This Happens
May. 9th, 2007 12:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tanarillI obviously don't know the physics, so that's out. We've moved on to action-reaction forces, and they kill me.
I obviously don't know the math, because if I did there would be no issue with me getting every single answer wrong.
I am not doing the Comm assignment. I am group leader, therefore my job is contacting everyone higher than us lowly students, and the assignment is to make a questionnaire to fellow students you live in the dorms. Thus, I delegate.
I have read through Act II of Merchant of Venice. And then the SparkNotes thereof, which made sense of't. As dear William would say.
Also, Nai and I have decided to collaborate on the Pendulum, since we seem to be feeding each other's brainbunnies on this.
Title: What wears tall mountains/ into dust
Fandom: DP (C) the Bitch, have you not gotten it through your heads that I make no money?
Rating: M
Warnings: Serious psychological Issues, and we're just getting warmed up
Dan could remember a time when he wasn’t afraid, when he didn’t constantly look over his shoulder and fucking look forward to the times when he was put back–or allowed to go back, depending on whose viewpoint you were watching from–the Fenton Thermos. He could remember a time when people had looked over their shoulders afraid of seeing him, when he had been free and fearsome and the world had no limits.
He could remember it, and it was those memories that anchored him, told him who he was and what he was and what kind of monster he wasn’t.
He wasn’t the kind of monster who had just released him from the Fenton Thermos and was looking at him, curled up on the floor, in the same way that a scientist might look at an interesting genetic aberration in a laboratory fruit fly.
Once, he would have fought. Once, he would have gone at Clockwork with everything he had, and been stunned five second later to find that one of his legs was in agony and his right arm hung oddly, and Clockwork had somehow, apparently, not moved. A little later, he would have danced around the issue of killing Clockwork, sure in the knowledge that if he couldn’t fight directly he could trap and kill indirectly; it wasn’t as satisfying, but he’d always been pragmatic. And even later after that, when he’d finally snapped under the pressure of never quite knowing and hit Clockwork with so much that it would have taken a geneticist to realize that the floating bits of ectoplasm had once been a ghost, so much that he couldn’t actually move for a few hours while it regenerated.
And just about the point that he could move again, Clockwork had walked, calmly confident and wearing that goddamned smirk, back into his life.
He liked the Fenton Thermos, now. Clockwork wasn’t there, and the walls (which, from the inside, were thick as all fuck) muffled the sound of endless clocks. He could almost feel sane in there, or at least as sane as he ever got.
Above him, Clockwork smirked. “Pretty, pretty petmine,” he said, “it’s time to play.”
Once, he would have fought. Now, he does nothing and says nothing, waiting for it to be over.
There are more of these bunnies nibbling around my ankles, and a few glowing eyes are lurking in the bushes. I get to write most of the creepy disturbing bits :3
I obviously don't know the math, because if I did there would be no issue with me getting every single answer wrong.
I am not doing the Comm assignment. I am group leader, therefore my job is contacting everyone higher than us lowly students, and the assignment is to make a questionnaire to fellow students you live in the dorms. Thus, I delegate.
I have read through Act II of Merchant of Venice. And then the SparkNotes thereof, which made sense of't. As dear William would say.
Also, Nai and I have decided to collaborate on the Pendulum, since we seem to be feeding each other's brainbunnies on this.
Title: What wears tall mountains/ into dust
Fandom: DP (C) the Bitch, have you not gotten it through your heads that I make no money?
Rating: M
Warnings: Serious psychological Issues, and we're just getting warmed up
Dan could remember a time when he wasn’t afraid, when he didn’t constantly look over his shoulder and fucking look forward to the times when he was put back–or allowed to go back, depending on whose viewpoint you were watching from–the Fenton Thermos. He could remember a time when people had looked over their shoulders afraid of seeing him, when he had been free and fearsome and the world had no limits.
He could remember it, and it was those memories that anchored him, told him who he was and what he was and what kind of monster he wasn’t.
He wasn’t the kind of monster who had just released him from the Fenton Thermos and was looking at him, curled up on the floor, in the same way that a scientist might look at an interesting genetic aberration in a laboratory fruit fly.
Once, he would have fought. Once, he would have gone at Clockwork with everything he had, and been stunned five second later to find that one of his legs was in agony and his right arm hung oddly, and Clockwork had somehow, apparently, not moved. A little later, he would have danced around the issue of killing Clockwork, sure in the knowledge that if he couldn’t fight directly he could trap and kill indirectly; it wasn’t as satisfying, but he’d always been pragmatic. And even later after that, when he’d finally snapped under the pressure of never quite knowing and hit Clockwork with so much that it would have taken a geneticist to realize that the floating bits of ectoplasm had once been a ghost, so much that he couldn’t actually move for a few hours while it regenerated.
And just about the point that he could move again, Clockwork had walked, calmly confident and wearing that goddamned smirk, back into his life.
He liked the Fenton Thermos, now. Clockwork wasn’t there, and the walls (which, from the inside, were thick as all fuck) muffled the sound of endless clocks. He could almost feel sane in there, or at least as sane as he ever got.
Above him, Clockwork smirked. “Pretty, pretty petmine,” he said, “it’s time to play.”
Once, he would have fought. Now, he does nothing and says nothing, waiting for it to be over.
There are more of these bunnies nibbling around my ankles, and a few glowing eyes are lurking in the bushes. I get to write most of the creepy disturbing bits :3
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no subject
Date: 2007-05-09 05:07 am (UTC)[pets Dan somemore]
[huggles]