"I'm busy."
Distracted, Ned's reply comes from behind one of three different double-sided blackboards. edge to edge with one another. The study is awash in papers, open books and string. Lottttsss of string. Red, blue, yellow and green to be descriptive about it. The string is held in place by scotch tape and thumbtacks, roaming across the study like some intricate trap has been set and punching into various things soft enough for the tacks to be of use and hard enough the tacks have failed and the tape was brought out.
Tables, chairs, bookcases, one of the upper windows through which sunlight filters on hand-scribbled pages, nothing has been spared the plastering of various pages with scribbled notes, bulletins and sometimes a vague attempt at drawing that does absolutely nothing to suggest anything of substance or recognizable validity. It's as if a three year old went abstract during one of it's temper tantrums. The study is impassable, Margot having laid her palm slapping left hand on one of the red strings taped to the doorframe, two feet and six inches from the upper corner (the measurement has been scratched into the frame's wood with painstaking depth).
Ned's lower half is visible beneath the blackboard (each of which sports a tiny plaque engraved with 'Property of the University of Denver' on the lower frame length), the sound of flipping pages and scratching pencils audible from his location.
"Wait-" As if to interrupt any response she might have. There is a sharp sniff in the air as if he were taking in a scent- "You're using your 'The world's gonna explode' tone..." Another pause. "...I haven't heard the Doc drunkenly explode anything or fucking in one of the few rooms he and Kiara haven't defiled yet for a while either....what day is it?"
Another pause, Ned wandering out from behind the blackboard. His hair is longer, sculpted into oddness by lack of sleep and the pressures of studying. He glances at Margot with a perked brow, pale features regarding her evenly before he sighs in a frenetic awakening sort of manner.
"Right...right..." The book in his hand slaps closed. "Lemme get my knife..."
And he goes wandering off back behind the billboard, presumably to find his knife and follow Margot out to the Car.
Distracted, Ned's reply comes from behind one of three different double-sided blackboards. edge to edge with one another. The study is awash in papers, open books and string. Lottttsss of string. Red, blue, yellow and green to be descriptive about it. The string is held in place by scotch tape and thumbtacks, roaming across the study like some intricate trap has been set and punching into various things soft enough for the tacks to be of use and hard enough the tacks have failed and the tape was brought out.
Tables, chairs, bookcases, one of the upper windows through which sunlight filters on hand-scribbled pages, nothing has been spared the plastering of various pages with scribbled notes, bulletins and sometimes a vague attempt at drawing that does absolutely nothing to suggest anything of substance or recognizable validity. It's as if a three year old went abstract during one of it's temper tantrums. The study is impassable, Margot having laid her palm slapping left hand on one of the red strings taped to the doorframe, two feet and six inches from the upper corner (the measurement has been scratched into the frame's wood with painstaking depth).
Ned's lower half is visible beneath the blackboard (each of which sports a tiny plaque engraved with 'Property of the University of Denver' on the lower frame length), the sound of flipping pages and scratching pencils audible from his location.
"Wait-" As if to interrupt any response she might have. There is a sharp sniff in the air as if he were taking in a scent- "You're using your 'The world's gonna explode' tone..." Another pause. "...I haven't heard the Doc drunkenly explode anything or fucking in one of the few rooms he and Kiara haven't defiled yet for a while either....what day is it?"
Another pause, Ned wandering out from behind the blackboard. His hair is longer, sculpted into oddness by lack of sleep and the pressures of studying. He glances at Margot with a perked brow, pale features regarding her evenly before he sighs in a frenetic awakening sort of manner.
"Right...right..." The book in his hand slaps closed. "Lemme get my knife..."
And he goes wandering off back behind the billboard, presumably to find his knife and follow Margot out to the Car.