you finally calm my head at night

[slushfund]

CHARACTERS: youichi hiruma and whoever wants to drop in
DATE: scattered throughout the middle of january, 5th to 15th
WARNINGS: potential murder talk and this boy's foul mouth
SUMMARY: catch-all for open and closed prompts this month

(want to hang out with this dickhead, but a prompt doesn't suit your fancy pants? hit me up with a pm or at frooting, i love everything. all cr welcome, but dear god he needs friends... and like ten shots of tequila...)

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[slushfund]

(they've been back in oska for some time now. a week, more, how many days escapes him when he was so good at keeping updates of the gregorian calendar for reference, but — space travel can mould days into the head of a needle you can't quite fucking thread. and hiruma's thrown himself into a physical way to cope.

with what? he tries not to think about it, letting each kickback of his assault rifle meet an accommodating grip before turning and marching militantly on the next target.)

UPLOADING PERSONNEL PROFILE... UPDATING REGISTERED STATISTICS... GENERATING SCORE...

ROUND 2

TARGET ACCURACY: 9/10
TARGET PRECISION: 8/10
TARGETS ELIMINATED: 11/15

PROCEED? STATE "YES" OR "NO" IN PROGRAMMED LANGUAGE...

(tugging up the hem of his shirt, he paws the sweat away from his face and breathes a sharp reply.)

No. Run it again.

SUGGESTING COOLDOWN... BIOMETRICS INCOMPATIBLE WITH REPLAY...

Run it again!

SUGGESTING COOLDOWN... BIOMETRICS INCOMPATIBLE WITH REPLAY... SUGGESTING COOLDOWN... BIOMETRICS INCOMPATIBLE WITH REPLAY... SUGGESTING—

(a slam of a booted heel into the small terminal leaves him with a shuddering hologram of the target range requested and a handful of fingers hurriedly combing back spikes of styleless blond. then the image scatters, the dome of the training room sobering him, shoulders sinking out of their irritable hitch as eyes find the too-empty room. after, the exit sign. it gives him a stupid idea, but there's no harm in a little "ask and you shall receive", making him jerk towards the door, shoving it open...

and accosting the first person that walks down the hall, breathless and pointing back to the training deck.)

Yo, I need you to do something for me. C'mere for a sec, would ya?

[respired]

[ Koltira does make use of the simulations from time to time. The battles are not satisfying: there's no true pain, no real blood. But it's practice, and it keeps him busy. Something mindless to do when he has no other work to occupy his hands.


But he's flagged down before he even turns into the training room, called to by someone he doesn't know very well. An excitable--human?

(The ears are strangely pointed, but he's no elf, Koltira can tell that much for sure.)

Koltira's wearing his recently repaired armor--all black dreadplate and skulls with glowing eyes--and it clinks together softly as he pauses, frowning. ]

What do you need?

[slushfund]

(ah, the guy from the network times. hiruma sizes him up with a scan of a look, momentarily taken aback by the bulk of the armour sitting against koltira's chest. well, that's not something you see outside of a larp group or convention.

the ears remind him of his own, but, really, this isn't a big concern.)

The program's kicked me out. I need to get back in and you're gonna activate it for me. C'mon.

(turning on his heel sharply, walking deeper into the training room.)

[respired]

[ Koltira doesn't much like being commanded, especially not by a skinny human stranger, but he was already going that way. So he scowls, but otherwise lets the tone slide. He follows along. ]

Why did it kick you out? I have never known it to do such a thing.

[ But Koltira does not have vitals to be monitored. His body cannot tire, and it cannot signal exhaustion to anyone else, either. ]

[ofobedience]

[All this downtime-- it doesn't suit him. Seconds minutes hours tick by and he doesn't know how to fill them, takes to prowling and pacing and idly wandering just to give himself something to do. Even the missions with all their alien strangeness are an improvement on this-- at least there's some sense of direction to them, a goal to work towards. All this emptiness, it gives him too much time to think.

And so when Hiruma - sweat-slicked, breathless - suddenly pushes through the door as he's skulking by, it just so happens that he's doing nothing of note. Still, he looks up, expression blank and impassive save for the thin blond brow he raises above the rim of his glasses. He makes no immediate move to comply, but he isn't walking away either.]

What do you want?

[slushfund]

I want your vital signs. (uh...) Come on.

(turning sharply, leaving him alone in the doorway. curiosity peaked enough to follow? he'll find hiruma waiting by the terminal with unsteady breaths, waving to the room.)

[ofobedience]

[Well that's...something new, at any rate. First impressions may lead one to believe that Giovanni won't comply, standing there as he does, staring afer Hiruma with a distinctly dubious expression on his face. But he is a little curious, and more than that, he's bored, and so eventually the stillness falls away and he follows after him, moves over to the indicated room.]

