for Marcus. He took one look at the latest infestation and decided the junkyard could manage itself today. Once the gates were unlocked, he went and found something far less cheerful with which to occupy himself.

[My head has an ache, so the junkyard has moddability.]
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
Marcus had been a raccoon for...really quite a long time.

He was uncomfortably aware of the fact that Kyle had looked after him the entire time, and kept him from being eaten by a dragon.

And on top of all that, he'd arrived at the junkyard to find it plagued by small, flying insects, which seemed oddly attracted to him. He couldn't be entirely certain (not a surprise in this place) but they seemed to have spontaneously manifested from the junk itself.

Normally, this combination of irritants would see him in a state of pronounced annoyance, possibly verging onto the deeply pissed off. Today, his head hurt too much for him to care.

The junkyard was open--Marcus figured that was good enough and went to collapse on the ugliest couch in the world. One of the insects followed, sun glinting off its wings as it perched on the couch to watch him. Apparently it found a man opening a bottle of aspirin and taking a bunch simply fascinating.

[The junkyard is open. There is OCD.]
weetuskenraider: (Default)
[personal profile] weetuskenraider
To make a new lightsaber, one needed -- among other things -- metal for the casing. The junkyard had plenty of that. If she'd been anywhere at home, instead of in Fandom, Tahiri would have started doing this before now; she was a little surprised at herself that she hadn't yet, actually.

With boots on to protect her feet from any sharp and/or rusty edges, she was picking through a couple of piles near her X-Wing for likely prospects. There were other things she'd need, of course: the electrical components, a power cell, and the part she didn't have the slightest clue how to find just yet, the focusing crystal. Still, she might as well get started with what she could.

[OOC: Open if you want to find her there, sure!]
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
Marcus had been having such a good morning. He did the rounds of the junkyard, checked the fences, and unlocked the shed, experiencing an unfamiliar sensation of satisfaction that everything was where it should be.

Done with that, he went to lean on the gatepost, looking out at the rest of the town, feeling strangely mellow. “Maybe this place isn’t so ba--”

Which was precisely when Marcus turned into a raccoon.

Any fondness he’d developed for the island since last weekend disappeared. Grumbling, he struggled free of his clothes and shoulder holster, then sat up on his hind legs, pawing at his face.

He was annoyed and he looked it.

[Briefly expecting one, but please mod the junkyard should you need it.]
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
Marcus wasn't alone when he opened the junkyard today, and he was a touch on the tired side, what with having been awake all night.

"So what's the deal? You running this place?" Rafe had his hands in his pockets while he surveyed the junkyard.

"Something like that." Marcus swung the gates wide and propped them open, then set out the sign.

Rafe turned to look at him, a slow grin spreading across his face. "You've actually got a job."

Marcus glared at him half-heartedly, then shrugged one shoulder, looking almost embarrassed.

His reaction made Rafe laugh. "Never thought I'd see the day."

And Marcus was giving him a crooked smile in return. "You coming or what?" he asked and turned to walk out the gate. Rafe followed, falling into place beside his brother.

[The junkyard is open but it's been left to its own devices, so it's a mod your junkyard day! Shh, it always said Friday.]
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
Where the puddle had come from was a mystery, given the complete lack of rain Fandom had been experiencing.

The puddle wasn't really holding Marcus' attention, despite the fact that it was smack bang in the middle of the gateway to the junkyard.

No, what was holding his attention were the fins.

He weighed it up, asking himself what the chance was that there were actually sharks in the puddle.

"Pretty damn good," he muttered and decided not to walk through it. Instead, he hopped the chainlink fence, avoiding the puddle and its piscine potential entirely.

[Open junkyard, but there be puddle sharks in the gateway, for which you can blame [livejournal.com profile] weetinyreese!]
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
When he unlocked the gates this morning, Marcus was greeted by the sweet sound of music. He looked up in confusion to see a pair of violins floating about the junkyard, bows sliding across strings as they apparently played themselves.

Marcus grimaced and ran a hand over his head, not exactly thrilled to be faced with yet more island weirdness. The violins, however, were apparently glad to see him, swooping over to swirl around him while they played a joyous tune.

"Shut up." It had absolutely no impact; if anything, the music got louder. It was starting to give him a headache. Marcus eyed the crowbar which was leaning against the shed and then the violins. Simple solutions were always the best. They continued to circle him as he strode forward to grab the crowbar, then cowered back as he hefted it, playing a sad and frightened tune.

Marcus hesitated.

Which was precisely when a tiny devil appeared on his left shoulder and a tiny angel on his right. )

[IDEK, but the junkyard is open and melodious. There is OCD since I'm AFK most of the day, so please mod your junkyard and your music if you want to avoid SP.]
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
The junkyard was open, but Marcus wasn't paying much attention to anyone who might be coming or going.

He was pondering whether it would be some sort of automotive sin to attempt to pair parts from a '57 Caddy with parts from...actually, he wasn't sure what they were from, but they were sleek and smooth and looked like they could possibly break the sound barrier all on their own.

Granted, sinning wasn't something that Marcus would usually give a damn about, but this was different. This was about cars.

[No, it's not Friday or Saturday (sorry), but a post was needed!]
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
Marcus had fallen asleep in the shed last night, stretched out on the ugliest couch in the world. He hadn't meant to, it had just happened.

And this morning he'd woken to...he didn't even know how to describe it.

He was plastic. He had these weird hands and these weird legs and he walked like a goddamned robot oh and he was made of plastic.

"I hate this fucking island," he muttered and awkwardly walked out into the junkyard to stare out the gate, hoping to see other people suffering from the island's nasty sense of humour. Bad as it was to wake up like this, if it was just him the island hated it would be so much worse.

[And he takes things with such good grace, doesn't he? Open junkyard and yay lego day!]
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
Marcus needed space in the junkyard, enough space to assemble a car in.


Because he was going to see what he could make of the various automotive parts. He was well aware that what he'd probably end up making was some sort of Frankencar, but hey, it wasn't like he had anything else to do.

Marcus didn't mess around, just got stuck in shifting stuff, working out the best way to get his large flat space and still leave everything accessible. After a bit of experimentation, he realised the best way was to simply stack everything up in layers.

Not really a suprise; he'd kind of known from the beginning that it would all end in tiers.
[identity profile] notquitewright.livejournal.com
As far as Marcus was concerned yesterday never happened. There had been no telling Kyle things he'd rather have his tongue ripped out than admit.

Never. Happened.

The ringing sound of metal on metal indicated that Marcus was pretty pissed off about the thing that didn't happen, and innocent items in the junkyard were paying the price.

[Up way late because slept in, whoops. Open, but Marcus is Not In A Good Mood.]

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