sixthiterationlogs | Nida, With A Shiny White Band

Entry tags:

Nida, With A Shiny White Band - Open and Closed Prompts

WHO: Nida
WHERE: (Where the post takes place)
WHEN: February 5th - 15th, Closed Mingle on February 9th
OPEN TO: OTA, one Closed Post for now
WARNINGS: Possible Mentions of Self-Harm

OTA - Dojo - Taking Over

He was asleep when it happened. Somewhere in the night of the fourth the change happened, a screen that made no sense, the band on the device at his wrist turning white. OF course as it was one of those rare nights lately where Nida had gotten some sleep, he hadn't noticed. Instead, when he'd woken up he'd just found himself... moving. He couldn't stand being still anymore, not with all these people who needed a bit of something to keep them moving after those visions. He skipped breakfast that morning ~~not a mistake he'd make another day~~ and headed over to the empty dojo.

Most of his days are spent in the dojo for the next chunk of days. When he's not actively out talking to others, trying to serve as a support network, he's in the dojo from just before sun up to just after sunset. Sometimes he's sitting on a chair, a knife working over a piece of wood as he cut out the general shape of some practice daggers. Other times he limps ~~damn him for spraining his ankle, it wasn't what he'd meant to do~~ around the edges of the mats to check for any tears or splits he needs to repair. Still other times he regards the empty spaces, mind already building up the ways he can make this place better.

And always, always he calls out a bit cheerfully if someone enters while he's there. Because this space, he has resolved, will welcome all comers. No matter what.

OTA - Around South Village - A Little Luck

You can't always be at the dojo.

Nida had stared at Seifer when he had been told that. Clearly it was not true. Clearly he was more than capable of doing just that. But... Well, he got the point. Being holed up in two places isn't much better than being holed up in one.

So a bit of time every day, usually around the lunch hours, were spent with Nida wandering the village. There were rounds to be made, friends to be found, help to be supplied. And, whenever there was a chance of skin to skin contact, a hand reaching out to touch. Not like people here couldn't use a bit of extra luck.

Closed Mingle - Because You Miss Them - Closed to Seifer, Rinoa, Sam, Billy, Tommy

The boxes show up that morning, just sitting in the kitchen when Nida hobbles in at an ungodly hour. He moves immediately to grab a kitchen knife to cut the first one open. Despite his name being on it, it's full of yarn. He smiles and shakes his head, moving that one aside because he can talk to the others about it later. The next is a larger box, but strangely light for its size. With another few cuts he finds himself pulling out a wok. What in the world could that be...

Somehow he knows what the last box will be. With a quick cut it's open and he starts unloading ingredients into the fridge. Curry. Seems like he had the answer he needed for when and what to cook.

A quick message goes out to the others over the network. He doesn't care how early it is.

Hey nerds, dinner at my house tonight. Red Lamb Curry. Eat at six, come by earlier if you want to help cook. Someone please help cook, I don't want to mess this up.

[OOC: Please see first comment for Mingle, everyone can post their own things under that if they want to interact.]

[OOC: If anyone would like their own closed starter for the first half of this month, please let me know. This is mostly meant to cover Nida through the White part of his Off-Color time.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

No, she definitely doesn't miss that move, especially with Nida's follow-up wince and attempts at rebalancing his weight. Her only outward expression in response is the faint lift of one eyebrow, and what could be a smile, as long as you don't blink and miss it. She couldn't help it, sometimes. It had been a long time since she'd had to watch the way she moved, to tell herself to step heavier or walk a little less like she's ready to pounce.

"There are some needles and thread in the supply room in the inn," she answers, stepping into the room proper and away from both the door and him, giving him the clear path to the exit. Just in case he feels the need. "I borrowed both. You sure you should be walking around?" A gesture with her chin towards his ankle. "Looks like that might hurt."

"Dr. Crusher said I should be taking it easy," Nida said, standing his ground. He's definitely calmed himself down after the pain in his ankle. "Just a sprain. I'm recovering."

He does stand enough aside for her to move past him. "And I was hoping to get a bit more than just thread and a needle. A patch is better than a stitched seam."

Which she no doubt made the same conclusion given the burlap she had brought.

"Dr. Crusher knows what she's talking about." Natasha doesn't know this kid, or his story, or anything else about him, but judging by the way he moved when he saw her, he's got enough training to know his own body. She's not about to call attention to a weakness when he's already feeling defensive. Which is why she's happy to focus on the work, her eyes moving from him to the area of the mats in question as she heads towards it, keeping her movements slow and steady. He's not a wild animal, but she doesn't want to be responsible for any sudden starts, and everyone's a little more jumpy than usual these days after the show on the mountaintop.

