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Kella
Fire and Blood
4,089 posts
5 likes
Fire cannot kill a dragon.
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last online Oct 30, 2014 9:41:46 GMT -5
Master
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Mar 29, 2011 23:46:32 GMT -5
Post by Kella on Mar 29, 2011 23:46:32 GMT -5
November considered the counteroffer. She washed the cup in hot water, and put it away.
"That can be arranged."
~~
With a click the final shackle was securely in place. They'd been a special purchase, just for the occasion. 'Jus' like an inmate', the salesman had said, and winked. November did not know why he had decided to wink, or why he felt the need to comment, as why else would November be buying a set of shackles? However, they felt sturdy and were made of an alloy that was quite immovable under 2,000 degrees centigrade.
Then, November went back through, and tightened each wrist shackle again, this time grasping his arms in such a way that if he were tensing his muscles to make his wrists a fraction thicker -- as all of them had been trained to do -- then the effect would be negated -- as all of them had been trained to do. It was a valid concern, as Yankee had very well-developed muscles, and could theoretically afford himself a great deal of 'wiggle room' by applying them in the proper way.
Yankee had been given a chance to stretch and attend to the necessary facilities -- he had drunk a great deal of water, after all -- under the watchful eye of a blaster. It was, of course, set to 'stun' -- if she could not have another teammate, she would at least have a medium for experiments. Though, in light of the morning's conversation, she doubted Echo would be pleased with such things...
November was becoming accustomed to not remembering the source of her knowledge, but that did not make it any less frustrating. All the same, it was superior to not possessing that knowledge at all. She knew that Yankee's shackles would be conspicuous, so she'd also purchased a long, brown coat, which she threw over Yankee's shoulders.
She herself was wearing her white labcoat, to conceal the blaster and canister grenades on her hip. She made sure to tuck the key to the shackles in a safe place on board the ship -- taking it along would only give him a chance to steal it.
November held Yankee's upper arm and guided him to the ramp. There was no use blindfolding him -- being a Green Meadows ship, he knew its floorplan anyway. And just as a general matter of principle, November had made sure nothing incriminating was lying about.
The hangar was noisy and bustling -- the perfect place to blend in and remain unnoticed. Again, the benefit of blindfolding Yankee to hide the location of the ship was overcome by the cost.
She let go of his arm, and closed the ramp behind them.
"To your ship," she said, nodding. "I can take you back to the alley if you are in need of the reference pint."
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Twysper
Feared leader of SM*OTTOTU.
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last online Nov 8, 2014 11:42:28 GMT -5
Guardian
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May 28, 2011 23:20:22 GMT -5
Post by Twysper on May 28, 2011 23:20:22 GMT -5
There were some efforts that were simply futile, though Yankee did not understand the concept. He could only look at November blankly as every trick he had been taught was negated by his counterpart’s own knowledge. Another emotion steadily built in his chest, causing him to clench his hands under the long sleeves of the brown coat November had given him. The flexed whiplash muscles in his arms pushed against the tight, bond of the handcuffs. While the RELIC chip suppressed the indignant anger stemming from feelings of betrayal, it was not neutralized completely as it once had been. His training had betrayed him, the scientists had betrayed him; teaching all of them the same things, without preparation for a flaw such as this. What did he have left that was unique?
A knife. He just needed a knife.
Dimly, he noted that November had donned a white coat like the scientists. The scientists that were flawed. The scientists that had trained him. Was it possible for flawed beings to create perfect ones?
Blood pounded in his head as the clank of his descending boots rang out among the din of the hangar. The RELIC went into overdrive, tamping emotions and physiological symptoms back down.
No, no. Yankee breathed deeply and attempted to settle his internal conflict, a quiet maelstrom hidden in the sea of bustling activity. He was overstepping his mandate. He was to be his best-- not perfect. Suddenly, Yankee ducked under a large cargo crate carried by a brawny Besalisk, sparing himself from further throbbing in his brain. He was acutely aware of November’s presence following directly behind him, and that she had tensed at the burst of movement.
What was his best, though?
