meadowlarklogs

Entry tags:

[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.

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The frustration bites into him, gnawing with blunt teeth; shared emotion that still threatens a jolt of surprise to sluice through his body. But it’s buffered by something of his own. Partly an understanding, his personal frustrations at being misplaced and changed. And partly the fact that his own emotions will meet Sniper’s halfway, an ingrained, determined sort of calm that will create an impasse when they collide — the blessed result of neither party being too overwhelmed by the other.

No time for it, anyway. The other is starting with a light jog, and Markus uses the opportunity to shake aside the sensation by kicking his own body into gear. He does well enough at first, of course; there’s a fluidity to him that belies the way he pointedly feels the jostle of leg bones when the heel of a running shoe strikes the pavement. Heart rate slowly ratcheting up to meet the increased activity.

Breath meant to be conversed for running, apparently to be used for conversation, now — but he doesn’t mind it. Markus keeps his view pressed ahead as he speaks.

“That depends on who you ask.”

Not much of an answer, but a few paces later and he provides more.

“City life. Big. Busy. Demanding — like this one, but a few centuries behind."

"What did you do?"

Sniper's eyeing him curiously as they run. Reading the way someone moved their body was a natural form of communication as any other to Sniper; in the course of their various careers, they'd had to learn to read people very well. Markus doesn't seem unsuited to running, but there's something a bit—weird? It piques their curiosity.

But their curiosity had a practical edge. So far no obvious commonalities between the kidnapped group had surfaced. But surely something would come up, if they could just find the right detail. Markus might have it, or not.

Markus decides not to answer immediately. It’s a subject that’s delicate in this world, one where he should keep the circumstances about himself tightly wrapped up unless something too “incriminating” falls out — but at the same time, there was no shame regarding who he is; there never will be. The silence that settles between them for a few long seconds, Markus focusing on the tempo of his stride, isn’t due to awkwardness, but rather careful consideration.

“I was a caregiver for a time,” he spares enough breath to reply. “For a prominent, elderly artist.”

Yeah, that was a suspiciously long pause. Sniper doesn't hold it against him. They wouldn't be able to give easy, honest answers about their life either. Nobody trusts an assassin, regardless of the circumstances.

The answer is... unexpectedly benign. Sniper believes him, but there's a lot of blank space around that concise answer. They want to press harder now, shake something more useful out of him, but it was better to respect Markus's caution. "That sounds nice. What sort of art did he do?"

Memories of that studio, of charcoal pressed into newsprint, of paint staining fingertips, tendrils back into his mind. Markus isn’t hesitant to speak on this much, but there’s something even softer in his words; or maybe that’s just the syllables being timed appropriately between breaths needed in their jog.

“Whatever he liked,” he says, and it was true enough. Carl had reached a point where most artists look towards and up to, like gazing up at a high precipice in the sky. The ability to create based on imagination and inspiration, beyond the grounding, siphoning logistics of having to actually make a living.

“But he liked to paint — traditionally paint, not like what exists in this place.”

Sniper had not looked into art supplies in their new world, but they're not surprised to hear that suffered as well. The humans in this world really had screwed things up as much as possible without totally wiping themselves out.

They were no war analyst, watching their own world, so much better than this one in every way, tip into over that precipice gave them some perspective on what that looked like.

It wasn't a question of 'if' this world would destroy itself, but when. Sniper hoped to be long gone before then.

They're approaching the actual running path, but there's still enough time for one more question, and Markus doesn't seem too out of breath. "What are you going to do here? The same kind of work?" And, since Markus had evidently already looked: "Or go into art yourself?"

He can see the path ahead, and Markus mentally prepares himself for kicking up the the tempo of their pace. A cursory self-assessment of how he’s doing is relatively promising, though granted, they’ve barely just started.

“Art, probably,” he replies, the idea of being a caregiver again so easily swept aside. “That or music.”

A few more strides, a few more breaths.

“What about you?”

Bold choice for making a start in a brand new world, but Markus doesn't need to hear that from them. One of the reasons Sniper's been close-lipped about their own occupation is not to invite commentary. Even their own world, enlightened in so many ways, was still prudish about sex and sex work. The group was in this together, would probably be working together and relying on each other to a degree, and Sniper just wasn't going to be able to take anyone who gave them guff about it seriously.

So they could give Markus something vague, but there's an impulse to honesty. Probably because Markus's previous job had been (in Sniper's mind) similar in kind. Both were occupations that saw other people at their most vulnerable. "I found a job at a brothel," they say simply.

