Licensed to Fly

[Bainshie]

Steve wandered through the ship, almost aimlessly, his mind having gone from the quick thinking to a bored almost childish mindset. This was the part of life that he hated, the down time, the pause between the scenes in the play of life. He wanted to do anything but this wandering around.

He still kept to the shadows as he wandered, slowly building a mental layout of the ship. It was surprisingly big, far bigger then the crew that seemingly currently flew it. At this time of night nobody was really wake, people alseep as he crept around the decks. Sadly there was seemingly a lack of tools at his disposal. Not a spare body or wand to sight. Although that might be to his advantage; people without magical knowledge were generally the easiest for his kind to deal with.

It was all nice knowledge and all, but... Frankly it bored him. He stared out from the deck, over the nighttime sky and the little lights from the towns and houses below them, shouting outing frustration. "Ugh! So goddamned bored! Just want to kill someone, anyone!" He heard a slightly strangled cry sound from behind him, Steve spinning just fast enough to see the limping cook trying to get away as fast as possible round a corner.

Giving a shrug, the butcher decided that trying to setup a base of operations here, even if he wasn't planning on sticking around any longer then he needed to, would be slightly more useful then moping around. He considered going back to the dungeon. It was dark, and slightly colder then the rest of the ship, and he was unlikely to be bothered over there. Making it perfect as a temporary home.

Tick. Tock. Tick.

The slight sound stopped him in his tracks, the elegant sound of the watch sparking memories of old. He hadn't heard that sound since.... Since before the fire. Slowly he followed the sound, creeping into the room where the man lay sleeping on the bed, and the watch just sat there on the nearby dresser. Silently he picked the familiar object up, letting the dim light play over the engraved initials of his father on its golden front. There were only two pocket watches quite like this. One of which was presumably in the possession of a certain snitch who couldn't keep her mouth shut. The other had been left behind after the event.

A little spark of anger flared up inside of him. Looting was the lowest form of robbery. Steve didn't really have a problem with stealing, but you did it to a mans face, not hiding and waiting till the owners where not there like some common criminal. And you definitely didn't do it to the butcher.

For a brief moment he wondered if killing the person was the right thing to do. He didn't know who this sleeping man was, or his relation with Guy. But frankly he didn't care. He needed a body anyway, at least until they landed, and this thief would do.

"Wakey wakey..."

He whispered in the mans ear, stirring him from his sleep. He waited until he saw his eyes groggily open up, before leaping on top of him, wrapping both hands around his throat and pushing down hard. The familiar struggle happened, the frantic confused panic as Steve could feel the mans life slipping out between his fingers, the smile still on his face.

"You probably don't know who I am. But as the last thing you'll see, I'll tell you that you deserve this."

------------------------------------------------------------

The butcher grunted and panted as he dragged the body behind him through the ship. This was always the annoying physical activity part, the harvesting of the body. He wasn't really trying to be quiet anymore, instead looking rather flustered while dragging the literal dead weight. He needed to get the thing into the dungeon, where he could then start work on it. He looked up, noticing he'd walked in on... Something. You didn't have to be a genius to see that the two people were about to start pointing guns and other sharp objects at each other. Steve ignored them, moving onwards to his destination, pausing a moment to look at Lucky and tip an imaginary hat

"Evenin'"

[NightyKnight]

Urban blinked hard. His head was throbbing, but it was an odd, painless throb. As if his mind itself was trying to force its way out of his skull.

He was in a hallway of the ship. How did he get here? What was he doing here? The last thing he remembered was leaving the bar to go back for his axe, and then seeing..

Nora.

He looked around. No sight of her. She had cleverly gotten past him- somehow. But soon it came back- some of it. He remembered her yelling 'I'm engaged!' after slapping him. Was that why his head was throbbing? Had she somehow knocked him unconscious with a single slap?

