Fifth Dispatch. Practice Makes Perfect, And Perfect is Me. Action.

[trinkett]

[It's a hot afternoon, and Effie Trinket has sneaked into the Barracks -- first checking to make sure no one else is in there.

No one is.

It's far too hot and dusty and anyone in her right mind would choose the techy comforts of the Battle Dome over this place.

This is a good thing. Effie doesn't WANT to meet anyone today. For one thing, she feels very awkwardly dressed: running shorts and a bright yellow T-shirt (yellow is a Power Color); white athletic socks with that 1970s-era striping at the top; sneakers. No heels, no shoulder pads, no wig, no makeup.

She is here -- VERY GRUDGINGLY, MIND -- to train for warfare. Her last announcement to the village brought on plenty of warnings, and even a subtle death threat or two, and at least a few people giving well-meaning advice. She can hardly believe any of the doubters who'd said the Malnosso would sacrifice her in a battle, but better safe than sorry. One never knows when the higher-ups might make a clerical error or shifting error and accidentally send a valued subject into dire straits.

The second reason she doesn't particularly want to meet anyone is because she knows none of the Luceti peons like her very much. That's fine with Effie. Eventually the Malnosso will take her into the inner workings of the organization and place her right where she belongs. Until then? Well. She can and has been staying indoors a great deal, being a bored journal stalker.

Unfortunately, this lonesome round in the Barracks confirms that Ms. Trinket is not cut out for warfare at all. It turns into hesitant prods at practice dummies with wooden swords, a lot of staring out the windows, and a frustrating turn at a punching bag.

Fighting is horrible and she's horrible at it and consequently is in a horrible mood.]

Comments

[greenjacketed]

Oh, that was it. His patience -- long suffering until this point, he believed -- snapped. Sharpe's heels might as well have clicked together for all the military precision now pouring itself into his limbs.

Less so his language: "Oh, bugger off." And he about-faced in the direction of the door.

[onlyeffie]

"Until we meet again, dear darling Richard." She blew a kiss his way. "I shall count every hour. Every minute."

Yes. Her sweetness rocked.

[greenjacketed]

Each word cut. Troublesome, really. He could endure outright cruelty and he'd never been afraid of hatred -- but sarcasm and insincere saccharine statements did a grand job of gutting him. Perhaps because it was an art he'd hardly managed to master. Or perhaps it was one all too often employed by the dandies and the well-to-dos. Either way, it soured him. Made him regret what vague advice he'd offered. Made him wish he didn't care whether or not she would fall in battle come the time her name was cast on the Malnosso's lists.

Her blown kiss garnered little more than a stern grimace and a dismayed grunt. He was glad to leave -- but was conscious all the same of the old saying: a flogging only taught a good soldier how to turn his back. Was that what was happening, now? For a moment, he thought he'd seen a glimpse of something interesting and raw in the woman. And just as quickly, she'd sewn it back up.

Disgruntled (as ever), Major Richard Sharpe made his way back into the stifled village. Too hot and too closed in. And, for the first time in a long time, he found himself resenting the life it offered; he much preferred it when all he could see was the free food, the easy survival, and the deficit of other officers making jokes in Latin at his expense.

Oh, how she made ever conversation feel as though he was back in the mess hall. Damn her.