Schuldig (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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route_10652014-04-24 10:58 am
aufsassig) wrote in route_10652014-04-24 10:58 am
Entry tags:
She said I don't mind, if you don't mind
Who: Schuldig (aufsassig) and anyone who stops by!
Where: Around on Route 34 and Goldenrod City
When: Thursday, April 24
Summary: The lack of mental chatter in the city is starting to get to Schuldig, so he goes looking for someplace a little noisier — and finds it in the tall grass.
Rating: G to PG?
Log:
[It's been the better part of a week now, and Schuldig's telepathy is still on the fritz (although not on the Fritz, which he would argue is precisely the existing problem if he were the sort to make stupid puns, which he's not — usually), and that bothers him. In his experience, the only times a psychic has ever been cut off from their abilities is when there's someone out there actively blocking them from it, and it's bad enough an implication that there's someone out there cutting him off at all; worse still, he doesn't actually know who's doing it, which makes resolving that little complication a hell of a lot more difficult.
What he's been surprised to find, though, is that it still works fine around the animals. It's too quiet in the base with all the people floating around like enigmas to him, and the few animals he's run across in there have all had a sort of unsettling undercurrent in their thoughts — love the team, support the team, fight for the team, all glory to the team. The degree to which he can sense it tends to vary based on the animal, but it's always there, even in his own organization-given rascals.
There used to be an old saying around school, about never trusting a gun that someone else handed you. He assumes the same probably goes for — what did they call them? Pokemon. That's not to say the gun isn't useful, or that you ought to throw it away instead of making your life a little easier (and someone else's a little shorter) with it. You just...never forget where it came from, that's all.
That means a team of his own. One he makes himself, not one he's given. Crawford would approve of that, right?
And that's how he'd discovered that it's actually quite a soothing place to be, out in the tall grass on Route 34; there's a brace of trees on one side and the faint rushing of the ocean on the other, but amidst the rustling of the tall blades in the afternoon breezes, there's a bright clamor of minds all chattering away. The noise makes the world feel a little less empty and dead, and even when they encroach in on his thoughts, it's never hard to distinguish between himself and some dopey beaver rustling around for twigs. It's telepathic white noise, filled with simple desires and instinctive aims, and it's soothing. Bless that overhead sun; he'll stay out here all day.
...He's also got his Team-given Abra out, and in between his busy schedule of sunning himself and reading magazines he probably stole from inside the Base, he's lazily pitting her against whatever wild Pokemon might happen to drift their way — or whatever wild Pokemon he decides to compel to drift her way, because the little darling needs the practice, and you don't get stronger without effort and a healthy dose of anxiety and terror inflicted by your superiors.
And that's where you'll find Schuldig today — either soaking up the sun out on the Route as his budding collection of Psychic-types gradually grows, or wandering around through the city in the late afternoon, looking altogether pleased with himself (and fortunately not sunburned) as he surveys the wares in the windows of the shops in town and strongly considers buying himself an ice cream on his way back to the barracks.]
aufsassig) and anyone who stops by!Where: Around on Route 34 and Goldenrod City
When: Thursday, April 24
Summary: The lack of mental chatter in the city is starting to get to Schuldig, so he goes looking for someplace a little noisier — and finds it in the tall grass.
Rating: G to PG?
Log:
[It's been the better part of a week now, and Schuldig's telepathy is still on the fritz (although not on the Fritz, which he would argue is precisely the existing problem if he were the sort to make stupid puns, which he's not — usually), and that bothers him. In his experience, the only times a psychic has ever been cut off from their abilities is when there's someone out there actively blocking them from it, and it's bad enough an implication that there's someone out there cutting him off at all; worse still, he doesn't actually know who's doing it, which makes resolving that little complication a hell of a lot more difficult.
What he's been surprised to find, though, is that it still works fine around the animals. It's too quiet in the base with all the people floating around like enigmas to him, and the few animals he's run across in there have all had a sort of unsettling undercurrent in their thoughts — love the team, support the team, fight for the team, all glory to the team. The degree to which he can sense it tends to vary based on the animal, but it's always there, even in his own organization-given rascals.
There used to be an old saying around school, about never trusting a gun that someone else handed you. He assumes the same probably goes for — what did they call them? Pokemon. That's not to say the gun isn't useful, or that you ought to throw it away instead of making your life a little easier (and someone else's a little shorter) with it. You just...never forget where it came from, that's all.
