McDonell Benedict "Kazuhira (和平)" Miller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
warandpeace) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2017-04-16 08:52 am
warandpeace) wrote in thisavrou_log2017-04-16 08:52 am
(no subject)
Who: Kazuhira Miller | Various
When: April
Where: Wherever labeled
What: General OTA starters for this month
Warnings: Will warn in the title portion of tags.
pax hamburgana.
[Miller comes into his diner almost every day. He's lucky to have workers, really, but he'd still come in alone and work his little heart out if he had to. He would sweep the floors, he would bus tables, he would cook food and do dishes, whatever is necessary to keep things running. The luck of "space age" technology (or rather, very average tech here) is that much of that can be automated as necessary. But the "human element" or the near equivalent when there's such a mix of people requires a face at a bar and at diner booths or a body by the heat of a stove, as far as he's concerned.]
[Today isn't a cooking day, it's a serving day, and he's up front finishing up a wipe down of the bar after a daily shift change rush. He guesses it's Region One's equivalent of the noon lunch around here. A bunch of people get a break at approximately the same time and they come in and get food and either they love it or hate it and he's the one that gets to hear about it]
[Sometimes during the lull and most of the busy work is done, Kaz'll spend those spare moments to practice playing his guitar at a booth, soft acoustic sounds from expert fingers filling the restaurant. Good enough that at one point he could have been a professional so long as he didn't sing as well. Now being original is a trial, songs being difficult to generate on his own. Instead he plucks through ones he made years ago or learned in Costa Rica.]
[Either way, he'll find his way to anyone that comes in to eat.]
EN-Line.
[The worst part of taking up a new project is finding all the paperwork he needs to fill out.]
[One is a broadcasting office. One for him to ask about taxation and licensing because he has no idea how that works here. But it means a lot of walking and a lot of being told to go to another place and a lot more walking. Not long enough to take public transportation, but enough that the runaround gets exasperating (and he's a man that enjoys this sort of thing normally).]
[By the time he gets on the EN-Line to make his way home he's in a seat attempting with all his might to not nod off. A wearying battle that he loses, eventually doing so. That blond head tipping forward some, eyes closed behind his aviators, Kaz starts muttering a little to himself.]
Do you know where Miller is?
[He wakes up with a start from the sound of his own voice and shakes his head. Well, that's fun. He'll just try to find someone to talk and keep himself awake so he doesn't end up falling asleep and riding this thing in a circle.]
band night at a bar.
[It's been a hell of week, and Kaz has not slowed down except to sleep and that sleep is the sort of "decent" sleep that's like a marathon in itself. Check time, confirm time setting, lay down face first without undressing, sprint snooze. This is the first time he's taken some time off just to relax, going to a bar to enjoy himself and listen to some music.]
[But perhaps he should not have.]
[Once the live band hours are over, he's piss drunk. Somewhere along the line Miller forgot he's no longer twenty-eight and the last time he got drunk without strange mantid interference was back on the last birthday he could remember, at a party that Big Boss had thrown for him when they were both aboard the Moira.]
[And that has him ranting at some poor unfortunate soul near him.]
Did you know John put me in a slingshot? He tricked me. [Kaz slurs with spite, making himself mad all over again.] I almost died for a man that put me in a slingshot. You know how far I went? I lost my clipboard.
And his box was too tiny. I had to make him make it bigger. He barely listened to me over his stupid small box, I don't know why I thought he'd listen to me over nukes.
[This all makes sense to him. Even that hiccup that follows that odd assortment of words that are supposed to be a true story. Accurate punctuation.]
When: April
Where: Wherever labeled
What: General OTA starters for this month
Warnings: Will warn in the title portion of tags.
pax hamburgana.
[Miller comes into his diner almost every day. He's lucky to have workers, really, but he'd still come in alone and work his little heart out if he had to. He would sweep the floors, he would bus tables, he would cook food and do dishes, whatever is necessary to keep things running. The luck of "space age" technology (or rather, very average tech here) is that much of that can be automated as necessary. But the "human element" or the near equivalent when there's such a mix of people requires a face at a bar and at diner booths or a body by the heat of a stove, as far as he's concerned.]
