Sequel to Retraining
My apologies to Annabell, author of the great Mord Sith series, but when I saw what Kids In The Hall abbreviated down to, I just couldn't resist!
Sitting in that semicircle of the old Alliance auditorium were the most influential, rich and politically active Romefellar men and women in all of Earth and the Colonies, attentive and willing to be influenced, convinced..
And Treize, quite frankly, wanted nothing to do with it.
His position near the back of the room served as both a backhanded snub and a reminder of his place in the hierarchy now that the tide of the war slowly tilted. The only plus side to it all was that they were now a little closer to the beleaguered ceiling fans trying to push some air around. Treize and his two trusted and closest subordinates -- no, in these days, he could easily call both of them more than that -- sat in that poorly cooled room, waiting for the whole silly pantomime of democracy to get over with.
To one side, Colonial Une sat formally in her seat. Clad in reserved military dress and holding a small pad in which to jot down any subject of His Excellency's interest. She didn't look happy about the arrangement. To her, Treize could only guess, the insult was intolerable.
It probably was, but not as such worth the trouble to remedy.
To the other, Zechs was sulking in his chair, present courtesy of Treize's logic that if the General had to be bored out of his skull, he was taking down everyone else he could with him. Well, to be completely honest, there was one more selfish reason.
The Lightning Count, in particular, didn't do well with meetings. Most men of action didn't. The minutes were hardly read before ice blue eyes were already sliding calculated glances at the ginger-haired aristocrat. He was obviously plotting something new and interesting, but Treize had to struggle more to hide the smile of anticipation tugging on his lips than any worry.
There was a certain point that you could push Zechs to, where he'd drop all of the 'unarmed opponent' reservations and just get...... creative. It made the off duty hours so much more interesting.
Treize just hoped he wouldn't talk to Noin before an idea cemented. Une never really did recover from the training seminar, or the almost unreasonable grudge she now bore against the Gundam Deathscythe. She didn't mind the pilot oddly enough, but she spoke, in elaborate and frightening detail, about exactly how she was going to turn the Gundam into scrap metal. Her best one so far was making another Gundam pilot do it, or even 02 himself.
Treize sighed happily. She was so cute when she was ruthless.
The meeting droned on, far exceeding the bounds of tedium. The minutes read were approved with only one quickly resolved dispute over wording. The treasurer's report concluded with a vote over the budget, tabled unanimously until the air conditioning units were upgraded. No one wanted to stew while three or four people screamed politely over the placement of a few pennies.
Then it was on to the General's least favorite part of the meeting. Because of a shift of the political winds, Treize himself was not allowed to take the floor.. and the man who had...
Tsubarov, Treize thought with a resigned air. The one man he wanted more than the world to be able to debate with, to persuade him to see reason.
Unable to speak out as Tsubarov rolled a chart up behind the podium, pausing only a moment to fight with the wheels when they caught the hem of his long robes, he settled down into visually picking the offensive man apart.
If you excused the nose, the man had a certain pushed-in appearance to his face... Like he'd ... what was that expression? "Fell of out of the ugly tree, hit every branch on the way down and THEN was hit in the face with a shovel," ... like the hook of that beaklike nose was a sundial against the perfectly flat and rather wrinkled plain of Tsuborov's face.
As much private fun it was make mental jabs, it wasn't the face, however, that caused the aristocrat's eyebrow to pinch over the bridge of his nose, nor the voice, or even the silly outfit he insisted on wearing. It was the subject matter that resembled nails dragged along a chalkboard.
In the same respect of the analogy, it wasn't the actual sound made that caused shudders to ripple down one's spine. No, it was the involuntary, inevitabe imagining of what it would be like to BE the one dragging his nails, submitting the rest of the room to that torture.
If he wanted to see two mindless machines battle it out, he'd put eggbeaters into a blender and turn them both on high.
