okay, fine. Tilda as a... pregnant man... gah, why did I add this to the list?
Matthias stared at the doctor incredulously.
"I'm what?!"
"Pregnant," replied the doctor in a bored tone.
"...How did this happen?"
"In case you were unaware, you began life as a woman. A mere cosmetic sex change is not enough to remove certain basic parts of your anatomy, and... well... it would appear you were indiscreet."
Matthias facepalms. "Oh, no. I knew saving a few hundred quid on the operation would come back to haunt me..."
Mouth agape, Tilda steps through the door and looks up. And up. Somewhere, in the vast expanse dimly visible above, there is a ceiling. But all the space in between is filled with books. Shelf upon shelf of them. There are balconies. There are staircases. There are glass elevators. Somewhere close, there is a door to the bedroom, which she ignores completely.
Turning to the owner, her eyes shining with a heavy glaze of avarice, she breathes, "I'll take it. I'm buying this house right now."
The sound of intense scribbling pervades the room. Paper litters the floor, any available flat surface, and in some cases the walls. It's possible to see that there is a bed under there somewhere, but only because Matilda is sitting on it and there's a small clear space behind her.
She is, of course, the source of the scribbling. At least directly.
More indirectly, however, that source is the immense container of Jolt snuggled beside her on the bed.
As to what she's scribbling, well... it's honestly bet not to ask, because judging by the number of alphabets used it is either a hellaciously complex mathematical problem, or a multilingual poem that would make your average "modern" poet weep in shame and commit harakiri with his pen.
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okay, fine. Tilda as a... pregnant man... gah, why did I add this to the list?
Matthias stared at the doctor incredulously.
"I'm what?!"
"Pregnant," replied the doctor in a bored tone.
"...How did this happen?"
"In case you were unaware, you began life as a woman. A mere cosmetic sex change is not enough to remove certain basic parts of your anatomy, and... well... it would appear you were indiscreet."
Matthias facepalms. "Oh, no. I knew saving a few hundred quid on the operation would come back to haunt me..."
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Mouth agape, Tilda steps through the door and looks up.
And up.
Somewhere, in the vast expanse dimly visible above, there is a ceiling. But all the space in between is filled with books. Shelf upon shelf of them. There are balconies. There are staircases. There are glass elevators. Somewhere close, there is a door to the bedroom, which she ignores completely.
Turning to the owner, her eyes shining with a heavy glaze of avarice, she breathes, "I'll take it. I'm buying this house right now."
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- wait, too late.
ONE.
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There are flames. There are explosions. Streaks of coloured light blast across the sky like fiery rain. It's a scene of total carnage.
And in the middle of it all...
Well, there is a Matilda.
Cackling gleefully as she lobs fireworks left and right.
And wearing an expression that can only be described as naughty.
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6!
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The sound of intense scribbling pervades the room. Paper litters the floor, any available flat surface, and in some cases the walls. It's possible to see that there is a bed under there somewhere, but only because Matilda is sitting on it and there's a small clear space behind her.
She is, of course, the source of the scribbling. At least directly.
More indirectly, however, that source is the immense container of Jolt snuggled beside her on the bed.
As to what she's scribbling, well... it's honestly bet not to ask, because judging by the number of alphabets used it is either a hellaciously complex mathematical problem, or a multilingual poem that would make your average "modern" poet weep in shame and commit harakiri with his pen.
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