![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Took a Quiz. For the record, I'm not a postmodernist. But I /am/ a 'theory slut'...I love reading about and watching subcultures, and when it comes down to it, academics are just another subculture, getting their social rocks off in their own special ways. But, anyway...
You are a Theory Slut. The true elite of the
postmodernists, you collect avant-garde
Indonesian hiphop compilations and eat journal
articles for breakfast. You positively live
for theory. It really doesn't matter what
kind, as long as the words are big and the
paragraph breaks few and far between.
What kind of postmodernist are you!?
brought to you by Quizilla
I like paragraph breaks, though.
Moving on, while I was out on no-modem sabbatical, I got hit by a brainworm, and wrote a little original fic snippet. Despite the title, it's not In Nomine related (although that should be fairly obvious right from the start). I have vague, rambling thoughts about typing up RPG-type rules for the setting...it's all just sitting there in my head, nearly fullblown.
The girl in the stone-gray tunic was currently Maria Jakob Josephina Sanchez, but Jakob was a relatively new addition. She crouched on the ledge of a crumbling building, squinting down at the concrete and sifting through the Jakob-core for hints on what to do next. Most of the suggestions of the memory core had to be rejected for lack of equipment and allies. That was the problem with the old cores; they always seemed to be drawn from a world where everything was so much more abundant than it was, these days. Still, the stealth and physical routines were invaluable, once filtered through the Maria core, so that her smaller body was taken into account. She brought both cores to the front of her mind, blocking off the Josephina-core to keep it quiet—finding medic cores that didn't have lingering pacifistic impulses was nearly impossible down on street level. If this worked, perhaps she'd be able to afford an upgrade.
Even as the thought flitted across her forebrain, the gravel she'd placed earlier clattered at the mouth of the alleyway. The target, a burgher with wispy red hair going to gray, and a half-a-dozen corecrystals clustered at the base of his neck, whistled to himself as he moved down the street. He absently kicked at the stones, making his progress noisy even without the whistle. His bearing held a hint of nervousness, but no real alarm. The alley, for all its narrowness, was clear. There were no easy hiding places, and in daylight, the great Raptors patrolled the skies beneath the saffron-yellow, city dome. Criminal activity was punished by the removal of an appropriate amount of cores...sometimes even the encapsulating of the central personality, if the convicted person showed signs of having valuable skills or experiences. Using this little shortcut to his mistress' house shouldn't hold any more risks than running into a clever reporter with a core that could operate a camera. Only a fool would risk an assault on a burgher in broad daylight.
Or someone who happened to have a war-core and nothing to lose. With a faint smile, Sanchez launched herself from her perch, knifing through the air like a diver, silent until the very moment that her feet, protected by their heavy boots, smashed into the burgher's shoulders. She heard a satisfying double snap as the man's collarbones gave way, and sprung away, twisting to land on her feet, facing her target. Just in time to see his acne-riddled forehead before he slammed it purposefully into her face, shattering her concentration and her nose. She threw herself backwards to avoid the follow-up blow, twisting her neck out of reach just as his teeth snapped at her.
Shit. A street fighter, Jakob-core grumbled, and prompted her return strike, guiding Sanchez's hands up, and her back down to execute a perfect throw. Somewhere above her, a Raptor screeched to alert others of its kind to the crime in progress. Thirty seconds. It'll take it thirty seconds to reconfigure and dive. The voice in her head was dispassionate; in life, Jakob must have been a cold-blooded bastard. Sanchez was grateful.
Her eyes watering from the pain of her shattered nose, Sanchez dove after the burgher, rabbit-punching him savagely as he tried to crawl away. Twenty-five seconds. As his legs collapsed, a tiny knife appeared in her left hand. Twenty seconds. The knife flashed; the burgher's red blood spurted against the concrete, his dying sigh nearly lost to her ears as the Raptor above keened its hunting cry. Fifteen seconds. The knife went about its work, quickly flaying the skin away from the core capsule embedded in the burgher's skull. The fingers of her other hand slipped in the sticky wetness as they found the release catch. Four seconds. The catch took longer than it should have. There was a whistling above her. Cold terror nearly froze Sanchez in place, even as the capsule slipped out into her bloody hands. Run. Run. Run, run, shit, duck!
The girl threw herself flat, rolling off the body and provoking another howl of outrage from her abused nose as it rubbed against the corpse's elbow. The Raptor's claw snapped closed where she'd been just a second before, inertia sending its silver, snakelike body beyond her position. Turning around in the narrow alleyway would be next to impossible, she knew. It'd have to go up and come back for another pass. Sanchez scrambled to her feet and ran to the rabbit-hole she'd prepared just yesterday, bloody tears of pain streaming down her face, and the memory cores clutched in her slippery hands. She leapt feet-first into the hole, hearing the Raptor's angry shriek and the shattering of what few windows had remained unbroken until this morning. Well, she thought as the darkness swallowed her, I sure hope one of these brains-in-a-box knows something useful about disguises.
