07-21-2015, 01:57 AM
It felt like the sun had been wearing him down for hours. He had sand in his hair, in his eyes, his shoes and even a little in his nose. The diminutive man walked, hands bound, between two other figures. He knew that the one in front of him was female—she had a certain swagger to her walk that suggested confidence, but in a more feminine aspect thereof. Ron had heard the one behind him speak as well—a low, gruff, dry voice. Hoarse from years of nomadic lifestyle, or perhaps he just smoked too much.
The lady wore a heavy cloak, with her face obscured by a hood. The thing was old, and white, and ragged, being colored in spots by the wind-blown shavings of the dunes. Her shirt hung low on her, draping down past the seam of her trousers. Tied to her legs were dinged metal plates and old, worn parts of machinery Ron couldn’t get a good enough look at to ID. Armor, maybe? These people were clearly pretty impoverished if this was what they were working with.
He struggled a little with the ropes binding his hands behind his back, but was met with a hard crack on the back of the head from the man guarding him from behind. “What do you think you’re doing, bitch?” he snarled. He felt a boot press hard against the back of his knee, and his own weight was suddenly too much to bear. The bastard had dead-legged him.
His captor dug his heel deeper into the naked meat of Ron’s shin, causing the augmented scout to grunt in pain. The lady whirled around, her tan flesh shining in the light. Ron could see her face now. Green eyes stared at him contemptuously. He thought about how long it’d been since he’d gotten laid. Then he wondered why he would ever think about something like that at a time like this.
“What are you doing, Neil?” the woman turned her gaze higher, looking at the man behind Ron. Her voice was harsh as well, but in comparison to her comrade’s was much more crisp and unharassed by the elements. “You can’t just mess him up like that. He won’t fetch as high a slave-price if you do.”
The man growled back, “He was trying to escape, Natalie. He was screwing with his bonds.” The boot lifted up, and Ron sighed in relief. The sensation didn’t last long, however, as he felt the same force on the back of his neck, forcing him down onto the ground. The sand burned his exposed arms and face. He struggled and coughed, trying to keep the grains out of his mouth.
“Yeah?” the woman replied, her voice entering a crescendo—signaling anger. “Well I don’t recall making you the executive decision maker of this little operation, scrub. So get your fuckin’ foot off of my property.”
The boot pressed down against Ron’s neck. He screamed in pain, pulling hard against his restraints and shifting the weight of his torso around, hoping to shake the man off. Neil simply laughed. “Yeah, and what are you gonna do at the end of the day, Nat? Not a thing. You need me, and you--”
The loud report of a shot echoed across the barren dunes. The force once exerted was now no more. Ron flipped over onto his belly and sat up quickly. The man lay stone dead in the sand, a single bullet penetrating his center of mass—Ron recognized the placement. It was a deliberate, aimed shot to the heart. Ron could see what little life he had left fade away, the slaver’s vacant stare meeting the sun perfectly as his head drooped and lulled to one side.
Slowly, he stood and turned. The woman held Ron’s own revolver in her hands. His stomach churned. Grey had given him that gun as a defensive tool; it had never taken a life yet. “M-miss?” the short young man addressed his captor. His meekness was met by the barrel of the firearm. Ron feigned extra fear to gratify his captor; the truth was that he’d gotten used to staring down death since he first met The Grey Man. This brought back memories more than it inspired terror. Still, he didn’t want to try the lady’s patience.
His thoughts were cut short by the woman’s voice. “In front of me. You have point now. I’ll tell you where we’re going.”
The young man’s face flushed with color at her bold orders, prompting an odd look from his captor. He sighed, and he obeyed. After a few moments of walking, he spoke. “That gun in your hand is meant to be a tool of self-defense. Don’t you have your own?”
He closed his eyes and hoped she wouldn’t shoot him. Surprisingly, she didn’t. “A moralist, huh? Sorry then, I guess. I figured you’d just be happy that I got him off you.” she answered. He was surprised by that answer. Even moreso by how calm she seemed compared to her late companion.
“Wasn’t he your friend?” Ron asked, looking back at her for a moment.
“Who, Neil? Nah. Neil was an asshole. This was his first real job with my outfit. As you saw, I don’t have much patience for people who can’t just shut up and do as they’re told. Adjust your paces a little to the left; you’re getting us slightly off track.”
