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. ]
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