Scans from Wiktoria’s sketchbook! I was having so much fun with this one. I frogot how awesome it was to draw on paper!
(scanned by herself. I’m invading her home again…)
Dude I hope you’ll like it because it’s so much fun!
Finished another page… I don’t know what i do next
A tinker, a tailor
A soldier’s things
His rifle, his boots full of rocks
And this one is for bravery
And this one is for me
MY FANART AND OTHER DOODLES - GIGA MASTERPOST
(…)but I find that being threatened with a deadly weapon severely limits my capacity for sparkling repartee, so here’s a suggestion: if you put the gun down, I’ll tell you pretty much anything you want to know. How does that sound?”
John blinks, slowly trying to parse that. It takes him a second to figure out why it’s so much harder than it should be, until he remembers how long it’s been since he’s had to understand and respond to human speech.
Very slowly, John says, “I’m putting the gun down.”
Plaid Shirt nods his enthusiastic approval. “That’s good, that’s great, you do that.”
John flicks the gun’s safety back on and tucks it back into his belt. Then he holds his empty hands out from his sides, palms open. The guy nods again, but he doesn’t relax at all.
The Hard Prayer by Rheanna
Plaid Shirt looks at the gun, then John, then back at the gun, and then very obviously decides that his best strategy is to try to answer the question, no matter how nonsensical it is. “Uh, Portland, Albany, Rochester and a number of other places and…” He trails off and swallows. Then he starts talking again, words tumbling out faster than John would have thought possible. “Hey, look, believe me when I say nothing would make me happier than to have an actual conversation with another human being, (…)
The Hard Prayer by Rheanna
His aim is locked on a guy who is about the same age as John, but a few inches shorter and of stockier build. He’s wearing an ugly plaid shirt. The instant he sees the gun in John’s hand, the exultant grin on the guy’s face disappears, replaced by wide-eyed fear.
“Um,” says the guy. “Please don’t kill me?”
John opens his mouth to say something, which is a great plan, because saying something is exactly what this situation requires, preferably something reassuring, contrite or, at the very least, coherent. Unfortunately, what actually comes out falls firmly into the ‘none of the above’ category: in a voice rusty with lack of use, John hears himself demand, “Where the fuck have you been?”
The Hard Prayer by Rheanna
“My God, it works,” a voice announces triumphantly behind John. “Ha. I knew it. I told them there were real-world applications; if those morons hadn’t had the imaginations of retarded fruit-flies —”
Rational thought entirely fails to provide a response, and John’s military training steps up to bat. He whips around, the gun coming up as he turns, his finger tightening around the trigger.
He doesn’t — quite — pull it.
