1 Probably Just a Moment [Private] Mon Jun 06, 2016 8:01 pm
Mikasa Ackerman
D-rank
She seldom had time for this, she would admit.
Her schedule was often one determined on the go, as information came and went along her search. It had taken her from Sunagakure, the familiarity of deserts and dry air replaced by a cooler climate and rockier terrain. Rocks as far as the eye could see and stalagmites jutting out and casting ominous umbras across the lands as they stood proud against the sun provided her with a refreshing shade every few kilometers, a welcome change from the ruthlessly flat sands of her home. It was amongst a nest of these towering earthen structures that Mikasa found an out-of-the-way village, free of demagogues and politics twisting the authenticity of her search with pierian words laced with an ulterior motive.
Currently, the Ackerman found herself seated in a diner, at a half-broken wooden table with a stranger she’d been forced to accommodate when the diner had grown full. Swirls of dry, brown, thin noodles nesting within ornate china stared her in the face as her jaws broke down the contents within her mouth, the girl paying no attention to the antics of the individual two feet from her, nor the cacophany of music and noise that came from the jukebox in the corner and the myriad of other jolly occupants. Mikasa rolled up more noodles with her fork before helping herself to hell-knows-what mouthful she’d had that day, the bland taste of the meal a crime against her tongue, helped only by her inability to inhale whatever inhumanely felonious smell it projected.
Someone bumped into the chair behind her, and a rough hand slammed onto her table before removing itself, never once letting her glimpse at its owner, but leaving in its place a small rectangular piece of paper jagged at one end where it was likely ripped from its brothers. Her order was printed in faint blue beside the small cost she’d paid for her meal, underneath an equally insipid company title, but her eyes were drawn toward the scribbles in red, messy handwriting.
419, 66, 832, 42.
She burned the number into her head, before she tore it quickly in half and stuffed one part into her vest pocket while she allowed the other to be swept up by the diner’s swarm of people, first dropping onto the floor before a number of steps from wet, mucky boots made it no longer recognisable as a slip of paper, much less one that bore information. The man in front of her gave her a curious look, ignoring the sharp look she shot back at him as a warning. Not wanting her search jeopardised, she forgoed the unfinished plate of noodles in her and downed the cup of tea – water and leaves – in one go, before slamming the fine teacup in front of him so hard it introduced a crack into it. She stood up withdrew her spear, leaning lazily against the wall, and moved to leave, only for several drunks to bump into her on the way, inhibiting her exit.
Her eyes narrowed in annoyance, the only outward sign anyone would catch of her displeasure, before she would grab one man by the collar to wrest his attention solely onto her. Once it was adamant she wasn’t happy with his previous carelessness – more of the diner had quietened down at her sudden display of violence now – she pushed him off towards the wall which he slammed into with such force that the clock nailed into it just above him crashed onto his bald head. He slumped onto the ground in a bout of unconsciousness as she took another step towards the exit, with patrons parting to let her through, eyeing either her or the length of weapon over two meters that she gripped in her right palm, waving it here and there as if entertaining a dog on a leash, bringing to her ears the relaxing silence she’d been denied the entire afternoon before she closed the door to the diner behind her.
419, 66, 832, 42, she recited mentally. She didn’t know what the numbers meant. They could have been coordinates, a password, or a telephone number. Regardless, she walked off to the nearest hotel she could find, intent on getting a cheap room for the peaceful silence it would bring as she puzzled it out. Whatever it meant, Mikasa knew, though, that it had something to do with Eren, and that meant it was important.
759 words | 759 total
Her schedule was often one determined on the go, as information came and went along her search. It had taken her from Sunagakure, the familiarity of deserts and dry air replaced by a cooler climate and rockier terrain. Rocks as far as the eye could see and stalagmites jutting out and casting ominous umbras across the lands as they stood proud against the sun provided her with a refreshing shade every few kilometers, a welcome change from the ruthlessly flat sands of her home. It was amongst a nest of these towering earthen structures that Mikasa found an out-of-the-way village, free of demagogues and politics twisting the authenticity of her search with pierian words laced with an ulterior motive.
Currently, the Ackerman found herself seated in a diner, at a half-broken wooden table with a stranger she’d been forced to accommodate when the diner had grown full. Swirls of dry, brown, thin noodles nesting within ornate china stared her in the face as her jaws broke down the contents within her mouth, the girl paying no attention to the antics of the individual two feet from her, nor the cacophany of music and noise that came from the jukebox in the corner and the myriad of other jolly occupants. Mikasa rolled up more noodles with her fork before helping herself to hell-knows-what mouthful she’d had that day, the bland taste of the meal a crime against her tongue, helped only by her inability to inhale whatever inhumanely felonious smell it projected.
Someone bumped into the chair behind her, and a rough hand slammed onto her table before removing itself, never once letting her glimpse at its owner, but leaving in its place a small rectangular piece of paper jagged at one end where it was likely ripped from its brothers. Her order was printed in faint blue beside the small cost she’d paid for her meal, underneath an equally insipid company title, but her eyes were drawn toward the scribbles in red, messy handwriting.
419, 66, 832, 42.
She burned the number into her head, before she tore it quickly in half and stuffed one part into her vest pocket while she allowed the other to be swept up by the diner’s swarm of people, first dropping onto the floor before a number of steps from wet, mucky boots made it no longer recognisable as a slip of paper, much less one that bore information. The man in front of her gave her a curious look, ignoring the sharp look she shot back at him as a warning. Not wanting her search jeopardised, she forgoed the unfinished plate of noodles in her and downed the cup of tea – water and leaves – in one go, before slamming the fine teacup in front of him so hard it introduced a crack into it. She stood up withdrew her spear, leaning lazily against the wall, and moved to leave, only for several drunks to bump into her on the way, inhibiting her exit.
Her eyes narrowed in annoyance, the only outward sign anyone would catch of her displeasure, before she would grab one man by the collar to wrest his attention solely onto her. Once it was adamant she wasn’t happy with his previous carelessness – more of the diner had quietened down at her sudden display of violence now – she pushed him off towards the wall which he slammed into with such force that the clock nailed into it just above him crashed onto his bald head. He slumped onto the ground in a bout of unconsciousness as she took another step towards the exit, with patrons parting to let her through, eyeing either her or the length of weapon over two meters that she gripped in her right palm, waving it here and there as if entertaining a dog on a leash, bringing to her ears the relaxing silence she’d been denied the entire afternoon before she closed the door to the diner behind her.
419, 66, 832, 42, she recited mentally. She didn’t know what the numbers meant. They could have been coordinates, a password, or a telephone number. Regardless, she walked off to the nearest hotel she could find, intent on getting a cheap room for the peaceful silence it would bring as she puzzled it out. Whatever it meant, Mikasa knew, though, that it had something to do with Eren, and that meant it was important.
759 words | 759 total