|
Squee
The Keeper
2,286 posts
95 likes
I am Deception, and I defy your holiest moralities.
|
|
last online Oct 24, 2016 0:33:56 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
May 2, 2010 20:42:49 GMT -5
Post by Squee on May 2, 2010 20:42:49 GMT -5
SPACE, THREE HOURS TO YLESIA.
A hum filled the darkness, painful, irritatingly, frustratingly painful. Like being bit by an ant, the punching feeling wreathed in a dull, burning, spreading sensation. A groan suddenly reverberated within the caverns of her head, seeming to bounce like a rubber ball. With heavy effort, eyelids peeled back slowly to open a quarter of the way. Then those eyelids closed, then reopened, halfway this time. There they stayed a few minutes, her eyes rolling to take in her surroundings.
Everything was blurry. Smeared colors and long, bright streaks of light coming toward her. The blurriness increased as Echo flicked her eyes to the side. The motion of looking around was nauseating. Her stomach churned. It was empty. There was no bile to rise into her throat. Her tongue was sandpaper. Teeth were bone dry. Lips were dehydrated. Fuzzy little spots dotted her vision as she stared at a distant colored light. It was red.
Ever so slowly, Echo’s brain continued its snail-speed wake-up phase. She was face down, on her stomach. Her body was on top of her arms. Echo tried to move them, and found she couldn’t. A sudden leap of panic stole her breath. Her toes functioned. Her legs had movement. She tried to gather her knees under her and found the activity tiresome and difficult. Her body was exhausted. She was laying on her arms. Bended, folded beneath her. No finger wiggle. The reason came suddenly: her circulation was cut off. Echo engaged her shoulders, pressing outward, holding her breath with concentrated exertion. Nearly no avail.
Then the aches came, awakened from her numbed body. Her shoulder wings felt bruised, aching deep. Her back felt scraped, abused. Her abdominals had the hurt as if she’d been punched in the gut. With the pains, Echo began to grow more fully aware of her predicament. Now she could begin to register the true feelings of her body, the weight, the ability to move. It bettered. Echo managed to get some purchase with her knees, flex the muscles in her back, and wiggle out her arms. Then she settled back down with a sigh, eyes closed again, stretching her numbs arms around her pillow, already beginning to feel the odd prickles tingle her skin.
It had been just a rough work out. She must’ve gotten cold and lay on her arms to keep them warm. Her body was having issues catching up with her brain, not responding to the neural impulses her brain was sending out. She mustn’t have eaten before sleep either, which would result in hungry stomach cramps. All was fine.
DELTA
Echo’s eyes flew back open, hearing her own voice but knowing she hadn’t screamed. She breathed deep, studied the red dot across the room, and promptly closed her eyes again. All was well.
She knows she knows! Deadly crunching of a bone. Blood seeping into her mouth. Panged wheeze of air against her ear. DELTA!
Gray eyes stared into darkness, wide. Her nostrils flared once or twice and carefully, Echo sat up, a hand above her head. No upper bunk. Her heart beat a little harder.
Heads snapped back. A pistol discharge. No, two. Two rounds. Cushioned in the gut. Impact from the side. Loss of air. Pain. DELTA!
She set her feet on the ground. They were booted. As she stood, her legs felt wobbly and Echo had to find her balance. On unsure, infant legs, Echo made way for the red dot. Her hand groped the controls, punching for buttons, but got no response out of the door. Her fingers found the door’s crease and she followed it up, still fumbling for a button with an excitement of a scared being.
Hands. Syringe. Pinch. Tossed over a shoulder. White floating from her fingertips.
“DELTA!” Echo banged a fist on the door. The red light glared back at her, cackling at her trapped in this black prison. Her palm slapped against the wall. Where was she? She was fully clothed and locked in an unfamiliar room. Where was she going? This was a ship. It hummed and lived and breathed beneath her feet. Where was Delta? The emptiness of an answer frightened her. Where was Delta? What happened to him? Was he all right? There were no solutions. It was wrong. So many things were wrong. She was scared, for Delta and for herself.
Her chest compressed and her face crinkled. Her palms were against the durasteel door. The beginnings of tears began to well and slip onto her cheeks. Where was she? Where was she going? Where was Delta? “Where am I?” she whispered, glancing back into the blackness of her chambers. “Where am I?” Her hands smoothed over the door’s surface. “Where am I!” Echo recoiled her hand and then launched the palm forward. The perfect form: feet spread slightly apart, knees lightly bent, the draw back to her side, and rocketed forward on whim. A slight twist of the hips and the practice of follow through made the contact deafening and left a dent in the door. “Where am I where am I where am I!” Each phrase, spoken quick, with rage, was punctuated with a palm plowing into the door. Left right left. “Where am I!?” Right hand.
The door suddenly slid open, startling Echo, and the light from the hallway beyond blinded her. She heard the whine of a ready weapon. Hesitatingly careful Echo raised both hands, trying to block out the light to see who was beyond the doors. She managed to note three shapes, all with weapons on her.
“What is wrong with you?” the demand came after the middle figure had stepped forward. Echo was forced to retreat further into the room, having no wishes to be face to face with the man.
“Where am I?”
“None of your concern.”
Heat rose within her. “Where. Am. I.”
Between being blinded and the figure’s speed, Echo was shocked when she felt the backhand slap across her face. She stepped back with one foot, but refused to give total ground. “Watch your mouth! I said, none of your concern.”
“I’m hungry,” she quickly stated. Right then, she wanted him to attempt to slap her again. Watch her be prepared. Watch his face become personal with the floor.
The man chuckled. “Well now, that’s too bad. No more banging on the door. Keep your tantrums to yourself. We’re landing soon.” She watched as the shadow figure retreated backward to join his buddies. “Just get some more sleep. You’re gonna need it.” The door slid closed again, pitching Echo into dark oblivion again, worse than how she started. Strange men. Men who wouldn’t answer her questions. Her blood boiled and Echo lunged impulsively at the door with a scream from the depths of her soul. Forearm crashed against the door and her knee banged into the metal, leaving an outrageous dent. A fist next, and then the door came open again, and someone grabbed at her. Reacting completely on instinct, the outside of Echo’s hand redirected the man’s arm. The opposite hand lashed out in counterattack, the arc of her hand colliding with the man’s throat. She struck, and her fingers grasped swiftly, and then released. A front push kick sent him back through the door with him choking and gasping for his air.
An arm swung out and Echo found herself bending backward, the punch flying above her. The opponent was now off balanced. Echo snapped back up sharply, hooking her arm to catch his. Her hand slid down his arm, grasped his palm and twisted. The other hand grasped at his triceps, shoving her palm into the flesh and pushing the muscle out of the place. Echo turned fluidly with her victim under control, guiding his head into the nearby wall.
An arm looped through hers and a hand grasped her shoulder from behind, the inside elbow of her arm pressed against his forearm, her hand useless against the enemy’s side. Her opponent’s arm pushed upward against hers, making her hiss as her shoulder came to the brink of dislocating. Something around pressed against the back of her skull and Echo’s face rested in a silent snarl.
“I really think you’re more of a pain when the boss thinks you’re a fine catch. You’ve only been hurt because you bring it upon yourself.” He had pressed her against the wall, making sure she wouldn’t try any funny business even with a blaster pressed at her head. “Ron, bring the sedative.” The blaster dug deeper against her head and Echo let out a small growl. “If it were up to me, I’d toss you on that bed and teach you where you belong. Maybe then you’d show more respect.” Echo wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but she knew it didn’t sound pleasant coming from this man. “You need to be grateful that I listen to orders. Now, since you can’t shut up by yourself, we have to make you shut up.”
Another person entered the room, announced by their footsteps and a few moments later, Echo felt a pinch in her arm. She was held against the wall for a couple of minutes, when her world began to blur. Not again. The blaster was taken away. Her arm was released. Hands grabbed her and she was thrown back onto her bed without a care.
The door slid to a shut, and seconds after that, even the red dot ceased to exist.
((All right, well… Here’s where you guys can kinda play catch up to the situation. Get plans ready, stuff like that. My next post will have Echo on Ylesia. So approach, orbit, etc, whatever you guys wanna do.))
|
|
|
|
|
Kella
Fire and Blood
4,089 posts
5 likes
Fire cannot kill a dragon.
|
|
last online Oct 30, 2014 9:41:46 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
May 8, 2010 19:37:37 GMT -5
Post by Kella on May 8, 2010 19:37:37 GMT -5
November had nothing to do.
No, that wasn't true. That's what she'd thought when they'd first dipped beneath the waves of subterfuge, swallowed up in the dark sea of secrecy. That metaphor pleased her mind, because the roaring of the engines around her, even felt like the ebb and flow grind of water.
It was true that she did not have coordinates to process, or a plan to form. She didn't have a weapon to clean, or chemicals to mix, because her kit was locked away from her, frustratingly no more than a few yards away. Unlike the quiet moments at Green Meadows, there were no databases for her to skim. In addition, she was blocked off from remote access to the Galactic Database because of the Deliverance's current status -- en route to Ylesia, via Hyperspace.
It was, however, at this time that November made a discovery. As it were, simply thinking about passed events was almost as efficient as the aforementioned activities. She found hindsight to be very clear, and so, it was with this mindset that she reviewed the events of the past twelve hours, cementing the details she deemed worthy.
The slaver had provided the information necessary to find the Mercenary. November remembered watching Delta with all the focus of her biomechanically enhanced eyes. She'd come to note the signs of his fury. The bulge of his temple as his jaw tightened, or the slipping of the tendons in his arms, as the muscles tensed. She could even see his anger in the set of his shoulders and spine, but she could also see the exhaustion, and the concern, in the times in which he did not think he could be seen. Of course, these emotions represented only vague concepts to November, they were only associations between posture and mindset. But she gathered information about them anyway, storing it carefully.
As it were, her ability to interpret these signs was used as strategically as the ability to predict the movements of a starship fleet. Whenever she noted Delta's fury rising, she placed herself between him and the slaver, or she gave him an order, or demanded of him a question, to divert his purpose and use, in order to prevent Delta from doing something rash. Her motivation was not compelled by dignity -- hers or Delta -- but rather, by tactics. If Delta did something foolish, it would greatly decrease their chances of success, which would therefore decrease the chances of reuniting the team, which would therefore decrease her chances of survival. She appeased the mechanical part of her brain by insisting that her motivations were basely selfish. But maybe that wasn't the truth.
This sort of thought was not efficient, and so November quickly drew her mind back to the more important task. Reviewing events.
They had spoken with the Mercenary. Actually, that pronoun was inaccurate -- She had spoken to the Mercenary. The conversation was intellectually engaging and she was satisfied with the stimulation. He had remained outside the Mercenary's establishment, under strict orders to, at the very least, make sure that he got himself killed close to the general vicinity, for convenience's sake. November had emerged from the meeting, the Mercenary in tow, as it had been decided that more than raw information would be needed of him. They had returned to the Deliverance, and prepped it for the jump to Ylesia.
What had simply been a tactical factor then, became something different in November's retrospection. Delta's Rage. Was this sort of anger common? So whole and so consuming as to deprive its victim of every iota of logic and sense? November predicted -- and accurately so -- that Delta would have compromised their best chances of rescuing Echo, to get back at the men who were to blame for it. What was upsetting him? Could it be fear that, without Echo, the team -- and therefore his chances of survival -- was compromised? That didn't make sense. In fact, it seemed that Delta cared more about Echo's survival than his own... This was a strange concept to November, and the delicate ray of understanding, like the lightest gossamer string, was quickly overwhelmed by the much darker rope of fear within her -- fear that made her wonder if, one time, she too would be consumed with such a senseless rage -- fear, whose very presence, made her wonder if the process was not already beginning.
November, not for the first time that day, distracted herself. It was a method by which she could bring the inefficiency of her deteriorating mind back into check. Rather, she examined the Mercenary who, for completely sensible and strategic reasons... had come along with them.
As it were, November was spared from some inefficient frustration by the fact that Delta seemed to be a bit less volatile around this one, and therefore, the percentages of success on various levels were more stable, and therefore simpler to predict, leading to a greater security in future events.
