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Entry #A-4: "Atom" [December 29th, Action]
Nov. 9th, 2011 12:46 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
dead-black-eyes.livejournal.com[L really, really misses the now-distant past when he could fall asleep after four days of eating sugar, drinking enough caffeine to make his heart skip beats, and changing the world yet again with his brilliance. Those were the days when he could wake up refreshed after 16 hours of deep sleep only to find more sugar, caffeine, and case files on the floor next to his computer. It had been a reliable, comfortable schedule for him, keeping his mind sharp enough to impress the rest of the world, treating his body well enough to function, and solving his cases quickly enough to keep them interesting and to keep them coming.
Things weren't quite like that, these days. His apartment was spick-and-span, but conspicuously empty of furniture and homey touches. He had yet to move out of Casualty Communal, which he understood was encouraged after someone had resided in Death City for a certain amount of time. He didn't have any money, relying on the occasional kindness of strangers for food. He still didn't have a coat or a pair of sturdy, reliable shoes, which was growing to be a problem as the days grew increasingly darker and colder. And the one thing he'd been determined to attain a little over a week before, a partner, had still not been settled upon definitively. The only thing he's really accomplished lately, besides attending a small and inclusive holiday party, is count the tiles and grooves on every surface in his nearly bare apartment.
That's why you'll see him this evening, out and about around dusk armed only with a can of Lysol. One might think that he's doing the sensible and responsible thing, job-hunting so he can afford basic necessities. But answering to someone else, following their schedule and their rules and adjusting to accommodate their individual quirks and neuroses... all of that is a last resort to L. Preferable, it seems, is the noble profession of dumpster diving. He might be outside your place of business or home right now, balanced precariously on the edge of the very full dumpster. You'll hear soft sounds occasionally, either the can of Lysol breathing its cold, sterile breath on a potential shoe or jacket prospect, or L hissing in disgust as he encounters food past its expiration date, rodent carcasses, or other unsavory objects.
Seriously, catch him in the act. You know you want to.]
Things weren't quite like that, these days. His apartment was spick-and-span, but conspicuously empty of furniture and homey touches. He had yet to move out of Casualty Communal, which he understood was encouraged after someone had resided in Death City for a certain amount of time. He didn't have any money, relying on the occasional kindness of strangers for food. He still didn't have a coat or a pair of sturdy, reliable shoes, which was growing to be a problem as the days grew increasingly darker and colder. And the one thing he'd been determined to attain a little over a week before, a partner, had still not been settled upon definitively. The only thing he's really accomplished lately, besides attending a small and inclusive holiday party, is count the tiles and grooves on every surface in his nearly bare apartment.
That's why you'll see him this evening, out and about around dusk armed only with a can of Lysol. One might think that he's doing the sensible and responsible thing, job-hunting so he can afford basic necessities. But answering to someone else, following their schedule and their rules and adjusting to accommodate their individual quirks and neuroses... all of that is a last resort to L. Preferable, it seems, is the noble profession of dumpster diving. He might be outside your place of business or home right now, balanced precariously on the edge of the very full dumpster. You'll hear soft sounds occasionally, either the can of Lysol breathing its cold, sterile breath on a potential shoe or jacket prospect, or L hissing in disgust as he encounters food past its expiration date, rodent carcasses, or other unsavory objects.
Seriously, catch him in the act. You know you want to.]
