Round 14, Hour 47
Feb. 27th, 2011 05:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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fic_rush_48Two more hours to go!
There is writing happening! Blank screens are no longer blank! Commentfic has been commently ficiphicated! And new words are being neologised even as we watch!
The legions of armed Spartan penguins are still standing by. Feel free to call on them for field operations, general mayhem, or crackfic in the remaining hours.
There is writing happening! Blank screens are no longer blank! Commentfic has been commently ficiphicated! And new words are being neologised even as we watch!
The legions of armed Spartan penguins are still standing by. Feel free to call on them for field operations, general mayhem, or crackfic in the remaining hours.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 10:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 10:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 10:35 pm (UTC)One-upsmanship
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Date: 2011-02-27 10:38 pm (UTC)The Franco-Greco Rescue Affair
Featuring Gratuitous Adjectives.
"Where are we?"
Napoleon Solo was unusually unruffled for a man waking up to find himself in the company of a bevvy of very short gentlemen in tuxedos almost as elegant as his own. He was about average ruffled for an U.N.C.L.E. agent waking up in said situation. U.N.C.L.E. agents did not ruffle easily.
His partner, Illya Kuryakin, responded with an irritated grunt. He was quite ruffled, through no fault of his own. With a derisive glance, Napoleon took in Illya's condition. The blonde was neatly shackled to a post, wearing nothing but a loin-cloth and a label around his neck that said, "Muse Bait."
"Bonsoir." one of the short gentlemen addressed Napoleon, in a rather squeaky voice. Napoleon noted that the gentleman was wearing an outlandishly orange-yellow hat that quite clashed with his eveningwear. Napoleon preened. He was the best dressed, where-ever he went. Where-ever they were now.
"As one Emperor to another, I bid you welcome." the short gentleman said in French that Napoleon recognized as being heavily Quebec accented.
Illya snorted again, and Napoleon turned his chiseled visage on his ill-clad partner.
"Is there a problem, Illya?" he asked.
"Aside from the fact that we have been captured by Francophonic Emperor penguins who think that you are merely an outsized version of themselves due to your habit of wearing formal-wear to take the secretarial pool for eggcreams, and that they have identified me as some sort of bait to be used in a scheme to extract a wayward Goddess of the Arts from the French Foreign Legion, and that I am clothed neither suitably for Arctic climes nor for French North Africa..."
Illya continued in this vein, larding his complaints with nasty swears in Russian, English, and two different kinds of underworld French patois, one of which appeared to deeply offend the short gentleman. Now that Napoleon came to look more closely, he realized that the wide orange shoes were not merely a major fashion faux pas, but were in fact the odd bird's feet.
Nigh on three hundred of the creatures, who came up to Illya's thigh in height, milled around them, smoking galoises and fidgeting with bandeaux of ammunition slung across their snowy chests. Napoleon was actually relieved that they were not mistreating tuxedos so. Gun oil was a challenge even to Del Floria's deft stain removal touch.
"There!" Illya finally said, punctuating his last sentence of ranting about his lack of vodka, blinis, caviar, and sour cream, with an explosive burst of muscular energy, snapping the shackles that he had been twisting about in a manner that Napoleon had dismissed as mere Russian fidgetiness.
"Let's get out of here." he said.
The penguins pressed in closer, with a wave of "Non! Non!" as they tried to leave.
"That would be, ah, rather impolite." Napoleon said. "And besides, they seem to respect me."
Indeed, there was a deference of attitude in the birds toward Napoleon's crisply pleated pants, the wrap of cummerbund around his narrow waist.
"Oui!" the self-proclaimed Emperor penguin said, "Eet is true! We will follow you into ze battle, Mon Capitan!"
Illya rolled his eyes in disgust and removed the "Muse Bait" sign from around his neck, dropping it to the ground and treading it on it.
"No man is free so long as he is bound by the shackles of avian admiration." he said, and turned on his heel to leave, giving the penguins, Napoleon, and the implied audience, a lovely view of everything the loin cloth did not conceal.
"Alors!" the penguin exclaimed. "Let 'eem be on 'is way. As for us, Tonight, we dine in Marrakesh!"
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Date: 2011-02-27 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 10:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 10:54 pm (UTC)Presumably they will dine on couscous and alien fishkebab!
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Date: 2011-02-27 10:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 10:55 pm (UTC)Such bait will lure any Muse.
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Date: 2011-02-27 10:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 10:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 10:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 11:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 11:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 11:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-28 04:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-02 03:46 am (UTC)*chases the bait* :D