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buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks
Apr. 29th, 2013 07:59 pm[Tuesday evening - 4.29]
Sharon Carter is no stranger to stress. Like anyone, she has her coping mechanisms, and while they might not make a hell of a lot of sense, they work for her. Generally when the pressure is on, it's her natural reaction to push back.
She'd attacked her workout routine with frightening intensity through the healing process of her bullet wound. After the Thanksgiving debacle, she'd gone domestic and baked her way back to sanity; a diversion, a way to exert control over something, even something as banal as flour and eggs.
The question of how to ignore the giant clocks that are omnipresent and which now have less than 24 hours on them is hard enough without the fact that she's still not speaking to Steve. But so far there's no crisis on today, nothing to triumph over, no asses to kick, and Sharon's go-to for impotent rage [throwing herself into her work] isn't going to fly, either. She's feeling too antisocial even to maim holodeck projections, at this point. She's half a breath away from asking the computer for a pint of Haagen-Dazs and a pint of vodka to chase it down when she has one last better idea.
She takes the vodka anyway, just in case.
---
It never gets old, even though she knows it's not real: holodeck sunshine is just as satisfying to the senses as the genuine article. It's all a chemical reaction, endorphins and whatnot, so why should it be different? Sharon picks up a 36 inch white ash bat and slides the helmet onto her head. She squares off over the plate and turns to face the pitching machine.
"OK, go."
Sharon Carter is no stranger to stress. Like anyone, she has her coping mechanisms, and while they might not make a hell of a lot of sense, they work for her. Generally when the pressure is on, it's her natural reaction to push back.
She'd attacked her workout routine with frightening intensity through the healing process of her bullet wound. After the Thanksgiving debacle, she'd gone domestic and baked her way back to sanity; a diversion, a way to exert control over something, even something as banal as flour and eggs.
The question of how to ignore the giant clocks that are omnipresent and which now have less than 24 hours on them is hard enough without the fact that she's still not speaking to Steve. But so far there's no crisis on today, nothing to triumph over, no asses to kick, and Sharon's go-to for impotent rage [throwing herself into her work] isn't going to fly, either. She's feeling too antisocial even to maim holodeck projections, at this point. She's half a breath away from asking the computer for a pint of Haagen-Dazs and a pint of vodka to chase it down when she has one last better idea.
She takes the vodka anyway, just in case.
---
It never gets old, even though she knows it's not real: holodeck sunshine is just as satisfying to the senses as the genuine article. It's all a chemical reaction, endorphins and whatnot, so why should it be different? Sharon picks up a 36 inch white ash bat and slides the helmet onto her head. She squares off over the plate and turns to face the pitching machine.
"OK, go."
