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moogle_workshop2011-03-03 09:07 pm
freijya.livejournal.com) wrote in moogle_workshop2011-03-03 09:07 pm
"Play Date" - PG 13 (Team Monk)
Username: Freijya
Team: Monk
Fandom: Final Fantasy IX
Title: Play Date
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1374
Notes: Humor. Tantulus/Zidane. Pre-Game. Written for the fic prompt party at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ff_minigames as a fill for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sunflower_mynah . Prompt was "Rehearsals for I want to Be Your Canary."
Summary: Tantalus holds rehearsals. No one is left unscathed.
‘Rehearsal’ was the mild term for what happened at the Lindblum Theater square that bright Sunday morning. In the way that Cinna could be described as a handsome bloke or Zidane as a misogynist. Of the 27 participants who showed up, only one walked away without a broken bone, scratched face, or diminished self-worth. And that was only because Blank, being his regularly glum self, had posted himself by the make shift castle gates waiting for Line 4 of the play to make his entrance and had not even bothered looking up from inspecting his nails when the screams began.
Months later, many vicious arguments and impromptu fist fights would erupt over who was to blame most for the incident, but there was a general, if grudging consensus about how it begun.
It had started, as most trouble did, when Tantalus leader Baku decided to take a bathroom break.
“Hey you,” Baku grunted from his seat on the dais, gesturing at a tall skinny band member lovingly polishing a trombone. “Help me up.”
There was a big problem with this. Baku was by no means a small man. The chair he had slammed down on the far edge of the stage looked like a tree that had been cut in squares, and it could barely contain the girth of Baku’s belly when he sat it in it. Pulling fifty pounds of pure digestive tract was no easy feat, troubling even for Baku despite his notoriety for regularly punting disobedient troupe members into solar orbit. The task of lifting him from his seat was usually accompanied with a rope and pulley system and 20 odd men. But as most of Tantalus and the few odd hired actors were busy adjusting costumes, reading scripts, being unavailable and useless, Baku had limited options.
Much to the chagrin of the Trombone player.
“Uhh,” the man stuttered.
“You deaf, Bandie?” Baku grunted. He was not patient, nor had he a memory for names. Or imagination. “Now come here.”
“Uh, b-boss, let me get—“
“NOW.”
Untold horrors were said to befall those in the way when Baku used that tone.
“On it boss!” Trombone man squeaked. With the air of a man two breaths from becoming an unwilling space walker, he flung his beloved trombone like a boomerang and rushed to his cranky master’s side.
Despite being as thin as a rail and with muscles like rubber bands, his throw was perfect in that way scrawny men can only accomplish once in their lifetimes. His trombone flew in a beautiful arc and sailed horn first into the head of his mortal foe, the Piccolo player.
After being knocked clean from his seat by the airborne trombone, the piccolo player jumped to his feet accusations and spittle flying from his lips. “Who threw that at me? Hoping I would break something, were you? Who—“
His beady little eyes fell on the trombone. Venom and thundering malice filled his small rounded face, and he turned on his heel, eyes scanning like homing beacons for the source of his general hatred. He caught a glimpse of the reed like man bobbing at a swift pace in the opposite direction—he was running away!
What griped the Piccolo player than is still a hotly debated topic. Some believe it was the fabled Musica Catatonia, a super power state that only musicians at lvl. 99 mastery had ever achieved. Others believe it was the spirit of the Piccolo flute, come to take vengeance on those who had ridiculed its name. Cinna, the local water barrel gossip, would swear up and down that a strong wind eclipsed the player and that golden music notes as sharp as daggers sprang from his ears and cut great swathes out of the theater curtains.
(“Come on, Cinna,” Zidane said to that, slapping his knee and shaking his head. “Magical music notes? Next, you’ll be claiming I’m from some alien planet where people sprout pink fur and eat babies for breakfast. Come on, man!”)
Whatever the case, something had possessed the Piccolo player. Before anyone was aware, he had launched himself at a nearby Bass Drum nearly twice his height, picked it up, and like a tourney man throwing a javelin sent the drum straight towards the Trombone man.
Unfortunately for the Piccolo, accuracy had never been his forte. The drum bounced with an impressive thump, pivoted on its rim, and careened head straight into a live performance of the Nero Brothers gambling game. Zenero never knew what hit him; the metal drum hit his back with a sickening thud, flattening him in an instant.
“No, Brother!” Benero galloped to his dear twin’s side, falling to his knees and grasping a limp hand. Zenero, gasping for breath, turned teary eyes to his blue, bullish brethren.
“Go on without me, brother,” he gasped. “The show…must go…on….” And with true (and award winning) theatrics, he fainted dead away.
The terrible cry that tore from Benero’s mouth put to shame even actor Lowell Bridges, famous for his heart-rending performances. Benero sprung to his feet, arms pin wheeling as he cried tears like crystalline waterfalls, fists punching without discrimination. The Conductor, who was unfortunate enough to have been walking by, was knocked clear through a wooden wall into the dressing chambers.
