childrenofbahamutlogs | 01 - Bake a Pretty Cake (ota)

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01 - Bake a Pretty Cake (ota)

WHO: Angeal and whoever wants to bother a man throughout a week
WHAT: Roosters and bread oh my
WHERE: Town
WHEN: The vague existence of October
WARNINGS: none planned

SUMMARY: As a practical man with goals, Angeal has a lot of things he wants to do to make sure his household is doing okay. This means things like re-establishing his bakery, and carrying a rooster. The rooster is important. Don't worry about it.

A - Agriculture

While the autumn air makes things somewhat cool, that doesn't seem to be a matter that's bothering Angeal as he pushes a wheelbarrow along the more residential streets, filled with dirt. He does take a break occasionally as he goes about his business constantly, sometimes carrying little bags on top of the dirt. "You would think dragons could have better timing, rather than right at fall," he says during such a break to anyon who joins him. There's the faint glimmer of gold up along his hairline, horns that are just starting to appear. He doesn't seem happy about it.

B - Bakery Remade

For those making their way through Town today, they may come across one of the empty not-residential buildings with its doors wide open. There are a variety of encounters to be had with this simple fact...

For example, early morning may find anyone passing directly in front of the doors having a face full of dust. Angeal's voice comes from inside. "Ah, shit, sorry. You alright? I was just cleaning this place out. Need something to get the dust out of your mouth?

By noon, a pleasant smell is wafting out of the newly cleaned out bakery. Anyone is welcome to step right inside, as the doors have been left open for the time being. It's not a big fancy place or anything, but there are a couple of tables for anyone who'd like to sit, and a good amount of space behind the counter. Angeal is hard at work kneading more dough as bread bakes in an oven, fairly content with how things are going for the time being.

When evening finally rolls around, Angeal can be found relaxing right outside the bakery with a decently sized piece of wood in his hands that he is making a commendable go of carving words into. "I should have asked for a smithy," he says casually to anyone who slows down enough to linger. "I don't know anything about woodcarving."

C - Cock

Angeal has a rooster tucked underneath his arms at the market.

None of the locals are batting their eyes about this.

Other people at the market, however, may have different reactions. They may especially have different reactions when the roster (otherwise being a pissy little football hisses at them.

"Sorry about that," Angeal says casually. "He's not happy about the situation."

D - Do Whatever

[The wildcard catch all option, for interacting with Angeal however you want]

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Yeah, that really is the sort of report he would expect from someone like this. Angeal isn't wholly surprised, but it is still sort of disappointing... Disappointing in the way of hearing a story has a sad ending more than anything else.

None of the shows on his face. He just nods, taking it into consideration. "Yeah, I noticed the window problems as well. I'm hoping that, before winter rolls around proper, I can get the glass replaced one way or another. Which is going to be the tricky thing, really..." Glass is kind of a hot commodity, in times like these, but he'll make it work.

"Although, how likely do you think it is for a bakery to get attacked like that?"

"I bombed a bakery once," the asset answers, matter-of-fact, and though he can't remember the details, he's pretty sure it's true. He doesn't know why, or when, but it feels true to him so he's going to assume it is. "And we know nothing of the threats here besides a missing dragon god."

So hey. It's as likely as not, right?

It's fascinating, what you learn about people sometimes.

"I think if we're talking about this bakery getting bombed, then repairing the windows won't do it much good on that front," he says, still conversational like this is just a normal thing to chat about. "I'll focus on the basics of just making it look presentable for now."

Speaking of which... "How do you feel about baking?"

True. Glass in the windows won't do much against an explosive. Though the glass they have here is old fashioned and thick, and less likely to shatter in the same way as glass he's more used to. It might break, but into larger chunks... interesting to consider.

The question brings him up short from his contemplation of thick-glass breaking points and he stares a little in Angeal's general direction. "I do not feel anything about baking," he finally says, which is not entirely true, the idea of it brings a mix of fear, confusion, and nostalgia. He knows the smell of baking bread from somewhere. But he can say with some certainty: "I do not know how to bake."

Well, at least he sounds more believable on one front there. On the other... Time will tell.

"Then you can come learn while I figure out a batch behind in the kitchen," he says matter of factly. "I did a bit of cleaning up just to get things a little better and make a first batch, but I would rather get somethings going sooner than later. Since I've done some more sweeping for this area, another round shouldn't be too bad. Why don't you come help me? It's better to do these things with two pairs of hands."

The asset shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot a couple times, just a subtle fidget. He's not sure it's a good idea. He has no idea what he's doing. He'll mess it up and then get punished.

Nevermind that no one has actually punished him for anything since his escape from HYDRA in his own world. It's still ingrained in him to expect it.

It's also ingrained in him that disobeying orders comes with punishment, too. So he finally says, "Okay."

Lead the way, Angeal?

That awkward and uneasy shift is just a little bit too familiar to him... Angeal also knows better than to ever call it out, at least for right now. Instead, he just lets him think over it.

He's pretty sure that there's something more to the agreement than just simple agreement but what is he supposed to do? Hopefully, this can help be enough. So he guides W.S. into the little baking area, definitely far more cleaner than the rest of the building, and guides him over to a couple buckets of water he's brought in.

"Always wash your hands first before you handle food," he tells W.S., as he takes a cup into the bucket more full of water. "We don't have anything too nice going on yet, so we're doing something pretty simple, but this should do the trick for now."

And while his new friend is doing that, Angeal goes to get the flour he's got going on.

