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discedo_logs2010-08-15 11:20 pm
percent-data.livejournal.com) wrote in discedo_logs2010-08-15 11:20 pm
Illogical!
Who: Inui Sadaharu (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
percent_data) and... anyone else who feels like showing up, I guess.
Where: Well, he certainly doesn't know. It's Horizon Park, though.
When: Um. N-now? Tonight.
Rating: PG-13 (Will edit depending on what happens.)
Summary: Inui! He's here. He's pretty lost.
The Log: Inui woke up on his back, with his racquet bag on his chest. This was unfortunate (and a fair bit uncomfortable), but not the true nature of the problem. The 'true nature' of the problem, however, was already demonstrating itself to be far larger than he could fully grasp in these first few seconds.
His jacket, thankfully, was taking the majority of pressure off his back, sparing him some measure of pain from stones beneath him as he sat up, pushing his racquet bag aside to squint upwards, partially blinded by the setting sun as he took in the dead, rotted stumps and mouldering remains of equipment nearby. He shifted, adjusting the angle of his gaze by seventeen percent to alleviate the glare. Unfortunately, it did not improve his prospects. If anything, it worsened them. Fallen buildings could be seen across the roads, some of them clearly bearing the scars of a fire. His throat was closing up.
The probability that this was nowhere in Kantou was 100%.
The probability that he was nowhere in Honshuu was 90%.
The probability that he was--he couldn't deal with this right now. He had to stay calm.
Focus on the data.
He pulled himself to his feet, brushing himself off cursorily and wiping away the grit that clung to his arms before throwing his racquet bag over his shoulder and retrieving the duffel--the fact that he still had them at all seemed incongruous, almost irrational, but he was in no position to question his concrete reality right now. Voices could be heard, muffled and distorted--distractedly, he estimated an approximate distance of 1.3 km, allowing for things such as the fact that he was downwind (the only reason said voices could be carried to him in the first place) and unrelated ambient noise. He started to move towards them, but hesitated, hovering on the edge of analysis and something akin to fear. Then he turned, walking away from the sound, his thoughts too jumbled to give him any possible hope of risk assessment. He was so distracted, in fact, that he very nearly stepped on the communicator that had been resting beside his duffel bag, backpedalling one and a half steps before bending to pick it up and turning over the attached note.
"....I see."
percent_data) and... anyone else who feels like showing up, I guess.Where: Well, he certainly doesn't know. It's Horizon Park, though.
When: Um. N-now? Tonight.
Rating: PG-13 (Will edit depending on what happens.)
Summary: Inui! He's here. He's pretty lost.
The Log: Inui woke up on his back, with his racquet bag on his chest. This was unfortunate (and a fair bit uncomfortable), but not the true nature of the problem. The 'true nature' of the problem, however, was already demonstrating itself to be far larger than he could fully grasp in these first few seconds.
His jacket, thankfully, was taking the majority of pressure off his back, sparing him some measure of pain from stones beneath him as he sat up, pushing his racquet bag aside to squint upwards, partially blinded by the setting sun as he took in the dead, rotted stumps and mouldering remains of equipment nearby. He shifted, adjusting the angle of his gaze by seventeen percent to alleviate the glare. Unfortunately, it did not improve his prospects. If anything, it worsened them. Fallen buildings could be seen across the roads, some of them clearly bearing the scars of a fire. His throat was closing up.
The probability that this was nowhere in Kantou was 100%.
The probability that he was nowhere in Honshuu was 90%.
The probability that he was--he couldn't deal with this right now. He had to stay calm.
Focus on the data.
He pulled himself to his feet, brushing himself off cursorily and wiping away the grit that clung to his arms before throwing his racquet bag over his shoulder and retrieving the duffel--the fact that he still had them at all seemed incongruous, almost irrational, but he was in no position to question his concrete reality right now. Voices could be heard, muffled and distorted--distractedly, he estimated an approximate distance of 1.3 km, allowing for things such as the fact that he was downwind (the only reason said voices could be carried to him in the first place) and unrelated ambient noise. He started to move towards them, but hesitated, hovering on the edge of analysis and something akin to fear. Then he turned, walking away from the sound, his thoughts too jumbled to give him any possible hope of risk assessment. He was so distracted, in fact, that he very nearly stepped on the communicator that had been resting beside his duffel bag, backpedalling one and a half steps before bending to pick it up and turning over the attached note.
"....I see."