Dream
You're looking at a kaleidoscope. Patterns swirl in front of your eyes, circles with indeterminable patterns, shapes and symbols. Hourglasses. Salamanders. Flames. Stars. Triangles. The kaleidoscope keeps turning, turning, until the patterns catch fire and burst into flames.
You put down the kaleidoscope and you're in a big, dusty library surrounded by books. There are books everywhere. They're open all around you, the penmanship is rushed and slanted, but careful and precise. Diagrams, complex equations, all sorts are scrawled across them.
"Confound it all, this is completely illegible!" You hear a voice, and there's the Colonel, shirt untucked, hair ruffled, and sleeves rolled up above his elbows. "There has to be a simpler way to do this."
"That's because it's in Gaellic," Neil drawls, lounging comfortably in a ratty old arm chair and wearing that stupid blue shirt. "We're looking up Irish Stew, what else would it be?"
"You're both wrong, it's obviously Xingese." You can hear a voice, it's familiar, but you can't see the speaker. "I hear they've got great recipies for dog there."
"Second Lieutenant," the Colonel snaps, but you still can't see who he's addressing. "We are not cooking the dog, we are cooking for the dog."
"Lockon! Lockon! No shirt! No shirt!"
The Colonel looks at Neil. Neil shrugs.
"What can I say? She hates the shirt."
The shirt is inexplicably gone moments later. Mysteriously, so is the Colonel's.
"Where's my supper! I'm hungry!" Black Hayate is bouncing across the floor. "I have sixteen reports to read before noon tomorrow and there's no Guinness in the fridge, we're running out of boot polish for the new recruits and Colonel why aren't you wearing your uniform properly?"
Suddenly, the Colonel is wearing a miniskirt. He salutes.
"All male military personnel are required to wear tiny miniskirts!"
You put down the kaleidoscope and you're in a big, dusty library surrounded by books. There are books everywhere. They're open all around you, the penmanship is rushed and slanted, but careful and precise. Diagrams, complex equations, all sorts are scrawled across them.
"Confound it all, this is completely illegible!" You hear a voice, and there's the Colonel, shirt untucked, hair ruffled, and sleeves rolled up above his elbows. "There has to be a simpler way to do this."
"That's because it's in Gaellic," Neil drawls, lounging comfortably in a ratty old arm chair and wearing that stupid blue shirt. "We're looking up Irish Stew, what else would it be?"
"You're both wrong, it's obviously Xingese." You can hear a voice, it's familiar, but you can't see the speaker. "I hear they've got great recipies for dog there."
"Second Lieutenant," the Colonel snaps, but you still can't see who he's addressing. "We are not cooking the dog, we are cooking for the dog."
"Lockon! Lockon! No shirt! No shirt!"
The Colonel looks at Neil. Neil shrugs.
"What can I say? She hates the shirt."
The shirt is inexplicably gone moments later. Mysteriously, so is the Colonel's.
"Where's my supper! I'm hungry!" Black Hayate is bouncing across the floor. "I have sixteen reports to read before noon tomorrow and there's no Guinness in the fridge, we're running out of boot polish for the new recruits and Colonel why aren't you wearing your uniform properly?"
Suddenly, the Colonel is wearing a miniskirt. He salutes.
"All male military personnel are required to wear tiny miniskirts!"