Urban puckered his lips. They had a strange, lingering taste, almost like mint. But it soon hit him. He remembered catching the faintest whiff of mint off of her in the Control room.

Had she..kissed him?

The thought of a kiss brought up a fresh swathe of emotions. Confusion, anger, passion. But Urban felt one underlying feeling that struggled its way through the rest. Like a single, warm coal working to ignite its kindling.

Pain.

He couldn't help it. Couldn't fight it. His thoughts drifted back to her. The last time he saw her- he would see her- in his lifetime. When they shared one last kiss before the star-crossed lovers were forced apart.

'She looked up at me, all starry-blue eyes and buckled knees. The torrent of rain was falling on us both. She had begun to shiver as the droplets of rain gradually mixed with her tears. She was drenched, and it was obvious they hadn't treated her well in the prison. Her mop of dirty and wet blonde hair, her torn and shredded burlap clothes, her mud-caked flesh..

..Yet she never looked more beautiful.

We simply held eachother, there, in the wood by the lumber mill. Quietly sobbing as we knew this was the last hour we would spend together. I did my best to cover her and hold her tight to warm her as we sat under that tree, but she still shivered. I realized then that it was not from the cold. She was afraid. She looked up at me again. I caught those blue-eyes before they flickered away. We held eachother's gaze. Her soft lips seemed to call to me, and I answered them with mine.

Eventually, we could cry no more. She simply lay there, her face buried in my chest, fistfuls of my shirt in either elegant hand. Her warm breath permeating through the cloth. She had almost drifted to sleep when they finally came to take her.

The guard decended on us without thought, without remorse. To them, she was a criminal tried for death and convicted, her fate sealed with the gavel of a judge.

They wrenched her off of me. Away from me. I could still feel her hands at my chest, her warm breath on my breast as she screamed my name as the guardsmen drug her through the mud back towards Haven. Soon her cries were drowned out only by her distant sobs and the patter of rain on the forest floor.

I wrestled away the guard that had held me back, but it was too late. A thick fog was setting in, and any attempts by me to dart through the woods would only end with me getting lost. Her cries could be heard no longer.

She was gone.'

Urban's memory hit him as hard as a rock on his already-throbbing temple. It was a long while since he had dwelled on that time- it had happened a short year ago. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't forget her. In truth, he didn't WANT to forget her.



Urban shoved away every emotion, paid attention to no thoughts but one: find Nora.

He had pledged to help Guy, pledged to stop the mutineers, and he had let one slip past him.

Urban began frantically maneuvering through the maze of halls on the ship, looking for that yellow dress. If nothing else, Urban hoped to once again find his way to his room to retrieve his ax, which is what he had originally set out to do.

But his first priority was Nora: not only to stop her, but to also question her on what she had done to him.

[Wickedness]

Two shots rang out through the hallway. Two bullets hit the supposedly impervious glass. Two flattened bullets lodged in the in the floor to ceiling glass. Two shivers from the window and more cracks bled throughout the supposedly impervious glass. Lucky had shot wide. Way wide.

Swiftly he mirrored the other man's motions and took cover behind a support beam and took a quick breath and a quick head shake. He had no idea why he had squeezed the trigger. Maybe it was because he was drunk? But no, that wasn't the reason. He knew in his hearts of hearts that was not why he fired upon the glass. The other man had slung his rifle into ready position and not fired upon him. It was such a greenhorn move on Lucky's part; a reaction of a nervous itchy trigger finger of a war-virgin whelp with a weapon. And now not only did he have to contend with the other, a soldier as well he surmised, but now they both had to worry about the shattering window. Who knew how long the equalizer could hold the pressure should that bay window fall to pieces.

"Bonsoiree, monsieur," Lucky's voice was monotone, but crackling abit. He had tried to regain that steeled nerve again, the one that dulled his normally glinting eyes, but a chuckle he couldn't contain he let out, "et oui, I almost shot out those stars, no?"

