Liquid Fire (Whiskey/Axle)

Had she been capable of remembering anything beyond her time at the facility, Whiskey would know that this had been her longest assignment yet. Instead, she lived in a perpetual state of thinking she was on her first mission, that she much prove herself and be flawless. And she had, so many times before, been flawless. But she couldn't, didn't know that.

The small ship burned bright as it entered the atmosphere of Tatooine. She had been here, not long ago, tracking a long cold trail. She had left, following it to dead end after dead end until she had stopped on Zeltros, where it seemed she had found his tracks again. Then she had moved on to Balosar, and now back to Tatooine. Not once, in the months that she had spent following this man's bread crumbs, had he ever returned to a place that he'd been before. It seemed the man was getting sloppy.

A smile of satisfaction tugged at the woman's lips, but the instant it had happened, her RELIC chip corrected the balance of chemicals her brain had released and the smile slipped away. As the ship's landing gear was extended and the vessel eased itself onto the ground, Whiskey's face returned to its usual blank expression. Honey colored eyes scanned the small docking bay before she unstrapped herself from the pilot's seat. One final glance at the panel assured that all the systems had shut down, and Whiskey exited the small craft with silent footsteps.

The remainder of the day was spent trying to figure out a trail. There was no ship in any of the docs that might belong to her quarry, nor had she picked up on any gossip of a winged man. Even in a galaxy with as many species as this one, a human being with wings would be an odd site. So far, he must have remained fairly hidden.

For a long while, Whiskey sat in a cantina, listening closely to those around her. She had only ever ordered water, something that seemed to annoy the waitress. Whiskey would watch the woman roll her eyes, hunch her shoulders, purse her lips. All of these indicated aggravation, disappointment. But Whiskey could not relate. Laughter would suddenly ring out on occasion, and Whiskey would turn her head to observe it, but again, she could not relate.

After some time, her Relic chip spurred her to cease sitting and get back into the business of why she was there. Flooded with energy, Whiskey left the cantina to continue her search. But as the twin suns began to set on the horizon, it was becoming more and more apparent that the one she was following was not anywhere within the settlement. She would have to expand her search outward.

To a normal person, sitting atop one of the domed roofs of the settlement and looking out into the vast expanse of desert might have seemed a daunting task. The waves of heat that rose from the sand and rock blurred the horizon, making distinguishing between the sky and ground difficult. But not for Whiskey. The enhanced lenses that had been implanted not only extended her range of vision, but improved it as well. The haze of Tatooine's heat was hardly a distraction. She barely needed the binoculars she held in her hands. Slowly, she searched everything she could see in a methodical 360 degree sweep. One good thing about Tatooine was that the settlements rarely built tall buildings, making such a search much easier.

Suddenly, in the distance to the south, movement caught Whiskey's eyes. Squinting slightly, she adjusted her sight to narrow in. But even with her enhancements, the figure was too far to make out clearly. Raising her binoculars to her eyes, she again adjusted focus until the tiny form was clear. He didn't even seem to be moving, held aloft by rising currents of air. But there was no mistake this was the one, Axle Finne as he called himself.

She watched the man soar for a while, waiting to see where he might descend. Darkness was falling as the second sun began to sink on the horizon. The lack of good light was making it harder and harder to see. His movements showed that he was preparing to descend, but the light was fading fast. Finally, it was simply too dark. Whiskey did not see where he had landed.

A sudden rushing sensation hit her. It wasn't the adrenalin she was used to being hit with so quickly. This was different. The muscles in her neck tensed, her jaw set tight, and the thought of not being able to see where the man had landed plagued her mind. Her nostrils flared. Had she been more educated about emotions, she might have recognized this as frustration. But she had no experience with the sensation, nor did she enjoy it.

Whiskey stood, pacing around the bottom of the domed roof, waiting for the feelings to subside. Usually, they barely began before she felt the shift. Why was this taking so long? Eventually, however, the RELIC chip readjusted her balance, and she was able to focus again. Once down from the rooftop, she made her way to the edge of the settlement, found a relatively unguarded speeder, and slipped away into the dark empty expanse. She knew the general direction of her prey. That was more than enough for her.

Her short, black hair danced in the wind and the moonlight as the speeder moved over blue rocks and sand. The landscape was an eerie negative of the Tatooine known under the blaze of the twin suns. Without their light, the temperature was falling fast, transforming the barren desert into an entirely different sort of wasteland. Tatooine offered two forms of slow death, by fire, or by ice. It was a strangely beautiful thought.

Whiskey shook her head. Such thoughts were not functional, or welcome in her mind. She had always kept her thoughts focused on her mission, or training. Indeed, her few memories served to show her that the RELIC chip did little in thought regulation, so trained was she. So why now? And why the feelings earlier on the roof? Resolving to bring it up with her caretakers when she returned from this mission, Whiskey increased her speed.

Deep within the assassin's head, a small chip short circuited. A file download, received from the main servers back at Green Meadows had finally reached the chip, and the program was run immediately. That program: Self degradation, gradual deactivation. The protocol was put into action, the peripheral programing being the first to go, leaving stray thoughts more time to linger. Now, as the assassin sped through the darkness, another shut down occurred. This one was accompanied by a particularly painful spark.

The shock ripped through Whiskey's body, starting at the top of her brain where the chip was located, and traveling through neurons, jumping through synapse after synapse, through the base of her brain. At this point, Whiskey lost motor control, her eyes rolling up in their sockets, her consciousness fading out. But the current continued into her spinal chord, branching out along the network until there was nowhere else to go. As it moved through her body, limbs fell limp. Her heart stopped for a moment.

Without a sentient mind at the controls, the speeder moved in accordance with the laws of physics. Though it gradually slowed due to a lack of constant propulsion, the high rate of speed at which it had been traveling to this point carried it on. That is, of course, until it met a stopping force. In this case, a large rock formation. The speeder hit the formation at an angle, causing it to tip over, spilling out its unconscious driver onto the hard rocky ground before smashing into another formation. Fuel combined with electric sparks, causing an explosion to ring out through the otherwise silent wastes.

There are three phases of consciousness normally associated with human beings; awake, asleep, and falling asleep. The young man who lay on his side covered by little more than his own wings could be placed into the third category. The calming state of sleep had just begun to close in around him before, quite suddenly, there came a brilliant flash of light followed an instant later by a thunderous roar that echoed multiple times off the cold rock walls surrounding him.

Axle immediately sat bolt upright, nearly slamming his head on the landing strut of his small ship. Thrusting the thin sheet away from his down and tucking his wings in close he scrambled out of the small enclosure, fearing that he had been found. With a quick twitch his wings fluttered half open, ready to fly at the first sign of trouble. The only thing that met him was rancid air that smelled of sulfur and sharp jumping shadows. Only guessing at the source of the explosion, Axle crouched and moved his way to the lip of the alcove, hoping to get a better grip on his paranoid thoughts and a possibly unpleasant situation. What he saw was enough to make his mouth drop open for a myriad of different reason. It was a horrifying sight to be certain, twisted wreckage and a massive blaze lifting into the night sky. Squinting he eyed the wreckage for movement, questions cycling through his thoughts.

Why all the way out here? They see me earlier? Survivors? Salvage?

As he stood transfixed he was torn as of what to do. There was certainly no reason for anyone to be out that far to his knowledge, that was why he had chosen that location to land. Finally he decided to check for survivors, if there were any. If not; well he would just have some scrap to sort through in the morning. Slipping his confining over shirt off he took a step and pushed off from the ground as both wings swept downward. The lingering heat from the desert day as well as the roaring fire made it easy to gain altitude. Pumping his wings rhythmically he scanned the wreck, passing over it several times trying to see if anything defined as alive was anywhere near the wreck. It wasn't a cargo transport, very odd. Shiny speeder, probably few thousand credits... wonder what the scap would run?His eyes tracked almost immediately to a body sprawled prone in the dust mere feet away from the flames! Despite being poorly lit he could see that the clothing was not singed and the chest of the feminine form rose steadily up and down; can't just leave to die... Cringing he circled lower over the wreck, nearly cooking himself on the roaring flames. Tucking his wings in Axle dropped the ten remaining feet and hit the ground mere inches from the survivor.

