What does a mad scientist throw out, anyways? [OPEN!]
WHO: Doctor Drakken and You!
WHERE: Outside Legi-Tech's business front
WHEN: Monday evening
SUMMARY: Even mad scientists have junk. Perhaps you'll find something useful...
WARNINGS: Drakken-based lunacy. And ranting. Pretty sure no others need be added.
FORMAT: Para
It was a crisp evening. Not that he noticed. He seldom did unless he was literally covered in snow, at which point self-preservation spoke up from somewhere, temporarily out-shouting the voice that called him ever onwards towards creation. And attempted conquest, but there were too many capes around here to try that. Yet, anyways.
He hummed to himself as he wheeled a trash can out to the curb. He had employees for this, mind, but this was stuff from his own workshop and somehow it wouldn't occur to him to have anyone else do it. He let the handtruck stand, pushing the drum of failed syntho-goo off, then brushed off his black-gloved hands as he tallied what was at the curb from a mental checklist.
"Riiight, failed syntho-goo, fried circuit boards, assorted useless wires..." he grimaced here, "and one failed cold-beam laser. Nrrgh."
His face scrunched up in frustration and he kicked that particular instrument. It was supposed to be a revolutionary cold-beam technology, but instead it merely broadcast a destructive electromagnetic pulse that also frosted up internal mechanical parts. What use was that?
He turned to go back in, wheeling the handtruck. Which, of course, squeaked. Because there are some conventions of the universe too strong to ignore.
WHERE: Outside Legi-Tech's business front
WHEN: Monday evening
SUMMARY: Even mad scientists have junk. Perhaps you'll find something useful...
WARNINGS: Drakken-based lunacy. And ranting. Pretty sure no others need be added.
FORMAT: Para
It was a crisp evening. Not that he noticed. He seldom did unless he was literally covered in snow, at which point self-preservation spoke up from somewhere, temporarily out-shouting the voice that called him ever onwards towards creation. And attempted conquest, but there were too many capes around here to try that. Yet, anyways.
He hummed to himself as he wheeled a trash can out to the curb. He had employees for this, mind, but this was stuff from his own workshop and somehow it wouldn't occur to him to have anyone else do it. He let the handtruck stand, pushing the drum of failed syntho-goo off, then brushed off his black-gloved hands as he tallied what was at the curb from a mental checklist.
"Riiight, failed syntho-goo, fried circuit boards, assorted useless wires..." he grimaced here, "and one failed cold-beam laser. Nrrgh."
His face scrunched up in frustration and he kicked that particular instrument. It was supposed to be a revolutionary cold-beam technology, but instead it merely broadcast a destructive electromagnetic pulse that also frosted up internal mechanical parts. What use was that?
He turned to go back in, wheeling the handtruck. Which, of course, squeaked. Because there are some conventions of the universe too strong to ignore.