"Don't think I've seen you in here before. Were you a friend of Danny's?"

She'd kept vague tabs on the network, keeping an eye out for patterns, but her focus had been more on the bunker than anything else.

Friend. Nida doesn't wince at that word, he takes it in stride right now. Even if there is a part of him still uncomfortable with how easily people throw that term around. Constantly. It should mean more than they make it mean. A lot more.

"I'd more call us coworkers. I was one of the instructors he was retaining for work here. Of course first I had to knock him down a few pegs to show him I was really as good as I claimed. I think he was holding age against me. But I get why. You don't want people to get hurt because some kid was more arrogant than they deserved to be."

See, he's a thoughtful man, and at least it fits reasonably with the situation. But the idea that she hasn't seen him in here before makes him smile. Almost laugh even.

"And I've been in here nearly daily since Danny opened. So I guess we just didn't meet up time wise."

Her usage is ironic as often as it isn't. When it isn't, it does mean quite a bit to her. There aren't many people she genuinely considers friends; it's a small enough number to be counted on one hand, and several of those aren't here. It's a word that should mean something. They'd agree on that much.

She doesn't blink at the idea of someone Nida's age being an instructor. That's just as believable as the idea of Danny requiring Nida to go through his paces before he'd consider letting anyone claim that sort of responsibility. After all, he'd done something similar with her, too. If he didn't do the same thing with everyone that walked through the door of the dojo, she'd think less of him. Or rather, if he hadn't done. He's gone now. "Coworkers, then. I guess that makes us coworkers, too, then. I taught some here, occasionally. Nothing that formal, but still."

The smile gets an answering one from Natasha as she settles down, pulling out needle, thread and burlap patch to start working on the tear in the mat. "I wouldn't be surprised. I was usually in here at odd hours. I'm Natasha, by the way. I taught dance lessons, occasionally." He may recognize her name from the short roster Danny had kept up to date.

"Nida," he offers when she gives her name. He's got to consider that 'coworker' things. How this is all going to fit together. "I really hope to see you keep doing things like that here. People can always use more instructors. Even dance. It's so valuable for learning everything else. More people should know how to dance."

Of course there is a tone to it, that says he sees more out of her. Yeah, he's a touch afraid of her, but he respects that.

"What kind of dance lessons? Wonder if you know dances I don't."

"I'd like to, if you don't mind. Not that I've had many people asking, but it does give me something to do, and I do love it," she says, pulling a pair of scissors out of her bag and cutting the burlap down to size before threading the needle. "And it is useful. Balance and flow for the individual, learning how to respond to a partner's movements and anticipate their actions. There's not much it isn't useful for."

She pauses before she starts sewing, looking up at Nida, expression equal parts appraisal and faint amusement. Well, that's an interesting question, isn't it? She'd half meant it as a joke when she'd told Danny, but it had ended up being true just as often as it wasn't. "Some ballet, some ballroom. Some kinds a little more dangerous than either." She might not want the stress of being a dedicated combat instructor, but she's not opposed to lessons from time to time, when it strikes her fancy, and when the person in question seems like they could benefit.

"Let's not forget spacial awareness," Nida smiles, because that one was an important one for him. Part of why dance had turned into such a thing for him. How it helped his work.

He does watch her, silently, as she works with the thread and burlap. Glad it's a skill he has, but he wished he had been able to do it.

"I don't know ballet. Ballroom is pretty awesome though. More people should learn it. Leave you feeling accomplished, you know?"

"That too." Spatial awareness is an important one, isn't it? "I was trained as a ballerina from a very young age," she says by way of explanation, or partial. "It's good for balance, muscle control. Good for communication, too. You learn how to tell a story without words. How to show people what you want them to see. I still love it, even if I'm not in the right shape to really be a ballerina anymore." She's honed other skills, instead.

"I do love ballroom dancing. It's not really a skill many places teach anymore, you're right. How did you get into it?" Give him a chance to tell his own story.

How did he get into it? Oh dear. Adults and the whole mercenary thing. But she asked, and she seems the type to perhaps not judge him as much. He considers for a moment then nods to himself.

"The academy I went to. It was a mandatory class, but I took extra sessions of it. The style helped me a lot with acrobatics and to develop my polearms style."

And might be winning him a boyfriend, in the future, so it's good.