“I hope you’re all happy!” Benero bawled. “I’ve lost everything! Everything!” He pivoted and ran for the exit, knocking people in his way left and right.
“Hey!” Zidane cried, jumping up from where he had been surreptitiously checking the pockets of the fallen Zenero. “Hey Benero you bastard, I won that bet! Get back here, you owe me money!”
Predictably, Benero picked up speed. Zidane kicked the ground, cursing, and turned to a bored Marcus.
“Hey Marcus, help me beat the crap out of him.”
“Hrmm.” Marcus pulled out his dagger and started picking his teeth with it. Zidane cut to the chase.
“Fifteen-eighty-five,” Zidane ground out. “Twenty-Seventy. Forty-Sixty.” Marcus was unmoved. The blonde threw up his hands. “Fine, Fifty-Fifty but only because you’re like a brother, you ugly thieving bastard.”
“Now you’re talking,” Marcus grunted, pocketing his dagger and pushing away from the wall. Zidane said something else—probably something degrading about Marcus’s mother—but it was drowned out by a shrill cry that erupted from the dressing room where the conductor had crashed. Out of the hole in the broken timbers came the snake like length of a whip. A hapless drummer gaping at the systematic decimation of his fellow band mates was hit and sent spinning like a ballerina to join them.
Out from the hole came Ruby, teal hair wild and eyes blazing like the pits of Hades’ on a hot day. A dangerous hot pink whip swung wide in her hand, the hiss of its pass singing like poetry. “My dress!” she shrilled. “Someone ripped my dress! Confess!”
Further description of the chaos that erupted would be redundant. Suffice to say, the cacophony of hair pulling, fist flailing, prop throwing, and instrument crushing finally alerted Baku, who was still vainly attempting to get out of his chair with the aid of the trombone player.
“Louts!” he bellowed. “When I get out of this chair, I’m going to beat sense into all of ya!”
Rehearsal lasted for two hours.
Eventually, to the surprise of everyone, Baku did make it out of his chair. He also made good on his threat and beat everyone to within an inch of their life. He beat so much sense into them, in fact, that play rehearsals for the next seven months were canceled so that Tantalus could recuperate. And possibly find new band players.
There was a big problem with this.
Two days later after the incident, it was Blank who alerted his boss to what it was.
“You know, Boss, at this rate we’ll never be ready to perform for the Alexandrian princess’s fifteenth birthday.”
What Blank expected was puzzlement, curses, even a flying fist. What he did not expect was for Baku to guffaw, slapping a hand on his belly. “Fifteenth? Stop yer fibbing my boy. Her sixteenth birthday is the day we perform.”
“But Boss, just yesterday you said—“
“SHADDUP, I SAID SIXTEENTH.”
And so it was.
Team: Monk
Fandom: Final Fantasy IX
Title: Play Date
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1374
Notes: Humor. Tantulus/Zidane. Pre-Game. Written for the fic prompt party at
ff_minigames as a fill for sunflower_mynah . Prompt was "Rehearsals for I want to Be Your Canary."Summary: Tantalus holds rehearsals. No one is left unscathed.
‘Rehearsal’ was the mild term for what happened at the Lindblum Theater square that bright Sunday morning. In the way that Cinna could be described as a handsome bloke or Zidane as a misogynist. Of the 27 participants who showed up, only one walked away without a broken bone, scratched face, or diminished self-worth. And that was only because Blank, being his regularly glum self, had posted himself by the make shift castle gates waiting for Line 4 of the play to make his entrance and had not even bothered looking up from inspecting his nails when the screams began.
Months later, many vicious arguments and impromptu fist fights would erupt over who was to blame most for the incident, but there was a general, if grudging consensus about how it begun.
It had started, as most trouble did, when Tantalus leader Baku decided to take a bathroom break.
“Hey you,” Baku grunted from his seat on the dais, gesturing at a tall skinny band member lovingly polishing a trombone. “Help me up.”
There was a big problem with this. Baku was by no means a small man. The chair he had slammed down on the far edge of the stage looked like a tree that had been cut in squares, and it could barely contain the girth of Baku’s belly when he sat it in it. Pulling fifty pounds of pure digestive tract was no easy feat, troubling even for Baku despite his notoriety for regularly punting disobedient troupe members into solar orbit. The task of lifting him from his seat was usually accompanied with a rope and pulley system and 20 odd men. But as most of Tantalus and the few odd hired actors were busy adjusting costumes, reading scripts, being unavailable and useless, Baku had limited options.
Much to the chagrin of the Trombone player.
“Uhh,” the man stuttered.
“You deaf, Bandie?” Baku grunted. He was not patient, nor had he a memory for names. Or imagination. “Now come here.”
“Uh, b-boss, let me get—“
“NOW.”
Untold horrors were said to befall those in the way when Baku used that tone.
“On it boss!” Trombone man squeaked. With the air of a man two breaths from becoming an unwilling space walker, he flung his beloved trombone like a boomerang and rushed to his cranky master’s side.
Despite being as thin as a rail and with muscles like rubber bands, his throw was perfect in that way scrawny men can only accomplish once in their lifetimes. His trombone flew in a beautiful arc and sailed horn first into the head of his mortal foe, the Piccolo player.