Big Ron turned his head back to the seemingly endless dunes in front of him. “I’m Ron.” He said flatly. His captor was willing to make conversation, which meant two things: first, that he could pump her for information. In spite of the circumstances, he found himself strangely entranced by her cold demeanor, and his thoughts invariably ran back to the same place… Ron briefly wondered if maybe he had some kind of serious mental problem; maybe his time as a prisoner to Grendeline had affected his state of mind a little more deeply than he cared to admit. Regardless, the secondary function was what Ron cared more about: it would pass the time. It had been hours; when he thought about having to walk for another moment while enduring the heat and the silence., he’d almost rather be Neil.
Almost.
“Ron, huh? That’s a good one. You heard my name, so I guess there’s no harm in telling you… I’m Nat. Short for Nataravania.”
Ron would’ve gone with ‘Nat’, too, if that were his name. He didn’t say as much, though; didn’t seem prudent. Instead, he decided to see how open his captor was willing to get with him. “So, Nat. You’ve been doing this a while, I take it?”
“You could say that. I was almost born with a gun in my hands, really. Certain clients around the verses will pay good money for, ah, indentured servants, we’ll call them.”
I was almost born with a gun in my hands… and in his mind, her voice began to meld with Grey’s. That was exactly what he’d told a younger Ron back on Mars, when they’d first met and the man who would become Big Ron was just another captive surgeon during the Proto-Gilgamesh Incident.
“What about you? You seem awfully calm for such a hardcore pacifist.” She said, seeming only marginally interested in their conversation. She was probably just as maddened by the heat as he was, if not moreso—those bits of makeshift armor couldn’t be helping. Wait a minute… That gave him an idea.
“Would you believe me if I told you I’ve been in situations like this a couple of times before?” he answered. She chuckled lightly. “Well, your whole left arm’s just a very convincing prosthesis, so that kinda tipped me off that you’re not from around here.”
He blushed and grunted slightly in dismay… Had she taken it off? Whether she was a sociopathic desert-dwelling criminal or not, Big Ron couldn’t stand it when people saw him without his arm.
“Don’t worry,” she continued. “I won’t take it from you. You can relax.”
A moment of silence. “Did you,” Ron started, stammering before he could finish. “Did you take it off?”
“Who, me? Nah. I thought about it, but after we knocked you out I couldn’t figure out how the seal on that crazy thing works.” She said, giggling a little bit. She sounded embarrassed.
“Well, it’s probably a little complicated for you. No offense.”
“None taken. A few steps to the right?”
“Sorry. Like this?” Ron said, adjusting his gait accordingly.
“That’ll do it. So, Ron, what did you do before this?”
“I’ll tell you if you let me undo these restraints.”
“What?! Why should I?” Her voice returned to the angry, harsh voice that had shot Neil dead. Ron decided now would be the time to drop his own act of the cowardly victim. He quickly whirled around to face her. “Why should you?” he echoed, reaching up and quickly pulling on one of the ends of his bindings. They unfurled like a dream; Grey had taught him well. He slowly raised his hands up, putting them on his head to signal that he wasn’t trying to escape. Saying nothing in response, the woman pulled the hammer of the gun back. The click that came before the shot shrank Ron’s pupils. He could feel a primal sort of fear creeping in on him. Forcing the fear back down his throat, Ron found his voice again, and the short man spoke.
“… You should let me do it because I survived those other encounters that I mentioned, and it’s not from any kind of combat skill, I can promise you. I’m cooperating with you, just like I did with them. So you’ll allow me this because you know that I’m too smart to try to run. You won’t kill me if I flee, you’ll cripple me so that you can still get something out of this trip. Besides all that, wouldn’t you know? I’ve already done it. I’ve seen what you can do, and I respect it… but you let slip that you run the show. Meaning that first and foremost, you’re a businesswoman. So I’ll bet my life that aren’t really gonna shoot me over this. Neil was disposable. I’m potential income.”
He lowered his arms to his sides and took a step forward. She stood her ground. He took another step. She raised the gun. The barrel was squarely centered on his forehead. She stared hard at him. He stared back, a thousand witnessed war crimes suddenly flashing through his eyes. Her eyes met his, and each saw that the other was the same. He softened, reflexively, when he saw this. She did the same. Her hands began to shake. A biting wind whipped across the desert.