If there's any adult who's going to understand, it would be her, but he's got no way of knowing that, does he? As it stands, she waits patiently for him to determine his answer--or, rather, to answer whatever question he's asking himself silently as he considers both her and his response. Her own is perfectly conversational, eyes focused downward on her work, on making sure the stitches are small and neat. The patch will be more durable that way.

"Not a type of weapon many people choose to specialize in. That a preference based on the technology of your world, or just a personal choice?"

"Well, I hate guns for one thing. I have tried out a number of weapons, but given the fact that I had to face monsters and when I started training I was small and the leverage was useful, it seemed reasonable."

Not that it's all he knows. His sword work is passable at best, his hand to hand functional to serve most situations with less trained people. But really, the weapons were useful for monsters. Great for scales and cutting off limbs.

"Guns can be useful, but too many people get reliant on them. Lazy, I suppose," she answers, although she looks up at the rest of his answer, green eyes assessing. He's dancing around his words pretty well. Must be more than a few people who've judged him based on his history already. "Makes sense, if you started young. Aside from projectiles, polearms are probably the next best thing to keep whatever you're fighting at a distance, assuming you can move fast enough and know how to balance it." She hadn't gotten a choice in her own weapons training; hand to hand combat starting at eight, escrima at nine, knives and firearms at ten.

"I always preferred closer combat with smaller weapons. Easier to maneuver."

"I mean, I've learned knives for basic protection, some passing hand to hand. But for closer ranges..."

The twitch of a wrist and a long piece of wood, not so different from an escrima stick. "Tanbo. Pretty effective itself."

Not too different, and yet they're not at all alike. But, for once, she's just taking the whole thing in stride. Which makes Nida relax just a tiny bit. Because he's learned those most likely to accept it at face value are those who have been through something similar enough to get it. HE doesn't, of course, argue about the whole fast enough and balance to make it through things. Clearly he knows a bit of those to have survived to his age.

There's a definite gleam of interest in her eyes as she sees the tanbo in his hand, and she lifts one of her own in request. "Do you mind?" She'd love to check out the balance and weight; as much as she appreciates the Observer gift of the two weighted batons strapped to her thighs, they aren't quite what she's used to. If she can get something a little closer to familiar, she definitely would appreciate it.

"I do fine with knives, but back home I've got a pair of collapsible batons for hand-to-hand. I've got these for the moment, but they're far from ideal." It wouldn't be fair to ask for one of his weapons without offering one of her own in turn, and she pulls one of the carved wooden batons from its holster, offering it to him grip-first. The metal core gives it a little more heft than one might expect, but it's still a fairly light instrument.

At least she had the batons gifted by the Observers. Nida had to make these by hand. He flips the weapon easily in his hand before holding it out to her. Clearly it's made to a specification, to his specifications. To his needs. As long as his forearm, perfect for hiding under clothes, and clearly strapped in place. And of course he takes hers as well to inspect.

The weight gets an appreciative look from him, and he smiles, spinning it through his hands happily. Very lovely. Still not what he's prefer, because he prefers metal, but he works with what he has.

"Nice," he says appreciatively, twitching the other arm so that his second tanbo settles into his hand, and up close it's easier to compare them. Interesting. Just wishes he could get himself a metal core. Or just metal. "I bet you're real good with these. Got to respect someone who is good with the low-tech solutions."

It's definitely a bonus, though she's honestly not sure what it says that this was in that third box she'd received. The first had been full of books; the second a full warmup outfit from her ballerina days, and the third, these two batons and the leather holsters strapped to her thighs. All in all, she'd have preferred her asps, with or without the electric current, but looks like whoever's keeping them here prefers to keep the weapons as archaic as the setting.

Natasha balances the tanbo in her hand, turning it over, giving it a quick flip with a deft motion of her wrist, the practiced hand of one who knows how to use what's there before nodding her approval of his own handwork. "I'd better be," she answers easily, a smile playing over her lips. "Spent too many years practicing to not be any good. How good are you?" Not disbelieving; more assessing, wondering if he'd be willing to go a round or two. She hasn't had anyone to really push her with these yet, and it could be nice to get some practice in.

"Good enough to see how you move and be afraid," Nida admits. It's quiet respect for her, and he isn't afraid to admit it. Is that good enough? "Maybe, when my ankle is better, you can kick my ass and we'll see how I measure up."

Because frankly, she looks good and she's older than him. Which means experience should put her ahead of him, no matter how hard he worked growing up. But he does seem excited at the idea. Because someone who can understand the basics of these weapons is nice.

