Thursday: Trojan Horse
Nov. 3rd, 2011 09:16 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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medjai_trowa signing off, so for my final day, how does everyone feel about Trojan Horses?
How would Hardison feel if they were undercover in an office and he got this lady on the phone? Would Chris Larabee and his boys know enough about the myth to riddle the damn great wooden livestock with bullets before they brought it into town? Or what would Captain Picard and Commander Riker think of Firefly? Would they risk it?
Important rule-y bit:
No more than 5 prompts in a row, no more than 3 per fandom. If someone answers a prompt, you may prompt again.
No spoilers in your prompts until 1 week after the original air/publication date.
If your fill contains spoilers, or you think it potentially could count as a spolier, please make sure sufficient space is left (with a warning) so that people can bypass it.
Please make sure that your prompts are in the following format:
Leverage, Hardison, "There are Spartans in my machine!"
Magnificent Seven (TV), Ensemble, "The gang appears to have a basic knowledge of Homer, Mr Larabee." "Burn it?" "Burn it."
Star Trek TNG/Firefly, Any/Any, They find the ship crippled and leaking air light years from anywhere. Half the command crew think it's an odd shape, the other half know their classic Earth literature.
Have fun!
medjai_trowa signing off, so for my final day, how does everyone feel about Trojan Horses?How would Hardison feel if they were undercover in an office and he got this lady on the phone? Would Chris Larabee and his boys know enough about the myth to riddle the damn great wooden livestock with bullets before they brought it into town? Or what would Captain Picard and Commander Riker think of Firefly? Would they risk it?
Important rule-y bit:
No more than 5 prompts in a row, no more than 3 per fandom. If someone answers a prompt, you may prompt again.
No spoilers in your prompts until 1 week after the original air/publication date.
If your fill contains spoilers, or you think it potentially could count as a spolier, please make sure sufficient space is left (with a warning) so that people can bypass it.
Please make sure that your prompts are in the following format:
Leverage, Hardison, "There are Spartans in my machine!"
Magnificent Seven (TV), Ensemble, "The gang appears to have a basic knowledge of Homer, Mr Larabee." "Burn it?" "Burn it."
Star Trek TNG/Firefly, Any/Any, They find the ship crippled and leaking air light years from anywhere. Half the command crew think it's an odd shape, the other half know their classic Earth literature.
Have fun!
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no subject
Date: 2011-11-03 09:18 am (UTC)Trojan Horse
Date: 2011-11-04 05:33 am (UTC)Eliot shakes his head, "Nope, they're Spartans alright. They just snuck in and started attacking. That's what the Spartans did. Ain't the Trojans. Trojans got their asses kicked."
Hardison stares at him.
Eliot scowls. "What? I read."
Hardison blinks. "Read what? The manual? My instructions for how to use a computer? 'Cause you sure didn't read that."
Eliot growls. "Just shut up and slay the Spartans already!"
"Trojans."
"Spartans."
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Date: 2011-11-03 02:19 pm (UTC)FILL: Range of Efficacy implied- pre- John/Sherlock
Date: 2011-11-04 08:00 am (UTC)Not at all expected, but John's sure the big, sociopathic detective would take a sick sort of glee in the knowledge that he's bleeding all over a genuine Persian rug.
John certainly won't be.
The only reason John hasn't completely lost it, is that he's a doctor; he knows that head wounds look horribly lethal no matter how bad they are. It's the nature of head wounds. They just naturally bleed like a bitch. Not that that is doing anything remotely helpful for his rising level of not-calm.
The second goon jabs his own gun between his shoulder blades and he would be insulted but the irritation suddenly wins the internal battle it'd been having with the panic for Sherlock that he wasn't feeling and, instead of kneeling like the large bloke behind him suggests, he opens his mouth.
"You know the reason that little pissants like you should heed the laws and stay far, far away from guns?" He starts dropping his hands from his head slowly.
"Hey," the gun is jammed between his shoulder blades again, "Watch it, guv. I got the gun, right?"