November did not trust the Mercenary, and this didn't surprise her -- rather, what brought the surprise was the fact that the presence of mistrust, highlighted the trust, similar to a situation in which a person does not note that a color is blue-green, thinking it itself blue, until compared to a plane of true blue. And then the contrast becomes apparent.
Not that November trusted Delta implicitly. But, if she didn't trust him at all, she wouldn't be here. November was under the impression that trust in people could not be a mathematical equation -- like most other kinds of trust could be -- and, that it had to be cultivated over time. But November had not spent much time with Delta at all -- that she could remember. And then it dawned upon her that she knew Echo was a good teammate. Previously, she had thought it was simply because she was associated with Green Meadows, but now November realized that her mind never would have come to a solid conclusion based on such flimsy evidence.
It must have had some association with the memories she was missing... the days that had not been accounted for in the pattern. Perhaps they had worked together in the past. That was a curious prospect.
However, curious prospects did not take priority over concrete circumstances, and November stirred from where she had been sitting, mentally caught up to recent events. She eyed first the mercenary, and then Delta, knowing that arrival upon Ylesia would put the mercenary's advised plan into action.
Lightyears quickly disappeared in streaks by the window, and November knew the destination was not far off. And so, she began to stretch her muscles, preparing for the unpredicted.
Delta and the Mercenary would have had to be paying a particular amount of attention, but if they had considered the investment, both would have felt themselves subtly watched by a pair of wary green eyes.
|
|
|
|
|
Dire Wolf
So who's ready to help me sock ol Adolf on the jaw?!
2,894 posts
49 likes
Have dakka will travel
|
|
last online May 6, 2020 18:55:51 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
May 9, 2010 16:30:03 GMT -5
Post by Dire Wolf on May 9, 2010 16:30:03 GMT -5
Delta's furious blue eyes gazed into the dull gray of the bulkhead as the blade of a combat knife twirled around his hand in elegant loops and sweeps. He couldn't get Echo out of his head. No matter how hard he tried to focus on the task at hand; infiltrating the base, his thoughts would inevitably shift back to the fiery red head. So deep was he in this mental game of tug-o-war, the former assassin didn't even bother to check his equipment for faults, or even attach flash-bangs to his armor's combat webbing.
The man didn't know what word to place on the maelstrom of emotions he felt deep in his chest. One part of his heart held a searing heat that swelled up to his face and made him want to send his armored fist into the durasteel wall over and over again until there was nothing but dust. Another emotion slowed his heart to a thud and must've forced something up his throat. It made it hard to swallow, like a large lump had lodged itself into his esophagus. The feeling made his blue eyes shine with tears, the overflow ran down his face in branching streams that cooled the skin they touched.
It was safe to say, Delta didn't like this feeling at all.
Despite the emotional storm in his heart and on his face, the man wore a slight smile. Which completely and totally belied the tight furrowing of his brow and the ferocious look in his eye, not to mention the previously described features on his face. The feeling that forced his lips to curve upward in such a slight manner was without a name to him, but it was satisfaction. The satisfaction of leaving that slaver with a painful death.
The mental video of the back of the slaver's knee caps detonating in a chillingly beautiful mixture of bright crimson and white bone overtook his mental image of Echo. A grotesque red painting was splattered across the dull grey duracrete as a result, though Delta's angry eyes saw it as a thing of dreadful beauty. The screams of pain had been the sweetest music to the enraged assassin's ears, though they were nothing compared to the sounds that the man made as part of his spine was severed with a hypersonic ten millimeter bullet.
After executing the man with a final shot to the head, his fast brain basking in every second of the beauty as his head detonated in a motley of stark white skull, deep crimson, and splattered grey matter. It was beautiful.
Echo. Her face slid in front of that sickeningly beautiful mental image once more, and renewed those mixed feelings in his heart once more. He wondered if he'd ever see his partner again, or why in the hell that he felt this way about her. It made no sense. Why did that dreadful feeling erupt in his mind every time he thought about Echo? Even before she was kidnapped, and he got that vision of her dieing on Nar Shaddaa, it was there. Why did he feel differently about November? How was she less special to him than Echo?
Delta's jawline bulged as the muscles that powered his mouth flexed. Why? Why? That word attached to the beginning of so many sentences swam through his mind. At least until another image of Echo winked into the view of his mind's eye. This time it was different, though. His mind produced an image of her after one of her night-terrors. The pathetic way that she melted into a corner of the room and simply existed there, in her sweat drenched bedbwear, sobbing her stormy grey eyes out. For a moment, an incredibly brief moment, it quelled the questions in his mind. The why. They refused to come out, probably knowing that the pain from the image was almost enough to drive him insane. Until one question defiantly reared its ugly head.
"Is she like that now? Crying? Without anyone there to help her stop?"
That heat swelled up in his chest and threatened to burst out like lava would explode from a volcano. His teeth felt like they would shatter under the overwhelming power of his jaw, and he could do nothing but shoot up and drive his combat knife deep into the durasteel bulkhead, without much effort, as he passed through the doorway.
His armored fist proceeded to slam into the durasteel wall over and over, until a deep crater was formed into its surface. The muscle in his jaw relaxed and flexed again and again as he fought the urge to beat the wall until it was dust. But he didn't. It was all he could do not to throw the full weight of his fury against the wall until it was gone. Delta's breathing deepened, the cool air seeming to fight the heat in his chest back enough for control himself.
So deep was he in this internal struggle, he hadn't even noticed that the ship had landed. For the sake of everyone alive, save Echo and November, on that planet... he'd better get to Echo swiftly. Else the hutts in control of the complex not find a brick standing on another brick.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
last online Jul 11, 2018 23:15:20 GMT -5
Knight
|
|
|
May 11, 2010 19:08:59 GMT -5
Post by Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice* on May 11, 2010 19:08:59 GMT -5
Zaeger had been a friend of his.
Terem's hands clenched tightly in rage, and he could feel the veins and muscles flexing and bulging against skin underneath his gloves and shoulder-armor. The thought of Zaeger's death, though Terem had not been there to witness it happen, brought anger to Terem. Had he been there he would not have been keeping from attacking Delta. He likely would not have been keeping his life, either. As it were, he seriously had to resist the compulsion to trek through the halls with his carbine and put a few rounds into Delta.
It was a satisfying thought, but thoroughly impossible. Terem Lay'Zayzek of the Lay'Zayzek clan, and adopted child of the Ryn, was an excellent Mercenary. But these two, they were on an entirely different level. There was no way in the universe he was going to even try taking a pot-shot at Delta without sufficient cause. Zaeger had been a friend, but he had also done Delta wrong. If Delta had killed him humanely, than perhaps Terem would have only shrugged it off. Slaver's and Mercenaries die, it was in the job description.
Taking deep, calming breaths, he reflected on his current situation. Terem was a mercenary who worked for slaver. Well, worked past tense, he had sworn to himself he'd retire only weeks before. Now, he was being forced by these two to betray against those who he had worked for so very long. Twelve years. Who that he knew might die in this mission for some woman he didn't know? Why should he help them? What was to say they wouldn't kill him afterwords? Painfully, like Zaeger?
She's an innocent. The thought struck against the back of his mind, but he fought against it, not willing to allow his conscious to cloud his defiance. Damn Delta, he killed Zaeger and in a fit of rage he may well just destroy Terem as well!
He's only worried for his...friend? Lover? Sister? Terem shook his head silently again, scenarios playing in his mind against his whim, playing over and over again, reminding him of the many ladies who'd been taken into slavery. The many ladies whom he'd helped condemn.
If not me than someone else would have, I'm good at this, its my job, so why not? Because it's wrong. He almost snarled at the thought. But this woman, whose to say she was a GOOD woman? Why should he feel guilty for her. Maybe she deserved it, maybe this was some form of cosmic Karma. She obviously had some form of a mean streak to leave several slavers dead or wounded and be hanging around such a successfully violent lot! The woman he was now being forced to travel across this galaxy to help was quite possibly a terrible woman who didn't deserve a merciful glance.
Maybe, maybe not. He shook his head, preffering that she was bad, making up a fake story in his conscience to justify his actions. She was bad.
Bad? Like so many other women you doomed? The thought drove a spike through his heart. This was why he'd quit the business. He wasn't a bad man at heart. He had never actually captured any of the ladies, only escorted and removed threats so that others -could- capture slaves.
He looked over at a small bag which he had brought aboard the ship with him. Just a few essentials, the things he'd need for this mission, if he decided to go through with it, and a few things for the purpose of distraction. He pulled out two objects, one a bottle of liquor, the other a pack of cards. As he took great drinks, he spread the cards out on the floor; these were divining cards.
The Ryn practiced palm reading and fortune telling through various actions with cards. Growing up in a Ryn clan, he had become superstitious in many ways, and for a human he was quite odd, in that he adopted Ryn culture over human culture. Unfortunately, he'd found that while he enjoyed the sounds of music and superstitions and trading and the art of story-telling, he was much better in a much different form of art. The art of the body, the art of battle. This, he'd had to learn from himself and from a mercenary he'd met on the road. As it were, the Lay'Zayzek were pacifists, of all things.
The very thought of his divining and past reminded him of his adoptive Father, Abiem. What would his father say of his violence and his life? Nothing positive. The thought brought shame to him. The Ryn were quite popularly enslaved. He had never partaken in any mission involving them, but that had never stopped him from the proffession as whole. Why should his own race be exempt from the horrors of slavery? Another spike drove through his heart at that thought.
But then, it wasn't -his- race, was it? The thought filled him with bitter contempt and he took a large drink of his alcoholic beverage.
The swirl of emotions fought together, his heart versus his head, like a great star-fleet.
Meanwhile, as his mind and heart conflicted, his hands worked furiously, dealing out cards, shuffling, mixing, sliding them across the floor, unflipping and flipping. Working fortune, as the Ryn had put it.
He pulled a final card and stopped, reading them all, and trying to figure what his fortune was. Many thought that Ryn fortune telling was a con. Terem had never quite figured it out or not. It seemed that divination didn't come from divine intuition, but rather extrospective intuition. His father, who had never gotten a reading wrong, believed fully in divine intuition. Terem believed that rather than a divine, a fortune could be told based on divining knowledge of a person and their personality, a deduction and a percentage, and realizing their inner path.
With that thought in mind, Terem craned his neck as the final parts of his reading were concluded. Some things he read as fate from the cards, based on a superstitious belief and the meanings of the cards, other things a diviner had to read further into. When he was finished with his reading, a sudden anger came into him, and he threw his bottle of liquor across the floor, most of its contents spilling across his cards.
From what he'd read, he slowly began to put into words, familiarizing himself with a technique his father had showed him that really appealed to the Hutt's; combining a fortune with poetry. In his mind, he read into what the cards stated, following their general meanings and creating in his head a more personal reading.
"Two paths lie ahead." He spoke aloud, his human voice accented as a Ryn's, melodic and beautiful, but coarse and ugly compared to what an actual Ryn could do, "One, a path of blood and struggle, in which one man finds themself dead and the other free, but wreathed in their own chains. The other, equally bloody, but at the tail end is loves embrace. The second path is not easy, it is a difficult one of judgement and even despair, filled with anxiety."
He sighed, Looking down at the two cards closest to him. At the end of the line of a series of card flips, two different chains of cards would be flipped, and the final two cards would be the 'main' two cards that the rest would center around. These cards would center around general, meaningful words, and the others would create more specifics; the last cards were end results, the others were bumps in the road. The ends and the means.
Sitting closest to him were the cards which represented Alwa and Vwebwa. They were two alternative possibilities for his future. Well, he interpreted them as alternative. Sometimes they could be alternative, other times they could both be the future. Sometimes, neither.
Alwa and Vwebwa. He thought, scoffing at the fates, Deliverance and Redemption.
Alright, fates. I'll bite. You think I can be redeemed? You think I can live a life worth being proud of? You think that if I save this one girl, it'll make up for it all? He laughed, "No." He whispered out loud, "But it'll be a start."
