In a university there was a lab. And in this lab there lived a postdoc. One day in the third month of their the postdoc heard a rap on their door. It was the professor! They said the postdoc would soon be approached by 12 undergrads, and…
<300 pages of worldbuilding later>
“You must take the samples! And throw them into the synchrotron! I am too old and burnt out to do it!” pleaded the old postdoc to the phd student.
<500 pages of more worldbuilding>
“I did the testing, but the results are not meant for me. I must now travel to the West, into the Private Sector.” said the PhD at their graduation party.
“I did the testing, but the results are not meant for me. I must now travel to the West, into the Private Sector.” said the PhD at their graduation party.
A desolate wasteground of nothingness washed over the land, leaving nothing but apathy and desolation in its wake. The postdoc picked up a fallen fence post and sharpened it into spear. “These are dark times” they whispered, and set off back up the mountain, picking up the charred remains of the bridge to their former lab and pulling on the thin whisps of job strings dangled carelessly at random from the sky, sometimes doing nothing other than pulling the stormy sky down further to the ground.
In a university there was a lab. And in this lab there lived a postdoc. One day in the third month of their the postdoc heard a rap on their door. It was the professor! They said the postdoc would soon be approached by 12 undergrads, and…
<300 pages of worldbuilding later>
“You must take the samples! And throw them into the synchrotron! I am too old and burnt out to do it!” pleaded the old postdoc to the phd student.
<500 pages of more worldbuilding>
“I did the testing, but the results are not meant for me. I must now travel to the West, into the Private Sector.” said the PhD at their graduation party.
Where are the songs?
Wait where is the completely unnecessary side plot about the undergrads partying with another professor??
A desolate wasteground of nothingness washed over the land, leaving nothing but apathy and desolation in its wake. The postdoc picked up a fallen fence post and sharpened it into spear. “These are dark times” they whispered, and set off back up the mountain, picking up the charred remains of the bridge to their former lab and pulling on the thin whisps of job strings dangled carelessly at random from the sky, sometimes doing nothing other than pulling the stormy sky down further to the ground.
A Song of Ice-III and Fire