Typo story of the day: The device
Mar. 29th, 2020 11:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyofastolat"No, no, no!" shouted the captain, his voice muffled by his protective suit. "It's got to be stately."
"Sorry, sir," Clint said. He couldn't salute; his right hand was firmly gripped in Corporal Fletcher's left. Fletch was muttering under his breath - one two three, one two three – while staring fiercely at his own feet. Mac was on music duty, making do with la-la-la while searching desperately for appropriate music on his phone.
The device ticked on, entirely the wrong rhythm and tempo. Clint almost tripped. He should probably be wearing a dress for authenticity. Did it matter that he wasn't? Only time would tell. And if it did matter… Well, he wouldn't be around to know about it, would he?
"Jones! Carruthers!" the sergeant bellowed. "You've slipped into a waltz! Abort! Abort!"
"One two three, one two three," Fletch said, "and then a bow. You curtsey," he said unnecessarily, because Clint was already sinking down, spreading imaginary skirts. "Finished one, sir!" Fletch shouted.
Proper music started up, faltering for a moment as the connection was lost, then resuming. Bach, Clint thought, thinking back the mandatory courses on baroque music that they'd all endured in basic training. But no time for memory now. A second's pause, then start on the next dance. Stately, he reminded himself. Fight the desperate urge to rush things. Step forward, a gentle rise, an elegant flourish with the spare hand…
"Another one done!" someone shouted. Was someone counting? Who was counting? Clint couldn't think. He just had to dance, dainty steps in his enormous boots.
"Another one!"
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick, went the device. Louder and louder, no triple rhythm there.
They hadn't done enough! They hadn't—
"It's okay, lads." Lost in his dancing, Clint hadn't even noticed the ticking stop. The captain stood up, peeling off his protective mask. At his feet the device lay silent and inert, its timer frozen barely a whisker from zero. The captain smiled, sweat beading on his brow. "Well done, lads. You did it! We had twenty minuets to stop this thing from going off, and you did it with one minuet to spare."
"Sorry, sir," Clint said. He couldn't salute; his right hand was firmly gripped in Corporal Fletcher's left. Fletch was muttering under his breath - one two three, one two three – while staring fiercely at his own feet. Mac was on music duty, making do with la-la-la while searching desperately for appropriate music on his phone.
The device ticked on, entirely the wrong rhythm and tempo. Clint almost tripped. He should probably be wearing a dress for authenticity. Did it matter that he wasn't? Only time would tell. And if it did matter… Well, he wouldn't be around to know about it, would he?
"Jones! Carruthers!" the sergeant bellowed. "You've slipped into a waltz! Abort! Abort!"
"One two three, one two three," Fletch said, "and then a bow. You curtsey," he said unnecessarily, because Clint was already sinking down, spreading imaginary skirts. "Finished one, sir!" Fletch shouted.
Proper music started up, faltering for a moment as the connection was lost, then resuming. Bach, Clint thought, thinking back the mandatory courses on baroque music that they'd all endured in basic training. But no time for memory now. A second's pause, then start on the next dance. Stately, he reminded himself. Fight the desperate urge to rush things. Step forward, a gentle rise, an elegant flourish with the spare hand…
"Another one done!" someone shouted. Was someone counting? Who was counting? Clint couldn't think. He just had to dance, dainty steps in his enormous boots.
"Another one!"
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick, went the device. Louder and louder, no triple rhythm there.
They hadn't done enough! They hadn't—
"It's okay, lads." Lost in his dancing, Clint hadn't even noticed the ticking stop. The captain stood up, peeling off his protective mask. At his feet the device lay silent and inert, its timer frozen barely a whisker from zero. The captain smiled, sweat beading on his brow. "Well done, lads. You did it! We had twenty minuets to stop this thing from going off, and you did it with one minuet to spare."
