Logs:Quality (Control) Time

Quality (Control) Time
Dramatis Personae Jax, Scott	2024-04-11 At an anarchist arts collective there's a million right ways to screw around.
Location <XAV> Workshop - Xs Grounds
A large barn-like building situated at the far end of the gardens from the mansion proper, this makerspace functions as a classroom for many of the more hands-on classes. An expanse of workshop space, it is subdivided into smaller segments for the different types of activities: Woodshop, Welding shop, Machine shop, Electronics, Bike shop, Screen Printing and Photography, Fabric Arts, and the Rapid Prototyping Lab with a trio of 3D printers. The space comes complete with a large host of tools available for use, although many of the more dangerous require prior clearance from administration to use -- students with appropriate clearance to use them can gain access to locked equipment with their student IDs. From sanders to MIG/TIG welders to soldering stations to industrial sewing machines to its own darkroom, though, this space is well equipped for teaching students how to make. The arc welding machines, at least, have all been properly powered off and put away -- Mr. Summers is no pushover where those are concerned -- but several minutes after the last of his Welding students have scattered out the doors, Scott is still weaving around the tables on a last double-(triple)-check, picking the laminated instruction sheets off the tables and the dusty floor, collecting an occasional stray pair of goggles or gloves to put away. He still has his own welding goggles looped around his neck, and is dressed neatly in a navy blue (cotton) long-sleeved tee and jeans and sturdy work boots (as recommended by the laminated instructions.) His ear mufflers are still on his head, though no longer fitted over his ears, but as he passes the drawer they belong in, he sets his handful of instruction sheets down to carefully remove them and store them away. Jax is just wending his way through the workshop towards Scott. He's in a neat button-down, blue and asymmetrically criss-crossed with green detailing; sturdy black boots, his eyepatch in a shade of ombre blue-green that matches his current nailpolish; his kilt (black with interspersed rainbow paneling) is not up to snuff by way of Welding Safety, but, the welders are powered off. He's picked up a speed square on his way over, and is heading to hang it on its correct peg with the others. "That ended up over in woodshop," he's saying with a distinctly critical note that some might consider out of proportion given the fact it is (aside from the markings that clearly state it belongs in welding) fully identical to the speed squares used over there. Scott gives Jax a thankful nod as he returns the speed square, his mouth quirking with what seems more like disapproval than amusement, but is probably amusement nonetheless. "Kids," is his apt and all-encompassing assessment of the situation. "We can head out in a second, I just have to --" he picks up the stack of laminated paper again and gives it a vague wave on the way across the room to a filing cabinet. His face is not suggesting much emotion at all (well, the glasses never help) and his voice is also even-keeled, if a little tentative, when he glances over his shoulder at Jax. "You haven't been out there lately, have you? Do you know if they got rid of the seasonal Easter stuff yet?" He leafs through the instructions in his hand and frowns -- "Shit, I'm missing one." "Sometimes I want t'think so but, I regret to say this place actually stays way better organized than the absolute nightmare our renters make at Chimaera an' that's near all full on adults." Jax is kind of absently moving a pair of 9" pliers to sit with others of a similar size rather than the 8" pairs it has been hanging next to, giving the pliers an absent small pat once they are in the correct place. "Was you in a mood for pastel food? I think they moved on to generically springy things, now." Jax is rocking up onto his toes as he peers around. Probably the skitter of tiny fairy-like lights (a close enough look reveals that in the middle of each mote is a tiny glowing eye) that dances out around the space is not actually necessary to help with his searching. Nevertheless the rest disappear and one of the eyes grows alarmingly bigger once it is hovering by where the last laminated instruction sheet has fallen half-underneath a storage cabinet. It blinks at Scott several times before rotating to stare indicatively down at the sheet. "Mm, you should add a detention clause to the lease. They screw around, they have to spend an hour in your company." This can't be a serious proposal; after a moment Scott allows, matter-of-fact, "Guess that's a more serious threat coming from me." He picks up a toolbox too small to be hiding the missing instruction sheet to check underneath it (the sheet is not there) and, when he lifts his head up at Jax again, it is with a definite sense of blinking even if the ruby lenses hide any actual blinking. "I like the zucchini quiche," he says. "Oh --" he steps awkwardly (perhaps he thinks this is polite?) around where the little eyes were glowing just moments ago to pick up the last sheet, and gives it a noisy wobble to shake the dust off -- "Thanks." The last eye blinks out of existence as Scott nears the fallen sheet. Almost in trade, Jax's eyepatch grows its own bright eye, widening in exaggerated surprise at Scott. "Wait, you mean to tell me I just been having extra detention? I gotta be proper sulky over the food." His expression does not, in fact, lose any of its cheer, but he does grow a small gloomy raincloud overhead. "I suspect advertising extra time with me these days might attract the wrong kinda screwing around anyway. But," he's looking speculatively at a cleanup checklist hanging on the wall, "I was just thinking on whether compliance would go up over there if we started handing out stickers for properly doing cleanup. Adulthood ain't got near enough stickers." "An hour in my company cleaning," Scott corrects himself swiftly; he too is going over to the checklist. "Is there a right way to screw around?" Probably this is rhetorical. Though his voice does not subsequently drop at all in pitch it grows a distinctly muttering intonation as he runs a finger down a clipboard hanging on the wall -- "Who was supposed to sweep up this week, this is -- ah." He does not seem surprised by the name printed in neat block lettering beside 'SWEEP FLOOR', though he does still shake his head in disappointment. He glances again at the dusty floor before giving his head a sudden, brisk shake -- the hand that had been reaching unconsciously for a push broom goes instead to take Scott's trusty motorcycle jacket off its hook. "Wonder if that's why they give out those 'I Voted' stickers," he muses, flipping the collar up and then folding it carefully back into place. "Oh, you come down an' see our shop sometimes I'll show you. At an anarchist arts collective there's a million right ways to screw around," Jax is assuring Scott with confidence. "But definitely some wrong ones, too." The cloud over his head parts in a warm glow of sunlight and then vanishes altogether. "Hey, if it works it works, I know plenty people who might not bother 'cept they really miss that I done good feeling a gold star used to give." He is glancing to the broom reflexively himself, but smiles a little brighter when Scott goes for the jacket instead. He gives the checklist a brief look before he starts leading the way out, with a cheerful promise: "I'll get you some real shiny stickers for here. Class that collects the most in a month gets one free homework pass. Bet it'll get you outta here on time --" Though as he's exiting he is glancing towards a few rounds of sandpaper grit that are definitely not supposed to still be on one of the woodworking counters and making just a quick detour to put them back in their drawers. "-- at least once in a while."