[Someone has been busy.

Despite Mamoru not being entirely convinced about this takeover, it doesn't change that he fits into the scene like a piece of a puzzle. Eventually, he's seen talking to commanders and those in the roles of authority, providing insights, small inputs that aim for efficiency and productivity. Some of the forces start stopping him while he walks around, or approach him when he's settled somewhere or eating, asking about how to take care of issues in their perimeter, how strike teams should be organized and rotated, and what to do if there's an eventual ambush or attack. In fact, it's here, and not in Highstorm, Springstar, or even Kowloon, that you may find Mamoru most at ease, his stance watchful and considerate of the people in the location, even if he does tend to keep to himself for the most part.

You may find him in the midst of it, maybe nudging someone's stance into correction when they are practicing how to stand after an attack with a sword or even a glaive (a simple touch to the middle of the shoulder blades, a tap with his foot on that person's heel is enough), or listening in to the strategic motions and operations of those who are a bit more invested in this.

Or maybe you find him outside of the walls, checking out the surroundings, keeping monsters at bay, maybe even encountering someone not from his own faction. Most of all, you find him noting and muttering something after he touches the frame of his shades. As though he's keeping a record of things.]

[Interestingly enough, even if he made no effort to help with the preparations or with engaging in the activities, a man has got to eat.

And a man has got to eat something proper, so when he sniffs something burning in someone else's pan, he walks around the serving table and starts talking about how the heat is not measured enough and when dealing with uncontrolled temperatures, you have to use your wrist, see? What the fuck were you thinking??

Eventually, he does keep grumbling whilst talking about how to do a stir fry and looking over and taste testing what others are doing and "get me some coriander; this is the blandest thing I've ever eaten—"

Some more daring and amused members gather around for the show-cooking display, some snickering and calling Mamoru, 'yes, chef!' (only to have the swordsman roll his eyes), others looking a bit daunted at the final product (the plating is horrendous). After some bets are placed and a brave soul tries it, their eyes light up, and immediately hide the dish from the others when they realize it's good; it's actually really good ('What? Let me try!' 'No way! Wait for your own!' 'You owe me ten!' 'Ah, c'mon!').]

[He's not an extrovert.

And his whole circadian rhythm is absolutely shot. It's no wonder, then, that you may find Mamoru just seemingly sleeping on a seat somewhere, arms crossed over his chest and stretched legs crossed at the ankles. He may be doing this outside, in some quieter (and weirdly enough, one with a vantage point) place, or in a tent.

If someone does go near to him and challenge him for a match (arm-wrestling and sparring, mostly), he'll wave a hand at them.] I don't do that kind of thing for show.

[Not that the sunbeams really work that well with him, anyway, considering. He's mostly quiet as he listens to what other people provide him, curious. Mamoru is, after all, someone who tends to stray towards learning the most he can, especially if it'll be helpful for him in the long run. The swordsman cants his head slightly at certain notes, certain sounds, even the energetic imagery that the power of meridian seems to translate into your very soul.

He understands why most people are fighting to have their worlds back.

He also understands why everyone is fighting, period.

Eventually, he strays from the bonfire, the shadows cast around him stark black, engulfing his rather imposing frame into almost nothingness, a barely there sillouette. (That too, is where he fits in like a glove).

He draws the bead from his pocket, opens his hand as it rests on his palm.

There's the sound of loud, rapid gunfire, the smell of burnt rubber, and the slick of blood slathered across a cheek. Shrieks, yells, shouts of 'that guy is a monster!', a stuttering whisper of 'kill me before it's too late'.

Mamoru closes his hand in a fist, efficiently silencing everything, the echoes of it reverberating into the woods before the bark mutes them.]

[HMU for anythiiiing, I'm easy peasy.]