After being knocked clean from his seat by the airborne trombone, the piccolo player jumped to his feet accusations and spittle flying from his lips. “Who threw that at me? Hoping I would break something, were you? Who—“
His beady little eyes fell on the trombone. Venom and thundering malice filled his small rounded face, and he turned on his heel, eyes scanning like homing beacons for the source of his general hatred. He caught a glimpse of the reed like man bobbing at a swift pace in the opposite direction—he was running away!
What griped the Piccolo player than is still a hotly debated topic. Some believe it was the fabled Musica Catatonia, a super power state that only musicians at lvl. 99 mastery had ever achieved. Others believe it was the spirit of the Piccolo flute, come to take vengeance on those who had ridiculed its name. Cinna, the local water barrel gossip, would swear up and down that a strong wind eclipsed the player and that golden music notes as sharp as daggers sprang from his ears and cut great swathes out of the theater curtains.
(“Come on, Cinna,” Zidane said to that, slapping his knee and shaking his head. “Magical music notes? Next, you’ll be claiming I’m from some alien planet where people sprout pink fur and eat babies for breakfast. Come on, man!”)
Whatever the case, something had possessed the Piccolo player. Before anyone was aware, he had launched himself at a nearby Bass Drum nearly twice his height, picked it up, and like a tourney man throwing a javelin sent the drum straight towards the Trombone man.
Unfortunately for the Piccolo, accuracy had never been his forte. The drum bounced with an impressive thump, pivoted on its rim, and careened head straight into a live performance of the Nero Brothers gambling game. Zenero never knew what hit him; the metal drum hit his back with a sickening thud, flattening him in an instant.
“No, Brother!” Benero galloped to his dear twin’s side, falling to his knees and grasping a limp hand. Zenero, gasping for breath, turned teary eyes to his blue, bullish brethren.
“Go on without me, brother,” he gasped. “The show…must go…on….” And with true (and award winning) theatrics, he fainted dead away.
The terrible cry that tore from Benero’s mouth put to shame even actor Lowell Bridges, famous for his heart-rending performances. Benero sprung to his feet, arms pin wheeling as he cried tears like crystalline waterfalls, fists punching without discrimination. The Conductor, who was unfortunate enough to have been walking by, was knocked clear through a wooden wall into the dressing chambers.
“I hope you’re all happy!” Benero bawled. “I’ve lost everything! Everything!” He pivoted and ran for the exit, knocking people in his way left and right.
“Hey!” Zidane cried, jumping up from where he had been surreptitiously checking the pockets of the fallen Zenero. “Hey Benero you bastard, I won that bet! Get back here, you owe me money!”
Predictably, Benero picked up speed. Zidane kicked the ground, cursing, and turned to a bored Marcus.
“Hey Marcus, help me beat the crap out of him.”
“Hrmm.” Marcus pulled out his dagger and started picking his teeth with it. Zidane cut to the chase.
“Fifteen-eighty-five,” Zidane ground out. “Twenty-Seventy. Forty-Sixty.” Marcus was unmoved. The blonde threw up his hands. “Fine, Fifty-Fifty but only because you’re like a brother, you ugly thieving bastard.”
“Now you’re talking,” Marcus grunted, pocketing his dagger and pushing away from the wall. Zidane said something else—probably something degrading about Marcus’s mother—but it was drowned out by a shrill cry that erupted from the dressing room where the conductor had crashed. Out of the hole in the broken timbers came the snake like length of a whip. A hapless drummer gaping at the systematic decimation of his fellow band mates was hit and sent spinning like a ballerina to join them.
Out from the hole came Ruby, teal hair wild and eyes blazing like the pits of Hades’ on a hot day. A dangerous hot pink whip swung wide in her hand, the hiss of its pass singing like poetry. “My dress!” she shrilled. “Someone ripped my dress! Confess!”
Further description of the chaos that erupted would be redundant. Suffice to say, the cacophony of hair pulling, fist flailing, prop throwing, and instrument crushing finally alerted Baku, who was still vainly attempting to get out of his chair with the aid of the trombone player.
“Louts!” he bellowed. “When I get out of this chair, I’m going to beat sense into all of ya!”
Rehearsal lasted for two hours.
Eventually, to the surprise of everyone, Baku did make it out of his chair. He also made good on his threat and beat everyone to within an inch of their life. He beat so much sense into them, in fact, that play rehearsals for the next seven months were canceled so that Tantalus could recuperate. And possibly find new band players.
There was a big problem with this.
Two days later after the incident, it was Blank who alerted his boss to what it was.
“You know, Boss, at this rate we’ll never be ready to perform for the Alexandrian princess’s fifteenth birthday.”
What Blank expected was puzzlement, curses, even a flying fist. What he did not expect was for Baku to guffaw, slapping a hand on his belly. “Fifteenth? Stop yer fibbing my boy. Her sixteenth birthday is the day we perform.”
“But Boss, just yesterday you said—“
“SHADDUP, I SAID SIXTEENTH.”
And so it was.