Krok (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dadcepticon) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rekindleme2014-03-08 06:26 pm
dadcepticon) wrote in rekindleme2014-03-08 06:26 pm
Entry tags:
[Open] The Joys of Apartment Life
Who: Krok and you, and you, and yes, even you!
Where: Technically starts in District 5, but focuses on the apartments, Building 01. Can move elsewhere if that's how things go!
When: Backdated to 27 Februarybecause life happened, late afternoon/evening
Summary: Krok has problems sometimes. Sometimes those problems involve the inability to handle a door.
Warnings: Possible misgendering?
His stay in this place has been pleasant enough, Krok supposes. He tends to constantly feel somewhat off-kilter, but that's probably because he needs to be out touching people more. He's not quite used to that concept after a lifetime spent not bothering, but he's working on it – he has to if he wants to remain healthy. He's at least mastered the art of the awkward handshake, because handshakes are always awkward when your hand is about twice the size of the other person's hand at a bare minimum. He tries, though.
He finds for the most part that he feels… restless. Krok has never been an idle kind of spark and the life of a soldier in an ongoing, increasingly violent war didn't allow for much downtime. Downtime is all he has now and walking around the city day after day stops being enough to occupy him once he's been about enough to walk the map with his optical cluster shut off. It's been another day of aimlessly wandering the fifth district, mostly absorbing sights and sounds and happening into the occasional hug from a local. Apparently, Krok thinks as he makes his way up the stairs, he 'looks down in the mouth' despite lacking a mouth entirely. He snorts at the thought and can't decide if that's better or worse than an air of quiet desperation.
"Maybe I should look into a job," he thinks aloud as he reaches his floor. It would be a good way to keep himself busy and stave off the creeping sensation that he should be doing something. True, it wouldn't be finding a way home, but he doesn't have enough data to support the idea that there even is a way to get himself home by force. He can work on a strategy when he has more to go on, he decides. He can manage a slightly longer wait if need be.
Managing the door to his hab suite – residence – apartment, however, is another matter. It isn't necessarily the size of the key compared to his hand so much as it's how, after thousands upon thousands of years stumping from one battlefield to the next, he's grown so unaccustomed to performing tasks that require fine motor control from him. Fire a weapon, he can do that. Fire two weapons at the same time, he can do that, too. Beat an Autobot to death, he can do that and enjoy himself. Smack a subordinate into line, carry supplies, carry bodies, he can do any of that.
But he's going to be defeated by a basic lock because today, his servos decide to keep seizing up. After five misses, one of which nearly breaks the key, he groans quietly and crouches at his door – double checks to be sure it actually is his door – in the hopes that a closer viewpoint will make this easier on him.
"Maybe I should just knock it down," he grumbles as he sits in the middle of the hallway with a resounding, floor-shaking slam. It would certainly be quicker.
And maybe he should see if they have any medics who can work on people like him, he thinks sourly and flexes his hand. He misses having Spinister around.
Where: Technically starts in District 5, but focuses on the apartments, Building 01. Can move elsewhere if that's how things go!
When: Backdated to 27 February
Summary: Krok has problems sometimes. Sometimes those problems involve the inability to handle a door.
Warnings: Possible misgendering?
His stay in this place has been pleasant enough, Krok supposes. He tends to constantly feel somewhat off-kilter, but that's probably because he needs to be out touching people more. He's not quite used to that concept after a lifetime spent not bothering, but he's working on it – he has to if he wants to remain healthy. He's at least mastered the art of the awkward handshake, because handshakes are always awkward when your hand is about twice the size of the other person's hand at a bare minimum. He tries, though.
He finds for the most part that he feels… restless. Krok has never been an idle kind of spark and the life of a soldier in an ongoing, increasingly violent war didn't allow for much downtime. Downtime is all he has now and walking around the city day after day stops being enough to occupy him once he's been about enough to walk the map with his optical cluster shut off. It's been another day of aimlessly wandering the fifth district, mostly absorbing sights and sounds and happening into the occasional hug from a local. Apparently, Krok thinks as he makes his way up the stairs, he 'looks down in the mouth' despite lacking a mouth entirely. He snorts at the thought and can't decide if that's better or worse than an air of quiet desperation.
"Maybe I should look into a job," he thinks aloud as he reaches his floor. It would be a good way to keep himself busy and stave off the creeping sensation that he should be doing something. True, it wouldn't be finding a way home, but he doesn't have enough data to support the idea that there even is a way to get himself home by force. He can work on a strategy when he has more to go on, he decides. He can manage a slightly longer wait if need be.
Managing the door to his hab suite – residence – apartment, however, is another matter. It isn't necessarily the size of the key compared to his hand so much as it's how, after thousands upon thousands of years stumping from one battlefield to the next, he's grown so unaccustomed to performing tasks that require fine motor control from him. Fire a weapon, he can do that. Fire two weapons at the same time, he can do that, too. Beat an Autobot to death, he can do that and enjoy himself. Smack a subordinate into line, carry supplies, carry bodies, he can do any of that.
But he's going to be defeated by a basic lock because today, his servos decide to keep seizing up. After five misses, one of which nearly breaks the key, he groans quietly and crouches at his door – double checks to be sure it actually is his door – in the hopes that a closer viewpoint will make this easier on him.
"Maybe I should just knock it down," he grumbles as he sits in the middle of the hallway with a resounding, floor-shaking slam. It would certainly be quicker.
And maybe he should see if they have any medics who can work on people like him, he thinks sourly and flexes his hand. He misses having Spinister around.