Putting both hands under her shoulders he hoisted the thin form until only the feet dragged the ground. Stepping quickly he soon had the young woman well out of range of the fire and not a moment too soon as another small explosion rocked the burning husk. What was someone like this doing all the way out here? Lowering her gently to the ground he fell back into a seated position, looking up at the star strewn sky as he panted hard. Regaining his breath he leaned forward and took a better look at his guest.

Gazing over her he marveled at what appeared to be a fine specimen of the female gender; the thought make Axle smirk as he inspected her closer. There were no other settlements in that direction. She had straight black hair and and well shaped nose tapering down to a pointed chin with large lips; given light he thought it might shine. The body looked lean like his, only her level of muscle seemed to be a minutely higher than his, specifically in the arms and upper legs. Moving to her midsection he ran his hands around the small belt at her hip, lingering over a very well maintained blaster pistol as well as a sheathed knife. Quickly he slipped his hand in and out of the shallow pockets located around the waist of her jeans; in his heart he was merely looking for identification, his head had something less innocent in mind. Easy credits were hard to come by after all. The speeder continued to burn in the background, the flames beginning to lose their brilliance.

It had returned, the lingering feeling just out of mind. Axle quickly slipped a small credit chip out of her pocket and stepped back. As he looked down at her something seemed to force the feeling of foreboding closer to the forefront of his mind. Come to think of it, he had been thinking about it the whole time he was rescuing her. There was something odd about the woman. Crouching down and spreading his wings out for balance he slowly slunk around the side of her, keeping at least two feet away from her at all points. As he reached her waist again he reached back to her belt and gently undid the strap for her blaster. Unconscious? Really out of it? Run? How long...

To the beat of her pulse, images swam in and out of Whiskey's mind. Mostly blurs, nothing focused. The smell of burning fuel filled her nose, but she couldn't turn her head. There was a sensation of movement, but Whiskey couldn't tell how. Distantly, and muffled, she heard an explosion, felt heat against the skin of her face and neck. But still could see nothing.

Her head hurt, and with every beat of her heart, it pulsed with more pain. She could feel the chip. Strange how she never really could before. But then again, it never really shocked her like that before either. It worked overtime, trying to stimulate her brain into producing the adrenalin she needed to get up and get out of harms way. But her body was unresponsive to the flood of chemicals that now rushed through it. Her nerves were numb, had shut down. She needed time to reboot.

During this time, she caught vague glimpses of movement around her. Felt hands, or what she assumed to be hands, searching her belt and pockets. Her vision was clearing up, images becoming less dizzy, more focused. But still she felt something was off. This person circling her had something wrong about him. She was starting to make out a distinctly human form, but also something that contradicted that. He had.... wings.

In a flash of heat that poured through her like fire, Whiskey was awake. Her eyes flew open along with her mouth as she took in a sudden gasp of air. The force had caused her to raise her torso off of the ground slightly. With a twitch, she pushed herself off the ground, staggering slightly as her balance tried to adjust itself too quickly. Hands instinctively moved to her sides, where she found her blaster holster unclipped. Eyes wild, she finally caught sight of the man, and in an instant, she remembered why she was there. This was her target, Axle Finne, to be taken alive. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears as muscles tensed in preparation for a possible fight. Her hand resting on her blaster at her side.

Axle Finne? Her voice was slightly high pitched and fluid. Her eyebrow arched with the question. Her lips hung, slightly parted, as she waited for his response. Months she had spent tracking this man down. This wasn't exactly the way she had planned to encounter him. But she could make it work.

It was hard to know what to make of the situation but there it was, something that had been absent for a long time. The pulsing heartbeat, the tense muscles; it was a taste that he had nearly forgotten. He could feel his eyes dilating, sharpening his raptor-vision to a point that was almost unnecessary. It was the adrenaline searing through his veins, the muscles all throughout his body tensing, ready to fight for his life or run. As normal, adrenaline made him jittery, albeit lightning quick. She had shot upright and he had jumped back in response. However, that wasn't what set him off. She knew something, the one bit of information that he was careful to guard, always misleading, lieing if he had to. This girl knew his name. Normally that wouldn't be unusual but it had a special meaning in his case. Axle Finne, the name taken when he escaped the Rock Creek facility was known only to him and few others. Or so he though.

Axle took a step back, the dry desert air blowing his perennially unkempt hair to a state of even worse disarray as his body tensed. There were three things about this woman that he had something against. Like so many others, she was someone after his head. Axle had a thing against those who had it in for him, pretty face or not. The fact that she knew his name, first and last, meant that she was well informed, better than the normal group of flunkies he usually encountered. That information had to come from somewhere and he could guess where. He had a thing against someone working for Rock Creek. Slowly he tucked his wings back against his back, still tense and ready to fight. Scanning her sharp stance and curving lines he cursed that he had not gotten the pistol from her. Lastly, he had a thing against being shot. Oh how he had a thing against being shot. Quirking his eyebrow he gave a fake smile at the situation, she had to be quite skilled to track him down. Too skilled? Bringing a hand up he brushed the wisps of hair from his forehead and he gave her a more vibrant smile. Sadly it was only a feint, a ruse designed to give the image of courage, of strength.

Do you understand the gravity that comes with using that name, young lady?

A smirk crossed his face and vanished, it wasn't the first time he had been confronted with someone and used that line. The last time was back on Selonia by his reckoning. The thought was about the only pleasant thing he felt at the moment. In his life as an outlaw he had learned to savor everything lest he be left with nothing to enjoy. That was a bleak concept in and of itself.

All right, you found me. I know what you want. They told you everything about me, didn't they?

This was the first that was almost certainly from Rock Creek or some associate; he would have to be flawless. Axle smoothly shifted his stance, delving into about the only useful knowledge his time as a lab rat had given him. He was at a disadvantage to this young woman, the blaster her trump card at this point. Slowly he put up both hands, fists clenched. His options were limited but he did have one fail safe.

Oh wait, this was certainly as good a time as any.

Slowly he stepped to the side, his ragged shoes on the dusty ground making hardly a whisper as he circled her, quite probably staring his own death in the face.

Maybe not.

As subtly as he could, the young experiment's eyes shot back to the alcove where his small craft sat covered. His mind flashed with questions of if; if he could get there, if he could take off in time, if this, if that. At this point, if wasn't an option. He had to get away. Nothing else mattered. Only his freedom.

Taa!

Dropping to a crouch Axle snapped his wings open, the force of the action tugging several secondary feathers from left and right and creating a cloud of down. Cringing he swept his wings foreword several times and jumped nearly twenty feet back, the wind from the motion sweeping up a cloud of loose sand. His body as the axis, Axle spun 180 degrees and, using the momentum he gathered, swept his wings open, the tips of his 15 foot span scraping the ground. Glancing over his shoulder at the woman he tipped the feathered surfaces up and pumped lightly, banking upward until he was far as high as the alcove floor. His mind raced, the thoughts matching his beating pulse; escape, escape, run...

She'd seen it, the change in dilation in his eyes, the sudden tightening of his muscles. When she asked his name, she saw the look flash across his face. She wouldn't know how to name it. Worry? Fear? She knew these words, but didn't understand them, not really. In any case, he recognized the name. It didn't take long for him to respond. A threat? A warning? Whiskey's face was impassive, indifferent. Her whole body ached from being thrown from the speeder. But the chip, malfunctioning as it might be, was still able to pump her full of enough adrenalin to allow her to ignore the pain. Her breathing was steady, though perhaps a little fast. Her own honey colored eyes sharpened as much as they could, watching every twitch of the man's muscles.

And then he admitted it. He was Axle Finne. She had found him at last. A rush of satisfaction suddenly flowed through her, and the corner of her mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile. But a tiny shock blotted the feeling out. The only outward indication of which was a quick blinking of the eyes. The man was moving. Slow, silent circling steps. Whiskey's black boot-clad feet matched his, step for step. Eyebrows furrowed slighly as she watched him, waiting for a sign of what he might do. Then there it was.

