[A little bit ago, Ibuki got a little-not-so-little something special. Something that should be a prize for her to hold, and something that Lucas found it to be a prize to get ahold of. Something he finds it a prize to hear -- smirking at novelties in stylings, taking brief moments to look up to nearby speakers before leaning back over a work table and going back at it, a tool sparking in hand.
He loves rock and roll.
And he and Ibuki aren't the only ones in the house who know it.
Ibuki is rocking in the barn like it's a janky, audience-free stadium, and Lucas has speakers tuned into the sound, and in the kitchen of the main house...
Low guitar chords chug and churn to rattle and rumble against the window in the weathered frame.
It isn't adjacent the main house, but it carries well enough for tired old senses and weathered, frayed nerves.
Marguerite's cleaver comes down like a battleaxe. It splits the center of a haunch. She brings the handle back up scowling, driving her blade into the cutting board with all the elbow grease to put any other savage old woman to shame twenty-four times over and back, working it like a saw...
A crack. A fissure splits the board. The pieces of meat hop up on either side of it. The cleaver sticks in the enamel of the counter.
And pushing herself up off of it, she turns her eyes to the window, hissing steam, as it rattles and rattles on on the other side of a thick, thick cloud of sound.
This is the third damn time this week.
And three is the dark, dark magic number.
Neither Ibuki nor Lucas have a ghost of a chance of hearing her approaching the testing area.
But between a couple of speakers tuned not to the barn, just in case something goes down, he hears Mama knocking five sharp, rhythmic knocks on a door. It isn't meant to be gracefully knocked on. Metal clang-clang-clangs, and therrrre's her voice, screeching insistently up, "LUCAS! I KNOW you can hear me!
"How many times do I have to TELL you, boy, you keep that SHIT down when your father and I are busy! You inconsiderate little limp prick, if I gotta be the one to teach you your manners this time, I'm -- "
Aaand right by there.
Lucas has made it back to his control panel.
And with a groooaaaaan, he cuts the speakers. The sound dies and...
His voice comes up in the barn. Carrying some of the groan.]
My mama's here.
[His exasperation and... highly reluctant, grudging resignation are palpable. Tightening up his tone as it falls into sour withering.]
-- Tellin' us to turn it down again.
[He leaves the audio feed on. Heaves a sigh, and switches his monitor display to the door, lifting fake as hell cheer into his lungs with a nasty, suffering smile --
They both die right away. He yanks himself up to the monitor, hands down on the desk.
It's only there for a second, but he catches the swing of a long, bony arm and the wave of a tattered skirt up to something swollen and bone-white before Marguerite's gone.
She... is not happy, god dammit god dammit god dammit --
Back into the mic with a thick:]
[Quick shuffling and scrabbling as he tries to get a read on Marguerite's position, ffffuck, it's a no-go, if she's going to the barn it'd be over ground -- ughckhhhh, should he just get up and go, and handle it, no no no wait --
Abrupt and shouty directly into the mic -- ]
Sugar, you might wanna get the hell outta Dodge.
[With a quiver of acute urgency - sssseriously, it's not just a suggestion, hustle and work with him...
Meanwhile, Marguerite is on a spidery warpath to the barn with the intent to rip shit apart.]