Logs:Hard Sell

Hard Sell
Dramatis Personae Clint, Fen, Wendy	2019-07-27 "I think you'll notice they left out a lot at your orientation." (Set in the Blackburn Prometheus Facility.)
Location <PRO> Wreck Room - Blackburn Research Facility
The sign by the door says "Rec Room", but someone with a permanent marker bookended the first word with "W" and "k" at some point, and the subsequent effort to undo the vandalism was lackluster. Inside it is not usually that much of a wreck, though it might be more interesting if it were. One corner is dedicated to the reasonably sized flatscreen television mounted on the wall, with several rows of folding chairs arrayed before it. Another is centered around a set of tacky vinyl sofas bracketed by two bookshelves largely stocked with supermarket checkout paperbacks (about half James Patterson by volume, with Danielle Steel heavily represented, and there are at least six copies of Fifty Shades of Gray at any given time). The rest of the space is more modular, but usually plays host to several card tables ringed with folding chairs, supplied by a shelf of games, from playing cards to chess (with a couple of improvised pieces) to three different flavors of Monopoly. At lunch time, the rec room is quieter than is usual for the weekend. There's a janitor in here mopping the floor with more care and deliberation than is common for the custodial staff--possibly this is because he's new, though as nondescript as he looks, one might be forgiven to imagine they had simply overlooked or forgotten Clint from any earlier encounters. He's white, in his 30s, with short brown hair and brown eyes, of average height and build, as far as the last is possible to discern in his somewhat shapeless dark blue utility coveralls. He wears heavy rectangular-framed glasses as well as clunky over-the-ear hearing aids in both ears, and his staff ID badge reads 'DANIEL M. JOHNSON', Fen wanders into the rec room rather distracted, slow of step and slumped in the shoulders. She's a little heavier than usual, somewhat bloated, to be honest, and wears a larger set of green scrubs. Her brown hair tumbles around her shoulders, stringy, and sticks to her face like she's been sweating. She pauses when she sees someone new and blinks her eyes and squints to focus them. After giving her blurry vision a good rub, she dries her fingers on her pants to remove the excess moisture. She ends up focusing on his mop bucket, moving toward it quickly and wrapping her arms around it as she slides into a sitting position. "Ohhhh. You're so pretty. I wish I could just get inside you and take a nap -- so fancy with your wheels and your handle. The places we could go astound me!" Wendy has been sitting by herself at a table, working on a sketch of a hanging pothos plant. It's not a very good sketch, but it's identifiable. She looks up when Fen starts talking, and at first her nose wrinkles, lip curling back as she exhales, hard. She looks back down at her clumsy drawing, holding her pencil a little bit harder. She taps its eraser rapidly against the side of her paper before standing, abruptly. She twirls the pencil between her fingers as she walks over to the others. She doesn't look down at Fen -- just studying Clint, first his name badge and then his face. She positions herself in front of him before speaking. "You're new." Clint clutches his mop handle harder when Fen approaches him, and though he stops short of actually backing away, his body language certainly suggests he'd like to. His mouth drops open when she...embraces the mop bucket, less intimidated now than simply confused. "Sorry, do you need help with something?" Beneath his New England accent, his speech bears a faint but noticeable distortion common among those who acquire speech through the filter of hearing loss. Though his words are perfectly intelligible, he speaks slowly and overenunciates just a touch. He turns to Wendy, and actually does shuffle back half a step, but gazes fixedly at her as she speaks all the same. "Oh, yes. I started yesterday." He hesitates, glances back at Fen. "Is she okay?" "Are any of us actually okay? Alas, I don't think there's anything to be done." Fen admits at length, sighing as she releases the bucket. "Thank you for the momentary flight of fancy, Mr. Keeper of the Bucket. And thank you for not smacking me with your mop. Head's a bit... off today. They've been trying something new lately." She scoots away from the smell of cleaners and gets back to her feet. "Hi Wendy. was lunch especially bad today?" She is there... in the rec room instead of eating, after all. "Lunch was the same." Wendy closes her fingers, halting the pencil mid-spin. She taps the eraser lightly against her cheek, looking steadily at Clint. "Is she okay," she echoes slowly. "What exactly do they say in the job postings for a job like this? How much do they tell you about this place before they bring you in here to clean up their messes?" Clint only looks back at Fen properly when she moves to let go of the bucket, then kind of tilts his head sideways to look at her. Nods, hesitantly, brows still wrinkled. Looks back at Wendy, eyes drawn by the motion of the pencil in her hands--or the ceasing of its motion. "Posting?" he echoes. "No, no posting. Old boss referred me. Just said it was janitorial duty at a secret government facility." He hesitates again. "At the interview they said it was where they send m-mutant criminals who aren't safe to be in regular prisons." "I'm a mutant criminal now?" Fen raises her brows. She notices the way Clint is making eye contact, so she moves closer to Wendy to help. "I mean, I felt like a real jerk putting my grandparents in a nursing home, but they were okay with it -- and that's not technically illegal." She considers quietly and slumps into a chair. "Though i suppose it's one of those things where mutant means criminal. I don't know why i challenge the definition anymore. Not like it'll change anything." "Huh." Wendy nods slowly. "I always wondered how they roped people into the normal jobs here." She taps the pencil against her cheek again. "So they gloss over the part where we haven't been convicted of any crimes and most people here haven't been charged with any, either?" She glances down to the bucket, and back up to Clint. "It's a bit of a harder sell, maybe, explaining that they just take people from homeless shelters and pretrial detention and immigration holding and foster care." Clint's hands twist in place on the handle of his mop. "They didn't tell me the um...details. Maybe they tell the others more?" He frowns deeper now, look from Fen to Wendy. "At orientation, my co-workers said I shouldn't talk to you." He pries one hand away from the mop to sweep an index finger in a horizontal arc encompassing both women. "So, you are saying..." His tone is careful, skeptical. "...neither of you are actually convicted of any crime?" "Oh, no. Please talk to us. We're people. We really like talking to others and making friends." Fen curls her legs up underneath her, taking up as little space as possible on the chair. "and no. The worst thing I've ever done is jay-walking. Kind of boring where I'm from." Wendy's lips twist downwards distastefully when Fen speaks. Her eyes lift toward the ceiling, but only for a moment. "None of us," she says plainly, "in this entire facility, are here because of being convicted of a crime." She starts twirling the pencil rapidly again. "You should keep your eyes open. I think you'll notice they left out a lot at your orientation. Anyway, welcome to Blackburn." She slips back to her table, head bowed as she returns to her sketch. Clint doesn't look /convinced/, but he does seem to relax a little bit. It's hard to say whose assurance has weighed heavier in his consideration. "I'm sorry...it is hard for me to believe all this." His head shakes, slow and incredulous. "How this can happen in America. But, I will keep my eyes open." He lifts one hand and taps the frame of his glasses twice. "I am very good at that."