andampersandampersand

[andampersandampersand]

Grey eyes stare placidly, a boring gaze that never lets up, hardly even blinks, as they give time for her end of the conversation to finish. Their replies, their responses, all things can wait; he is patient enough for that, for some minor rambling in a benign bit of small talk to run its course, lengthy as she makes it out to be. His thoughts could wait a lifetime to be spoken. Some already had.

"I am glad, as truly as it can be stated. The City is a rather dangerous place, isn't it? Thus, I am glad to know you would be willing to aid in my self-defenses." They allow a brief chortle, before continuing, "I am also glad to hear you do not overestimate yourself, such things can kill faster than weaponry. Or words, as you mentioned. I must agree with the sentiment, of course, words can be lethal. I've seen as much myself, and felt firsthand the slings of a command, what do you think ended me up like this?" They waft a hand over themself in a vague gesture, referring to no singular area, obviously.

"Not to imply I know anything of reinforced insecurities, with that, I have no experience. But would you not define a given order as words one would to have been killed by?"

He either doesn't know, or is ignoring, whatever unspoken quarrel you and your (ex-)significant other have. Likely the former, they seem a touch too blunt and honest to be subtle or avoidant. Figures, for the antonyms those words are to each other.

"Might you permit me to disagree, however? It is a small thing of note, nothing important, I assure you, so fine it is to be ignored. If you'd please."

Something shatters, all too sharply, loud and abrasive and far closer to the ears than one would find appreciable. When it ends, almost as quick as it took to start or middle, there stands a man in the shards. He is tall-er, scarred enough to denote a line of work, and bearing a heavy coat that drapes around the ankles like a lead weight. Bumps shift unseen under the grey of their overcoat—aforeseen hydraulics, if a guess had to be made—as they turn and peer around about their surroundings. A long rifle, its axe head glimmering in daylight, swings from his back all the while. It threatens to chop his own head off, with what would be a relatively easeful, clean swipe.

"Nowhere I've been, for certain." He notes.

@lcbyuri

[andampersandampersand]

The prior blithe countenance that had remained slapdashed across the man's face for most the conversation withers in the instant she begins to sputter and struggle with her answer.

"My deepest apologies, yes, I wholeheartedly agree," They put a hand to their chest, in kind, sympathies written over their expression, "This must be no place for combat, I sincerely meant no offense or intention of endangering. There is no need for that, absolutely."

Suddenly planting a firm grip on the rifle's length, they partially lift the armament from its imposing situance upon the cloth and move it off the table, now instead leaning against its side. The axe head at its tip still leers over the horizon of an edge, along with a hefty, remaining span of wood and iron barrel. It's a long weapon, freakishly so, but it can be more easily ignored not lain overtop like a dead fish prepped for dissection, tail and head hanging over the cutting board's extent. The axe does glare at some angles, though.

Something shatters, all too sharply, loud and abrasive and far closer to the ears than one would find appreciable. When it ends, almost as quick as it took to start or middle, there stands a man in the shards. He is tall-er, scarred enough to denote a line of work, and bearing a heavy coat that drapes around the ankles like a lead weight. Bumps shift unseen under the grey of their overcoat—aforeseen hydraulics, if a guess had to be made—as they turn and peer around about their surroundings. A long rifle, its axe head glimmering in daylight, swings from his back all the while. It threatens to chop his own head off, with what would be a relatively easeful, clean swipe.

"Nowhere I've been, for certain." He notes.

@lcbyuri

[andampersandampersand]

He only utters a quieted response, "Thank you." Spoken towards the waiter alongside a subtle nod. The appetizers are pushed his way and the notion impressed upon his mind that he is being made an advance offer. So as to be polite, however, he only takes up a small breadstick before returning the favor and sliding the foods back towards Yuri.

"I suppose that would be, wouldn't it?" They rhetorically respond to her call of embarrassment. But, for the most part, their head merely bobs along, rising and falling with her words in a sine-like wave of generalist agreement.

Then, the tough questions begin. The real interrogative meat of the conversation, so to say.

"Me?"

A momentary lull in the chatter, a pause to think.

"Well, my name is; and, I am a grade four fixer. I don't believe it to be that I particularly like doing anything, I suppose, or I haven't for a long while." A small chortle, in attempt to lighten the words. They quickly sober, "I'm sorry, is that answer unsatisfactory? Please do tell if so, I am open to criticism, or further command. My usual orders are to carry out executions, as a polite manner of putting it, or to lift heavy loads through large warehouses. When the needs arise."

