03-01-2016, 05:08 PM
After a few more minutes listening to her vaguely Jamaican-sounding ass try and spit me some bullshit through her crusty old-lady lips, I finally manage to get her to level with me and tell me that my Stormtrooper buddy got himself arrested after I’d fainted. Apparently, the dwarves think some alabaster white armor and a slightly hazy disposition are enough to throw someone into the dungeons.
Which, of course, means that’s exactly where I head. I may still be a little uncertain on Trey’s motivations for helping me, but at this point, I kinda owe the guy my life, so it’s the least I can do to try and defend his honor and ensure his freedom.
From the dwarves, anyway. He’s still my fucking prisoner.
“The redheaded guy,” I bark at Magda once she’s done droning on about dungeons and extensive security measures, “he’s the one who probably arrested him, right?”
“There be a lot of fire-headed dwarves, girl,” Magda sasses me, and to be honest, I don’t really appreciate her tone. Her little cottage is a hop, skip, and a jump away from the tunnel I used to get into this goddamn place, so I’m pretty sure she knows full-well which guard tower Ginger Dwarf works at. I approach her, hostility pulsing through my every muscle. I hope it’s incredibly evident that I’m not afraid to lay the smackdown on her if she keeps putting me through her obnoxiously ambiguous answers. I don’t like violence more than the next hero (ugh, that word) but this bitch is a full-fledged fantasy creature witch doctor lady. I can make an exception.
She thrusts her too-pointy chin up in the air at me as I get closer to her. She smacks her lips a few times—literally the most annoying sound in the world, and it’s even worse when it’s a World of Warcraft creature doing it at you—and then finally says:
“Your friend is bein’ held in the East Tower.”
“Thank you,” I scowl, ever polite, and then turn to head out. I’m almost to the door when I stop one more time and glance over my shoulder. “Um, where is that?”
“Five minutes,” Ginger Dwarf says to me. I groan. “Five minutes,” he repeats, as if I didn’t hear him the first time. I shoot him a sarcastic smile and hold up my hand, shooing him away. As soon as he’s gone, I dart down the hallway containing the East Tower’s holding cells until I reach the last one, where I’m told Trey sits.
I’m met with quite the unfamiliar sight, though. Instead of the stark white armor I’ve grown so used to seeing my Stormtrooper buddy in, I find myself unexpectedly introduced to the TR-8R beneath the helmet.
He’s… different than I imagined. Dressed from head to toe in some black under-armor clothes, he’s built rather well considering how pathetic of a soldier he is. His skin is a dark olive shade, and his facial features are slightly more rounded than I expected. His hair, too, is much longer than I would expect on someone who makes a living as a career soldier. Without his helmet on, it probably falls to his shoulders. He slowly glances up at me, noticing the surprise in my eyes.
“Like what you see?” he jokes.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I quip. For a moment, there’s a silence between us as I press my face to the bars separating me from him. “Well, you certainly don’t look like that actor from Attack of the Clones,” I shrug. It’s true—this guy may have some Latino blood in him, but he’s definitely not as chiseled in the face as whoever the guy all Stormtroopers are supposedly made from.
Trey’s expression betrays the fact that he has no idea what Attack of the Clones means, but he plays along anyway. “At some point they stopped using clones,” he explains, “and they just started recruiting us from birth.”
“Birth?” I say, incredulous, “In that case I don’t know if ‘recruiting’ is the most accurate term.” He chuckles a bit before standing up and taking a few steps toward me.
“Glad to see you’re doing okay,” he smiles, and this time, I laugh. I step back, lifting up my ripped up tank top to show him the hastily-stitched wound on my stomach. The skin around it’s still red, but he seems satisfied with how I’m recovering. I pull my shirt back down, and lean against the wall opposite his cell.
For a moment, there aren’t any words. But five minutes is a short amount of time, so I don’t let the silence linger for too long. “What’s your game, anyway, Trey the Stormtrooper?” I ask pointedly, skipping the rest of the inevitable small talk.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he bullshits me.
