meadowlarklogs | [open and closed prompts]

Sniper didn't have much free time these days. Time not spent working on the Durcell campaign was spent working on backup plans in case they blew the election. It wasn't exciting work—titillating board members was a distinct downgrade from hanging off the arms of world leaders—but the quantity of work had its own sense of satisfaction.

The fighting rings were engaging and easily accessible. Sniper had not competed themself since that one time with Loki, on a whim. There would be no pulling that off again with their face becoming more recognizable around town, and around the Petrov's establishments especially. Even just spectating, they wore a hood. A common accessory, the weather being what it was.

They recognize Jack instantly: the scars on his face had made him an automatic object of interest for Sniper. The scars were covered now by... some weird metal visor, but Sniper recognized the silhouette, the white hair. They jostle easily for a better spot, leaning forward eagerly.

Edited 2019-08-08 21:44 (UTC)

A.
Jonathan is, at least, a quiet roommate within the subterranean confines of the safehouse. At night he sits alone in the kitchen where the light won't bother anyone, eerily still as he hunts through the bottomless well of information that is his implant. Jonathan had not expected to develop such a facility for using his brain computer given his laptop skills, but proximity to such vast quantities of data suits his restless, wanting mind. He devours forum after forum of crackpot conspiracy theories and tepid, toothless accounts of 'supernatural' encounters.

There is so much, for a while it distracts him from how hungry he's getting.

There is no mark on this world of the thirteen terrible Entities that manifest themselves in cursed books and fearful rituals all throughout Jonathan's world. As much joyful irony as Jane Prentiss—the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss.—would feel at the idea of Jonathan having to think about bugs at every meal, there is no indication that dark gods are delighting at his misery.

Jonathan has no idea what he's going to eat at this rate. As days drag into weeks, the symptoms of his hunger become more visible: his hands shake, his focus, when not following the endless tributaries of information on the network, wanders off into febrile tangents. He can't stop thinking about the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss, how she was an avatar just like him. One day his body would be made of eyes just as hers had been made of worms. He can't get rid of the thought, checking his arm occasionally to make sure it hasn't happened already. He keeps expecting one of his round scars to blink at him.

Exhaustion and sleeplessness stake equal claim over his body, dark eye circles contrasting with the pale, round scars on his face. Jonathan's walking to the kitchen to get some people food—and his attention slips from his grasp again, into the depths of the network after another story, another fact.

Then Jonathan Sims walks into you like a mindless zombie, scaring himself half to death.

"Wh-wh-what are—Doing!"

B.
Alternatively, you can find Jonathan sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing his temples and muttering about wanting a smoke very badly.

The last time Jonathan Sims took a smoke break, a man was killed with a pipe, but the risk was feeling quite worth it.

C.
Or, Jonathan generally tries to always be alone when he showers—his odd hours help—and as you walk into the bathroom he will be in an obvious rush throwing clothes on despite being still half-soaked.

"Could you have perhaps knocked?"

((Moving to small text is completely fine!))

Edited 2019-08-08 22:32 (UTC)

Worick blinks bleary eyed at Jonathan, completely unaffected by his state of undress as he begins throwing on clothes. It's quite early in the morning and not many people are awake and up around the safehouse, which is probably what the other man had been betting on.

Unfortunately, Worick's bladder waits for no man to finish showering. He offers Jonathan a shrug of his shoulders and walks over to the toilet, unzips, and begins handling his business...literally.

"Don't know what you're so moody about. Not like I'm a chick coming in here while your pants are off."

At least Worick has the dubious distinction of having seen Jonathan mostly naked already. Jonathan sighs audibly, scowling with his back turned to Worick as he gets his pants on.

"I was hoping for a little bit of privacy," he mutters. "I thought I had seen my last locker room over a decade ago."

"Then you should have tried locking the door. Wait...do these doors even lock?" He wouldn't know. He's long ago given up on the idea of privacy after living with a roommate for over twenty years. Between that and his usual line of work he doesn't have any modesty left to try and preserve.

"Spoken like a man whose never had to share a tiny bathroom with someone else. Better hope that blog of yours brings in some kind of income."

"I lived alone." Jonathan confirms tartly, jerking his shirt back on.

He sighs at the reminder of his highly uncertain prospects. "It brings in some money." He just wasn't sure it was enough to afford a place on his own, above ground, somewhere half-decent. Above-ground was not negotiable. He wasn't a claustrophobe—somehow—he just had rational concerns about recent earthquakes and very vivid memories of being buried alive.

"What about you? I noticed you never shared your 'background'."

