COMPLETE!
When: Sun. May 6th, evening
Rating: G<->PG.
Characters: Uryuu (anti_buttons) & Nemu (sciencedaughter)
Summary: Uryuu may think he’s got this “avoid the shinigami” think under control, but Nemu doesn’t plan to give him much of a choice.
Log;
It was easy to tell himself he didn’t regret it; after all, Ishida Uryuu hated shinigami. That simple fact had been the central focus of his character ever since the day his sensei died. He hated the shinigami, always had, and in the face of such facts it would be ridiculous to regret his promise. Kurotsuchi-san and all the rest were not his problem.
So, of course Ishida did not cast solemn looks at the small, notebook computer that had come (strangely) with the room. The seventeenth room, in the third building, on the third floor. Not as he stirred rice on his stove, his wrist unconsciously jerking round to the beat provided by the ticking. Not as he sat with a glass bowl and chopsticks at the table, and not as he threaded a needle with white and began to stitch a tear in his Quincy cape. Purchasing a standard pair of black slacks and an appropriate blue shirt had not been a problem; removing the buttons in favor of a better fastener for it had been slightly more annoying. He couldn’t go around in his Quincy garments all day, every day.
The tear was quickly enough mended, and Ishida stood so to fold up his cape and put it with the rest of his Quincy clothing. “They’ll need a little bleach,” he muttered, eying the dried, brown bloody patch on his shirt, soon covered as he patted down his cape. Sliding the drawer closed, Ishida remained standing, looking around the empty room. His head ached in a quiet, not completely adjusted way, the tick-tock-ticking not a little maddening.
Rating: G<->PG.
Characters: Uryuu (anti_buttons) & Nemu (sciencedaughter)
Summary: Uryuu may think he’s got this “avoid the shinigami” think under control, but Nemu doesn’t plan to give him much of a choice.
Log;
It was easy to tell himself he didn’t regret it; after all, Ishida Uryuu hated shinigami. That simple fact had been the central focus of his character ever since the day his sensei died. He hated the shinigami, always had, and in the face of such facts it would be ridiculous to regret his promise. Kurotsuchi-san and all the rest were not his problem.
So, of course Ishida did not cast solemn looks at the small, notebook computer that had come (strangely) with the room. The seventeenth room, in the third building, on the third floor. Not as he stirred rice on his stove, his wrist unconsciously jerking round to the beat provided by the ticking. Not as he sat with a glass bowl and chopsticks at the table, and not as he threaded a needle with white and began to stitch a tear in his Quincy cape. Purchasing a standard pair of black slacks and an appropriate blue shirt had not been a problem; removing the buttons in favor of a better fastener for it had been slightly more annoying. He couldn’t go around in his Quincy garments all day, every day.
The tear was quickly enough mended, and Ishida stood so to fold up his cape and put it with the rest of his Quincy clothing. “They’ll need a little bleach,” he muttered, eying the dried, brown bloody patch on his shirt, soon covered as he patted down his cape. Sliding the drawer closed, Ishida remained standing, looking around the empty room. His head ached in a quiet, not completely adjusted way, the tick-tock-ticking not a little maddening.