November offered to take him back to the alleyway where the failed ambush had taken place, and Yankee nodded affirmatively. He had examined the pair of handcuffs already, and noticed that they were not of any particularly special design. If he wanted to escape his cuffs, which would drastically increase his chances of getting away from November, he’d only need a shim pick, which could be field-expedited from any thin piece of metal. There were a number of such suitable objects on his ship, which, conveniently, was their next destination.
~~~~~~~~
Yankee stepped into the alleyway and instantly took stock of what had happened after he had blacked out. The broken ladder rung, vent, distinctive patches of kicked up dirt in two areas, and a further assortment of sliding marks on the ground told him their story well enough. He scanned the area again, searching for a suitable piece of scrap that would lead to freedom, but didn’t see anything fitting the proper description. Yankee shrugged, adjusting the way the long brown duster fell on his shoulders, turned sharply out of the alleyway past November, and started towards where he left his ship.
~~~~~~~~
“Oscar, Papa, Echo, November.” Yankee stated crisply into the microphone. He stepped back exactly two meters while the hissing sound of hydraulics affirmed the voice and password match. Sharp hazel eyes turned over the narrow, angled silhouette of the parked ship contemplatively as the boarding ramp descended down to the permacrete floor of the small hangar. A mental inventory of items aboard the Green Meadows’ ship flashed before him, specific locations included- If November slipped, he’d have his chance to turn the status quo in his favor. One lightning draw from a concealed weapon stash and they’d be on their way back to Green Meadows.
Or maybe not.
Yankee’s pulse quickened at the thought of the injection November had given him earlier. He wanted that again; the feelings, the bright splashes of emotion on the noire memories. The intense bliss, to pain, to exhausted empathy…
If only momentarily, Yankee knew he had understood why November had run away. Of course, inopportunely, remembering that important tidbit now was frustratingly impossible.
The assassin’s long, easy strides carried him up into the belly of the predatory machine, November’s blaster tracking his figure as they entered the narrow corridor that branched into storage on the port side, a prepared holding area to the starboard, and the cockpit/quarters in the bow. Yankee immediately moved towards the storage area, pace checked so as to avoid an anxious, violent reaction from a broken November, who had withdrawn the blaster from her pocket and was still doggedly following him.
He stopped in front of a slate gray metal wall riddled with square and rectangular indentations. A single dull scanner screen tried to break up the monotony of the interior decoration.
“May I?” Yankee queried, holding his shackled hands up, dark eyes shifting to clearly imply the many shelves before they settled back on his genius counterpart. He willed his body to relax, aided by the RELIC, slowly uncoiling the whiplash muscles that had been tensed since his capture. The question was more to prepare November then actually needing permission.
Smoothly, he pressed his hand against the scanner panel and then tapped four of the eleven rectangular indentations with his index finger, all of which started to slide open immediately, revealing their lethal contents. A deep bin containing a case full of chemicals was revealed, along with a shallow foam tray containing five different sets of balanced knives and paired sheaths. The third slot to open displayed three large military-grade packs, and the fourth issued another foam cut-out tray efficiently packed with smaller blasters and firearms.
“I will open the other lockers when you’re done with those, but if I am to be my best when assisting you, Echo, and Delta, I will need my knives.” Yankee lobbied, acknowledging his capacity to join the flawed group.
It was up to November's discernment whether or not he got his request granted, and there were logical reasons to both deny or accept it, he could just sit back and watch as she defanged his ship of its vicious armament.
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Kella
Fire and Blood
4,089 posts
5 likes
Fire cannot kill a dragon.
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last online Oct 30, 2014 9:41:46 GMT -5
Master
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May 29, 2011 15:14:27 GMT -5
Post by Kella on May 29, 2011 15:14:27 GMT -5
The street hummed with moderate traffic. It was an advantageous level of activity -- enough to deter drastic moves, while not so much that contact with other streetgoers was forced.
November's mind had a peculiar reaction to seeing the alley again. A flash of adrenaline, a shadow of... of dissatisfaction. November had succeeded, yes, but her success had been highly dependent on random chance, partly due to preparation, and very little due to skill. Seeing the grate again reminded her of this. She had, for all intents and purposes, fallen into Yankee's trap. Why? Because she had been curious.