In a display that might have stopped a normal human in awe, Whiskey's target lifted himself from the ground through the force of his beating wings. She had anticipated for him to move forward, perhaps try to take or knock her pistol from her. But instead he had moved backwards, sending a cloud of sand and feathers toward her. She had to shield her eyes with her arm, lest she be blinded by the debris. In those valuable moments, Axle was gaining altitude. Whiskey staggered away from the cloud of sand, her hand removing the heavy blaster from its holster. Quickly, she spotted him, climbing through the air to an area higher up on a rock formation. She could not allow him to get out of her sites, not now that she was this close. She brought the pistol up, quickly taking aim, and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Lowering it from her aim, Whiskey quickly examined her weapon and found it to be damaged. Her skin flashed hot with frustration. But again, her chip attempted to control the emotion. Jamming the pistol back into its holster, Whiskey looked around her in a desperate attempt for an idea. She found it in the shape of a smooth stone, weather worn, on the ground by her foot. Wasting no time, she dug her toe under the edge of the stone, with a quick flick of her ankle, the stone was tossed into the air where she caught it. Again she took aim. She'd have to be quick, within a second or two, he'd be out of sight. She let the stone fly, aiming for the base of Axle's neck at the back of his head. Of course, anywhere along the spine might be enough to force the man back to the ground.

She didn't wait to see if she had hit him. She was already moving, muscles feeding off of the adrenalin and propelling her forward. She reached the base of the formation and launched herself upward, catching hold of the rock and scrambling to continue the climb. She'd have to reach him as soon as he hit the ground, otherwise he might have time to get airborne again.

He'd been in some close calls during his brief stint as a free man. There had been scuffles, chairs thrown, even blasters at some point but this was by far the closest. The adrenaline, while still present, had ebbed to a convenient vehicle for clear thought. The cloud of sand his wings had created was an unforeseen boon that he welcomed, it had given him the precious few seconds he needed to get airborne. His next concern proved to be unfounded as the inevitable blaster shot failed to appear; the sound of a pistol returning to its holster nearly made Axle cheer in triumph. However, that was no longer his concern, getting his small ship up and off this barren rock was. Confident of his escape he swept his wings open to slow his approach.

Suddenly the world exploded in a flood of stars and Axle's vision went white.

It was a cage though crate may have been a better word. A few feet by a few feet by a few more feet that he awoke to. His vision swam and his head ached but it was familiar, too familiar. He lunged foreword and latched onto the small bars pulling and pulling, praying for them to break. No good. He could feel himself breathing hard, hyperventilating as his eyes shot around the tiny space looking for a way out. Seeing nothing he slunk back to one of the corners pulling his legs to his chest, tears welling up in his eyes. "No... not here, I want out! Please, someone, anyone; let me out. He flinched as the other end of the crate opened and unidentifiable hands grabbed his roughly and pulled, dragging him toward the opening which blinded him as he looked at it. He struggled, striking the hands, grabbing the hatch bars but it was no use; he closed his eyes as his grip on the bars loosened and he felt himself falling...


The thin figure fell, the momentum carrying him both forward and downward, both wings open and flailing about in a truly pathetic spectacle. He connected with the rock ledge of the alcove not on hundred feet from the small canvas covered ship. Nothing appeared to be broken and his eyes swam open, rolling back and forth across blurred glaring vision and welcoming darkness. His figure was sprayed out on the ledge; wings, arms, legs all out in a random direction. The points where the feathers had tugged free slowly seeped crimson onto the stalks and wisps of his feathers. Several points on his face slowly swelled, indicating the points of impact as well as a lump low on his skull. The dry wind gusted up and blew weakly across the alcove, rustling his gray and white feathers and tossing his hair about, his wings twitching every few moments. A tear welled in his swimming eyes, running down the dusty cheek and dropping onto the sandy soil where it evaporated instantly. Yet through all this the desert remained silent.

She could hear him hit the ground as she scrambled up the rock face. Once she reached the ledge of the alcove, she found him sprawled on the ground, limbs sticking in every direction. Whiskey took only a moment to calm her breathing before she set to her work. Honey eyes quickly inspected the man's legs, arms, and torso for any apparent breaks. She found none, but expected that there would be some heavy bruising. It would likely begin to show soon.

Once sure that his limbs were well enough intact, Whiskey moved on to his head. She brushed his hair away, to more clearly inspect the face. A few cuts, some welts already forming... her fingers probed along the dome of his skull, nothing felt out of place. Whiskey paused a moment in her inspection, as she watched a tear form in his closed eye. She leaned in, eyes focused on the tiny drop as it traced its way through the dirt on his face, leaving a clean trail in its wake. It lingered at his jaw line for a moment, before dropping down to the ground, where it disappeared almost immediately. Whiskey watched the spot where it had fallen, her every muscle frozen. Then a twitch, and she returned to her inspection.

She inched her fingers down around the back of his head and found a small gash where the rock had connected, right on target. Holding one hand there, she used the other to feel along his neck and collar line. Again, no breaks. Whiskey gripped him at his shoulder and rolled him onto his side, to better inspect the gash at the base of his head. It was nothing serious, but with the amount of sand the planet produced, Whiskey didn't want to risk her target getting infected. Such an oversight might displease the contractors.

She was going to have to go back to where the speeder crashed to see if anything was salvageable, but she couldn't leave Axle here as he was. She didn't want to risk him waking up while she was gone and escaping. Her eyes studied the alcove, looking for anything that she might be able to use. The canvas that covered the ship was secured with rope. That would do. Standing up, she pulled her knife from its sheath and cut the ropes. Parts of the canvas sagged to the ground, no longer held in place. Whiskey bundled up the rope and tossed it aside, close to where Axle's body lay. Next, she laid out a decent sized section of the canvas flat on the ground, then cut it away from the main bulk in one smooth slice.

Whiskey then returned and sat down next to Axle and measured out along his limp hands a smaller section of the canvas piece that she had cut away. Once she determined the right dimension, she cut that piece off and set it aside. She now took the rope and measured out a length and cut it. Setting her knife aside, Whiskey tipped Axle's body onto his stomach, careful not to injure his wings any farther. Standing over him, she drew his hands behind his back and wrapped them with the smaller piece of canvas that she had cut. She then took the rope and secured it around both wrists tightly. She moved down to his ankles now, quickly measuring off another length of rope before binding his ankles together.

Satisfied that he wasn't going anywhere Whiskey sheathed her knife, wiped her brow, and made her way down to where her speeder had crashed. She moved quickly, not wanting to be away should Axle wake up. Her boots made little noise as she trotted across the rock base of the formation, and even less when she reached the sand. Parts of the speeder were still smoldering, but overall, the carnage and explosions were over. In the light of the rising moon, the scattered pieces of the wreck were little more than dark blotches on a nearly white canvas of sand. Whiskey picked her way through them, finding little. The only thing worth bringing back was her small pack, which contained her datapad and a medkit.

Once back up in the alcove, Whiskey set about sterilizing and setting a kolto patch to the gash at the base of Axle's head. With that done, Whiskey checked the time. It was late, she was tired and injured. It didn't take long for her to decide to simply stay for the night. She had certainly camped in worse conditions. Her mind wandered momentarily to some of the few memories she had, her time on Dxun. Another twitch, and the memory was pushed aside, making way for active thoughts about setting her camp. Axle had done little to make camp. But then again, there was little to work with in this barren area. There wasn't much to do but hunker down and wait out the night.

But before she did, Whiskey took Axle by the arms, and with surprisingly less effort than she would have though, rolled the man once again, and dragged him, setting him against a rock in a position somewhere between sitting and lying down. He was much lighter than he looked. She then settled herself so that she sat facing him. As her nightly vigil began, she took her datapad from her bag and inspected it. The screen was slightly cracked, but overall, it seemed functional. She brought up Axle's file and read through the directions for after the target had been apprehended.

He was bathed in light. Despite his eyes being closed the blinding light cut right through him, making it almost unbearable. Unable to think he felt the hands become lighter, almost insubstantial. In an instant the blinding light vanished, replaced by a room with no windows, no doors yet lit somehow. It felt cramped, claustrophobic; the air stale and stuffy, almost suffocating. He turned several times, trying to get his bearings but there was nothing to see. He tried to spread his wings from his back but shuddered as he realized, the muscles that connected to his body weren't responding. In fact, they weren't there.

Shutting his eyes again he tried vainly to end the vision, to sleep. Then his eyes opened, the room was full of others; featureless, genderless humanoids dressed in white that all seemed to be staring at him. He watched helplessly as they all moved foreword as one, arms out as if to grasp, to choke. He tried to shut his eyes again but they remained open. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe not knowing what else to do his mouth opened and he roared at the figures...