That means a team of his own. One he makes himself, not one he's given. Crawford would approve of that, right?
And that's how he'd discovered that it's actually quite a soothing place to be, out in the tall grass on Route 34; there's a brace of trees on one side and the faint rushing of the ocean on the other, but amidst the rustling of the tall blades in the afternoon breezes, there's a bright clamor of minds all chattering away. The noise makes the world feel a little less empty and dead, and even when they encroach in on his thoughts, it's never hard to distinguish between himself and some dopey beaver rustling around for twigs. It's telepathic white noise, filled with simple desires and instinctive aims, and it's soothing. Bless that overhead sun; he'll stay out here all day.
...He's also got his Team-given Abra out, and in between his busy schedule of sunning himself and reading magazines he probably stole from inside the Base, he's lazily pitting her against whatever wild Pokemon might happen to drift their way — or whatever wild Pokemon he decides to compel to drift her way, because the little darling needs the practice, and you don't get stronger without effort and a healthy dose of anxiety and terror inflicted by your superiors.
And that's where you'll find Schuldig today — either soaking up the sun out on the Route as his budding collection of Psychic-types gradually grows, or wandering around through the city in the late afternoon, looking altogether pleased with himself (and fortunately not sunburned) as he surveys the wares in the windows of the shops in town and strongly considers buying himself an ice cream on his way back to the barracks.]
no subject
He laughs] What kind of asshole wears a white suit? You friends with Colonel fuckin Sanders?
But hell, around now, anybody who knows Pulp Fiction is something other than a shelf in the bookstore is fine by me, no matter how they dress. ]
Contract work? You look even less like a construction worker than you do a florist.
no subject
[And doesn't that sound familiar...]
Most of the time I keep them from getting shot.
no subject
He shoots his companion an incredulous work.] You serious? No offense, buddy, but it's hard to imagine you holding an AK-47.
[There's a whole lot of things this guy doesn't look like.
A memory pops up.] Must be a more common line of work than I thought. I had a guy telling me that the other day.
no subject
You sure you're not just trying to make me jealous?
[He chuckles as they walk along, idly watching the ground until he finds a small, palm-sized stone that suits his needs. Then, almost whimsically, he scoops it up and tosses it once or twice to test out the weight.]
I'm a Sig Sauer kind of Kraut, anyway.
[He says, pitching the rock and nailing a target tree branch with surprising accuracy from a fair distance away.]
no subject
[He watches with curiosity as Dietrich stops to pick up a rock. He lets out a low whistle when it smacks the distant tree.] Not bad.
[A hint of challenge comes into his voice.] Guns are a whole lot different than rocks, though.
no subject
[He says, and flashes a shit-eating grin once he's sufficiently echoed Blake's own first words back at him.]
I'd still buy him lunch, though.
no subject
[no he didn't]
Lunch isn't much to pay for a little entertainment.
no subject
[No, he's not.]
I just don't trust open channels, you know? Especially when I didn't know who might've been listening in yet — or who might've recognized my name before I recognized them.
[Damn, what a good story. Listen to him go; Crawford would be shaking his head, the bastard, but inward he'd be cackling.]
Wish they had a shooting range around here, but I haven't seen one of those, either.
no subject
[Inwardly, he's impressed. Most people around here don't think that far ahead.]
Hell, I guess nobody's told you the news. No weapons around here. Never seen anything that comes close to looking like a gun, and even knives don't keep an edge for shit.
[He jerks his head towards his bat.] Get used to relying on these guys to get anything done.
[The animals aren't so bad, but come to think of it, god, he misses the bark of his SIG Sauer at the range. There's nothing like the power of a piece in your hand. Yelling at a bat to bite somebody just isn't the same. Makes you feel less like a badass and more like middle management.]
no subject
He's keeping this one, all right.]
I'd heard that. I was holding out the hope that somebody was playing a sick joke on the new guy.
[... c: ]
I'm gonna be pissed if my aim goes to shit for lack of practice, let me tell you.
no subject
No such luck.
If you think anybody's bullshitting you about the rules around here, ask a native. They're not bright enough to make anything up.
[That's a troubling thought. Fuck, Blake's probably gotten rusty by now.
He gives a careless tough-guy wave of his hand.]
Nah. All you gotta do is remember that you squeeze the trigger instead of yelling, 'Gun, use Bullet on Methhead!'