It's all the same to you, but I've been here before [CLOSED]
Characters: Ichigo Kurosaki, Kimihiro Watanuki, and Luppi
Content: An attack has been ordered, but it finds the wrong target. Old memories are like ghosts, and ghosts are like old memories. Nothing in this world is chance.
Setting: The plane hangar near the racecourse.
Time: Late afternoon/evening, the day of the qualifiers.
Warnings: Blood, language, violence, Watanuki's Human Shield of Low Self-Worth. Anyone who can sense reiatsu will feel a strong surge of Ichigo's during this log, as he'll be pulling out all the stops here (read: Getsuga Tenshou) Hollow is not rearing its ugly head yet, but you're welcome to sense a tinge of it in his energy.
It was the evening of the day of the qualifiers, and the high from that morning's race still hadn't quite dissipated. Sure, it had just been a qualifying race, and the real challenge was yet to come, but racing down a course against others had been one of the most intense thrills he’d ever experienced. It was right up there with battles against monsters.
In that state, doing routine maintenance on Zangetsu, getting it ready for the final race, had been a breeze. In fact, inside the hangar, he had completely lost track of time. When he stood up and wiped his hands on a greasy cloth, latching up Zangetsu's cleaned and oiled engine with a satisfied look on his face, the sun was low in the sky. Most pilots had finished and gone back, leaving only the security guards standing around to keep saboteurs out. He'd have to be twice as careful leaving his plane out, now -- the heat was really on from today forward.
His sword was resting against the side of the plane. Ichigo normally didn't carry it with him, but he'd run into a nasty ghost on his way out this morning, and didn't want to take chances for the rest of the day. His jacket and shirt had been tossed casually over the side of the plane, leaving him in pants, boots, and an undershirt. Good thing, too, because grease from the engine left dirt on his shirt and halfway up his arms. The rag he'd been using really didn't help a lot, he mused. It was probably about time to head back to the Way and get cleaned up, he thought, pulling his goggles off and onto the top of his head.
Content: An attack has been ordered, but it finds the wrong target. Old memories are like ghosts, and ghosts are like old memories. Nothing in this world is chance.
Setting: The plane hangar near the racecourse.
Time: Late afternoon/evening, the day of the qualifiers.
Warnings: Blood, language, violence, Watanuki's Human Shield of Low Self-Worth. Anyone who can sense reiatsu will feel a strong surge of Ichigo's during this log, as he'll be pulling out all the stops here (read: Getsuga Tenshou) Hollow is not rearing its ugly head yet, but you're welcome to sense a tinge of it in his energy.
It was the evening of the day of the qualifiers, and the high from that morning's race still hadn't quite dissipated. Sure, it had just been a qualifying race, and the real challenge was yet to come, but racing down a course against others had been one of the most intense thrills he’d ever experienced. It was right up there with battles against monsters.
In that state, doing routine maintenance on Zangetsu, getting it ready for the final race, had been a breeze. In fact, inside the hangar, he had completely lost track of time. When he stood up and wiped his hands on a greasy cloth, latching up Zangetsu's cleaned and oiled engine with a satisfied look on his face, the sun was low in the sky. Most pilots had finished and gone back, leaving only the security guards standing around to keep saboteurs out. He'd have to be twice as careful leaving his plane out, now -- the heat was really on from today forward.
His sword was resting against the side of the plane. Ichigo normally didn't carry it with him, but he'd run into a nasty ghost on his way out this morning, and didn't want to take chances for the rest of the day. His jacket and shirt had been tossed casually over the side of the plane, leaving him in pants, boots, and an undershirt. Good thing, too, because grease from the engine left dirt on his shirt and halfway up his arms. The rag he'd been using really didn't help a lot, he mused. It was probably about time to head back to the Way and get cleaned up, he thought, pulling his goggles off and onto the top of his head.