[Witches' Horses] Sibir
Title: poink!
'Verse/characters: Sibir; Stas, Sergeievich
Prompt: 35B "poetry"
Word Count: 488
Notes: after the expanded piece glory's where you find it. Stas figures he's up for going back to duty.
"Hey Boss, I--" Stas paused, knuckles still raised to announce his presence, when he realised that all he could see of his commanding officer was a pair of boots sticking out from under a monster of a mirror, a really big tangle of wires, and assorted small tools attached to magnetic strips stuck all along the underside of the desk and the floor.
He considered the boots. Then, squatting down and ignoring the way his ribs tried to protest the motion, "Boss?"
"There's a short in here somewhere," the Captain replied, irritably, sticking out a hand and pulling a pair of pliers off a strip. "Old man cursed thing will not stop going *poink!* at the most inconvenient times--" he trailed off into muttered cursing.
Stas made a mental note to find out who Sergeievich's sergeants had been, because that was some nice phrasing, almost poetic. "Anything I can do?"
"Any ideas what would make a poink sound?" The pliers reappeared, traded out for a small meter on a loop, which peeped helpfully as it was dragged below.
"Something connected to a singer or a mouse. Can't be a visual short, or you'd be getting corrosion on a mirror. What colour's the line attached to your earpiece?"
He stood, grabbed the back of the seat briefly to wait out his treacherous bones, then stepped over Sergeievich's legs to get at the control pad.
"Purple and yellow, but I checked it already." Sergeievich shoved himself out from underneath the desk long enough to glare up. Stas carefully didn't laugh at the cloud of mussed blond hair escaping the braid.
"Screwdriver?" he inquired, nodding to the wall panels. "Might be a short in a mouse."
"Are you even supposed to be out of Vadim's hands yet?" Sergeievich made a long arm, snagged a screwdriver off a strip and passed it up. "He was supposed to notify me when you were fit for duty."
'Damn,' Stas thought. 'There goes that line.' He grinned, stretched extravagantly, mindful of the mirror edges. "I was bored out of my skull and they needed the bed."
"In short, no, you shouldn't be here yet and talked some poor girl into letting you off leash." Sergeivich sighed, started to run his hand through his hair, then visibly thought better of it. "Don't relapse helping me with this. I need you back out there as soon as you're actually fit, and I have a written record that says a doctor agrees with you."
Stas caught the edge of the first panel as it came free, made himself not wince. "Yes, Boss."
"--Thank you."
When he glanced over, the Captain was back under the desk, out of eye contact options, so he just grinned at the panel, set it down in a groove designed to hold replacement mirror parts to keep it out of his way, and started sorting wires.
'Verse/characters: Sibir; Stas, Sergeievich
Prompt: 35B "poetry"
Word Count: 488
Notes: after the expanded piece glory's where you find it. Stas figures he's up for going back to duty.
"Hey Boss, I--" Stas paused, knuckles still raised to announce his presence, when he realised that all he could see of his commanding officer was a pair of boots sticking out from under a monster of a mirror, a really big tangle of wires, and assorted small tools attached to magnetic strips stuck all along the underside of the desk and the floor.
He considered the boots. Then, squatting down and ignoring the way his ribs tried to protest the motion, "Boss?"
"There's a short in here somewhere," the Captain replied, irritably, sticking out a hand and pulling a pair of pliers off a strip. "Old man cursed thing will not stop going *poink!* at the most inconvenient times--" he trailed off into muttered cursing.
Stas made a mental note to find out who Sergeievich's sergeants had been, because that was some nice phrasing, almost poetic. "Anything I can do?"
"Any ideas what would make a poink sound?" The pliers reappeared, traded out for a small meter on a loop, which peeped helpfully as it was dragged below.
"Something connected to a singer or a mouse. Can't be a visual short, or you'd be getting corrosion on a mirror. What colour's the line attached to your earpiece?"
He stood, grabbed the back of the seat briefly to wait out his treacherous bones, then stepped over Sergeievich's legs to get at the control pad.
"Purple and yellow, but I checked it already." Sergeievich shoved himself out from underneath the desk long enough to glare up. Stas carefully didn't laugh at the cloud of mussed blond hair escaping the braid.
"Screwdriver?" he inquired, nodding to the wall panels. "Might be a short in a mouse."
"Are you even supposed to be out of Vadim's hands yet?" Sergeievich made a long arm, snagged a screwdriver off a strip and passed it up. "He was supposed to notify me when you were fit for duty."
'Damn,' Stas thought. 'There goes that line.' He grinned, stretched extravagantly, mindful of the mirror edges. "I was bored out of my skull and they needed the bed."
"In short, no, you shouldn't be here yet and talked some poor girl into letting you off leash." Sergeivich sighed, started to run his hand through his hair, then visibly thought better of it. "Don't relapse helping me with this. I need you back out there as soon as you're actually fit, and I have a written record that says a doctor agrees with you."
Stas caught the edge of the first panel as it came free, made himself not wince. "Yes, Boss."
"--Thank you."
When he glanced over, the Captain was back under the desk, out of eye contact options, so he just grinned at the panel, set it down in a groove designed to hold replacement mirror parts to keep it out of his way, and started sorting wires.