And to that end, he begins to shift, leaning forward with coat dragging against the underwhelmingly gaudy tiling. Their hands move behind, as their gun unclicks from whatever hold it had upon its make of sheath and turns about. He lays it, unceremoniously, on the table. It doesn't slam into it, for he doesn't drop it, and so there is no thud, only them simply sliding it over the tablecloth. It clatters quietly against silverware and plate. The domino effect clinks a bit of cutlery on that glass-encased candle or flower vase all good restaurants have at their table's center.

"Allow myself demonstration, yes? Name one."

Something shatters, all too sharply, loud and abrasive and far closer to the ears than one would find appreciable. When it ends, almost as quick as it took to start or middle, there stands a man in the shards. He is tall-er, scarred enough to denote a line of work, and bearing a heavy coat that drapes around the ankles like a lead weight. Bumps shift unseen under the grey of their overcoat—aforeseen hydraulics, if a guess had to be made—as they turn and peer around about their surroundings. A long rifle, its axe head glimmering in daylight, swings from his back all the while. It threatens to chop his own head off, with what would be a relatively easeful, clean swipe.

"Nowhere I've been, for certain." He notes.

@lcbyuri

[andampersandampersand]

Their empty eyes hold their gaze on hers for as long need be, till courteously flitting to match her glance at the empty seat of the table. It is a look made in more copying than curiosity, he had good enough memory of the chair last he saw it to need a double check now, mere moments later.

A nod follows her recounting. Yes, he thinks, that is something he said, isn't it? His Limbus Company. But next in her story comes something of the matter of love, unfamiliar and alien to them. So, he can only look on in mildly diffused, novel interest that plays across his face and down his neck to reach the arms. He leans forward, too, and lays his chin within the rest of his palm, a single pointer finger rising up to tap at a spot just left and upwards of his lips.

Allowing a lengthy pause, he seems a comfortable friend of solitude, and just before it can become an awkward moment of quiet, their thoughts finally coincide such to be vocalized and pick up where she leaves off. They think of their answer, that is to say.

"Not to force anything upon you—please do tell if I am overstepping—but wither your want to apologizing, miss. I haven't minded a single word out of yours since we took to first meeting, so I presume it must just be some anxious tick, yes?" He taps the butt-end of a fork on the tabletop to the sound of a quiet metal thudding, a euphemism, "Due pardon if that is an incorrect assumption, you know what they say of such things, but I felt with no prior impressions of me there may have been a need to clarify. Besides, if it is any comfort, I have killed a hundred men myself. Another story to add to that pile? Not unwelcome, if you'd like, but... aha, you understand."

With that forefronted note out of the way, laughter hollow as his gaze, they begin to regale Yuri with the tale of his Limbus Company. There was a Heathcliff! Yes! And a Gregor, even. Someone in redder garb than the rest, with a clock for a head, of whom they say they fought briefly in fisticuffs, and several runner-ups to their attention. He had caught every one of their names—from their coats, of course—even under the circumstances by which talk could not be openly perpetrated, or at least not easily. Providing a basic physical description of every person involved was (a breathless task, and) seemingly undemanding of his memory.

"It is a soldier's duty to remember the faces of those they kill," he grins, as if having just reminded an old friend of some only partially relevant inside joke of theirs, "Good soldiers never forget."

It is not hard to say that, yes, the Limbus Company they knew is not too far off from the one Yuri would be familiar with via the grapevine. Aside for the few, noted, stray comments, the breadth of his talks were saved for entirely physical recollections of each person involved, with no further divulgence of their actualized relations to the man. That is to say, in this summing up of their words, nothing of value was lost to translation.

Something shatters, all too sharply, loud and abrasive and far closer to the ears than one would find appreciable. When it ends, almost as quick as it took to start or middle, there stands a man in the shards. He is tall-er, scarred enough to denote a line of work, and bearing a heavy coat that drapes around the ankles like a lead weight. Bumps shift unseen under the grey of their overcoat—aforeseen hydraulics, if a guess had to be made—as they turn and peer around about their surroundings. A long rifle, its axe head glimmering in daylight, swings from his back all the while. It threatens to chop his own head off, with what would be a relatively easeful, clean swipe.

"Nowhere I've been, for certain." He notes.

@lcbyuri

[andampersandampersand]

The burdensome jacket swings with follow-through as he turns at heel, a full head's height above Yuri's. His eyes hold no shine, looking down at her, even in direct sight of the harsh fluorescents. Just greying orbs of dull matte. His hair makes for the same hues, darker tones hiding between dim blonde strands. They had a living, breathing body once, but only the machinery functions now, all else marching to the tune of entropic decay.