He put his cards away, cleaning them off as best he could, and replaced the liquor and the cards into his bag. Then he stood, his Carbine resting unloaded against his bed. His black boots thumped against the floor.
~*~
The loud sound of metal bending and a man breathing heavily down the hall brought Terem out from his room, his carbine rifle hanging from a strap over his shoulder behind him. Delta stood further off, a serious dent in the wall, a knife sheared through the bulkhead.
Standing in his light black combat suit, Terem supressed both a sneer and a chuckle, his rough features hidden by armor and his body in straight backed, almost mocking stance, his arms cross over his chest. He shook his head and cleared his throat, giving Delta a strange look from his rough face, and cocking one eyebrow up in an almost playful manner, "You know," He said, "It is terrible luck to abuse ones own vessel. Turns Her against you." He said, speaking as though the inanimate ship had feelings and alliances. The Ryn were a superstitious folk, and Terem had been taught that you take care of your equipment, and it'll take care of you.
His face wasn't exactly charming, but his voice was, with the low, almost melodic accent of the Ryn. It starkly contrasted other portions of his life; almost in an oxymoronic way. But that's what Terem was, an Oxymoronic man. The mercenary born of the pacifist Lay'Zayzek. The merciful slaver. The slaver who was, suddenly, a slave.
For a moment, the thought occured to him that it all seemed like it would make an excellent poem, and fantastic story for his father to tell. The tale of crime and redemption, shame and glory. Of course, that only being if Delta didn't turn volatile and ripped his throat out for the simple comment.
|
|
|
|
|
Squee
The Keeper
2,286 posts
95 likes
I am Deception, and I defy your holiest moralities.
|
|
last online Oct 24, 2016 0:33:56 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
May 15, 2010 21:17:53 GMT -5
Post by Squee on May 15, 2010 21:17:53 GMT -5
She could sense their pain, agonized dread, and their tortured fear. It was the tense muscles in the shoulders. Those watery eyes and wet tear tracks, raw red noses and cherry splotched cheeks. Eyes flickered, hyped up on adrenaline, on the torrent of negative emotions each one of them felt. Some gritted their teeth, the slim muscles flexing beneath the skin. Fingers wiggled. Bodies couldn’t keep still, as if some of them would turn to trees if they remained still for too long. Agitation. Anticipation.
Echo could hardly flex her fingers. Her cuffs bit deeply against her skin, and it hurt her wrists when she tried to rotate her hand. While there was constant pressure against the cuffs with her muscles tensed, Echo refused any other way. Her head still ached, still spun, still very dizzy and it made her stomach twist and lurch. Several times, Echo felt as if she was going to vomit. She had already determined that if she was going to puke, it was going to spatter over her captives’ feet. She wanted them pissed off at her, broken bones and bruises and beatings be damned. Echo didn’t care. She just wanted them to know that even this far taken, she had no intentions of cooperating.
The red-haired woman had already decided that she hated the sedative that her captives shot her with when she became “too unruly”. Her body ached and was tired, slow. Her tongue felt heavy and awkwardly large in her mouth for a while as well. It made talking a difficulty. Her feet were lead weights and her legs made of tree branches. She was sure her neck was made of extremely flexible rubber and those gray eyes were half-shaded with drooping eyelids. She hated it. It made her feel inefficient. Echo wasn’t at her best, and she wanted to be at her best in case the prospect of escape cropped up.
The command was given and one by one, the several other girls in front of Echo began to shift forward. They were being lead down the ramp on onto… where was here? What planet was she on? Or had the transport approached an enormous starship and landed? Most of her questions were answered as Echo was blasted by a gust up humid air when she approached the crest of the ramp. So unused to light, still, the sunlight was excruciatingly blinding and painful. As she squeezed her eyes shut to block it out, her toe scraped against the downward ramp and Echo found herself stumbling. A hand seized her upper arm and help right her, waited for her to find her balance, and then released her.
Squinting at first, Echo took in her surroundings. It appeared to be a fairly normal spaceport. There were many landing pads and half of them were occupied. Buildings made of modern day materials rested before her. Duracrete beneath her shoes. People wandered. Echo was disgusted as she noticed another slaving ship herding out their haul, a near even mixture of both men and women. Those people seemed rather happy, almost content, almost willing to be where they were. Their bonds were loosened. After them thundered down a large four-legged creature with a single horn protruding from the center of its head.
“All right men.” Echo knew that voice. It was the first voice that had ordered her sedation, back on Commenor. Fire of vengeance, suddenly renewed, breathed through her veins like a dragon spouting his flame. These were the men who had done something to Delta, and they had attacked her, preventing her from finding her partner. She hated these men. “We sent out the profiles ahead of time, see who bids before we reach her. Daskt…” Echo looked over as the men murmured. Apparently Daskt was a familiar name. Some mutterings were positive, others negative. “Yes, Daskt Gunther again, placed highest for the brunette with the blue eyes and our only redhead.” She was bid upon?
Echo felt as if ice water were splashed on her as she came to a terrible realization. Everything made sense now. She was business. She was the cargo. She was being sold off like a blaster or a ship. But… wasn’t she a living being? Well, a sentient living being? Non-sentients having a price on them made more sense than someone who could actually think for themselves. Dogs and cats had a limit. Sentient beings did not. Wasn’t her opinion, her thinking abilities, her surviving abilities greater than a non-sentient’s and therefore more valuable? Didn’t her… didn’t feelings matter too?
“Daskt’s son wasn’t too far behind on the bids for redhead.” Wasn’t she just special? Echo was disgusted. “Those men make way too much money. All right. Trevor, take Daskt his two new personals. Next in line…blondie with the brown eyes had a couple…”
The man who had shoved her against the wall crossed over to her now. “You,” he pointed to Echo and then gestured to the other woman, “and you. Come here…” He revealed handcuffs and placed a pair on the other lady’s wrists. Echo glared at the man as he held out the cuffs. “Can either do this the hard way or the easy way, girl. Come on…” Her hardened gaze remained on the man a few more moments, but then she offered her wrists and resisted a snarl as he bound her. “Let’s go, follow me.” He attached her cuffs to the other girls and then began to walk.
“I’m Yevonne.”
Echo glanced at the brunette woman, Yevonne and blinked. Why did the lady tell her her name? What did the woman get from it? As Yevonne looked at her with blue eyes, Echo felt obliged to also say her name. “I’m Echo.”
“That’s an odd name.”
“And Yevonne isn’t?”
“No, my name is normal.”
“You’re Normal now? I thought you were Yevonne.” Echo was confused, and it showed in her wrinkled brow.
The brunette rolled her eyes and looked ahead with a sigh, making no moves to telling Echo if her name was Yevonne or Normal. Therefore, Echo followed after her guiding captor in silent confusion. After a few more minutes of walking, Echo leaned over to Yevonne and whispered, “What’s the point of our capture? Why do these people want us?”
“Are you stupid or something?”
Echo recoiled. “Just uninformed.”
“Don’t you know anything about slavers? And why they capture women?”
“No.”
“I’m stuck with an ignorant. Sex slavery, I’m sure of it.”
Slavery. She was going to be the property of someone else. There was one thing she did not understand though.
“What’s sex?”
Yevonne shot her a disbelieving look and their captive suddenly snickered, glancing over his shoulder with a wolf’s grin. “I guess you’re going to find out soon enough.”
|
|
|
|
|
Kella
Fire and Blood
4,089 posts
5 likes
Fire cannot kill a dragon.
|
|
last online Oct 30, 2014 9:41:46 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
May 16, 2010 0:00:53 GMT -5
Post by Kella on May 16, 2010 0:00:53 GMT -5
Delta was in no condition to control the ship, so November's hands gripped the roughened rubber of the yoke. Until final approach, her duties were simply monitoring the computer and atmospheric entry. It was pretty simple physics from there.
She watched thoughtfully as the man dealt his cards upon the floor, and then watched them. Analyzed them. Something must have gripped him with an emotion, for he threw his bottle upon the floor, splashing its contents on the cards. The liquid had a distinct smell, one November remembered from passing a place marked 'Tavern' on Ruusan. She wondered what sort of nutritional or stimulating effect the drink had -- otherwise, what sense did it make for it to be popular?
The source of the Mercenary's frustration seemed to be contained within the words he spoke. With his eyes on the cards, and the previous analysis, November could only conclude he was reading some information from the cards. A prediction, of sorts. Even though the odd symbols and pictures seemed unneeded, perhaps these were some tool by which to organize the mathematical possibilities of certain future events, similar to a flow chart, or a diagram. That would be logical. While November was initially skeptical towards the vague nature of the future reading, she realized that her own mathematical predictions were far more detailed -- but could only extend hours or days into the future, no farther. So, perhaps this was a technique to be respected.
The words began to collect on her tongue, carefully hand-chosen for the efficiency in which they would deliver her inquiry.
Sudden and distinctive, the sound of crushing metal drew November's head suddenly around. She watched as Delta's anger drove his fist into the durasteel again and again, and after watching it bend under his assaults, she gained a greater respect for the man's strength.
"Delta!" she called, warning in her voice. However, further protests were quelled as a bit of surprise piqued her mind. There was a new emotion here, one that intrigued her.
This reminded her of several specific instances. It was just like the time when the scientists would be operating a particular bit of equipment, and something would go wrong. The failure was blamed on a particular person, because it was their... the word, the word, where was the word?
Responsibility -- that was it. It was their responsibility to keep the thing in working order. It was their job to make sure it functioned properly. In that moment, she realized that this was how she felt about Delta. Her warning wasn't one of wary self-preservation -- she trusted Delta, as foreign as that concept was, so he presented her no immediate harm. And he could not possibly punch through the ship's outer space-wall -- he was only a human. A modified human, but a human all the same. So why did she care? She cared because she felt that it was her job to make sure he functioned properly -- at least, as properly as possible. And then, as this concept expanded in her head, she realized she felt as if it was her responsibility to keep the whole team unit working properly. This is why she felt compelled to go after Echo. Not so much compassion, as responsibility. Compassion was still a far foreign thing to November.
As it were, keeping the team unit intact helped November's odds of success and survival. Therefore, this responsibility served a specific purpose in preserving here, and in benefiting her odds. So this emotion was logical. This emotion could stay.
The flare of a data screen caught November's eye, and she quickly realized it was time for a descent. Due to the high coefficient mistrust of the mercenary added to odds of failure... November decided, in finality, that it was best for her to guide the ship. The Mercenary could, of course, co-pilot if he so desired.
It was not the smoothest landing -- flying a ship with flawless confidence required a good deal of muscle memory -- which the relatively untrained November lacked. However, she possessed enough knowledge of starship anatomy, and enough hours behind a flight sim (Green Meadows believed in well-rounded products) that she was able to execute a mathematically sound landing. A shudder on touch-down revealed that she'd done nothing to extend the life of the ship's shocks, but it was all in one piece, and this constituted a successfully fulfilled objective. This satisfied November, and with an expression that reflected this satisfaction, she turned upon the mercenary.
"Phase one of your plan?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
last online Jul 11, 2018 23:15:20 GMT -5
Knight
|
|
|
May 19, 2010 21:49:54 GMT -5
Post by Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice* on May 19, 2010 21:49:54 GMT -5
Terem gazed at November for a few moments, seeing the little satisfied smirk on her face. He didn’t take her for a pilot, but she’d managed the ship pretty well and coaxed it into a landing that didn’t involve him flailing about. She turned and asked about the plan. Terem thought for a moment. He’d never had to break in to the slave community before, but he figured since most of them knew who he was, it should be a piece of cake.
“First things first, we’re looking for a specific ship.” He said, a smile crossing his face, “The ship that Zaeger usually serves on. If we can find it, I can ask his buddies about the last shipment and the recent bids; your Echo, what’s her appearance? Anything striking or significant will help me find her easier, for instance, hair color, race, anything out of the ordinary or exotic for some people usually gets a good, remembered bid. This is phase 1 of the plan, but I’m not sure you guys can help me too much with it. Maybe Delta could come along posing as a fellow mercenary, but I would certainly feel a lot more comfortable if he stayed on the ship with November. November, you should stay here, and lock the door, tight. Don’t let anybody see you.”
