#adds a certain je connais quoi? i guess?

[tetedurfarm]

.............not a brain cell to be seen

[the-mf-bread-babies]

9/5/2020

BACKGROUND CHECK

NULL HQ was always busy, but today was considered an achievement for their hard work in researching the backgrounds of fifty rogues within fifty days in the form of an event where the research team went through hell to satisfy the needs of the Top 50. The 50/50/50 event, it was called, and it was held on a certain chairman's 7th 43rd birthday. If this work sounds weird, I made it while dehydrated, ok. And that chairman was none other than Satan herself, Karén Stéphane Alodie Basilie Blanche Capucine Odette Delphine-Aveline. And yes, her surname does indeed mean Dolphin Hazelnut Tree. Don't ask why.

Today, the fruit that formed by the water of companionship, the nutrients of underpaid employees, the sunlight and carbon dioxide of the terrible ventilation system of the office and the fertilizer of illegal sharing of confidential information had finally ripened and was ready to be plucked by Madame Delphine-Aveline.

The Top 50 had prepared a luxurious vacation for their hardworking employees situated at the tropical rainforest-slash-whatever of New York City Jungle. Yes, having your employees temporarily staying at a nice three-star abandoned hotel and at risk of being eaten by human-animal genetic abominations was quite inhumane, but so is simply letting them spend the day off returning home to their family that died of starvation at the hands of NULL. It's a complicated situation that was one of many developed by the fusion.

Karén hastily dashed to her three-storey private office that also had a swimming pool in it because she was rich, the sounds of her high heels clacking against the hardwood flooring of the 45th floor of the headquarters. Her white woman bracelet-strewn hand was tightly clutching dossiers of the peasants under her.

They had posed a great threat to them after they had exposed a great deal of evidence surrounding NULL’s harsh treatment of, well, everything, and while that was common sense among everyone, the Top 50 still felt hurt with the rogues' selfish actions. The dossiers were their way of striking back even harder towards the revolutionists of Eris-10, the very revolutionists that scatter across the globe, and particularly one group of them squatting in a town in the Crepitus section. Yes, those guys. The Hellspawns. The Wicked, Twisted, Rapidly-Changing-Number Evils of the World. T3G, The Three Thot Groups, the legendary…

Fifty Fighters.

Are they fifty individual fighters? Do they fight the Top 50? Or do they simply have a personal grudge against random numbers? Yes.

The tragedy that made them so important to NULL was uncertain.

Their group contains a family actively running away from NULL, three would-be NULL agents, an individual who gives intense neck therapy to NULL agents, multiple individuals who steal top-secret NULL engineering projects, an individual who worked as an exterminator for NULL and thusly has blueprints of NULL centres embedded into their head, a reprogrammed NULL spy robot, three individuals who were previously under the possession of NULL in environmental capsules, a genetic abomination made by NULL scientists as a PET, a cat, a triple agent responsible for several terrorist attacks on NULL centres who also happens to be a member of the most dangerous group of hitmen in the universe, THE RINGLEADERS, who also HAPPEN to be in good relations with the revolutionist group, because of said single father of two to four that's weirdly close with one of the three individuals who were would-be NULL agents.

Of course this group would be in NULL’s death list.

With that being said, leaving the team that actively worked to obtain information on the threatening individuals to die on a classified location while being observed by scientists might not be the best payment. But it's still a payment.

As the Frenchwoman sat in her £3,000 foldable spinny office chair that can also massage the user, she splayed out the dossier files across her £50,000 hardwood-base granite-surfaced countertops surrounding the area, hidden by rare plants that were watered with diamond-flavoured water. She sighed and leaned the chair back as she snapped her fingers, kindly reminding one of her personal assistants to bring her another large dose of caffeine to get her rusty gears running.

As she waited impatiently, she retrieved her $5,000,000,000 laptop from her Chanel x Gucci x Fendi x Apple x Louis Vuitton x Microsoft x Google x Hunter × Hunter x The Entire Country of Russia x Sonic X x Amazon purse. The laptop was said to be the one that the late Mark Zuckerberg was using as she strangled him to death for not responding sooner to her email on user information. Unfortunately, the email had went straight to the spam folder.

Her fingers were playing a dramatic symphony on the keyboard, her face stern and unchanging.

“good anniversary gifts for Her”

Her 50¢ sunglasses-covered orbs glared at her demand on Bing as she violently clicked the search button. As the ancient website loaded and the screen, white and static and dangerously bright because she doesn't know how to adjust the brightness, she wondered what sequence of surprises would bring joy to her wife currently stationed overseas. God, if only she could join her in creating genetic abominations. So romantic if she could.

Her curiosity was halted suddenly as the assistant rushed in, hands holding a tray. Situated on the tray was a jug of black coffee, a bottle of vodka, a bottle of liquoré, three stolen packets of sea salt, and a mug that read “#0 B0SS”, accompanied with a dagger with a fashioned concave end, resembling a spoon.

Of course, you could still stab someone with it. It's just that the lady's so dangerous she stirs coffee with a dagger, that's all.