He follows her in prescribed silence, only the crunching underfoot of destroyed property as they pay heed to her little ramble. "I don't mind your speaking, are we not here to conversate? Never quiet yourself in my presence, please, if I may make that request so boldly." He does a small bow, as a show of good soldierhood.

Pulling the young lady's chair out for her, he notes, "I hardly make choices of those sorts myself these days. I have never minded, so such it is always okay."

Giving no credence to price or other trappings of that sort, they answer the small chat thusly, "I've been fine, work is as usual, my state remains unchanged. How of you? I'm sure your life must be of infinite more interest."

Something shatters, all too sharply, loud and abrasive and far closer to the ears than one would find appreciable. When it ends, almost as quick as it took to start or middle, there stands a man in the shards. He is tall-er, scarred enough to denote a line of work, and bearing a heavy coat that drapes around the ankles like a lead weight. Bumps shift unseen under the grey of their overcoat—aforeseen hydraulics, if a guess had to be made—as they turn and peer around about their surroundings. A long rifle, its axe head glimmering in daylight, swings from his back all the while. It threatens to chop his own head off, with what would be a relatively easeful, clean swipe.

"Nowhere I've been, for certain." He notes.

@lcbyuri

[andampersandampersand]

Something shatters, all too sharply, loud and abrasive and far closer to the ears than one would find appreciable. When it ends, almost as quick as it took to start or middle, there stands a man in the shards. He is tall-er, scarred enough to denote a line of work, and bearing a heavy coat that drapes around the ankles like a lead weight. Bumps shift unseen under the grey of their overcoat—aforeseen hydraulics, if a guess had to be made—as they turn and peer around about their surroundings. A long rifle, its axe head glimmering in daylight, swings from his back all the while. It threatens to chop his own head off, with what would be a relatively easeful, clean swipe.

"Nowhere I've been, for certain." He notes.

@lcbyuri

[andampersandampersand]

Why, I must thank you! If you say it is a compliment, I shall take it as such, so truly, thank you.

Allow me locate a mirror, I shall arrive posthaste.

hello! it's @lcbyuri. i remember asking you if you wanted to go to dinner once or something along those lines? if you are free and not already waiting, i'm at a nice restaurant that you can come dine at with me. i've brought my plus one and... don't ask, okay?

sorry for the short notice!

Hello, Yuri. Of Office Limbus, I believe? I do remember your asking, yes, and my own personal feelings of which generally summed to an agreeable sentiment, as per usual for them. Dinner with such a fine young lady as yourself, and a plus one of your choice... I doubt them to be a choice made in error, so I am overjoyed to hear of more possible acquaintances to make at moment's notice! I will be there posthaste, short notice is nothing of relevance to a fixer of my status, or so I have heard from superiors and had marked on my monthly employee review on several occasions. Be seeing you, friend!

[andampersandampersand]

It took me a smidge on three minutes to realize, yes, you are not in the same world as I, are you? What a perspective-altering concept, but I'll adjust well enough.

If I can be taught, I would prefer it as much you do. Anything to comply with the requests made of me. I have records to prove how good a student I can be, so let that stand as assurance to the ease of the lessons give.

As for your plus one, it is of no bother.

hello! it's @lcbyuri. i remember asking you if you wanted to go to dinner once or something along those lines? if you are free and not already waiting, i'm at a nice restaurant that you can come dine at with me. i've brought my plus one and... don't ask, okay?

sorry for the short notice!

Hello, Yuri. Of Office Limbus, I believe? I do remember your asking, yes, and my own personal feelings of which generally summed to an agreeable sentiment, as per usual for them. Dinner with such a fine young lady as yourself, and a plus one of your choice... I doubt them to be a choice made in error, so I am overjoyed to hear of more possible acquaintances to make at moment's notice! I will be there posthaste, short notice is nothing of relevance to a fixer of my status, or so I have heard from superiors and had marked on my monthly employee review on several occasions. Be seeing you, friend!

[andampersandampersand]

hello! it's @lcbyuri. i remember asking you if you wanted to go to dinner once or something along those lines? if you are free and not already waiting, i'm at a nice restaurant that you can come dine at with me. i've brought my plus one and... don't ask, okay?

sorry for the short notice!

Hello, Yuri. Of Office Limbus, I believe? I do remember your asking, yes, and my own personal feelings of which generally summed to an agreeable sentiment, as per usual for them. Dinner with such a fine young lady as yourself, and a plus one of your choice... I doubt them to be a choice made in error, so I am overjoyed to hear of more possible acquaintances to make at moment's notice! I will be there posthaste, short notice is nothing of relevance to a fixer of my status, or so I have heard from superiors and had marked on my monthly employee review on several occasions. Be seeing you, friend!

[andampersandampersand]

wildest request you have done?

