(Untitled)
New York-- or what's left of it-- is starting to piss Jennifer off.
At least, this year her name has mostly been Jennifer.
She's gone by others, in the past. A lot of others.
Getting back to New York, however: first of all, it's New fucking York. Not Norak, not Station Twenty-Eight-- New York, with cars that run on gasoline and no buildings ( Read more... )
At least, this year her name has mostly been Jennifer.
She's gone by others, in the past. A lot of others.
Getting back to New York, however: first of all, it's New fucking York. Not Norak, not Station Twenty-Eight-- New York, with cars that run on gasoline and no buildings ( Read more... )
Comments 109
The resounding crack-boom of space's protests as something twists and tears and something is added that wasn't there.
A desk, textbooks and worksheets and looseleaf fluttering behind it, and trailing the cord to a lamp. An office chair. And a girl.
They clatter onto the roof.
She just sits for a moment, blinking. It's hard to go from trying to work out a proof in the comfort of one's room to landing on something hard, outside, in what looks like a warzone.
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And then DACEMEGEN-A flips up and lands on the rooftop in a perfect combat-ready crouch that flows seamlessly into something a great deal more acrobatic and less threatening the instant her eyes land on Jessica.
Not a threat. Okay.
Inside, DMG-A is flicking from possibility to possibility. Outside, she's straightening up into a relaxed, slightly clumsy standing position and offering a sheepish smile.
"Kinda startled me there," she says.
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A small part of her is still trying to figure out that proof, since that makes a lot more sense than anything going on here.
Another part is trying to figure out how she is NOT inside anymore.
Most of her is focused on there is a person in front of her and that person's fingers look wrong and WHAT THE HELL?!
Which is why her first response is, "Sorry... I'm quiet." Because the only part of her that's free to interact is the "Rote Dialog" part.
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And she turns around and hops calmly off the edge of the roof, catching herself on windowsills and protruding bricks as she falls, and-- yeah, right there, the fire escape ladder won't mind the loss of a rung, okay--
The sound of three triffids casting their stingers is followed almost immediately by the sound of DACEMEGEN-A landing in the middle of the three of them and delivering a hefty dose of asskick. She was right: the iron bar tips the balance just enough.
And triffid remains make a remarkably good meal if you know how to cook them.
Which is a good thing, because there really isn't much else around here to eat.
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