“Your game, your play, your big plan,” I clarify, waving my hands around like a crazy person, “I punched you in the face, tied you up, and dragged you through the frozen wasteland for several hours. And then suddenly you were all concerned about me? Is this all part of your master plan to take me back to your evil Emperor and run some crazy tests on me because I’m a—what word did you fucking use?”
“A prime,” he nods.
“Yeah, a prime,” I say. Is that it?
He seems to understand my last unspoken question. “No,” he responds simply. “I have no master plan. I’m a sheep. I don’t make plans, I follow them.”
That floors me for a second.
I… I’m not really sure what to say. Then:
“Well, follow this plan,” the words spill out of my mouth before I can even think of them, “I’m going to get you out of here. Right this instant. This is a dwarf city, right? So what, they’ve got like a dwarf king, certainly? Or a president? Some sort of miniature prime minister? Certainly there’s someone I can talk to and explain that you’re not one of the crazy murderous Stormtroopers, just a potentially crazy murderous one that actually has a heart of gold and helps poor girls who got stabbed by trolls find medical assistance.”
Trey is laughing at me for rambling, but there’s really no time to be amused. I blaze on in my line of questioning, trying to get him to answer before our precious, short five minutes together is up.
“Come on, Trey,” I grit my teeth, “who’s in charge here?”
“King Bruenor Battlehammer.” I glance over to the end of the hall. It’s Ginger Dwarf. He’s been hanging out around the corner eavesdropping and decided to pop in uninvited to our conversation, it seems. Nevertheless, I’m grateful for someone giving me an answer, since Trey seemed content to giggle his fucking freedom away.
“Okay,” I shrug, “Where is he? May I—ahem—request an audience with him?” My voice drips with venom as I try my best to do a good ‘girl at a renaissance faire’ impression.
“That will be more difficult than you think, I’m afraid,” Ginger Dwarf sighs, taking a few steps down the hallway. “You see, King Bruenor has locked himself away in Mithral Hall, and only allows champions of a certain composition to sit with him inside.”
I shoot a glance at Trey.
Oh, well. Gotta get you outta here somehow.
“What do I have to do?”
Which, of course, means that’s exactly where I head. I may still be a little uncertain on Trey’s motivations for helping me, but at this point, I kinda owe the guy my life, so it’s the least I can do to try and defend his honor and ensure his freedom.
From the dwarves, anyway. He’s still my fucking prisoner.
“The redheaded guy,” I bark at Magda once she’s done droning on about dungeons and extensive security measures, “he’s the one who probably arrested him, right?”
“There be a lot of fire-headed dwarves, girl,” Magda sasses me, and to be honest, I don’t really appreciate her tone. Her little cottage is a hop, skip, and a jump away from the tunnel I used to get into this goddamn place, so I’m pretty sure she knows full-well which guard tower Ginger Dwarf works at. I approach her, hostility pulsing through my every muscle. I hope it’s incredibly evident that I’m not afraid to lay the smackdown on her if she keeps putting me through her obnoxiously ambiguous answers. I don’t like violence more than the next hero (ugh, that word) but this bitch is a full-fledged fantasy creature witch doctor lady. I can make an exception.
She thrusts her too-pointy chin up in the air at me as I get closer to her. She smacks her lips a few times—literally the most annoying sound in the world, and it’s even worse when it’s a World of Warcraft creature doing it at you—and then finally says:
“Your friend is bein’ held in the East Tower.”
“Thank you,” I scowl, ever polite, and then turn to head out. I’m almost to the door when I stop one more time and glance over my shoulder. “Um, where is that?”
* * *
“Five minutes,” Ginger Dwarf says to me. I groan. “Five minutes,” he repeats, as if I didn’t hear him the first time. I shoot him a sarcastic smile and hold up my hand, shooing him away. As soon as he’s gone, I dart down the hallway containing the East Tower’s holding cells until I reach the last one, where I’m told Trey sits.
