childrenofbahamutlogs | December Catch-All [OTA]

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December Catch-All [OTA]

WHO: Bucky aka the Asset AKA Ivan and YOU
WHAT: Somebody hates the cold a lot
WHERE: Around the town, out in the woods, by the lake
WHEN: Month of October
WARNINGS: Likely more PTSD things, standard transformation body horror, general grouchiness

Bucky-slash-Ivan is now sporting several horns growing around his face, curling back and away from it like a mane, with what will eventually become leathery sails starting to grow between them but which right now is just raw, bare, itchy skin. He has a tail, long and with more branching sails starting to grow out of it, equally raw and itchy, but curiously, there are no obvious signs of wings yet. His previously titanium metal arm is now entirely brass, and the utilitarian plates seem to be tooled more fancifully now, more art deco than industrial.

I. Regular Routine

Now regularly going by Ivan with the whole town, the former asset has mostly settled into a routine that he can work with. Mostly.

Mornings he has a patrol and then either firewood collecting or work in the bakery. Afternoons he has a patrol and patching roofs, weatherproofing windows, or guarding anyone making a trip to the next town over or into the woods. Evenings he has a patrol and checks his snares, sometimes parking himself out in the woods with a fire pit to roast whatever he caught.

Occasionally someone will invite him to lunch or dinner. He always goes, but he will not go without a specific invitation, so better be persistent. He sits, he eats, he tries to help with whatever meal prep anyone will let him do, and he doesn't talk much at all unless asked direct questions. His social skills are still not great, but he doesn't seem to mind spending time with people in general.

II. Attempting the Market

As the days get colder, the snares result in fewer and fewer catches, and he can't subsist on free meals alone, so he ventures into the marketplace yet again. It takes him several days of repeated attempts before he manages to buy something, and then several more days of repeated attempts before he does more than slam down a coin and bolt.

Most of his problem is choosing. There are so many options. Fruit? Meat? Bread? Eggs? Which store or farmer's stall does he choose for each? Which of the fruits? Which cut of meat? People can find him hovering between stalls, looking around in indecision paralysis. Give him some pointers, maybe, or just talk to him until he unlocks?

III. Experimentation

Ivan is saving his bullets. He still has some, because he has been saving them, and keeps them for actually dangerous situations, even though he keeps his guns on his person at all times. But he knows he might never get any new ammunition, so even saving bullets is not sustainable.

So he has been experimenting. He has a pad and a leather thong he's stitched together, and he can be found out in the woods using it as a homemade sling, lobbing rocks at trees, birds, and rarely a person who's startled him who he didn't see coming.

The person gets a slightly panicked, "Sorry, sorry, are you okay."

It's likely he didn't even hit anyone. His aim, stellar with a gun or a knife, is not so great with a sling yet.

IV. Desert Dragons in Winter

The colder it gets, the more Ivan hunches into himself. His clothes are layered, but they're thin and patchy, cast-offs and things he's scrounged up. He doesn't have a proper coat, and the cloak he does have-- which looks suspiciously like a blanket, in fact, and definitely does not have a hood-- is drafty and not tailored properly. He can't fit a hat over his fringe of horns. His boots don't properly fit around his clawed feet, so they're unlaced at all times which doesn't keep heat in, and said claws shred socks whenever he dares to try and put them on.

It doesn't help that the pieces of him that are a dragon are meant for the desert, with large, flexible scales and leathery membranes designed to radiate heat rather than keep it in.

So he's cold all the time and he hates it. It reminds him of cryo. It reminds him of a bunker. It reminds him of the former normal that he definitely does not want anymore.

He still does all his outdoor activities, of course, because when he's found something that works for him he's going to keep doing it, but he's going to look surly and shiver the whole time, the brass plates of his metal arm rattling under his sleeve. Someone help this man. Or at least provide him a cloak that isn't a blanket with a few holes punched in it to make a tie and shoes that actually fit.

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It's been a few months since Popp was in regular life-risking peril, and his reflexes show it. Ivan didn't even hit him dead on, he was flying through the trees, dropped down fast when he heard something coming his way, and crashed right into an inconveniently located tree limb. He's still draped over it, groaning and winded.

"Ivan, what the hell! Do I look like a rabbit to you?!"

He usually makes an effort to sound polite to Ivan, but he's also usually not wheezing when he talks to him either!

The former asset scrambles over, alarmed. Normally when he hurts someone it's on purpose. And not a kid who has been kind to him.

Then comes the apologies: "I'm sorry I'm sorry, I didn't expect anyone to be flying, I'm sorry, are you okay--" It's probably the most tone Popp has heard in his voice... pretty much ever, and it's all panic.

