(no subject)
WHO: Rikku {chrysophilist}, The Shadow {sable_cloak}, Galen Marek {wasstarkiller}, Rua {strongest_tool}, Luke Skywalker {inheritsthesky} & Open
WHERE: The local scrapyard~!
WHEN: Backdated..ish? (Not sure about this.)
WARNINGS: Terrible similes :'D
SUMMARY: Anakin pokes around big piles of metal for relaxation and profit.
FORMAT: Either! I'll be posting the starter in paragraph form, but I'm fine with people switching things up.
NOTE: For those looking to log with me, I'm sorry for the wait! ;_; I wanted to do something a bit more free form (plot-wise) before launching into anything firm.
To the untrained eye, the scrapyard was an eyesore. Nearly a full mile in length, it was the place where everything in the city that didn't breathe, pollinate, or spread disease went to die. Rust grew in sheets over jagged hills that twisted and collapsed in on themselves like a series of slow motion earthquakes. The scent of charred metal was unbearable. Overall the yard was straightforward and, in that way, perfectly suited for his purposes.
It'd taken a few days, but eventually he'd come to terms with the city's technology. It was always the case that survival depended upon how resourceful a person was, and most Jedi had little more to lose than their lives. Some less than that. Anakin, born a slave, had a head start. Already he'd tracked down spare motorboat parts that looked all too ready to take a sound beating. Looking at them, images of prototypes flashed before his mind's eye faster than he could hold onto them. He'd need something capable of holding a microboard, but that wouldn't be too difficult. For the first time since being ported into the city, his thoughts were sharp and unclouded.
Putting things together had always been second nature. It was something he could do that nobody else could deny, or take away from him. Even when the war had absorbed everything, there had always been enough repair work around to keep things from getting too stressful. More than once he'd buffered himself against the losses by treating Artoo to yet another eccentric modification. It'd been an exercise in normality, and it'd helped him more than he could explain.
Artoo... What was he doing right now? What was anyone back in the capital doing, for that matter?
Picking up a car rim, he tried not to let himself think too much about it.
WHERE: The local scrapyard~!
WHEN: Backdated..ish? (Not sure about this.)
WARNINGS: Terrible similes :'D
SUMMARY: Anakin pokes around big piles of metal for relaxation and profit.
FORMAT: Either! I'll be posting the starter in paragraph form, but I'm fine with people switching things up.
NOTE: For those looking to log with me, I'm sorry for the wait! ;_; I wanted to do something a bit more free form (plot-wise) before launching into anything firm.
To the untrained eye, the scrapyard was an eyesore. Nearly a full mile in length, it was the place where everything in the city that didn't breathe, pollinate, or spread disease went to die. Rust grew in sheets over jagged hills that twisted and collapsed in on themselves like a series of slow motion earthquakes. The scent of charred metal was unbearable. Overall the yard was straightforward and, in that way, perfectly suited for his purposes.
It'd taken a few days, but eventually he'd come to terms with the city's technology. It was always the case that survival depended upon how resourceful a person was, and most Jedi had little more to lose than their lives. Some less than that. Anakin, born a slave, had a head start. Already he'd tracked down spare motorboat parts that looked all too ready to take a sound beating. Looking at them, images of prototypes flashed before his mind's eye faster than he could hold onto them. He'd need something capable of holding a microboard, but that wouldn't be too difficult. For the first time since being ported into the city, his thoughts were sharp and unclouded.
Putting things together had always been second nature. It was something he could do that nobody else could deny, or take away from him. Even when the war had absorbed everything, there had always been enough repair work around to keep things from getting too stressful. More than once he'd buffered himself against the losses by treating Artoo to yet another eccentric modification. It'd been an exercise in normality, and it'd helped him more than he could explain.
Artoo... What was he doing right now? What was anyone back in the capital doing, for that matter?
Picking up a car rim, he tried not to let himself think too much about it.