Re: Grand Battle S3G1! (Round Two: The Great Battlefield)
08-19-2011, 10:32 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
The Tartan Tyrant dumped the soldier’s unconscious body onto the cot. “I hope it doesn’t matter that he’s drunk,” he smiled.
TinTen pressed an appendage to the plaid-clad man’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. ”Saves some trouble with anaesthesia,” he droned. ”This man likely wasn’t ever going to wake up anyway. Trench-moonshine in great doses no great friend to the vital organs.”
The Tartan Tyrant grinned and patted the Plaid on the thigh of his kilt. “Yes, well, we all made mistakes in our youth. This was Scottie Gibbs, the Alfalfa Male and first recruit of the Plaid Platoon. Not exactly the best or the brightest, but he had more heart than brains or livers combined.” TinTen looked away, feeling unsanitary, as Scofflaw planted an affectionate kiss on his man’s forehead. Right where he’d planned on making the first incision.
The Meipi was irked. ”Such treatment towards friends and allies not exactly indicative of inspiring leadership, Scofflaw.” TinTen nudged Gibbs into a more central position on the military cot that was his best approximation of an operating table, and bound his wrists and ankles with strips of cloth torn from bedsheets. Just in case.
Scofflaw gave TinTen a sly smile. “Like I said, deceit and violence come more easily to these people than peace. And I’m their Commander-in-Chief. I heard it said somewhere that people who are so afraid of losing their friends—either by unauthorized brain surgery or simple rudeness—are the people who have fewer friends to lose. You only really have the one friend, don’t you?”
TinTen adjusted his goggles. ”Obvious converse of statement is that those who abandon/betray/replace friends secretly fear being abandoned/betrayed/replaced. Demonstrates a certain emotional fragility, parental trauma, etc.” The Meipi very carefully began to shave the Alfalfa Male’s head. ”Trench patients likely getting rowdy in absence of bartender. Tend to flock and leave professionals to work, please.”
Scofflaw shrugged and left. TinTen cut away large swaths of the plaid soldier’s hair, dabbing the exposed scalp with Scofflaw’s moonshine in a likely-counterproductive attempt to sterilize it. He had doubts. Scofflaw, in his pissing contest with Tor, would honestly benefit from demeaning him, humiliating him, and breaking him to an uneasy cooperation, as well as shaking his relationship with Huebert and Tor. Did he already know how to cancel out allegiances? Or was he lying in his belief that it was possible? It was safest to work under the assumption that Scofflaw’s façade of flamboyance and irrationality, his apparent irreverence towards scientific procedure, and perhaps even the sexual attention he paid to men and women in equal measure were just psychological tools he cultivated for his own, very pragmatic designs. However, his sense of things was that, mask or not, Scofflaw was enjoying himself a little too much for his own good.
The Meipi looked down at the unconscious man in front of him and cleared his throat. There was no use turning back now.
He had barely completed the first incision when Scofflaw ran back in. ”TinTen, TinTen, it’s a Christmas miracle, come see, it’s wonderful, it’s the greatest!”
TinTen raised his scalpel inquisitively. Scofflaw clapped his hands over his head. ”The Red general is dead! Word’s coming in over the wire. Our own Dr. Nyoka killed the general, and that’s making every Red in the entire army turn Teal.”
Tengeri, stage a coup? TinTen harbored doubts about that. “And how is this good news?” he asked.
Scofflaw gave TinTen a patronizing smirk. ”We have the field up, negating conversions. The remaining fourteen soldiers in the entire red army are my hostages, TinTen! That has got to be worth something! Am I right?”
None of this was very interesting to TinTen—especially if his work here succeeded—but he decided to leverage Scofflaw’s excitement for a little privacy. “This changes everything,” he stressed, throwing his tentacles up. “Work must proceed at double-time. Make sure none of the Reds leave.”
Scofflaw pumped his fists in the air and ran back into the bar. TinTen rolled his eyes under his goggles and jabbed his knife into the Alfalfa Male’s skull.