Now there's a proposition one doesn't hear every day.

[And he flashes him a sharp - if still somewhat uncertain - smile.]

[heavyhitter]

[ Ramir has been having a good week, a few hiccups aside. It's always nice to be in Oska. The free food, the plentiful drink, the comfortable bed, the hot springs... She spends her time sober as rarely as possible, and today is not an exception.

It takes her a few seconds longer than usual to realize Hiruma is talking to her (so what if the hall is otherwise empty), and when she does she offers him a cheerful smile as she bobs to a stop. It's that guy. She likes his hair. She'd wave, but one hand is busy with a bottle and the other is in her pocket, so... next time, maybe. ]

Why? [ and immediately hopeful: ] S'it involve mistletoe?

[slushfund]

(eyeing her somewhat critically, recognizing a drunk woman when he sees one. ramir's fucking sloshed and— mistletoe? is that a proposition? hiruma snorts a laugh, disinterest palpable... he knows the sandworm times were fun and they stayed up until odd hours of the morning trying to destroy things together, but it was a one time thing.

it's not her, it's him.)

No, sorry to burst your bubble but you couldn't handle me. (beckoning her with a nod and a turn, shoulders rising and falling in time with quick breaths.) Follow me, I've got a job for you.

[heavyhitter]

Whoa, hey, I could handle anyone even before the superpowers.

[ Not that she looks at all offended. Fine, not mistletoe, it's gotta be something interesting. She trots to catch up, stashing the bottle in a jacket pocket. For now. ]

What'd you do anyway, just run a marathon? Prolonged sex? Shit, what's that thing called... you know, when you just go for fuckin' ever, what's that?

[hedonistic]

[For as much as he grumbles about how low-tech this castle is, Kagari does dig the VR room. Back home, Enforcers are allowed to use the internet, but not in a way that supports anonymity, which leaves things like Commu-Fields right out. The only kinds of VR he gets to participate in are typically self-contained, for that reason, like when he plays in virtual sparring with Kou-chan.

...Speaking of which. When Hiruma beckons him in the hall, Kagari actually pauses for a second, looking at the stranger in a way that doesn't dare to condescend with concern, but might be a little like understanding. He knows that look, after all. He's seen it in the older Enforcer's eyes so many times, that glassy yet intense look when his body is worn out but he can't stop going lest his mind rip itself apart. Kagari can't claim to know the specific demons that haunt Kou-chan, only knows the barest outline of what happened to make him a latent criminal in the first place. It's like that, with the Enforcers in Division One. An unspoken code of sorts between them, a mutual understanding that things are shit and they're fucked up, and nothing more need be said about it. It's not like talking would make them any less fucked, anyway.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do. Puts on a smirk, lets a challenging twinkle enter his eyes.]

I dunno. You're looking a bit worn out there, bro. Sure you can keep up?

[slushfund]

I dunno, sure you can keep your fucking mouth shut long enough to stay in the lead?

(if there's one thing hiruma's sure of, it's his willpower — and overriding exhaustion is something he has an immense amount of skill in. so it's a damn good thing kagari isn't pitying him, telling him to quit, or putting a damper on his desperate need to distract himself, because he's had it with the weakness he's been showing. and this is the first step to overcoming that. by force.

sweating out troubles is a stubborn man's way of coping.

he's run for longer, trained harder, and worked himself to the bone; this is nothing to him. "a bit worn out" is a high compliment and hiruma's own smirk twists into something crooked, one step away from appreciative, feeling a little looser with the emotion shown on his face thanks to how tired he is.)

I've been doin' drills, but do ya want the fun part of choosin' our program? (motioning wholeheartedly to the terminal.)

[hedonistic]

Actually, I can do own all sorts of shit while I'm shooting off my mouth like a moron. It's a gift, what can I say.

[He shrugs, cavalier.]

Sure, I'll pick our poison for us.

[He steps up to the machine, his own resting vitals registering as fit for using the training software. He scrolls around, and ultimately decides on the Chantes mission--the harder setting, of course.]

Get in loser, we're going demon hunting.

[Best way to start this off is with a hundred year old reference to the immortal Regina George rite. I'm assuming Kagari knows the whole movie tbh because fight me.]

[digiorno]

[Someone's in his face. He starts back immediately, even though the guy's not touching him, not grabbing or hurting him; it's instinct to fight, freeze, or flee, to be skittish and wary. But this one--oh. Giorno remembers him.]

[. . . Is this right? He tips his head curiously to one side and reaches out unseen with Gold Experience. Blood moving too fast through his veins, breath too quick. And drenched in sweat, not that Giorno needed Gold Experience to notice that. His lips press together.]