Ignoring the twin glances of concern that his disgusted and frustrated sigh gathered, Treize's mind sought some outlet for the knots that the rant tied in his stomach.
The faintest hints of a smile began to tug at the corners of his lips.
Settling a little farther back into his seat, Treize lifted one gloved hand in a slow graceful movement. With the patient meticulousness that marked nearly everything he did, he curled his three farthest fingers against his palm, leaving only his index finger and thumb extended. It took a little adjusting, but between the gap left by the span of his two fingers, the distant figure of Tsubarov's head fit perfectly.
It was with no small amount of immature satisfaction that Treize pinched the fingers closed. Hard.
"Treize-sama!!" Lady Une stage-whispered, torn between incredulous glances at His Excellency himself and covert sweeping glances over the semicircle audience, trying to find some sign of whether or not Treize's actions had been noted by the prude, the prim and the influential.
Zechs' reaction, however, was far different. Given that he had abandoned the almost ever-present silver helmet in deference to the heat of the room, Treize could actually see the raised eyebrows, quirked with interest.
"Khewqueeet?" Zechs repeated with some amusement, giving a fairly good imitation of the rather organic sound effect Treize wasn't aware he had allowed to accompany the squishing gesture.
Come to think of it, Treize admitted, the sound was almost as satisfying as the action itself.
"Khewqueet," The General agreed solemnly. A little defensive sniff accompanied the carefully pronounced noise.
"Khewqueet..." Zechs mused thoughtfully. Much to the Lady's mortification, the Lighting Count turned that speculative look back to Treize then gestured to the man ranting about the technology to revolutionize warfare. "Do it again?"
"With pleasure," Treize purred.
/KHEWQUEET!/ For the second time in the span of moments, and unbeknownst to the man himself, Tsubarov's head was quite ceremoniously squished between immaculate, white-gloved fingers.
"He's not quite dead yet," Zechs said with some disappointment.
Treize nodded, appraising their unaware opponent. "He seems to be getting better."
Zechs glanced down at the man now going on about the capability of substituting 'dolls' in the place of normal production activities as well. "I really don't want to know if he's feeling happy," he declared.
Treize paused for a long moment, struck by that particularly terrifying prospect, then slowly nodded.
Une simple made a helpless noise, face cradled in her hands. Somewhere along the way, she had shed her glasses, deciding that she really didn't want to see if anyone was noticing. "Treize-sama.." she tried to appeal to them. They were in one of THOSE moods.... in public no less....
Unfortunately, and predictably, neither paid the entreaty much mind.
"It's no use to crush his head anyway, I suspect. We may have targeted the one invulnerable spot on Tsubarov."
"You're probably right... on to more susceptible prey?" There was a pause. "Get that Trant guy while he's not looking."
"And when did you become the General?"
"When you started doing the dirty work for once."
"Point." /KHEWQUEET!/
Colonel Une moaned into her palms. The two most respected men in all of Oz and much of Romefellar... had reverted to school boys bickering about whose head to crush next. The Lady sighed, feeling something slip inside of her.
It really had been a long time since they did something like this. In fact, it had been months since she'd had to check her boots before stepping into them. Both of them had gotten so solemn, distant, and reserved, even from each other, as the war around them began to take darker and darker shades.
Even she admitted, it did look kind of fun... Maybe just this once...
Aw, hell...
It may not have been an officially sanctioned policy, but Une was nearly positive that it WAS said somewhere that "if you can't beat them..."
Une pulled free the ribbons binding her curls and shook the twists free, letting her hair tumble freely to her shoulders. Somehow it felt cooler that way.
Anne smiled beautifully at both of them before suggesting in a soft, serene tone, "I never been partial to Dekim, to be honest...."
Two very surprised and anticipatory smirks crossed both men's faces at the transformation and the words.
Three pairs of predatory eyes fixed on a pompous man with a feather in his cap.
/KHEWQUEEET!/
OWARI ^___^
Please send comments to: Nixerchan@aol.com