Roxas woke up feeling weirdly hungry, which was a little unusual—he doesn't have a problem eating, but he isn't one to pig out, either. He can do a lot with just a little food as fuel. But his stomach was already yelling at him when he woke up, so after getting dressed he headed straight for the kitchen.

Maybe, he thinks with futile hope, it's a sign of a growth spurt, and he still has some inches to gain—but that thought is completely lost as someone plows right into him like he's not even here.

"Um, getting some food?" He rocks back on his heels, surprised to see who it is after turning around. "Isn't that what you're here for too? You didn't need to shove me."

"Roxas." Jonathan says the name mostly for his own benefit, blinking muzzily. He rubs a hand over his face, reconstructing the last moments in his mind. Ah.

"I apologize," he says stiffly. "I wasn't, er... I wasn't looking where I was going. What are you doing awake at this hour?"

When in the ring, 76 is pretty good at drowning out whatever's happening outside of it. Getting caught up in the things that people yell out, the heckling and the cheers, would only lead to unnecessary distraction. Even keeping in mind that there are so many eyes on him, that there's a certain amount of money riding on his head, isn't worth considering in the moment.

His opponent is a few inches shorter than him and a whole lot thinner, which probably makes Jack the favorite. Not that he's about to underestimate the guy. Someone this lithe is going to have speed and agility to make up for it, and there's also a chance that at least one of his limbs is a very convincing prosthetic.

What some of his opponents haven't fully grasped is that Jack isn't playing entirely by the rules. Even though he's tall and built like a truck, he's also got speed on his side. It's not exactly a fair fight, but that's usually the case here in the fighting rings, and there's no reason for him to pull his punches when there's money on the line.

It doesn't take long before he's got the other guy pinned, squirming under the pressure he's putting on his throat until he taps out. "Soldier: 76" is announced as the winner; as far as stage names go, it's not the worst.

Soldier: 76. It certainly has an allure, especially for Sniper, coming as they did from a world without official soldiers and armies. It made Sniper that much more interested to get the story behind his scars. Sniper's theory that the Displaced had played special roles in their home worlds was becoming more and more credible, and they had always loved a good war story.

Maybe if Jack refused to spill Sniper could challenge him to a round. It was a wistful thought; too bad they couldn't simply hop the divider and put themself in the ring. There would be no playing around with Jack: he moved surprisingly well for his age and size. For Sniper, who relied on speed and technique to compensate for their own slight build, it would be an actual challenge.

No-one stops Sniper as they duck through the crowd to head back to the makeshift locker room for the fighters. Even if the security doesn't recognize them with the hood up, they have an air of confident authority that says they're right where they should be.

They're waiting for Jack when he enters, hood down. They wave, smiling.

"You're in good shape for your age." It wouldn't be much of a surprise in Sniper's own world, where even a 50 year old looked twenty, but Jack had all the normal age markers.

He recognizes the older guy immediately—Jon, the one who was nosy but not in a bad way and pushy about school in a mildly annoying way. He looks...rougher than Roxas remembered, though. Maybe because he couldn't sleep either.

"Got hungry, I guess." He shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe not having any kind of schedule is throwing me off. I'm not used to that."

Edited 2019-08-13 18:54 (UTC)

"And it shows." Worick tosses that little remark over his shoulder as he finishes up and zips up his zipper.

Traveling to the sink, he turns the water on and begins lathering his hands with soap. The remark about his background prompts a low chuckle from him. A part of him is still amused by the cover backstory he's been given, while another, more suspicious part of him can't get over how closely they have him pinned. Or would have had he continued having the life he had been born into.

"Not much to share. I'm a spoiled trust fund kid surviving off my dead parent's money. A bit of a cliche really. I think yours is more creative."

Jonathan ignores the barb. He has the decency to be aware of his personality, even if he's given up on trying to be more lovely. Dressed, he finally turns around grab a towel for his dripping hair.

"It was certainly elaborate for a prank." There's some truth to Jonathan's backstory as well—In spirit. A hint of conspiracy and he loses sight of anything else. "And how was it that these 'parents' of yours died?"

"Well. I was getting food, as well. Hopefully there's something non-insect based left over."

Jonathan would like to say his distaste for bug food was irrational and dismiss it, but it was impossible when he had been nearly devoured alive by worms. He was trying not to think about it, but that was impossible, too.

At least Roxas was something to focus on. "You had a schedule, gallivanting all across the universe?"

Oh yeah, the bug thing. He's not sure what to make of that. On one hand, he doesn't like the idea. On the other, it's not like they're plucking them out of trees or something. If the food isn't bad, does it matter what the ingredients are?