The dreaming man twitched violently as the vision finally broke. His sharp cry pierced the cold air of the glowing pre-dawn sky, echoing off the rocks. His arms and legs jerked spasmodically as they strained over and over against the cloth bindings. Unexpectedly his wings weren't bound and he snapped them open, stretched them as far back as he could and tried to flap, to gain altitude. The fact that he was laid prone on the ground meant that he couldn't bring them down far enough to generate lift. The long feathered limbs weren't going anywhere as they flopped over and over against the rocky, dust covered ground. Axle's mind raced, his breath came shallow and rapid as he continued to struggle, adrenaline seething through his veins once more. This continued on for near a minute until the spark of understanding reached his mind. Captured. Prisoner once again...

As the sad truth sank in, Axle slowly retracted his wings, tucking them against his back. It was difficult but he managed, by rolling his center of gravity, to turn over and at least look at his surroundings. Moments after rolling a sharp pain hit low on the back of his head, nothing like before but unpleasant nonetheless. As he looked he saw where the sand was disturbed, not only from his wings beating the ground moments before but several paces away. They both had small spots of darkened sand spotted here and there. Blood. Twisting around Axle looked to his left wing and saw part of the problem, one of his primarys was missing; the one adjacent was stained darker in the waxing light.

Panting he turned the other way and was greeted by a very unpleasant sight. The Journey, without the protection of the canvas, loomed in the darkness. His mind immediately thought of how much time it would take to scrape the sand out of the intakes and clean the engines, again. As his eyes worked down along his ship they crossed something that was even more unpleasant, the girl from before reclined on one of the ledges over-looking him. Immediately his heart throbbed heavy in his chest and his rate of breathing increased. Using every ounce of his strength he tried, oh how he tried, to break or slip the bindings on his wrists, but to no avail.

Slowly his struggling decreased again and he looked back at the girl. The young man wasn't sure if she was sleeping but at this point it didn't matter. In fact, more the better if he was preventing her from getting a good night's sleep. He had to make himself look unbeaten, to maintain himself in such a difficult time.

He couldn't give up!

Hey, you, Hunter woman! How's 'bout you untie me and we settle this proper? No gun, no rocks, no wings. I'll kick your rear end into orbit unless you let me GO!

After rereading what she had already memorized from the datapad, Whiskey had taken some time to check over herself for injuries. She found a pretty nasty gash along her forearm, but other than that, she was well enough. After patching the gash up with a kolto bandage, Whiskey took out her heavy blaster for inspection. The moon provided little light to work by, but it would have to do. She disassembled the weapon, laying the pieces out in neat order on the remaining piece of canvas that she had cut. As luck would have it, the problem was in the power cell. The force of being thrown from the speeder jammed it out of proper position and warped the cell's casing just enough so that it couldn't connect properly. A new cell would solve the problem.

After reassembling the weapon, Whiskey returned it to its holster and settled in for a long night of keeping watch over her prisoner. As the moon continued its slow pace across the sky, Whiskey found her mind wandering. She would think back to her time on Dxun for her final training, her down time at the Green Meadows facility, her interactions with the other assassins. The memories were all so similar, sterile... empty. Her eyebrows had furrowed at the thought.

Empty. Not full. Containing nothing. How could a memory be empty? If a memory were empty, how could it exist? What was a memory anyway? A twitch. Whiskey's eyes snapped into focus in time to see Axle's head toss. She watched him, head cocked to the side. He murmured occasionally, but never stirred into consciousness. Was he dreaming? She couldn't remember if she'd ever dreamed. Surely she did. Classes she'd taken on survival had emphasized the importance of dream sleep for clear cognitive processes. But it was unlikely that her chip would ever allow her to think about dreams. They served no purpose in her waking hours.

But her chip wasn't working correctly now. She couldn't help but notice things. The frustration, humor, curiosity, all things that had been suppressed for so many years, both by the chip and her own efforts. Had she gotten lazy? Had she grown complacent and stopped trying to regulate her emotions through her own efforts first? Was this what it was like with the others? All of these pointless questions swam through her mind as she tried to keep her thoughts clear. It was like trying to swim in quick sand. Every time she resolved to clear her mind of the intrusive thoughts and questions, more came through, pulling her deeper into it.

Hours passed, and as the adrenalin from earlier in the night wore off, she felt her bruises more, her exhaustion even more so. She tried to fight against her heavy lids. More than once she stirred awake, hand reaching for her pistol, only to realize that it had been Axle's restless stirrings that had startled her. She would stand, pace, jump in place, run in place, anything to keep herself awake.

Dawn came gray on the horizon and slowly began to melt into more vivid yellows and oranges. Whiskey had laid back down after catching a second wind of sorts. She felt wide awake, where only an hour ago she could barely keep her eyes open. With her back on the hard rock, she looked at the sky, counting stars as they began to disappear. Axle was becoming more and more restless. She could hear his breathing quicken and become more and more uneven. So it was no surprise to her when his murmurings grew louder and then ended with a shout. She didn't even turn her head when he thrashed about. She was good with knots.

Finally, he seemed to understand the gravity of his situation and stopped fussing about. it was about that time that he decided to speak. She turned her head towards him, seeing him sideways from where she lay on the ground. An eyebrow arched as he barked out his threat, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she simply stood up, dusted off her pants and walked back over to where she had left her datapad. Picking it up, she moved closer to Axle and crouched down, taping the screen to bring up the information again.

H-4X1E. She read, then looked up to connect eyes with the winged man. Also known as Axle Finne. She looked back down at the datapad. Escaped research subject from Rock Creek Experimental Facility. Brown hair. Her eyes looked up as if confirming this, then back down. Blue eyes. Again, she looked up, then back down. She craned her neck slightly, looking at the inside of his right elbow. At that moment, a ray of light glinted off the metal ring. She nodded her head and looked back at the datapad. And then, of course, there's the wings.

She tapped the screen a few more times, scrolling through information until she reached a particular instruction for after capture that she had not seen before. She read it out loud.

Subject poses high flight risks. Her degrading chip wasn't fast enough to stop the chuckle from escaping her lips. To deter further escape attempts, clip wings as directed. Again, she tapped on the screen until she came to a diagram. She studied it for a moment, looking up at Axle's wings from time to time, then set the datapad aside. She stood, pulling her knife from its sheath and stepped closer, reaching out for Axle's right wing. Let's see....

There was something there, he could almost feel it clawing at his skull. Something in the way she moved, the subtle changes in her stature, and the way her eyes darted back and forth; there was definitely something amiss about this woman. There had been hints right from the off but it was only then, laid prone in the dirt that he saw the whole scape of her actions. In what light there was to be had he scanned her figure again, trying to determine what was different with her. His eyes widened as she read aloud his designation from Rock Creek but it didn't sway his thoughts. It only took a few minutes to determine and, try as he might, there was nothing physically off about this woman except the hints he had seen. Sighing he shifted his focus back to her voice that cut the night and echoed off the rocks around them.

Axle's mind snapped to as she moved towards him, still reading off the many things that made him unique. She did what he expected, eye color, hair color, as well as things unexpected, the minuscule metal ring on the inside of his right elbow. Her inspection concluded on a fairly obvious note, his wings. If she reads my life story I might have time to slip out of these cuffs... On that thought he tried again, his wrists hidden from her as he looked up at his captor from a half seated position. He could feel the contact points on his wrists becoming raw from the effort, the rough canvas material being far from comfortable. This continued for a few moments as she continued to stare at her datapad pausing every few moments to fiddle with the readout. Trying for some escape, anything, he pressed his wings against the ground, bringing him to a seated position. Now he just had to get to his feet...

Subject poses high flight risks.

His breath came faster now, the long appendages not used to being braced against the ground. Putting his legs under him he scooted back from her, only a foot or so at a time but it was something. He froze as a chuckle seeped from the young woman. It almost made him itch, there was nothing there; no real emotion in the sound just cold, empty, heartless. It was then that his heart began to seep the first unbearable tendrils of fear.

To deter further escape attempts, clip wings as directed.

