I love you all for reviewing this story, and it wasn't supposed to
continue, but I decided to
write another chapter dedicated to all you lovely reviewers! Vampiric
Hermit: you
reviewed my fic, What was Lost, right? So cool! Thanks again Cathy Barton
for letting
me post this. (Cathy Barton: Since I'm posting this, I believe I have the
right to say that I
contributed many ideas to this chapter! Yay! I get credit! But of course,
Foxfire did the
actual writing part...) I'm afraid this chapter may be even more twisted
than the last ^^;;;
*************************
Part 2: No Dough:
It was a very eventful night. I think all three of them would agree.
I say three, of
course, because Wufei was still on the mend from Duo's experiments with
liquor and
was unconscious throughout the experience. Trowa and Quatre spent nearly
two hours
singing a song with Duo, who told them it would piss Heero off so much
that he'd
have to let them inside for the night. Well, after about twenty two rounds
of The song
that never ends, it ended . . . with the help of about 15 rapid-fire
gunshots from
Heero's window. Luckily, there were no casualties, and all three of them
decided that
they would retire to the back of the house for the night. They had almost
forgotten Wufei,
but Trowa grabbed him and slung the Chinese boy over his shoulder before
heading off
with the other two.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ The next morning _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
"Uh, Duo?" Trowa asked surprisingly as he opened his eyes to the braided
pilot who was
still in a very-deep sleep, and currently clutching to Wufei like a teddy
bear.
"Ugh. . . Maxwell!" Wufei, the light sleeper, opened his eyes as the living
plush toy and
tried to get up, but quickly laid back down at the sharp pain in his head,
"Damn!" He
hissed.
". . . Hangover. . ." Trowa said solemnly to himself before Quatre popped
out from behind, realizing that they were all covered in dirt and grass
from sleeping in it
the whole night.
"Do you think Heero would let me in to just take a quick shower?" Quatre
asked hopefully.
"What do you think?" Trowa asked sarcastically, motioning to a bullet shell
that rested
aside them in the grass.
"Yeah. . .I almost forgot," Quatre answered, "We have to find a way to get
Heero a new
laptop!" The Arabian said defiantly, stamping his foot into the ground as
he rose to his
feet.
"Well, you're one to talk," The black-haired one clutched his head, trying
vainly
to escape from Duo's teddy-bear grasp. "You're the one with the money,
and you got us into this mess in the first place. Why don't you get him a
new
laptop? . . . And get the Hell off me Maxwell!!!" He fumed, awakening the
braided boy,
who quickly released Wufei and looked around, a bit disheveled. "Sorry,"
Quatre shook his head, "Father cancelled my credit card last month because
he can't
afford to have the extra expenditure on his hands. The only other option
would be to
work."
"But we already tried that!" Duo whined, getting up and into the swing of
things,
unwinding his loose braid to re-tie it again.
"And you ruined it!" Wufei pouted, "Injustice! That is why I have this
headache. Now we
must find jobs and OZ will find us and crush us all."
"Not if we think strategically!"Quatre suggested, "You see, certain jobs
wouldn't attract
attention from that audience. We have to look to those solutions."
"Well. . . what did you have in mind?" Trowa raised his visible eyebrow
dangerously high.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
After 10 minutes of thought and threatening katanas, they finally reached a
conclusion.
Duo thought that Wufei's job was funny as hell, seeing as he suggested it,
but didn't say
so for fear of his life, because even as weak as it was, our Chinese pilot
had
been sentenced by the other three to the wonderful world of fast food. They
had dragged
the irate boy all the way from the safehouse for him to get an audition. He
didn't pass the
examination, but the fast food place really needed the help, so they let
him have the job
despite the death threats.
"Injustice! Why must I wear an apron?!" Wufei hissed to himself, and the
manager shot a
disapproving glare towards the new worker. The Chinese boy grumbled,
quietly thinking
about several excruciatingly painful ways to kill the American for
suggesting this. No self-
respecting OZ soldier would come here, but Gundam pilots were,
unfortunately, a
separate matter when motivated by the threat of Quatre going ZERO again.
And for that,
Wufei stood at the microphone leading to the drive-thru window wearing a
rather
ridiculous employee outfit, foreign to the Gundam pilot who was so
accustomed to his
clan's traditional white.
"Hello?" The microphone spoke to the Chinese boy, "Hello. . .?"
"You're such a weakling for coming to this weak place! Learn how to cook!"
Wufei yelled
over the speaker.
"Yeah. . .uh. . ."The male voice stuttered, I'll have the number 2 chicken
special, I think."