Depends on what it is, doesn't it?

[slushfund]

(a crooked smile for giorno, remembering those great sandworm times. ah, man, what a crazy plan he can take to the grave with him.)

I don't bite hard, Blondie, (hiruma, you're blond...) it's just a training simulator I need on. It keeps shutting off, for obvious reasons, but it doesn't believe I'm capable of pushing myself.

(opening his arms to him, chest heaving,) So? Wanna help a fucker out?

closed to hiruma; cw: implied self harm

[moneyballer]

[Sleep is for the weak, supposedly, but sometimes the weak can't sleep either.

Asher is in the training area in the dead of night for the fourth time in five days, even though he's agreed to be up at dawn, which happens to be in a few hours. He is exhausted and yet unable to rest, forced to use his free time productively, because keeping busy is easier than thinking alone, or thinking aloud.

He pauses to wrap his knuckles the way he's learned to do after many months of wanting to get stronger, the process mechanical, something he's actually managed to memorize. Today, however, he winces from a sharp, stinging pain and finds that the tape has come into contact with knuckles that are black and blue.

Ah, that must have been from yesterday.]

[slushfund]

(it's purely by chance that they haven't run into one another sooner. whether that's lucky or not remains to be seen.

hiruma's running himself ragged, breaths coming so harshly it feels like his ribs might rattle, pure exhaustion weighing down his limbs, sweat dripping off his chin, but — he can't stop. doesn't want to stop, because if they were stronger surely something could have been done. if he was stronger, they'd all be alive, those two bandits would've limped home the next day with a story to tell and pain to drink off, but.

that's not reality.

this is reality.

he strangled someone to death, proof in a poorly healing scar that reminds him starkly of the chase, the bullet spray, the white faces of the corpses they practically stepped over to get back to town.

hiruma doesn't realize he's adjusted his course until he's at the training area entrance, staring into the gloom with a sharp huff. and another once he spots and recognizes the figure beyond the threshold, spending his free time exactly the way he himself is. it's only that fact that makes him move forward, the room's terminal announcing his presence with a chime like some goofy fucking cornerstore, adjusting asher's program automatically for multiplayer.

a look down, chest heaving, before glancing back up. there's no smile, faking one would be the most pointless bullshit he'd ever concoct in front of this someone who knows exactly what lying to yourself means.)

This isn't really the common ground I expected to have with you.

[moneyballer]

[He looks up from his own misery, startled.

Maybe it would have been more polite to call or check on the other, and if they had been better friends before that might have been what Asher had done. Might, because he has a habit of being self absorbed, of ignoring and avoiding problems when he sees fit.

They are here for the same haunting reason, because despite the masks they wear from day to day, they care for life and feel guilty for stealing it.]

Yeah.

[Asher has gone over that night so many times in his head, wondering things would have been different if he had thought more clearly. If he hadn't panicked.

His aim should have been better, he should have gone for a shoulder or a limb.]

No kidding.

[How he wishes they could return to their very first conversation, as unpleasant as it was.

Now they share more than a knowledge of mindless melee games, or even a time period.

Their brotherhood is sealed in blood.]

[slushfund]

(what ifs will kill them if they aren't careful. hiruma has made it a goal to ignore the irrational part of him, the part telling him that what he did wasn't alright, that he should have been ready, that this is his fault. but he often finds himself thinking that it could be the rational part he's been shirking off. that it's the saner part.

right now all he knows is that he's alive. fucking alive.)

How long have you been at this, Millstone?

(it's far from judgemental, stepping in so his body can adjust to a cooler temperature in the room, taking a deep, deep breath to calm down the almost laborious panting. it's an honest question, curious as to how he's doing. probing for answers is all he can really manage right now. maybe later there can be unfettered communication.)

It's late.

(hypocrite.)

here we go ... starting with a late night kitchen raid r u ready

[assent]

[ It's actually the middle of the night when she sneaks into the kitchens, Cham-P and San-D on her shoulders as she peeks around the door in her PJs. Her hair is pulled up into a bun, but as she's been training during the day as well, she's burned off more than she's eaten which is why the late night hunger strikes. Since the magitek was updated too, she's been eager to see what kind of surprises lie in wait on this new app called "tekflex".

Hence the idea of grabbing snacks for some late night watching came to mind. Plus, she needs seeds for the hamsters. Ah.

San-D dives to the side to hit the light switch, and Sonia tenses up expecting someone to be there to tell her off -- instead a roast pig seems to be sitting on one counter with two bbq sticks, and on another counter is bread. ]

I wonder who left these here?

