I keep having trouble thinking of whaky inventions and their appropriate quirks, so I though I might ask you guys if you know any of the top of your head.
Also I'll be gone until the 28 give or take a day, and maybe some distance from the writing will give me the nessecary inspiration.
If the Prof needs to be written into anything feel free, I'll ruberstamp it when I get back
E: "Did they... did they just endorse the combination of the JSDF and US Army by showing them as two lesbian lolicons moving in together and holding hands and talking about how 'intimate' they were?"
B: "Have you forgotten so soon? They're phasing out Don't Ask, Don't Tell."

Quote:

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Hrm. Maybe we should try character writeups? Get things clear and in the open, like.

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With the revised versions of the story to align with later continuity developments, I'm splitting out the story posts to a story only thread, and will provide links back to this thread for comments.
The new thread is:
p202.ezboard.com/fdrunkar...=187.topic
- CD
--
"Anko, what you do in your free time is your own choice. Use it wisely. And if you do not use it wisely, make sure you thoroughly enjoy whatever unwise thing you are doing." - HymnOfRagnorok as Orochimaru at SpaceBattles
woot Med. Eng., verb, 1st & 3rd pers. prsnt. sg. know, knows

Florin Wrote:There's a series of books that starts with There Will Be Dragon's that deals with a similar idea, although it's set WAY in the future and doesn't involve aliens. Unfortunatly, it's written by John Ringo and thus involves extended rants against Democratic style thinking and scientific rationality. It also contain's 'Heroes' who I dearly wish death upon.

No, sorry, it's not a cure. :-)
ECL and IST Paragon City are now in coalition with The Dragon's Hoard (started by *gasp* Horned Dragon - was it obvious?) Anyway, HD asked me to let you know the Hoard is recruiting.
You must be magic origin. Would be great if you were also a mythical type creature. Example - HD is obviously a dragon, Wyvern, succubi, my toon is just a cursed dragon slayer.... I'm trying to convince Rev to play a Sphynx. I haven't seen many of those in game. but you'll need to be able to riddle. Any takers?
I think I covered everything. Any questions, ASK! @His Lovely Wife, or @Horned Dragon
PS, I should probably mention, this is on Infinity Server.
-Cindy

My muse is a bitch. Because, see, despite all the fun being had in Fenspace... she is not content.
Oh, no.
See, it starts with my picking up S.M. Stirling's The Protector's War a week or two ago. There are things about that book's premise (Namely that, one fine day ten years ago, The Machines All Stopped) that bother me quite a bit. Not neccessarily his evaluation of the consequences as a whole (that being, ninety-mumble percent of the human race starves to death or worse) - I don't think it's the most likely result, but it's plausible enough to accept for the sake of the story - so much as his apparent conviction that mass starvation = mass cannabalism = total social breakdown into animalism for anyone and everyone caught in a city, regardless of other factors.
No, I have not read the prequel dealing with the actual change and its consequences. No, nothing will ever convince me to do so.
So, where this dissatisfaction led, for me, was wondering if there was another way of getting that same situation - IE, modern people building new nations with medieval tech, and...
Well.
It starts when Sufficiently Advanced Space Aliens show up in orbit and say, "Hi. We're your new gods. Now that you're set on the right path in our worship, you're going to have to throw away everything you've got that involves electrical current or turning combustion into mechanical work, for they are blasphemous in our eyes. You can have a year or two to convert, since we know there'd be a lot of people starving otherwise."
And the nations and people of Earth say something quite polite that boils down to, "Nothin' doin'."
And the Gods say, "Do this or risk our terrible wrath," and zap some insignificant and mostly depopulated cultural landmarks into smoking craters.
And the nations and people of Earth say, "Go fuck yourselves."
And the Gods oblitherate every speck of military power they can find and say, "You don't really have a choice about this."
And Earth sez, "Go fuck yourselves sideways."
And the Gods say, "If you keep being foolish, we're shortly going to forget about how tolerant we'd meant to be of those who don't know better."
Then they glass a random selection of major world cities.
And the UN Security Council put their cards on the table in private session and admit that - at best - they're years from being able to do anything about these assholes.
So they say okay. And hide their research projects real good.
And then, since they've been troublesome, the Gods dissolve all these absurd 'Republic' delusions and draw up new borders, mostly along geographical lines, and grab people out of the populace and say, "Here. You're King in these parts. Throw away everything your people had before we came and build something that's not indecent."
So.
Here. You're King in these parts.
Where are you? And what do you do?
Ja, -n

===============================================
"Puripuri puripuri... Bang!"