"Ha!" Wufei snorted indignantly over the speaker, "Chicken is weak! You
must
have beef if you have any sense of integrity!"
". . . . . . . . . But I like chicken." the customer protested.
"~grr~ You weakling!" Wufei pulled out the infamous katana and pointed it
threateningly at
the microphone, at which point the manager chose to walk into the room,
"Drive around
to the window, and I'll show you the effects of good hearty beef, chicken
boy!" A car was
seen rushing past the drive-thru window behind Wufei, as the frightened
driver drove for
what was probably his life.
"Ahem?" The manager coughed over WufeiâEs shoulder, and the Chinese boy
narrowed his eyes, sharpening them on the new target.
"BEEF, IT'S WHAT'S FOR DINNER, WEAKLING!!!" Wufei screamed, chasing the
manager around the kitchen with the katana for a couple of minutes, of
which we know
nothing, before he chose to walk out of the building altogether, smirking.
"Justice has been served. . ."
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Meanwhile, Duo had been wisely advised to start his own business. Preferably something that didn't have an appeal to OZ. So, Duo had taken what was left of the tablecloth from the lemonade stand and draped it over a few tree branches in the local park. He had borrowed a pair of fluffy Arabian pants from Quatre and had taken off his shirt (Yes, Duo is topless. All fangirls are free to drool and/or swoon so long as you regain consciousness at some point to finish the fic). There, he sat cross-legged, waiting for someone to walk into his booth. Sign reads: "Mr. Cleo; psychic predictor of the future" A woman passerby read the sign and drew open the tablecloth to reveal the braided one, in a deep, fake, and did I mention convincing meditation. "Mr. Cleo?" She asked, waving a hand in front of his face. Duo opened one eye to her and then the other. "You have come to seek my council." He said, "Give me silver, and I will tell your future." He said, mesmerizing the audience with a lazy voice and the ever-evident smirk of pleasure with his diabolically twisted mind. "Will a dollar work?" She asked quickly, pulling one from her pocket. "Sure." Duo said in a sing-song voice, snapping out of his persona, and snapping back in quickly as he spread his hands and shaped them into "OK" signs, taking deep yoga breaths as if "tapping-into" the "distant beyond." "I see. . ." he looked to the ceiling of the plastic tablecloth tent, "I see . . . a bus!" "Yes?" She urged him on. "And there's a young and handsome man on this bus." He smiled evilly. "Go on!" She bit her lip hopefully. ". . . And the bus is coming toward you and just ran you over!!!" Duo threw back his head in a diabolical laugh, "MUAHAHAHAHA! . . . next?" He asked sweetly. Queued customers: O.o _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Quatre had chosen a slightly different behind-the-scenes job, himself, where OZ wouldn't find him. He had had other cooking experience and the job was decently paying so he decided to apply and got the position. "Okay, we need two steaks with fries on table two and three salads." The waitress yelled into the window where Quatre (in a cute, white chef's hat) was busily cooking mashed potatoes, "You got all that, Winner?" The waitress asked. "Coming right up!" The Arab smiled contentedly, pulling out more potatoes for frying and a head of lettuce that he quickly began to pull apart. In a few minutes, there were soon three full plates of lettuce and cabbage that Quatre had topped with his home-made dressing. One of the kitchen helpers looked at the salads that their new chef had put out for serving. "You might want something else on those salads, man." The teenager told Quatre. "Oh, you're right." The Arab said, taking back the salads and shredding a carrot and cut up a tomato. He promptly put them back. "Now, man, you need some cucumber." The guy said, tossing the vegetable over to the chef. "Cu. . . Cu . . . Cucumber?" Quatre stuttered, jumping away from the counter, with flashes of the dancing cucumber on Heero's laptop still fresh in his mind. "Yo, what's your problem, dude?" the teenage kitchen helper waved a hand in front of the traumatized face. Quatre stared at the cucumber, and he saw it jump up and start to dance. Quatre blinked, before becoming absolutely terrified. "Dude, just slice-up the cucumber!" The kitchen helper said, while Quatre pointed a frightened finger at the vegetable. "I can't. It . . . It's dancing!" He shouted, trembling before the hallucination. "Yo, the new guy went mental, just like the last one!" The teen yelled calmly back to the manager, who mumbled something about, "dang kids and their drugs." With that, the manager quickly coaxed the shivering Quatre out the door, who tried in vain to tell him about the dancing cucumber. The manager just smiled and nodded, writing him off a check for 8 dollars for the hour he served them and waved goodbye, leaving a stunned Quatre facing the door to the restaurant, shivering with day-mares of cucumbers. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Let's see if Trowa's having any more luck, shall we? _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Quatre had told Trowa, as he had Duo, to find some way of starting an independent business. . . but he was never one to listen to orders. The stoic pilot had spent the last hour on the front steps of the safehouse watching the cars ride by, and eventually decided to take a walk. But no sooner had he started then he spotted the lemonade stand. "Hmm. . ." He picked up the pitcher, "Wufei said he liked it. . ." The bangled boy pondered a moment. "Eh, why not?" Trowa took a sip He blinked. "Hey, it is good." He stared at the yellowy liquid and that stoic face of his twisted into a devious smile. Whistling happily, he grabbed a bottle of vodka and began to restore Duo's creation. (as the camera zooms out, we can hear a crash of thunder as Trowa flings his head back.