He took a long, deep sigh and then after a bit of contemplation, Terem stated, “After I find out where she was sold its only a matter of finding the client and scoping out his estate, where she’ll likely be held. From there, we’ll have to come up with a more detailed plan to infiltrate and find your girl. Then, we’ve got to get the hell off this planet or they’ll blockade us.”
|
|
|
|
|
Dire Wolf
So who's ready to help me sock ol Adolf on the jaw?!
2,894 posts
49 likes
Have dakka will travel
|
|
last online May 6, 2020 18:55:51 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
May 22, 2010 12:54:07 GMT -5
Post by Dire Wolf on May 22, 2010 12:54:07 GMT -5
Delta's eyes shifted over to the Ryn as he tried to... tell him what would happen if he went in there guns blazing. With cards as an excuse, no less. Seriously. Who tried to use stupid sheets of hard paper to tell the future? Had he not been in such a state of rage, he would've laughed at that. Not to mention the second part, about the ship having any sort of intelligence.
"There is no fate. No fates. No Force. Things like that have caused war after war, simply because one side didn't like how the other worshiped their deity. Don't try to peddle that osik on me. And as for the ship turning on me, I could give a damn. I'll just drop her and get a new one if she breaks." His words were almost as cold as the small glare he gave the... thing. He wasn't even aware of what the name of his species was. Delta really only knew the names of a few species. Humans, Twi'lek, Trandoshans, and one or two others that were on the tip of his tongue. That was when he decided that the bouncers were wrong. They had to be. Echo wouldn't die on Nar Shaddaa... she wouldn't die at all. Not from unnatural means anyways. Denial? Probably.
"So shutup and do your job. I don't care what happens to me, and I care even less about your hokey religion. Nothing else matters, so long as she's free." It made little sense to the man why he felt that way. Self preservation was supposed to be a natural instinct, which made sense. If everyone in the species constantly went around getting themselves killed then there wouldn't be a species to protect. Though his mind was filled with far too much of the bloody haze and the sweltering heat to think on it further.
Deciding that it was best if he sat down and try to calm himself, Delta slumped down into the chair he shot out of not a few moments before and began to breathe deeply. His powerful shoulders rose and fell with the heavy breathing he'd been forcing his body to make, and his blue eyes slid shut to help himself calm. He didn't know why this seemed to work when he got angry, but it did. That's all that mattered.
Delta barely managed to calm himself when he heard the alien mercenary's plan. A growl of rage once again flowed from his heart at the thought of meeting the men that took Echo. That were responsible for all this happening. He wanted to kill them. Every last one. Just like he killed that sniveling coward on Commenor. Oddly enough, it was that thought... that emotion... that made him think twice about coming along. If he did go he'd likely hulk out and rip everyone in sight to shreds, probably Terem along with them. Not to mention the fact that the slavers had seen his face and his armor. Though his armor wasn't exactly an uncommon product, his face certainly was. It just wasn't smart for him to go.
With a big, deep breath, Delta allowed his eyes to open and gaze at the two. November had managed to land the ship. Odd... he should've noticed it. The former assassin shook his head a little, clearing it, and then he spoke. "I'll stay here. They've seen my face, and I'll probably kill them all to a man if when I see them." Delta barely drew a breath before he began to explain, in detail, Echo's notable and not-so-notable attributes. Most of his words sounded almost clinical in description, though he caught himself sounding... different... whenever he related the description of her eyes, lips, chest, and oddly enough: her eyebrows. He couldn't help how he sounded, and it frusterated him.
"Now go. If you're not back soon I'll follow you. And you won't like that."
He certainly wouldn't. Not one little bit. Delta's trust towards the alien slaver was comparable to the Sword of Damocles. One wrong movement, one wrong breeze, or just bad luck... and it was broken, and Terem would be a dead man.
|
|
|
|
|
Kella
Fire and Blood
4,089 posts
5 likes
Fire cannot kill a dragon.
|
|
last online Oct 30, 2014 9:41:46 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
May 25, 2010 22:17:57 GMT -5
Post by Kella on May 25, 2010 22:17:57 GMT -5
November listened. She had been doing a lot of that lately. Listening. Always observing, always listening! She felt frustrated--
No. No, that was irrational. At this moment, the frustration, it did not make sense. She had just landed the ship -- she had been needed for that. And, earlier, she had dealt with the mercenary, and she had overcome her two attackers, and she had gone to find Delta. So, logically, she should not be feeling very useless.
This only cemented in her mind, the notion that most emotions were as illogical as they were useless. Their only merit was the fact that you could exploit them in other people, but to exploit something, you had to know it wholly -- and November was not sure she wanted to know, or understand emotions very well. Then again... that flicker of dissatisfaction was replaced by a wave of curiosity, and she realized, for whatever reason or other... that she was going to have to figure these things out. After all, the best way to defeat something... was to know it wholly.
As Delta listed off facts about Echo, November corroborated every one. They were flawless, accurate, reliable facts. Even so, the odd tone of Delta's voice was not lost upon November. Her mind of a computer whirred, pulling together every resource of perception at her disposal. The best she could figure, Delta felt desire and sadness in equal measure at those words -- but, November could only be approximately 18.5% sure. As it were, even that percentage represented the majority vote, as there existed in her mind so many theories as to the origin of that tone. Another mystery which she would have to decipher later.
She turned back to Terem, mentally reviewing all his words. "Understood. I will ensure we remain unseen."
There was something in those words that hearkened back to November's day as a Green Meadows operative. They were not just cold and mechanic, they were not just a wrote reassurance... they were true. It was a confirmation of orders that said, somewhere within the fibre of its pronunciation, that the mission would be completed, at all costs. The words were spoken as fact, because they were fact, and while November still lived and breathed, they would remain as such.
|
|
|
|
|
Squee
The Keeper
2,286 posts
95 likes
I am Deception, and I defy your holiest moralities.
|
|
last online Oct 24, 2016 0:33:56 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
Jun 14, 2010 5:30:53 GMT -5
Post by Squee on Jun 14, 2010 5:30:53 GMT -5
This place was a palace. It definitely stood out against many of the other places Echo passed. Larger, taller, slightly more magnificent. Someone made good credits, Echo thought. It wouldn’t compare to any of the palaces owned by governing bodies, like Corellia’s king. Well, then, maybe palace wasn’t the word to describe it. Mansion. There it was. Grossly so. The mark of a fairly wealthy business man. At least Echo hoped so if the man could afford to by humans.
Did she really have a price? That still tugged at Echo. The thought felt like a parasitic worm that wriggled in the back of her head. It felt slimy and gross. Felt like it should look ugly and mean. Deformed, perverted, life sucking worm that squirmed and squealed under the purifying fire that sentient beings could not have a price.
Echo’s caretaker had paused once at the front gates to speak to someone through a comm. unit. Her eyes roamed the gates. Looked at the wall. Studied it. Was there a chance she could escape? She looked down at her cuffs. Were they stun cuffs? More than likely. Even if Yvonne’s were not, Echo’s had a higher likelihood of being since she’d proven to be a stubborn nuisance. The redhead had already decided that she was going to be persistently stubborn. Whatever this sex thing was, she didn’t think she’d like it very much, and was going to fight rather than submit and find out. It sounded bad. It was a harsh word to say as well. And her captor had laughed at her, too, and whatever he found amusing simply could not be a good thing. If these were stun cuffs then she would not make it far before her captor triggered them.
The wall was rather high, and while much of the surface was smooth and the openings were barred with metal pole gates, it was climbable. With the right momentum, Echo could simply run up it and grasp the top. It was the kind of thing Delta would like to set up explosives on, and, coming out, trigger the detonation, just because he wanted a big boom. Maybe. If her cuffs came off and the opportunity presented itself, Echo was willing to give running out the front door a try.
The front of the mansion looked as if it were tended by hardworking servants. Which they were, since those servants were slaves. Slaves that had served past their usefulness in other areas and therefore assigned yard work. No one wanted to give up a slave. Slaves did so much the owner did not. From the yard, Echo past under a large doorway, walking through the largest door she’d ever seen. Rather, the largest door she could recall seeing.
The indoors were clean and decorated but not extravagant. Again it marked a man of wealth. Echo was feeling the dirtier side more and more, for some reason. The hair on the back of her neck was rising. She wanted to curl her nose, fingers, and toes in disgust. There was a chill on her spine that kept her upright, and the low droning of a small alarm keeping her aware. Something was off, and Echo knew it by instinct. It was suspicious, and the mansion only made her feel like she was stepping through icky goo. If she ran her hands down the wall she was afraid she’d pull it back covered in slime. Vile. Dank. Dark. Like on the ship. At the same time, Echo also felt very small, like a lion cub, and had the feeling that whatever she said, it would not come out the roar she hoped it to be.
“The new slaves? Right over here in this room. Sir, you’re allowed to sit. The girls must stand. I’m sure Mr. Gunther will be arriving shortly.” They were ushered into a small, semi-circular room with rather plush furniture molded to the curve of the room. Echo’s captor took the liberty of sitting down and stretching out like a great big cat, making a show about how he got to sit down without saying anything at all. Echo ignored him.
Only a few minutes had passed, minutes Echo had taken to survey the room, before the door slid open. A tall man walked in with cropped hair and broad pair of shoulders. He had been looking down but he looked up to great her captor, who had stood to greet the buyer. As soon as the man had lifted his head, Echo had been frozen. Gears turned in her head and she found her heartbeat had quickened while sounds seemed to be dead in her ears. Revelation was upon her, just on the tip of her tongue.
Because when she looked at the man’s face, Echo felt she was looking into a mirror.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
last online Jul 11, 2018 23:15:20 GMT -5
Knight
|
|
|
Jun 19, 2010 21:59:56 GMT -5
Post by Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice* on Jun 19, 2010 21:59:56 GMT -5
Terem’s heavy boots clanked down the ramp of the ship. He took off into the streets of Ylesia at a brisk walk, however, he didn’t get very far before a pair of men appeared, their hands close to their weapons, “Business or pleasure?” They asked, eyeing his ship.
“Business of course, as usual.” Terem replied, “I’m Terem Layzayzek, humble mercenary to the slaver cause.”
“Oh, you. I remember hearin’ ‘bout you.” The first stated, “Didn’t you retire?”
“That I did, until a golden opportunity found its way into my lap; the fates jest at me, friends!” He said in a happy, sing-song voice, “Now where is the latest sale taking place, I need to scout my girl’s competition!”
“Your almost late, if you hurry you may get there in time. Its straight down that way toward the port. Wait, girl? Then you’d wanna take that merchandise to Gunther’s manor, of course. He’s scoutin’ out even more.”
“Thanks.” Terem replied, exchanging a Credit. He jogged passed the two. Terem needed to make good time if he wanted to arrive before this Echo was sold. If she was as unique as Delta had described, than she’d probably be purchased for certain, but Terem needed to know for certain.
After a long jog, he came nearer to the manor. It was just up ahead, but he had no real way in. Terem slowed to walk. He had to think of something. Suddenly, a thought came to him. If Zaeger had been in the group that took Echo, then that meant Yorg was with him as well. Yorg was a mercenary friend of Terem’s. He hadn’t seen him in a long time. There was a good chance that Yorg may have helped escort some women into the area.
Terem reached the front gate, and spoke to the guard through the intercom. “You got merchandise?” The guard inquired.
“No, I have urgent business with Yorg Te’Can’.” Terem said, “I know he’s in there.”
“Who?”
“He’s slaver that just went in with the others, look, I need to speak with him immediately. Twenty creds if you let me in. It’s me, Terem Layzayzek, just let me in will ya?” He replied.
“Terem? Why didn’t ya say so?” He asked. Since Gunther was such a frequent and long-standing customer, Terem had frequented his mansion many times in the passed, and he supposed he’d left a better mark on the guards. This mission was shaping up to be easy.
But then, that sort of happens when your not doing anything out of the ordinary.
Terem walked into the courtyard, and he made straight for the presenting room. It would be very comfortable room, much resembling the function of a harem. When he neared, he slowed. He wouldn’t be let inside. Only the harems and the leader of the slavers would; he was the bargainer, or so Terem thought, he’d never been inside himself. Outside, Yorg was waiting with the other slavers, talking and laughing.