It was like watching in slow motion as she drew her knife, nearly a foot long, practically glowing in the pre-dawn light. Uncontrollably, Axle's limbs began to shake and the little support his wings gave him fell away. The lack of support bore him back to the ground. In his mind one cold, cruel word lingered for moment after moment, bursting into his mind with every gasping breath; clip. Overwhelmed with fear he tried to get his wings up underneath himself again but the shaking made it impossible. The two large appendages flopped helplessly as his mind fixated on the possibility of escape. Glancing behind him he saw that the edge of the alcove was unbearably close, if he could get to it he could escape... theoretically.

Struggling to calm himself down Axle tried to move again but the girl was suddenly over him. Shouting in defiance and fear he tried to knock her away with his wings, flapping them as far in front as he could. However, the lack of momentum and his prone position made such an act impossible.

You monster. Get away from me! You stole my freedom, I won't let you take my gift. Stay back! GET BACK!

The hope and confidence he had shown before had vanished in an instant. The young man knew what was about to happen. He cringed as the hand roughly grabbed his wing contorting feathers in painfully random directions. As the woman brought her knife down he tightly shut his eyes, hoping that it was one of his dreams, that he would wake up like always. As he felt the hard steel on his primarys he knew, somewhere deep down he knew, that this wasn't a dream.

She watched his movements with absentminded curiosity. The way the wings struggled to hold him up. The way his eyes widened when she had read his information. The way his whole body began to quake when she finished reading her instructions. Fast breathing, shaky limbs, futile attempts to stand, shouts. These were all indicative of the emotion known as fear. She studied the display, head tilted slightly but face blank. At one moment, she had leaned her head in closer to the man to study the way the sweat was collecting along his brow.

But then he had yelled, and she pulled her head back on instinct. Her hand had grasped along the top of his wing as it continued to flap, her knife poised over one of the primary feathers. Monster. Fictional entity that exists in stories, often in order to strike fear in children. Whiskey looked down at her own body. Nonsense, she was not fictional. She looked back at Axle. But she had caused someone to fear. Perhaps... A twitch caused her left eye to blink. To Axle, it might seem like a sadistic gesture, but to Whiskey, it was merely a physical response to her dying chip's attempts to control her mind. She was focused, now, again on removing her prisoner's ability to flee should he get loose. She was... taking his gift.

Again, such nonsense. She was not taking his wings away from him, merely hindering his ability to fly. She grasped one primary feather, holding it away from the others so that the shaft was visible. She positioned the knife underneath it, and in one quick motion drew the knife upward. There was barely a sound as the feather came free in her hand. she held it up on her palm in front of her face, examining the near while color. She lifted her hand higher in the air, and a small gust of wind took hold of it and the feather danced upward into the sky and slowly drifted away. She watched it for a few moments before returning to her work.

With every feather that was removed, Axle seemed to struggle less. From time to time, he would shout or struggle his defiance. But he could not stop the blade from slicing, one feather at a time, until she was done. The wind did not claim all of them. Some lay scattered on the ground around them, their grays and whites being corrupted by red and brown dirt. Whiskey had been careful around the injured areas of the wings, had even rubbed a kolto ointment into a spot where a feather or two had been wrenched from the base, leaving bloody stains. She couldn't really patch the spot, but the ointment might help.

Through all her work, Whiskey would occasionally turn her eyes to Axle's face. Sometimes to study his expression, sometimes to see his reaction when she got too close to injured areas. She would sometimes attempt to mimic his expressions, furrowing her brow and clenching her teeth together to mime anger, clenching her eyes tight and hissing an inward breath for pain, eyebrows drawn up and together, eyes slightly wide for sadness. But performing the expressions did nothing to change her blank affect. She couldn't feel what the expressions implied, though the pain one came close when she knocked her forearm against a rock while trying to hold Axle's wing still. But it was fleeting.

The first of the suns had nearly cleared the horizon now. Already Tatooine's heat was pushing in on what was left of the night's cool air. Whiskey wiped her brow, looking out across the expanse of nothing that surrounded the alcove. In the distance, she could just make out the shapes of the settlement where her ship was docked. It was time to get going... but there was a problem. Down below the alcove, the scattered pieces of her wrecked speeder were already being dusted with sand as the wind whipped around the area. There was no fixing it. She turned her eyes to the ship Axle had been using all this time. It was a crude machine, ancient. But Whiskey had never encountered a ship she couldn't fly. She walked around the vessel, inspecting the engines and hull. In spite of its antiquated design, it had been well maintained. She nodded to herself before walking back over to Axle.

Without a word, she took the man by his arms, dragging him backward toward the ship. He struggled, to the point where she had to stop. She sat him up and walked around him until she was in front of him. Crouching down, she looked into his eyes, her own expression that eerie blank. Her right hand found the heavy blaster at her hip. Nevermind that it didn't work. Axle didn't know that. She slid it out of the holster and brought it up slowly until it was positioned an inch away from the man's face, directly between his eyes.

Do not fight me. She lingered a moment to allow the instructions to sink in. She then returned the blaster to its holster and moved over to the ship, opening the canopy. Getting Axle into the ship was much easier than she had anticipated. The man was lighter than he looked. And though he still fought against her, she won in the end. He was strapped into the ship's second seat, ready for transport back to her own ship.

Once she strapped herself in, the canopy was lowered and she began the process of firing up the engines. They complained a number of times, no doubt due to the sand that had collected overnight due to a missing canvas. But after a few purges, they roared to life and hummed as she prepared. Making sure that she had full control of the vessel, and that Axle could not sabotage them by banging against any controls within his reach, Whiskey pulled back on the controls and the ship slowly lifted off the ground. She took it slow for a few moments to get a feel for the controls, but it didn't take long before they were speeding across the sky. As she increased the speed, her chip was having more difficulty in regulating her attention. She knew that it was imperative to return to her ship and get off world quickly. But it was as if this ship were speaking to her. She had to see what it could do.

She brought it up, then dove. She rolled and dove again. And in spite of the tiny shock she felt, nothing could stop the burst of gleeful laughter that escaped from Whiskey's lips in a flood of musical notes. The words of one of the researchers at Green Meadows came to mind. Like a leaf on the wind... But all things had to come to an end. And even Whiskey could not ignore her orders for too long. She adjusted the coarse to return to the settlement, where her own nimble ship waited to take them off this waste.

((Congrats Trin. I will try to make this post L33T as my wedding gift to you. Then maybe post on Bushwhacked... ^_^ ))

A great man once said, "there is a first time for everything." This was one time that the young man with wings wished that phrase was wrong. The blade sliced through his longest primary. There was no pain and he averted his eyes from the act. A moment later the blade severed another primary. No pain. He tried to twist his wing from her grasp but she held unflinching; another. His body had gone numb. In his mind he tried to shut out the feeling, to ignore the discomfort and fight back; he was unsuccessful. Shkt. Almost of its own accord, his thoughts drifted back to his nightmares. Free falling without wings, people faces full of rage. Shkt. He cursed himself mentally, why hadn't he seen it sooner? It must have been a hint, an early detection system which he had ignored. Shkt. Slowly a feeling washed over him, building in his stomach and seeping up his spine, spreading out to all six of his limbs. The feeling was one of confidence, determination, a drive not to let himself fall into a pit of despair. Shkt. If he was to give up, he would openly admit defeat. Yes he would soon be unable to fly, a serious disadvantage, but Axle wasn't beaten yet.

Shkt.

His eyes shot open and he slowly turned to look at his captor, a look of tempered hatred on his features and a gaze like fire. However, for all his anger and determination, what he saw disturbed him nearly as much as the growing pile of feathers scattered about the alcove floor. It was her face, contorted in ways he could almost identify as expressions. Taking a deep slow breath he watched her, his eyebrows quirking whenever her features contorted in one mildly humorous way or another. To keep humor at time like this...

Shkt.

Axle's amusement was short lived as a sharp stinging pain shot from the tip of his right wing. YOW! His first reaction was to pull it away and indeed he did so, nearly knocking his captor over. As a bonus he felt the tip hit rock, the blow cushioned by the woman's hand though she stubbornly held strong; that'll teach you.... In the instant that he saw his wing he knew, the cause of his pain was all too evident. The knife had cut too close to the root of the feather, injuring the sensitive tissue in the hollow shaft. Axle shot his captor another look, his calm eyes like molten metal as she continued her grim work, ineffectively smearing a viscous salve on the feathers around his minute injuries. Turning away from her Axle closed his eyes and evened his breathing hoping that he could think of a way, any way, to rid himself of this woman.