[ Seeing the coast is clear though, she steps towards the fridge and takes a look inside. The bread looks tempting, but it isn't what she had in mind. ]

this is adorable... i'm not ready

[slushfund]

(hiruma left those there, early morning appetite insatiable after the amount of working out he'd done before his shower. now, in plain sweatpants and a plainer t-shirt, hair a fluffy, styleless mess, he bites into his creation and jerks bodily at the sound of the fridge. holy shit.

not being the only one in here makes his personality take a one-eighty, perturbed enough to hold his barbecue pork sandwich closer, peering around into the kitchen from the darker hallway. at the sight of blonde hair, hiruma's shoulders drop out of their hitch, mentally berating himself with a caustic mutter. time to stop being a fucking coward and straighten up, spine bending out of its defensive curve.

stepping into the fluorescent light of the kitchen, the quarterback hails his friend.)

Nevermind. I didn't take you to be an insomniac too, on top of your myriad fucking skills.

you will never be ready [puffs up]

[assent]

[ She's picking out odd bits of fruit and chocolates or at least things that look like they'd pass as sweet desserts when she hears his voice. She almost slips on the floor, banging her hip into the fridge door when she whips around like a deer caught in headlights. ]

Fuc--! [ She cuts herself off midway though, her freehand moving to her hand to stop herself. ]

I apologise, I did not see you there. I must have been hungrier than I had originally thought... Though I am afraid I get less sleep than people probably realise.

[ n i g h t m a r e s are a bitch ]

wildcards you in your own log

[competing]

[ they all have their own ways of handling things.

lance, for the most part, had been blissfully distracted up until the week after the big party, when it became clearer and clearer that this break in between missions is truly just that — a break. he hadn't been here for the mission previous, but after arriving in the middle of that timeline bug incident, he'd sort of expected one hot mess after another.

turns out he can't even rely on that.

distractions were imminent. days spent puttering around the kitchens, trying to recreate many of his mother and hunk's recipes (to varying degrees of success). others he'd spent in the hot springs, attempting to indulge in a luxury his guilty mind never let him truly enjoy. then some days he spent here, in the training center, away from the watchful eyes of his fellow paladins, and even his mentors. he wasn't really looking for instruction or advice, though maybe he should have given he hadn't really had much of a chance to practice even in perdition's rest...

as it is, all he was really interested in was the doing. in picking that pistol up, in taking aim on a target twenty, thirty feet away. feeling the kickback of the gun on his shoulder, a distant echo from the one he feels with his rifle. he hasn't summoned his bayard since perdition's rest. a part of him doesn't even feel like he can. ]

i apologize for the late, slams into this

[slushfund]

(the training room's frequented by hiruma, who has nothing else to do. he hasn't made many connections here and, whether that's by his own lack of trying or that's just his personality spooking people away from his side, he's not too sure why. always been a bit of a loner outside of his field of experience, but it's dawning on him now — there's no way to survive in this place and on the next mission without some acquaintances.

which isn't why spotting lance working hard at his target practice makes him flatten himself to the door just outside and feel that knee-jerk urge to avoid. that's his anti-social personality leaving him high and dry, having caused himself far too much trouble already. but this is a child's response. all they did was make shadow puppets and mock one another. they didn't kill two bandits together. they didn't leave them there in the dirt to save their own hides.

get in there, comes the demanding thought that unravels the wire from his legs and pushes him forward into the room, talk to someone.)

Look what the cat dragged in. (volume high, reaching just over the reverberation of the pistol's latest shot, refusing to chat on someone's backswing — he doesn't exactly know how to make this anything but playful, but the tone's lacking a significant amount of bite.) Just how long have you been in here wasting ammo, ah?

(flanking him, careful not to get anywhere near the gun or the shooter; he's done this before, even back home. careful walking in, careful walking out. his own assault rifle, beaten and scuffed though it is, is something he's relied on for far too long. but it works, it still has ammunition, and it reminds him of home.)

Have you hit anything yet?

now it is i who must apologize ;n;

[competing]

[ lance wasn't expecting the company, but despite that and having retreated into the center for some solitude, he isn't unwelcome to it. he never is, really. even if it's hiruma, though it helps that their last interaction, at least in comparison to everything else since then, had been relatively harmless, despite the frustrations of the moment.

he never even got the guy's name, now that he thinks about it. ]

See for yourself.

[ his tone is quiet, a lot more sullen than his usual bouts of energy, and it lacks a similar bite as well as a certain amount of boastfulness that might come in typically with a sentence like that. should hiruma look, he'll find that many of lance's shots actually hit quite close to the bullseye, with one or two actually making its mark. he can make the shot, he knows he can, but his heart isn't quite in it, so many bullets are wasted to the mere action than the intent itself.

he arches a brow at hiruma. ]

Were you gonna use the space?