Scribble: This is why I don't write while sick.

      Another cough. Race to the sink, barely in time to expunge. Head feels like swimming with cement shoes.
      Cold water. Hands dry, cracked, bare. A gnat, waterlogged, washes upon the porcelain shore. Maybe I drowned it. So ignorant.
      Another cough. Nothing comes. Steady pace back to the couch. Legs flail like fleeing gnats, made soggy by immeasurable giants.
      Running nose. Tonight, I am a murderer. Tonight, something tries to murder me.
      Another cough...

A hint.

I've picked-up a pen-name, and have three simultaneous projects in the works. No other details until they go live.

Things I Have Learned from Comic-Con: Day Three

• The Sucklord, in response to someone admiring his "costume": "It's not a costume, it's a way of life!"
  
• While still the most frontin'-est rapper around, MC Frontalot is as chill and down-to-earth as he is tall. And he is, of course, not a short man by any means.
  
• Octopus Pie, as a title, is just nonsensical and has no real bearing on the strip. Not that the strip needed help being awesome.
  
• Come to think of it, Meredith Gran is also quite chill and down-to-earth, and was cool about signing something for a friend who's been feelin' kinda craptacular.
  
• Actually, though I didn't get to talk with all of them, I'm just gonna toss this out there: the whole Dumbrella crew and affiliates? C'mon. You can figure out the rest from here.
  
• From The Multicultural Mask panel on breaking down barriers of race, gender, and sexual orientation in comics, paraphrased: "They need to do something like Marvel Zombies, y'know . . . but, like, 'Marvel People of Color.' 'Ah, they're turning non-white! Run!'"
  
• It is completely justifiable to spend hundreds of dollars at a con, so long as a healthy percentage of that goes towards gifts for other people.
  
• There is nothing more uncomfortable than squeezing past the sweaty, clammy dudes hanging around the hentai / erotic art / erotic comic booths, beyond the nagging, irrational fear that you're somehow being perceived as one . . . even though the most scandalous thing you've purchased is Scott Pilgrim.
  

And, finally:

• There is no quicker way to lose five pounds than by staying on your feet for eight hours straight, three days in a row. There is no quicker way to gain it back than by going to the nearby pizzeria for lunch every day.
  

Much props to Matt, Jesse, and the crew from Onell; Boris and the crew from Rocket North; Meredith Gran, Andrew Bell, and MC Frontalot; the Sucklord; the legendary Peter Laird; David Petersen; and just about anyone who I forgot to mention, but who made NYCC completely awesome this year.

Oh hey, damn me, I forgot the one person who made it possible: my ever-lovin' fake niece, Jen . . . not that she reads this, but damnit, I remembered!

Back to regular programming as soon as I recover...

Things I Have Learned from Comic-Con: Day Two

• Peter Laird, paraphrased: "We chose turtles because we thought, 'what's the least ninja-like animal out there?' And then we had it: turtles."
  
• Jesse Moore looks like he is capable of destroying worlds. While he may still be capable of doing so, he would do so in the friendliest, most positive way.
  
• "Top Secret Panel" is, much like the cake, a lie.
  
• Andrew Bell, paraphrased: "Half the people who dig my stuff are all like, 'I love your work, but now I can't afford to eat.' And I feel bad!"
  
• Yes. Someone was cosplaying as a freggin' Mudkips. The Internet has won.
  
• The Conduit. Just . . . The Conduit.
  

Also, a few notes of clarification: apparently, I'm incapable of being flirtatious, so two of the previous items can probably be stricken from the record.

Final day tomorrow...

Things I Have Learned from Comic-Con: Day One

• There is tall, then there is tall, and then there is Matt Doughty.
  
• Similarly, there is nice, then there is nice...
  
• Always ask twice before taking something you think is a free sample. At least.
  
• Never appear flirtatious with someone at a booth. That person could wind-up being one of the artists and/or writers you have come out to see.
  
• That being said, "blushing" and "awkward silence" are probably not good responses to said situation.
  