He knew there were an array of answers that he could have received, but Markus isn't sure that's the one he expected. The look he affords Sniper, turning his head briefly as their path transitions into the one meant for running, is wrapped up in a question.

Not so much judgment as it is stark curiosity. Surprise.

“What made you pick that?"

"I like it," Simple, honest answer. "I did similar work back home." Just for way, way more money and tailored more to Sniper's own preferences. They could build up to that again, but in the mean time it was still familiar, relaxing work.

They do want to chat more, but running first. Sniper can spot him breakfast after, since it sounde dlike he was still broke. Sniper glances over at Markus, with a faint nod to the path ahead. "Ready?" And that's really all the warning he gets before they pick up the pace.

Sniper is not fast, as professional athletes. Their slight frame just doesn't have the power. What it does have is endurance, meaning they can keep the same, steady pace for a long, long time.

Less of a mystery then, knowing that it was something that Sniper was familiar with — made sense that he’d gravitate towards what they knew, much like the rest of them. If Markus had more to say, there was no time for it. The path ahead was for running, heralded by his companion’s question of preparation.

Markus only nods, brows pressed into a sharp line, and they run.

To say Markus was built for speed would be ironic rhetoric. He isn’t, his body — reflecting that of his android self — running only baseline averages for now. He’s fluid and swift, certainly, in the way a man scaling a building moves like shadow over obstacles in his way. But keeping purposeful pace is a different sort of mindset; it’s a steadiness and a force of will to keep a measurable tempo, to breathe accordingly, to fight against the way his heart will ratchet up in effort, how his lungs will eventually burn for oxygen, how sweat starts to bead at his forehead the longer they go.

Especially once they hit that upwards incline.

Sniper does take it easy on him. Even on the more grueling patches Sniper looks their pace look effortless, but they're not about to feel arrogant about it when they've been doing physical training since they were a child and Markus hasn't. They can always go for another run later if this one's not enough.

When they're in sight of a stopping point, Sniper drops their pace down to a light jog to cool down, signaling Markus to do the same with a question: "If you're hungry, I can spot you breakfast."

The slowdown point comes not a second too late; though Markus isn't falling over himself in some terribly pathetic display, he feels the way his legs protest, muscles throbbing. The shift to a light jog at least allows him to catch his breath somewhat, reminded for the umpteenth time just how inconvenient of a thing it is for a biological body to feel... tired. Limitation not measured by calculations, but rather how he feels demanding him to rest.

Acclimating takes time and willpower. Markus has the latter in spades -- the former will eventually come into existence on its own.

"I'd appreciate it," he starts, in-between a breath. He really would appreciate it, but the part of him that doesn't wish to impose compels him to say, "But you don't have to."

"Don't worry about it." Sniper had money and needed a lot more, but pinching pennies wasn't going to make that happen. It was a matter of time and effort.

They smile and gesture at the park in general, indicating the various food stands. "Just pick whatever smells good."

Whatever smells good. Scent conjures up associations that tug at memory, but in Markus' case, they pull at a blank slate. The whole of his experiences, revolving around appetite and how to satiate it, remain a work in progress.

Sniper's right though; his nose often leads him in the right direction. Markus takes it upon himself to slow to a stop, his breathing still catching up with the expended effort, though he gazes around at the food stands available.

Even from here, something sizzles in the distance. Carried on the wind, he catches its scent.

"Then if you're going to be so kind... there, maybe."

"Good choice."

Watching Markus do things gives off a curious feeling of deliberateness. It must be a good quality for someone doing elder care should have; they're not sure what else to make of it. It does make him a peaceful presence, which they can appreciate. The older gentleman in the stall has clearly seen Sniper before and gives extra food along with some harmless flirting. Sniper thanks him with a smile, and gestures Markus to a spot by the river.

"There's a good place to sit over there."

Sniper’s not wrong about Markus’ deliberate nature, a sort of completeness about each movement he makes. Part of an android heritage that’s hard to tamp down or even be aware of, even if he blends in well with human society otherwise. Not enough to draw unwanted attention, but enough for those who are observant — much like his running companion, likely — to notice something different, something hard to pin down.

It doesn’t take long to get their food (Markus thinks it resembles a gyro, which should hopefully be kind enough on his stomach; he utters a thank you for it), and it takes half that time to settle onto the indicated spot by the river. The morning sun, risen above the horizon by now, casts light down on the water’s surface, which glitters unevenly.

He doesn’t eat at first. Only sits, feeling the tiredness in his legs, glad for a break.

