Post by viruswithshoes on Jun 25, 2018 17:54:12 GMT -5
As practical jokes went, they didn't get any more macabre. Lieutenant Junior Grade Dagon Basqiat identified with those with a dark sense of humor but his current situation seemed like a cosmic singularity of unfathomable blackness.
He had to deal with other people for extended period of time.
The typical undercover operations the okama marine was used to tended to be short, intelligence gathering or sabotage missions, nothing that required making a favorable, long term impression on people. Criminals were, by nature, on the unpleasant and untalkative side for the most part, which suited the laconic young man well. Now he had to communicate with others.
"It'll be good experience for you, Basqiat," Drill Instructor Arlee had said with the maniacal glee of someone slowly lowering a hated enemy into a vat of acid.
Fog hung over the island as if inhabited by a chain-smoking giant and nicely covered Dagon's own nervous nicotine consumption. The omnipresent fog of Pirate's Market held a nostalgic comfort for the mohawked marine in the long, black skirt and tank top which did little against the cool fall weather of the island. If he was going to be in a terribly uncomfortable situation he intended to at least pick the venue of his torture.
An nondescript boat, the description of which Dagon was forced to memorize reached the dock. Civilian clothes were requested, though the slightly sadistic trainer was amused by the idea of uniformed marines being attacked immediately upon setting foot upon this bastion of piracy.
The half-blind lighthouse keeper yelled down to the blonde marine which broke the latter from his dark musings.
"Training...I swear, Arlee, the next time I see you I'm punching you in the lungs."
When he saw each of his future victims lined up on the dock the impatient instructor barely waited until they each had two steady feet on the ground before yelling.
"Okay, maggots! Grab your gear and follow. Keep up because I'd rather fill out a 'missing persons' report than slow down."
With that, Dagon jogged off into the thick mist of the island. All that could be seen of where he had been was the red/orange light of the lit cigarette that accompanied him.
As far as the cross-dressing Lieutenant was concerned a three mile run in a fog dense enough to inflict emphysema with a tiny guiding light was a short jaunt through a sun-drenched meadow. While Pirate's Market lacked the cute bunnies and butterflies of such meadows, it made up for it with poisonous reptiles and blood-thirsty insects.
The smoking jogger stopped at the wooden porch of an all too familiar dojo which he intended to turn into a forge for indestructible human weapons. The porch stretched further out than the entire inside of the small, wooden house not only because his master thought it was better to train in the elements but also because it was a pleasant place to drink his rum and stare into the dense, foggy forest.
That practitioner of Fishman Karate, Croin Basqiat, a middle-aged human man with an even more apathetic face than his son's lied upon his side with a cup of rum wondering if the people his son was to train had been jumped by pirates or eaten by some beast.
"You don't plan on training them to death, do you, Dagon?" The reluctant trainer's father asked.
Dagon could only shrug at Croin's question and grunt the most noncommittal "Meh." he was capable of.
He had to deal with other people for extended period of time.
The typical undercover operations the okama marine was used to tended to be short, intelligence gathering or sabotage missions, nothing that required making a favorable, long term impression on people. Criminals were, by nature, on the unpleasant and untalkative side for the most part, which suited the laconic young man well. Now he had to communicate with others.
"It'll be good experience for you, Basqiat," Drill Instructor Arlee had said with the maniacal glee of someone slowly lowering a hated enemy into a vat of acid.
Fog hung over the island as if inhabited by a chain-smoking giant and nicely covered Dagon's own nervous nicotine consumption. The omnipresent fog of Pirate's Market held a nostalgic comfort for the mohawked marine in the long, black skirt and tank top which did little against the cool fall weather of the island. If he was going to be in a terribly uncomfortable situation he intended to at least pick the venue of his torture.
An nondescript boat, the description of which Dagon was forced to memorize reached the dock. Civilian clothes were requested, though the slightly sadistic trainer was amused by the idea of uniformed marines being attacked immediately upon setting foot upon this bastion of piracy.
The half-blind lighthouse keeper yelled down to the blonde marine which broke the latter from his dark musings.
"Training...I swear, Arlee, the next time I see you I'm punching you in the lungs."
When he saw each of his future victims lined up on the dock the impatient instructor barely waited until they each had two steady feet on the ground before yelling.
"Okay, maggots! Grab your gear and follow. Keep up because I'd rather fill out a 'missing persons' report than slow down."
With that, Dagon jogged off into the thick mist of the island. All that could be seen of where he had been was the red/orange light of the lit cigarette that accompanied him.
As far as the cross-dressing Lieutenant was concerned a three mile run in a fog dense enough to inflict emphysema with a tiny guiding light was a short jaunt through a sun-drenched meadow. While Pirate's Market lacked the cute bunnies and butterflies of such meadows, it made up for it with poisonous reptiles and blood-thirsty insects.
The smoking jogger stopped at the wooden porch of an all too familiar dojo which he intended to turn into a forge for indestructible human weapons. The porch stretched further out than the entire inside of the small, wooden house not only because his master thought it was better to train in the elements but also because it was a pleasant place to drink his rum and stare into the dense, foggy forest.
That practitioner of Fishman Karate, Croin Basqiat, a middle-aged human man with an even more apathetic face than his son's lied upon his side with a cup of rum wondering if the people his son was to train had been jumped by pirates or eaten by some beast.
"You don't plan on training them to death, do you, Dagon?" The reluctant trainer's father asked.
Dagon could only shrug at Croin's question and grunt the most noncommittal "Meh." he was capable of.