"Uh-huh." He nods as he leads them into the kitchen—no sense standing out here talking when they came here for the same reason. "Every day I got a destination and a goal. It was pretty routine."

"That does sound... regimented." Jonathan trails along, focusing on Roxas, the conversation. "Who was giving you these orders, anyway?"

"Saïx."

Despite himself, there's a flicker of dislike on his face for a moment. Once upon a time, according to Axel, he'd been a good friend. Maybe, if he becomes recompleted, he'll have the chance to be one again. But remembering those days, the man's callous cruelty is far too vivid.

"One of the other members," he says. "But I never knew whether the orders came from him or from the boss. Never even thought to ask. Pretty dumb, huh?"

It's not as if Jonathan is doing much better, being led around by the nose by Elias or the Web and half a dozen other agendas he can't even confirm.

"Bastard probably wouldn't have given you a straight answer regardless."

Maybe Jonathan was projecting a bit, but he wasn't going to give anyone who condoned sending children off to fight the benefit of the doubt.

Jonathan immediately gains a few points in Roxas' estimation, and he smiles as he opens the kitchen's refrigerator to have a look around.

"Not ever, not even when I asked about other stuff," he says. "They probably knew I'd have left sooner otherwise."

Jonathan could move to the cabinets and start looking there, but he's apprehensive about his attention slipping off into the network again. So he stays standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen while Roxas moves around.

He scoffs. "I'm surprised you're rushing off to find a job after putting up with that nonsense. Questionable as my current 'profession' is, I find myself enjoying the benefits of self-employment rather a lot."

Roxas shrugs, poking through the contents of the fridge. Yeah, he doesn't know what most of it is.

"Gotta take care of ourselves, right? Even if we can stay here for now, things cost munny." He pops off the lid of a random container. Ew. No. "Besides, I'm not used to doing nothing all day."

Jack isn't expecting to come across a familiar face in the locker room of all places, and he looks Ojiro up and down, assessing what their reason is for being here. Do they want something? Are they just here to bother him?

It's true that Jack has more or less aged like a normal human even with his enhancements, but physically he's got a lot more endurance than someone his age should, to say nothing of the strength, speed, and so on. It's the sort of thing that's already earned the attention of other fighters in the ring, so it isn't too surprising that Ojiro has noticed too.

"Thanks," he says, mainly as a way to brush off the observation. After removing his visor and setting it on a nearby bench, he grabs for a small towel and begins to wipe sweat from his face and neck, then draws it back through his hair. There are no actual shower facilities here, so that's as good as it's going to get for now.

"Were you betting?" Some of the Displaced have taken to betting on each other, and it does make for good money. Jack wouldn't be that bothered to find out that Ojiro had thrown their credits behind him.

Edited 2019-08-16 02:03 (UTC)

Running across Jack here was really a stroke of luck. Right now Jack was just a collection of interesting observations: mysterious scars, practical, careful but with uncareful hobbies. They wanted to fit all the pieces together and see the connecting parts. Because Jack seemed fun, and useful.

"No. I need to keep my nose clean for a few months." Sniper settles on the bench next to the visor: close, casual, reaching for the object. Moving the conversation along. "What's this do?"

Sorry, can't help with that yet.

[prompto offers his condolences in more of a jest than the first time he had heard jonathan complain about wanting a smoke. certain things couldn't actually be helped—and it's not one of the blond's priorities anyway.]

—but, I might have something you might like.

[the optimism in his voice pushes through with the smile on his face, even as he presents to the anxious man something small and compact, rudimentary by all accounts, looking similar to this.]

I'm afraid finding an actual cassette is gonna be impossible, but it does record stuff into a disk memory. [he rubs at his nose with the back of his hand, embarrassed...] Tried going for an old school model. Wasn't hard to find an online manual for it.

Edited 2019-08-18 16:13 (UTC)

Jack definitely hadn't given Ojiro permission to touch the visor, and given that it's an extension of him in a lot of ways, it has him going tense almost immediately. He's tempted to snatch it away from them, but forces himself to keep his hands at his sides.

"Tactical visor," he responds, but his tone is clipped. If there hadn't been anyone else here, he might have changed out of what he's wearing and into his usual street clothes, but for now he just grabs for his jacket and pulls it over his sweaty shirt. "It has a targeting system and can pick up on heat signatures."

Not much use when he still doesn't have a gun, but wearing it is habit at this point. It's always doubled as a mask.

[open and closed prompts]

[closed to Soldier: 76]

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c; i'm so sorry

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a

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B

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