The rich bitch glared as her assistant put the contents of the tray onto the coffee table at a glacial pace, also keeping an eye out for any spills made. “Here you are, madame,” the assistant nervously chuckled. Well, that was uncalled for. Her assistants were all given a strict order to not speak to her unless absolutely urgent or if needed to. This one must be new.

“How long have you been working in zis position for, exactly, mïéáæèy chérìè?” Dolphin-HazelnutTree asked with a thin, long smile across her face, eyeing a sea salt packet that was slightly teared.

“Two months, madame,” she smiled. A kind face, clearly inexperienced. “My name is Pauline,” she added, further breaking the rules.

The woman who has a herb for a middle name made an odd face to be observed, only to move towards the young lady who insulted her to hell and back. “Paulíne,” she gently whispered, “I’m glad to know those two months are over,” Pauline's face went pale.

“Faghewell,”

The last word Pauline had heard echoed in her head as Capucine stabbed her in the abdomen while staring down at her falling corpse.

With the dagger spoon. She stabbed her with the dagger spoon. Karén sat on her desk, crossing her legs stylishly.

“Why do I always have bad luck after my birthdays? First, ze bad fughe coat, now zis. I might as well just set zis whole thing on fighea tomorrow.” She uttered, uncaring about Pauline choking on her own blood.

“About ze blood, go call someone to clean it up, dear,” Basil Lady said while examining her perfectly manicured nails.

“You’ve brought too much eggs for ze baguette, now suffer under ze firm hands of it,” she taught nonchalantly. An old French proverb, unsuitable to be said by someone simply learning it on Duolingo such as Pauline.

Pauline was struggling to add even anything to their light feud other than death gargles, and soon, a light thump on the white fur rug, her blood painting it red.

The Baguette pursed her thin, dry lips and stared at the Wannabe Baguette. She lost her train of thought for a few seconds before realising the task at hand.

“Annivaghsaghy gifts! Rghight!”

She spun herself around the desk and sat back down to review the possible gifts. “Hmm…” she scrolled down the BuzzFeed article promoting various products. “Jewelghy? Too cheap. New dghess? Wardghobe's full. Potted plants? Not her thing. Floor cleaner…” she pondered. “Unfortunately, no.” She mumbled, sipping on her unusual beverage.

She stared out the window, thinking. Lists like this roaming around the Internet and made by simpletons didn't contain the spice her relationship had. Basil. Hazelnut. Karén had to think of something else, something more uniqué. Something more fitting for their… uniqué relationship that had a certain je ne sais quoi. A little la souris dans le film avec le gars des pâtes. To be specific, Je ne connais pas cette langue et je ne fais que copier et coller depuis Google Translate. Veuillez aider.

Her eyes fixated on the view outside, never constant, always having something new to be added. Buildings ranging from fallen skyscrapers turned into bridges to supermarkets hosting her greatest enemies. What would her wife like?

And then it clicked.

Homemade bread. Yes, bread wasn't really a topic they talked about often, but if they baked bread together, it would be quite nice. Karén was daydreaming into the distance, not paying attention to the hurricane of messages received on her computer.

It wasn't until her other personal assistants came in with cleaning supplies and a body bag that she stopped and continued to focus on like, eating, I guess, the fruit mentioned in Paragraph 2. She cleared her throat as she picked up the dossiers splayed out on the countertops in her office, arranging them neatly on her desk and preparing to read them.

The first file was thick, and full of information. Knowing it would consume the most of her precious time, she put it aside. Karén sighed as she sorted the files, knowing her wife would have loved gossiping about this with her. Her eyes went to the laptop screen, wondering if she could call her lover for a short while and have a nice conversation. However, a notification distracted her from her wants. An email addressing the rescheduling of the next meeting for the Top 50. She opened it with a frown.

It was from Lee. “HELLO ALL I WILL BE RESCHEDULIG OUR NEXT METTING TO TWO MONTHS ATTER” God, the man has such bad email etiquette. Maybe if he opted to switch out those horrid sunglasses for a good pair of glasses, he'd be able to type in something other than all uppercase letters and sudden typos.

“I AM SORRY FOR THIS SUDDDDEN CHGNE. INWILL BE FOING TO NYCJ FOR A BUSINES TRIP. I AM SORRY. BEST REGARDS STEVEN!”

The Frenchwoman gasped but then immediately retracted it due to fear of her assistants finding out that she has emotions. Really, Steven? The jungle? Out of all people, you? What the fuck, Steve?

This was the last straw. Karén baguetted hastily to the elevator, stabbing the button going down to the basement with an elegant dagger, sparkling with the various gemstones encrusted into its hilt. She angry white woman yelled in the elevator walls, but not before snatching the security camera so no one caught her.

As she was screaming out of dramatic French anger, the elevator halted at the third floor and opened its doors to an intern business agent. Curses. She was so blinded by her own anger that she accidentally took the peasants’ elevator instead of her usual one.

The intern awkwardly stepped into the corner of the elevator, driving his eyes to anywhere but the Frenchwoman. As the peasant transportation cage descended to the basement floor, she stormed towards NULL’s gas station. She wormed her way into the back and stole three jerry cans of gasoline, cradling them as if they were her arsonist-endorsing children. She also made sure to grab some fancy cigarettes, so that it would be a dramatic scene. What is ‘it’? You'll see.