One of this week's nifty links on the Nodwick website may have direct usefulness for "Pests and Hanoi-ances": Moving Through Matter with Buckaroo Banzai. It's heavy going, but it seems to be accurate real-world science. More importantly, it was written by the science advisor for the movie, so it's definitely accurate Banzai-science.
(I've saved a copy to local storage, just in case.)

-Rob Kelk
--
Rob Kelk
"Governments have no right to question the loyalty of those who oppose
them. Adversaries remain citizens of the same state, common subjects of
the same sovereign, servants of the same law."

- Michael Ignatieff, addressing Stanford University in 2012

Sound right?

George Heisman moved the wad of gum to the other side of his mouth and chewed reflectively. The skull continued to charge forward, a nail-studded baseball back cocked behind his shoulder, ready to deliver a huge swing. Dad always said that timing was key in sports, and crimefighting. The fist sized rock that George held in his right hand felt good, the air was slightly humid and there was a slight wind from the east. The time was right. George kicked up his leg and snapped his arm forward. Throwing the heater was out, a curve was in order. The rock left his hand with a slight back-spin, arcing slightly to the left and slamming into the white painted forehead of the charging thug. Forward momentum of the forehead was halted as the rock effectively transferred energy. The Skull flipped over backwards. The ground reached up and smacked the skull in the back. Normally this was a figure of speech, but not where George was concerned. The ground actually did reach up and smack the skull, wrapping tendrils of earth around him and pinning him helplessly to the ground.
The skull blinked several times and re-evaluated his situation. He had been stealing a purse when some high-and-mighty hero douche had intervened. As said aforementioned douche had been wearing a baseball uniform, it had seemed deliciously ironic to smash him with a baseball bat. Shortly thereafter he had been struck in the head by a fist sized rock and then grabbed by the earth itself. The situation sucked; and was likely to get worse before it improved.
Danger! Danger! Go! Tallyho! The voice was filled with enthusiasm. The manifestation of the situation getting worse from the skulls perspective, were the enthusiastic voice, flavored with an overseas accent, and a pair of legs in loose camouflage pants. Worse was also wearing well-worn combat boots. The final injury added to insult was the fact that one of the boots was currently on his face.
Please move. The skull managed as best he could under the pressure. The owner of the boots was unlikely to tip the scales at 130 lbs, but that was still not a weight that one would relish when applied bootfully to the face. The boot wiggled slightly and then lifted as the owner assessed the situation. Nice blues eyes, white teeth, a cute, delicate nose, high cheekbones, a long, ragged scar crossing cheek and nose.
Danger! Danger! Danger! Liesel jumped up and down, adding a second boot to the enthusiastic stomping. She paused for the barest of seconds; perhaps stomping someone while they were held helpless by geological forces was not fair. It wasnt fair. It wasnt supposed to be fair. Kicking someone when they were down was the right thing to do; far better than waiting for them to get back up and then knocking them down again. Her karma re-aligned with the universe, Liesel continued to jump.
Get the heroes! More skulls. Liesel considered the numbers. Was doing a headcount of skulls redundant? What did you call a group of them? A gang of skulls? A flock of skulls. Visually appealing. A flock of Seeskulls. There certainly were a lot of them. There was a rusty, shaking rattle as a nearby warehouse door rolled up on neglected tracks, the dark and dingy maw vomiting forth a spew-tastic stream of death themed miscreants.
This is gonna be great! Lethal enthused happily; jumping up and down in anticipation. Roight then! I call bagsies on the ten on the left, you get the ten on the right.
George considered the situation. Careful evaluation was the key to victory. They were about to get stomped. The cons were apparent. A solid beating, teeth knocked out, ribs kicked in and a long talk from dad and mom about not biting off more than you can chew. Pros. It was 4:00pm and it was possible that the pretty blonde nurse who always forgot to button her blouse all the way to the top was on duty at the medical center. That pretty much covered it. Running like a bunny was also an option, just not a very good one. Lethal might survive. No, Lethal would survive. Fortunately even the worst of the gypsy curses she could inflict on him were on par with the danger of hanging with her normally. No fear there. Or at least a consistent level of fear. That was reassuring.