She looks at him for a long moment at those words, but the look in her eyes isn't pitying or skeptical or offended or any one of the dozen different kind of looks any other adult might give someone younger who'd say those words out loud to them. Instead, it's just...thoughtful. Considering. She doesn't bother telling him he's wrong, or that he doesn't need to be afraid. They're just words. She knows better than most how easy words are, how little they mean.

"Sounds like a plan," she answers instead, and there's the faint touch of a smile on her lips. "I don't get many people willing to go a few rounds, at least not many with a similar skill set. I've been teaching Peggy, a little, but there are some things you can only really teach when your student's young enough to not have anything to unlearn." He seems like the sort to know that well, if she's read the room correctly.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Nida says thoughtfully when Nat puts the idea forward. "I tend to train kids myself. Prefer to start with them at ten, but there's only so much you can do when someone realizes a weapon class doesn't suit them and transfers in."

Younger is better for making warriors. It's not quite the same truth as how you make a good archer, which is to start with their grandfather, but she's not wrong about there only really being some things you can learn young. Some reflexes need time to settle in. And distrust is less damaging when you learn it young, because you don't second guess yourself about it.

So it's not just him, but an ongoing function in his world. Of course, he could be talking about classes for the sake of learning an art. But given what he'd said to her--good enough to be afraid--somehow she doubts that's the case. "The program I was in was a little more rigorous," she says, turning the tanbo over her fingers once before offering it back to him, taking her own baton back in turn when it's offered. "We didn't get much of a choice as far as weapons training went."

The followup question is just as casual and offhanded, as though she has no investment in the answer. As though they're talking about the weather. "How old were you when you started?"

No doubt. The woman moves like danger, like few people Nida's ever seen, and he's considered a master of his chosen weapons. He respects her without even needing to question it. Why should he?

Still, the casualness of the next question actually catches him off guard. Should he really tell her the answer? For a while Nida considers her, thoughtful and perhaps a touch worried. Things aren't going so bad here. He doesn't know if he wants to change that.

"I was eight when Garden took me in. You start some basic hand to hand stuff then. Weapons training starts at ten if you're there when you're that age. I started with swords and realized it wasn't really for me. Got into polearms at twelve. Tanbo at fifteen. Certified as an instructor in the former after the war, so I was about eighteen then."

She's patient enough to wait him out, sitting there cross-legged by the edge of the mat, hands still slowly moving as they finish the last few stitches on that patch and tie off the ends of the thread. Should be enough time for him to reach whatever conclusion he's going to reach.

In the end, he decides to tell her, and she does him the decency of watching the entire time, hands folded in her lap as he recites ages, specialties, combat, certifications. Garden, he says. Maybe there's something cross-cultural about places that make children into weapons. Call it something innocuous, make it a home, a family. Bring them up knowing only loyalty, obedience, orders. "Sounds like a well-rounded education," she answers, and there's a faint dry humor in the words, something he might catch as familiar. "Weapons training, ballroom dancing--I'm assuming a basic educational curriculum, too, plus a few classes you wouldn't find on your average lists." She shrugs, a gesture that says enough.

"I was six when I first went to the Red Room." It's a part of her she hasn't shared with anyone else. He's a stranger, yes; and sharing with those is still dangerous. But he's still looking at her like he's not sure if she's going to eat him or not, and so.

"More than a few, including magic. But on my world it's... needed. People like us are needed. Sure, we hire out as mercenaries, but a part of that is taking out monsters. Our world has a lot of them," he admits. Of course his specialization wasn't in that sort of thing, not like Seifer. He was intel, he was... well, in a lot of ways he was trained like Natasha. Just not as deeply, just not as self-destructive.

He considers her briefly. That's not a good age to get into things. Like Seifer was. Seifer didn't even have a taste of the outside world. Nida had, though. Briefly.

"Were you an orphan too?"

"I'm sure they're lucky to have you. Whatever services you do provide," she answers. "My world, we're just beginning to learn that normal baseline humans aren't the only things you have to worry about. There was an alien invasion in a major city about eight years ago, and the city is just now recovering. We're still going through some growing pains with how we handle things. It's been...complicated." A delicate way to phrase it, honestly.

Her answer to his question is equally careful, a nonchalant reply that should speak volumes. "That wasn't a requirement for Red Room candidacy. But my parents are dead now." The question also encourages others. "Were you?"

Nida, With A Shiny White Band - Open and Closed Prompts

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

seems a good wrap point <3

good to me! <3