Challenge accepted - Tanya
Jul. 19th, 2012 08:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taluminThis piece uses one of my favourite characters I've ever created; Dice the assassin. He's so very messed up, it's nice to use him in a lighter role.
“You lazy son-of-a-bitch! I want you out of my kitchen now! You can never set foot in here again! In fact, if it wasn't so damn busy, I'd have you fired right now! You're lucky I don't call the police, you filthy little degenerate!”
Dice took a step back, even though he was not the target of head chef Mago's rage. The unlucky waiter who had drawn the little man's ire wilted under the torrent of criticism.
“Go on! Get out there!” The head chef stabbed a finger towards the door to the main dining room. The waiter scurried out under a barrage of abuse from the head chef. As soon as the door swung shut behind the waiter, the head chef's scowl swept the room. Dice quickly began chopping the long root vegetable native to the planet at his workstation before the head chef could spot some flaw in his appearance or actions. It took him a second to remember that he was a trained assassin who had been killing people since before puberty far more powerful than the chef and that he didn't need to be anxious that the little man would scream at him for using the wrong knife. Still, Dice breathed a small sigh of relief when the chef turned away to the other side of the kitchen.
It had taken nearly a month to be trusted enough to be chosen to prepare the meal tonight. Sabotaging the waiter's niccastick break so the chef banished him from the kitchen had been much easier, but now Dice had to convince the angry head chef to trust Dice to take the food to the table. Drugging the other assistant chefs had been a good idea at the time, but Dice had not realised how much work really went on in the kitchen, even after working there undercover for months.
Now that the kitchen was short staffed, he did not seem to have the moment to himself required to slip the poison into the target's soup. As soon as he put a foot in the door, a waiter had handed him a stack of orders and told him that the chef wanted him to prep the main courses. He'd spent nearly an hour bustling between the work stations, slicing strips of pale vegetables before rushing back to drizzle sauces over a plate of wheat grains as a final touch. Moments after the plates were whisked away, Dice had been cornered by the obnoxious Mago and ordered to do an inventory of the wine vintages. Given the high profile nature of the guest that Dice was there to kill, it did not surprise him that Mago wanted everything to be perfect, but he did not let Dice out of his usual duties either, which meant that Dice was scampering back and forth between the wine racks and the work stations, dodging the other assistants and the waiters as they swung knives, steaming trays of vegetables and huge pots of water across his path. The narrow aisles of the kitchen were cramped and the heat from the stoves made the air swelter.
He turned, then ducked under a tray of canapes. When he popped up again, Mago was in front of him. Startled, Dice stepped back. Mago pushed forward almost immediately, pressing into Dice's personal space. Dice's eyes darted from side to side, hoping for an escape. A sheen of sweat broke out on his brow. He kept telling himself that he was a calm professional, that he had been hunted by alien creatures across the frozen tundra of an ice moon and survived, that he had assassinated the Archbishop of the Arachno-Collective without disturbing its billions of sleeping spawn and that no short, somewhat pudgy four star chef was going to intimidate him. Those facts did little to actually calm him.
“Have you finished doing the thing?” Mago asked. Before Dice could respond, Mago shoved a salt cellar into his hands. “Good. Because of that fuckwit waiter, I need someone to act as a seasoner on the floor. These meals are works of art, and just need those final touches to create taste masterpieces.” Mago seemed to swell, giving him another inch or two of height. “Do you think you're up to the task?”
Dice nodded wordlessly, as no sound seemed to be capable of coming from his throat.
“Excellent.” Mago jerked his hand up suddenly, brandishing a finger beneath Dice's nose. “And don't screw this up, or I'll try making that Centauri recipe that calls for human testicles.” His ears seemed to twitch and he spun to glower across the room. “You're stirring it too quickly!” Mago dashed away.
Dice released a relieved breath. Things were beginning to go according to plan once more. He had the cellar and a reason to be on the dining room floor, near the target's meal. He glanced around the kitchen to make sure no one was watching, then withdrew an identical cellar and slipped it up the sleeve of his white jacket. With this in place, he moved purposefully out of the kitchen onto the dining room floor.
Compared to the kitchen, it was quiet. The clatter of pots and hiss of steam was gone as soon as the door swung shut behind him. Dice quickly moved out of the way to let a waiter carrying a tray of empty glasses dart back inside. Dice checked his watch. The window of opportunity to slip the poison into the target's meal and get back to the kitchen was very short.
He scanned the dining room and spotted the target; a giant of a man, perhaps once well-muscled but now gone to seed. Spread on the table before him were platters of food. His companions seemed deep in conversation, paying little attention to the target as he shovelled more food into his mouth.
Dice walked swiftly over to the table to stand at a discrete distance behind the target. As one of the interchangeable waiters set done another plate, Dice stepped forward, leaning over the target's right shoulder.
“May I add the required spices, your Grace?” Dice enquired, slipping easily into the false accent he'd picked up. The target nodded, still chewing, his lips smacking and sauce dribbling down his chin.
Dice dropped the cellar into his hand and shook it gently over the dish. The green and white flakes floated gently to the surface of the meal and seemed to vanish as they were absorbed. Dice bowed to the target and backed away. The target hadn't met his gaze once. Dice watched as the target positioned the poisoned dish and began devouring it. It felt like a knot had just melted from between his shoulder blades. The slow-acting poison wouldn't affect the target until later that evening, and probably be blamed on bad meat.
