[Back home, Akechi managed to get himself thoroughly blown up and shot, before he woke in the white space where the voices whisper, accused of a crime that strikes him as terminally unambitious. He's stuck in Aldrip, where he's recovering; this is driving him quietly insane. Fortunately, a bit of stir-craziness has nothing on how he was two weeks ago. But he can't get out to the cave—by far the most interesting place he's heard of—nor is he in a position to hurl heavy sacks or crates around, which he would rather have scorned to do anyway. Being nearly killed twice may have been good for his sanity, but it's had little effect on his disdain for manual labour.]
maxwell's silver rock hammer
[Shut up, he didn't see the piles of opened sparkly rocks and immediately come to a dead halt; he's not actually a crow, and, as events have proved, he was never a Phantom Thief. And if you've seen one idiot hit a rock with a hammer, you've truly seen them all. Akechi tries to drift away, but of course, the jewelcrafter grabs his arm—he pulls it away with a frigid stare—and pushes a rock into his hand.
Akechi is not exactly a great expert with hammers, nor does he look like he should be. He knows nothing about rocks, beside the fact of their existence. But when it comes to absolutely wrecking shit, right down to and including himself, he's a grand master. He takes a look at the nondescript—and startlingly light—rock he's been handed, gauging it from all sides. The jewelcrafter hands him a hammer with an encouraging smile, and Akechi smiles back as he switches hands, polite and perfect, with his eyes screwed shut so they don't look flat. And then, ignoring the jolt of pain that goes through his shoulder, he hits the fucking rock as hard as he can.
It shatters beneath the impact, into a mess of dust and deep blue shards. Akechi touches his lip; he glances up at the jewelcrafter.] Oh dear. I don't think that was supposed to happen. [Meanwhile, the poor jewelcrafter is having some kind of embolism. Apparently the rocks have some spiritual significance.
Actually... considering Akechi's situation, that's quite interesting, and a little alarming. He starts to listen more closely. And then, ignoring the jewelcrafter's protests, he takes another rock from the pile and sits down next to someone else, glancing sideways to get their measure. Maybe less force this time, he thinks; no point making enemies unduly. Though he can think of ten better ways to curry favour with a god.]
There's supposed to be a right place to break an egg, isn't there? [He sounds distracted by the rock he's turning in his hand. Yeah, it looks like a fucking rock.]
you're a reel catch
[There's no getting around this one: Akechi can't fish for shit. He learned this once to his cost, as Sakamoto and Takamaki muttered pitying asides behind his back....
He shoves the memory back down into its box; he doesn't care about that either. But it has been rankling since the summer, and there's nothing like throwing yourself into a competition and learning a new skill to help you get over the fact that, actually, you didn't wake in a weird pocket of the Metaverse after all; you aren't anywhere you could hope to exercise immediate control over your situation and your fate; you wouldn't be surprised if this was, in fact, your afterlife.
It's all just too consistent; too strange. No shadows to fight—hell, no ability to fight, unless he wants to wave his fishing-rod and hope pleading for mercy counts. All things considered, he'd rather die than feel pitying eyes on him like that, ever again.
And if you made a chart of all-time great fans of the outdoors, Akechi would be at the bottom. There's no getting away from the fact that this is desperately boring, and that sitting here with his own thoughts is the last thing he wants to be doing; every so often he finds himself looking around for an anthill to kick. He knows he has the right idea—shady water, twitch the line occasionally, make sure the pond you've parked yourself beside does, in fact, have fish—but they're all refusing to bite; somewhere must have a special on gnats.
Which leaves Akechi sitting here with a treetrunk to his back, taking notes on his phone, shoulder and hip aching bone-deep from the gunshots he took before arriving, glaring at a fucking pond when anyone else participating in this joke of a competition will have got out to the sea. And then someone comes up and casts a deeper shadow on the water, which is not the last straw by any means. But certainly it's a straw.]