Ron slowly lifted his hand up to the barrel of the gun. He wrapped his fingers around it gently, and moved it away. She offered no resistance. He moved her trembling hands to the low ready position.
Silently, they wept.
The lady wore a heavy cloak, with her face obscured by a hood. The thing was old, and white, and ragged, being colored in spots by the wind-blown shavings of the dunes. Her shirt hung low on her, draping down past the seam of her trousers. Tied to her legs were dinged metal plates and old, worn parts of machinery Ron couldn’t get a good enough look at to ID. Armor, maybe? These people were clearly pretty impoverished if this was what they were working with.
He struggled a little with the ropes binding his hands behind his back, but was met with a hard crack on the back of the head from the man guarding him from behind. “What do you think you’re doing, bitch?” he snarled. He felt a boot press hard against the back of his knee, and his own weight was suddenly too much to bear. The bastard had dead-legged him.
His captor dug his heel deeper into the naked meat of Ron’s shin, causing the augmented scout to grunt in pain. The lady whirled around, her tan flesh shining in the light. Ron could see her face now. Green eyes stared at him contemptuously. He thought about how long it’d been since he’d gotten laid. Then he wondered why he would ever think about something like that at a time like this.
“What are you doing, Neil?” the woman turned her gaze higher, looking at the man behind Ron. Her voice was harsh as well, but in comparison to her comrade’s was much more crisp and unharassed by the elements. “You can’t just mess him up like that. He won’t fetch as high a slave-price if you do.”
The man growled back, “He was trying to escape, Natalie. He was screwing with his bonds.” The boot lifted up, and Ron sighed in relief. The sensation didn’t last long, however, as he felt the same force on the back of his neck, forcing him down onto the ground. The sand burned his exposed arms and face. He struggled and coughed, trying to keep the grains out of his mouth.
“Yeah?” the woman replied, her voice entering a crescendo—signaling anger. “Well I don’t recall making you the executive decision maker of this little operation, scrub. So get your fuckin’ foot off of my property.”
The boot pressed down against Ron’s neck. He screamed in pain, pulling hard against his restraints and shifting the weight of his torso around, hoping to shake the man off. Neil simply laughed. “Yeah, and what are you gonna do at the end of the day, Nat? Not a thing. You need me, and you--”
The loud report of a shot echoed across the barren dunes. The force once exerted was now no more. Ron flipped over onto his belly and sat up quickly. The man lay stone dead in the sand, a single bullet penetrating his center of mass—Ron recognized the placement. It was a deliberate, aimed shot to the heart. Ron could see what little life he had left fade away, the slaver’s vacant stare meeting the sun perfectly as his head drooped and lulled to one side.
Slowly, he stood and turned. The woman held Ron’s own revolver in her hands. His stomach churned. Grey had given him that gun as a defensive tool; it had never taken a life yet. “M-miss?” the short young man addressed his captor. His meekness was met by the barrel of the firearm. Ron feigned extra fear to gratify his captor; the truth was that he’d gotten used to staring down death since he first met The Grey Man. This brought back memories more than it inspired terror. Still, he didn’t want to try the lady’s patience.
His thoughts were cut short by the woman’s voice. “In front of me. You have point now. I’ll tell you where we’re going.”
The young man’s face flushed with color at her bold orders, prompting an odd look from his captor. He sighed, and he obeyed. After a few moments of walking, he spoke. “That gun in your hand is meant to be a tool of self-defense. Don’t you have your own?”
He closed his eyes and hoped she wouldn’t shoot him. Surprisingly, she didn’t. “A moralist, huh? Sorry then, I guess. I figured you’d just be happy that I got him off you.” she answered. He was surprised by that answer. Even moreso by how calm she seemed compared to her late companion.
“Wasn’t he your friend?” Ron asked, looking back at her for a moment.
“Who, Neil? Nah. Neil was an asshole. This was his first real job with my outfit. As you saw, I don’t have much patience for people who can’t just shut up and do as they’re told. Adjust your paces a little to the left; you’re getting us slightly off track.”