The assassin looked at his watch again and felt his heart begin to race. His breath caught and he hurried back to the kitchen. Mago would be furious if the quiches burnt.
“You lazy son-of-a-bitch! I want you out of my kitchen now! You can never set foot in here again! In fact, if it wasn't so damn busy, I'd have you fired right now! You're lucky I don't call the police, you filthy little degenerate!”
Dice took a step back, even though he was not the target of head chef Mago's rage. The unlucky waiter who had drawn the little man's ire wilted under the torrent of criticism.
“Go on! Get out there!” The head chef stabbed a finger towards the door to the main dining room. The waiter scurried out under a barrage of abuse from the head chef. As soon as the door swung shut behind the waiter, the head chef's scowl swept the room. Dice quickly began chopping the long root vegetable native to the planet at his workstation before the head chef could spot some flaw in his appearance or actions. It took him a second to remember that he was a trained assassin who had been killing people since before puberty far more powerful than the chef and that he didn't need to be anxious that the little man would scream at him for using the wrong knife. Still, Dice breathed a small sigh of relief when the chef turned away to the other side of the kitchen.
It had taken nearly a month to be trusted enough to be chosen to prepare the meal tonight. Sabotaging the waiter's niccastick break so the chef banished him from the kitchen had been much easier, but now Dice had to convince the angry head chef to trust Dice to take the food to the table. Drugging the other assistant chefs had been a good idea at the time, but Dice had not realised how much work really went on in the kitchen, even after working there undercover for months.
Now that the kitchen was short staffed, he did not seem to have the moment to himself required to slip the poison into the target's soup. As soon as he put a foot in the door, a waiter had handed him a stack of orders and told him that the chef wanted him to prep the main courses. He'd spent nearly an hour bustling between the work stations, slicing strips of pale vegetables before rushing back to drizzle sauces over a plate of wheat grains as a final touch. Moments after the plates were whisked away, Dice had been cornered by the obnoxious Mago and ordered to do an inventory of the wine vintages. Given the high profile nature of the guest that Dice was there to kill, it did not surprise him that Mago wanted everything to be perfect, but he did not let Dice out of his usual duties either, which meant that Dice was scampering back and forth between the wine racks and the work stations, dodging the other assistants and the waiters as they swung knives, steaming trays of vegetables and huge pots of water across his path. The narrow aisles of the kitchen were cramped and the heat from the stoves made the air swelter.
He turned, then ducked under a tray of canapes. When he popped up again, Mago was in front of him. Startled, Dice stepped back. Mago pushed forward almost immediately, pressing into Dice's personal space. Dice's eyes darted from side to side, hoping for an escape. A sheen of sweat broke out on his brow. He kept telling himself that he was a calm professional, that he had been hunted by alien creatures across the frozen tundra of an ice moon and survived, that he had assassinated the Archbishop of the Arachno-Collective without disturbing its billions of sleeping spawn and that no short, somewhat pudgy four star chef was going to intimidate him. Those facts did little to actually calm him.
“Have you finished doing the thing?” Mago asked. Before Dice could respond, Mago shoved a salt cellar into his hands. “Good. Because of that fuckwit waiter, I need someone to act as a seasoner on the floor. These meals are works of art, and just need those final touches to create taste masterpieces.” Mago seemed to swell, giving him another inch or two of height. “Do you think you're up to the task?”
Dice nodded wordlessly, as no sound seemed to be capable of coming from his throat.
“Excellent.” Mago jerked his hand up suddenly, brandishing a finger beneath Dice's nose. “And don't screw this up, or I'll try making that Centauri recipe that calls for human testicles.” His ears seemed to twitch and he spun to glower across the room. “You're stirring it too quickly!” Mago dashed away.
Dice released a relieved breath. Things were beginning to go according to plan once more. He had the cellar and a reason to be on the dining room floor, near the target's meal. He glanced around the kitchen to make sure no one was watching, then withdrew an identical cellar and slipped it up the sleeve of his white jacket. With this in place, he moved purposefully out of the kitchen onto the dining room floor.
Compared to the kitchen, it was quiet. The clatter of pots and hiss of steam was gone as soon as the door swung shut behind him. Dice quickly moved out of the way to let a waiter carrying a tray of empty glasses dart back inside. Dice checked his watch. The window of opportunity to slip the poison into the target's meal and get back to the kitchen was very short.
He scanned the dining room and spotted the target; a giant of a man, perhaps once well-muscled but now gone to seed. Spread on the table before him were platters of food. His companions seemed deep in conversation, paying little attention to the target as he shovelled more food into his mouth.
Dice walked swiftly over to the table to stand at a discrete distance behind the target. As one of the interchangeable waiters set done another plate, Dice stepped forward, leaning over the target's right shoulder.
“May I add the required spices, your Grace?” Dice enquired, slipping easily into the false accent he'd picked up. The target nodded, still chewing, his lips smacking and sauce dribbling down his chin.
Dice dropped the cellar into his hand and shook it gently over the dish. The green and white flakes floated gently to the surface of the meal and seemed to vanish as they were absorbed. Dice bowed to the target and backed away. The target hadn't met his gaze once. Dice watched as the target positioned the poisoned dish and began devouring it. It felt like a knot had just melted from between his shoulder blades. The slow-acting poison wouldn't affect the target until later that evening, and probably be blamed on bad meat.
The assassin looked at his watch again and felt his heart begin to race. His breath caught and he hurried back to the kitchen. Mago would be furious if the quiches burnt.
