silph_co | text

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Right. I have a few questions about all of this:

1. From what I can tell, we seem to be the Pokemon Mafia. At the very least, we're organized criminals. That said, why on earth are we calling ourselves *Team Rocket* of all things? It's not exactly a name engineered to strike fear in the hearts of many.

2. I realize that it's not likely a criminal organization would have vision or dental coverage, however: would it be possible to request prescription contacts for use when wearing my uniform?

3. Who should I talk to in order to maximize my chances of gaining employment in the radio tower after training is over? I understand that there's no way to check my references, but I can provide a resume, once I get a chance to retype it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Thank you. I *do* feel so *very* welcome.

Sarcasm, good start. But I'd try for for a pun next, that's a little more cognitively revealing.

Edited 2020-02-17 03:41 (UTC)

I don't pun on demand. Who do I look like, Piers Anthony?

You like high fantasy?

Not exactly my genre, but we share some themes.

Edited 2020-02-17 17:25 (UTC)

Yeah.

Not that I've been into Piers Anthony in *decades*--he's one of those writers you grow out of when your voice starts to crack--but he's still the first thing that springs to mind when it comes to puns on demand.

What themes?

Decades, huh. How old are you? No judgment. It is, as they say, just a fuckin number.

But we were talking themes. Shit--what themes don't they share, come to think of it. My story's got it all. A tale of epic scale and epic length, a coming of age of chosen players in a sprawling mythos of gods and villains, all the good shit people line up for.

Or that's the intent. Stories are tricky, whether you're writing them or just living them. I won't pretend I'm not eager to get back to it, but I'm a good eight months into this apparently aimless work of fluff fiction.

Which is what this is, I'm gonna do you a favour and drop that one on your plate while it's still hot. We're talking kiddie-pool depth, bumpers on the sides of the lane to keep you from falling in the gutter. No bladed weapons, no weaponised blades. Death don't stick and you never actually bite it if you try but it does cut your finances in half every time you eat shit, so it's not advised you make a habit of it.

That might be hard to swallow so I'd let that digest, but if you can choke it down, everything else gets easier to stomach.

Thirty-seven. I *think*. Time didn't run the same in the place where I was taken before. I *think* I was gone five years on the inside, but outside it was a bit over three?

This is *not* my first supernatural kidnapping rodeo. Which I'm probably breaking the rules by telling you about it, but I figure this is just close *enough* to being taken by the Gentry that letting people know is just good sense.

So yeah. I think I can choke that down. The only thing I'd worry about is if we're in goddamn fairyland again, but I can't tell that yet. Signs are *maybe* pointing to no, but for all I know, the ruler of this domain has enough power over it to nerf everything and make me human again.

Yeah, I've been thirty-seven before. I might be twenty-four now. Who fucking knows.

Anyway, you're human all fucking right. But supernatural is too narrow a perspective to adequately explain any damn thing. We'll be playing blind men and elephants all goddamn day.

You can take your old rules and wad them up into the trash, turn on the incinerator while you're at it. Warm your hands over it, try not to get burned.

Edited 2020-02-18 22:19 (UTC)

... how in the hell do you go from thirty-seven to twenty-four?

[God, that's Charley's age. Just a little younger.]

I've been a lotta things.

A god.

And a God.

A pair of sunglasses. The last man on earth. A celebrity. A corpse. A porn mogul. Not in any order. You get used to it. Or you don't.

And you remember being all these things?

Sure. Every second of it.

The time it'd take to catalogue even just the true, relevant, and essential details of the prime events would be measured in years.

I'm wondering, though... not that I object to a little revelatory reminiscence for the audience's benefit, but is my personal biography really what you want to be asking about right now?

I mean, your name would *help*. So far I've been calling you Orange Guy in my head.

Nope. Not the orange guy. He's dead.

Dirk Strider.

Steven.

[He hesitates a moment, but only a moment this time. He's already made the decision with Connie, after all.]

Steven Durante.

Carly says I shouldn't encourage your b.s.

Carly says a lot of things. Often at maximum volume, presumably because she thinks it'll be more effective.

Just like she... apparently thinks encouragement or lack thereof has any bearing on my 'B.S.?'

Trust me: if she were really paying attention, she'd have known better. My bullshit sans pareil is primo on tap, on the house, pure and unfiltered shit as it happens. Your input and hers are not required.

I mean, she also thinks you looking for the cracks in reality is going overboard, when really it's only good sense when you've been supernaturally kidnapped. So she and I probably have different standards for these things.

Speaking of which, if you find a thorny, enchanted Hedge in the process, let me know. Just so I can feel both disappointed and vindicated.

[Guess what lads. Someone's cutting in. Someone's cutting in on video.

It's Carly, a cup of coffee in hand while she looks at them both like they're a pair of errant children and she's the school teacher being paid to watch. So, the College Experience really.]

Hey, Dirk? Do you remember when you had a cold? Because I remember, and I also remember what came from that.

[Sip.

Frown.] Also, I remember saying it made sense until people get hurt.

[real cool of you steven. super rad.]

[Oh hell, she's younger than he'd assumed she was.]

... right. You did say that.

[His voice, it turns out, a pleasant tenor.]

[Oh, there she is. Speak of the devil and she shall appear, I'd say if my opinion of Carly were anywhere near that low. It's not, but my opinion of her strategy here is threatening to be.

And I guess we're just abandoning text now, like that dark period in earth's history between the invention of the telephone but before the invention of the computer.]

Who's "people?"

[Adding my bona fide Texan drawl to this conversation makes for quite the trio.]

We're the bad guys, Carly.

Mmmhm... [She just nods.] I'm not saying you're wrong, [she probably means Dirk] But you forget your limits a lot.

[There's another sip, mostly because Haha Dirk your words literally have nothing to do with her target here...

And she knows you know it.

That said!] I am glad to see you both getting along though! Like, really glad actually! I would've left things alone except for that last bit...

[In a quiet, thoughtful voice:]

The thing is, sometimes people will get hurt, but you have to risk it anyway. The place I was before for a long time... only half the group I escaped with managed to make it out. It's not that I was forgetting what you said, Carly. It's just-- I don't know how much it matters.

[So he's a conscientious moral offender.]

I'll pass on the self-imposed handicapping. I don't need any more limits.

Your immune system isn't exactly self-imposed, [Carly remarks dryly, leaving it at that as she sighs. It's not exactly a sad sigh- or an exasperated one, fortunately, but it's Some kind of sigh indicating that something's been missed again.]

I'm talking about you guys though! About your health, individually! You're 'people'!

And you're not going to get much done if you don't keep your health in mind...

Carly. I can promise you that if I'm sick enough to miss work back home, I won't do anything here.

[PSYCH. He's American. They go to work unless they're literally dying.]

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There was an update that answered this for me not even a week ago. Thanks, canon!

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Phone tagging... hard. Forgive me.

Re: Phone tagging... hard. Forgive me.

V...IDEO...

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VIDEO

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