Foo drabble
Oct. 5th, 2005 01:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
windlionTo avoid being stabbed with pointy objects, I present to you a modest Foo drabble. I haven't written in so very, very long, I feel incredibly rusty. All the same, I'm trying to dust off the old skills. The fact it's very stubbornly in present tense probably means I'm not quite there yet. I'll let you be the judge.
Of the things he misses since leaving his world, Jarnagua thinks that he misses night the most. Not the star-filled breezes of the elves, or the ruddy lamp lit efforts by human to hold off the night- True Dark. The drow knew what the dark was about, about navigating by the scent of air on your face, or finding your way by the echoes in a still, stagnant cavern. No matter how thick his curtains are, or how deeply dug his basement rooms, the dark is never as black and rich as home.
Jarnagua scowls at the not-true-blackness of his ceiling and goes back to throwing darts at the picture pinned to the far wall. It used to be a glossy magazine shot of a ridiculously expensive Ashton Martin; no one’s quite sure what grudge he’s got against them. Truth be told, Jarnagua isn’t quite sure either, but he vaguely recalls snatching it off the boss’s desk, and that’s good enough for him.
“Why am I the one who has to go meet the incubi again?”
“Because we here at Foo Inc. firmly believe in the division of labor.” Monkey is leaning against the door with her arms crossed, silhouetted against the outside light. He doesn’t have to be able to see her face to hear the smirk. “And it’s our firm belief that your part of the labor is the shit no one else wants to do.”
“What am I, the garbage man?” Even though he whines, Jarnagua kicks his feet off of his “desk” (Sphinx also referred to it as the place comic books and gun magazines went to die. Jarnagua figured that was probably as accurate a description as any). He checks his arsenal reflexively, and meditatively grabs an extra grenade or two from his storage racks without looking.
Monkey flips him a file at ten paces; he snatches it out of the air and nods approvingly. Her aim is getting better- and so is her sardonic drawl.
“Fuck no, you’re the wetworks. You make the garbage.”
“I’m honored.” Jarnagua squints at the title in the light from the hall. “This is a new one. We changing brands again? What happened to the last one, hit on the boss a few too many times?”
Monkey quirks an eyebrow at him in a way that makes him think that’s the latest office betting pool. Given their long term approach to things, there’s always at least three bets on at once. Jarnagua wonders if he’ll ever win the pool they have going from four cycles back. Odds are in his favor, after all. . .
“Nah. This one’s a recommendation from family. . . Boss’s cousin is an incubus, after all.”
Jarnagua flips the folder closed in order to smack it on his knee. Dramatic emphasis helps the brain work, and all that. “Shitedamn, forgot about that one. The one hooked into the merchant empire?”
Monkey nods. “That’s the one. Anyways, they recommend this one. Say he can hold a train of thought for longer than most.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Jarnagua rolls his eyes, tossing the file behind him to land on his desk.
Monkey steps aside to let him pass. “Right. Better haul ass, boy, or you’ll find him molesting the bellboy.”
“Tell me one I /haven’t/ seen before.” Jarnagua smirks mirthlessly, and shuts the door behind him. Time to get moving.
In case everyone's forgotten, Jarnagua is the Drow Foo, as scribbled by Flidget. And me, somewhere. Jarnagua is also known as the assassin Foo, since he's a former member of the Drow Revenants, a student of the weaponsmaster Sylang himself. This means jackall to those of you not Flidget, but trust me that this means he can kick a lot of ass. And boy is he going to get his ass kicked when his old sensei finds out what he's been doing. . .
Flidget is harassing me to do more drabbles. We'll see if my brain-muses cooperate, ne?
Of the things he misses since leaving his world, Jarnagua thinks that he misses night the most. Not the star-filled breezes of the elves, or the ruddy lamp lit efforts by human to hold off the night- True Dark. The drow knew what the dark was about, about navigating by the scent of air on your face, or finding your way by the echoes in a still, stagnant cavern. No matter how thick his curtains are, or how deeply dug his basement rooms, the dark is never as black and rich as home.
Jarnagua scowls at the not-true-blackness of his ceiling and goes back to throwing darts at the picture pinned to the far wall. It used to be a glossy magazine shot of a ridiculously expensive Ashton Martin; no one’s quite sure what grudge he’s got against them. Truth be told, Jarnagua isn’t quite sure either, but he vaguely recalls snatching it off the boss’s desk, and that’s good enough for him.
“Why am I the one who has to go meet the incubi again?”
“Because we here at Foo Inc. firmly believe in the division of labor.” Monkey is leaning against the door with her arms crossed, silhouetted against the outside light. He doesn’t have to be able to see her face to hear the smirk. “And it’s our firm belief that your part of the labor is the shit no one else wants to do.”
“What am I, the garbage man?” Even though he whines, Jarnagua kicks his feet off of his “desk” (Sphinx also referred to it as the place comic books and gun magazines went to die. Jarnagua figured that was probably as accurate a description as any). He checks his arsenal reflexively, and meditatively grabs an extra grenade or two from his storage racks without looking.
Monkey flips him a file at ten paces; he snatches it out of the air and nods approvingly. Her aim is getting better- and so is her sardonic drawl.
“Fuck no, you’re the wetworks. You make the garbage.”
“I’m honored.” Jarnagua squints at the title in the light from the hall. “This is a new one. We changing brands again? What happened to the last one, hit on the boss a few too many times?”
Monkey quirks an eyebrow at him in a way that makes him think that’s the latest office betting pool. Given their long term approach to things, there’s always at least three bets on at once. Jarnagua wonders if he’ll ever win the pool they have going from four cycles back. Odds are in his favor, after all. . .
“Nah. This one’s a recommendation from family. . . Boss’s cousin is an incubus, after all.”
Jarnagua flips the folder closed in order to smack it on his knee. Dramatic emphasis helps the brain work, and all that. “Shitedamn, forgot about that one. The one hooked into the merchant empire?”
Monkey nods. “That’s the one. Anyways, they recommend this one. Say he can hold a train of thought for longer than most.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Jarnagua rolls his eyes, tossing the file behind him to land on his desk.
Monkey steps aside to let him pass. “Right. Better haul ass, boy, or you’ll find him molesting the bellboy.”
“Tell me one I /haven’t/ seen before.” Jarnagua smirks mirthlessly, and shuts the door behind him. Time to get moving.
In case everyone's forgotten, Jarnagua is the Drow Foo, as scribbled by Flidget. And me, somewhere. Jarnagua is also known as the assassin Foo, since he's a former member of the Drow Revenants, a student of the weaponsmaster Sylang himself. This means jackall to those of you not Flidget, but trust me that this means he can kick a lot of ass. And boy is he going to get his ass kicked when his old sensei finds out what he's been doing. . .
Flidget is harassing me to do more drabbles. We'll see if my brain-muses cooperate, ne?
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Date: 2005-10-06 03:37 pm (UTC)