Standard disclaimer applies.
This story had started out relatively normal, but after leaving it so long (the dinosaurs were still roaming the earth when I last left off) my fingers and brain went off in a different direction than my intention and half way it became more of a crack-fic that anything else.
Summary: In the House of Balkov, nearly everything goes. Sergei enjoys pudding, Boris talks himself to a proverbial grave and Yuriy quotes Davy Jones. All in all, it's just another regular day in the life of the Neoborg.
Pudding, Pie and Everything in Between
By Reiven
"Eugh! If I take another bite of this crap, I'll be blowing chunks all over this table before you can say 'Boris' uncle'."
"Thank you for the wonderful imagery, Ivan."
Sounds of clattering spoons ricochet over the metal table as it was roughly tossed aside. Bits of the remaining substance scattered over the table top, leaving light brown-greenish patches on the otherwise clean surface.
"Speaking of my uncle, I don't think the police have managed to find a trace of his body even 'til now."
"Is that really something we should be discussing in public?"
"Sergei! You're not seriously going to finish that bowl, are you?" with a cry of aghast, Ivan slid further down the table away from the bulky blonde, casting him a disgusted look.
"What if I am?" he raised a blonde eyebrow at his teammates' apparent revulsion. He didn't know why the three of them made such a big deal about it. He liked pudding, especially the way his grandmother used to make it.
"But it's so…so…icky," Yuriy made a face as Sergei took another full bite of the slimy brown goop. "Not to mention, it's Balkov's favourite food and that's just nasty! He's nasty! I don't know why we still have him to lead us!"
"Didn't I already offer--"
"--And there will be no killing involved," he gave the taller teen a glare of I-don't-want-any-arguments-over-this before throwing a look over his shoulder to the countless green skinned boys in a ten meter vicinity.
Needless to say, they were not the only three people to share the same sentiment regarding pudding.
"I'm sick just looking at it. I'm sick of being in a hundred feet radius of it and if I'm forced to have another bowl for breakfast, lunch or dinner, someone is going to be sorry!" speaking with so much aggression and threats did nothing to enhance the fear Ivan struck in the hearts of onlookers. After all, the only people shorter than him were…no, that's a lie. There were no people shorter than him. "I say mutiny. Who's with me?"
A chorus of snorts and snide snickering followed his comment.
"Get over yourself, short-stuff," Boris rolled his eyes, absentmindedly poking the brownish gunk in the metal bowl with a spoon.
"Who're you calling short-stuff, Pasty?" Ivan puffed out his chest, glaring at the lilac haired teen with contempt before taking refuge behind his captain when Boris brandished a rather threatening looking spoon and had a glint in his eye that told Ivan that he'd better not venture into any dark hallways or enter any broom closets without company (or witnesses).
"Knock it off, you two. We have enough crap on our plates as it is, and the situation's bad as well."
"But, Yuuuuriy!"
"I just need three seconds, tops," said Boris as he approached their short teammate threateningly.
"You keep away from me!"
"Boris," Yuriy said in an exasperated tone, massaging the bridge of his nose, willing away the oncoming headache. "Sit your ass down while you still have one."
"Is that a threat?"
Yuriy's head snapped up in an instant, his arms shot out and plucked the spoon right out of Boris' grip, twirled it between his fingers in two full, circular motions and brought it down hard on the table; the dipped end disappearing into the dented metal right between Boris' index and middle finger. "Sit down before I gouge your eyes out with the brunt end of this spoon and shove it up the second hole I'll be chewing out off your ass if your chose to further ignore my orders!"
"I assume that's the threat," Sergei said unhelpfully, glancing amusedly between his captain and the lilac-haired teen before him.
"Brownie points for the mental image," Ivan interjected from his safe position behind his captain.
"Orders?" came the third reply as Balkov slithered up out of the shadows and approached the table where his four top bladers were seated. Visions of death, darkness and a lifetime of torture looming behind him like rainbows and candy canes to the Care Bears.
"What do you want?" Yuriy growled, glaring daggers, katanas and sharpened kendo sticks in hope that one of them would stab the purple-haired director in the heart, or the head, in case that organ was locked away in some buried treasure chest in the middle of the Caribbean islands. "And did you place my order for the upcoming DVD of At World's End out in November?"
Balkov's brow twitched in annoyance.
Yuriy suspected that Balkov plucked his eyebrows.
Boris was getting annoyed and didn't even attempt to hide the fact. He'd mutilated three spoons, two plates and was in the process of exterminating a family of ants.
"We don't want no pudding!" Ivan slammed a hand down on the table and grimaced, before bringing up his throbbing and rapidly bruising fist up to his chest.
"Hn?" Balkov raised an eyebrow.
Yuriy had no doubt in his mind that Balkov did pluck his eyebrows.
"Do all of your feel this way?" he asked smoothly, crossing his arms over his chest as his gaze brushed over his four young charges.
Yuriy swore he saw the exact same shirt in the two dollar basket at the mall just yesterday.
