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Entry tags:
( CLOSED ) two wrongs don't make a right
Who: Koujaku (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kaba) & Makoto Tachibana (cordated)
When: IC 12/19
Where: CERES Gymnasium
What: It's like the beginning of Sharknado: a fateful encounter rife with off-kilter misconceptions, mutual awkwardness, and plenty of swimming.
Rating/Warning: None.
Like every campy horror flick ever, Makoto's day starts out at the pool, because it's not like him to break habit even after the veritable apocalypse reduces his world to yet another universe caught in the great matrix of digital code and insanity. Maybe he should've specifically requested that they reassembled him with a strong backbone, but it's hard to be sensible when he's borderline-distraught and disinclined to be cross-examined for another five seconds, let alone five minutes by robots with clipboards and cold steel innards in lieu of sincere emotional empathy. His nebulous fear with anything with remote relation to the uncanny valley doesn't help with adjusting, but his friends have been expedient in speeding up the orientation to their current state of affairs.
It's the weekend and he's headed down to the pool. The rest of his classmates are presumably occupying themselves with other normalized affairs, and he can't get Haru out of the tub for anything today, which isn't as much disappointing as it falls to expectation that he likes languishing in stagnant bodies of water for hours on end just to, purportedly, "feel it touch him". In full expectation of finding a desiccated human prune upon his return, he left several towels and a stockpile of fish from the grocery store two blocks over; after his last attempt at cooking, he'd been effectively banned from the kitchen.
The trip is mostly uneventful, save for the part where a fire hydrant malfunctions and attempts to preemptively drench him, along with several other hapless pedestrians, in water. He leaves unscathed, but a good quarter of the crowd are left soaked, which sends their CYbuddies on the fritz, yapping after cars and tackling apartment complexes in a dogged attempt to scratch bizarre symbols into the walls. Attempts to keep them from committing arbitrary acts of vandalism prove futile, so he dials in the fire station on his CereVice and eventually continues on.
After reaching the gym for a cursory change in the weight room, he's trekked out to the lap pool for a few turns. At such an early hour (in winter, no less), there aren't many people out in the morning, so he takes position smack-dab in the middle of the largest one and gets into position before vaulting off. It's nice just falling back into a familiar rhythm, swimming without necessarily paying attention to times or the anxiety that threatens to burgeon into cloying doubts whenever he meditates too long on what's become of his family, the rest of his friends, his current predicament and every concern he's since deserted at the wayside.
And that's an inherently hazardous state of thinking because he's effectively zoned out to the rest of his surroundings, which makes the precipitous splash into the water beside him just white noise, inconsequential until there's something clamping its mouth around his ankle, and then he's —
"Wah ... — !"
... promptly dragged down under.
kaba) & Makoto Tachibana (cordated)When: IC 12/19
Where: CERES Gymnasium
What: It's like the beginning of Sharknado: a fateful encounter rife with off-kilter misconceptions, mutual awkwardness, and plenty of swimming.
Rating/Warning: None.
Like every campy horror flick ever, Makoto's day starts out at the pool, because it's not like him to break habit even after the veritable apocalypse reduces his world to yet another universe caught in the great matrix of digital code and insanity. Maybe he should've specifically requested that they reassembled him with a strong backbone, but it's hard to be sensible when he's borderline-distraught and disinclined to be cross-examined for another five seconds, let alone five minutes by robots with clipboards and cold steel innards in lieu of sincere emotional empathy. His nebulous fear with anything with remote relation to the uncanny valley doesn't help with adjusting, but his friends have been expedient in speeding up the orientation to their current state of affairs.
It's the weekend and he's headed down to the pool. The rest of his classmates are presumably occupying themselves with other normalized affairs, and he can't get Haru out of the tub for anything today, which isn't as much disappointing as it falls to expectation that he likes languishing in stagnant bodies of water for hours on end just to, purportedly, "feel it touch him". In full expectation of finding a desiccated human prune upon his return, he left several towels and a stockpile of fish from the grocery store two blocks over; after his last attempt at cooking, he'd been effectively banned from the kitchen.
The trip is mostly uneventful, save for the part where a fire hydrant malfunctions and attempts to preemptively drench him, along with several other hapless pedestrians, in water. He leaves unscathed, but a good quarter of the crowd are left soaked, which sends their CYbuddies on the fritz, yapping after cars and tackling apartment complexes in a dogged attempt to scratch bizarre symbols into the walls. Attempts to keep them from committing arbitrary acts of vandalism prove futile, so he dials in the fire station on his CereVice and eventually continues on.
After reaching the gym for a cursory change in the weight room, he's trekked out to the lap pool for a few turns. At such an early hour (in winter, no less), there aren't many people out in the morning, so he takes position smack-dab in the middle of the largest one and gets into position before vaulting off. It's nice just falling back into a familiar rhythm, swimming without necessarily paying attention to times or the anxiety that threatens to burgeon into cloying doubts whenever he meditates too long on what's become of his family, the rest of his friends, his current predicament and every concern he's since deserted at the wayside.
And that's an inherently hazardous state of thinking because he's effectively zoned out to the rest of his surroundings, which makes the precipitous splash into the water beside him just white noise, inconsequential until there's something clamping its mouth around his ankle, and then he's —
"Wah ... — !"
... promptly dragged down under.