[3 / 1 / 2]
Quoted By: >>5259934
A Quest about fighting monsters and hippies with your government-mandated shoulder loli.
—
>Boots on the Ground. Looks like the PT extracurricular you signed up for starts up pretty early in the day. Huh, there's an option for night classes, too. You may as well put this body of yours for a test run, see if there's anything you might have missed.
Your first class is being held at some field a fair distance from your current location. Thankfully, a quick glance at your work phone shows that the transportation systems are up and running again. Scanning the area, you spot a bus stop sign and accompanying steel bench about a dozen feet away.
Ruffling Valentine's hair earns you her attention and a swift jabbing with her tail. She follows you with only minimal grumbling, settling down next to you on the bench, then dozes off with alarming speed. Must be the oatmeal.
Just before she starts leaning against you, you spot what must be your ride approaching in the distance. You can certainly appreciate their punctuality–by all counts, the earlier announcement was sent out less than half an hour ago.
Valentine stirs as you nudge her awake, blinking dully all the while. You can't help but sigh; is she really going to be fine? Basic or not, PT isn't something you can really do while half-asleep.
You're drawn from your thoughts as the bus comes to a stop with a near-silent hiss. As the doors slide apart, you tug your Alice along, nodding a greeting to the silent driver.
The interior of the bus is a little more comfortable than normal, with polished steel and actual cushioning on the seats, but beyond that it remains an utterly mundane vehicle. You're almost disappointed for a second–then, with a faint sense of horror, it dawns on you that your standards for what is normal have already begun to slip.
Don't think about it too hard, Jack. You're still a healthy, functioning member of society. You have no PTSD whatsoever.
"...Sir? A-Attendant Jack, is that you?"
A familiar voice brings you back to reality. You turn to look at one Harrison Schmidt, Protectorate agent and field operator.
[1/?]
—
>Boots on the Ground. Looks like the PT extracurricular you signed up for starts up pretty early in the day. Huh, there's an option for night classes, too. You may as well put this body of yours for a test run, see if there's anything you might have missed.
Your first class is being held at some field a fair distance from your current location. Thankfully, a quick glance at your work phone shows that the transportation systems are up and running again. Scanning the area, you spot a bus stop sign and accompanying steel bench about a dozen feet away.
Ruffling Valentine's hair earns you her attention and a swift jabbing with her tail. She follows you with only minimal grumbling, settling down next to you on the bench, then dozes off with alarming speed. Must be the oatmeal.
Just before she starts leaning against you, you spot what must be your ride approaching in the distance. You can certainly appreciate their punctuality–by all counts, the earlier announcement was sent out less than half an hour ago.
Valentine stirs as you nudge her awake, blinking dully all the while. You can't help but sigh; is she really going to be fine? Basic or not, PT isn't something you can really do while half-asleep.
You're drawn from your thoughts as the bus comes to a stop with a near-silent hiss. As the doors slide apart, you tug your Alice along, nodding a greeting to the silent driver.
The interior of the bus is a little more comfortable than normal, with polished steel and actual cushioning on the seats, but beyond that it remains an utterly mundane vehicle. You're almost disappointed for a second–then, with a faint sense of horror, it dawns on you that your standards for what is normal have already begun to slip.
Don't think about it too hard, Jack. You're still a healthy, functioning member of society. You have no PTSD whatsoever.
"...Sir? A-Attendant Jack, is that you?"
A familiar voice brings you back to reality. You turn to look at one Harrison Schmidt, Protectorate agent and field operator.
[1/?]