[Today isn't a cooking day, it's a serving day, and he's up front finishing up a wipe down of the bar after a daily shift change rush. He guesses it's Region One's equivalent of the noon lunch around here. A bunch of people get a break at approximately the same time and they come in and get food and either they love it or hate it and he's the one that gets to hear about it]
[Sometimes during the lull and most of the busy work is done, Kaz'll spend those spare moments to practice playing his guitar at a booth, soft acoustic sounds from expert fingers filling the restaurant. Good enough that at one point he could have been a professional so long as he didn't sing as well. Now being original is a trial, songs being difficult to generate on his own. Instead he plucks through ones he made years ago or learned in Costa Rica.]
[Either way, he'll find his way to anyone that comes in to eat.]
EN-Line.
[The worst part of taking up a new project is finding all the paperwork he needs to fill out.]
[One is a broadcasting office. One for him to ask about taxation and licensing because he has no idea how that works here. But it means a lot of walking and a lot of being told to go to another place and a lot more walking. Not long enough to take public transportation, but enough that the runaround gets exasperating (and he's a man that enjoys this sort of thing normally).]
[By the time he gets on the EN-Line to make his way home he's in a seat attempting with all his might to not nod off. A wearying battle that he loses, eventually doing so. That blond head tipping forward some, eyes closed behind his aviators, Kaz starts muttering a little to himself.]
Do you know where Miller is?
[He wakes up with a start from the sound of his own voice and shakes his head. Well, that's fun. He'll just try to find someone to talk and keep himself awake so he doesn't end up falling asleep and riding this thing in a circle.]
band night at a bar.
[It's been a hell of week, and Kaz has not slowed down except to sleep and that sleep is the sort of "decent" sleep that's like a marathon in itself. Check time, confirm time setting, lay down face first without undressing, sprint snooze. This is the first time he's taken some time off just to relax, going to a bar to enjoy himself and listen to some music.]
[But perhaps he should not have.]
[Once the live band hours are over, he's piss drunk. Somewhere along the line Miller forgot he's no longer twenty-eight and the last time he got drunk without strange mantid interference was back on the last birthday he could remember, at a party that Big Boss had thrown for him when they were both aboard the Moira.]
[And that has him ranting at some poor unfortunate soul near him.]
Did you know John put me in a slingshot? He tricked me. [Kaz slurs with spite, making himself mad all over again.] I almost died for a man that put me in a slingshot. You know how far I went? I lost my clipboard.
And his box was too tiny. I had to make him make it bigger. He barely listened to me over his stupid small box, I don't know why I thought he'd listen to me over nukes.
[This all makes sense to him. Even that hiccup that follows that odd assortment of words that are supposed to be a true story. Accurate punctuation.]
no subject
You asked for yourself.
[Illidan lowers his chin and tucks the TAB away in the belt of his pants.]
I believe I woke you. [He's nonplussed to admit although no apology comes with the admission.]
no subject
[He budges up his sunglasses long enough to rub his eye with the heel of his hand, rubbing the sleep out of his eye.] My father's named Miller. It was probably him.
[It's almost quaint that he's stopped dreaming about the destruction of the base, of the horrors of Afghanistan. He goes back to dreaming about his childhood.]
Sorry. I woke myself I think.
[Though he has to admit- he did not expect to wake to such a large man.]
no subject
Illidan makes a small huff through his nose and turns his head towards the man again. After a few moments of silence, he hangs his head and finally just asks:]
Are you a human, Miller?
no subject
Yeah. Pretty much.
I think humans in different places end up different. [He thinks of Link's pointy ears, a young man who was also human. But not one like him.] Why do you ask?
no subject
I have not known many humans personally. They are a new race, on my world
[Sprung up from the gods-abandoned vrykul is his understanding, rather than from clay and mud like the dwarves.]
They are populous, industrious, resourceful, short-lived. Is this alike to the humans of your world?
no subject
[There's some definite adjustment still to be made over waking up to a conversational devil. He blinks again behind his lenses and sits up a little straighter.] I guess you're going to have to get used to them. There's a pretty big variety around here but it seems like the dominant group is still human.
Or maybe I'm just biased and happen to notice them more in the places I frequent. I haven't actually looked at a census. What are you?
no subject
Still, it's not a very easy question for him to answer, for so many reasons. Illidan scowls softly before finally turning his face in the man's direction to answer.]
Kal'dorei. Night elf, in the common tongue.
[Illidan tilts his head as if listening to something in the distance, though really he's trying to pinpoint exactly where the man is sitting. The tattoos on his bare upper body glow with a faint green illumination.]
Although other night elves do not look like me, unless they too are Demon Hunters.