The Tartan Tyrant dumped the soldier’s unconscious body onto the cot. “I hope it doesn’t matter that he’s drunk,” he smiled.
TinTen pressed an appendage to the plaid-clad man’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. ”Saves some trouble with anaesthesia,” he droned. ”This man likely wasn’t ever going to wake up anyway. Trench-moonshine in great doses no great friend to the vital organs.”
The Tartan Tyrant grinned and patted the Plaid on the thigh of his kilt. “Yes, well, we all made mistakes in our youth. This was Scottie Gibbs, the Alfalfa Male and first recruit of the Plaid Platoon. Not exactly the best or the brightest, but he had more heart than brains or livers combined.” TinTen looked away, feeling unsanitary, as Scofflaw planted an affectionate kiss on his man’s forehead. Right where he’d planned on making the first incision.
The Meipi was irked. ”Such treatment towards friends and allies not exactly indicative of inspiring leadership, Scofflaw.” TinTen nudged Gibbs into a more central position on the military cot that was his best approximation of an operating table, and bound his wrists and ankles with strips of cloth torn from bedsheets. Just in case.
Scofflaw gave TinTen a sly smile. “Like I said, deceit and violence come more easily to these people than peace. And I’m their Commander-in-Chief. I heard it said somewhere that people who are so afraid of losing their friends—either by unauthorized brain surgery or simple rudeness—are the people who have fewer friends to lose. You only really have the one friend, don’t you?”
TinTen adjusted his goggles. ”Obvious converse of statement is that those who abandon/betray/replace friends secretly fear being abandoned/betrayed/replaced. Demonstrates a certain emotional fragility, parental trauma, etc.” The Meipi very carefully began to shave the Alfalfa Male’s head. ”Trench patients likely getting rowdy in absence of bartender. Tend to flock and leave professionals to work, please.”
Scofflaw shrugged and left. TinTen cut away large swaths of the plaid soldier’s hair, dabbing the exposed scalp with Scofflaw’s moonshine in a likely-counterproductive attempt to sterilize it. He had doubts. Scofflaw, in his pissing contest with Tor, would honestly benefit from demeaning him, humiliating him, and breaking him to an uneasy cooperation, as well as shaking his relationship with Huebert and Tor. Did he already know how to cancel out allegiances? Or was he lying in his belief that it was possible? It was safest to work under the assumption that Scofflaw’s façade of flamboyance and irrationality, his apparent irreverence towards scientific procedure, and perhaps even the sexual attention he paid to men and women in equal measure were just psychological tools he cultivated for his own, very pragmatic designs. However, his sense of things was that, mask or not, Scofflaw was enjoying himself a little too much for his own good.
The Meipi looked down at the unconscious man in front of him and cleared his throat. There was no use turning back now.
He had barely completed the first incision when Scofflaw ran back in. ”TinTen, TinTen, it’s a Christmas miracle, come see, it’s wonderful, it’s the greatest!”
TinTen raised his scalpel inquisitively. Scofflaw clapped his hands over his head. ”The Red general is dead! Word’s coming in over the wire. Our own Dr. Nyoka killed the general, and that’s making every Red in the entire army turn Teal.”
Tengeri, stage a coup? TinTen harbored doubts about that. “And how is this good news?” he asked.
Scofflaw gave TinTen a patronizing smirk. ”We have the field up, negating conversions. The remaining fourteen soldiers in the entire red army are my hostages, TinTen! That has got to be worth something! Am I right?”
None of this was very interesting to TinTen—especially if his work here succeeded—but he decided to leverage Scofflaw’s excitement for a little privacy. “This changes everything,” he stressed, throwing his tentacles up. “Work must proceed at double-time. Make sure none of the Reds leave.”
Scofflaw pumped his fists in the air and ran back into the bar. TinTen rolled his eyes under his goggles and jabbed his knife into the Alfalfa Male’s skull.