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writethisfanficHow has today been?
Since today is Friday, lets have a snippet/ask for a beta day. Want to share a short snippet of what you've been working on? Ask for a beat? Complain/boast at how your week has gone?
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Since today is Friday, lets have a snippet/ask for a beta day. Want to share a short snippet of what you've been working on? Ask for a beat? Complain/boast at how your week has gone?
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Date: Friday, June 29th, 2012 20:17 (UTC)As for a snippet, let's take a longish drabble from the Miscellany, since it's all I've been working on this week.
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As he all but dragged himself into and across the living room of his apartment, Bob couldn't stop the words of Guardian Instructor Entek from replaying in his mind: "Fraternization with viruses is dangerous under all circumstances. All of them. All the time. Never let one of them get close to you in a personal sense, and above all, never permit one of them to engage in physical contact with you."
The course had been "Viral Theory 101". First hour stuff, drilled into Bob's head long and hard and repeatedly.
"Any physical contact. Whatsoever."
He winced. Kind of ironic, then, that "long and hard and repeatedly" was what had seduced him into casting that fundamental principle into the Trash. Lately he'd had extra reasons to be glad that his uniform cladding covered just about every pixel of his body except his head and his hands, because Megabyte seemed to take great and gloating pleasure in leaving claw marks in the most intimate places.
But now…
Still moving somewhat painfully, Bob reached his bathroom mirror and deactivated the top half of his cladding, grimacing when he saw the thinner and fresher scores that now marred his chest, twisting at the waist to catch a glimpse of similar lines running down his shoulders and back that disappeared into the waistband of his uniform pants.
Viruses are addictive, Entek had sternly intoned, and Bob now had plenty of evidence to prove both that hypothesis and the additional fact that sampling one strain of viral code just wasn't enough once you got started.
Remembering Hex's seductive cooing and feminine caresses that had been followed by a strangely familiar animal rapaciousness, he groaned softly deep in his throat. When Megabyte saw his worst enemy's marks of possession on the body of "his" Guardian he was going to hit the very high roof of Silicon Tor — Bob would have bet the System Core on it.
Hex, laughing delightedly, had promised that when that happened she'd put in an appearance to back Bob up. Thinking ahead to that almost inevitable confrontation between an enraged Class Three with bunkers full of heavy ordnance and a mentally unstable Class Two with nigh-infinite power reserves, Bob was already wondering just how the Dell he was going to explain the explosions, which would doubtless be visible —and audible — all the way to the gold-plated circuit boards of Beverly Hills.
If Bob was very lucky, there might even be enough of his own hide left afterwards to matter.
no subject
Date: Saturday, June 30th, 2012 04:14 (UTC)Today my snippet is the opening of the above fic, working title "Video Game." For those that are familiar with the canon, this is a Negima future!fic starring Chisame. Also I have never written in second person or present tense before, so this is kind of a fun - albeit nerve-wracking - experience.
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Every day it's the same routine: Wake up and roll out of bed. In the process of doing so, bang your knee on the bedside table. Curse. Proceed to shamble into the bathroom like the maladjusted sleep zombie you are. Brush your teeth and - only if you feel like it - your hair.
You don't feel like it today.
Next, somehow find your way into the kitchen. Drop the tea kettle on your foot. Curse again. Finally succeed in making some tea. Take the first sip; it's not completely terrible, and at last you actually feel alive.
Well, sort of. For certain values of "alive."
Contemplate changing out of your pajamas. Laugh. After all, it's not like you're planning on going outside anytime soon. Briefly stop to figure out why that is. Oh, that's right! You remember now.
Weirdos. Weirdos everywhere.
Ever since the world found out about the existence of magic, you can't get away from it anymore. Weirdness is everywhere. Everywhere except your nice, dark, cozy apartment - which is exactly why you're not planning on going outside anytime soon. You had your fill of weirdness back when you were stranded in the Magic World. And, sure, you've come to terms with the fact that magic exists and, okay, it's not the worst thing ever the way you always made it out to be. But still... that doesn't mean you actually have to do anything about it. You weren't exactly sociable before all the weirdness started, so why should you go out of your way to do it now? And, okay, maybe your frien... uh, classmates back at Mahora weren't quite as intolerable as you had always thought. So what? They're all out leading exciting, interesting lives. Why bother them with... whatever it is you might bother them with? Besides, it's not like you're not doing your part to change the world. You just prefer to stay behind the scenes.
So that settles it. No going outside again today. After all, you wouldn't want to become a target. You might get dragged back into all of the weirdness if that happened. No, best to play a supporting role from the safety of your computer.
Oh, computer. May it never leave you.
Speaking of which, it's about time in your daily routine to sit down at your desk and turn on your laptop. You'll probably spend most of the day on it. That is until halfway through your seventh flame war of the day, when you'll start to wonder why you're so much crankier and more aggressive than usual. Then you'll realize you're not wearing your glasses and, oh, you also have a killer headache. You'll decide to take a break from the computer and grab a snack, whereupon you'll probably crash on the couch and stare at the ceiling for a half an hour. Then you'll get bored again and decide to play video games.
That never lasts very long, though.
Not anymore.
Video games have always been an escape, a way to forget about the world. Now the world is just as weird as your games, though. Somehow the appeal just isn't there anymore.
After a futile fifteen minutes you'll give up and get back on your computer, where you're not constantly reminded of the fact that the world's gone mad. Mad and weird. Hours will pass, and you'll realize after the tenth time you've yawned that you've stayed up way too late again. As you crawl back into bed, you'll happen to glance at the framed photo of class 3-A's graduation that sits on your nightstand, and you'll have to turn away just as quickly. You have no idea why you still have that thing there, except maybe that it's a symbol of every reason you never leave the house anymore - and sometimes you just really need a reminder.
You roll over and pull the covers up, ready to fall asleep so that you can wake up and start the whole cycle over again and pretend it's enough. Lather, rinse, repeat. Every day it's the same routine.
Except for today.
no subject
Date: Saturday, June 30th, 2012 07:27 (UTC)no subject
Date: Saturday, June 30th, 2012 22:27 (UTC)=============
This is not how the evening was supposed to end. John's hands are nearly numb from the cold five stories up, peering over a narrow ledge to the street far below. "What the hell were you thinking, Sherlock?"
"He was getting away." Sherlock is sulking, leaning against the ledge next to him. "The door was his only escape route."
"Yes," John says, trying not to think about how he's losing all feeling in his freezing fingers. "The door. To the roof. Were you afraid he'd fly away, then? There was only one place for him to go—back inside the bloody building!"
"How was I supposed to know he'd lock the door?"
"Because you're the bloody genius!" John yells, then forces himself to take a deep breath. "All right. You phoned Lestrade before we broke in, right? He should be here soon."
Sherlock doesn't say anything.
"Sherlock. You did phone Lestrade."
"He would have only got in the way," Sherlock starts.
"Jesus Christ. You didn't call him."
The way Sherlock darts his eyes away from John is answer enough.
"Right," says John. "Where's your mobile?"