Private journal, locked so only Methos can see:
And this just goes to show that 5000 years of experience can kick you in the ass just like none what so ever. I have no bloody clue why I decided to play hero this weekend -- that's a job for the blasted boy scouts that seem to popping up around me (note, I do believe I'm going to have to come up with a better term than "boy scouts" -- boy scouts help little old ladies cross the road, but do not necessarily dash in front of moving cars for them).
And, most charming of all, I managed to make mistakes. I came here with the intention of living as Adam Pierson, mild-mannered grad student librarian. In the middle of an odd school, I'd be the normal one.
No such luck. ten_and_chips, who I happily ceded the role of chief-do-gooder, kept... LOOKING at me. Perhaps I should have cut down on the veiled references to how much older I was than everyone else.
Oh, but the best, the very, very best was getting bitten by a zombie. So far, I do not seem to be shambling, or having any preference for human brains. But ten_and_chips noticed that the wound healed, and janet_fraiser asked for the sweater I'd bled on because she wanted to run some sort of scientific tests on the zombie saliva.
And I gave it to her. Don't you think "scientific tests" should have clued me in? Sometimes, I really hate this modern scientific world.
Almost anti-climatic was getting killed Saturday night. Not satisfied in letting the Doctor be hero-boy, I decided to dash in between some of these kids and the zombies who were after them. Did I get bit again? No. Shot in the back. Joy.
If I'd somehow kept my head (*cymbal crash, thank you, I'll be here for the next millennia*) and played dead, I could have been written off as a casualty and buried with grief and GOTTEN OUT. Might of killed swerval_zero from guilt.
So now, here I am. Enough people saw me dead that I can't really hide it. And Janet has my sweater -- with all that lovely Immortal blood all over it. And I'm going to have to have a discussion of some kind with the Doctor and check his left wrist for a tattoo...
I need a beer.
And, most charming of all, I managed to make mistakes. I came here with the intention of living as Adam Pierson, mild-mannered grad student librarian. In the middle of an odd school, I'd be the normal one.
No such luck. ten_and_chips, who I happily ceded the role of chief-do-gooder, kept... LOOKING at me. Perhaps I should have cut down on the veiled references to how much older I was than everyone else.
Oh, but the best, the very, very best was getting bitten by a zombie. So far, I do not seem to be shambling, or having any preference for human brains. But ten_and_chips noticed that the wound healed, and janet_fraiser asked for the sweater I'd bled on because she wanted to run some sort of scientific tests on the zombie saliva.
And I gave it to her. Don't you think "scientific tests" should have clued me in? Sometimes, I really hate this modern scientific world.
Almost anti-climatic was getting killed Saturday night. Not satisfied in letting the Doctor be hero-boy, I decided to dash in between some of these kids and the zombies who were after them. Did I get bit again? No. Shot in the back. Joy.
If I'd somehow kept my head (*cymbal crash, thank you, I'll be here for the next millennia*) and played dead, I could have been written off as a casualty and buried with grief and GOTTEN OUT. Might of killed swerval_zero from guilt.
So now, here I am. Enough people saw me dead that I can't really hide it. And Janet has my sweater -- with all that lovely Immortal blood all over it. And I'm going to have to have a discussion of some kind with the Doctor and check his left wrist for a tattoo...
I need a beer.