Barbie Doll Breakout
Apr. 6th, 2008 08:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i_am_tl_drTitle: Barbie Doll Breakout
Character: Dewey Ceinion
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 906
Notes:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
itsproductivity 4/2: "I would like to make an exchange."
It is not policy to deal with hostage-takers.
Sometimes you have to give the finger to policy and do what has to be done.
"Let the girls go, and I'll take their place." Dewey's partner slices a finger across his throat, shoots a the fuck are you doing? look at him. Dewey thinks that it's a moronic idea to have a young girls' beauty pageant in Las Vegas, and the fact that a gunman's got thirty tiny Barbie dolls pinned down with a semiautomatic in his hands is just proof. "This'll look real good for you if you just cooperate," Dewey continues, voice even and calm. "Trust me, just let them go."
Three pint-sized blonds are sobbing, mascara running down their baby cheeks. It's ridiculous, this entire scene, and the acne-scarred villain of this Disney-gone-wrong pageant looks confused, the point of his gun scanning across the line of girls even as he looks at Dewey.
"Please, point the gun down," Dewey manages to convince him to do that, at least. "Look. I'm unarmed..." He sets his gun down in the doorway, gives it a nudge against the wall. He drops his suit coat by the gun, unbuckles his shoulder holster and drops that too. "There. No guns. How about this, you let half of them go, you can frisk me if you like, make sure I'm telling the truth, and then we can let the rest out?"
"I-- I don't know about that," the boy says, but he looks over at the girls and his face wrinkles. "Uh. Okay, half of them."
"All right." Dewey turns to the girls, keeping his profile small to the gun, and smiles encouragingly. "Hello, ladies. You've been very brave. Now, I need some of you to be brave for me some more, can you do that?" A few nods, little curled heads bobbing. Some of these girls have been taking this like an adventure-- and some of them have wet themselves. Brilliant. "Okay. Anyone who's brave enough, take a step back." Six of them back up, and ten of them step forward; one of them launches herself at Dewey's knees. "Shh, s'allright," he murmurs, petting her hair down. "Shhh. All right."
"Just... all of them but those," the boy says, waving at the frightened clump around Dewey. "Get them out." The girls run out of the room, caught and quieted by some of Las Vegas's finest. The five who stay clutch each other's hands. "You, put your hands on the wall," he orders Dewey, and he sets the gun on the floor to pat at the detective's sides.
"My name's Dewey Ceinion." The kid moves down his legs; Dewey's never been the type for an ankle holster, though. "What's yours?"
"Kennedy." He pats Dewey's back, his pockets, and feels along the side seam of the vest under Dewey's shirts, and picks his gun up. "What are you, British or something?"
"Welsh." Twenty years in the states and his accent's still hanging on; it's surprisingly helpful on the dating scene, but sometimes distracting on the job. "Now, Kennedy, can you tell me why you're doing this? What do you want out of today?" Kennedy shoves the small of his back, and Dewey grimaces, but lets the kid's alpha-male posturing go.
"I want this bullshit to stop," he says, whiny with stress, "I want these pageants, all this, it needs to end! These are kids, not dolls, they're all gonna-- they're gonna end up like--"
"You said a bad word," one of the girls says, bold and shocked. "Your mom's gonna smack your mouth."
"No, she won't," Kennedy says, looking at the girl-- not with a mean, I'm-gonna-shoot-you face, but something almost sympathetic. "I'm trying to save you, okay? Just hush and let the big boys talk."
"What happened to your sister?" Dewey says quietly. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure this kid out, and he knows he hit the mark when Kennedy's face crumples.
"She won six of these things and then she starved herself to death trying to make Miss Nevada." He waves; the only things shot up are the stage and the judges' table, the boxes of sashes and tiaras and plaques shredded through. "They're fucking these kids up! It needs to end!"
"Hey, I agree with you." Dewey's hands spread, a calming motion. "You're right. But this isn't the way to make them stop, okay? You scared a lot of little girls here, Kennedy. It's not their faults." He steps closer, slowly, and exhales in relief when Kennedy doesn't lift his gun. "Nobody got hurt here today. This can end all right for you, Kennedy. Just give me your gun." At this range, he can see the blemishes on the kid's skin, the rings under his eyes, the patchy stubble-- kid is right, he can't be over nineteen-- and he can see the way Kennedy's shoulders tense half a second before he starts to bring the gun up, not in a nice way.
Dewey knows eight ways to disarm a person. He's not fast enough to keep a bullet from grazing his leg, but he bites his cheek and wrenches the gun from Kennedy. He dimly registers the rush of other officers into the room, the shrieks of the girls, Kennedy's grunts as Dewey's partner punches him. Most of his attention is on his thigh, the long shallow cut drawn diagonal through my favorite pants, damn, blood hot under his hands, and the thought that hey, no one died.