Yorg was a big man, sturdy and strong. He was one of the fastest pistol shots in the whole Slave Trade too, and a strong rifleman to boot. Unfortunately, he wasn’t too smart. However, he was a friend of Zaeger’s, which made him a friend of Terem’s.
Terem walked up straight to Yorg, and stared for a few moments. Yorg looked back. “Terem?” He asked, “Thought you retired.”
“So did I.” Terem replied with anger in his voice. No longer was he playing the happy-go-lucky Terem Layzazek. Now, he was acting the part of the vengeful man. He needed information, and he needed it pronto, “Until some crazy bitch killed my best friend.”
“Word travels fast, then.” Yorg said bitterly, sadness in his eyes.
Terem found himself no longer feigning anger or sadness. He bit his lower lit and pressed through, he had a mission now, a purpose. He could redeem himself, “I’m looking for the woman who killed him. I hear she’s in your newest chain of slaves.”
“Um, not sure. Wasn’t with ‘em when it happened, though I did hear about a woman who put up a strong fight. We lost more than just Zaeger.”
“Is she in there?” Terem asked.
“I dunno, I told ya, I didn’t see what all she looked.”
Quickly, Terem threw out a few details, and Yorg stood up straighter, “Yeah, yeah. I remember now. I saw a girl what looked similar to that, she passed by just a bit ago, right into the room.”
Terem growled and started headed into the room. Yorg rushed over, trying to stop him. Terem got the handle through, and poked his head into the room. Yorg grabbed both of Terem’s shoulders, but Terem needed more time, he elbowed backward, jabbing Yorg in the gut, then craned his head in. The door was quiet, nobody even heard him poke his head through, only a few slaves could even see him. Terem scanned quickly.
And there was only a single red-headed girl standing in the room, staring straight at Gunther…Terem looked between the two, studying them both. He was so shocked he didn’t even put up a resistance act when Yorg ripped him back through the door-way and shut the door, pinning Terem to the wall with his big burly arms.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Yorg shouted, “That’s a sale! You can’t interrupt a sale, not for vengeance, not for nuthin’! You gone loopy?”
Terem broke down into angry tears, slowly sliding down the wall, “How can I let his death go?” He acted. He felt like a fraud, using his friend’s death. He was a fraud, but it was the only way…
Yorg lifted him up, “Get out of here!” He directed Terem away and pushed hard, “Quickly, before my boss comes out. I’m only letting you go now because we use to be friends.” He turned to the other slavers, “Even one of you bantha’s let out a word who it were, an’ I kill you where ya stand.”
Terem, now facing away from Yorg, grinned. He sure had picked convenient friends. Of course, that wasn’t entirely be mistake. He wiped the grin from his face, acting once more, a sad, angered face.
“Go on, get!” Yorg ushered, “Hurry! Lucky you didn’t get any attention!”
Terem ran, out the building, through the front gate. He ran through alleys to throw off anyone who might be watching, and he didn’t stop till he found the ship, sending the signal that he’d returned; hitting the landing ramp with his weapon in a pattern, then stepping out of the way so they could lower it.
|
|
|
|
|
Dire Wolf
So who's ready to help me sock ol Adolf on the jaw?!
2,894 posts
49 likes
Have dakka will travel
|
|
last online May 6, 2020 18:55:51 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
Jun 20, 2010 17:20:17 GMT -5
Post by Dire Wolf on Jun 20, 2010 17:20:17 GMT -5
Delta found that sitting simply wasn't satisfying. He felt a powerful tugging at his heart to stay on his feet and move. Where? It didn't matter. So long as he was moving, pacing, or checking and rechecking his rifle that urge to move was abated. Though pacing or busy work hardly seemed to make the time pass faster.
In a single moment of weakness, his eyes glanced up at the chronometer on the wall. He instantly regretted it, and practically threw his gaze away from the digitized readout with the hope that he could unsee what he saw. Barely ten minutes had passed since that human thing who babbled on about his hokey religion and beliefs had taken his leave.
A grinding feeling overtook his heart. Like two great masses of steel pressed against each other where being pushed in opposite directions. He didn't know the name for this feeling, but it was frustration. Echo was somewhere on this planet, but he didn't know where and he couldn't just go out and rambo his way through every last mansion and every last ship in search of her. Though a rather large part of him wanted to.
In an effort to make him temporarily forget the tantalizing thoughts, temptations, and urges that dominated his mind, he moved to slip his IR / NV goggles over his head, and not long after his jet black balaclava was slipped over that. The mechanism that allowed him to see at night, infrared, and normal vision projecting from the hole in the balaclava.
"Where is that damned merc?"
Indeed, he looked like something of a terrifying black operations soldier. Yet it hardly took his mind off of the grinding in his heart. Yet another idea sprang to his mind shortly thereafter. He wrapped his black clad fingers around the grip of his combat knife, and sharply freed it from its durasteel scabbard. After that, he pulled a small pistol-sized piece of plastic with two "x" shaped duranium at its end.
He began to focus on the object as he dragged the blade across the top two lines of one x, sharpening the blade. When he was satisfied, he began to hone it on the x adjacent. Fortunately, this served to distract the man until the merc arrived. When Terem did, and told the pair where Echo was being held, Delta looked up at November.
"November... I'm sorry for the distrust that I've given you. You've proven, to me at least, that you aren't just another agent of Green Meadows. The code," his heart growled at him not to say, but he did anyways, "the code to unlock your equipment is 1-9-5-2-4-6." Was he lieing? Hell yes. There was no way that she proved herself yet, but at the moment he had no choice.
It was either take her with him with nothing more than her fists and a gun, or allow her to have her weapons. If he did the former, then they would all likely die a terrible death. If he did the latter, there was a slightly smaller chance that he would die a terrible death... and a much greater chance that Echo would be freed. Though, ironically enough, he was giving her a chance to prove where her loyalties lie.
After waiting a few more minutes for November, impatiently might I add, he lept onto one of the Deliverance's speeder bikes. Once November was on and secure, his wrist kinked downward on the handle and shot them forward. It wouldn't take long for them to reach the mansion where Echo was, and once he did and she was safe... there wouldn't be a brick standing on another brick.
The multiple charges of high explosives in the bike's pack would make sure of that.
|
|
|
|
|
Kella
Fire and Blood
4,089 posts
5 likes
Fire cannot kill a dragon.
|
|
last online Oct 30, 2014 9:41:46 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
Jun 20, 2010 20:42:51 GMT -5
Post by Kella on Jun 20, 2010 20:42:51 GMT -5
Time was an ally to November. Time allowed preparation. And while the Mercenary was gone, November had plenty of time. Delta's pacing played a steady beat, to which November's movements were the smoothly rolling strings. Her breathing came in for seven seconds. Held for seven seconds. Out for seven. Hold for seven. In for seven. It soothed her mind.
She stretched her body, working every kink out of every muscle, priming ligaments, stimulating blood-flow to her extremities, which she would soon need. Hands to feet, head to knee. A full split, with a side-bend bringing her hands to wrap around each foot. A full twist that sent cracks and pops up her spine. Etcetera, etcetera.
The Mercenary returned, and both November's mind and body were fully relaxed. It was the calm before the storm. She listened to the Mercenary's report, cataloging each piece of information perfectly. No matter what happened this day, these were the things she would not forget.
When Delta presented November with the combination to the weapons locker, November analyzed two possibilities. One. She truly had proven her worth to Delta, and he was much more gullible than she expected. (She wouldn't have trusted herself, not yet.) Two. Delta was as smart as she expected him to be, and he was lying, because giving November access to her weapons was the only logical thing to do.
Percentages favored possibility two.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
One, Nine, Five. Two, Four, Six.
The locker beeped then whirred open. November removed her equipment. Then, with the cold efficency of a computer defragmenting its harddrive, November put her world and her livlihood back together. Everything was in untouched, working order. She considered the coming predicament, and with a steady and practiced hand, loaded the various components of her armament. Aerosol canisters, short-delay grenades, and hollow darts all recieved their respective payloads. A fresh coat of death shining wet on its surface, November's dagger found its way into her boot. A compact computer interface joined the orderly array, and all these things found their way either into her pack or onto her person.
She was ready to go.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The vibration caused by the rapid contraction and explosion of the speeder's cylinders moved through November's bones and into her ears. The wind howled by, while she sat behind Delta, her arms solidly around his waist. It was a platonic gesture for the still-(mostly)-emotionless woman.
Time was once more November's ally. Half of her mind watched the cityscape, and then landscape roll by, cataloging every detail with precision, putting together a web of landmarks in her mind, so that, if escape became necessary, she would know exactly where she was.
Meanwhile, the other half considered once more her assets. Plans were important, yes. But when the plan failed, often, it was a deep understanding of your own strengths and weaknesses that ensured your survival, and it was on this that November meditated.
First of all, there was her dart-gun. The gun itself was a marvel, the way it drove the darts with precisely alternating magnetic currents. But the darts themselves... they were a feat of engineering that satisfied November deeply.
Each dart was sculpted with aerodynamicly precise fins, to direct its path by easing the projectile into a stabalizing spiral. Once it struck, and delivered its payload, it was designed so that its own weight caused it to fall away from the target. A lodged dart was incriminating. A fallen one was easily overlooked, easily brushed aside. Easily recovered later.
The business end of the dart comprised, of course, a needle. But this was not just any needle. It was made with carbon nano-tube technology. The wall was only two molocules thick, but stronger than a comparable durasteel structure. The needle was long enough to pass through the subcutaneous layer of fat, delivering its poison directly into the muscle tissue, where hundreds of capillaries would absorb the toxin, and whisk it through the blood stream. It left a puncture so tiny, that it would appear as nothing more than a pore to anything less than an expert coroner.
Whenever the dart was stopped by flesh, the ball-bearing inside, driven by inertia, was forced down the length of the inside of the dart. By a law of hydrodynamics, when the fluid moved into the needle, its speed was magnified, driving the poison deeply, unstoppably into the muscle.
However, if November's first plan went accordingly, she wouldn't need her darts at all. The mansion-estate of Gunther loomed. To a normal soul, it might have looked foreboding. To November, it was nothing more than a large construct of concrete and metal, no more intimidating than the speeder she rode on now. A very large construct. November could live in a pit for six months if she had to.
How did she know that?
The fact of the matter was, she could, therefore being this over-prepared in living struck her as highly illogical. It stood to reason that this Gunther was a highly illogical man. This would make him unpredictable, but November had considered this. Unpredictability was the only asset logical fallacy brought, and it was not worth the many other weaknesses. Even so, as she observed the wall, the construct, the guards, she knew that this place was also highly organized. So, it would take an organized attack plan to thwart the defenses.
But what did such a powerful man have to fear? Fear is what drove illogical men to defend themselves. On a planet like this? Maybe business rivals. Petty burglars. Vandals. Mobs. How did November know this? A theory was inkling on the edge of her brain, and the close nature of this theory both filled her with anticipation of satisfaction, and frustration that it was not coming faster. But it was coming. So she could focus her mind on the task at hand. The probabilities spoke that this man's defences were not equipped to stop two mercilessly trained, professional assassins. Breaking in would not be simple, but it would be easy.
In all this thought, it would be easy to disconnect from reality. November, however, remained highly conscious of the world around her, and now as the speeder blazed directly past the estate, she buried herself in the sensory input, creating a comprehensive perception of the world around her. They had passed because they were casing the house. Down a block, into an alleyway, around the back of the adjacent estate, and then to the Gunther mansion -- and its moderate wall -- from the side. While they had been waiting in the ship, November had uploaded the publicly available municiple satellite photographs of the site onto her datapad. She'd found what she wanted -- the outside unit of the central ventillation system. It was at the back corner of the house, on the close side. There was no time to put on the guise of maintenance men. There was no time to painstakingly plot the angle of the security cameras. There was only time to act, quickly and decisively, and neutralize as many security personell as possible, as quickly as possible.
Security cameras didn't matter if the man watching them was dead.