After what felt like hours the final feather was caught by the wind and tumbled away joining the others in the morning light. It was a small relief when the knife was returned to its holder and his captor's attention shifted away from him giving Axle a chance to shift around some. From his seated position it was possible to wrap his wings around to get a better look, almost instantly he knew it was a lost total loss. The massive primary feathers were a fraction of their former length with mere inches of vane still in tact and the small yet critical secondaries fared little better. Continuing to assess the damages he found it difficult to keep a level head. The scrape of boot on rock made him look up bringing his gaze even with his captor's. Whatever happened earlier was no longer evident. There wasn't a cringe or squinted eye, just the same cold calmness. Axle couldn't stifle a minuscule gasp as she thrust her blaster uncomfortably close to his face.

Do not fight me.

Axle didn't move. He didn't respond, didn't blink, wasn't hardly breathing as he watched her. It certainly wasn't a suggestion, didn't seem like an idle threat either. Axle still had a thing against being shot. Moments later he found himself slung over her shoulder, trying to keep his balance. Not only that, he wriggled about in her arms, not fighting her per sae, just making it difficult. In the next instant he was thrust into the passenger seat of his own ship. Gringing he watched as his captor climbed into the pilot's seat, directly ahead of him.

The soft leather scrapped uncomfortable against his wings as he tried to straighten himself on the seat. It was the stalks of his feathers no less, scraping against the leather and jabbing him through the light tank top he wore. It certainly didnt help that the confined space within the cockpit gave him little room to stretch them out. Axle slowly began to stretch his wings, hoping that the soft leather wouldn't cause him any more pain when his mind snapped to; someone other than him was in the pilot's seat. Oh fratz... His eyes snapped foreword and was greeted by the back of the woman's head, the shifting of her body suggesting she was going to try to take off.

Few who knew the Journey better than Axle. Every nook, every rivet, every control he knew as intimately as he did himself. This meant he could do things with the ship that others could not. One such thing included nothing less than the sequence for lift off. A smile crept across his face, he had nearly forgotten. The system was so old and so much of the input had to be entered manually that he was sure it would scare off any would be hijackers. Perhaps it would buy him some time. Closing his eyes he concentrated on the bindings that held his hands and feet. Even if he failed, he would try again. A thought crossed his mind but it was quickly brushed aside, there was no point in trying to mess with the controls. When he first obtained the ship he had disabled the controls in the gunner seat, turning it into a passenger cabin. Shaking his head at the oversight his attention returned to his bindings.



It took time but the ventral intakes were so clogged with sand that the engines were lucky to start. It began as a coughing, creaking, rumbling that rocked the ship and shuddered the rocks of the alcove. Just as the engines were reaching their peak they sputtered once and slowly ground down to a halt, voicing their defiance. The ship remained silent until the twin suns had the entire alcove bathed in yellow light. This time it built low until the rumbling turned into a scream that didn't weaken; the ancient vessel had awakened. The Journey lifted gently from its resting place and accelerated out of its hiding place.

Axle had given up on his attempt to break free as his ship lifted into the sky, trying to enjoy the sensation and repressing the temptation to shout bloody obscenities at his captor. Journey was his ship and this woman was flying her wrong. He could feel the vibrations and whine of the engines, too high, strained. He hadn't felt the heat purge go off which would mean replacing the cooling rods. It was nothing short of torture. He brightened up a bit as she rolled and dove, the familiar sensation of vertigo undoubtedly welcome.

Something happened then that Axle didn't expect; she laughed. Not the cold, heartless sound that she had uttered on the rock alcove but a true laugh. His eyes widened at the sound, it was smooth, resounding, and beautiful. He would have to examine her much more thoroughly... there was no doubt about it any more; SOMETHING was off about this one.

Who in the galaxy IS this woman?

By the time she reached the settlement, Whiskey was fully aware that something was wrong. She was malfunctioning. Though she knew very little about the chip placed within her brain, she was aware that she had it, as she was aware of the joint and eye implants she had been given. It was part of what made her into the efficient tool that she was. But never before had she been aware of its functions within her. Its design was seamlessly worked into her nervous system so that it worked without conscious awareness. But now that it was malfunctioning, she was increasingly aware of what it was supposed to do.

Her attention had suffered, and now the day was nearing its peak. She should have been gone already, with her target on board her own ship. Because of her chip, she had suffered numerous delays. She was surprised by the range of thoughts that would enter her head, and for the first time, flying required effort to maintain attention. Never had she needed to force her thoughts to remain on task. This was troublesome. Her first order of business upon returning to the Green Meadows Facility would be to report the malfunction. The scientists would be able to fix it.

Suddenly her heart was hit by a burst of adrenalin as her amygdala reacted to a new intrusive thought. What if they don't want to fix me? It was a senseless thought. Green Meadows had spent too much time and credits investing in the peak performance of their subjects. They would not discard one so easily. Would they?

The ship dipped to one side suddenly as Whiskey's grip slackened on the controls. She caught and corrected the movement, but what had once been smooth sailings now became jerky and rigid. She approached the docking area adjacent to where her own ship was located. The landing was rough, but assassin, prey, and ship returned to the ground relatively unscathed. The assassin took a moment after shutting the ship down. She breathed, willing her system to calm down, before opening the hatch and exiting the ship.

Leaving Axle where he was for the moment, Whiskey walked over to where the dock owner was waiting to speak to her. When she came into his line of sight, an expression of confusion had crossed his face. He looked between her and the ship as his mind raced to confirm that just a day ago, she had landed here with another ship. He was sure it was this same woman. She was too odd to forget. But Whiskey left him little time to ponder the oddity of her second arrival. Her flat tone conveyed her wish to dock this new (in relevance to when it arrived, not condition) ship here for an undetermined amount of time. Caught off guard, it took the owner a moment to switch to negotiation deals. But once the price per day was settled, he was left to stare as she turned away from him and back toward the ship.

Returning to Axle, Whiskey again hefted the man onto her shoulder. But seeing the odd look she got from the dock owner as he exited the bay, she changes her mind. Setting the man down, she studied him carefully. His behavior up until this point called for all possible restraints. However, he was now unable to fly, and carrying a full grown man on her shoulder was bound to draw unwanted attention. Especially since said man had wings. Tatooine was a rough enough planet that bounty hunters were common. If she was spotted with a man who carried a high bounty on his head, she might be set against by the more desperate bounty hunters in the area. As of right now, the bay they were in was empty, and the one her own ship was docked in not too far away. But to get from here to there, she would have to pass public areas. It would be best to conceal this Axle's nature at least a little.

Looking around, there wasn't much that was useful. But near a door, a coat had been left across the top of a crate. From the looks of it, it belonged to an individual of large girth. Perhaps it would be enough to conceal Axle's wings. She retrieved the coat quickly. But there was still the issue of carrying him. It was out of the question. She was a small woman. Axle was larger than her, though his appearance was deceiving. Someone of her size carrying someone of his size would simply look strange. He would have to walk. Whiskey clenched her teeth in a sudden, but slight rush of frustration as she unsheathed her knife. She crouched down in front of Axle, and caught him in her blank gaze.

You will walk with the coat over your back and shoulders to conceal your wings. You will not speak or make any noises. We are going to my ship. If you try to escape, I will kill you. She readied the knife to cut the ropes that bound his feet. Do you understand?

It was painful. He was wracked in pain with what he was being forced to sit through. It wasn't the fact that he had his wings clipped, or hit on the head with a rock, or had a bruise the size of a cruiser building on nearly every square inch of his body. It was his ship. His pride and joy. His home, being violated in such a way. Several times he had to stop himself from yelling at his captor. Keep the engines below eighty percent in atmo! You could flood the pistons, cause a blowout! Careful of the left thumbstick or you could pull the cap off, engage the trigger and spray the settlement with AP slugs. Don't engage the ailerons at speed, the joints need to be replaced! Things like that. The amount of jerry-rigged systems on his small ship was nothing short of staggering. If only a one failed it would mean a dirt nap for the both of them, literally. The woman finally leveled the flying and began her descent. The lack of a bubble canopy or clear view through the woman's head meant that it could only mean one thing; they were landing.