• There is no greater gift than providing someone with The Ultimate Batman Manual, unless it is to be followed-up by an interactive Batman-themed mystery.
  
• There is nothing weirder than being stuck in line for the Ghostbusters demo behind one of the guys from the television show "Ghosthunters"...
  
• ...except, of course, for about eighty different things at the Con so far.
  

More embarrassing, revealing truths to come...

Scribble: Steam rising from chai not yet brewed.

      Nights were getting warmer, so she thought, perched upon the railing as she was. Sweet and spicy fumes snaked into her nostrils, as muscles in her mouth worked at a smile. "Sure," she thought aloud, as a single drop of rain kissed her forehead, "now you gotta come out and wreck this moment..."
      Retreating through the open window, the young one struggled to climb off the kitchen counter, careful not to spill a drop on the way down. Why the hell the fire escape was put there, she could never understand, but she knew that so long as it was there, no skirt would be her friend.
      "Well," she cooed, leaning on the faded white laminate while fumes floated carefree, "at least the rain's still beautiful..."
      Taking a long sip, the youth couldn't help but smile, as her thoughts turned to daydreams that would fill a thousand novels...

Side note to that last scribble...

      To avoid lawsuits: yes, it is an homage to an already-existing property. If someone complains, I'll take it down.

Multi-Scribble: To pick up where we last left off...

      "Damn it!"
      Minutes of frantic typing had been for naught: the dimly-lit cargo still remained sealed before her. Snarling at the glowing console before her, the survivor raised her arm, as it shifted into the humming weapon once more. "If I can't unlock it the easy way," she said aloud, taking careful aim at the large, coffin-like pod before her, "then I'll just have to --"
      An explosive rumbling echoed through the cargo hold, as the survivor darted behind a stack of metal containers. He just won't give up, will he? she thought, as the floor shook with another rumble. Giving one last glimpse to the sealed pod before her, she steadied her weapon with a slightly quivering right hand, bracing for what was to come. "Hell if I let you take him," came the synthetic growl.
      Before she had time to understand what was happening, she saw the hold's heavy door fly across the room, before being embedded into the very hull. With a gasp, she rose from the floor, just as a flash of greenish plasma materialized beside her head. Scrambling to hide behind the sought-after crate, a hissing voice bellowed, ringing throughout her sensors.
      "Fool," it began, as the survivor steadied herself once more, "none of the mercenaries protecting this vessel could stop me..." A crate, only a few meters away, burst into a flash of light, leaving no trace of its existence. "Nothing remains of your employers, save their memory. What could you have to gain by continuing this pitiful game?"
      The survivor frantically looked around until, just across from the precious pod, she caught a glimpse of a security camera -- still functioning, tracing the intruder's movements. Silently, she tapped the side of her round, smooth head, until a small antenna array unfolded from within, as her dark eyes suddenly shifted to a dim white glow.
      I'm in, she thought, her vision melding with the camera's own sight. Seeing the distinctive glow from his eyes, the survivor studied his movements carefully, as he blindly approached where she had been hiding. Doesn't even know I moved. Probably doesn't know I can watch him. Which means...
      "What do I have to gain?" came the booming voice over the cargo hold's speaker system, as the intruder stopped in shock. "Did it ever occur to you that, perhaps, I wasn't another mercenary after all?"
      Raising his weapon, her assailant scanned the hold, his pale, chitinous head pulsating in distress. As he turned away from the pod, the survivor, in one swift motion, burst forth from her hiding place, firing burst after burst of plasma after him. Glowing fissures in the plates of his ebon armor illuminated the entire hold, as he spun to face his opponent. His green eyes widened in horror, as the survivor continued pounding the intruder, knocking him off-balance with each percussive blast.
      She would've pressed on, had alarms not began to sound in her head about her rapidly overheating arm. As servos shifted her left hand back into place, the intruder fell to the floor in a heap, as his raspy breathing echoed throughout the hold. Approaching him, the survivor -- antenna withdrawn, eyes once again dark -- clenched her fists in anticipation.
      His head was more bulbous now, pulsating more rapidly, as a glowing, pus-like substance oozed from between the chitinous plates of his scalp. Eyes narrowing in contempt, he coughed from an unseen orifice, as the green fluid dripped from the cracks in his armor. "I did not expect . . . this," the intruder hissed, struggling to rise from the floor. "Perhaps, next time . . . I will need to be better prepared."
      Before she could speak, her assailant's entire body erupted in the same pale green light that escaped from his armor, only to vanish within an instant. Stunned, she barely had a moment to adjust before another voice, much smoother and calmer than the last, echoed through the hold.
      "I know not of who that was," came the voice, as the survivor turned to see another android, walking from the direction of the pod. "Nor do I know you, who came to save me . . . or even where I am, for that matter."
      The pod must've opened during the fight, she thought, giving a fleeting thought to blasting the uncooperative console for good measure. As the living cargo approached, the survivor extended an open hand, still trying to calm herself.
      "There will be time for explanations later," she began, in a tone that wasn't quite friendly, but wasn't quite stern. "We need to get you off this damned wreck, and quick. Besides," she paused, not realizing she had started walking off at that point, and turned to face the cargo once more, "the one who sent me is a great deal better at explanations than I am. Let's go!"
      Running after her, the confused android called out, "will you at least tell me your name?"
      "Vossar," she replied, stepping into the ruined corridor with the android not far behind. "My name is Edyne Vossar..."