"Although I'd chew off my own tongue, rip it out with a brunt ended monkey-wrench, stomp on it multiple times and set it on fire before admitting this aloud…but yea'. The twerps' got a point. This garbage is the worst tasting piece of crap I've ever had the displeasure of subjecting my taste buds to."
"It could use a little dash of Tabasco though," said Sergei.
"Vladislav!" Yuriy yelled out suddenly to one of the boys sitting three tables down. "You're on the team. Sergei, you are no longer a part of the Neoborg. Please gather your belongings from the Neoborg 'Club Members Only' spa room and get out of my sight."
"I'll take my grandmothers' secret stroganov recipe to the grave."
"Oh, yeah. Damn," Yuriy cursed and turned back to the celebrating teen three tables down. "Changed my mind, Vlad. You're off the team. Sergei, you may leave your belongings were they are."
"I hate pudding! I would murder pudding if it were alive and dump its body in the deepest, darkest, most deserted corners of the basement…or in Yuriy's closet. There's little chance of discovery either way."
"Did you say something about my closet?" Yuriy asked, holding a bowl of untouched pudding threateningly. Ivan had no doubt in his mind that Yuriy knew the fine arts of merciless killing with dishware and wasn't afraid of putting that knowledge to use.
"I remember the poor sucker who accepted that bet; look beyond the threshold of the captain's sacred closet. We never saw him again after that," Boris chuckled, oblivious to the deep hole he was digging himself into.
"That was your idea?" Yuriy hissed.
"That's the reason why I'm currently missing my fifth best blader?" Balkov snarled.
"For all that skill, God couldn't even give the dimwit half a brain cell? Good riddance, if you ask me," Boris snerked.
Ivan growled just for the hell of it and Sergei was to preoccupied with the others' pudding to care for anything else.
"The only thing I'm about to ask you, Boris, is do you fear death?" Yuriy abruptly turned to face Balkov. "You did order my DVD, didn't you? Because--"
"Oh, for the love of…yes! Yes I did!"
"Balkov, sir!" One of the guards came rushing up, his stun-gun clattering against his metal thigh guard and the material of his pants were rumpled.
Yuriy knew the guard had just gotten lucky.
"Trespassers, sir! On the grounds!"
"What? Who?"
"We…we don't know. The cameras caught a lone figure sneaking in from the top of the fences first, and then another four came in after that."
"Who dare trespass on my property?"
"Technically, from what I gather from the top secret files that really should not be labelled Top Secret in big, bold red letters. This place still has three years payment to go. Until then, officially, these grounds still belong to the bank," said Yuriy with an all knowing smirk.
Balkov counted down from ten and eventually chose not to rise up to the redhead's taunts. That's always how it starts and it nearly always ends up with Balkov losing one or more item of clothing.
"Has the guards been despatched?"
"Yes, sir! One of them reported the first figure to be wearing a scarf--"
Yuriy's mind immediately locked onto that word, blocking out any further comment the guard had to say.
The scarf would mean that the figure is Kai. Kai would mean that one or more of them would be sent out to retrieve him. Retrieving Kai would mean confronting him. Being in the vicinity of Kai would mean that Yuriy had that much more of a chance to throttle him to an early grave for blowing up half the building when he left all those years ago. Yuriy didn't care about what he'd done to Balkov's-technically-still-belonging-to-the-bank building. He did care that his room had been in the left wing, incidentally the same wing that had been complete incinerated by Black Dranzer.
Therefore Kai breaking and entering had been a blessing in disguise.
"Balkov, I--"
"Yuriy and Ivan will go out and confront the pack rats. Boris will go into Yuriy's room, enter the closet and not take one step one foot out the door until you have our missing student in tow, got that! Sergei…continue on with dinner. You have my blessing," Balkov finished and with a sweep of his tacky purple robe he left to deal with their wayward ex-member.
"This sucks!" Boris spat; a glop of saliva hitting the green pudding and dissolved in a simmer of hisses and toxic smoke.
"This isn't fair! Kai is mine for the kill!" Yuriy bristled.
"This stuff is really quite cool!" Ivan cooed; watching his spoon dissolve in the mass of mushy green pudding he'd mixed with water. "When mixed with the right amount of water…kapow!" he nearly giggled with glee.
"Come on," Yuriy grabbed Ivan by the scruff of the neck and hauled him in the direction of the exit doors; ignoring any feeble pleads from the short boy.
Boris yawned, stretched and took to his feet. He made a mental note to stop by his room for some knives, a couple of handmade grenades and maybe a pair of numchucks or two before venturing beyond the mysterious, and perhaps deadly, boundary of Yuriy's closet. He swore on multiple graves that one sight of any brightly coloured undergarments, the mission would be aborted.
In that one moment of blessed oblivious, neither Yuriy nor Boris realized that they were actually accepting to do Balkov's bidding without any threat of pain, humiliation and subjection to Balkov's endless supply of Opera records.
"Oh, well. More for me," Sergei exclaimed in mild joy, scooping up another untouched bowl of the deadly dessert.
…End.