_ _ _ _ _ _Back at the safehouse: Stage 2 laptop withdrawal: anger _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _
It took Heero three hours to realize that the chocolate ice cream container in his hands was completely empty, and he cursed quietly in Japanese as he became bored again. Leaving the ice cream container on the living room floor, he headed to his desk that usually had his laptop on it. During the next hour, Heero attempted to rebuild the rest of his laptop with various household items, being the genius he was. This included an experiment with toothpicks and a large quantity of that hair gel that Wufei and Trowa like so much, but it didn't work. He tried taking various bits of scrap metals from Duo's collection of salvaged parts and melting them together with the hairdryer. This also was in vain. Soon, Heero's fingers began to twitch involuntarily, and all Heero could do was sit back and watch them type away. It was frightening, to say the least. And then, after all hope was lost, he took to staring into the desk. We have no clue why, or what he was looking for, but he was just staring. Staring . . . One minute later: Staring . . . blinks . . . Ten minutes later: Staring . . . motion operated light turns off . . . darkness. . . more staring. . . Okay, so we're not exactly sure how long Heero stared at the desk, but the unusual silence was definitely starting to go to his head, so he turned on the TV so at least there would be some noise in the room. This was probably not the best idea, because as soon as he turned it on, a commercial for the new DELL laptop came on with that same annoying salesman. The Japanese pilot stared at the screen angrily. "Dude, I had a DELL!!" Heero whipped out the infamous pistol from the depths of his spandex, "Omae o korosu!!!" He fired at the annoying salesman who just said "dude" for the last time. Heero smirked contentedly at the sizzling television before going back to the desk. _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ************************** A/N (Foxfire): O.o I'm definitely having way- too much fun writing this. I'm scared of myself. Anyway, let's check our stats, here: Duo: Psychic predictor of death Wufei: Thinks chicken is weak Quatre: Still traumatized by "veggie tales" Trowa: Putting consumer ignorance to better use Heero: State of denial
Meanwhile, Duo had been wisely advised to start his own business. Preferably something that didn't have an appeal to OZ. So, Duo had taken what was left of the tablecloth from the lemonade stand and draped it over a few tree branches in the local park. He had borrowed a pair of fluffy Arabian pants from Quatre and had taken off his shirt (Yes, Duo is topless. All fangirls are free to drool and/or swoon so long as you regain consciousness at some point to finish the fic). There, he sat cross-legged, waiting for someone to walk into his booth. Sign reads: "Mr. Cleo; psychic predictor of the future" A woman passerby read the sign and drew open the tablecloth to reveal the braided one, in a deep, fake, and did I mention convincing meditation. "Mr. Cleo?" She asked, waving a hand in front of his face. Duo opened one eye to her and then the other. "You have come to seek my council." He said, "Give me silver, and I will tell your future." He said, mesmerizing the audience with a lazy voice and the ever-evident smirk of pleasure with his diabolically twisted mind. "Will a dollar work?" She asked quickly, pulling one from her pocket. "Sure." Duo said in a sing-song voice, snapping out of his persona, and snapping back in quickly as he spread his hands and shaped them into "OK" signs, taking deep yoga breaths as if "tapping-into" the "distant beyond." "I see. . ." he looked to the ceiling of the plastic tablecloth tent, "I see . . . a bus!" "Yes?" She urged him on. "And there's a young and handsome man on this bus." He smiled evilly. "Go on!" She bit her lip hopefully. ". . . And the bus is coming toward you and just ran you over!!!" Duo threw back his head in a diabolical laugh, "MUAHAHAHAHA! . . . next?" He asked sweetly. Queued customers: O.o _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Quatre had chosen a slightly different behind-the-scenes job, himself, where OZ wouldn't find him. He had had other cooking experience and the job was decently paying so he decided to apply and got the position. "Okay, we need two steaks with fries on table two and three salads." The waitress yelled into the window where Quatre (in a cute, white chef's hat) was busily cooking mashed potatoes, "You got all that, Winner?" The waitress asked. "Coming right up!" The Arab smiled contentedly, pulling out more potatoes for frying and a head of lettuce that he quickly began to pull apart. In a few minutes, there were soon three full plates of lettuce and cabbage