(no subject)
Title: How to Run a Business
Challenge: Civilians
Characters: two nameless OCs
Word Count: 272
Bonus: kitchen utensils
Summary: A brief conversation on how to handle customers who are also ninjas.
"I didn't hire you because of your references," the owner of the store told her.
The girl blinked, but caught herself before she frowned. "Sir?"
"I hired you because you're a good conversationalist." He gestured with his free hand to the front doors, and the street beyond them. "We're the first restaurant from the bath houses."
He let his arm drop, and gave her a scrutinizing look. "The shinobi that come in here haven't washed off real blood from their missions there; they did that in their homes. But they've washed the mental dregs away. You have to be able to talk to them without throwing those dregs back on." He jerked his head with an odd little motion that the girl's friend, the one who was currently washing silverware in the kitchen and who'd introduced her, had said was a habit. "Even the weather may be a bitter subject. Someone who's just come back from Sand doesn't want to hear about how it's getting warmer, and someone who's just returned from Lightning doesn't want to know that a storm might be coming."
When she nodded, he rolled his free shoulder.
"That doesn't mean they'll all be like that," he added, a little less vehemently now. "Some just don't care. But most of them are human beings, and when they come in here, just out of the baths and wearing normal clothes, they want to eat like humans. Do you understand?"
The owner was missing his left leg below the knee. His other arm was braced on the crutch that he needed to walk.
"Yes, sir," the girl replied, and nodded again.
Retirement is the option for those who couldn't manage to die usefully.
Challenge: Civilians
Characters: two nameless OCs
Word Count: 272
Bonus: kitchen utensils
Summary: A brief conversation on how to handle customers who are also ninjas.
"I didn't hire you because of your references," the owner of the store told her.
The girl blinked, but caught herself before she frowned. "Sir?"
"I hired you because you're a good conversationalist." He gestured with his free hand to the front doors, and the street beyond them. "We're the first restaurant from the bath houses."
He let his arm drop, and gave her a scrutinizing look. "The shinobi that come in here haven't washed off real blood from their missions there; they did that in their homes. But they've washed the mental dregs away. You have to be able to talk to them without throwing those dregs back on." He jerked his head with an odd little motion that the girl's friend, the one who was currently washing silverware in the kitchen and who'd introduced her, had said was a habit. "Even the weather may be a bitter subject. Someone who's just come back from Sand doesn't want to hear about how it's getting warmer, and someone who's just returned from Lightning doesn't want to know that a storm might be coming."
When she nodded, he rolled his free shoulder.
"That doesn't mean they'll all be like that," he added, a little less vehemently now. "Some just don't care. But most of them are human beings, and when they come in here, just out of the baths and wearing normal clothes, they want to eat like humans. Do you understand?"
The owner was missing his left leg below the knee. His other arm was braced on the crutch that he needed to walk.
"Yes, sir," the girl replied, and nodded again.
Retirement is the option for those who couldn't manage to die usefully.