But being curious had come with many kinds of advantages. She had an extensive, exhaustive knowledge of chemicals because of curiosity. She knew how to disassemble and reassemble the engine of a hovercraft, because of curiosity. She was here, free of Green Meadows, because of curiosity.
The advantages outweighed the disadvantages. November watched Yankee very closely, especially his eyes and his center of mass. She could infer, from his gaze, that he was deducing the method of his capture.
They continued on, in much the same way, with Yankee leading and her blaster trained on his back, until they reached his ship. November watched him especially vigilantly now, blaster in the open once they reached the ship. She had it set one notch back from lethal, so that being on a mental hair-trigger would have no permanent consequences. She was careful to stay just out of reach, so that Yankee could not easily knock the gun from her hand.
The layout of the ship was vaguely familiar, as were so many odd things nowadays. November's eyes darted around the storage room, noting a lack of turrets and exposed weaponry. She monitored Yankee closely, noting the biological lock. Keeping Yankee alive had been a very good idea, especially when November was greeted by neatly packed drawers quite full of lethal things. The Deliverance had been packed as a point-A to point-B ship. Yankee's had been packed as an assassins ship.
November was quite pleased with her success, securing this materials. If Echo and Delta retained any shred of reason, they would be too.
November had, as of yet, only glanced into the storage bins. She had trusted Yankee with the location of their ship, with a view of the interior, with knowledge of her motivations. She had trusted him with these things because they were like-minded. This was exactly why she did not trust him now. If she had been in his position, she would have taken advantage of her captor's distraction to initiate an escape.
Her eyes darted around the room, looking for the proper hardware. The walls were very efficiently used, which left her with nothing. So, she looked up. Again, nothing. Every inch of the room was just as clean and spartan as he other. Normally, November would have appreciated this very much, but at present moment, it was very disadvantageous. November glanced at the bins, then at Yankee. Yankee then the bins. Well. She was going to have to be very vigilant, then. And perhaps a little trusting. It grudged her, though, this potential hole in the net. But she had the blaster and he did not, and theoretically her reflexes were just as fast as his.
November turned half her attention to the bins, then, keeping Yankee in her peripheral vision. Eyes darting back and forth.
First she examined the chemicals, as they would prove most useful to her personally. She was pleased to find the makings of several explosives and perhaps a few smoke screens, and the chemicals made their way into her sack.
The military-grad packs followed, as such things were far more difficult for a civilian to secure than weapons, given the Galaxy's very active black-market.
November listened closely as Yankee requested his knives. If he were to properly join them, then he must be spared no advantage. But the situation, precarious at present, called for caution. November looked Yankee in the eye, studying him, then carefully lifted a knife out of the foam. She examined it, weighted it in her hand, balanced it on a finger. In truth, she was really just curious. She hadn't held a throwing knife in years, ever since Green Meadows calculated her lack of talent with them. She carefully replaced it in the foam, and eyed Yankee again, making sure he had not moved. Did he look... satisfied by her wariness? November shoved away the irked feeling that was beginning to creep into her expression.
"They are too valuable an asset to leave behind. However, I will withhold them from you at my discretion, of course."
She set aside the tray of smaller weapons for the moment, cinching off her sack. She backed up and allowed Yankee to open the second set of lockers, then bid him withdraw again. The tracking and surveillance gear started off the second pack.
November fetched a survival blanket from one of the packs and began to lay the smaller blasters out, folding the blanket back and forth around the guns so that metal didn't rustle against metal. Yankee's pack found itself full as well, stacked with the remaining items.
November was quite pleased. However, she could not revel in this feeling until the items had safely returned to the ship. She saddled Yankee with his pack, feeding the strap over his shoulder and then reattaching it. Because of the cuffs, he wouldn't be able to dump it and run; he'd have to fumble with the clasp, at which point November could shoot him. She shouldered her own pack, trained the blaster on Yankee, and undid the lock, ushering him in front of her.
He had not jumped her. That was good.
"To the cockpit."
A few strides in the narrow hallways and they were in the cockpit. She ushered Yankee to stand with his back to the pilot's chair; there were fewer things he could get into there. The communications computer stirred to life under her fingertips. Eyes on Yankee, left hand holding the blaster, and right hand flicking over a series of familiar keystrokes. She glanced at the screen, and sure enough, there was the transmission history.
