Ojiro Sniper (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deicider) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
meadowlarklogs2018-09-26 08:34 am
deicider) wrote in meadowlarklogs2018-09-26 08:34 am
[open]
WHO: Ojiro + anyone
WHERE: Safehouse, New Amsterdam's artificial river.
WHEN: Beginning-Mid July
WHAT: open log
NOTES OR WARNINGS: None really.
Morning Run
Sniper rolls out of bed every morning at 4:30 on the dot to go running, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for three. Still nursing a broken wrist, it's the one exercise they can still go all-out on, and if striving against the weakened state of their body didn't fix this whole stupid situation, it at least felt like getting something done.
They've managed to get extracting themself quietly down to an art, sleeping in their work out clothes (stolen during recent chaos, thanks kaiju) so their fumbling in the dark doesn't wake up any of the others still bunking in the safe house.
They're not opposed to company, if someone else picks up the habit. For anyone they catch awake at this hour, they give a teasing smile in the dark, whispering. "If you want to come, you have to keep up."
Sport Commentary
Sniper's inserted themself into the cooking rotation—it seemed only fair, given the amount of calories they burned through in a day—and has mastered making most of the cheap nutritious staples one-handed. Gone most of the day scouting New Amsterdam and lining up job prospects, they're always back in time to help make dinner.
Once the initial frustration of being here had faded enough to allow for idle curiosity about this version of Earth, Sniper had been drawn to investigate the cultural cornerstone they knew best: sports. The results had been disappointing. Nothing very innovative. The Olympics were still going at least, but digging further, professional sports in general seemed open only to the already-rich. There had been plenty of accusations that Sniper had used money to compensate their own small size with expert training for the pentathlon (true on paper though not in spirit), but back home it wasn't weird to see the non-wealthy go professional.
They've been steadily watching their way through the past Olympiads: opening ceremony, the pentathlons, record-breaking achievements. They use the implant with the ease of long familiarity; it was pretty similar to what they had back home (back home it didn't require brain surgery) so chopping things for dinner at the same time was easy. Judging my their scoffing, they're not that impressed. "That's the record?"
Free Lunch!
Afternoon generally finds Sniper by New Amsterdam's artificial river to find lunch. The river is a sad sight for someone who grew up seeing the ocean—this whole world was a sad sight compared to their own flourishing world—but it was lively and less claustrophobic than the rest of the city. And the food wasn't bad.
They're buying some dumplings when they spot a fellow safehouse occupant. Even if there hasn't been a formal introduction, the face is familiar, and they wave over, gesturing to the cartoon of dumplings in their hand with a smile.
"Want some? My treat."
When's the last time you had something that wasn't bug casserole?
Cast-off
Around mid-july the cast on their wrist finally comes off! You can find them celebrating doing one-armed pushups in the safe house.
WHERE: Safehouse, New Amsterdam's artificial river.
WHEN: Beginning-Mid July
WHAT: open log
NOTES OR WARNINGS: None really.
Morning Run
Sniper rolls out of bed every morning at 4:30 on the dot to go running, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for three. Still nursing a broken wrist, it's the one exercise they can still go all-out on, and if striving against the weakened state of their body didn't fix this whole stupid situation, it at least felt like getting something done.
They've managed to get extracting themself quietly down to an art, sleeping in their work out clothes (stolen during recent chaos, thanks kaiju) so their fumbling in the dark doesn't wake up any of the others still bunking in the safe house.
They're not opposed to company, if someone else picks up the habit. For anyone they catch awake at this hour, they give a teasing smile in the dark, whispering. "If you want to come, you have to keep up."
Sport Commentary
Sniper's inserted themself into the cooking rotation—it seemed only fair, given the amount of calories they burned through in a day—and has mastered making most of the cheap nutritious staples one-handed. Gone most of the day scouting New Amsterdam and lining up job prospects, they're always back in time to help make dinner.
Once the initial frustration of being here had faded enough to allow for idle curiosity about this version of Earth, Sniper had been drawn to investigate the cultural cornerstone they knew best: sports. The results had been disappointing. Nothing very innovative. The Olympics were still going at least, but digging further, professional sports in general seemed open only to the already-rich. There had been plenty of accusations that Sniper had used money to compensate their own small size with expert training for the pentathlon (true on paper though not in spirit), but back home it wasn't weird to see the non-wealthy go professional.
They've been steadily watching their way through the past Olympiads: opening ceremony, the pentathlons, record-breaking achievements. They use the implant with the ease of long familiarity; it was pretty similar to what they had back home (back home it didn't require brain surgery) so chopping things for dinner at the same time was easy. Judging my their scoffing, they're not that impressed. "That's the record?"
Free Lunch!
Afternoon generally finds Sniper by New Amsterdam's artificial river to find lunch. The river is a sad sight for someone who grew up seeing the ocean—this whole world was a sad sight compared to their own flourishing world—but it was lively and less claustrophobic than the rest of the city. And the food wasn't bad.
They're buying some dumplings when they spot a fellow safehouse occupant. Even if there hasn't been a formal introduction, the face is familiar, and they wave over, gesturing to the cartoon of dumplings in their hand with a smile.
"Want some? My treat."
When's the last time you had something that wasn't bug casserole?
Cast-off
Around mid-july the cast on their wrist finally comes off! You can find them celebrating doing one-armed pushups in the safe house.
no subject
He presses on, picking up again. "And then we went out and found the Blue Lion. The one that was calling to me. It wasn't meant for me to pilot, though. That was Lance, and we all got in ... and ended up on the other side of the universe. It wasn't long after that we got our own lions, and started to form a larger robot with them by the name of Voltron."
It's a lot to swallow, but that's where he came from. That's what he does.
"I'm the head of the team back home. Now, anyway." He doesn't say it like he's bragging. He's not. If anything, Keith still feels like he doesn't give off that leaderly disposition. He never will.
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"Obviously, we can't do it alone. We've formed a coalition, and we're heading back to home—Earth, just a different one from this one or most other people's—to try to stop them. It's a war. The problem is, it's kinda hard to just ... step away from a war without worrying about that. Especially since I—uh. I'm the only one who can pilot my lion. It's a special bond." Keith could never ask Shiro to step up into his shoes again, especially not in the condition he's in right now.
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War, though was an immediate commonality. They frown in sympathy. "I know the feeling. You must be dying to get back home."
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It's like a weight's been lifted.
"We've just got to hold it together until then. That's all."