Please don't disturb my fish. I might have to kill you. [He's joking. Look at him, he's such a nice boy; wouldn't hurt a fly. Except that he's got eyes as tired and flat as a week-old lettuce. He might cheer up if he catches something; might.]
wildcards r us
[[ooc: any ideas? pm me! or now i'm on plurk at alysabet]]
Goro Akechi | Persona 5 Royal | post-engine room pre-3rd sem, if you go here
maxwell's silver rock hammer
[Shut up, he didn't see the piles of opened sparkly rocks and immediately come to a dead halt; he's not actually a crow, and, as events have proved, he was never a Phantom Thief. And if you've seen one idiot hit a rock with a hammer, you've truly seen them all. Akechi tries to drift away, but of course, the jewelcrafter grabs his arm—he pulls it away with a frigid stare—and pushes a rock into his hand.
Akechi is not exactly a great expert with hammers, nor does he look like he should be. He knows nothing about rocks, beside the fact of their existence. But when it comes to absolutely wrecking shit, right down to and including himself, he's a grand master. He takes a look at the nondescript—and startlingly light—rock he's been handed, gauging it from all sides. The jewelcrafter hands him a hammer with an encouraging smile, and Akechi smiles back as he switches hands, polite and perfect, with his eyes screwed shut so they don't look flat. And then, ignoring the jolt of pain that goes through his shoulder, he hits the fucking rock as hard as he can.
It shatters beneath the impact, into a mess of dust and deep blue shards. Akechi touches his lip; he glances up at the jewelcrafter.] Oh dear. I don't think that was supposed to happen. [Meanwhile, the poor jewelcrafter is having some kind of embolism. Apparently the rocks have some spiritual significance.
Actually... considering Akechi's situation, that's quite interesting, and a little alarming. He starts to listen more closely. And then, ignoring the jewelcrafter's protests, he takes another rock from the pile and sits down next to someone else, glancing sideways to get their measure. Maybe less force this time, he thinks; no point making enemies unduly. Though he can think of ten better ways to curry favour with a god.]
There's supposed to be a right place to break an egg, isn't there? [He sounds distracted by the rock he's turning in his hand. Yeah, it looks like a fucking rock.]
you're a reel catch
[There's no getting around this one: Akechi can't fish for shit. He learned this once to his cost, as Sakamoto and Takamaki muttered pitying asides behind his back....
He shoves the memory back down into its box; he doesn't care about that either. But it has been rankling since the summer, and there's nothing like throwing yourself into a competition and learning a new skill to help you get over the fact that, actually, you didn't wake in a weird pocket of the Metaverse after all; you aren't anywhere you could hope to exercise immediate control over your situation and your fate; you wouldn't be surprised if this was, in fact, your afterlife.
It's all just too consistent; too strange. No shadows to fight—hell, no ability to fight, unless he wants to wave his fishing-rod and hope pleading for mercy counts. All things considered, he'd rather die than feel pitying eyes on him like that, ever again.
And if you made a chart of all-time great fans of the outdoors, Akechi would be at the bottom. There's no getting away from the fact that this is desperately boring, and that sitting here with his own thoughts is the last thing he wants to be doing; every so often he finds himself looking around for an anthill to kick. He knows he has the right idea—shady water, twitch the line occasionally, make sure the pond you've parked yourself beside does, in fact, have fish—but they're all refusing to bite; somewhere must have a special on gnats.
Which leaves Akechi sitting here with a treetrunk to his back, taking notes on his phone, shoulder and hip aching bone-deep from the gunshots he took before arriving, glaring at a fucking pond when anyone else participating in this joke of a competition will have got out to the sea. And then someone comes up and casts a deeper shadow on the water, which is not the last straw by any means. But certainly it's a straw.]
Please don't disturb my fish. I might have to kill you. [He's joking. Look at him, he's such a nice boy; wouldn't hurt a fly. Except that he's got eyes as tired and flat as a week-old lettuce. He might cheer up if he catches something; might.]
wildcards r us
[[ooc: any ideas? pm me! or now i'm on plurk at