[Witches' Horses] Sibir
Title: you'd think he'd be used to it by now . . .
'Verse/characters: Sibir; Stas and Sergeievich
Prompt: 40B "positive"
Word Count: 270
Notes: The other tea stained paper. She didn't believe me when I said I'd get two each out of the sparks. *solemn!*
"Stas!" one of the sergeants roared across the mess, and he waved an arm above the crowd in acknowledgement.
"Rotmistr wants you," the sergeant reported when Stas had fought his way through the crush of people to the threshold to find out what was going on.
"He say why?"
"Nope."
Stas briefly ran through a mental checklist of what had exploded recently that he could theoretically be blamed for, then shrugged. "Thanks, sergeant--I've heard and acknowledged."
The sergeant nodded his grizzled head, consulted a checklist, and went looking for his next victim as Stas headed for Captain Sergeievich's office.
He tapped politely at the plate by the door--which was open, tied back just enough that a positive change in pressure would slam it closed--and waited for Sergeievich to look up.
When the man did, his face blanked, then he quirked a finger in a come-here, so Stas came inside, wondering what had popped up on the screens. The door slid shut behind him, clicked closed-and-locked.
What Sergeievich did instead of tearing a verbal strip off Stas was reach down, snag a pair of pliers, then pick up one of the sheets of stacked reports on his desk by one corner, wordlessly raising an eyebrow in Stas' direction.
Stas shrugged, half apologetic, half waiting for his commanding officer to crack a smile now that they were out of general sight. "The samovar exploded."
"Conveniently all over your paperwork."
"Yep."
"Stas . . ."
"Sorry, boss! It really did just explode! I can get you a note from the guys who repaired it--"
Sergeievich lowered the paper to his desktop again, neatly away from any previously un-stained pieces, and covered his eyes with one hand.
'Verse/characters: Sibir; Stas and Sergeievich
Prompt: 40B "positive"
Word Count: 270
Notes: The other tea stained paper. She didn't believe me when I said I'd get two each out of the sparks. *solemn!*
"Stas!" one of the sergeants roared across the mess, and he waved an arm above the crowd in acknowledgement.
"Rotmistr wants you," the sergeant reported when Stas had fought his way through the crush of people to the threshold to find out what was going on.
"He say why?"
"Nope."
Stas briefly ran through a mental checklist of what had exploded recently that he could theoretically be blamed for, then shrugged. "Thanks, sergeant--I've heard and acknowledged."
The sergeant nodded his grizzled head, consulted a checklist, and went looking for his next victim as Stas headed for Captain Sergeievich's office.
He tapped politely at the plate by the door--which was open, tied back just enough that a positive change in pressure would slam it closed--and waited for Sergeievich to look up.
When the man did, his face blanked, then he quirked a finger in a come-here, so Stas came inside, wondering what had popped up on the screens. The door slid shut behind him, clicked closed-and-locked.
What Sergeievich did instead of tearing a verbal strip off Stas was reach down, snag a pair of pliers, then pick up one of the sheets of stacked reports on his desk by one corner, wordlessly raising an eyebrow in Stas' direction.
Stas shrugged, half apologetic, half waiting for his commanding officer to crack a smile now that they were out of general sight. "The samovar exploded."
"Conveniently all over your paperwork."
"Yep."
"Stas . . ."
"Sorry, boss! It really did just explode! I can get you a note from the guys who repaired it--"
Sergeievich lowered the paper to his desktop again, neatly away from any previously un-stained pieces, and covered his eyes with one hand.