The last transmission was from two days prior, twenty six hours before Yankee had ambushed November, and made from orbit. November turned back to Yankee, her fingers twitching again until the computer beeped in a familiar sequence. Purged memory restored. She checked the history again -- the list had become longer, but the last entry was the same.
Green Meadows did not know their exact location, then. It was time to leave before that changed. Random chance would dictate, but it was possible that they would waste significant time on [planet] before realizing the fugitives had fled. She considered sending a decoy transmission, but she did not trust Yankee nearly that much, and text would be more suspicious. November somehow knew, again without quite knowing how she knew, that Green Meadows wast the sort that did not expect contact until the job was done.
November exited the session, doing her own set of data-purging. The computer returned to its previous lifelessness.
"Is there anything else?" she asked.
There was not.
November quickly concluded the scavenging. They returned to the bustling streets, leaving the ship sealed behind. Both November and Yankee carried their packs easily. She could remember workout rooms climate controlled to 100 degrees and 99% humidity, treadmills, coveralls and weighted packs. This was like breathing, in comparison.
On the way to the alleyway, November had quietly called directions to Yankee, informing him of the route. She was unsurprised to find that he walked the reverse without prompting. The hangar fell open around them, and November took a moment to log the comings and goings, by habit. A nearby ship took off, hot air washing over November, billowing against her face and ruffling her jacket. Another peculiar pique in her mind, a fleeting sense that something that large and that heavy should not be able to fly. Of course, it could, November could have recited all the formulas and proofs that explained the phenomenon. The sensation was there, though, all the same.
They were just two more figures, faceless people in the throng of a galactic spaceport, who disappeared into yet another ship. A ship whose contents, human and inanimate, could probably massacre an entire continent in the space of twelve hours.
November fetched her kit of chemicals on the way back to the kitchen, depositing both her and Yankee's packs in the weapons room. She would attend to them later. At present moment, Yankee himself was of more interest. November, still keeping a very close eye on Yankee, extracted a lock-chain from under her coat. It was something she'd picked up at the market the day before, apparently used to secure unattended speeder-bikes. She knew it would come in handy. Blaster in one hand, working deftly with the other, she looped the chain around two legs of the chair and around the chain of Yankee's cuffs, then scrambled the lock.
Secure enough that she could holster the blaster on her hip and lean against the counter.
"Are you in need of food or drink?" she asked coolly, crossing her arms.
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Twysper
Feared leader of SM*OTTOTU.
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last online Nov 8, 2014 11:42:28 GMT -5
Guardian
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Jun 25, 2011 2:39:06 GMT -5
Post by Twysper on Jun 25, 2011 2:39:06 GMT -5
November deliberated, Yankee stared passively, and the knives were eventually tossed into the bag.
He stood quietly in his corner while November went through the first set of lockers, watching the barrel of the blaster pointed at him. The assassin could see her eyes constantly shifting, and her apparent discomfort with the suboptimal situation for herself. Yankee gauged distances carefully for a chance to make a move-- much depended on the movement pattern of her eyes, and catching her in the instant where they looked away. Those lethal dark green eyes-- did he suddenly, illogically, desire their attention? Yankee rattled the chains of his handcuffs experimentally. The sudden motion and noise drew her cold gaze for a longer moment, enough to check what he was doing.
Yankee mimicked a smile perfectly while he had her attention. Better than perfectly.
November proffered no openings in her vigilance long enough to take advantage of. He was one of the fastest assassins Green Meadows had created. He was one of the best. Even so, November had to apply a scant 4.3 pounds pressure on the trigger of the blaster in order to incapacitate him. He could tell from her grip that she was already halfway there. It was not yet time to attempt anything.
After November was through shoving thousands of credits worth of equipment into the packs, he was guided towards the cockpit of the ship and directed to stand with his back to the pilot’s chair. Yankee leaned against it slightly which allowed his arms to dangle against the back of the chair. One finger, partially obscured by the long sleeves of the duster, softly pried at one of the staples holding down the leathery material that covered the chair. It came out with minimal effort, falling into his palm. It would do as a makeshift shim pick. Yankee’s eyes never moved from watching his fellow assassin tapping away on his ship’s computer, and therein did not betray his subtle machinations. When she was finished they promptly exited the ship and did not once look back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As they walked, Yankee, from his position in front of November, had more privacy to bend the thin piece of metal concealed in his palm. Before they had returned to the Deliverance, he had fashioned a field-expedient shim pick.
