Waiting for his new survey partner to make himself (or herself) comfortable across from him, Eren leans on the table, watching the clock on the wall—the one counting up from the last Kaiju attack—with serious green eyes and an oddly intense amount of focus. As if he's waiting for it to reset any minute.
This many hours since we were last invaded. This many days since the human race had to fight to survive.
The clock ticks up (57 seconds...58...59...another whole minute that the hammer hasn't fallen;) and he blinks back down away from from it to study the person across from him. This could be the person he drifts with one day.
"You wanna start or should I?" he asks, and looks dubiously down at the seemingly random grouping of questions. It doesn't make much sense to him, how they could tell anything from this stuff. Still, this is important. He's not going to goof around.
(scenario II)
It's hot as hell in Chile. Muggier than he'd come to expect from summers in California. Despite the oppressive heat, Eren is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as the new recruits wait for the bus to arrive. It does, finally, allowing them to file into the stuffy interior wihthout fanfare. He manages to swing himself into an empty seat with enthusiasm just as the bus lurches itself into motion, bumping shoulders with the poor unfortunate soul already occupying the window seat in the process.
"Shit, sorry," except he doesn't really look sorry. Far too busy craning his neck to look out the window, as if expecting to catch sight of the Shatterdome already.
"Almost there," he breathes, mostly to himself. He's waited years for this. Ever since Trespasser had torn his old life up from the roots and devoured it. Ever since the jaeger program had been established and given him a way to fight back, to achieve his dreams. The best weapon against the kaiju. Jaegers. Like a sign that he's meant for this. He has to be.
(bonus scenario III)
It turns out Eren Jaeger is nothing much like the finely tuned machines that happen to share his name. In fact he seems—at first glance—entirely inept, if earnest. Dedicated, passionate. Enthusiastic—to the point of idiocy, maybe—but almost as likely to hurt himself as he is to take out a practice dummy. To be more accurate, he's prone to achieving both at the same time with alarming consistency.
He is, frankly, embarrassing. But to his credit he is getting better. And fast.
Unfortunately, today is not a day in which he manages to circumvent his nature. He's bloodied his nose doing something ill-advised and possibly suicidal during kwoon combat training. It's not bad enough to warrant a trip to the infirmary, but he's been ordered to stand by on the sidelines until he's done bleeding all the over the place. So he's sitting outside the room, glaring daggers at the ceiling and holding a red-spotted towel up to his bruising face. As he hears someone approach, he lowers it and looks back down. Furrowing his brow, he sets his jaw and his shoulders, as if he's got something to prove.
"I said I was fine," he insists, apparently under the impression that the person in question has been sent to check on him. Whether or not that's true— "I don't need babysitting."
(Also open to brackets if you prefer it! I'm flexible.)
Eren Jaeger | Attack on Titan | multiple choice
Waiting for his new survey partner to make himself (or herself) comfortable across from him, Eren leans on the table, watching the clock on the wall—the one counting up from the last Kaiju attack—with serious green eyes and an oddly intense amount of focus. As if he's waiting for it to reset any minute.
This many hours since we were last invaded. This many days since the human race had to fight to survive.
The clock ticks up (57 seconds...58...59...another whole minute that the hammer hasn't fallen;) and he blinks back down away from from it to study the person across from him. This could be the person he drifts with one day.
"You wanna start or should I?" he asks, and looks dubiously down at the seemingly random grouping of questions. It doesn't make much sense to him, how they could tell anything from this stuff. Still, this is important. He's not going to goof around.
(scenario II)
It's hot as hell in Chile. Muggier than he'd come to expect from summers in California. Despite the oppressive heat, Eren is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as the new recruits wait for the bus to arrive. It does, finally, allowing them to file into the stuffy interior wihthout fanfare. He manages to swing himself into an empty seat with enthusiasm just as the bus lurches itself into motion, bumping shoulders with the poor unfortunate soul already occupying the window seat in the process.
"Shit, sorry," except he doesn't really look sorry. Far too busy craning his neck to look out the window, as if expecting to catch sight of the Shatterdome already.
"Almost there," he breathes, mostly to himself. He's waited years for this. Ever since Trespasser had torn his old life up from the roots and devoured it. Ever since the jaeger program had been established and given him a way to fight back, to achieve his dreams. The best weapon against the kaiju. Jaegers. Like a sign that he's meant for this. He has to be.
(bonus scenario III)
It turns out Eren Jaeger is nothing much like the finely tuned machines that happen to share his name. In fact he seems—at first glance—entirely inept, if earnest. Dedicated, passionate. Enthusiastic—to the point of idiocy, maybe—but almost as likely to hurt himself as he is to take out a practice dummy. To be more accurate, he's prone to achieving both at the same time with alarming consistency.
He is, frankly, embarrassing. But to his credit he is getting better. And fast.
Unfortunately, today is not a day in which he manages to circumvent his nature. He's bloodied his nose doing something ill-advised and possibly suicidal during kwoon combat training. It's not bad enough to warrant a trip to the infirmary, but he's been ordered to stand by on the sidelines until he's done bleeding all the over the place. So he's sitting outside the room, glaring daggers at the ceiling and holding a red-spotted towel up to his bruising face. As he hears someone approach, he lowers it and looks back down. Furrowing his brow, he sets his jaw and his shoulders, as if he's got something to prove.
"I said I was fine," he insists, apparently under the impression that the person in question has been sent to check on him. Whether or not that's true— "I don't need babysitting."
(Also open to brackets if you prefer it! I'm flexible.)