#ft Sherry in the background in another room

[serrennedyanonwriter]

I NEED YOU TO MAKE LEON AND LUIS KISS

Okay.

[presumenothing]

シットポスト.txt

it’s a great day for disappointing everyone i guess (??) ft. @deductionfreak

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All was silent.

Just bare minutes ago, chaos had reigned. Shots had been duly fired in a display fit to rival any army, even if a fair portion of them bore a suspicious resemblance to personal insults and assorted burns.

But now, all but the key players had been taken out, leaving the core members of the Organisation facing off against the FBI (plus CIA! PSB! maybe even MI6 and the KGB? honestly, who was even keeping track by this point) forces. Every last person standing who still had a gun – that was to say, all of them – had one aimed at them as well, and were daring each other to blink first.

Into this knife-edge balance, a final salvo was fired.

The packet of hot pink dye was watched out the corner of many eyes as it flew in a smooth arc to land on Gin’s head and promptly burst.

One now-pink eyebrow very carefully failed to twitch.

“Who did this,” he said in a voice that carried a disproportionate amount of murder for its volume.

(There were competing theories about this – the FBI had bets on some hidden amplification device hidden in his collar, while Interpol and KGB were both voting for “extensive practice in front of a mirror”.)

The silence intensifi-

Slooooorp, went the distinctive sound of a straw finding the bottom of a Starbucks cup.

“Am I late?” asked Shiho (lab coat included) as she walked in, taking another slurp of her pumpkin spice frappe. “See, this is why I quit, there’s just no good coffee anywhere nearby.”

The silence valiantly attempted to reassert itself despite interruptions, though it now carried the distinct spices of autumn and disbelief.

“S-Sherry!? But you’re d-dead!” spluttered someone – Vodka, clearly, since Gin did not splutter and would silence any dissenters with extreme prejudice.

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.” The walking dead reholstered her paint gun with an unbothered expression. “Don’t worry about the dye, by the way, it’ll wash out. Eventually.”

Jodie was the one to ask the question hovering above their heads like a cartoon thundercloud, except pinker. “…eventually?”

“You know,” the apparent zombie said, waving a hand airily before resuming her heated pursuit of the remaining whipped cream in her drink. “Either the dye will come out first, or his hair will. I’m not picky, really.”

Pink eyebrows definitely twitched this time. There was no denying it. “You’re a dead woman, Sherry,” hissed the resident cold-blooded killer, with new and improved murderous intent.

“Don’t be trite, Gin, you already said – I mean, spluttered – that once.” The resurrected scientist shrugged, tossing the empty cup into a conveniently placed dustbin with an elegant overhand throw. “Seriously? I’m, like, immortal now, don’t you have any better threats?”

(There was an extended pause, during which several handphone camera shutters went off in the background, completely failing to obscure the sounds of one highly trained undercover agent dying of laughter in a corner.

You didn’t become a newscaster without recognising good entertainment when you saw it, after all.)

“…I’m going to sue you for hair damages.”

Undead science stifled a wide yawn. “I’m sure the judge will agree that it’s a vast improvement, but whatever. Anyway, I have a front row ticket to Big Osaka’s game later, so you’ll have to excuse me. Text me when you want to sue!”

It was Bourbon’s turn to splutter as she turned to leave. “W-wait! Aren’t you going to help us?”

“And which side would that be, Poirot-waiter-san?” One non-pink eyebrow was raised archly. “Besides, I’m sure you’ll do a better job at this than you did at killing me. Hardly difficult, seeing as you completely failed at that.”

Vermouth whistled in reluctant appreciation as the sandwich specialist devolved into incoherent protests.

There was a caffeineless sigh. “Look, I came here to kick ass and drink coffee, and I’m all out of coffee, so if there’s no further objections…”

Footsteps echoed across the room as Okiya walked over with one of the canned coffees that had been sitting beside his current pot of curry, all without losing aim on his hot pink target.

Higo’s fanclub president took the can and headed for the door. “Right then, I’ll be off. And don’t bother bringing the curry over if you’re not going to salt it properly!”

The door unlocked alongside the sound of a can being opened, and closed back on utter silence, save for the occasional drip of hair dye.

“…is that rice cooker still in the break room, Korn?” asked the voice of Akai Shuuichi. “I think I’m going to need a second opinion on this curry.”

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(no poorly dressed organisations were harmed in the making of this fic. except gin. and bourbon. i don’t like them anyway)