It's hard to get a full head of steam built up complaining when he's being actively apologized to. Sheesh, why does everyone he knows here have hang ups about injuring people on their side.

"What, yeah? I'm not made of iron like some people, but I'm still pretty tough, you know!"

He oozes off the branch and, still sore, lands awkwardly enough that he has to grab onto Ivan for stability. Oww, his ribs.

Ivan finds he hates that. Someone clinging to him. It's awful. He still holds very still and endures because it was his fault, and also he's not supposed to lash out when he's touched. (Do it sometimes anyway. It just happens. Can't do it now. You're okay, man. Just breathe.)

Ugh, that one again. Ivan hates that a little, too. But he holds still.

"You should. Make more noise when you fly," he says, a little tightly. "I didn't hear you."

"I think being asked to make more noise is a first."

Wow, tense... Popp has the social skills to tell when someone really doesn't like something, if not the experience to guess why in this case. He's sensitive and self-centered, of course he assumes it's about him in specific. Does Ivan not actually think of him as a friend?

For all that he's annoying on purpose sometimes, it's not actually fun if you're not openly yelling at each other. He lets go once he's sure he can do that without falling over - nope, he can't after all, he kind of. Crumples downwards, clutching his side. This is very embarrassing.

Ivan steps away as soon as he's let go of, the pieces in his metal arm-- which is all brass now, and tooled prettily rather than the flat utilitarian plates-- rattling a little and resettling like the fur of a cat.

And then Popp collapses, and he dives forward again, not quite catching him but coming to a crouch at his side. "What is wrong. Is something broken. I can wrap broken ribs but mostly you just have to wait."

Belabored groan. His pride hurts more than anything else. Which is significant. He stays still on the ground this time. If he fell over again he might perish from shame. That's a lie if that was possible he would have done it months ago.

"Nothing's broken, honest, I know what that feels like. I'm just really, really bruised, probably... Uugh, what were you even trying to do, I thought you were a gun and knife guy? Arm guy? All purpose weapons master? Please distract me, I wanna think about anything else right now."

Being taken out by accident by a weapon used to hunt small game? This would never happen to Master Avan. Or Matoriv, or Elidibus, or any of the other cool guys he wants to be like.

He is not a guy at all, not in the "person" sense anyway, but he's also not going to argue about it while Popp is acting like he might be dying. He hastily tries to answer since that is what was asked of him. Distraction. He can do distraction. "Um. I am best with a gun. A rifle. Long range. I can fight hand to hand and with a knife but I am mostly a sharpshooter. But I cannot get more bullets so I am trying to learn another ranged weapon."

It may be needed. It probably will be needed, eventually. He needs to re-learn how to aim with this new, stupid weapon.

Popp might not be dying but he's certainly dramatic.

Oh, Ivan has absolutely stabbed someone with that non-bread knife of his. Definitely. One more thing not to think about too much!

"Huh. When I hear sharpshooting, I think bow, not slingshot. Even a kid can use a slingshot."

On the other hand, this conversation might have had a whole lot more screaming if arrows had been involved.

"Bows are harder to make and require arrows," Ivan points out solemnly. "A sling is simple and ammunition is plentiful. I just need to learn how to aim better, because it is not like actually throwing." Like he thought it would be. His aim with throwing is really very good! But a sling throws everything off. It's very frustrating.

So was hitting an actual person. One who has been nice to him, and everything. "There was not supposed to be anyone out here," he adds, with the air of trying to apologize. Again.

"Lots of people hang out in the woods. You hang out in the woods. That thing was just about as fast as an arrow, that's for sure..."

He still sounds grouchy about it, in a resigned sort of way. He's trying not to breathe too deeply or make any sudden movements, but he does manage to heave himself to sit more or less upright.

"Look, it's fiiiine, Avan shredded me pretty good when I snuck up on him the other day and we're still friends."

Nephenee has been...fairly scarce at times recently, to be perfectly honest. She's got a routine, but until this past month, when a certain someone became visible and audible to her, she'd been holing up. Slowly, as the dragon's influence keeps getting to her, and partially to keep said dragon from going crazy and thus driving her crazy as well, the Sentinel's been going out more...though sometimes, like now, it's more to answer some sort of call. Not one like Persy's but something deeper, something that wants to be out in the snow and the chilly weather, even more so than her usual love of this weather.

