Whoever's been chosen from the throng to speak with Armin will find their peer sitting straight-backed across from them, interview questions set neatly in his lap, exuding the general aura of someone about to go up on stage. Not a smooth, patient confidence, either—more of the nervous, preemptively embarrassed variety.
Honestly, he'd prefer a stage. Public speaking and even talking to strangers, he can handle. One might even argue he has a natural talent for it, but this sort of casual and personal banter fodder written out before him to use on the person opposite doesn't exactly fall in the category of his forte.
Surprisingly, the unease hardly reaches his face, and he'll mask the little that does with an exchange of pleasantries.
"Hello, my name is Armin," and should the other be so gracious as to return the greeting, "... Would you prefer we each go down the list of questions in its entirety, or should we alternate?"
2: CALISTHENICS
He'd never been under the illusion training would be easy, but while the bustling busywork from dawn to dusk is a routine he can adjust to with grace, one hour in particular is quite predictably making itself out to be the very bane of his existence.
The running.
It's not as if he's inactive, but he's always been partial to books over physical exertion (alright, he's a massive nerd, who in their right minds even let him get this far?). Not that that is any sort of excuse. Here there are standards. Strict standards, ones he clearly doesn't meet—perhaps ones he sets more for himself and far too high to boot—but by god, they are ones he will uphold or die trying.
Which, frankly, he sounds like he's just about to. The oppressive trifecta of sun, heat, and humidity is driving a slump into Armin's shoulders like a wedge into firewood, the splitting sensation in his ribs forcing his breaths out in short, rasping bursts. In spite of this, he presses on, but there's only so far mad determination not to disappoint will get one. And he's not even sure it's the required distance.
To anyone unfortunate enough to be running with him, they'll find him slowing helplessly to a trot, but in spite of ragged gasps and screwed-shut eyes, the spindly young man trudges on. More than half-expecting to be left behind whenever he glances up.
Armin Arlert | Attack on Titan | Multiple Choice
Whoever's been chosen from the throng to speak with Armin will find their peer sitting straight-backed across from them, interview questions set neatly in his lap, exuding the general aura of someone about to go up on stage. Not a smooth, patient confidence, either—more of the nervous, preemptively embarrassed variety.
Honestly, he'd prefer a stage. Public speaking and even talking to strangers, he can handle. One might even argue he has a natural talent for it, but this sort of casual and personal banter fodder written out before him to use on the person opposite doesn't exactly fall in the category of his forte.
Surprisingly, the unease hardly reaches his face, and he'll mask the little that does with an exchange of pleasantries.
"Hello, my name is Armin," and should the other be so gracious as to return the greeting, "... Would you prefer we each go down the list of questions in its entirety, or should we alternate?"
2: CALISTHENICS
He'd never been under the illusion training would be easy, but while the bustling busywork from dawn to dusk is a routine he can adjust to with grace, one hour in particular is quite predictably making itself out to be the very bane of his existence.
The running.
It's not as if he's inactive, but he's always been partial to books over physical exertion (alright, he's a massive nerd, who in their right minds even let him get this far?). Not that that is any sort of excuse. Here there are standards. Strict standards, ones he clearly doesn't meet—perhaps ones he sets more for himself and far too high to boot—but by god, they are ones he will uphold or die trying.
Which, frankly, he sounds like he's just about to. The oppressive trifecta of sun, heat, and humidity is driving a slump into Armin's shoulders like a wedge into firewood, the splitting sensation in his ribs forcing his breaths out in short, rasping bursts. In spite of this, he presses on, but there's only so far mad determination not to disappoint will get one. And he's not even sure it's the required distance.
To anyone unfortunate enough to be running with him, they'll find him slowing helplessly to a trot, but in spite of ragged gasps and screwed-shut eyes, the spindly young man trudges on. More than half-expecting to be left behind whenever he glances up.