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Hah! Sticking your neck out and changing things is a piece of piss compared to scoring perfectly in the holographic shooting gallery and then coming on to the holographic mother with baby who appears to try to catch you out. Now that takes game.
Ahem. Not too useful on the Gatchaman front, apart formt he by-now-customary cry of "eBay!", home of all your Thundercats needs.
(Incidentally, is anyone a little bit scared by the wholesale rerendering of our Gen-Y childhoods into commodities? The Thundercats, Transformers and G-Force comics were a bit traumatic, but seeing Ultra Magnus (the gayest Transformer ever) on an advert for a car did my head in completely.)
Off-topic - Where am Oblique? Sounds like something I could do with looking at. Oh, and I've managed in my encroaching unemployment to start, gear-grindingly slowly, continuing TOES; not sure if it's any good tho'...
Up with the lark, here’s Avon, which is what rendered Vila so uncharacteristically speechless. For a man running on empty, he’s scrubbed up nicely, after a shower, a shave and a quick hack of the Diomedes’ autoseamstress. His breakfast outfit is just a few shades off white, with the fabric banded tightly around his diminishing torso and loose at the arms and legs, made of the softest material he could arrange to have stolen from Carnell’s personal stores. In the cramped, convivial, overheated mess hall, it’s like the arrival of an unusually short, unusually dangerous-looking angel with a slight pot-belly.
“Ah, Vila,” he says, making a face as if a smile-shaped animal had crawled into his mouth to die, “I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”
As he insinuates himself into the queue just in time to collect a dollop of vital nutrients and proteins, Vila hisses under his breath, “Avon? What the fuck are you doing here?”
Avon gives him a look.
“It is the most important meal of the day, Vila,” he comments mildly.
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