The spinner, a ridiculously technological analogue of the classic cardboard and plastic original, cycled through a spectrum so grim as to make even Mr. Poe smirk. The needle, a maser-compressed sliver of Drakkanite--whatever that was!--flashed by the circular arrangement of four concisely formed crystalline bubbles of exotic, electromagnetically fluoresced gasses to stop at the particularly moody damask gas. Van Loan’s voice, world-weary and desolate to the point of hilarity, sounded from within the super-over-engineered device : “ Left hand, Dead Rose.”
Five left hands, nails lacquered all of the penumbral shades of the loli-goth rainbow, scuttled listlessly for their assigned perches. The gordian goth knot of girls wavered ; Shego, who had been observing, the merest hint of a smile on her lips, lowered her sinister hand with gunfighter delicacy to hover an electron’s width over a beautifully self-explanatory button fashioned out of the miniature lightning storm of a plasma sphere. “Shocker isn’t just to prevent me from getting into a game of legal Twister (tm) : it’s the game!” That gave the necessary impetus to finally begin the team soldering process.
Dies Irae, the eldest and by far the most gothic of the lot, cast a baleful glance at the sparking button ; snapped the stygian shackles of self-absorption with her very first attempts at command.
“Umbra, stiffen your spine ; take the load!” The burly black frills in the midst of the tortured tangle looked surprised, affronted and grudgingly compliant all in about three millionths of a second. Astounding thews were flexed, laughable seams were popped ; the House of Usherettes did not fall.
Shego felt a sophisticated spate of sentiments : glee at finally awakening an Alpha Goth ; vexation at not being able to convey the conditioning amperage ; surprise that her tactics were actually paying off. During this moment of emotive tension, Irae continued, with a little more verve, to direct her goth gang.
“Pitchy, bring your left hand around behind Nocturne Raven’s posterior. Stygia, Nocturne...go to your happy places.”
The junior member of the nascent team, arched in the manner of an angry kitten, grumbled something unseemly in Japanese as she stretched her digits successfully towards the target colour on the game-mat. With this final effective body part placement the game-board lit-up with a brief victory peal that was an unholy combination of Close Encounters, Chopin’s Funeral March and the latest smash-hit of the all-catgirl pop-band, Sugar Rush. Stygia, the token vampire-goth, mumbled something inarticulate as her face was embedded within Nocturne Raven’s considerable décolletage. Raven’s comment was a very audible, very put out : “ My moons! “ With solidity reestablished, Dies Irae made her first official leadership mistake.
“Relax, Umbra, we’re fast.” The goth grrrl unclenched ; Shego’s emotional state simplified abruptly to relish.
“Don’t relax,” She depressed the electrically arcing button ; the structure of girls collapsed under the strain of a relatively mild electrical current. “until you know you’re clear. Clear?”
****
The montage was both impressive and asinine. Five depressingly attired monochromatic cuties worked with ever increasing efficiency and teamwork through a crazed routine of invasive-electrode party games. Van Loan, seated on his real-Nauga-hide couch, (It was like skinning Where the Wild Things Are!), an arm around Wandblume, watched his girlfriend’s video compilation.
“Honey, you’ve created the most fearsome Dance Dance Commando unit ever assembled!” Indeed, on the giant wall screen in Van Loan’s den, the five members of Goth Action Freedom Force completed a flawless coordinated battle-ballet set at the fearsome Max-Dance-Maven setting. “They’ll own the party-game circuit, but that’s about it.” It really wasn’t a mistake until he rolled his eyes. She bopped him in the face with a tacky macramé throw-cushion bearing the slogan, ‘ "I didn't think; I experimented."— Anthony Burgess.’ “Would you prefer if they goose-stepped?”
Van Loan couldn’t help himself : he channelled his inner Dell Rusk. “Nein!” His German accent was muffled by the pillow. “But vhat vill they be gut vor ?”
Wandblume,playing along, adopted a fairly decent Marlene Dietrich. “Mein liebchen (darling), the only volk (folk) that my girls are going to resent more than me by the end of their training will be the bastarde (bastards) eagerly awaiting their delivery.”
Van Loan removed the cushion from his blue mug; threw his other arm around his girl. “What a beautiful Proof of Concept!” He kissed her enthusiastically ; received, from her, ample and energetic proof of the First law of thermodynamics.
***
Togusa, well into her third tallboy, watched the unfolding couch-olympics with an air of familiarity that was almost not quite at all voyeuristic. The conversation had been subtle enough that the tipsy, forlorn, and more than slightly horny Intelligence asset had missed Wandblume’s ‘Tora! Tora!Tora!’ moment. Togusa, also known as Jodie Starling, gave a weepy sigh that covered, once again, any noise caused by the entrance of Batou. Rotating his faux cybernetic eye implants in his right hand as if they were Baoding balls, Batou’s actual eyes assessed the sad scene. He rested the large hand that wasn’t engaged in prop juggling companionably upon the shoulder of the very distracted girl. She startled slightly ; turned to look into the eyes that were in Batou’s head ; turned the waterworks on for real.
Batou found himself saying the usual, stolid nonsense as he cradled the hysterical Starling.
“That’s it : a good cry and we can get back to being...” She surged up and locked a desperate buss on his lips.
***Eleven hours later, Batou, sitting up in bed next to the snoring Starling, finally got to finish his statement : “...professional.” He snapped his eyepieces into place to hide the ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ expression.
