(no subject)
You get a lot of weird people in the Nexus, and you get a lot of people doing weird things.
Take Steve, for example. He's the short ginger kid with the rapt expression and the box of live cockroaches. Two boxes, actually, once you're looking: one clear egg-carton with airholes that's crawling with ten or more of the things, and another that's more like a very small fish tank, in which--
We need a new sentence to describe this. A clear Perspex box, with several holes drilled into the top. Most appear to be for oxygen, but one largish gap permits the entrance of a thin black wire, which appears for all the world to be glued (in fact it's soldered with plastic) to the top of (into) the head of a cockroach that is running as if all the hounds of Hades were after it but getting nowhere on the slick surface. Meanwhile, on the other end of the wire, miniature screens flicker with full of incomprehensible strings of letters and numbers, and a little printer deposits pages of these into a basket.
For the love of God, someone come and ask him what he's doing.
Or, better yet, as he pats his pockets with a look of growing alarm:
"Damn. Um, anyone have a pencil?"
[ooc: slowtime ♥]
Take Steve, for example. He's the short ginger kid with the rapt expression and the box of live cockroaches. Two boxes, actually, once you're looking: one clear egg-carton with airholes that's crawling with ten or more of the things, and another that's more like a very small fish tank, in which--
We need a new sentence to describe this. A clear Perspex box, with several holes drilled into the top. Most appear to be for oxygen, but one largish gap permits the entrance of a thin black wire, which appears for all the world to be glued (in fact it's soldered with plastic) to the top of (into) the head of a cockroach that is running as if all the hounds of Hades were after it but getting nowhere on the slick surface. Meanwhile, on the other end of the wire, miniature screens flicker with full of incomprehensible strings of letters and numbers, and a little printer deposits pages of these into a basket.
For the love of God, someone come and ask him what he's doing.
Or, better yet, as he pats his pockets with a look of growing alarm:
"Damn. Um, anyone have a pencil?"
[ooc: slowtime ♥]