Again, she didn't know how she knew this. She could not remember having done any of this before. She remembered training, and that was it. But she knew this information, knew it like she knew her self. For now, that just had to be that.
"We scale the wall," she said, refreshing the recently-distractable Delta, and the mercenary on the plan. "You cover my back while I hack the central utilities computer, and take care of the lower three levels. Echo's on the fourth. Then, I cover your back while you get us past any physical barriers on the way. We have to stop at the security room so I can hack the main system -- otherwise, they can lock us in. Then, we get to Echo. I can't risk gassing that floor, or the floors above, since I don't know what condition she's in. Terem, you and I will enter the floor from the west. Delta, you will come in from the east, as soon as attention is on us. Once you have Echo, we'll cut fire and follow you. From there, the general plan is to get out, by whatever means needed, and meet at the hangar."
November pulled three aparatti from her pack. She distributed them. "Gas masks. Do not take them off unless you're okay with dying." They were about the size of a SCUBA regulator, with a rubber skirt that covered the nose. A narrow band of dense rubber ringed around the head, preventing the aparattus from accidentally slipping off, while a rubber bite-piece kept it securely in the mouth. They worked by a static current that siphoned away toxins, instead of gathering them, which allowed the aparattus to remain small. However, they lasted no longer than an hour. November did not plan to stay in the mansion for anywhere near that time.
"Let's go," she said, voice distorted but its message abundantly clear.
It was time.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
last online Jul 11, 2018 23:15:20 GMT -5
Knight
|
|
|
Jun 22, 2010 5:03:25 GMT -5
Post by Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice* on Jun 22, 2010 5:03:25 GMT -5
Terem found himself standing in the room provided once more, leaning against the wall where he couldn't be seen. His eyes were closed and he was staring up at the ceiling. If he looked down at his canteen, which still had some alcohol left in it. Finishing his mumblings he downed it, then closed his eyes real tight, mentally preparing himself for what was about to happen. Some of his friend's may die. He may even have to kill them. "Alright, Terem." He whispered, "Pull yourself together. It's a dangerous job, their time was comin' anyway." With that, he slapped his carbine, a Zabrak Blaster design( starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Zabrak_blaster_carbine ), into his shoulder and other arm, mentally pumping himself up. His equipment was all ready, and he was good for battle. Moving out in his moderately heavy black armor, Terem followed November and Delta, who were both equipped and headed for a single speeder. He nodded and went for the second speeder. He boarded the rust brown speeder bike clunkily in his armor but efficiently, readying it. He could hear the powerful engines flare to life, and quickly primed the speeder bike for use. It had been a very long time since he'd used one of these things, and he was out-of practice. The thought of having to get back in practice by driving it through a potentially crowded area didn't thrill him, but he expected he could pull it off. He followed Delta's lead, speeding out of the ship and down the main street. At first he went slow, but Delta's pace was much faster. The memories may not have been fresh in his mind, but his bodies procedural memory quickly picked up the pace, making up and filling the gaps. Almost automatically, his body adjusted to turns and speed to properly balance. He did remember one thing about speeder bike piloting; one had to trust their intincts, if a tree suddenly came into view, you couldn't panic, you just had to move. In this case, he was awfully aware of that, and he tried to relax, but his eyes continually flicked between pedestrians and various other flying objects. Soon enough, they had passed Gunther's mansion and shot around to the back, where a large exterior, central ventilattion unit was. Terem approached cautiously. It seemed like a rather simple, expected entry-point. November dismounted from her speeder, "We scale the wall, you cover my back while I hack the central utilities computer, and take care of the lower three levels. Echo's on the fourth. Then, I cover your back while you get us past any physical barriers on the way. We have to stop at the security room so I can hack the main system -- otherwise, they can lock us in. Then, we get to Echo. I can't risk gassing that floor, or the floors above, since I don't know what condition she's in. Terem, you and I will enter the floor from the west. Delta, you will come in from the east, as soon as attention is on us. Once you have Echo, we'll cut fire and follow you. From there, the general plan is to get out, by whatever means needed, and meet at the hangar."It was a simple plan, but in Terem's experience, simple was good. Less dependent factors and more independent factors, which increased the likelihood of success, and increased the time it would take for the plan to inevitably fail; as all plans do. She then took out gas masks and handed them to each of her party. Terem took his graciously, but before slipping it on, he examined the wall they had to scale, "That's a pretty slick wall..." He murmured. Unlike the Green Meadows assassins, he didn't have detailed physical training in climbing perimeter walls; only breaching them, "But I guess I'll follow your lead and figure it out from there, can't be too hard." He hoped he wasn't out of his league with these two... Okay, he was definitely out of his league, but he hoped they would adjust their plan so that it didn't involve things that would get -him- killed and not them. With that final, grim thought, he turned off his speeder bike and walked away from it, slipping the mask on. He waited a moment for his breathing to adjust, and get a feel for his newly dampened sensory perceptions. He hated gas masks...However, he hated gas even more, so it was a neccesary evil.
|
|
|
|
|
Dire Wolf
So who's ready to help me sock ol Adolf on the jaw?!
2,894 posts
49 likes
Have dakka will travel
|
|
last online May 6, 2020 18:55:51 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
Jun 23, 2010 16:59:59 GMT -5
Post by Dire Wolf on Jun 23, 2010 16:59:59 GMT -5
(for the third time. -_- It ate up my two previous posts.)
Delta's keen blue gaze glanced back and forth between his driving and the walled estate, taking every single detail he could from the manor. Which wasn't much, seeing as there was a smooth wall that blocked most of the objects within from view. After a few moments he gave up, and allowed November to pick out the tiny details... mostly so that he didn't have to worry about crashing into something. He didn't have a problem with dieing, but his death at that moment meant that Echo would spend the rest of her life in slavery.
Though she was a feisty one... probably already thinking of ways to get out. Might be out already. That thought brought a little smile to the assassin's face, though he seriously doubted that she could've managed to find a way out. Knowing her, she likely caused them more than a few problems whenever she woke... and that would've either earned her a pair of powerful hand binders or drugs. Probably both.
Despite the utter insanity of the notion, Delta found himself wanting to stop the swoop and storm the manor right then and there. He resisted that particular idea. It would only get him killed or captured, and then November and Terem would have to worry about getting two prisoners freed.
Del listened to November's plan as best he could, which wasn't particularly well... Echo was on his mind. It was odd. An end to her physical presence earned her a permanent residence within his mind, and it seemed that he couldn't stop thinking about her. After a sharp shake to clear his mind yet again, he took stock of what Nov had said. They attack from the front while he attacks from the back. Poison. Simple.
Except there were only three masks. Echo would end up dieing if he tried to bring her back down from the way he came. "I'll need a fourth mask, November," he said as he slipped his balaclava off and the mask on. He should've brought his face mask instead of the balaclava.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Delta looked at the wall through his goggles, smirking lightly underneath that gas mask. Some part of him loved scaling walls, jumping fences, and just free running in general. He backed up a few feet before rushing forward, springing his legs up and kicking his boot off of the wall as best he could. At the zenith of his jump, he shot his arm up. He barely managed to grasp the top of the wall, but his fingers was all that he needed to find purchase.
Less than a heartbeat later, Delta's other arm shot up and grabbed onto the ledge, from there he simply vaulted his body up so that it was resting on the flat surface. His hand reached down towards Terem, "comon," was all that he said. After the merc jumped up to Delta's grasp, the assassin pulled him up with his almost super-human might and shifted his weight around to the other side... dropping with a roll.
Infiltrate the manor: Check
|
|
|
|
|
Squee
The Keeper
2,286 posts
95 likes
I am Deception, and I defy your holiest moralities.
|
|
last online Oct 24, 2016 0:33:56 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
Jul 12, 2010 0:52:05 GMT -5
Post by Squee on Jul 12, 2010 0:52:05 GMT -5
Everything was happening too fast. Echo stared at the wall as soapy rags ran along her arms and the middle of her bare chest. And things continued to speed along. By the time she comprehended five minutes ago, she was already fifteen minutes behind. Her gaze was emptily blank, but she blinked and tucked her chin, watching unseeingly as the cloth-draped hands laid a line of soap over her skin. Looking up, her bangs hung just below her eyebrows. Absently, Echo focused on a drop of water barely hanging onto a thin clump of red hair. And as it fell, her eyes followed, watching the ripples it created as it struck the pool of water around her toes.
---
“What in devil’s name is this?” the man roared. For a long minute, he’d stared at her, mouth slightly gapping. She’d determined that look. It was the look of surprise. He was surprised to see her.
But she was surprised as well. Echo wasn’t quite sure what she was looking at. The man had a broad face, and a kinked, squashed nose, as if it had been broken flat too many times. Small gray eyes peered over thick cheekbones. Too small for a face such as his. Copper hair sprouted in a thick mass, noticeably ruffled and easily outmatching his rather clean apparel and shaven face. It was like his hair begged to differ. Her amazing eyesight also picked up on the sprouting gray root. He looked a little on the older side, judging by wrinkle, skin tone, and blemishes. Perhaps he colored his hair. Thick copper eyebrows. Big in the shoulders, small at the waist. The ideal man.
What was an ideal man? Echo did not know personally, but she’d read enough to understand the ideal man was strong in appearance. Fit. This man certainly was fit. Or decently so. And he was tall. A good head taller than her. It was in nearly all her readings, it was the fit and tall men that were favored and written about.
“Why in devil’s name is she doing here? Why have you brought her here? I do believe that is her!”
“Sir, this is the red head you wanted.”
The man stalked over to her, and by now, Echo was thoroughly confused. Though she did not allow it to show on her face. She fixed the howling man with a hard stare, which he returned equally strong with unmoving gray eyes. Familiar gray eyes. He was but inches away from her, glowering her down, to which she refused to budge, even with her neck craned back, uncomfortable exposed. Stone was grating against stone.
The man finally returned. “Someone find Gilana. If there’s anyone who can tell, it’ll be her.”
--- A bucket of water poured over her head, bringing a startled gasp from Echo. It was cold. She barely had time to drip before three towels her pressed to her body. Rough, scratchy, and the hands guiding them were knowing and quick, like an ace pilot flying his favorite ship. This was some kind of tradition to these women. They were bathing her and drying her as if they’d done it so many times before, with few words exchanged.
She started to lose her balance as a pair of hands toweled her hair. A kind hand pressed against her side, keeping her from leaning too far over. The towel came off her head, and Echo saw into a gentle woman’s eyes. The woman looked sad, her brown eyes deep with a sort of sadness that it seemed painful. Echo looked to her right, to another woman, and saw the same depth of emotion in blue eyes. “What?” Echo asked, not understanding.
Yet a different hand touched her cheek. Soft pressure from that hand turned Echo’s head back around. This time, a small, forced smile greeted her sight as well as pretty, also panged eyes. “Oh, Serenity. You don’t understand?”
---
“Yes, Master, you asked for--” The woman was dirty with a sheen on her forehead, as if she’d been fetched from out of doors. There was the smell of outdoors. She’d been in some kind of strong pollination. She had blond hair and steely blue eyes. Those eyes widened and her mouth moved but made no sound. Astonishment, Echo named it. But, why would this woman be greatly amazed?
The woman, Gilana, Echo figured, shuffled toward her. Echo didn’t know why, but she slid her foot half a step back. Some part of the assassin did not want the woman to come to her. Maybe part of her training. Because when people advanced, they tended to bring pain with them. Echo’s fingers were splayed in her cuffs, ready to be used to deflect incoming attacks. Those very hands could disarm, even trapped as they were. Echo knew how to defend herself even with her hands bound. Her brow was low in focus, firmly rooted on the slowly approaching woman.
“Hey,” her captor said as he prodded her in the side, “Knock that off.”
Echo’s focus broke and her knees straightened, having bent to give her a sturdier stance. Her fingers relaxed. What was she doing? What was she worried about from a woman who was five inches shorter than she? Her insides toiled in warning, in instinct that Echo had begun to listen to since escaping Green Meadows. Why? She didn’t know the reason, or even why her body had reacted the way it had. So, she let the woman finish coming to her.
