Post by House of Mystery on Feb 25, 2016 23:32:40 GMT
I'd love to tell you folks that I spent almost two weeks polishing this to perfection, but I only started it this afternoon after I'd kicked out a half-dozen ideas that were probably more interesting but would've taken actual effort to write. Whoever wrote this prompt, I apologize.
Prompt: A hero's debut.
Summary: No one ever said heroes are nice.
Words: 866
Detective Conan Created by Gosho Aoyama
The hardest part is always the bread.
Don't let anyone else tell you different - New Yorkers these days expect their veggies to taste like spray-painted Styrofoam, and the right sauce can save just about any kind of meat from itself. But the bread is the first part they touch, the first part they bite, the first part they taste.
And if you don't get it right, there won't be another.
So I take my time deciding which one to use. Eventually, I settle on a classic - the thing Americans love calling a baguette even though, strictly speaking, it's about as French as Beef Wellington. No herbs, no spices. "Yuppie garbage" doesn't go over terribly well with Mister Gazzo, which only makes things easier for me.
After splitting the loaf, I reach for the jar of Hellman and try not to make a face. Mayonnaise made me gag when I was ten, and that hasn't changed in the last sixty years. But Mister Gazzo loves the stuff, and right now I happen to be wearing the face of his favorite cook, not my own. So I paint the goop onto both halves of the bread like a good little drone.
The remaining ingredients are much easier. Half a pound of smoked ham on one half. A quarter-pound salami on the other. A dribble of dill sauce over both. Then six slices of American cheese, followed by the smallest touch of olive oil. Half a tablespoon of ground black pepper - okay, so maybe he's got some taste after all - and finally, a lonely little slice of tomato. Mister Gazzo's one capitulation to his health-nut daughter.
Once I'm done, I look upon my works and smile.
-and I'm ten years old, chopping away in Poppa's deli-
No.
-and I'm twelve and beer's in the air and everyone's toasting Mr. Luciano and screaming that Mr. Volstead can go f**k himself-
No.
-I'm thirteen and Poppa's getting dragged off by men with shiny badges who don't even pretend they weren't bought and paid for by Mr. Marazono-
No!
-and I'm fourteen and on the streets and a funny little Japanese man asks if I want to live forever and make every hood in the City look like a tramp while I'm at it-
"No..."
I bury my nails into my palm until the memories fade, like they always do. There are other things sixty years can't change, no matter how much I want them to.
And all of a sudden, I'm very, very glad Gin didn't tag along on this job.
Without warning, the kitchen door swings open. Mr. Gazzo's personal attendant looks me up and down and demands to know what the holdup is. I tell the little weasel his boss's lunch will be ready in less than a minute.
As soon as he leaves, I add the last ingredient. The tiniest dash of the thing they call APTX-4869.
Now it's finished. And a real beauty, too. Shame it was going to have to end up in Mr. Gazzo's fat maw, but that was life. And Mr. Gazzo's "colleagues" are paying the Syndicate a hundred grand to get this particular sandwich into that particular maw, so my conscience is just going to have to deal with it.
But a thought strikes me as I take my little masterpiece out of the kitchen. I decide that I owe it exactly so much on the eve of its debut, and I bend down and whisper, only half-jokingly:
"I Christen thee... Odysseus."
Chianti has been stewing for about three hours atop the closest rooftop by the time I make contact again, which is about as long as her temper can take before it starts looking for tourists to use as target practice. Her voice stabs through my earpiece, every syllable dripping with impatience in spite of the Syndicate's voice-flattening software.
"Mission accomplished?"
I don't need to see her face to know she's wishing the answer is no. Then she'd get to shoot something.
"You're the ones with the binoculars," I reply. "You tell me."
A sigh. "I still can't believe we flew out here to watch you make some mob boss a sandwich."
She knows full well that she (and Korn) are here as Plan B in the event that the APTX (Heaven forbid!) fails to make an example out of Mr. Gazzo. So I reply:
"Of course not. You're here to watch some mob boss eat a sandwich."