I’m met with quite the unfamiliar sight, though. Instead of the stark white armor I’ve grown so used to seeing my Stormtrooper buddy in, I find myself unexpectedly introduced to the TR-8R beneath the helmet.
He’s… different than I imagined. Dressed from head to toe in some black under-armor clothes, he’s built rather well considering how pathetic of a soldier he is. His skin is a dark olive shade, and his facial features are slightly more rounded than I expected. His hair, too, is much longer than I would expect on someone who makes a living as a career soldier. Without his helmet on, it probably falls to his shoulders. He slowly glances up at me, noticing the surprise in my eyes.
“Like what you see?” he jokes.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I quip. For a moment, there’s a silence between us as I press my face to the bars separating me from him. “Well, you certainly don’t look like that actor from Attack of the Clones,” I shrug. It’s true—this guy may have some Latino blood in him, but he’s definitely not as chiseled in the face as whoever the guy all Stormtroopers are supposedly made from.
Trey’s expression betrays the fact that he has no idea what Attack of the Clones means, but he plays along anyway. “At some point they stopped using clones,” he explains, “and they just started recruiting us from birth.”
“Birth?” I say, incredulous, “In that case I don’t know if ‘recruiting’ is the most accurate term.” He chuckles a bit before standing up and taking a few steps toward me.
“Glad to see you’re doing okay,” he smiles, and this time, I laugh. I step back, lifting up my ripped up tank top to show him the hastily-stitched wound on my stomach. The skin around it’s still red, but he seems satisfied with how I’m recovering. I pull my shirt back down, and lean against the wall opposite his cell.
For a moment, there aren’t any words. But five minutes is a short amount of time, so I don’t let the silence linger for too long. “What’s your game, anyway, Trey the Stormtrooper?” I ask pointedly, skipping the rest of the inevitable small talk.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he bullshits me.
“Your game, your play, your big plan,” I clarify, waving my hands around like a crazy person, “I punched you in the face, tied you up, and dragged you through the frozen wasteland for several hours. And then suddenly you were all concerned about me? Is this all part of your master plan to take me back to your evil Emperor and run some crazy tests on me because I’m a—what word did you fucking use?”
“A prime,” he nods.
“Yeah, a prime,” I say. Is that it?
He seems to understand my last unspoken question. “No,” he responds simply. “I have no master plan. I’m a sheep. I don’t make plans, I follow them.”
That floors me for a second.
I… I’m not really sure what to say. Then:
“Well, follow this plan,” the words spill out of my mouth before I can even think of them, “I’m going to get you out of here. Right this instant. This is a dwarf city, right? So what, they’ve got like a dwarf king, certainly? Or a president? Some sort of miniature prime minister? Certainly there’s someone I can talk to and explain that you’re not one of the crazy murderous Stormtroopers, just a potentially crazy murderous one that actually has a heart of gold and helps poor girls who got stabbed by trolls find medical assistance.”
Trey is laughing at me for rambling, but there’s really no time to be amused. I blaze on in my line of questioning, trying to get him to answer before our precious, short five minutes together is up.
“Come on, Trey,” I grit my teeth, “who’s in charge here?”
“King Bruenor Battlehammer.” I glance over to the end of the hall. It’s Ginger Dwarf. He’s been hanging out around the corner eavesdropping and decided to pop in uninvited to our conversation, it seems. Nevertheless, I’m grateful for someone giving me an answer, since Trey seemed content to giggle his fucking freedom away.
“Okay,” I shrug, “Where is he? May I—ahem—request an audience with him?” My voice drips with venom as I try my best to do a good ‘girl at a renaissance faire’ impression.
“That will be more difficult than you think, I’m afraid,” Ginger Dwarf sighs, taking a few steps down the hallway. “You see, King Bruenor has locked himself away in Mithral Hall, and only allows champions of a certain composition to sit with him inside.”
I shoot a glance at Trey.
Oh, well. Gotta get you outta here somehow.
“What do I have to do?”
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