"Tranquility Base, the Pinafore has landed."
--Roger, Pinafore the United States Coast Guard welcomes you to Port Luna.--
"Thanks, Mike, is the Marshall in port? I got some things to discuss with him," I said from the bridge of the SS Pinafore. The dear thing was a kludge and a half, based on a relatively "small" yacht that I'd purchased from a federal auction of captured drug dealer luxuries. I'd patched the Ferrari-sized hole amidships and threw some random components into something resembling a warp-drive configuration. After a liberal coating of Handwavium, or as I preferred to call it, Dingus MacGuffin, I had a spaceworthy ship capable of "making the Kessel run in 12 parsecs".... and relative comfort.
I also had state-of-the-kludge medical facilities on board, but that would best be described later.
-- Roger, Pinafore, Marshal Dylan is in port. Do you need him to come to you? --
"Yes, please," I replied as one of my passengers approached. I turned to her. "Yes, Mister Dobbs?"
The buxom catgirl blushed and adjusted her baggy coveralls. "My wife and I would like to thank you for rescuing us from those slavers."
I grimaced. "I wish that I'd chanced on them earlier, then I could have prevented your mishap. You do know that right now Handwavium Biomods are irreversible?"
"They are?" she asked and blinked her clear blue slitted eyes. Her ears drooped in despair. "But you..."
"Mine was voluntary, and I was able to direct the process," I replied. "Can we keep that a secret? Shapeshifters tend to make the mundanes nervous."
"Hey!" Dobbs objected.
"You may as well face it, Mister Dobbs, to most of the folks on Terra, you now count as one of the Fen," I said. "And they aren't aware of what 'Doctor Moreau' in the brig was able to accomplish. Many folks won't believe that you were transformed into that against your will."
"He's right, dear," Mrs. Dobbs purred from the stairwell to the enclosed deck. She slunk onto the bridge with the grace that her husband tried to hide. The only reason I could tell her from her Husband was the fact that she actually wore an outfit that flattered her new body. "We're just going to have to..."
Captain, Buttercup chimed, interrupting Mrs. Dobbs. The airlock has cycled and a U.S. Marshal is asking permission to come aboard.
"If you'll excuse me please," I said to my passengers, "I need to deal with this." I cleared my throat and began to sing:
"Dear little Buttercup,
Sweet little Buttercup,
My favorite ship's A.I.,
Please permit Marshall D
Onto the deck, you see,
Promptly, oh Buttercup mine!"
Okay, Captain! Buttercup replied with a giggle. I love when you sing!
Marshal Everett Dylan cut an imposing figure in his 'danetech spacesuit, especially as it appeared to be one of the ones adapted from deep-sea diving. His stride was a little strained as he was apparently used to the lesser gravity of the 'danelaw parts of Luna. His eyes flashed back and forth between myself and the Dobbses.
"Which one of you," he asked in the typical NASA drawl affected by most 'dane spacers, "is the Captain?"
I smiled gently and replied. "I am the Captain of the Pinafore."
And a right good Captain, too! Buttercup chorused.
"'Tis true, by trow," I sang to her pickups, "But please, not now."
Awww! That's no fun!
The Marshal's eyes crinkled a bit. That was good, he was somewhat used to the quirks of Fenships. "Right, Lieutenant Nelson said you needed to see me?"
I straightened the cuffs on my jumpsuit. "Yes, I had to rescue these nice folks," I said, indicating the Dobbses, "and their charter pilot from the scumbag in my brig. I was too late to stop the biomods you see, but I was able to stop the brainwashing procedures before he got them into the slave markets." I glanced at the door to the decks below. "Well, I saved the Dobbses. Their pilot has suffered mental trauma and may not ever be normal again."
"The poor dear," Mrs Dobbs interjected.
"I see," the marshal said. "Evidence?"
I handed him a DVD. "From a vanilla camcorder. I also have the logs from his asteroid base in Earth-Sol Lagrange cluster four."
"Right. This appears to be in order." He removed a device from a magnetic holster at the waist of his suit and passed it over the Dobbses. He frowned slightly at the various bloops and bleeps it emitted, replaced it and pulled out a voice recorder. "Is the pilot modified the same way?"
"Approximately," I replied. "Her hair is black, rather than the blonde you see here."
"Right. With your permission Captain, I'd like to take the Dobbses' statements on board."
I quirked an eyebrow. That was unusual. Normally, the 'danelaw rep would take the victims to his base for their statements. 'Well,' I thought, 'maybe there's something going on at the base.'
"I don't think that will be a problem. Just tell Buttercup when you're done." I walked below deck and made my way to the cabin I'd put the pilot into. Her modified Checker Cab sat beside the Pearl Forrester in my vehicle bay. Hopefully, the marshal would be able to use the license plates on it to identify who she used to be.