- Invitation Status
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
- One post per day
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- Whenever I can get on.
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adept
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Female
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Fantasy, Comedy, Medieval, Romance, Sci-Fi, Modern
Matthew Michael Volt
"People and their questions..."
Location | Home.
Time | To pack up.
Weather | Calm.
Matt hadn't really noticed Myla come in, but he heard the questions well enough when he was in his room. He felt his cheeks get warm at her comment about the state of the couch. There was the embarrassment he'd been missing. Amazing how it finally decided to make an appearance. "That couch is way comfier than the new one. Can't say I've ever cared about appearances." He stated simply. He was silent and still for a moment as he thought over things. "I don't know what trash-cat'll do, honestly. They've been around since before I moved in, and I'm technically not their owner... so it's really not my call... Hey, Slate, we can keep pets, right?" He answered, talking loud enough to be heard through the apartment as he continued his work, and also tacking on a question that was beginning to press on his mind. He'd gotten started emptying out the drawers of his dresser now, rainbows of long sleeve shirts he'd picked up along the way getting shoved into the bags.
"Not like I'd especially listen to any no pet rules." He added after another bout of silence. He studied a few T-shirt's he'd found in the bottom of his drawers with a slightly confused expression on his face, wondering where he'd even gotten them from. He eventually just shrugged it off and stuffed them into the bag too. "But, uh, yeah. The couch should be pretty easy to get out once we get to it. I managed to get it in here on my own without killing myself on the stairs, so between all of us I don't think we'll have too many problems getting it out in one piece." Non judgey conversation, yay. He was starting to feel a bit better now that he'd fallen into a somewhat mindless routine. Hopefully there wouldn't be anymore questions or vocalized observations of the place. After all, this was home, everything in here was the best that he'd been able to come up with in the year he'd been here.
"So, what's going to happen to the furniture and stuff we don't take with us? Is it going to get put in a storage unit, or thrown out, or what?" He asked as he moved on to the closet. Sweatshirts, a rainbow of colors but all looking to be of about the same make and all showing some signs of being worn out. All of them were packed up into the trash bag too.
He went through checking all the drawers twice, finding a couple screws and spare parts for things in his nightstand drawers, as well as a hammer for some reason beyond his immediate comprehension. He was not especially bothered by it considering how he tended to just put things away in the closest spots when he was tired. It was probably there from when he was fixing the bed frame. He packed it up with the rest of his bedroom things.
He went tense when Myla came up behind him. Movements kept slow and calm. He listened quietly as she spoke, expression not giving away anything. He flinched hard when she hit his shoulder, immediately moving away from her with one of his sharper looks. He gently rubbed his shoulder as he puzzled together a way to respond to her. "What happens if she can't tone her powers down in the field though? What happens if she heart attacks someone who can't handle it, and they die? This whole program, thing, whatever... It would get shut down. Some of us might end up in jail as accessories to the murder too, for allowing such a huge oversight. And that doesn't sit well with me." He eventually explained. "I don't care about intentions. I care about actions. And until I see evidence that she isn't a threat to all of this, I'm not going to give her any sympathy."
Trash-cat had fled from the sofa when Myla had lifted it up, and hand slipped off to the bathroom when the woman walked after Matthew. It weaved around Slate's ankles before jumping up onto the vanity counter top and laying down in the sink. It would occasionally bat at Slate's hand, claws sheathed, if he brought it a little too close. Probably harmless play, though it would be smart not to get the cat too wound up.
"Not like I'd especially listen to any no pet rules." He added after another bout of silence. He studied a few T-shirt's he'd found in the bottom of his drawers with a slightly confused expression on his face, wondering where he'd even gotten them from. He eventually just shrugged it off and stuffed them into the bag too. "But, uh, yeah. The couch should be pretty easy to get out once we get to it. I managed to get it in here on my own without killing myself on the stairs, so between all of us I don't think we'll have too many problems getting it out in one piece." Non judgey conversation, yay. He was starting to feel a bit better now that he'd fallen into a somewhat mindless routine. Hopefully there wouldn't be anymore questions or vocalized observations of the place. After all, this was home, everything in here was the best that he'd been able to come up with in the year he'd been here.
"So, what's going to happen to the furniture and stuff we don't take with us? Is it going to get put in a storage unit, or thrown out, or what?" He asked as he moved on to the closet. Sweatshirts, a rainbow of colors but all looking to be of about the same make and all showing some signs of being worn out. All of them were packed up into the trash bag too.
He went through checking all the drawers twice, finding a couple screws and spare parts for things in his nightstand drawers, as well as a hammer for some reason beyond his immediate comprehension. He was not especially bothered by it considering how he tended to just put things away in the closest spots when he was tired. It was probably there from when he was fixing the bed frame. He packed it up with the rest of his bedroom things.
He went tense when Myla came up behind him. Movements kept slow and calm. He listened quietly as she spoke, expression not giving away anything. He flinched hard when she hit his shoulder, immediately moving away from her with one of his sharper looks. He gently rubbed his shoulder as he puzzled together a way to respond to her. "What happens if she can't tone her powers down in the field though? What happens if she heart attacks someone who can't handle it, and they die? This whole program, thing, whatever... It would get shut down. Some of us might end up in jail as accessories to the murder too, for allowing such a huge oversight. And that doesn't sit well with me." He eventually explained. "I don't care about intentions. I care about actions. And until I see evidence that she isn't a threat to all of this, I'm not going to give her any sympathy."
Trash-cat had fled from the sofa when Myla had lifted it up, and hand slipped off to the bathroom when the woman walked after Matthew. It weaved around Slate's ankles before jumping up onto the vanity counter top and laying down in the sink. It would occasionally bat at Slate's hand, claws sheathed, if he brought it a little too close. Probably harmless play, though it would be smart not to get the cat too wound up.