Multi-Scribble: Why are robots always given the masculine pronoun?

      She couldn't remember when she'd last had a charge -- six, maybe seven cycles past when her systems could function properly -- only that there was none alive left on the ship now, save herself.
      Well, not exactly, she thought, moving silently through shadowed corridors. There's still the cargo, and--
      An explosion racked the hull of the ship, as her slender form ducked into a niche in the wall.
      "Damn," she whispered, under what could have been breath in a more organic form. Dark eyes dimming in concentration, she could feel the servos in her left arm shift and lock, until the hum of a cannon echoed around her. Just in case, she thought once more, brandishing her transformed appendage to allay her own fears. Not that there's much left to lose...
      Dashing back into the corridor, she worked her way along the shadows, trying to remember the route to the escape pods. Somewhere in the back of her mind, an alarm was being raised -- not much longer before stasis lock. Hold on, just for a little longer...
      As the dull pain in her head started to build, her eyes caught sight of an all-too-familiar security door, bolts withdrawn and left slightly ajar. A pale, intermittent glow emanated from within, punctuated by the sound of malfunctioning circuitry. Dark eyes widening on her expressionless face, the survivor found herself slowly drifting toward the cargo hold. If that cargo survived, then perhaps...
      Another explosion rocked the ship, as she bolted for the door. "Guess there's only one way to find out," she said to no one, sliding through the slim opening before sealing herself within with a loud clunk.
      In the distance, a pair of green eyes blazed in the shadows...

Scribble: A Neko Case-filled week.

      The snow stopped falling only moments ago, stray flakes still drifting in the frigid air. Vapor from cocoa still snake and wind through halogen beams, merging with the stench of tobacco on its way to the sky.
      She flicks an ash like another snowflake, tumbling to the ground to hide amidst the others. He's still smiling in the photograph, his arms still wrapped around from behind, his hands still feeling at home in hers. In her hand, the photo shines in the halogen's glow, dulled only by a few stray tears.
      The cigarette burns down halfway to the filter, as she sets down her mug to take it in hand. "Figures," she says to the picture, "you got me into this damn habit, give me something to always remember you by..."
      Standing, she flicks the cig away, casually stepping on it before it has a chance to drown in the snow. In a single motion, her fingers flick open the lighter, shut it, and toss it into the distance.
      "At least I'm not goin' to give you that satisfaction anymore," she says, returning her cocoa to her hands. "I'm worth at least that much." Staring up at the sky once more, she chuckles, before turning to step back inside, leaving a small trail of sweet-smelling vapor behind.
      That, and a pile of ash, that once had been her beloved.