"Not for log," John mutters before continuing his explanation, "It's because a gun is a very precise machine. Each model is specifically engineered to fit a specific range of circumstances and have very specific operational niches. For example- a gun cannot be exchanged with, say, a knife.
"Take, for example, this particular handgun- the SIG-Sauer L106A1. Standard military issue for army. It has a 14-round capacity- 13 in the magazine, and one chambered- weighs 34 ounces and is nearly identical to the SIG P226 excepting that it has an improved protective finish.
"It's prime range of efficacy is between one and thirty meters. On either side of that range, it either becomes useless, or a hazard in the hands of the first idiot who decided to pick one up."
"What the-"
John ignores the second jab except for the half a second after the gun is removed. The fraction of a second after action where muscles relax and momentum is going the wrong way to counter the spin and deflect he executes. It's not any work at all to roll into and behind the thug with his gun, or to put him in a one-armed choke, as unstable as it may logistically be. These amateurs wouldn't know how to break it if they read the manual.
Which is really all the explanation he needs to give for the ease with which he puts three rounds into the one with the knife and then directs the gun downwards, muzzle snug, and probably still hot, against the knee inside his own.
"Say, 'cheese'," John whispers.
And fires.
When Sherlock finally comes around, it's to a splitting headache and some buffoon tapping gently on his cheek.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, love, where should I hide the gun so we don't get keelhauled for murder?"
Sherlock blinks. "Did you just murder someone? Dear lord, I must stop drifting off during the exciting bits."
John taps his cheek again, waving a bloodied handgun and trying to wipe off a large smear from his face, "Sherlock, please concentrate. The gun?"
"Ah. Right. The gun."
So, then, Sherlock thinks, it might not be the best time to mention how hot a devious and dangerous John makes him.
Good thing he's free tonight then.
Re: FILL: Range of Efficacy implied- pre- John/Sherlock
Date: 2011-11-04 03:38 pm (UTC)Re: FILL: Range of Efficacy implied- pre- John/Sherlock
Date: 2011-11-12 04:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-03 02:20 pm (UTC)Fill: Don't touch the horse
Date: 2011-11-04 05:07 pm (UTC)But when they just want to experiment and are first figuring out some new technique, they often practice in Arthur's dreams because, despite pretty much everyone's expectations, his projections are rather decent sorts who leave them alone to their practice runs without trying to kill them all.
It's weird. Everybody has killer projections. Some are militarized and some are not, but they're all killers. Except for Arthur's.
But there's always been a weird paradox about him, Eames thinks. He looks innately young and innocent with his slender figure and wide eyes. And yet, he also looks incredibly dangerous with his sharp suits and cold glare. And the guns. You can't forget the guns. And he is deadly, except that apparently his subconscious is just as sweet and innocent as his first impression is.
It's weird.
Also weird is, "Darling, why is there always a giant wooden horse in your dreams?"
"Did you want to practice your forging here or psychoanalyze me?"
"I am fully capable of doing both. Come on, a giant wooden horse."
"Just leave the horse alone."
If it had been anyone else, Eames would know better than to mess with a projection. But Arthur's projections weren't dangerous.
So, of course, he went up to inspect the giant wooden horse. It was massive, like the size of a house. Beautifully carved too, with scenes from ancient battles.
"Were you an art major, darling?"
"History major, Eames, which quite clearly you are not. Let me be very logical for you: We are here in my dreams because my projections don't attack, correct?"
"Yes."
"And yet, everyone has killer projections, correct?"
"I've always thought you were a unique little snowflake, dear heart."
"Shut up. If everyone has killer projections but you don't see mine, that *should* tell you that mine are hidden."
Eames finally touched the horse without thinking about it, simply by leaning casually against one of the legs. "Oh come on, darling, we've been everywhere in this dream. Where could they possibly be hidden?"
And that was how Eames discovered that Arthur's subconscious was militarized like a death squad of double-oh spies.
Re: Fill: Don't touch the horse
Date: 2011-11-04 09:36 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: Don't touch the horse
Date: 2011-11-18 02:33 am (UTC)Re: Fill: Don't touch the horse
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