riverviewlogs | got caught up again

Entry tags:

got caught up again

who: Anderson and you, hopefully! Open!
what: Anderson tries to adjust after arrival. Prompts for floor 10 in the communal housing, the shooting range, and shopping. Also feel free to respond with anything! She's on the police force so any potential coworkers have an easy way to run into her, or be doing something suspicious and she'll investigate. Additionally, I have no attachment to prose, so please feel free to switch to brackets.
when: Various
where: Various
warnings: She is telepathic and empathic, although not very aggressive with it. But please fill out her permissions before threading!

    > FLOOR 10

Anderson is an astonishingly easy roommate to adjust to. It might even take a while to realize she's there. She's used to Spartan living, and it shows: she never leaves traces of her presence around in the communal areas, and she cleans up after herself promptly, immediately. That doesn't mean she's a hermit. She's morbidly interested in meeting all of her roommates, just not quite forward enough to seek them out in a concerted fashion.

But feel free to describe something they would be doing on an average day, and perhaps they could run into each other.

    > SHOOTING RANGE

About the only place she still wears her Judge's armor now is the shooting range, where she goes to clear her mind and practice with the local firearms. She intends to get up to snuff on every single weapons comp there is, as one of the only remaining things that she considers inside her comfort zone. Some part of her relaxes just to be back in the uniform with a gun in her hands.

Anderson has never considered herself one of those Judges that can't turn off when they're off the job, but she's starting to realize that only works in comparison to other Judges. Not in comparison to average citizens, or at least not the ones here. She feels completely unmoored, at a loss, pretending she knows what she's doing as she's had to pretend so often before. When she's really having a hard time adjusting, she uses her Lawgiver, keeps up on pure target practice. She's frighteningly efficient, and she doesn't practice only kill shots; she fires to disable as often as to kill.

The new weaponry takes more concentration, but is enjoyable in its own way. She can be found several days a week practicing, if not shooting then stances, smooth reloading, safe carrying positions. She's thorough.

    > SHOPPING

Easily the strangest part of her week is shopping. Anderson's prior shopping experiences have been starkly divided: the dim memories of her childhood in the poorest slums of the city, where her parents could barely afford anything and shopping was fast, sparse; and the luxuries she used her tiny disposable income on as an academy student, the Hall of Justice providing everything she needed to live and nothing more, same as a military cadet. Those were a chance to breathe, an excuse to get out and be among the people she wanted to protect as much as it was to fulfill the purpose of shopping.

Here, in the Quarantine, she is here to shop. She needs clothes. Toiletries. Cooking supplies. Books to read-- for pleasure. It's a bit overwhelming, truth told, not in the scope but just in the mundanity of it. Anderson had gone from poor mutie to terrifying Judge with nothing in-between, and suddenly being thrust into average daily life is a bit baffling. She doesn't dislike it, though. She enjoys the chance to see life from a new angle, appreciates the amount of decisions she can make with no consideration for regulations or for anyone else. She can take her time, since she's still in training at police headquarters and hasn't shifted to a full time schedule yet.

She had to rent a car for the day in order to have somewhere to stash all her purchases. Circumspect and restrained, she doesn't have a ton of them, but here and there she can be found poking through more feminine shopping areas, makeup or jewelry or sundresses, pondering. It's not a part of herself she's ever really considered before, usually on the defensive or the offensive, never just herself, and she's curious.

For about a week, you can run into her shopping for just about anything, poking around in interest even if she has no intent to buy.

Threaded | Flat

[Even though Bucky is efficient and well trained with weapons, he doesn't come to the shooting range in order to practise. He does that elsewhere, somewhere less public. He comes here to see who else comes here, to scout out the different people and their varying skill levels.

It's the first time he's seen her, either she's new here or she's just started learning. Definitely the first one now that he's seen her practise. He doesn't approach her, he's not even visible as he's sitting up on the roof of the gun shack, but he doesn't know that she can probably feel him there with her abilities.

Just watching like a creeper.]

[She hasn't practiced in awhile. Certainly not since she arrived in Riverview, anyway, which was an oversight in and of itself. She'd been busy attending to other matters; namely, researching whatever she could find about this place and its history, gathering insight from other arrivals, and having an existential crisis over the realization that magical portals, God and the Devil all existed.

Yeah. It's been a long week.

Which is mainly how she finds herself at the range that day. It's good practice, but more than that, it's a distraction. A way to let out the frenetic energy coiling tightly in her muscles. When she shoots, she can let everything fall away for a moment, until there's nothing but her and the target. A deadly kind of calm that radiates throughout her entire body.

She's just shot her target full of holes when she eases back, her shoulders relaxing as she allows herself a moment to rest.]

[Sora hadn't run into most of the people he was apparently rooming with and that had a lot to do with the fact that he hadn't spent much time on floor 10 yet. He'd been running around trying to figure things out, exploring and attempting to get his bearings that he had slept in his bed and promptly left when he woke up.

There had definitely been some greetings shared but that was the extent of it.

For the first time since arriving the young man can be found sitting on the floor of the common area, one of his keyblades resting on his lap as he toys with the keychain hanging off the handle. He's clearly lost in thought, the fact that he was actually alone here and had no idea where his friends were weighing heavily on him. Were they alright? Were the worlds alright? He'd been told why people ended up here but that didn't make sense. He'd never felt like that...had he?]

Chandra glances over at the newcomer with a smile as she loads a wooden target onto the belt to lead it back to the furthest distance it could go. Chandra stood out, just a bit. Wild red hair, big amber eyes, casually dressed in some green printed wraps. Orange welding goggles that didn't go with the green wraps.