Good enough job.
Character: Dewey Ceinion
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 906
Notes:
itsproductivity 4/2: "I would like to make an exchange."It is not policy to deal with hostage-takers.
Sometimes you have to give the finger to policy and do what has to be done.
"Let the girls go, and I'll take their place." Dewey's partner slices a finger across his throat, shoots a the fuck are you doing? look at him. Dewey thinks that it's a moronic idea to have a young girls' beauty pageant in Las Vegas, and the fact that a gunman's got thirty tiny Barbie dolls pinned down with a semiautomatic in his hands is just proof. "This'll look real good for you if you just cooperate," Dewey continues, voice even and calm. "Trust me, just let them go."
Three pint-sized blonds are sobbing, mascara running down their baby cheeks. It's ridiculous, this entire scene, and the acne-scarred villain of this Disney-gone-wrong pageant looks confused, the point of his gun scanning across the line of girls even as he looks at Dewey.
"Please, point the gun down," Dewey manages to convince him to do that, at least. "Look. I'm unarmed..." He sets his gun down in the doorway, gives it a nudge against the wall. He drops his suit coat by the gun, unbuckles his shoulder holster and drops that too. "There. No guns. How about this, you let half of them go, you can frisk me if you like, make sure I'm telling the truth, and then we can let the rest out?"
"I-- I don't know about that," the boy says, but he looks over at the girls and his face wrinkles. "Uh. Okay, half of them."
"All right." Dewey turns to the girls, keeping his profile small to the gun, and smiles encouragingly. "Hello, ladies. You've been very brave. Now, I need some of you to be brave for me some more, can you do that?" A few nods, little curled heads bobbing. Some of these girls have been taking this like an adventure-- and some of them have wet themselves. Brilliant. "Okay. Anyone who's brave enough, take a step back." Six of them back up, and ten of them step forward; one of them launches herself at Dewey's knees. "Shh, s'allright," he murmurs, petting her hair down. "Shhh. All right."
"Just... all of them but those," the boy says, waving at the frightened clump around Dewey. "Get them out." The girls run out of the room, caught and quieted by some of Las Vegas's finest. The five who stay clutch each other's hands. "You, put your hands on the wall," he orders Dewey, and he sets the gun on the floor to pat at the detective's sides.
"My name's Dewey Ceinion." The kid moves down his legs; Dewey's never been the type for an ankle holster, though. "What's yours?"
"Kennedy." He pats Dewey's back, his pockets, and feels along the side seam of the vest under Dewey's shirts, and picks his gun up. "What are you, British or something?"
"Welsh." Twenty years in the states and his accent's still hanging on; it's surprisingly helpful on the dating scene, but sometimes distracting on the job. "Now, Kennedy, can you tell me why you're doing this? What do you want out of today?" Kennedy shoves the small of his back, and Dewey grimaces, but lets the kid's alpha-male posturing go.
"I want this bullshit to stop," he says, whiny with stress, "I want these pageants, all this, it needs to end! These are kids, not dolls, they're all gonna-- they're gonna end up like--"
"You said a bad word," one of the girls says, bold and shocked. "Your mom's gonna smack your mouth."
"No, she won't," Kennedy says, looking at the girl-- not with a mean, I'm-gonna-shoot-you face, but something almost sympathetic. "I'm trying to save you, okay? Just hush and let the big boys talk."
"What happened to your sister?" Dewey says quietly. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure this kid out, and he knows he hit the mark when Kennedy's face crumples.
"She won six of these things and then she starved herself to death trying to make Miss Nevada." He waves; the only things shot up are the stage and the judges' table, the boxes of sashes and tiaras and plaques shredded through. "They're fucking these kids up! It needs to end!"
"Hey, I agree with you." Dewey's hands spread, a calming motion. "You're right. But this isn't the way to make them stop, okay? You scared a lot of little girls here, Kennedy. It's not their faults." He steps closer, slowly, and exhales in relief when Kennedy doesn't lift his gun. "Nobody got hurt here today. This can end all right for you, Kennedy. Just give me your gun." At this range, he can see the blemishes on the kid's skin, the rings under his eyes, the patchy stubble-- kid is right, he can't be over nineteen-- and he can see the way Kennedy's shoulders tense half a second before he starts to bring the gun up, not in a nice way.
Dewey knows eight ways to disarm a person. He's not fast enough to keep a bullet from grazing his leg, but he bites his cheek and wrenches the gun from Kennedy. He dimly registers the rush of other officers into the room, the shrieks of the girls, Kennedy's grunts as Dewey's partner punches him. Most of his attention is on his thigh, the long shallow cut drawn diagonal through my favorite pants, damn, blood hot under his hands, and the thought that hey, no one died.
Good enough job.
