The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism novel Chapter 154

Chapter 154: 154 | The Agony of Shiplap [PS BONUS]

Sloane opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Settled for pulling the elastic from her ponytail and shaking her pink hair loose around her shoulders, which was her universal reset gesture when reality exceeded her processing capacity.

I made my fourth and final trip. Last of the supplies. The hard hat sat firm on my head. Carl continued his lecture from my phone. Two amber constructs carried the remaining items while a third held the phone at eye level so I could watch the tutorial while walking, because eighty Intelligence meant my brain could simultaneously process instructional video content, maintain three independent telekinetic constructs, navigate a familiar floor plan, and appreciate the way Sloane’s compression top hugged her chest when she breathed hard from her run.

Multitasking.

I descended into the gym and surveyed the workspace. All materials present. Sawhorses set up. Plastic sheeting ready for deployment. Work light waiting. Tools organized. Carl paused on the phone screen, frozen mid-sentence about feathering techniques.

I cracked my neck. Rolled my shoulders. Pulled the respirator up over my nose and mouth. Settled the safety glasses down from my forehead to my eyes. Adjusted the hard hat.

"Let’s lock in and get to work."

I laid the plastic sheeting across the gym floor first, securing the edges with painter’s tape to keep it from shifting. Then I set up the sawhorses and positioned the drywall sheet on top of them for cutting. The T-square came out of the bag. The utility knife came out of its packaging. Gerald’s voice echoed in my memory about doing the job right the first time.

Carl’s video resumed. I propped the phone against the base of the work light and watched while measuring the crater in the wall. Four-foot by two-foot section would need to come out to create clean edges for the patch. I marked the lines with a pencil and the T-square, then picked up the drywall saw.

Three minutes later, I had cut away the damaged section and exposed the studs behind it.

The studs were fine. Gerald had been right. Surface damage only. The impact had pulverized the drywall but the wooden framing beneath absorbed the force without cracking or splitting. I ran my hand along each stud and felt solid wood under my fingers. Good.

I measured the opening. Cut the backer board to size. Applied construction adhesive. Screwed the backer board to the studs with drywall screws at eight-inch intervals. The drill bit sank into wood with the satisfying resistance of something being done properly.

Then I measured and cut the drywall patch.

Carl talked me through it. Score the paper. Snap the board. Clean the edge with the utility knife. Test fit. Adjust. Test fit again.

Seven minutes in. The patch sat flush against the backer board. Seams tight. Edges clean. I applied mesh tape over the joints and mixed the first batch of joint compound in a bucket, stirring it to the consistency that Carl described as peanut butter that’s been sitting out for a bit but not too long.

I loaded the six-inch taping knife with compound and began spreading it over the mesh tape in smooth, overlapping strokes. The compound went on white and wet. The knife glided across the surface with the kind of control that eighty Dexterity provided, each pass feathering the edges thinner and thinner until the transition from patch to existing wall disappeared under a uniform layer of mud.

I was actually doing this. I was actually fixing a wall. With my own hands. While wearing a hard hat in my adopted mother slash lover’s home gym that I’d destroyed at one in the morning with a magical three-section staff.

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