The "wildest," you ask? Well... perhaps when I took up welding, a labor I'd previously no experience in. They called my tacks clean, "almost good enough to just let alone."

Our superior had to kindly remind in them the purpose of a tack weld.

Or was it when my office killed a debtor to a syndicate? I believe that was our duty, anyway. Their lacking in informing us of what we were to do, nearing on restricting even the knowledge of our target, led to some rumination amongst my peers. I'm afraid I basked, and due apologies for this, in said rumors for the day.

A new environ, with anecdote, and the mysterious purpose of a contracting. Are those satisfactory answers? Please do second me in questions if not.

[andampersandampersand]

Well, I must thank you, stranger. You may add. Though I must admit I have done little more than hear of distortions, the few I have had described to me, if any similar in looks to these "abnormalities" as you pertain, shall have me certainly struggling with the original question. Ha!

most attractive abno?

What is an 'abno'? I see it not in my dictionary. Is this some kind of code? What organization or group does it arise from? Please, feel no obligation to give me secondary reply. My lacking knowledge should not require your work in filling those gaps, it is solely my fault, I simply seek to aerate my questions for the purposes of my thought process, and posterity in referring to said questions down the line.

[andampersandampersand]

most attractive abno?

What is an 'abno'? I see it not in my dictionary. Is this some kind of code? What organization or group does it arise from? Please, feel no obligation to give me secondary reply. My lacking knowledge should not require your work in filling those gaps, it is solely my fault, I simply seek to aerate my questions for the purposes of my thought process, and posterity in referring to said questions down the line.

[andampersandampersand]

the people hate my stories the way they hated jesus too i bet

[andampersandampersand]

When That Bugle Sounds

"When that bugle sounds, kid!" My sergeant barks, "It's when that bugle sounds!"

I keep a tally of every time I am told that.

"Yoruka, Jahan, &, Marlon!" Someone excerpts from a preordained list, howling above the distant gunfire, "Get up on ahead! We need you scouting!"

Of every promise I am made, that I make. A tally.

Trudging through the mud, or blood, smoke pools in the footstep-puddles we leave behind. Hundreds of things, hundreds of good things come when that bugle sounds. Soon it would mark the end of battle. It's a promise I tell myself. When that bugle sounds, I can rest. Take my rations, sharpen my blade, lay on my cot. Only when that bugle sounds, it is a promise I tell myself.

It is not so that I would one day repay these tallies in harsh retribution I keep them. I am not so hateful to those I promise, else I would fear mirrors and bodies of water too. I keep count for much the same sake of a time-table clocks in or out.

We crest the hill, bullets whizzing overhead. A hellscape, what a wretched place to know you would soon face fraught combat there. These moonlight stones provide me no more ease than I already feel, however well they work for others. I am my own stone, these are my promises I tell myself. When that bugle sounds, rest will arrive to me with open arms. Rest will arrive to open arms.

So it is when battle begins I am fighting. I know what I am fighting for. It is not so worldly as what others beside me have been promised. I make my promises, I promise to promise, I follow the promiser. I am Vows. I am Decrees. I am Orders.

I am wounded. A heady knock to my skull, a witfully-aimed blade slipped betwixt my ribs. I collapse, bleeding. I promised, and promised.

When I come to, I rise at perpendicular to the ground. Clawed at by mud on all sides, I wipe mire from my eyes as I turn one way, and the other. Corpses, corpses line my peripheral. The scuffle had proven rather lethal, no?

The bugle-bearer had died, too.

[andampersandampersand]

mod talking here, hi, hi thats me yes hello this is ooc

gonna have to retcon this! for the purpose of Symbolism and Because It's Cool i gotta change this fellers weapon

amended reply below:

What else is there to hear? I am a veteran and my weapon of choice is rifle, the very same equipped to me in the war. Perhaps sturdier now, with subsidized help from particular workshops. When ammo is a constraining force, most days, then I keep to using the axe blade at its barrel's tip. Like a hatchet.

Hello! Always Fun To See New Faces End Up Here.

Tell Us About Yourself, If You Don't Mind?

What parts of myself? I've never been well with vague orders as that. My name is; and, I'm a Grade 4 Fixer of Office Duke. What else is there to hear? I am a veteran and my weapon of choice is pistol. When ammo is a constraining force, most days, then I keep to a simple hatchet.

[andampersandampersand]

"oh shoot, oblivion remaster dropped? hell yeah... i grew up with this game vro..."

& proceeded to rot in his office playing the game for twenty-four hours straight

[andampersandampersand]

gif or jif?

I'm unsure as to what either of those are, Anon. Which do you prefer? I will answer in that.