You are a Theory Slut. The true elite of the
postmodernists, you collect avant-garde
Indonesian hiphop compilations and eat journal
articles for breakfast. You positively live
for theory. It really doesn't matter what
kind, as long as the words are big and the
paragraph breaks few and far between.
What kind of postmodernist are you!?
brought to you by Quizilla
I like paragraph breaks, though.
Moving on, while I was out on no-modem sabbatical, I got hit by a brainworm, and wrote a little original fic snippet. Despite the title, it's not In Nomine related (although that should be fairly obvious right from the start). I have vague, rambling thoughts about typing up RPG-type rules for the setting...it's all just sitting there in my head, nearly fullblown.
The girl in the stone-gray tunic was currently Maria Jakob Josephina Sanchez, but Jakob was a relatively new addition. She crouched on the ledge of a crumbling building, squinting down at the concrete and sifting through the Jakob-core for hints on what to do next. Most of the suggestions of the memory core had to be rejected for lack of equipment and allies. That was the problem with the old cores; they always seemed to be drawn from a world where everything was so much more abundant than it was, these days. Still, the stealth and physical routines were invaluable, once filtered through the Maria core, so that her smaller body was taken into account. She brought both cores to the front of her mind, blocking off the Josephina-core to keep it quiet—finding medic cores that didn't have lingering pacifistic impulses was nearly impossible down on street level. If this worked, perhaps she'd be able to afford an upgrade.
Even as the thought flitted across her forebrain, the gravel she'd placed earlier clattered at the mouth of the alleyway. The target, a burgher with wispy red hair going to gray, and a half-a-dozen corecrystals clustered at the base of his neck, whistled to himself as he moved down the street. He absently kicked at the stones, making his progress noisy even without the whistle. His bearing held a hint of nervousness, but no real alarm. The alley, for all its narrowness, was clear. There were no easy hiding places, and in daylight, the great Raptors patrolled the skies beneath the saffron-yellow, city dome. Criminal activity was punished by the removal of an appropriate amount of cores...sometimes even the encapsulating of the central personality, if the convicted person showed signs of having valuable skills or experiences. Using this little shortcut to his mistress' house shouldn't hold any more risks than running into a clever reporter with a core that could operate a camera. Only a fool would risk an assault on a burgher in broad daylight.
Or someone who happened to have a war-core and nothing to lose. With a faint smile, Sanchez launched herself from her perch, knifing through the air like a diver, silent until the very moment that her feet, protected by their heavy boots, smashed into the burgher's shoulders. She heard a satisfying double snap as the man's collarbones gave way, and sprung away, twisting to land on her feet, facing her target. Just in time to see his acne-riddled forehead before he slammed it purposefully into her face, shattering her concentration and her nose. She threw herself backwards to avoid the follow-up blow, twisting her neck out of reach just as his teeth snapped at her.
Shit. A street fighter, Jakob-core grumbled, and prompted her return strike, guiding Sanchez's hands up, and her back down to execute a perfect throw. Somewhere above her, a Raptor screeched to alert others of its kind to the crime in progress. Thirty seconds. It'll take it thirty seconds to reconfigure and dive. The voice in her head was dispassionate; in life, Jakob must have been a cold-blooded bastard. Sanchez was grateful.
Her eyes watering from the pain of her shattered nose, Sanchez dove after the burgher, rabbit-punching him savagely as he tried to crawl away. Twenty-five seconds. As his legs collapsed, a tiny knife appeared in her left hand. Twenty seconds. The knife flashed; the burgher's red blood spurted against the concrete, his dying sigh nearly lost to her ears as the Raptor above keened its hunting cry. Fifteen seconds. The knife went about its work, quickly flaying the skin away from the core capsule embedded in the burgher's skull. The fingers of her other hand slipped in the sticky wetness as they found the release catch. Four seconds. The catch took longer than it should have. There was a whistling above her. Cold terror nearly froze Sanchez in place, even as the capsule slipped out into her bloody hands. Run. Run. Run, run, shit, duck!
The girl threw herself flat, rolling off the body and provoking another howl of outrage from her abused nose as it rubbed against the corpse's elbow. The Raptor's claw snapped closed where she'd been just a second before, inertia sending its silver, snakelike body beyond her position. Turning around in the narrow alleyway would be next to impossible, she knew. It'd have to go up and come back for another pass. Sanchez scrambled to her feet and ran to the rabbit-hole she'd prepared just yesterday, bloody tears of pain streaming down her face, and the memory cores clutched in her slippery hands. She leapt feet-first into the hole, hearing the Raptor's angry shriek and the shattering of what few windows had remained unbroken until this morning. Well, she thought as the darkness swallowed her, I sure hope one of these brains-in-a-box knows something useful about disguises.
From:
no subject
From:
Re:
From:
Re: