JOURNAL ENTRY NUMBER ̴̟͈̂͌̈́͊̏͋̅̾̄̕9̸̢̱͖̅̃͒͊̚͝8̶̨̳̻̬͎̭̪͎̾͐̓7̵͓̘́̾̂


The math was... wrong? That doesn't make any sense; math is never wrong. I must have [i]done[/i] the math wrong. Except that doesn't make any sense either. I'm me! Unless I'm secretly Me-Alternative and I just lack the critical memory components to realize that at present. Regardless! Project: Gwaihir has been a complete and utter waste of time. Re-recording the project notes below for posterity:

# Rinley is a [praise redacted]! It's so simple! For generation of data pertaining to the sun, there's no better starting point than eagles! Obvious. Obvious, I say! The only problem is... 'acquisition'.
# Acquisition completed. Turns out the local supermarket is still selling six-packs, even though eagles are definitively out of season. Perfect!
# Wait. How do I actually [i]get[/i] the data from them? They are birds. Would take literal years to learn their dialect. Somehow moths?
# Nevermind, got it. Will be installing the USB ports later this evening
# Preliminary surgeries 5/6 complete. Birds are taking well to the new kill switches.
# Note for posterity: it is always easier to lead with installing an on/off switch in subjects when performing acts of nightmare surgery. save on anesthesia that way. also makes it easier to get all the wires in there without zapping yourself.
# Have begun considering designating a Primary Eagle for higher altitude observations by grafting wings/engines from a C-5 Galaxy to it. A Lockheed-Eagle. An Eagleed, if you will.
# The Eagleed has done a nose-dive directly into my washing machine. Devastation is [s]beyond repair[/s] AN INTRIGUING CHALLENGE. What hath science wrought????
# IT IS COLD NOW AJFJFJSKAKJJSLLSODHFHGHAHSKNKJBPIIQHOHOBDF
# WASTE OF MY TIME I SWEAR TO
# NEVER
# AND I MEAN NEVER
# TAKE ADVICE FROM A RINLEY
# ever

****

Dulcinea grumpily trudges her way toward the door and unthinkingly grabs an umbrella as she passes through the door. A chorus of frightened squawks and screeches falls silent as she slams her thumb onto a button that looks like a garage door opener. Somewhere on the other side of Town, a garage door opens. Still elsewhere, the stars spin stories of such incredible beauty and softness that if you had the ears to understand them you would weep forever until you died from dehydration. Also, somewhere? Ms. Anderson's dog is barking.

She stomps down the stairs, not caring what her neighbors think, and kicks the door open with one angry boot. Her wool sweater, apart from being so black it looks like it's been charred rather than sourced from a local black sheep, is pleasantly and perfectly warm and cozy. Her miniskirt and fishnets are decidedly less so. The umbrella opens even as she's crossing the threshold and instantly her world is filled with the fierce sound of rain. She kicks a puddle, gingerly sticks the umbrella in the clip on her Whoops Wait One Minute Pole, and kicks the door back open to stomp her way back up the steps.

Forgot her bag. She checks to make sure it's got what she needs. Wand? Check. Calipers? Also check. Dust-Containing-Glass-Test-Tubes? Check, check, and check again. Unreasonably Tiny Vacuum? That's a big check. Spare notebook? You know it, baby. Last known printing of Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles? Don't... actually know what that is, but check? Ok, that's everything. Fist pump!

STOMP. STOMP. STOMP! KICK!!

Dulcinea daintily plucks her umbrella up again and starts dejectedly making her way down the street. Other setbacks notwithstanding, this is too good an opportunity to gather fresh data points for plotting. Unfortunately... everybody knows that rigor demands you start by gathering information about the worst-hit parts of a disaster first, and [i]then[/i] you start checking into the one place that's mysteriously more ok than everywhere else to see if it has a property or circumstance you can replicate for widescale protection. Without a clear concept of why things [i]are[/i] being targeted and what's actually [i]happening[/i] to victims and victim-sites, even a notebook is scarce protection against the dangers of drawing biased conclusions. 

So she's not going to the Archives today. Or to eat lunch at that posh new gastropub. Or anything else that might be fun or relaxing (but not [i]too[/i] relaxing). No, she's going to see...

(shudder)

Shoukyo.

Unless maybe a convenient dinosaur shrine maiden would like to go rampaging about Town right now? She looks about hopefully.