The asset obediently rinses his hands off, uses soap even if there is some, though soap only goes on the right hand. The left just gets wiped down thoroughly with a cloth, whether provided or his own sleeve. He's still not entirely sure how well the local soaps mesh with the metal plates, he's been very careful about it. With no technicians around to fix it if it breaks, it seems prudent.

"I made a cover name," he says after that's done, while facing away from Angeal still. "I am using Ivan."

Fortunately, in his requests to Charlie on what he would need for a proper bakery, a good couple of towels (or at least cloth that could be used as such) was on the list, and are in good supply. Angeal himself is already at the counter, making sure he's not lacking anything.

At the sudden bit of information, he pauses. "Ivan, huh? It's a nice name. What made you choose it?"

"It is easy to say and remember. I have no problem saying it or answering to it. It comes from a country whose language I speak naturally." All very practical reasons. He has no real attachment to the name, at least not now, but it's something to use. He has found he is not particularly fond of W.S. and this is better.

"Pretty practical." Because what else is there to say? But Angeal finds that isn't necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes something that seems 'just' practical can end up becoming a little more. It all depends on how things roll.

And names can always change, can't they?

"Anyway, I'll keep that in mind." He stretches his arms in front of himself. "Ivan. Now you just need to remember that's the name you've chosen, huh?"

"I won't forget," the-asset-slash-Ivan assures him. "I only forget things when they make me."

Which no one has in weeks. His head is starting to feel weirdly full, with all these memories piling up, but it also kind of feels like it's only a temporary reprieve. Something will happen eventually to take it all away again.

He finishes cleaning out the grooves of the metal hand and turns to Angeal for whatever task he might have for him in this "baking" process.

...Alright.

Alright, so, they're going to need to rewind to that statement a bit.

Although as Ivan comes over for the next step, Angeal decides not to immediately spring it on him. Instead, he introduces him to the simple ingredients that they'll use to mix together, and shows him how it's done. It's while they're in the middle of that that he finally goes back around. "So, you were made to forget things, before?"

"I arrived here with thirty-six hours of memories," asset-slash-Ivan says with a little shrug as he stirs ingredients together with a tireless metal arm. He sounds very matter-of-fact about it, because: "And the certainty that only having thirty-six hours of memories is normal."

Alright.

So.

"I do feel that you should know that something like that isn't normal," Angeal says, doing his best to keep his voice level and casual. Something that won't come off as judgment, hopefully. "So it might be a little tricky for you to keep going with more memories on your belt. Has it been a bother so far?"

Edited 2024-12-08 21:46 (UTC)

"Maybe not for you." The asset is not, after all, a person. It might not be normal for a person, but for a weapon, who knows what "normal" actually is. Still, he is tentatively admitting, at least in the privacy of his own mind, that he is not particularly keen for the memory circumstances to go back to "normal".

Even though: "It can be a little. Troublesome. Keeping it all straight. Feels like my head is very full."

It's not normal for anyone, and shouldn't be... but Angeal keeps that to his chest. Slow and steady wins the race.

And, more importantly, helps cases like this.

He's had plenty of time to learn from his experience with Sephiroth when he was younger, after all. He's ready for this.

So instead, he focuses on the current problems Ivan is struggling with, and he nods. "Yeah, I figured. I know ink and paper are a bit in short supply, but do you think it would help to write out how your day goes? Like a journal for yourself."

He seriously considers it, from multiple angles. "I probably know how to write," he decides. "Though I don't remember ever doing it. And having it all down in one place would be. More organized."

And, he thinks to himself, if anything ever did go back to "normal" he would have it down so he could see what happened to him before. Provided normal didn't come with handlers who would take papers away from him.

"Then we can figure out a way to go about this." Angeal grins. "I've actually heard a little bit about someone who is willing to trade some feathers and such for a bit of help, and I think that's a good start for a quill.... or at least something to fill a pillow with later.

"Once we're done here, interested in looking into that? No better time to start a project than right now, and all that."

He looks sidelong at Angeal. He finally has to give in an ask, "What's a quill?" And what does it have to do with feathers...? Look, he is not from a medieval society. He had immediately imagined a pencil when told he would write something. He doesn't know why he imagined that, but it's in his head, and he knows what it is.

Ah, so that's where the gap in knowledge is. Well, Angeal doesn't mind it - that's just liable to happen and he doesn't know what this guy's messed up life had done for his history lessons. Hell, it might not even be that. Quills just might not have been a thing in his world.

All this transdimensional shit is wild.

"It's when you take a particular sort of feather - usually one of the longer ones - and fashion its nub in a ways so that you can dip it into ink," he explains. "Then you use it to write like that. Used before pencils and pens and all that were more common."

"That sounds." A pause as he comes up with the right word. "Inefficient. At least a pen should have its own ink inside it." He is, apparently, familiar with fountain pens. Also familiar with: "Charcoal. You can use charcoal to write, too. Though it will be messy."

He has a brief, flickering memory of smudged hands and smudged paper and smudged clothes and exasperated anger at having to do laundry again and--

He shakes himself free, confused for a moment.

"Yeah, there's definitely charcoal, but that smudges pretty easily, right? Although you'll have to wait for fresh ink to dry on paper, that will at least last a little better-"

Angeal pauses for a second, taking in that sudden little shake. "Are you alright? Get something in your eye?"

Bakery. Right. Not... wherever that was.

A memory, he thinks. Which isn't allowed. He doesn't remember, but he knows. He gets punished for remembering. And right now he would really rather not be punished.

So he just ducks his head a little and says, "Malfunction. I am all right now."

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01 - Bake a Pretty Cake (ota)

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