The Great (Nerf) War of Plaisir: Prologue
Story by Dark Violet on SoFurry
When one visits a brothel, there is a certain expectation regarding what is found inside. Indeed, one must solidify themselves against experiences that could be daunting, compose themselves to meet eclectic and unique people, and prepare for encounters they could hardly dream of...
And if, on this fine day, one was to step into the vast Pokémon brothel known as Café Plaisir...
Well, technically, everything I just said would still be true.
Get ready....
Petier (c)
The Great (Nerf) War of Plaisir:
Prologue
“You can never expect how it truly feels, you know?" The Sylveon let out a quiet sigh. Two ribbons waved softly in time to the straps on the hastily-applied helmet Petier was wearing.
Thunk, thud...
“You see pictures, you see films, you even hear the talking of soldiers, but… is all propaganda…." His eastern-european accent was thick, and laden with weariness.
Thud, pop! Thud….
He sat up, stretching his neck. Artificial light illuminated a sliver of his warpaint-streaked face as he peered through a gap in the barricade, a rushed construction of overturned tables and poorly-stacked chairs. Even a few shelves sat in it, though the drinks they once contained had been removed. One of those bottles was cradled by one of his ribbons even now, its clear depths rippling as he moved, rather less than half full.
“Is heart that goes first. That is something you do not know. You people here are so pampered, but back in my home country... you see, we are not so fortunate. There are still stories of war, but even I, I with that experience and that history, well… even I still feel the… the fear."
His voice went quiet. He was a picture of exhaustion, from his gritted teeth to large, ice-blue eyes; wells of despair. That feeling was not mere tiredness - it was one that had given up the will to see a better tomorrow. It showed on every facet of his pale-furred face. “The fear that pushes you. No dream, no hope. Just… the endless and unforgiving fear."
There was silence. His last few words words had become long and drawn out, like a distant, rough lament. Against the barricade, there were a trio of further thuds.
Petier hung his head, letting out another sigh. “No dream. No more."
Dextus blinked, and stared back at him.
Eventually, he raised a small, quizzical eyebrow.
“Don't you think you're being a little...overdramatic? I mean..."
He picked up the nerf gun between his front paws. The Mightyena tapped it - the cheap plastic made hollow clattering noises as he did. “...Y'know."
Petier stared back for a moment before sorrowfully turning his eyes away, looking back through the barricade. Dextus followed his gaze.
The once elegant Main Bar of Plaisir was littered with upturned chairs and tables. At either side, using the raised screens as natural cover, two large barricades had been assembled using whatever furniture had been readily available, entrenching both sides. Across no-man's-land, the varnished wooden floor was littered with sprinkles of orange and blue foam darts.
The far barricade was slightly bigger. That's what you got when most of the customers were on it, people uniformly equipped with fancy things like hands and opposable thumbs. There were even a few sets of drawers from nearby bedrooms forming a small bulwark before the door to the kitchens. The orange tip of some long-barrelled sniper-rifle equivalent rested on a white pillow, slowly tracing back and forth. The dark hair of a client was just visible behind it.
“This is the battlefield, my friend." Petier said, his ribbons tightening around his own rifle. A thinner model, with an extension on the end added for accuracy. No scope, just a set of iron sights, and a spare magazine in the stock. It would have been a fairly threatening weapon had it not been manufactured in rather telling shades of blue and orange. “Our honour is on the line. Honour and devotion to our glorious Café."
Thunk! He hid it well, but the flinch was still there, a subtle shockwave running down his ribbons. Petier ducked his head back down underneath the cover, eyes darting nervously to and fro. An empty candle holder was dislodged from its place in the barricade, and clattered down into the depths of chair legs.
“Well…" Dextus said, leaning back, trying to prime his own smaller, single-shot pistol. “I mean, it's also-"
Thunk!
“Ow!"
“Ha-HA!" The cry came from the opposing trench. A gleefully smiling man with mid-length, incredibly messy hair stuck his head out from over the pillow, the bright blue sniper rifle raised high. “Gotcha at last! C'mon, dog, you know the rules!"
Dextus rolled his eyes, rubbing the side of his head with one paw, letting out a sigh as he dropped his gun. “Yeah, yeah, I'm coming."
Petier watched dolefully as he clambered his way over the top of an armchair, out across the middle of the bar. A few pot-shots were fired from both sides, the darts lost in the black fur across his back. The man from before met him as he slunk beneath a low table, which was part of the opposing barricade. “This is what I call the spoils of war!" The guy laughed, the gun over his shoulder, letting Dextus follow him as he sauntered off towards the bedrooms beyond.
A whirr permeated the air, and Petier's ribbons gripped the rifle tighter as a dart whizzed past his ear, bouncing off the back wall. He followed it with his gaze as it rolled to a rest on the green carpet in front of him.
He let out a long sigh.
“War is hell."