Not having any weapon at all near her. That probably was the biggest one. Chandra's definitely excited about being here. As she forms five marble sized fireballs in her hand that shoot for her target one after another. Quick deadly little balls that group near the center... but are each off from the mark by a few inches. She squints down the path gallery corridor, "That's way better than last time!"

Chandra may be a bit out of practice with accuracy, too focused on going for bigger and meaner fireballs in her life. Or, you know, trying not to set things on fire.

[The first day, Quentin had spent in the bright sterile hospital, unconscious at first while the doctor and nurses hurried to purge his lungs of river water and pull him back from the blackness he had welcomed like salvation, and then awake and dazed by the suddenness with which life was thrust back upon him. Now on the second day, he is out and little less dazed, as much by the novelty of his surroundings as by his predicament.

On his route from the hospital to the building in which he was told he ought to settle, he had bought for himself a simple breakfast of bread and hard boiled egg, but when the noon dinner hour comes he finds himself at a loss for what to do without dining hall or the servant-driven clockwork of his family's home to depend upon. And so, when Anderson comes through the large kitchen, she will find Quentin peering cautiously into a cupboard here or a drawer there, looking out of place as does one shoved into clothing that is not his own.]

[ It's still morning when Anderson may walk into the kitchen area, finding a familiar teenager lingering at a counter. The coffee maker is brewing, at least, so he's clearly up to something. Whether he hears her footsteps first or spots her out of the corners of his eyes, it doesn't take long before Yuuto glances over his shoulder.

His eyebrows raise in mild surprise—he hadn't expected to see Anderson come through this floor, quite honestly—but his greeting is as nonchalant as ever: ]

Mornin'.

[Terra's been something of a skittish roommate lately. He'd started to settle in a little after his first month here in the Quarantine, but now he's right back to being restless, uneasy in his comings and goings.

When he shows up, it's usually late in the evening to haul himself to the bathroom for a shower, to the kitchen for a quick meal, and then straight to bed.

Every once in a while, he spends an hour sitting out on the balcony, whittling some small piece of wood into a rough shape, a star or a skeleton key or a fish, or skimming the words in one book or another without really reading them.

He always takes his leave again well before dawn.

He still makes sure to smile and nod at roommates when he runs into them, though. They're not all the same roommates he had a month ago. Many of those people are gone, returned to their respective worlds by the portal. Terra wonders how many more will go back. (How many more have anything to go back to?) But he doesn't ask after anyone's plans anymore, and in stark contrast to what was an apparent fascination with the subject during the first few weeks of his stay, he avoids talking about going home as much as possible now.

This is it for him, this life here. This is all that's left. Probably.

Probably.

His most recent return to the tenth floor sees him slouched in a chair pulled into one corner of the kitchen. A bucket of soapy water rests at his feet, his metal and glass helmet in his hands. He works over the helmet with an old rag, trying to scrub a web made out of a thick, tar-like substance off the metal. He's not having a whole lot of success with that, as is suggested by the low set of his eyebrows and the slight purse of his lips, a look of intense concentration that is slowly but surely giving way to frustration. Why won't this mess wash off?

He doesn't lift his head when he senses someone there, but he does offer a greeting, his voice picking up a friendly tone easily despite the circumstances.]

Good evening. There's tea on the stove if you'd like a cup and I bought a tin of cookies... [A pause and he glances up briefly to find where he put it.] On the counter there.

Her lungs burn as she heaves in her breaths, the muscles of her legs and arms singing with tension as she refuses to let them go. Anderson is damned if she'll back down from the first real challenge she's had since coming here, the first person to push her this far. She's used to being pushed-- Judge training is nothing if not merciless-- and failure does not dissuade her. It's not that she's perfect, or the fastest or the strongest or essentially the best at anything, but she doesn't give up.

This is what she wants to do with her life, protect people, and she'll work as hard as she has to to do that. She knows she has to be better than those she goes up against, because the first goal of any protector is to not die. If she's dead, everything she's trying to do dies with her. That's not her being conceited, it's just a fact. She has to keep going every time she stumbles, every time she misses some particular trick he wants her to learn, something that takes far more finesse than she's ever been called upon to do before. Judges get trained to a pretty high standard, but they're blunt, battering rams compared to the deftness of her trainer's fingers as he reloads or flicks away a cartridge. Nothing glamorous about it, pure functionality only. Everything efficient.

Anderson shines under it. Not literally-- she's sweating, hair in ragged clumps from the perspiration, has dirt smeared across her face from falls or slides through the brush. Her legs are trembling but her hands are rock steady. She is so focused and intent the rest of the world has ceased to exist. It's all burned out of her: there's no room left for worrying over the differences here, no space remaining to wonder if she belongs in Mega-City One after all. Her doubts have evaporated into the pure simplicity of again, again, again.

It spills out of her lips, too. "Again?" she asks, breathless, mindless with the repetition. She can't fathom a time when they'll stop.

She has no clue how many hours it's been already, but at least three. It has to be.

[ Anderson is exactly where she said she'd be, at the time she said she would be there-- she's dependable that way. And she is, in fact, a short blonde woman with a bulky pistol on her hip, stark and blatant over her plain hoodie and jeans.

Garrus is nothing if not obvious as one of the few non-humans walking around, and her eyebrows are up as they get nearer to one another. ]

I see you weren't kidding about the different planet thing.

Threaded | Flat

shooting range

shooting range

Floor 10

Shooting Range

floor 10 | cw: vague allusions to suicide

floor ten

floor 10

no subject

no subject