Post by Pyro on Apr 30, 2008 15:26:05 GMT
Good things about being back from the future:[/u]
Central heating.
Even without factoring in the 'frosty' reception (which he'd rather forget about anyway) the future'd been far too fucking cold for John's liking.
Carpets.
These, like turning radiators on, seemed to be way down on the list of concerns for the 2027 Brotherhood, which meant more cold and a ton of splinters if you were daft enough (or, y'know, forgot it was the fucking future and you couldn't wander around in the dim early-morning haze without ending up with half the floor in your soles) to go without shoes. The cold thing made removal less painful, granted, because it did leave one's extremities rather numb, but that wasn't the fucking point now, was it?
Coffee.
Alcohol that doesn't taste like paint stripper.
Having more than one lighter. Lighter fluid. Flints. Etcetera.
Not being dead.
Not being a celebrity / local hero / celebrated martyr / whatever[/i]
Bad things about being back from the future[/u]
Vegetables that taste like vegetables[/i]
... okay, so Toni hadn't been overestimating how great that particular innovation was.
Not being a celebrity / local hero... etc[/i]
John considers adding "Bob getting all the fucking sympathy now" to the list, but that's a little too acerbic even for him... so it's scribbled through before he's finished writing it (hey, that still counts...)
Bob ge..
Having to deal with the Bob-Rogue cluster-fuck and resultant shit[/i]
In the future, with more pressing concerns, that had sort of been put on hold, and he'd been grateful for the breather and almost forgotten how much of a fucking drag the stupid melodrama was. And now it's back as something to deal with it's even more annoying as next to everything they'd been worrying about in the future it seems even more pathetic and trivial and time wasting. And granted, he's been doing his usual dealing-by-not-dealing thing, but that's not the point.
Being a student again. Filling out all these stupid fucking forms.[/i]
... which is when he realises what he's writing these lists on.
It's odd; he can't remember there being anywhere near this much paperwork last year...
... though most of that would probably be down to a) joining halfway through, having spent the first half blowing up buildings and burning flatliners and b) not bothering... which, furthermore, probably goes some way to explaining why his arguments in favour of 'just being allowed to graduate' got shot down quite as quickly as they did, because, let's face it, he hadn't exactly gone to many... erm, make that any classes since his return.
... and suddenly that old joke about how he'd still be here at 30 doesn't seem that funny.
John sighs, sinks deeper into the ragged old armchair someone way back when (he can't remember who, or exactly how way back... before Drake had arrived, he thinks, and no doubt someone long since graduated...) had salvaged from a skip or garage sale or something and brought back to the unofficial rec room where such salvaged things ended up, and scans the typed section of the form - where it's discernible between the random scrawlings of a terminally bored pyromaniac which had started with absent-minded doodles and ended with that hasty list. Some sort of class selection thing, it seems. Fucking fantastic...
Why should he bother? Not like graduating means that much anyway, is it? He could just leave. Say 'sod this', hit the road and...
... and then what?
Since they landed back there's been an argument bandied around (mostly, he suspects, for his and Drake's benefit) that it was just one possible future, that events are mutable, not predefined, and that there's no way of seeing how things will turn out. An argument that suggests they should just forget what they saw and learned. And that's just fine, but...
But what? You're scared that if you leave here you'll go back to being 'him' and end up dead? Fuck off. That's stupid.
Except... well, sure, it's still stupid, but on some level he sort of is, and...
He sighs again. Clearly this shouldn't be attempted without some form of alcohol to hand. And if memory serves, there's some stashed under the floorboards next to the archaic arcade machines (yet another salvaged relic). Which goes some way to explaining, though probably won't be a good enough excuse for, why he's tearing a few of the loose ones up and rummaging around in the cache underneath instead of doing the work he's meant to when he's caught with his hands in the cookie jar of contraband.
Central heating.
Even without factoring in the 'frosty' reception (which he'd rather forget about anyway) the future'd been far too fucking cold for John's liking.
Carpets.
These, like turning radiators on, seemed to be way down on the list of concerns for the 2027 Brotherhood, which meant more cold and a ton of splinters if you were daft enough (or, y'know, forgot it was the fucking future and you couldn't wander around in the dim early-morning haze without ending up with half the floor in your soles) to go without shoes. The cold thing made removal less painful, granted, because it did leave one's extremities rather numb, but that wasn't the fucking point now, was it?
Coffee.
Alcohol that doesn't taste like paint stripper.
Having more than one lighter. Lighter fluid. Flints. Etcetera.
Not being dead.
Not being a celebrity / local hero / celebrated martyr / whatever[/i]
---------
Bad things about being back from the future[/u]
Vegetables that taste like vegetables[/i]
... okay, so Toni hadn't been overestimating how great that particular innovation was.
Not being a celebrity / local hero... etc[/i]
John considers adding "Bob getting all the fucking sympathy now" to the list, but that's a little too acerbic even for him... so it's scribbled through before he's finished writing it (hey, that still counts...)
Having to deal with the Bob-Rogue cluster-fuck and resultant shit[/i]
In the future, with more pressing concerns, that had sort of been put on hold, and he'd been grateful for the breather and almost forgotten how much of a fucking drag the stupid melodrama was. And now it's back as something to deal with it's even more annoying as next to everything they'd been worrying about in the future it seems even more pathetic and trivial and time wasting. And granted, he's been doing his usual dealing-by-not-dealing thing, but that's not the point.
Being a student again. Filling out all these stupid fucking forms.[/i]
... which is when he realises what he's writing these lists on.
It's odd; he can't remember there being anywhere near this much paperwork last year...
... though most of that would probably be down to a) joining halfway through, having spent the first half blowing up buildings and burning flatliners and b) not bothering... which, furthermore, probably goes some way to explaining why his arguments in favour of 'just being allowed to graduate' got shot down quite as quickly as they did, because, let's face it, he hadn't exactly gone to many... erm, make that any classes since his return.
... and suddenly that old joke about how he'd still be here at 30 doesn't seem that funny.
John sighs, sinks deeper into the ragged old armchair someone way back when (he can't remember who, or exactly how way back... before Drake had arrived, he thinks, and no doubt someone long since graduated...) had salvaged from a skip or garage sale or something and brought back to the unofficial rec room where such salvaged things ended up, and scans the typed section of the form - where it's discernible between the random scrawlings of a terminally bored pyromaniac which had started with absent-minded doodles and ended with that hasty list. Some sort of class selection thing, it seems. Fucking fantastic...
Why should he bother? Not like graduating means that much anyway, is it? He could just leave. Say 'sod this', hit the road and...
... and then what?
Since they landed back there's been an argument bandied around (mostly, he suspects, for his and Drake's benefit) that it was just one possible future, that events are mutable, not predefined, and that there's no way of seeing how things will turn out. An argument that suggests they should just forget what they saw and learned. And that's just fine, but...
But what? You're scared that if you leave here you'll go back to being 'him' and end up dead? Fuck off. That's stupid.
Except... well, sure, it's still stupid, but on some level he sort of is, and...
He sighs again. Clearly this shouldn't be attempted without some form of alcohol to hand. And if memory serves, there's some stashed under the floorboards next to the archaic arcade machines (yet another salvaged relic). Which goes some way to explaining, though probably won't be a good enough excuse for, why he's tearing a few of the loose ones up and rummaging around in the cache underneath instead of doing the work he's meant to when he's caught with his hands in the cookie jar of contraband.