"... you're a real piece of work, Vermouth. You know that?"
Three seconds later, I hear the faintest gurgle from Mr. Gazzo's dining room. Then a clatter of chairs, a thump against the floor, screams of panic and stampeding feet-
Mr. Gazzo's men aren't idiots. They'll know to look for the cook first. I wonder how long it'll take them to find the closet I've stashed the poor boy in. Probably longer than it'll take for them to pin the whole thing on him.
But maybe - just maybe - he'll actually get through this thing alive. Beaten, battered, and jobless, but alive.
And maybe someday, someone will ask him whether he wants to live forever, and make every hood in the City look like a tramp...
Author's Notes:
What? A sandwich is technically a hero! [Insert troll face here]
So... through a series of events too weird and banal to list here, this mutated into my first attempt at a Black Organization fic. Vermouth actually isn't my favorite Organization member (on most days), but I was tickled by the idea of playing her as a hard-nosed New Yorker before she became an actress/criminal, the classic immigrant who tried to pull herself up by the bootstraps and got screwed over for it. I know of only one other fic that took a look at Vermouth's origins (I'm too lazy to find the link right now), but suffice it to say where that fic zagged, I zigged. Also: sandwich assassination is best assassination.
And of course, this uses the technically-headcanon-but-it's-probably-canon that Vermouth is immortal. In this case, I decided that she really dates back to the Prohibition Era, with the Syndicate's alcohol codenames being kind of a sick joke from her and/or Anokata.
(Disclaimer: my experience with New York literally amounts to a week as a tourist and a steady diet of Batman comics, so I plead no expertise in any of the topics discussed.)
For those puzzled by the period references: Mr. Volstead is the namesake of the Volstead Act, the law written to enforce general Prohibition across the United States back in the '20s. Mr. Luciano is "Lucky" Luciano, one of the central figures of New York organized crime during the '20s and '30s. Marazono was one of Luciano's top rivals, a member of the "old guard" Mafia. And Mr. Gazzo is an OC, invented solely for the purposes of this fic.
... anyone else feeling hungry?
Prompt: A hero's debut.
Summary: No one ever said heroes are nice.
Words: 866
Detective Conan Created by Gosho Aoyama
The hardest part is always the bread.
Don't let anyone else tell you different - New Yorkers these days expect their veggies to taste like spray-painted Styrofoam, and the right sauce can save just about any kind of meat from itself. But the bread is the first part they touch, the first part they bite, the first part they taste.
And if you don't get it right, there won't be another.
So I take my time deciding which one to use. Eventually, I settle on a classic - the thing Americans love calling a baguette even though, strictly speaking, it's about as French as Beef Wellington. No herbs, no spices. "Yuppie garbage" doesn't go over terribly well with Mister Gazzo, which only makes things easier for me.
After splitting the loaf, I reach for the jar of Hellman and try not to make a face. Mayonnaise made me gag when I was ten, and that hasn't changed in the last sixty years. But Mister Gazzo loves the stuff, and right now I happen to be wearing the face of his favorite cook, not my own. So I paint the goop onto both halves of the bread like a good little drone.
The remaining ingredients are much easier. Half a pound of smoked ham on one half. A quarter-pound salami on the other. A dribble of dill sauce over both. Then six slices of American cheese, followed by the smallest touch of olive oil. Half a tablespoon of ground black pepper - okay, so maybe he's got some taste after all - and finally, a lonely little slice of tomato. Mister Gazzo's one capitulation to his health-nut daughter.
Once I'm done, I look upon my works and smile.
-and I'm ten years old, chopping away in Poppa's deli-
No.
-and I'm twelve and beer's in the air and everyone's toasting Mr. Luciano and screaming that Mr. Volstead can go f**k himself-
No.
-I'm thirteen and Poppa's getting dragged off by men with shiny badges who don't even pretend they weren't bought and paid for by Mr. Marazono-
No!