Big Ron turned his head back to the seemingly endless dunes in front of him. “I’m Ron.” He said flatly. His captor was willing to make conversation, which meant two things: first, that he could pump her for information. In spite of the circumstances, he found himself strangely entranced by her cold demeanor, and his thoughts invariably ran back to the same place… Ron briefly wondered if maybe he had some kind of serious mental problem; maybe his time as a prisoner to Grendeline had affected his state of mind a little more deeply than he cared to admit. Regardless, the secondary function was what Ron cared more about: it would pass the time. It had been hours; when he thought about having to walk for another moment while enduring the heat and the silence., he’d almost rather be Neil.
Almost.
“Ron, huh? That’s a good one. You heard my name, so I guess there’s no harm in telling you… I’m Nat. Short for Nataravania.”
Ron would’ve gone with ‘Nat’, too, if that were his name. He didn’t say as much, though; didn’t seem prudent. Instead, he decided to see how open his captor was willing to get with him. “So, Nat. You’ve been doing this a while, I take it?”
“You could say that. I was almost born with a gun in my hands, really. Certain clients around the verses will pay good money for, ah, indentured servants, we’ll call them.”
I was almost born with a gun in my hands… and in his mind, her voice began to meld with Grey’s. That was exactly what he’d told a younger Ron back on Mars, when they’d first met and the man who would become Big Ron was just another captive surgeon during the Proto-Gilgamesh Incident.
“What about you? You seem awfully calm for such a hardcore pacifist.” She said, seeming only marginally interested in their conversation. She was probably just as maddened by the heat as he was, if not moreso—those bits of makeshift armor couldn’t be helping. Wait a minute… That gave him an idea.
“Would you believe me if I told you I’ve been in situations like this a couple of times before?” he answered. She chuckled lightly. “Well, your whole left arm’s just a very convincing prosthesis, so that kinda tipped me off that you’re not from around here.”
He blushed and grunted slightly in dismay… Had she taken it off? Whether she was a sociopathic desert-dwelling criminal or not, Big Ron couldn’t stand it when people saw him without his arm.
“Don’t worry,” she continued. “I won’t take it from you. You can relax.”
A moment of silence. “Did you,” Ron started, stammering before he could finish. “Did you take it off?”
“Who, me? Nah. I thought about it, but after we knocked you out I couldn’t figure out how the seal on that crazy thing works.” She said, giggling a little bit. She sounded embarrassed.
“Well, it’s probably a little complicated for you. No offense.”
“None taken. A few steps to the right?”
“Sorry. Like this?” Ron said, adjusting his gait accordingly.
“That’ll do it. So, Ron, what did you do before this?”
“I’ll tell you if you let me undo these restraints.”
“What?! Why should I?” Her voice returned to the angry, harsh voice that had shot Neil dead. Ron decided now would be the time to drop his own act of the cowardly victim. He quickly whirled around to face her. “Why should you?” he echoed, reaching up and quickly pulling on one of the ends of his bindings. They unfurled like a dream; Grey had taught him well. He slowly raised his hands up, putting them on his head to signal that he wasn’t trying to escape. Saying nothing in response, the woman pulled the hammer of the gun back. The click that came before the shot shrank Ron’s pupils. He could feel a primal sort of fear creeping in on him. Forcing the fear back down his throat, Ron found his voice again, and the short man spoke.
“… You should let me do it because I survived those other encounters that I mentioned, and it’s not from any kind of combat skill, I can promise you. I’m cooperating with you, just like I did with them. So you’ll allow me this because you know that I’m too smart to try to run. You won’t kill me if I flee, you’ll cripple me so that you can still get something out of this trip. Besides all that, wouldn’t you know? I’ve already done it. I’ve seen what you can do, and I respect it… but you let slip that you run the show. Meaning that first and foremost, you’re a businesswoman. So I’ll bet my life that aren’t really gonna shoot me over this. Neil was disposable. I’m potential income.”
He lowered his arms to his sides and took a step forward. She stood her ground. He took another step. She raised the gun. The barrel was squarely centered on his forehead. She stared hard at him. He stared back, a thousand witnessed war crimes suddenly flashing through his eyes. Her eyes met his, and each saw that the other was the same. He softened, reflexively, when he saw this. She did the same. Her hands began to shake. A biting wind whipped across the desert.
Ron slowly lifted his hand up to the barrel of the gun. He wrapped his fingers around it gently, and moved it away. She offered no resistance. He moved her trembling hands to the low ready position.
Silently, they wept.