“Serenity?” Gilana asked, just above a whisper, as her fingers touched Echo’s neck.
Sharply, Echo jerked her chin up, tearing away from the woman’s touch, and still not knowing why. “Who are you?”
The woman paused and a look of confusion and hurt washed over her face. It quickly vanished, replaced with knowing. “Of course you would not remember. You were three age.”
“She is, then?” the man asked. This had to be Gunther. Daskt Gunther. He was the man who bought her. How had it taken her that long to realize it. But why all the trouble now? He was causing a bit of drama.
“Yes. This is Serenity.” The woman wrung her hands. “This is my daughter. Your daughter.
---
Serenity… The name hung in balance, as if in perfect harmony. It was a name that could be meditated on, and Echo did to a point. Her name was Serenity. The name she was given as a baby. And she’d been sold when she was three years old. Because Daskt Gunther had considered her to be too much a pest to bear. Gilana was her mother, a slave.
It was a bit much to learn in one day. This was her past? This was her history? What about all the great people in the stories that she’d read? The men and women from great planets and great histories?
“Gilana?” Echo couldn’t call the woman “mother”. It settled too strangely on her tongue. “What do you mean to just go along with it? Let him take his pleasure?” Echo blinked as a piece of logic snapped into place within the puzzle. “Wait, do you mean sex?”
Gilana had been shocked by the questions. She finally just nodded, and continued to paint something around her eyes.
“What is sex?”
All in one synchronized moment, the women stopped and stared at Echo. The assassin suddenly felt like she’d said the taboo word. Long seconds passed, and then Gilana sighed, “Well…” and the women continued their business. One still pulled at her hair, tightening it into sleek braids. Another finished tying her shoes. Yet another arranged jewels. And Gilana explained to her while painting her face.
---
“Father, I heard the new slaves were here and I figured I’d… Woah, is this a convention or something?” A young man around her age, if Echo had to guess. He had darker hair, but still the same familiar gray eyes. Fashionably dressed, but not snobby-like or smart. He looked between her and Daskt. “Woah, woah is there some kind magic trick being played here? She looks a lot like you, Dad.”
Dad. This was Daskt’s son. If Echo was Daskt’s daughter, then the man she was looking at now was her brother. Echo tilted her head. Dad. The man had said it so casually. He was accustomed to calling the man “dad” or “father”. Which meant there was a close link between the two.
Daskt blurred past her and grabbed his son’s arm. “She’s your half sister, Brennen, but, listen to me. She’s no family of ours. She’s a traitor to our work and way of life. She left us long ago, betrayed us with the rebellion I told you about.”
Echo snarled indignantly, suddenly angry. Lies! They had to be! All she remembered was her dorms, her lunches, her training! No rebellion! Daskt and Brennen looked to her sharply. Echo went to take a step forward, sensing her captor coming up to grab her. Gilana lifted a hand against Echo’s chest, halting the flame-haired woman.
“See this? She hates us.”
As Brennen nodded, Echo could hardly believe he was falling for such obvious tricks! She growled. How had the man not realized this?
“Brennen, your friend was raving mad when a part of his mines fell, right?”
“Yeah, he said it was our fault and that he wouldn’t make deals with us any longer unless we accepted full responsibility. What are you thinking about?”
Daskt was eyeballing her, up, down, up, as if sizing her for a fight. Echo almost hoped he did. Their eyes met and immovable mountains clashed. This man didn’t like her. And after what she’d just heard, Echo wasn’t having good thoughts about this man either. She shifted her gaze and concentrated on Brennen, wondering how he fell so easily to lies.
“What if we gave him a pretty little gift to help him ease his anger?”
Now Brennen looked her over. “I bet Harley would approve and be greatly delighted.”
---
“Smell this five times,” Gilana offered something to her on a plate. Curls of colored smoke circled over it and disappeared within seconds. Echo leaned forward, caught a whiff of something strange, and sat backward. It tingled in her nostrils, making her want to sneeze. It clung to her sinuses and the scent refused to leave. Echo’s nose wrinkled and her eyes shut tight as she shook her head back and forth.
“No. Don’t want to.”
“It’ll help. There are stories about Harley. If they are right, this will help take away the memories.”
“No! I don’t want it!” she said it firmly. Something that would dull her memories. It unsettled her as much as the smell of the… whatever the stuff was. She was already missing something in her head, and this stuff would only make more missing spots.
“Serenity…” Gilana spoke softly. She set a flat circle over the plate and sat down. “You don’t want to know this. What is coming will not be nice. I’m sorry I have to scare you, but it is not nice, and any of us can tell you that. Smell it. You won’t have to know how bad it is. It is the last thing. Please…” Echo looked down at the small hand on her forearm and then traced its attaching arm up to Gilana’s face. “I mean good.”
Echo sighed, closing her eyes. She hardly knew this woman, other than she claimed to be her mother. A mother. Whatever a mother was supposed to be. Echo knew a mother in literal terms: a woman who gave birth to a child. Generally married to the father. But her father was… not a father. Not to Echo. Daskt was despicable. The woman claimed to be her mother. She’d been kind to Echo, as her friends, and knew what was happening. Even explained some things.
“Are you really my mother?” Echo examined Gilana’s face for any trace of deception.
The woman touched her fingertips to Echo’s cheek and drew down. Briefly those fingertips hovered over Echo’s lips. Gilana reached slowly, her hand on top of Echo’s head and slid her hand around to cradle the back of Echo’s head. Blue eyes matched gray. “Your head still has the same shape. I kept it to memory after Daskt sold you. It’s… it is only natural.”
“I believe you. But why let this go through?”
“I can’t stop it.”
“Don’t you try?”
“Do you think I want this to happen?” asked Gilana, incredulous. “What you’re going to see you won’t like! I don’t like it. I don’t want you to know. Please, Serenity, there isn’t much time. They come for you. Please, smell this.”
Gilana’s urgency made Echo think at hyperspeed. Trust or not to trust. Echo held the woman’s gaze for several seconds, dragging it into a minute. Trust. “Give it here.”
The lid was removed and Echo took the plate in her hands. The smoke still curled and as Echo inhaled, the smell became thicker. The third inhale was sticky. The fourth began to completely clog her sense of smell. By the fifth, long inhale, Echo was completely smell free, clogged with nothing but the absurd stench. Gilana quickly covered it back up after Echo’s fifth breath.
“They’re here. Don’t resist. They’ll hurt you.”
Echo was feeling a little fuzzy and she smiled slightly at Gilana. “Kay.” Something grabbed her by her upper arms and lifted her upward. Cold metal clamped on her wrists. The beads on her obscene clothing jangled together. Echo no longer sensed her discomfort of showing so much skin, or the way her chest felt compressed. A man took point, commanding to follow him, and Echo had a fleeting thought of resistance, but it was just that: fleeting.
“Drugged already. Very good. I’ll be sure to tell the boss you followed precise instructions.”
What? As Echo was pushed after the leading man, walking down a dismal hall, a shrill bell rang within her. Her head started to buzz with a low drone, as if insects were zooming in from far away. A whole cloud of them. Echo shook her head but couldn’t get rid of the droning. Shutting it out best she could, she watched the bare walls pass by and felt the sensation of alarm once more. The edge of that sensation wore away gently and her mind shifted to thoughts about nothing.
Precise instructions. Precise? Gilana was to… had to make her smell the stuff?
They turned a corner, followed by yet another, climbed a set of stairs, and turned one more corner. This hall was lined with doors. About halfway down on the left was a pair of men, talking to each other. One motioned to the oncoming entourage and the other turned. The one who motioned was Brennen, but the one who turned was new to Echo. She took in a pair of charcoal eyes and raven dark hair, easily six feet tall.
But the information didn’t retain well.
“Ah, she is kinda pretty. A bit too… toned, perhaps, but… a redhead…” The man stood too close, a small voice in the back of her head whimpered. “You’re sure you want to give up a redhead? And what’s up with the cuffs…?”
“Apparently she can be a bit troublesome.”
“A spitfire then! Well, not that I mind the cuffs might make this a little easier.” the man took a hold of her chin, twisting it to face him. A sort of smile crawled over his lips, and the little voice in her head begged protest. “Let’s get started then.”
Delta! squeaked the tiny voice.
“And now it’s all so clear Doesn’t anyone see what’s happening here?” -Falls Apart, Thousand Foot Krutch[/i]
|
|
|
|
|
Kella
Fire and Blood
4,089 posts
5 likes
Fire cannot kill a dragon.
|
|
last online Oct 30, 2014 9:41:46 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
Jul 12, 2010 13:56:09 GMT -5
Post by Kella on Jul 12, 2010 13:56:09 GMT -5
"I'll need a fourth mask, November," was Delta's reply to her plan. This confirmed her hypothesis that his 'trust' was purely strategical. If she really had proven her assets, he would not have questioned her plan. Days and years of training had prepared her to execute these sorts of plans. She would never overlook something so obvious. How could he think she would? He had been trained the same place. Something then, something must have indicated to him that she was not the operative she had been. What was it? Could it be the emotions? Was she showing them more than she thought? These questions brought a shade of dissatisfaction over November. What if she had overlooked other aspects to her plan? What if there were other flaws? What if-- No, those were such foolish thoughts! There hadn't been a flaw. November had had no less than six of those masks on her person when she had left the Green Meadows facility, and there were in fact two undistributed masks in her pack. Why she had not given one of these to Delta was simple. His behavior was erratic and unpredictable. Therefore, it was logical for the apparatus to remain on her person for as long as possible, to decrease the probability of its loss or damage. Simple arithmetic. Wasn’t it? November scolded herself. She had been trained to a higher level than this -- letting emotions distract her from what was immediate and tactical. She would not permit herself such a mistake again. “It’s provided for,” November said to Delta. “I will give it to you at the proper time.” The proper time being when statistical analysis yielded the highest probability of success, of course. But she need not trouble Delta with such obfuscation. She watched as Delta scaled the wall, and quickly followed suit, two yards to his right. She got a running start, her momentum holding her feet to the wall as she pushed off with her right foot, then left. Her fingers gripped the edge of the ledge, and she pulled herself up to straddle the wall. A twist of her hips, and she was dropping down the other side, crouching deeply to absorb the force of the jump. She turned to make sure the Merc had followed in turn. They were in. November stuck to the shadows, skirting along the edges. She moved discretely, but with confidence. Her steps were almost silent, the particular way of rolling her feet and placing her weight as second-nature as walking itself. She stepped through the scattered branches of a shrub -- aesthetic cover for the utility unit. The unit looked basically like a large box. Two circular grates in the top concealed the fans that whirred below. Hot air blew over November as she approached, heat from the coils within the unit. In one corner was an control pad, and below it, on the side of the unit, an access panel. Bingo. November slipped her hands into a pair of thin fabric gloves, to prevent incriminating fingerprints. She wasted no time in extracting a screwdriver, and removing the front panel from the control pad. Below lay a tangle of colored wires. For a moment, November reveled in the miracle of her mind. How satisfied she was, now, as she traced each wire to its purpose, with little more than a cursory glance. Wire cutters replaced the screwdriver as she snipped a few instrumental wires, stripping the insulation and clipping the bare ends to the contacts of her computer interface. With the circuit complete once more, the interface recorded the transmitted data, running its codex against potential format matches. Once it keyed in on the correct one, November had access to the information. And that, in turn, led her offense. This was a state of the art atmospheric control system. Such was advertised in the real-estate file for the estate. The unit was hard-wired into a central control center, from which various commands could be given. Each room had its own thermostat, and the vents of every room could be toggled with the flip of the switch. In turn, each device related feedback back to the central hub, lines of command code that were related to maintenance and safety functions. With her interface, November could send commands along this line. Ta-da, voila, she controlled the system. Her fingers flicked across the screen as she pieced together pre-assembled bits of coding, adding improvised code as needed. Execute. A million ones and zeroes flooded the narrow wires, carrying November’s commands. After a moment, she pinged the central computer for a status report. All vents on the first three floors were open, every connection to the fourth and fifth floors closed. All systems operational. Perfect. The access panel was made to be easily opened, for repairs to the inner air ducts and conduits. November set the large panel aside, burying her upper half in the unit. Where was it... There. The auxiliary air duct. The main airflow didn’t extend out into unit, but this duct led right to it. It was supposed to be for quality control, but today... it was her way in. Such ducts weren’t expected to have to stand up to any sort of trauma, so it was easy for November to separate a segment. She extracted an unmarked canister from her pack. Adapted from a generic aerosol can, the canister would be untraceable -- unless one had access to Green Meadows databases, that is. November re-checked her gas mask -- force of habit. She depressed the button on the canister, and it came to life with a high hisssssssss, forming a stream of whitish vapor that was quickly whisked along by the air flow. November twisted the lid of the canister to lock it open, and set it inside the mouth of the duct. As the vapor diffused, it would become invisible. By the time the targets noticed the odd sweet smell, it would be too late. November started a pre-set timer on her wrist chronometer. Two minutes. With quick hands, she reassembled the unit, erasing all sign of her meddling. Except, that is, for the canister that remained in the duct. It was necessary, with the given time. She would weigh the statistics as the operation advanced. She might come back for the evidence, she might leave it -- whichever course of action offered the highest possibility of making a clean break from the operation. The last thing to reenter her pack was the computer interface. She stood, leaving the unit appearing just as it had. She looked to Delta and the Mercenary. “To the side door. Anyone comes out, incapacitate them. We enter in,” she glanced at the chronometer, “One minute, thirteen seconds.” She matched her words with hand signals to make sure she was understood, despite the distortion of her voice. “Let’s go.” She turned and slunk into the shadows of the wall, moving four yards to the side-door. It was a typical sliding door. A single frosted-glass window provided a foggy view of the hall beyond, but with the lights off, nothing could be seen. There was still over a minute until November could be sure all threats were incapacitated -- until then, their potential presence on security footage might attract attention. She knew beyond any of her newfound doubt that Delta, the mercenary, and she would be able to handle any sort of contracted security or mid-grade thugs. They gathered on either side of the door. “Fifty-eight seconds.”