Karén had just finished the finale of a Hulu original series following a woman struggling with motherhood and marriage. Apparently, all she got from the series was that kids are evil, and landlords aren't. Also, arson is always the best plan. Also also, Reese Witherspoon is an excellent actress who is also kind of pretty. But not as pretty as her wife. Oh, and she forgot about the whole Kerry Washington subplot. Probably wasn't that important.

She dashed into Steven's office, which was conveniently close to hers, as she was #23 and he was #24. Karén laughed maniacally as she doused the whole thing in gasoline, unaware of Drogomann sitting on the sofa watching her.

“Um, salutations.”

“WHAT ZE HELL!!?”

Drogomann stared at the struggling woman, judging her every move. Karén’s panicking had spilled the gasoline out of the other two jerry cans, the accelerant flowing down the hallway. The dragon lady noticed this but didn't pay it any care. “Yes! Hello there, my good friend! How are you doing now, Darlamean?” she asked, her voice cracking intermittently.

Darlamean. Really?

The hunter rolled her eyes as she picked up her pet dragon, Currents. It's the least she could do to prevent this crazy French lady from burning down her husband's office. “Doth thou needeth a handeth?” she asked mockingly, shoving Currents into her face. The action had backfired, since Karén had a primal urge to smack the dragon out of her face.

“DON'T SLAPPETH CURRENTS!” Currents was too young to use his wings, so this was bad. Stoorworm panicked as she tripped over one of Karén’s arms as she was trying to catch Currents. The young dragon had thankfully not learned how to use its powers yet, thankfully, and didn't burn down the building. Still, it made everyone in the room panic like hell, especially Karén, but it was for nothing…

However, Karén tends to smoke when she's panicking, and even though this was a situation where smoking was the last thing someone would do, her pattern of reacting to panic did not register the fact that doing so would cause the room, if not, the whole building to burn down, and also would cause her and many others to die, engulfed in flames.

Regardless of the situation, she still instinctively pulled out a cigarette and started to light it without even noticing what she was doing. Drogomann, on the other hand, was busy examining Currents’ current state, searching for any injuries.

The sound of the friction of the cigarette against the weird sandpaper thing on the box (I have not seen a cigarette box up close in years, if not never, so don't expect me to know how this whole thing works ok) had alerted Drogomann as she was, you know, paying attention to the task and hand and not, like, panicking. Considering she deals with herself constantly being on the brink of being set on fire by one of her pets, she's trained herself to, like, Really pay attention to fire and stuff so yeah.

“Ho, dumbass, stop that,” Drogomann shouted. “Doth thee wanteth to kill us?” “Thee baguette? Huh? Huh?” She added, stuffing her pet dragon into her pocket, running towards Karén. “Mérghèhdé!” The Frenchwoman panicked, still. Despite Drogomann’s warning, the flame had already been lit, and the fire grew.

“Merde! Merde! Merde!” Drogomann retrieved a fire extinguisher from behind Steven's desk. Karén was still screaming in French. “Runneth, wench!” Stoorworm politely advised as she started spraying the forbidden Kool-aid powder across the floor. “MERDE!!!” Karén yelled as she ran out of the room, crying. Drogomann sighed as she extinguished the flame successfully, disappointed at the foolishness of the dumbass.

“Ashes. Flames have been reduced. Thank God we didn't die, right? I was here, you know,” the medieval lady said. “Merci! Merci beaucoup, mon ami! You saved my la vie! If it wasn't for you I would be morte!!!” The modern day lady thanked her profusely, “Hi-hi, you are étourdissante, Dghogomann!” Oh, so that's all it takes to get Karén to remember her name. Saving her life. And also insulting her at the same time. Good to know.

“What will you be doing later, ma cherie?” Karén asked suggestively, playing with her twelve-foot-long hair, covered in dry ice(?). “Taking care of him. Touch Currents again, you'll die. Same goes for Steven,” Drogomann haiku’d. “What le fuque? Okay.” Karén nervously backed away.

“A married woman… should not make such offerings,” “Steven shall tell her.” She warned. “QUOI?!” She shouted in French. “Non, non, non, non, Dghogomann, please don't, s’il vous plaît, non, non,” She pleaded. “I’m kidding, Karén. But really, don't cheat on her,” Drogomann assured. “Geneticist, right?” she asked, a brow raisedth. “Y-Yes. Why?” Drogomann nodded intently.

“So she killeth stuff.”

“Huh?”

“Good to know. Watch out, Karén,”

“Don’t do stupid things.”

Drogomann walked out of the room, cradling Currents, avoiding the gasoline and kicking any jerry cans that dared to stand in her way. “Clean this mess up, please. Someone might trip over them. Or burn the building.” She advised. “Rghogergh that, huntergh,” Karén complied.

Now, all she has to do is to give her wife a call or two, get some anniversary gifts, maybe set up some surprise parties, and…

Oh God. Review multiple dossiers.

· fin ·