AN updraft of hot air lifts Sebastian up higher. A slight adjustment of the wings to keep level. 10 meters of altitude gain without a single flap. With every litle tip of his feathers he controlled his flow and sway. Flap. Flap. Bank.
With a deft dive eh winds his way through the monkeybars of an abandoned playground. How long has he gone without a break. How many hours of consistent flight? "Could be a bug," he chirps to himself, "But then again...maybe I'm just better now."
He allows himself an inefficient but fun blast of flaps, and, in the middle of executing a loop, the balance of his internal fluids pressing on the inside of his back, the alarm goes off - answering all his questions. Plastered across his vision is a friendly reminder that it's been 26 hours since he has slept or eaten and that it's in his best interests to immediately or he'll have to dump himself.
He logs without even bothering to land. It'll be disorienting and annoying when he logs back on, but he's just too pissed to care right now. He'll have to change the program such that there is some sort of nest or something you spawn out of, he thinks as he swiftly yanks the cord out of his temple.
He rubs his eyes as the dim light blinds them. Takes in his room. Cords and old equipment run the length of it. Only Sebastian knows which piece is in use and which isn't. There's nothing special about it to him at all. All the information on the local hard-drives is automatically backed up in secure databases in Singapore, Norway, The Argentinian Protectorate, and Laos. THough the Norway one has been giving him hassle lately. He takes a moment to put on a ripped, woolen sweater - it got cold while he was in. Makes him htink about maybe putting his Norway info into Antarctica. There's nothing there that isn't someplace else, but one can never be too sure.
The electric can opener tears open the tuna can with stuttered, raccous squeels. He got it for 3 bucks on the corner. It was 27 years old and needed refurbished, but it got the job done. Those Antarctic bastards will charge an arm and a leg for a few more terabytes. They've got the best security (for obvious reasons) but they fucking take it out of your hide. Well, he thought, gagging a bit on the proccessed dolphin he was wildly stuffing down his throat hoping to avoid his tongue, maybe he'll just liquidate some of those corporate holdings he's had stashed away. He was going to use it to buy another processor farm in India, but business is business.
He grabbed his straw broom. It worked alright inspite of only having half its bristles. Well enough to get most of the rat shit and dead roaches off his sleeping mat.
Then he passed out, dreaming of dreams.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
There she is....
It will go on in this vein. But hopefully be more exciting as it
progreses, followed by a sort of desired decline in the form of a
denounment.
With a deft dive eh winds his way through the monkeybars of an abandoned playground. How long has he gone without a break. How many hours of consistent flight? "Could be a bug," he chirps to himself, "But then again...maybe I'm just better now."
He allows himself an inefficient but fun blast of flaps, and, in the middle of executing a loop, the balance of his internal fluids pressing on the inside of his back, the alarm goes off - answering all his questions. Plastered across his vision is a friendly reminder that it's been 26 hours since he has slept or eaten and that it's in his best interests to immediately or he'll have to dump himself.
He logs without even bothering to land. It'll be disorienting and annoying when he logs back on, but he's just too pissed to care right now. He'll have to change the program such that there is some sort of nest or something you spawn out of, he thinks as he swiftly yanks the cord out of his temple.
He rubs his eyes as the dim light blinds them. Takes in his room. Cords and old equipment run the length of it. Only Sebastian knows which piece is in use and which isn't. There's nothing special about it to him at all. All the information on the local hard-drives is automatically backed up in secure databases in Singapore, Norway, The Argentinian Protectorate, and Laos. THough the Norway one has been giving him hassle lately. He takes a moment to put on a ripped, woolen sweater - it got cold while he was in. Makes him htink about maybe putting his Norway info into Antarctica. There's nothing there that isn't someplace else, but one can never be too sure.
The electric can opener tears open the tuna can with stuttered, raccous squeels. He got it for 3 bucks on the corner. It was 27 years old and needed refurbished, but it got the job done. Those Antarctic bastards will charge an arm and a leg for a few more terabytes. They've got the best security (for obvious reasons) but they fucking take it out of your hide. Well, he thought, gagging a bit on the proccessed dolphin he was wildly stuffing down his throat hoping to avoid his tongue, maybe he'll just liquidate some of those corporate holdings he's had stashed away. He was going to use it to buy another processor farm in India, but business is business.
He grabbed his straw broom. It worked alright inspite of only having half its bristles. Well enough to get most of the rat shit and dead roaches off his sleeping mat.
Then he passed out, dreaming of dreams.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
There she is....
It will go on in this vein. But hopefully be more exciting as it
progreses, followed by a sort of desired decline in the form of a
denounment.