I find myself in need of a second viewpoint on something that's going to come up later in the story. Nothing big, really- just a few lines that need to flow a bit better. I'd post them in the thread, but it'll be a while before they're relevant... and they're just a *teensy* bit spoilery...
Bob: Yes, this is entirely IRL truth, and I can't quite bleach shirts. What I can do is royally ruin a lot of the cheaper dyes. It mostly happens with darker colors... which is a real pain, since my wardrobe is mostly various shades of blue and black.
The odd bit is that the shirt I destroyed in two days was gray, and not a particularly dark shade of it. Bits of it turned safety orange.
You have my sympathies, and my thanks for the approval.
Since I swore to myself never to post in this thread without posting a bit more story, here's the next few paragraphs. I would've posted a bit more, but that seemed like a good place to leave off.
**********
45 minutes later, I felt human again. No- better than that. I'd left cloud nine behind half an hour ago, and was rapidly approaching cloud 6.02*10^23. Combine that with TSAB laundry technology (your clothes ready to wear in half an hour, or it's free!), and I felt like a new man.
...yeah, that lasted until my infirmary visit.
It wasn't the trip there. Only took fifteen minutes, and I only had to ask for directions once. It wasn't the physical. Mid-Childan medical tech is good enough that they were able to get a complete workup on me in about a minute and a half, without any actual physical examinations.
Huh. Wonder why they still call it a 'physical', then. Guess it's like how we 'dial' numbers.
The bit that got to me was when the ship's doctor came into the exam room, handed me a clipboard, and, in a very professional (one might even say 'clinical') tone of voice, let me know that I'd never amount to anything as a mage.
My Unitarian Jihad Name is: Brother Atom Bomb of Courteous Debate. Get yours.
I've been writing a bit.
Bob: Yes, this is entirely IRL truth, and I can't quite bleach shirts. What I can do is royally ruin a lot of the cheaper dyes. It mostly happens with darker colors... which is a real pain, since my wardrobe is mostly various shades of blue and black.
The odd bit is that the shirt I destroyed in two days was gray, and not a particularly dark shade of it. Bits of it turned safety orange.
You have my sympathies, and my thanks for the approval.
Since I swore to myself never to post in this thread without posting a bit more story, here's the next few paragraphs. I would've posted a bit more, but that seemed like a good place to leave off.
**********
45 minutes later, I felt human again. No- better than that. I'd left cloud nine behind half an hour ago, and was rapidly approaching cloud 6.02*10^23. Combine that with TSAB laundry technology (your clothes ready to wear in half an hour, or it's free!), and I felt like a new man.
...yeah, that lasted until my infirmary visit.
It wasn't the trip there. Only took fifteen minutes, and I only had to ask for directions once. It wasn't the physical. Mid-Childan medical tech is good enough that they were able to get a complete workup on me in about a minute and a half, without any actual physical examinations.
Huh. Wonder why they still call it a 'physical', then. Guess it's like how we 'dial' numbers.
The bit that got to me was when the ship's doctor came into the exam room, handed me a clipboard, and, in a very professional (one might even say 'clinical') tone of voice, let me know that I'd never amount to anything as a mage.
My Unitarian Jihad Name is: Brother Atom Bomb of Courteous Debate. Get yours.
I've been writing a bit.