***
“How interesting, Mikuru!” There was a slightly breathy quality to the voice.
There was no mistaking the elevated heart rate in the utterance of the other. “Yes, we may not be minions much longer, Yayoi!”
Five left hands, nails lacquered all of the penumbral shades of the loli-goth rainbow, scuttled listlessly for their assigned perches. The gordian goth knot of girls wavered ; Shego, who had been observing, the merest hint of a smile on her lips, lowered her sinister hand with gunfighter delicacy to hover an electron’s width over a beautifully self-explanatory button fashioned out of the miniature lightning storm of a plasma sphere. “Shocker isn’t just to prevent me from getting into a game of legal Twister (tm) : it’s the game!” That gave the necessary impetus to finally begin the team soldering process.
Dies Irae, the eldest and by far the most gothic of the lot, cast a baleful glance at the sparking button ; snapped the stygian shackles of self-absorption with her very first attempts at command.
“Umbra, stiffen your spine ; take the load!” The burly black frills in the midst of the tortured tangle looked surprised, affronted and grudgingly compliant all in about three millionths of a second. Astounding thews were flexed, laughable seams were popped ; the House of Usherettes did not fall.
Shego felt a sophisticated spate of sentiments : glee at finally awakening an Alpha Goth ; vexation at not being able to convey the conditioning amperage ; surprise that her tactics were actually paying off. During this moment of emotive tension, Irae continued, with a little more verve, to direct her goth gang.
“Pitchy, bring your left hand around behind Nocturne Raven’s posterior. Stygia, Nocturne...go to your happy places.”
The junior member of the nascent team, arched in the manner of an angry kitten, grumbled something unseemly in Japanese as she stretched her digits successfully towards the target colour on the game-mat. With this final effective body part placement the game-board lit-up with a brief victory peal that was an unholy combination of Close Encounters, Chopin’s Funeral March and the latest smash-hit of the all-catgirl pop-band, Sugar Rush. Stygia, the token vampire-goth, mumbled something inarticulate as her face was embedded within Nocturne Raven’s considerable décolletage. Raven’s comment was a very audible, very put out : “ My moons! “ With solidity reestablished, Dies Irae made her first official leadership mistake.
“Relax, Umbra, we’re fast.” The goth grrrl unclenched ; Shego’s emotional state simplified abruptly to relish.
“Don’t relax,” She depressed the electrically arcing button ; the structure of girls collapsed under the strain of a relatively mild electrical current. “until you know you’re clear. Clear?”
****
The montage was both impressive and asinine. Five depressingly attired monochromatic cuties worked with ever increasing efficiency and teamwork through a crazed routine of invasive-electrode party games. Van Loan, seated on his real-Nauga-hide couch, (It was like skinning Where the Wild Things Are!), an arm around Wandblume, watched his girlfriend’s video compilation.
“Honey, you’ve created the most fearsome Dance Dance Commando unit ever assembled!” Indeed, on the giant wall screen in Van Loan’s den, the five members of Goth Action Freedom Force completed a flawless coordinated battle-ballet set at the fearsome Max-Dance-Maven setting. “They’ll own the party-game circuit, but that’s about it.” It really wasn’t a mistake until he rolled his eyes. She bopped him in the face with a tacky macramé throw-cushion bearing the slogan, ‘ "I didn't think; I experimented."— Anthony Burgess.’ “Would you prefer if they goose-stepped?”
Van Loan couldn’t help himself : he channelled his inner Dell Rusk. “Nein!” His German accent was muffled by the pillow. “But vhat vill they be gut vor ?”
Wandblume,playing along, adopted a fairly decent Marlene Dietrich. “Mein liebchen (darling), the only volk (folk) that my girls are going to resent more than me by the end of their training will be the bastarde (bastards) eagerly awaiting their delivery.”
Van Loan removed the cushion from his blue mug; threw his other arm around his girl. “What a beautiful Proof of Concept!” He kissed her enthusiastically ; received, from her, ample and energetic proof of the First law of thermodynamics.
***
Togusa, well into her third tallboy, watched the unfolding couch-olympics with an air of familiarity that was almost not quite at all voyeuristic. The conversation had been subtle enough that the tipsy, forlorn, and more than slightly horny Intelligence asset had missed Wandblume’s ‘Tora! Tora!Tora!’ moment. Togusa, also known as Jodie Starling, gave a weepy sigh that covered, once again, any noise caused by the entrance of Batou. Rotating his faux cybernetic eye implants in his right hand as if they were Baoding balls, Batou’s actual eyes assessed the sad scene. He rested the large hand that wasn’t engaged in prop juggling companionably upon the shoulder of the very distracted girl. She startled slightly ; turned to look into the eyes that were in Batou’s head ; turned the waterworks on for real.
Batou found himself saying the usual, stolid nonsense as he cradled the hysterical Starling.
“That’s it : a good cry and we can get back to being...” She surged up and locked a desperate buss on his lips.
***Eleven hours later, Batou, sitting up in bed next to the snoring Starling, finally got to finish his statement : “...professional.” He snapped his eyepieces into place to hide the ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ expression.
***
“How interesting, Mikuru!” There was a slightly breathy quality to the voice.
There was no mistaking the elevated heart rate in the utterance of the other. “Yes, we may not be minions much longer, Yayoi!”