However, though he noted several viable opportunities to escape during their walk, curiosity had ensnared him more than the cuffs ever could. The pick would soon be put to use as a different sort of tool.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
November re-chained him to the now familiar chair after clearing the salvaged equipment away in a different room, but he was standing now, cuffs linked to a heavy-duty chain attached in turn to the chair welded to the floor. There was no weak point or bypass in his restraints he could try to abuse without some degree of privacy. How well did November trust him now? Apparently, enough to finally put her blaster away, though it was still holstered in easy reach. Yankee stood quietly on the cold floor, listening to the sounds of the dormant ship. Despite them both walking with well over a hundred pounds in weight carried in each bag, both of their breathing patterns were as calm as the sounds coming from the Deliverance.
“Yes. Food and water.”
Just as quietly, he exposed the shim pick previously concealed in his fingers to her and murmured one word, with a tinge of a smug, satisfied expression coming from behind the blank face.
“Lax.”
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Kella
Fire and Blood
4,089 posts
5 likes
Fire cannot kill a dragon.
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last online Oct 30, 2014 9:41:46 GMT -5
Master
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Jun 25, 2011 10:59:12 GMT -5
Post by Kella on Jun 25, 2011 10:59:12 GMT -5
The word sliced through November's thoughts like a razor blade. 'Lax'? 'Lax'! Surely this was not true of November, surely he was lying; surely, there was a field expedited lock pick between his fingers.
She reached out suddenly and grabbed his wrist, twisting her fingers deep into the tendons and loosening his grip. No risking him snatching it back. She took the pick, gave it a glance, then pocketed it. November then proceeded to tug the duster off his shoulders and toss it in the corner, then checked his waist band and pockets. Nothing more. For good measure, she double-checked the cuffs. Still locked.
November's mind wheeled backwards through the last two hours. One image didn't slide on, but rather, snapped into focus. The pilot's chair. The leather seat. The upholstery staple.
November was suddenly aware of her furrowed brow, and of the burning sensation in her face. She spun to face the cabinet. Too quickly, too abruptly, he would know she was agitated.
November let the expression overcome her face, the taught jaw, the furrowed brow, the narrowed eyes. Her face still burned; the capillaries must have been dilating, flushing her tissues with blood. A psychosomatic symptom of this emotion, she realized. November did not like it. She did not like it one bit. Her heart beat thickly.
She set a full glass of water on the counter, hands working while her mind boiled. She should have known. She should have seen that opportunity. November was extremely intelligent, more intelligent than Yankee! How had she missed this!
Her hands were beginning to tremble, so she locked them to the cabinet door as she undid the latch and opened it. November felt in this emotion echoes of what had compelled her to shatter the mirror in her room, to utterly lose her composure, to go so far as to sedate herself. Something like fury.
November drew a long, deep, silent breath. She placed a nutrition bar next to the glass of water. Logic. She needed to think logically, that was where her best performance lay.
Yankee was still here. November had been watching him via the reflections from various appliances and accents. He was still chained. If November had had the chance to escape, given his position, she would have. But Yankee was still here, and somehow, November was the cause of this. If not physical chains... immaterial ones? Curiosity?
His smile in the cargo bay, the thin microexpressions of smugness moments ago. A smile twitched at her own mouth. She had him, didn't she? He didn't know it yet, but the downward spiral was beginning.
November was charged by a surge of satisfaction, crisp as if someone had pegged her leg with an epi-pen. It lubricated her mind, thoughts clicking smoothly along again.
November lifted the glass and bar, and held them within reach of Yankee's cuffed hands. If he sat at the chair, the chain between wrist and ankle cuffs would allow his hands to reach his mouth.
"Lax," she said, tongue curling around the words, "Is what would happen if that were laced with magnesium."
She stepped back to her position against the counter. This time, though, she rested her hands behind her, on the counter, near her hip.
Near her holster.
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