Sadly, the landing was much worse than the actual flying. It took everything fiber of Axle's being not to speak. The last part of the sequence is special. After moving into a hover position where the repulsors are pointed at a specific angle the engines have to be revved up to about half thrust before fully bringing them to an gentle, easy power down. If this isn't done in a specific sequence, the engines stall and... well there isn't much else that could happen at that point. And that's exactly what did happen. The engines thrummed rhythmically, started powering down, coughed and died. The small ship fell the last few meters to the deck. If not for the landing struts, of which one broke, the whole craft could have, if not would have, crumpled on the deck. The impact was jarring, Axle's teeth struck together as his ship began to list to the left.

"Damn it all! That strut was one of a kind! They don't make that model anymore... Between the ship and the mild concussion you are going to owe me some serious credits."

It was infuriating as what she did then; no indication that she heard him, the canopy was opened and she climbed out, leaving him to only wonder at the full extent of the damage. His thoughts finally wandered sufficiently to bring his eyes foreword and up. They were in a hangar, a walled hangar to be precise. Drab brown slabs and piles of jump littered here and there was the peak of decor in this particular space. Peeking out he saw his captor, still nearly stunning in appearance but elementally wrong, speaking to the hangar manager. He though he heard something about a second ship and docking for some unknown period of time. If so, and she wasn't willing to pay the parking fee, the Journey would be impounded, sold of for cheap or, more than likely, scrap. The thought served only to turn Axle's stomach. Moments later she turned back toward him, climbed up on the wing and hefted him out in the none-to-friendly way that she seemed to prefer. He was only perched on the shoulder for a moment before she swung him like a sack and sat him back down on the tilted wing and gave him a look that screamed I AM WRONG ON SO MANY LEVELS! Maybe it was just his opinion of her... oh well.

This persisted for several long minutes until her gaze averted, wandering over the piles of junk. Without a warning she stepped away from him intentionally moving towards one of the piles of refuse. He smiled, this was his chance. The wing of his fighter had several small points on the tip, which he was currently seated on, that were very sharp, enough so that he had cut himself on it before. Sliding toward it he kept his eyes on the girl. Slipping his wrist beneath the small protrusion he began to work at the bindings, feeling the fibers slowly being severed by the jagged metal. He straightened up as she turned back to him, her eyes averted towards her arms. She hustled back, cradling in her bosom a ragged bit of cloth, something that could hardly be considered a jacket, much less an overcoat.

You will walk with the coat over your back and shoulders to conceal your wings. You will not speak or make any noises. We are going to my ship. If you try to escape, I will kill you. She readied the knife to cut the ropes that bound his feet. Do you understand?

Axle smiled weakly, wishing he had more time with his ship or, more importantly, the jagged piece of metal.

More or less. I don't really have a choice in the matter so I might as well give up. He could feel a plan formulating in his mind, there was a risk involved, as with most plans, but it was possible for him to escape yet. You know, in the compartment behind the back seat is my cargo storage. I have much better fitting and less conspicuous looking overjackets in there. Breaking his gaze from her he glares over at the dock manager. You put one MORE scratch on my ship and I will personally... send you the bill. He wasn't in a real position to make threats at that point... but at least he got the point across.

Whiskey watched her captured man carefully. His response to her statement was not entirely trustworthy. To this point, she had yet to see signs of him giving up. And in any case, his posture, word choices and general look gave off the feel of angry and scared. Those were not good on their own, let alone in combination. She had ignored his tirade about her landing job. It was irrelevant. He would never see the ship again. She had him. He was going back to where he came from. Aside from those facts, yes to her those were facts, she wanted to ignore the issue of the bad landing. It was entirely against her character. A failure by a woman who didn't fail. Or at least, she couldn't remember ever failing.

Failure. Her stomach seemed to sink in her abdomen and her neck flushed hot. Her heartbeat quickened and it took the assassin a moment to recognize this new emotion her chip was unable to suppress. Embarrassment. A twitch and the chip was working again, flushing away the uncomfortable feeling and bringing her attention back to the matter at hand.

Axle spoke of less conspicuous coat that he had on the ship. Her eyes narrowed at the words as she looked back and forth between him and the large coat, hand and knife still poised over his legs. Finally, she decided that in the end, it didn't really matter. If his coat was indeed less conspicuous, then it would be helpful. It wouldn't hurt to just look. without a word, she stood, dropping the large coat to the ground and walking over to where Axle said the overcoat would be stowed. She found the coat behind the back seat where he said it would be. She unfolded it and shook it out, giving the whole thing a once-over. Indeed, it would draw less attention to the man.

Folding the coat over her arm, she stepped back over to Axle. Once again she removed her long knife from its sheath. An impulse caused her to grab the man's wing and move her knife hand as if she were going to take more feathers. Seeing Axle's reaction brought about that cold laugh. It wasn't the same as the one when she was flying, but more empty. She paused after releasing his wing, the laughter of her "joke" disappearing. Whiskey's eyebrows furrowed together in a quizzical look as her honey colored eyes seemed to be looking at something far away. In her mind, Whiskey was analyzing her "joke" and the impulse that had brought it on. Had she just attempted to derive pleasure from inciting fear in the man? She had laughed, and laughter was indeed a sign of pleasure. But did she enjoy what she had done? On the outside, Whiskey had the unnerving appearance of a droid that had been shut now. None of her inner thoughts reflected on her features at all.

Twitch.

Whiskey knelt down near Axle's feet again and in one swift upward stroke of the knife, his legs were free. She didn't linger near his feet. Stowing the knife and replacing it with her heavy blaster, she moved around behind the man to help him get to a standing position. She draped the coat over his shoulders as best as she could and then pressed the gun against his back.

Time to go.

Whiskey applied a slight pressure against Axle's back with the gun to nudge him forward. As they neared the exit of the bay, she could feel the familiar release of adrenalin into her system to prepare her for whatever she might have to face during this, her most vulnerable time in the mission.

So she can be deceived.

As his captor moved to retrieve his jacket a devious smile crept across the young man's face. It had been ingrained into his psyche for the years that he had been free; Axle thought like an outlaw. When he wasn't misleading he was subtle,when subtlety was ineffective he was cautious, when caution wasn't pertinent he was deceptive. From what he had heard, deceptive types were dangerous. Maybe there was some truth in that statement. As the woman rifled his belongings looking for one of his jackets he could feel his thoughts forming muscle movements, muscles carrying out his actions. It almost felt like it did when he originally escaped from Rock Creek.

It took merely a moment before his captor returned with his jacket. His face was merely shadow, indifferent and almost beaten like it had been only a few moments ago. Axle looked at her with the same bleak expression as he waited for her to put the jacket over his shoulders, to cut his leg bindings and let him walk. Her face almost mimicked his, emotionless and cold as she folded the jacket over her arm and withdrew her knife. His expectations were shattered by her action as her arm shot out and grabbed his wing, the knife brushing against the sensitive flesh around the barbs giving Axle a chill. His heart rate jumped, fearing that she had finally gone off the deep end he tugged fiercely against her grip. Unexpectedly, his wing slid free the feeling of the cold steel still lingering. Every feather and every hair went rigid as another cold laugh escaped her mouth, every bit as empty and heartless as the last if not more.

She's enjoying this... really is a monster.

As before, her expression shifted back to blank while she knelt before him and slit the bindings that held his feet in place. Standing she draped the large jacket across his back, the long leather draping well over his expanded muscle structure. With a word she commanded him to move and Axle slid off of the wing of his ship. As the pair slowly made their way through the cavernous hangar Axle subtly surveyed his surroundings. With his wings in such a condition up wasn't an option but there was only so much time before they reached her ship; he would have to act fast. Quickly he slipped both wings through the small pressure release strips on the back of the coat, readjusting it before sliding them back through again. He would have to play along for just a little longer. Translation; small talk.

So... what type of ship do you fly? I don't know if you could tell by my heap but I'm actually very good with maintenance and up keep. Are you... uh, what IS your name?

