another stupid-looking kid. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
impulsors) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
overjoyed_logs2017-03-01 03:56 am
impulsors) wrote in overjoyed_logs2017-03-01 03:56 am
[ closed ] let's get this over with, so i can focus on other tasks!
Who: keith & shiro.
Where: old town.
When: w5d5.
Summary: keith visits a new friend. yes. that is what's happening here. he definitely knows this guy's name and isn't breaking a window to rifle through a stranger's flat.
Restrictions/Warnings: n/a. not even proper violence.
[ reality check: shiro is boring.
four mornings in a row, he wakes at 0700 to the third chime of his alarm. he lives in a grime-mortared tenement that's running short on letterboxes and leaves most of his mail on what passes for the stoop in a building with more bodies than beds, up for any straying hand to snatch away. from 0800 to 1900, he makes winding rounds about old town in a sequence of battered rat-traps, licensed to the company decades ago and long-due for a pasture, a parking lot, or maybe just a merciful trash compactor. his rides are practically indistinguishable: rounded suburban four-doors with gleaming roofs and paint worn to bare metal, each armed with a chugging engine whose talents seem to lie in (1) matching the speed limit to a hair and (2) offending keith to his marrows as a result. he signals before each lane change and leaves half a car's worth of distance between bumper and fender -- except during traffic, when the distance narrows to a quarter-span. on duty, he drives like someone who's never had, or inspired, an interesting thought in his life. possibly since before conception.
("takashi shirogane," keith sounds it out to a railing later, a pawned electricity bill smooth in one hand -- but no fever, no spark comes sputtering back. nothing but the dust on his tongue and the ache of adrenaline sinking to stillness.)
nothing in the routine suggests bait, instigator or striking match. there's no clue at all. five days spent shadowing him is six too slow -- and the reality is this: nobody's going to care about a few crumbs of broken glass in a complex that seems to have pawned its fire escapes along with its sense of color decades ago. reality is the uncomfortable squelching thought at the back of his skull that he's dragging this out to --
to do what?
in the end, he does the practical thing. because keith isn't stupid: this isn't a warrant -- this skirts the edges of a company matter, and he's got nothing weighing on his side but gut surety and an old echo twisting salt at the back of his throat. it doesn't matter. there's always a drainpipe and a toe's worth of ledge somewhere, convenient combinations for a boy with quick footing. and if nothing else, shiro's shown himself to be a man for schedules. midday means that he won't be back for seven hours -- more, if another riot swells. keith only needs half of one.
and so: on a fine, hazy noon, drifting above childish screeches, caws, and the idle hawking cries of oldtown shopkeepers -- there's the shimmering little crack of a window shattering. ]
Where: old town.
When: w5d5.
Summary: keith visits a new friend. yes. that is what's happening here. he definitely knows this guy's name and isn't breaking a window to rifle through a stranger's flat.
Restrictions/Warnings: n/a. not even proper violence.
[ reality check: shiro is boring.
four mornings in a row, he wakes at 0700 to the third chime of his alarm. he lives in a grime-mortared tenement that's running short on letterboxes and leaves most of his mail on what passes for the stoop in a building with more bodies than beds, up for any straying hand to snatch away. from 0800 to 1900, he makes winding rounds about old town in a sequence of battered rat-traps, licensed to the company decades ago and long-due for a pasture, a parking lot, or maybe just a merciful trash compactor. his rides are practically indistinguishable: rounded suburban four-doors with gleaming roofs and paint worn to bare metal, each armed with a chugging engine whose talents seem to lie in (1) matching the speed limit to a hair and (2) offending keith to his marrows as a result. he signals before each lane change and leaves half a car's worth of distance between bumper and fender -- except during traffic, when the distance narrows to a quarter-span. on duty, he drives like someone who's never had, or inspired, an interesting thought in his life. possibly since before conception.
("takashi shirogane," keith sounds it out to a railing later, a pawned electricity bill smooth in one hand -- but no fever, no spark comes sputtering back. nothing but the dust on his tongue and the ache of adrenaline sinking to stillness.)
nothing in the routine suggests bait, instigator or striking match. there's no clue at all. five days spent shadowing him is six too slow -- and the reality is this: nobody's going to care about a few crumbs of broken glass in a complex that seems to have pawned its fire escapes along with its sense of color decades ago. reality is the uncomfortable squelching thought at the back of his skull that he's dragging this out to --
to do what?
in the end, he does the practical thing. because keith isn't stupid: this isn't a warrant -- this skirts the edges of a company matter, and he's got nothing weighing on his side but gut surety and an old echo twisting salt at the back of his throat. it doesn't matter. there's always a drainpipe and a toe's worth of ledge somewhere, convenient combinations for a boy with quick footing. and if nothing else, shiro's shown himself to be a man for schedules. midday means that he won't be back for seven hours -- more, if another riot swells. keith only needs half of one.
and so: on a fine, hazy noon, drifting above childish screeches, caws, and the idle hawking cries of oldtown shopkeepers -- there's the shimmering little crack of a window shattering. ]
no subject
. . . I'll call next time.
no subject
Before breaking in?
no subject
[ he's never hung out with anyone who wasn't a killjoy. he's barely hung out with the killjoys. he used to loiter around the garages after hours with the few mechanics who'd stick around and split a few bottles of hokk among themselves in back, but does that really count? ]
I don't know if friends let friends freeze to death, though.
no subject
Well, we can't really have that, can we?
[ but he's holding out two hands.
one for his pdd, and another for a wooden board. ]
no subject
gives him the pdd, i guess. just that, though. ]
no subject
waggles his fingers??? ]
I'm going to need some wood.
no subject
[ as he goes darkly to play fetch. what a good boy. ]
no subject
but rather than wait around, he's heading for the toolbox. ]
Would you like me to hold it still? You can hammer it in.
[ THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID ]
no subject
[ this icon is for you, in reality keith's already wandering back to try to figure out where to position his wood.
in before the inevitable line, GO THE FUCK TO BED. ]
They don't exactly send us out to do repairs -- and you're the one who's gonna have to live with it.
no subject
you're welcome. ]
. . . speaking of sending you out, whatever happened to the man you turned in a couple weeks ago?
no subject
It was a retrieval. I gave him to the client.
no subject
Are . . . your retrievals always that exciting?
no subject
[ a pause, dangling and curling as shiro patiently hammers in nail after nail in little precise taps. is this small talk? is he supposed to say more? ]
. . . and they definitely don't put up a fight over the really small stuff.
[ there. he's done his part. ]