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The Master stretches his legs
Mar. 4th, 2008 03:07 pmCharacters: The Master, and later Gwen
Rating: PG13 (violence).
Date: Present
Location: Somewhere between Diagon Alley and Malibu Castle
((OOC: Sorry this is so long; I'm secretly Stephen King. I decided to pick up from my application post, reworking it a bit. I've lj-cut all but the initiating action, but suffice to say for any cut-to-the-chase readers that the Master is pretty grumpy and needs to get out of his flat.))
Things were not moving quickly enough.
The Master frowned, stabbed at his calculator buttons, delete delete delete deleted out his latest tentative schematics. He wished there was some paper to crumple-- it was much more satisfying to throw, for one thing, and for another, easier to guard from prying eyes-- he still didn't trust the Network. But the only time he'd actually managed to procure some, it had bitten him, sprouted legs, and run off before he'd even gotten the chance to write on it.
The situation, as he could see it, was verging on completely intolerable.
And this decor. He glared at the treacherous wood-paneled walls; they were enough to pummel his sense of aesthetic to a bloody pulp, but the overabundance of cloying folk art, spreading across them like a mephitic fungus, delivered the final killing blow. Changing it had done no good; his repeated attempts to redecorate had not lasted more than a few minutes, and they had become more half-hearted as he began to realize that the room apparently liked the way it looked already, and did not desire his input. He never even heard or saw his surroundings shift, but one minute he'd be focused on his work and the next he'd look up and be back in Americana Hell.
And now it was raining blood out there. Perhaps worst of all, he wasn't even involved.
Intolerable.
( a long, lonely time )
http://community.livejournal.com/nonevidence/61519.html
Rating: PG13 (violence).
Date: Present
Location: Somewhere between Diagon Alley and Malibu Castle
((OOC: Sorry this is so long; I'm secretly Stephen King. I decided to pick up from my application post, reworking it a bit. I've lj-cut all but the initiating action, but suffice to say for any cut-to-the-chase readers that the Master is pretty grumpy and needs to get out of his flat.))
Things were not moving quickly enough.
The Master frowned, stabbed at his calculator buttons, delete delete delete deleted out his latest tentative schematics. He wished there was some paper to crumple-- it was much more satisfying to throw, for one thing, and for another, easier to guard from prying eyes-- he still didn't trust the Network. But the only time he'd actually managed to procure some, it had bitten him, sprouted legs, and run off before he'd even gotten the chance to write on it.
The situation, as he could see it, was verging on completely intolerable.
And this decor. He glared at the treacherous wood-paneled walls; they were enough to pummel his sense of aesthetic to a bloody pulp, but the overabundance of cloying folk art, spreading across them like a mephitic fungus, delivered the final killing blow. Changing it had done no good; his repeated attempts to redecorate had not lasted more than a few minutes, and they had become more half-hearted as he began to realize that the room apparently liked the way it looked already, and did not desire his input. He never even heard or saw his surroundings shift, but one minute he'd be focused on his work and the next he'd look up and be back in Americana Hell.
And now it was raining blood out there. Perhaps worst of all, he wasn't even involved.
Intolerable.
( a long, lonely time )
http://community.livejournal.com/nonevidence/61519.html