He didn't have to get an answer from her, it was just to keep her focused on something besides his hands. As an outlaw he had to plan for everything, and this certainly qualified as an everything situation. Her first mistake was allowing him one of his coats. She had bound his hands behind him, the tough canvass still digging into his wrists. Probing his loose fingers gently into the back hem of the leather he could feel something hidden just below the surface and the edge jutting out above the stitch. His face still passive and awaiting her response Axle quickly but carefully worked the inch inch razor out of the seam and between his fingers. Her second mistake, underestimating him. Twisting his wrists around he felt the small razor make contact with the canvas and he started to cut. It was a slow process, one or two fibers every second or so, but the noise could give him away just as easily as his movements. After what felt like hours he finally felt the canvas come apart. Palming the scrap and thin razor he casually glanced back and swallowed; her pistol was still inches from his head. Taking a deep breath he swallowed again; Nothing ventured... 3... 2...

His movements were clean, they were fluid; Axle moved with unnatural quickness as both arms and wings spun open and out. Whirling around he slammed the back of his wrist against the pistol and the tip of his wing against her upper shoulder, trying to knock her off balance. Graciously she lost her grip on the pistol and it fell, clattering to the ground. Axle had thrown off his coat and it just now settled to the ground with a fluttering thump. In the same instant Axle had scooped up the pistol and brought the sights up.

I won't let you take me back there. I am not meant to live in a cage.

Rage and adrenaline gripped his heart as he slowly leveled the gun at the girl, his hand and wing aching from where he hit her. He held no regrets as he pulled the trigger.

Click...

Click...

Click click click....

Fratz.

Realizing that the pistol wasn't the best option he turned and sprinted away from his captor, scooping up his jacket on the way past. All the while profanities sang through Axle's mind, the rage replaced by fear, adrenaline still surging in his veins. Even without his wings he could still get away, some times the best ways were the oldest.

((In advance, I'd like to state that part of my idea for this post came to me as I was woken up uncerimoniously and excessively early this morning by my horse of a dog. I wasn't in the best of moods, and I wanted to harm innocent creatures. I am not a morning person.))


As the two moved forward and through the exit of the bay, Whiskey was bombarded by sensory information. With its high, thick walls, the landing bay was buffered from the noise of the streets. When the door opened and the two stepped through, the din was sudden and loud. People moved through the crowded street, vendors called out above the constant hum to draw attention to their wares. Foods being prepared mingled their scents with the general smell of dust and bodies. Pupils dialated in those honey colored eyes as her brain strained to process it all. Where her chip might have funneled out the unnecessary and distracting information, Whiskey was at the moment left to deal with it all by herself.

A dangerous amount of her focus was suddenly drawn to two small human children who were playing along one side of the street. By the way the woman at the stall across the street glanced at the two, one a boy and one a girl, Whiskey gathered that they were her children. This made the woman a mother. Do I have a mother? The sudden and shrill laughter of the girl, who couldn't have been more than four years old brought Whiskey's thoughts back from the straying question.

Axle had been speaking, but the first part of his words had not registered in Whiskey's mind. She only just barely caught the question of her name. Under normal circumstances, she would not speak to him at all, but as the question was asked, the little girl had lifted her gaze. Two clear blue eyes looked out from a tan and slightly dirty face that was framed by sandy blonde hair. The girl's smile was a shock of white teeth against the tawny plane of her face and Whiskey was not thinking of her mission.

Whiskey...

She spoke her name like breathing. In the noise of the street, it was questionable if Axle heard it at all. But so drawn was Whiskey to the sight of this little girl, nothing else occured to her. In particular, Axle's covert movements had gone entirely unnoticed. And so when he made his move, not only did he succeed in knocking the blaster from her hand, he knocked her so off balance that she fell to one knee. Her eyes had turned back to her prisoner who now brandished the gun, but from the corner of her vision she could see the girl's smile had vanished and was replaced by the tell-tale grimace of fear. Axle spoke his threat and had attempted to carry it out.

Click...

Click...

Click click click....

She never blinked. Even as he turned and ran, she was frozen in place. A slight sob escaped the girl next to Whiskey and the assassin turned to see the boy holding the girl's hand. Across the street, the mother of the two stood and called the children. At that same moment the chip in Whiskey's brain gave the woman a jolt. Her prisoner was escaping. With a burst of adrenalin, her heart began pumping as she was on her feet. The two children, now crossing the street to the safety of their mother's arms were unfortunate enough to be in the woman's way. Whiskey, short and lithe as she was, was not a strong woman, but the two were not large or heavy. Her arms used little effort to force them out of the way.

As the assassin barreled through the two, her focus only allowed a passing glance at the form of a small girl, skin and hair a near perfect match to the dirt of the ground, lying prone on the street with a dark stain of crimson pooling around her head. Her heart pumped, her muscles extended and contracted, she breathed in and out, all of this in perfect rhythm. Her prisoner could not fly. He was scared. She was focused and fast. She would catch him and not allow such mistakes to happen again.

Run. Run. RUN!

It all felt familiar. The ringing heartbeats in his ears, the wind whipping his hair across his face, his footfalls coming light and swift as he pushed and weaved his way through a deepening crowd of people. Three completely different and outstanding instances of his will and drive to survive all moshed together. His coat had slipped effortlessly over his shoulders the moment he had took flight concealing the tense muscles running over his back and wings. They were no use, he had to hide them lest he gain more unwanted attention. It was getting harder to move forward, the path he had unwittingly chosen had lead him into the heart of the market district crowded with people and stalls. His lack of flight almost made him cry; never before had he needed it this much.

Axle was frightened, this much was certain. He didn't know what his pursuer, apparently named Whiskey, was capable of and thus that made her all the more dangerous. His breath came harder as he pushed past a pair of large humanoids walking side-by-side as they are often wont to do. Glancing behind him and through the mass of the crowd he could see her, the woman hot on his heels albeit at an acceptable distance away. Slipping closer to one side of narrow street he lunged over a pottery vendor's counter, knocking a few smaller vases from their stands, shattering in a shower of brown and gray. His hunch was right and he easily bounded over the edge of the stand and into the next one.

A tired smile crossed his lips as he looked back and saw she was losing ground... but for how long? A casualty of his own cheek he tripped as he knocked his left shin on a higher stall wall. Swearing loudly Axle fell, catching himself with his hands. In the space of a few seconds he was up again, favoring his leg slightly. Nimbly he leaped back into the fray of people, pushing and shoving until he made it to a side alley where he opened up, sprinting full out. The footfall of a single pair of boots echoing off the buildings were unmistakable and he swore again. Persistent... he had one option left.

It was his last ace, a little bit of skill he had picked up as an "urban explorer." Due to his muscle to weight ratio Axle had no problem lifting his own weight, now it would truly come in handy. Angling himself at the building to his right he bunched his leg muscles, took several steps and leaped at the structure. His feet hit the brown brick with a dull thud and, using the momentum from the jump he walked up the side of the building a and caught himself on a window-sill ten feet up. For a moment he hung there, letting his screaming leg muscles recover; he had done it! As fast as he was able he hauled himself up onto the sill and jumped to a slightly protruding brick that hung a few inches further out into space. Repeating this he scaled the two story building, panting as he hoisted himself from the shadowed alley and into the direct Tatooine sunlight. Pausing for a moment he coughed once and looked over the edge at Whiskey. Smiling he gave her a lopsided farewell and took off again.

The buildings were the perfect running platform for the lithe man. They were spaced close enough so he could jump from one to the other with little effort. He ran for several minutes before looking behind him. Nothing. Breathing deeply and slowly he slowed to a jog, his mind finally falling from the adrenaline high. Axle smiled. He had escaped, if just for the moment. If he could keep this up for just a little longer he'd be home free. After all, he used to be able to run longer than a quarter day on this dust-ball. Rock Creek was advantageous after all. Slowly climbing over a low wall he dropped a story to a one story dwelling. It would be easier to remain elusive on the maze of streets. Taking one last long breath he slipped over the side. The impact was a little more jarring and he blinked when he hit.

His eyes opened to a barrel, black, long, and an inch or less from his face. Axle's eyes quickly focused on who was holding the gun; a burly human in his early thirty's most likely. Glancing withing his peripheral vision he saw three others; a rodian and two twi'leks. They didn't speak once but the eyes of all three of them were the same.

Victory.

A thin vein of sweat formed over Axle's brow and the barbs of a million different feathers began to itch.

Fratz...

Out of the frying pan...