It's while she's wandering outside in the forest clothed in a deep blue cloak that her instincts fire hard, and she flings herself to the side; even while the ammo wouldn't have hit her - both because of his aim and her reflexes being well above a normal Earth human's average - it's danger, and danger means her battlereadiness comes to the forefront. Silver claws dig into the earth and kick up clumps as she skids, hood flying back and releasing the emerald hair tinged with silver flecks, and the new, draconic nature has her readying her breath weapon...before she sees and hears it's Ivan.

Nephenee relaxes - somewhat - and lets a more controlled, smoky-white breath out as she rises, quickly tugging her hood back up. It's not nearly fast enough to actually hide the silvery-blue scales and freckles on her lovely face, or the horns coming in, or the red creeping into her cheeks.

"{Hey, it's that guy that needs to loosen up, like you!}" Persy chirps excitedly in her head.

Ignoring that remark, the Crimean answers the other soldier, brushing the dirt off her claws. "A-Ah'm alright, Sir Ivan. Jus' startled me, is all."

Ivan flinches hard. "No sir. No. Just Ivan. It's fine." He's not a person. He doesn't get titles. (You ain't even a knight. ... could be if I wanted. Probably.)

Stupid chatty voices in their heads.

"You're sure you're okay? I didn't see you there." And he hadn't even been aiming that direction, it just kind of went that way. Slings are almost as frustrating as dragons and newly grown tails.

Nephenee frowns a bit at her misstep. "Sorry, real used to callin' folks back home that if Ah ain't sure o'their rank." Technically speaking, Sentinels are a sort of knight, but it's not a landed title in their case...honestly, that's probably for the best. She wouldn't be sure how to even begin to handle an estate.

If he ever comments on not believing he's a person, though, both woman and dragon will have words about that.

The Sentinel then smiles in an attempt to relax him, saying, "Naw, Ah'm alright." before slowly holding her arms out flat and turning them so he can see there's no marks, just silvery-white scales on light skin that shift to a light blue-white in the sun. "See, it didn't hit me. An' e'en if it had, Ah'm pretty sturdy. A pebble ain't gonna do much, e'en outta a sling that quick." Which...maybe raises questions in some about just what she considers 'much'.

With such a sizeable staff still at the bakery - four of them in total together - Angeal is more than at ease in doing things like grocery shopping before all the good stuff gets got. So whenever the morning rush is done with, he makes his way over.

It doesn't escape him that Ivan has run this way on over as well... but he's not expecting the man to just be standing till in place when he finally makes it.

"Hey, Ivan." Standing besides him, he looks over the foods that have his attention. "Something wrong with the selection?"

He gives a guilty little start, then looks sidelong in Angeal's direction. "No. No, it's fine."

There's just so damn much of it. Which sounds so stupid to say, so he doesn't. Not yet anyway. And the faint embarrassment at knowing he looks ridiculous in front of someone who is, nominally, in charge of him isn't even enough to break the paralysis, he still can't pick anything. Ugh.

Lahabrea is, largely, indifferent about winter. Admittedly, even he has found it necessary to adjust his own clothing to some extent, but that is not particularly anything he finds difficult, given that the vast majority of his changes are not yet to the point of causing significant physical alterations. To say nothing of the fact that where his clothes (which are still undeniably robes) are insufficient he has no shortage of magical ability. Enough to cover for whatever he should need.

Still, Town is a small enough place, and he does very much notice the man who is all but huddled in on himself as he moves through the town. Enough so that he makes his way over, despite not being particularly altruistic much of the time.

"Is aught amiss?"

He may not, necessarily, be able to help. But if there is a problem - and especially one that others might also come to suffer - Lahabrea figures it better to know.

Lucky. Ivan is trying to keep up his posture while on patrol, but it just isn't working when he's doing his best to conserve heat, and that requires keeping his blanket-cloak as tightly around him as possible, and his tail curled around one leg. It just seems natural, at this point, to be miserably cold all the damn time.

He doesn't even react immediately when Lahabrea speaks, because he doesn't assume it's directed at him. He just keeps trudging along.

It's a long couple steps later when he thinks maybe it might be directed at him, with the rest of the street relatively empty, and he glances up. "What?" Not necessarily that he didn't hear him, but he didn't even parse what the words meant.

Fortunately, perhaps, Lahabrea is willing to be patient. And likewise takes no offense at the fact that it does take the other man some time to actually respond. He is, after all, not in any kind of hurry and even if he were it would bother him little enough if anyone failed to answer.

Still, once the other man does, Lahabrea takes it as a request for more information rather than anything else. (It does not occur to him that someone might have trouble with the manner of his speech.)

"I am aware that we are all transforming into something we may not have wished for. But you appeared to be in no small amount of discomfort even so."

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December Catch-All [OTA]

3 (side of four probably)

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3 with some 4 just because

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