Happy birthday, Rukia! Here, have the nutso Eroica crossover
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Dorian examined the tattered lace on his sleeve and sighed.
"I'm really too young for this," he said.
The girl clicked the safety off on her gun. It was extraordinary the resemblance she had to the Major, considering there was no blood tie. Dark hair and a predilection for things that resulted in loud noises and dead people made a reasonable substitute, Dorian supposed.
"Isn't the saying 'I'm too old for this'?" she said. The mix of Japanese and German lent an efficient brokenness to her accent that was surprisingly charming. Such a pity her life seemed as loveless as her father's -- and oh dear, if he was thinking of match-making he really must be getting old. How bourgeois.
"You're never old enough to die, darling," said Dorian. "A philosophy you should agree with. Are you really going to hurl yourself in front of all those frightful men with guns?"
"It's my job," said the girl. "Get away while I am distracting them and return the microchip to headquarters."
"Can you trust me to run away in these shoes?" said Dorian, genuinely curious. He wasn't used to passing so much time on a mission without being hollered at. The Major's daughter had mostly ignored him, despite valiant efforts to prick her composure.
She looked up now, and smiled, her eyes distant with memory.
"Beauty does not equal incompetence," Rukia said. "I had a colleague much like you. He was insane, and a fool," she added unemotionally, "but so were all of his comrades. They were nonetheless extremely efficient."
She sighted down her gun. "Go. Now."
For once in his life, Dorian followed orders.
"Really, Major, what have you got yourself into?" he murmured. He slid out of the door, slippery as a dream, and the world behind him exploded in gunfire and chaos.