Task
There was laundry, naturally – they'd just never had to deal with it before. The Abbey did not specialize in home-making. Boys that could assemble nearly every weapon and then use it with marked ability, drive or fly a variety of vehicles as easily as they could blow them up, navigate and pass any security system without misplacing a hair, survive most natural disasters, and command legions or take orders, faced the threat and obstacle of a washing machine and drier with disproportionate suspicion. Ian spent an hour and a half staring at it and wandering in and out of its lair before he deemed the task impossible, moving to track down the master of taking on impossible tasks, Tala. Unfortunately, once at his side, they only stood and stared for a time longer.
"What do you make of it?" Ian eventually asked, malicious ruby eyes narrowed, unsmiling.
His captain frowned darkly, perturbed that of all the things he had learned, this undoubtedly simple endeavor was not one of them. "There's a manual?" he questioned, pride long swallowed, visually dissecting a bottle of detergent perched atop the washing machine.
"Manual!" Ian incredulously cried, but quickly sobered. "Maybe…"
They stared some more.
Author's Notes: Who needs basic life skills when you've got munitions?