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
last online Jul 11, 2018 23:15:20 GMT -5
Knight
|
|
|
Jul 14, 2010 13:35:24 GMT -5
Post by Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice* on Jul 14, 2010 13:35:24 GMT -5
Terem drew closer to the wall, slinging the rifle over his shoulder. He looked up, and waited a moment, watching as November and Delta both scaled the wall with minimal effort. It was amazing, in a flash, like two cats climbing, it hardly seemed possible, yet there it was. Yet another amazing feat, Delta stopped, turned, and held his hand out to Terem, "C'mon."[/blue] He said.
Terem went up the wall, grabbing Delta's hand. He started to scale himself, but Delta's strength was so amazing it was like he was picking up a doll. Terem was up on top of the wall in but a few seconds. With only a nod of his head as gratitude, Terem put on hand on the edge of the wall and hang-dropped to the other side. It wasn't as efficient or fast as the other-two's, but it was with minimal risk to himself, and much quieter.
He hit the ground and turned, unslinging his carbine. As November got to work at the central unit, Terem took a covering position, hiding near the brush. He scanned to make sure nobody was near. Normally, Terem was a fairly relaxed and unnattentive person, but on the job, every detail might kill him, so he was attentive and alert.
There was a low hiss of a cannister depressurizing, and November rose. The gas was set. The team moved over to a side-door, the quickest and most logical point of entry. Terem took a position closest to the door as November gave instructions.
She counted down, tick-tick-tick, the seconds melted away, but each one felt like a an eternity. His heart beat rapidly. Any moment somebody could come through that door, it wouldn't be unusual. Someone might figure out something was wrong and...
The door slid casually open, and Terem's thoughts vanished like a tidal wave had just washed them away, zoning in on the very narrow area that consisted of the doorway. A security buff walked through. Terem waited only a second to make sure that nobody else was right behind him, then he stepped forward. The man turned, but Terem's carbine, or at least the butt of the weapon, smashed into the man's face, hard. He stumbled and bumped into the edge of the door, Terem turned to his right to see if there was anybody else, nothing.
He slung his carbine and reached forward, his hands gripping the man's shoulders and yanking him back roughly. The security man tried to yell out, tried to wrestle out of the Mercenaries grasp, but Terem put him in a lock that was practices so much and so efficiently that the man couldn't move, and couldn't find the breath for a scream. He slammed the man's head hard into the wall on the outside of the door, knocking him unconscious. After quickly dragging the body to the brush, he dropped it and joined the others again.
"What was that, five seconds?" The mercenary grinned, albeit it uselessly underneath his mask.
|
|
|
|
|
Dire Wolf
So who's ready to help me sock ol Adolf on the jaw?!
2,894 posts
49 likes
Have dakka will travel
|
|
last online May 6, 2020 18:55:51 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
Jul 14, 2010 17:32:35 GMT -5
Post by Dire Wolf on Jul 14, 2010 17:32:35 GMT -5
“It’s provided for, I will give it to you at the proper time.”
Delta glared at the woman behind his multi-view night vision-style goggles. Indeed, his trust was purely strategical, though now he loathed to admit that he'd made it plainly obvious to the woman that this was the case. He nothing else before he and November vaulted themselves up the wall, and he helped the merc do the same.
His hand instantly shot down to his rifle's pistol grip and angled upwards towards the corner that Terem wasn't defending. His upper body hunched forward as the former assassin moved with the more stoic of his two partners, stopping just behind her as she reached the console.
If a single being rounded the corner as she worked, he'd put a pair of ten millimeter slugs into its chest and then one into its head. That was the best way to put any creature down, at least one that had a heart and brain in the same spot. Fortunately no-one was stupid enough to meander into his line of sight by the time that the canister began to pump gas into the building.
“To the side door. Anyone comes out, incapacitate them. We enter in one minute, thirteen seconds.”
That was all the go-ahead that the man needed. Despite the maelstrom of emotions that whipped around his mind like a vortex, he advanced on the building like the highly trained assassin he used to be. Though, if someone had the ability to see his face they'd surely flee as fast as their legs would allow... it was twisted with a sick sort of rage that was exclusive to the insane.
“Fifty-eight seconds.”
A man rounded the corner, still too far off to hope to engage in hand to hand combat. Good. He was better with a rifle anyways. Delta leveled his rifle on the man's chest and fired off a pair of shots shortly before raising ever so slightly, and unleashing a final bullet that would shred a hole in the man's head. If he had a blaster or a conventional slugthrower, the man would've alerted the entire base to his presence. Blaster fire was loud, and the report of a high powered rifle was louder still, but the only significant audible noise to be made with a mass driver was the tiny piece of tungsten-steel alloy shattering the sound barrier. As such, the only thing to herald the man's demise was a trio of pops nearly as loud as a cork being popped in an already loud room.
"Twenty-nine... Twenty-eight... Twenty-seven..."
He began to run to the front door. He wouldn't make it if he approached at a conservative speed. It wasn't long until the man passed the carrion of the idiot who made his rounds around the compound, and sped around the corner, slowing down just as he reached the heavy metal double doors. When his mental countdown reached zero, he slammed his shoulder into the door and flung it open. What he saw was disturbing. If one where to slip the unconscious bodies out of the room, one would swear up and down that there wasn't a toxin within.
A newfound respect for November tugged at his heart, and reminded him to take away her poisons upon their return. He had a feeling that theirs was an alliance of convenience, or at least of survival. With the shake of his head, he began to sweep through the facility with a special kind of caution in his heart.
Clearing any building alone was suicide.
As he moved through the first floor, he planted multiple bombs in inconspicuous places. Underneath the counter of a lunch table. Behind a computer. Underneath a chair. Though, at times, he planted them in obvious places where there wasn't a stealthy place to put it. Each one was networked to his gaunt, and when the final one on the ground floor was placed he set the timer for ten minutes.
In eleven there would be no building... just rubble.
|
|
|
|
|
Squee
The Keeper
2,286 posts
95 likes
I am Deception, and I defy your holiest moralities.
|
|
last online Oct 24, 2016 0:33:56 GMT -5
Master
|
|
|
Jul 22, 2010 17:23:10 GMT -5
Post by Squee on Jul 22, 2010 17:23:10 GMT -5
Her balance was really off. The man had only given her a soft push through the door, and she was skidding on her feet. Her head rocked and she whirled her hands in a circular motion, trying not to fall down. Things were slightly blurred. Her brain felt like vapor, a swirling mist of condensation. A cloud. Was she floating?
No! No! She was… on the ground. Rough ground beneath her feet. Bare feet. Echo blinked, regrouping her thoughts, trying to get a hold of her body once again. She was figuring out that she was not enjoying the drug she smelled. It was playing havoc. She couldn’t be who she was really was.
And when she looked up at the man following her in the room, she had a vague sense of dread, heavy in her chest. A stone weight had fallen into her stomach. She was already nauseas, and it suddenly became worse. He caught her eyes and smiled nicely at her. Yet for some reason, her stomach rocked and for a brief second Echo could hear the small voice of instinct shriek in terror. He slid up to her and tapped her nose, making her recoil her head backward and blink her eyes rapidly.
“Cute… You are kinda cute.” The man – this had to be Harley – unzipped his coat. “But then again, they all look kinda cute with their eyes glazed over. Now, you go take a seat right over there,” Harley touched her shoulder gently and helped her turn around. His hand waved over to a bed. “’Cuz I have to set up something but I’ll be right there.”
The man left her side and Echo stood, looking at where he’d directed. Roiling inside her, deep down, beneath the dread and nausea, was her phoenix. Her phoenix was angry, and he burned with the will to escape his new cage. Protect his body. But the flames boiled Echo’s sense of dread, worsening her nausea. Echo didn’t know what she was doing as she meandered over to the bed, sat down, looking at the dimmed surroundings.
There was a little light coming from the bed stand, with a designed lampshade pulled over it. The covers on the bed were soft. Echo ran her bound hands over the covers’ surface. The first thing Echo could think of were the animals during training, the smooth cats fur. The white coats had tested their will to kill with those animals. And the covers were a deep red color.
“You like flowers?” Echo looked up at Harley as he sauntered back to her. He took his hand from behind his back and extended a single orange rose to her. “It’s yours.” She took it from him as he sat down beside her. “Yep. Ladies like flowers,” he chuckled. Then he leaned over and pressed his lips to her cheek.
Echo froze and stopped touching the petals of the flower. Then she turned her head, leaning away from Harley, looking at him with furrowed eyebrows. Even through her drugged state, she knew when something was new to her.
“You smell nice.”
“What are you… doing?”
“It’s called a modest kiss. I’ll teach you another.” He leaned in after her and touched his lips to hers. Surprised, Echo leaned even further back, out of his reach. His hand reached up and grabbed the back of her head, brought it forward and meshed their lips again.
This time, Echo squirmed unconsciously, pushing against his chest to keep him away. She got him back. “Stop.”
“You’re really not in the position to say so, dear. Looks like you’re not compliant enough.” Harley shrugged off his coat and ruffled it around until he found an inner pocket. He drew out a small syringe and Echo found the nerve to leap away, though she stumbled and nearly fell. Her head swam. A hand grabbed her wrist and there was a little poke and a slight burning sensation as Harley injected the liquid in the syringe. “There. Now, I didn’t want to do this, but I don’t want to get angry. I don’t think you want me to get angry either. So, sit tight…” He all but tossed her back on the bed. “And we’ll wait a couple of minutes.”
Echo was getting a headache. And she really didn’t like this guy. He stuck her with a needle. She swallowed and looked for herself. Where was she? Where were her abilities? She knew she could get out of this… bound hands were nothing. Her instructor bound her hands and made her spar until she was bloody.
“Do me a little favor, eh? Just cooperate and let me have a nice night. I’ve had enough bad nights.” Echo opened her eyes back up and found her vision cloudy. That scared her, but not nearly as much as realizing Harley sat overhead with a knee on each side of her. He was pulling his shirt off over his head. He leaned back down and kissed her lips and Echo had her hands against his chest again, as if meaning to push him away.
But there was no will to push.
|
|
|
|