<hr/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://i46.tinypic.com/2h6bqqe.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Connor Marks<br/><strong>Nom De Guerre:</strong>Planck<br/><strong>Position/Grade:</strong>Sophomore Ne'er-do-well<br/><strong>Location:</strong>The Stadium, plotting<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Any<br/><br/><hr/><br/><em>Empty</em>Connor glanced around, and couldn't help hiding a smile.  His timing seemed to have been perfect.  The meatheads were all off showering after a practice, that damn coach was nowhere to be found, and the evil cheerleaders weren't yet showing up for practice.  He had the field to himself, and plenty of time to collect data for his project.  He adjusted the wireless headset in his ear - transmitting to a computer recording his voice, and flipped out the laser range finder he'd cobbled together last night.  He walked the field, pointing the range finder up and down as he went.<br/><br/>"Thirty three meters," he said softly, trusting the mike to pick up his voice, and certain that the jocks or cheerleaders would want to give him a thrashing merely for being on 'their' field.  He smiled at the thought - and at what he was doing here - and the glories of humbling the student's star athletes.<br/><br/>He still had to work out exactly hwo to construct his mechanical army without drawing the ire of the staff, but plans were in motion.  Plans were always in motion, after all.  If he could get his mind to stop working for all of two seconds, he might be able to sleep more often than every third day.  The counselor had been suggesting helpful meditation tips for the last year.  Connor enjoyed meditation - but all it really did was make him increasingly aware of his own thoughts, made the wheels turns faster, not slower.<br/><br/>Forty four point one meters," he added, continuing his measurements.  "Might be difficulties in overlapping radio signals - make sure to calibrate for exact dissemination of instruction across all radio transmitters."<br/><br/>he ran down the field.  Exercise, too, she'd suggested.  She was full of useful ways to make him a more productive member of society.  He did enjoy exercise - and there was a logical basis for its regular practice.  Long life, health, the ability to protect yourself and overpower others, as necessary.  He didn't despise the jocks because they liked execise.  He despised them because they venerated it over all other endeavors, and used the innate, Neanderthal authority to impose their will on others.<br/><br/>Then again, they had nothing on the school itself.  He finished his race to the far side and drew up, barely breathing.  He was in good shape; he enjoyed running.  He also got a lot of practice at it.  But it kept him full of energy, his mind unclouded by lethargy and apathy.  He had no time for either.<br/><br/>"Seventy seven point six five," he read off, into the microphone.  He mused that he must surely be an odd sight - camo jacket and hood bouncing around him as he ran, then pausing the key focal points he' already mapped out for his network of radio transmitters.  Most would think it was odd that he was anywhere near the stadium, period.  It might well be the last place //anyone// looked for him.<br/><br/>It was going to be glorious.  Not to mention, put to the test the programming matrix for chaotic resource management, computerized threat analysis, and fly by wire problem solving he'd been working on over the last week.  He took another measurement, then glanced towards the double doors, the bleachers to see if anyone was interrupting his work.<br/>