[Witches' Horses] Sibir
Title: repurposing . . .
'Verse/characters: Sibir; Stas
Prompt: 03B "evil"
Word Count: 438
Notes: towards the end, I think, based on the ranks; Stas' rank translates to a Captain of Cavalry, while Sergeievich's is a Colonel.
He never forged his commanding officer's signature.
This mostly just meant by the time he got to the supply clerks, he had either an explanation, a compelling reason, or a practiced line of attack of words that just kind of undermined the initial response of "You need what? We don't have this. Nobody has this!"
"Oh, come on, someone's got a man's weight in dry gelatin."
"Not here!"
"My, we really have lost the trappings of civilization--we've given up aspic?"
The sergeant gave him a dirty look. He grinned back. "Come on. It's for a good cause."
"Pranking the officers is not a good cause."
"It most certainly is! But that's not why I've got a requisition form for a lot of gelatin."
They held a stare for a while.
The sergeant cracked first. "Why do you have a requisition form for a man's weight in gelatin?"
"That's classified, sergeant," he replied instantly, then leaned forward, rested his elbows on the counter. "But I can tell you it's for a project for Polkovnik Sergeievich."
" . . . I'll see what I can do, Rotmistr."
"Thank you, sergeant. We need it before three-days-dawn, preferably before tomorrow afternoon."
---
He had to admit, he was impressed. A kid who looked all of sixteen had showed up with a message in late morning--"Sir! The supply sergeant says where-do-you-want-your-damned-aspic?"
"Tell him Engineering Pyat, and thank him for me."
The kid disappeared with another "Sir!"
It arrived as eight sacks, which actually made it easier to work with, and he made a mental note to arrange something good to happen to the man.
"Alright, before we pour this--I'd like proof we've tested the molds and the heating elements?"
One of the engineers waved a pad in front of his nose; he caught the man's wrist in one hand, plucked the pad out, ran through the results on it. " . . You've tested three of the molds, and three of the elements. I'm sorry, is this a boyar's guard station?"
"Time is of the essence!"
"So we need to not fuck this up. Test 'em all, gents. That's an order."
They had the good grace not to mutter much in earshot, but when a query came from on high, the call was routed to him instantly, and he had the joy of explaining to someone who wasn't his commanding officer why exactly he hadn't signed off on the project as soon as all the pieces were in order, ready to be assembled.
He managed to avoid actively insulting the man, but he was in an evil mood by the time he checked in with his own commanding officer.
'Verse/characters: Sibir; Stas
Prompt: 03B "evil"
Word Count: 438
Notes: towards the end, I think, based on the ranks; Stas' rank translates to a Captain of Cavalry, while Sergeievich's is a Colonel.
He never forged his commanding officer's signature.
This mostly just meant by the time he got to the supply clerks, he had either an explanation, a compelling reason, or a practiced line of attack of words that just kind of undermined the initial response of "You need what? We don't have this. Nobody has this!"
"Oh, come on, someone's got a man's weight in dry gelatin."
"Not here!"
"My, we really have lost the trappings of civilization--we've given up aspic?"
The sergeant gave him a dirty look. He grinned back. "Come on. It's for a good cause."
"Pranking the officers is not a good cause."
"It most certainly is! But that's not why I've got a requisition form for a lot of gelatin."
They held a stare for a while.
The sergeant cracked first. "Why do you have a requisition form for a man's weight in gelatin?"
"That's classified, sergeant," he replied instantly, then leaned forward, rested his elbows on the counter. "But I can tell you it's for a project for Polkovnik Sergeievich."
" . . . I'll see what I can do, Rotmistr."
"Thank you, sergeant. We need it before three-days-dawn, preferably before tomorrow afternoon."
---
He had to admit, he was impressed. A kid who looked all of sixteen had showed up with a message in late morning--"Sir! The supply sergeant says where-do-you-want-your-damned-aspic?"
"Tell him Engineering Pyat, and thank him for me."
The kid disappeared with another "Sir!"
It arrived as eight sacks, which actually made it easier to work with, and he made a mental note to arrange something good to happen to the man.
"Alright, before we pour this--I'd like proof we've tested the molds and the heating elements?"
One of the engineers waved a pad in front of his nose; he caught the man's wrist in one hand, plucked the pad out, ran through the results on it. " . . You've tested three of the molds, and three of the elements. I'm sorry, is this a boyar's guard station?"
"Time is of the essence!"
"So we need to not fuck this up. Test 'em all, gents. That's an order."
They had the good grace not to mutter much in earshot, but when a query came from on high, the call was routed to him instantly, and he had the joy of explaining to someone who wasn't his commanding officer why exactly he hadn't signed off on the project as soon as all the pieces were in order, ready to be assembled.
He managed to avoid actively insulting the man, but he was in an evil mood by the time he checked in with his own commanding officer.