“You don’t even look winded,” he says. Hard to miss the contrast between himself and the other.

Sniper settles next to him, not sparing much of a glance for the view. It's not just that they've seen it before or that it was 'fake; rather it's difficult to find any beauty in it knowing it's only here to liven up the horrible conditions of this city and the planet in general.

Sniper shoots Markus a sympathetic smile. "I've been competing in pentathlons for almost two decades." A fact that doesn't square with their apparent youth. Sniper isn't too sure how many other worlds have managed extended human lifespans. Maybe it won't surprise Markus at all. "I was pretty out of shape when we got out, but it's coming back fast."

Edited 2018-10-18 16:16 (UTC)

Well. That certainly would explain it.

Sniper's sympathetic smile is met with an arch of a brow, but Markus looks impressed. Pentathlons. They seems young for it; it does surprise him, which is indicative enough of the expectations and reality of his home.

"...Maybe your definition of 'out of shape' is a little skewed compared to the rest of us. Especially me."

Markus looks at his food, quietly considering how to approach it, continuing, "Hardly fair when you're an actual athlete. You were going easy on me."

Not that it was a competition, really, and the twist of humor in Markus' tone reveals his awareness of that fact.

Well, they had said they would. They grin, not denying it, teasing:"If you really want to get into shape, I could help you out. You kept up pretty well." At least, he didn't complain or ask for a break. Not a professional athlete, no, but as far as Sniper was concerned, endurance and will power were the more important qualities.

That said, an Olympic exercise routine was still a little much for most people.

"Did you go running back home a lot?"

There's some comfort in knowing that this body he wears isn't in a terribly useless state. That despite looking exactly like himself, he isn't harboring any disadvantages other than the normal consequences of being human. Those disadvantages were inconvenient enough.

"I wouldn't mind that. Could make it a part of my normal morning routine, as long as it doesn't impede on yours."

Certainly unprepared for an exercise routine as utilized by a professional, but something steady, something with a goal in mind would be beneficial.

"I didn't," he said. "That wasn't... part of what I was expected to do at the time." The sound of the wrapper rustling against his food, and Markus lifts it up, taking in its scent. The experimental gesture, admittedly a little strange, of a man who just isn't used to eating. "I told you that I was a caretaker; that was all that I did."

Literally.

"I know that's not much of an answer. I can explain further as long as you stay tight-lipped on the matter."

"No, the company is nice." It's not flattery; Sniper grew up in a big house with lots of siblings, became famous young. They'd experienced solitude more in the last month than they had in their entire life, and they didn't like it.

And now Markus was finally going to tell them something useful. Sniper nods, gaze curious but tone sincere. "Of course."

'Useful' might be relative. But the truth goes a long way, even in small doses.

"...I'm an android," he says lowly, but plainly. "This body I have now isn't the one I had back home. There, I didn't have to sleep, didn't have to eat."

He holds up his food in a illustrative gesture, keen eyes on Sniper as he continues to explain.

"Didn't get tired, didn't feel pain. And for a long time, didn't do anything other than what was expected of me. Morning runs were never a part of the equation."

It's easy to judge my Sniper's face that the implications hit them immediately. Their eyes widen; there's a beat before they respond, shaking their head over the implications. First of all, just yanking someone's entire consciousness out and shoving it into a different body was... making an entire body to shove it in, even, that was all insanely advanced stuff. Factions of their own world had been trying to transplant consciousness for decades, if not centuries. It solidified what sniper already suspected, that whoever was doing this had an absurd amount of capitol at their disposal. A lot of resources. A lot of vulnerabilities.

And then there was Markus's situation back home. It was easy to read between the lines. Androids didn't have free will. "That's horrible," Sniper says, with passion. The enslavement of human-like intelligence was yet another pitfall their own world had avoided with pain-staking effort, and there's a fierce well of pride for their home. "All of that is horrible."

Edited 2018-10-22 13:08 (UTC)

He’s had varied reactions from others, each time he’s broached this subject. So much that Markus has learned to scrutinize closely, carefully, after he declares what he is; watching in those first few seconds, reflective of their own experiences with AI life, or lack thereof. Even opinion can shine through in the furrowing of a brow or the downward quirk of the lips.

Sniper is one of the better ones, and their words match the expression they make. Allows the slope of Markus’ shoulders to relax, just slightly, though he remains sitting straight. He hooks a foot behind his other, though, crossing them in a half-casual sort of way.

“Your opinion is unfortunately in the minority back home. The idea of autonomous androids to most is… new, and frightening.”

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