[Open] Philly camp

[makinuscream]

Who: Kisuke Urahara & You!
What: Various prompts at the camp
Where: L-Space, Outside
When: If relevant, like if you want to note it's after an event.
Warnings/Notes:None, will update if needed.



[ L-Space ]

[ Some has made a tiny workspace. It's nothing special, just a table made out of debris and a small candle. There are notes scattered about, feverishly written out with equations complete with strange notations (unless one is familiar with spiritual energy differentials and the like). Off to the side sits a half-eaten Philly Cheesesteak and one that's untouched. (Someone's practicing.)

A clatter comes from one of the shelves followed by a call:] Hey! You gotta a second? I need a hand.

[ Amid the books and worn down furniture, stands a man in a white and green striped bucket hat who is currently elbow deep in a row of books. The hat obscures his eyes but not the half-smile on his face. ]

Could you hold this? [ One hand holds out a book, waggling it in the air. ]

[ Outside: Practice makes perfect ]

It's been awhile since I've used one of these. [ Urahara regards the glowy bow in his hand with an amused grin. ] At least it looks familiar.

[ The luminescence isn't that of spiritual energy, but it is close enough to tug at the disconnected feeling Urahara has and has had since he arrived. The inability to sense those around him gnaws at the back of his mind. Here, he does not have the power that he's used to tapping at will.

It's a problem, but not a Problem. Or so he tells himself. There's much he has to learn, but that's never been an issue for him. Drawing up the bow, Urahara aims at what used to be a street sign and lets the missle fly towards the target. He's off by a half inch. Not bad. Not great, but not bad. ]

I don't suppose you'd care to hold up a target for me? [ He says with a glance at the person walking by. Is he serious? Probably not. Maybe.]

Comments

[awfulcer]

You can pick it up, [he says, noticing how Urahara is hesitating. The shield is currently about the size of a large dinner plate, lightweight, golden, barely-perceptibly engraved with the images but not text of a police badge.] It changes size when there's fighting around. Gets bigger and heavier. I never actually seen it do that, it just...happens.

[Well, now he feels pretty dumb explaining that. He feels tired just trying to keep up with Urahara's rapidfire questions, but he's doing his best to answer them; he pretty keenly recalls how disoriented he was getting here. How disoriented he typically is now, a few weeks in.]

It didn't come with instructions, but soon as I put it on I knew how to do kung fu. [It is absolutely not kung fu.] And it makes me invulnerable. Nothing can hurt me and I don't feel any pain. [He rests his head in his arms on the table, figuring it might be rude in general but that 1) he doesn't care and 2) looking as beat-up as he does, it couldn't be held against him anyway.]

You got a name?

[makinuscream]

[ Polite he may be, Urahara still doesn't need a second invitation. He scoops up the shield in both hands, half expecting an unpleasant zap for troubles. A curious frown forms as he studies the shape, the metal, and a half a dozen other details. ]

Hmm, so it responds the moment there's conflict. Like it knows what you'll need. Interesting. [ Spirit swords needed commands. They only changed shape when their wielder commanded that power. It lends credence to Dixon's theory. If the weapon could compensate for the owner's lack of training to some extent, it would make sense. Though at the bit about kung-fu, his brows shoot it up. ]

Really? That's quite a list of attributes. How many times have you used it? [ Curiosity piles up like a bunch of rambunctious kittens scrambling for attention. Theories and questions compete for attention. ]

Ah, names. That'd be polite, yeah? [ Setting the shield to the side, Kisuke bows. ] Kisuke Urahara, shopkeep, from Karakura Town, Japan.

[awfulcer]

It's probably smarter than I am. [It's a joke, but it's one of those jokes where the chuckle belies a little fear that it's the truth. He sits back up.]

I used it up on the hill and when we got attacked by these things a little before that. [And almost every night he either traps a pigeon in a room or convinces someone trustworthy on the squad to help him activate it for a hit of magic, but he's definitely not advertising that fact.] Careful, it's sharp. I noticed the other day that it comes back to me when I whistle for it like a boomerang.

[There's a bit of a deer-in-headlights look on Dixon's face when Urahara says that, because there's no way he's going to pronounce that right on the first try, or ever. He scours his brain for nicknames he can use without pulling a rude "hey you".] Dixon. From Ebbing, Missouri.

[He doesn't specify the United States because as far as he's concerned, that's the default.]