-and I'm fourteen and on the streets and a funny little Japanese man asks if I want to live forever and make every hood in the City look like a tramp while I'm at it-
"No..."
I bury my nails into my palm until the memories fade, like they always do. There are other things sixty years can't change, no matter how much I want them to.
And all of a sudden, I'm very, very glad Gin didn't tag along on this job.
Without warning, the kitchen door swings open. Mr. Gazzo's personal attendant looks me up and down and demands to know what the holdup is. I tell the little weasel his boss's lunch will be ready in less than a minute.
As soon as he leaves, I add the last ingredient. The tiniest dash of the thing they call APTX-4869.
Now it's finished. And a real beauty, too. Shame it was going to have to end up in Mr. Gazzo's fat maw, but that was life. And Mr. Gazzo's "colleagues" are paying the Syndicate a hundred grand to get this particular sandwich into that particular maw, so my conscience is just going to have to deal with it.
But a thought strikes me as I take my little masterpiece out of the kitchen. I decide that I owe it exactly so much on the eve of its debut, and I bend down and whisper, only half-jokingly:
"I Christen thee... Odysseus."
Chianti has been stewing for about three hours atop the closest rooftop by the time I make contact again, which is about as long as her temper can take before it starts looking for tourists to use as target practice. Her voice stabs through my earpiece, every syllable dripping with impatience in spite of the Syndicate's voice-flattening software.
"Mission accomplished?"
I don't need to see her face to know she's wishing the answer is no. Then she'd get to shoot something.
"You're the ones with the binoculars," I reply. "You tell me."
A sigh. "I still can't believe we flew out here to watch you make some mob boss a sandwich."
She knows full well that she (and Korn) are here as Plan B in the event that the APTX (Heaven forbid!) fails to make an example out of Mr. Gazzo. So I reply:
"Of course not. You're here to watch some mob boss eat a sandwich."
"... you're a real piece of work, Vermouth. You know that?"
Three seconds later, I hear the faintest gurgle from Mr. Gazzo's dining room. Then a clatter of chairs, a thump against the floor, screams of panic and stampeding feet-
Mr. Gazzo's men aren't idiots. They'll know to look for the cook first. I wonder how long it'll take them to find the closet I've stashed the poor boy in. Probably longer than it'll take for them to pin the whole thing on him.
But maybe - just maybe - he'll actually get through this thing alive. Beaten, battered, and jobless, but alive.
And maybe someday, someone will ask him whether he wants to live forever, and make every hood in the City look like a tramp...
Author's Notes:
What? A sandwich is technically a hero! [Insert troll face here]
So... through a series of events too weird and banal to list here, this mutated into my first attempt at a Black Organization fic. Vermouth actually isn't my favorite Organization member (on most days), but I was tickled by the idea of playing her as a hard-nosed New Yorker before she became an actress/criminal, the classic immigrant who tried to pull herself up by the bootstraps and got screwed over for it. I know of only one other fic that took a look at Vermouth's origins (I'm too lazy to find the link right now), but suffice it to say where that fic zagged, I zigged. Also: sandwich assassination is best assassination.
And of course, this uses the technically-headcanon-but-it's-probably-canon that Vermouth is immortal. In this case, I decided that she really dates back to the Prohibition Era, with the Syndicate's alcohol codenames being kind of a sick joke from her and/or Anokata.
(Disclaimer: my experience with New York literally amounts to a week as a tourist and a steady diet of Batman comics, so I plead no expertise in any of the topics discussed.)
For those puzzled by the period references: Mr. Volstead is the namesake of the Volstead Act, the law written to enforce general Prohibition across the United States back in the '20s. Mr. Luciano is "Lucky" Luciano, one of the central figures of New York organized crime during the '20s and '30s. Marazono was one of Luciano's top rivals, a member of the "old guard" Mafia. And Mr. Gazzo is an OC, invented solely for the purposes of this fic.
... anyone else feeling hungry?