Abe Sapien (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
agent_fishstick) wrote2012-03-08 07:59 pm
agent_fishstick) wrote2012-03-08 07:59 pm
(no subject)
The wood sprites -- creatures that resembled large locusts, but with opposable thumbs and the ability to unhinge their jaws -- weren't that bad overall, actually. One couldn't blame them for being royally pissed-off at being awoken from their thousand-year hibernation about 200 years too early.
An infestation had broken out in the outskirts of Yellowstone National Park. When Abe arrived with a handful of backup agents, he determined that global warming had drastically disrupted the sprites' circadian rhythm. As a result, a swarm of several thousand had gone into a fit of mating madness, and in the process devoured large swaths of protected trees. (Fortunately they only ate flora, and not flesh.)
The only way to stop them without causing further destruction was to lure them out to an open field, which happened to be privately owned farmland, by playing a recording of their mating call; stun them with a powerful ultrasonic blast set to a frequency that only they were sensitive to; and then turn them into mulch using a couple of harvester combines and riding mowers. Needless to say, Farmer MacMillan was left with the best fertilizer he could possibly hope for.
Abe brought back a few dead but mostly undamaged wood sprites to add to the B.P.R.D.'s specimen collection. They already had a fossilized one, its delicate exoskeleton outlined in ancient slate from upstate New York. Apparently they migrated far more inland than previously thought.
And speaking of inland, Abe never traveled to the Midwest all that often, so it's been a while since he'd felt so landlocked. But it's nothing that a nice, long soak in the aquarium can't cure.
One of the agents even remembered to refill his bowl of rotten eggs. Aww, how thoughtful.
He slips into the tank of water with nary a splash, and with the soothing strains of Vivaldi wafting through his watertight headphones, he drifts off into a mellow stupor.
An infestation had broken out in the outskirts of Yellowstone National Park. When Abe arrived with a handful of backup agents, he determined that global warming had drastically disrupted the sprites' circadian rhythm. As a result, a swarm of several thousand had gone into a fit of mating madness, and in the process devoured large swaths of protected trees. (Fortunately they only ate flora, and not flesh.)
The only way to stop them without causing further destruction was to lure them out to an open field, which happened to be privately owned farmland, by playing a recording of their mating call; stun them with a powerful ultrasonic blast set to a frequency that only they were sensitive to; and then turn them into mulch using a couple of harvester combines and riding mowers. Needless to say, Farmer MacMillan was left with the best fertilizer he could possibly hope for.
Abe brought back a few dead but mostly undamaged wood sprites to add to the B.P.R.D.'s specimen collection. They already had a fossilized one, its delicate exoskeleton outlined in ancient slate from upstate New York. Apparently they migrated far more inland than previously thought.
And speaking of inland, Abe never traveled to the Midwest all that often, so it's been a while since he'd felt so landlocked. But it's nothing that a nice, long soak in the aquarium can't cure.
One of the agents even remembered to refill his bowl of rotten eggs. Aww, how thoughtful.
He slips into the tank of water with nary a splash, and with the soothing strains of Vivaldi wafting through his watertight headphones, he drifts off into a mellow stupor.