that Quatre had topped with his home-made dressing. One of the kitchen helpers looked at the salads that their new chef had put out for serving. "You might want something else on those salads, man." The teenager told Quatre. "Oh, you're right." The Arab said, taking back the salads and shredding a carrot and cut up a tomato. He promptly put them back. "Now, man, you need some cucumber." The guy said, tossing the vegetable over to the chef. "Cu. . . Cu . . . Cucumber?" Quatre stuttered, jumping away from the counter, with flashes of the dancing cucumber on Heero's laptop still fresh in his mind. "Yo, what's your problem, dude?" the teenage kitchen helper waved a hand in front of the traumatized face. Quatre stared at the cucumber, and he saw it jump up and start to dance. Quatre blinked, before becoming absolutely terrified. "Dude, just slice-up the cucumber!" The kitchen helper said, while Quatre pointed a frightened finger at the vegetable. "I can't. It . . . It's dancing!" He shouted, trembling before the hallucination. "Yo, the new guy went mental, just like the last one!" The teen yelled calmly back to the manager, who mumbled something about, "dang kids and their drugs." With that, the manager quickly coaxed the shivering Quatre out the door, who tried in vain to tell him about the dancing cucumber. The manager just smiled and nodded, writing him off a check for 8 dollars for the hour he served them and waved goodbye, leaving a stunned Quatre facing the door to the restaurant, shivering with day-mares of cucumbers. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Let's see if Trowa's having any more luck, shall we? _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Quatre had told Trowa, as he had Duo, to find some way of starting an independent business. . . but he was never one to listen to orders. The stoic pilot had spent the last hour on the front steps of the safehouse watching the cars ride by, and eventually decided to take a walk. But no sooner had he started then he spotted the lemonade stand. "Hmm. . ." He picked up the pitcher, "Wufei said he liked it. . ." The bangled boy pondered a moment. "Eh, why not?" Trowa took a sip He blinked. "Hey, it is good." He stared at the yellowy liquid and that stoic face of his twisted into a devious smile. Whistling happily, he grabbed a bottle of vodka and began to restore Duo's creation. (as the camera zooms out, we can hear a crash of thunder as Trowa flings his head back.
_ _ _ _ _ _Back at the safehouse: Stage 2 laptop withdrawal: anger _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _
It took Heero three hours to realize that the chocolate ice cream container in his hands was completely empty, and he cursed quietly in Japanese as he became bored again. Leaving the ice cream container on the living room floor, he headed to his desk that usually had his laptop on it. During the next hour, Heero attempted to rebuild the rest of his laptop with various household items, being the genius he was. This included an experiment with toothpicks and a large quantity of that hair gel that Wufei and Trowa like so much, but it didn't work. He tried taking various bits of scrap metals from Duo's collection of salvaged parts and melting them together with the hairdryer. This also was in vain. Soon, Heero's fingers began to twitch involuntarily, and all Heero could do was sit back and watch them type away. It was frightening, to say the least. And then, after all hope was lost, he took to staring into the desk. We have no clue why, or what he was looking for, but he was just staring. Staring . . . One minute later: Staring . . . blinks . . . Ten minutes later: Staring . . . motion operated light turns off . . . darkness. . . more staring. . . Okay, so we're not exactly sure how long Heero stared at the desk, but the unusual silence was definitely starting to go to his head, so he turned on the TV so at least there would be some noise in the room. This was probably not the best idea, because as soon as he turned it on, a commercial for the new DELL laptop came on with that same annoying salesman. The Japanese pilot stared at the screen angrily. "Dude, I had a DELL!!" Heero whipped out the infamous pistol from the depths of his spandex, "Omae o korosu!!!" He fired at the annoying salesman who just said "dude" for the last time. Heero smirked contentedly at the sizzling television before going back to the desk. _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ************************** A/N (Foxfire): O.o I'm definitely having way- too much fun writing this. I'm scared of myself. Anyway, let's check our stats, here: Duo: Psychic predictor of death Wufei: Thinks chicken is weak Quatre: Still traumatized by "veggie tales" Trowa: Putting consumer ignorance to better use Heero: State of denial