A clearing of the throat with a hearty ahem and he dropped the smoking and holey overcoat. Both guns he held now, business ends pointing skyward as he leaned his back against the post. No more chatter. No more laughing. It was killing time now.

From what he had seen of his opponent, Lucky would have to--

"Evenin" said a man as he passed by, tipping an imaginary hat to the dread-head... as he dragged a body behind him. Lucky's eyebrow raised slowly. It was a dead kitchen worker by the looks of it and he couldn't believe this this is how they disposed of the deceased on this boat!

The shock lasted a split second longer and the soldier side of him kicked in. The cold-hearted way of disposing the corpse sparked in him the fire of battlefield and it's ignoble means of survival from within. The cause was set. He needed to terminate the enemy at all means necessary. No not enemy, but something worse: a Traitor. Green eyes went from shock, to smoulder to searing flame in a couple of heart beats.

Just behind Steve he leapt and walked in stride on his flank opposite the support beam. "Bonsoir yourself, monsieur," Lucky said in an eerie non-Lucky ice coldness. Both hammers he cocked and levelled the guns at the upcoming support beam. The glass splintered some more beside him as they walked, but Lucky paid it no mind. "These bullets are not meant for you. Unless you are traitorous, then you do not worry, mon ami."

No Lucky wouldn't shoot the man with his prize catch. Why would he blast this perfectly good meat shield?

[Ender Wiggin]

An understanding?


Arthur thought about the position he was in. Assuming that they didn't know he was mutinous yet, the law of this ship, and time, were on his side. He called out to the other gunman, who was evidently a crappy shot based on how he missed, though, to his credit, it was from the hip. He leaned against the beam holding his rifle across his chest, and then he called out.

"Listen, just put down the guns and I'll help you back to your room my good man. Don't do something stupid. You already may kill us by depressurizing the place."

He crouched down, and leaned around the beam, pointing at where his enemy WOULD be, if he wasn't behind the beam."Listen, I'm sober, you're drunk, and I've got the long arm here. This isn't going to work out well for you. Let's all just put down the guns, and get some water, for my good man, strong drinks are the last thing you need now."

Coolly, he aimed along the sights, and waited for his enemy to come out. Then, he had an idea. The law WAS on his side here.

He began to shout. "DRUNK MAN WITH A GUN! DRUNK MAN WITH A GUN IN THE CENTRAL PASSAGE!" Arthur fired a shot past where Lucky's head would be, sending the bullet all the way to the other end of the hall where it ricocheted around for a while, finally settling down on the steel floor.

He cycled the action, and waited.

[Phreniphorm]

The first thing Miles did when he returned to the armory was to lock it shut. There was a mutiny going on and he may have became neutral, but he didn't want anyone to get any funny ideas and try to attack him. Then again, he was in an armory, surrounded by weapons on all sides, so his assailant would probably have a hard time taking him down. I actually wish someone would attack me. I need to shoot something. Or something. He said to himself. If he had to be honest, he would say that he was both angry and embarrassed. Angry that Guy had managed to blindside him and embarrassed at his overreaction. Yes, Miles disliked close quarters combat for the reasons he stated, but even so, he found his own reaction to be greatly disproportionate to Guy's actions. ah, hindsight. Always pointing out the obvious once the deed has been done. Swell.

The second thing he did was to hunt down the hidden speaker playing that damned song on repeat. It wasn't even his birthday and for a moment Miles had the sneaking suspicion that Guy was a lot more unhinged than he let on. then again, he supposed that everyone on the ship was unhinged in at least one way. Now where are you... He said to himself as he slowly stalked down the aisles, trying to use his hearing to get an approximate location of the speaker. At the same time, he picked up a few items he needed for his new gun project. Going to need the shell extractor from that. He said to himself absentmindedly, grabbed a lever action rifle and continued on his way. This is getting irritating. He was fast losing his patience and if he didn't find it soon, he was going to just shoot in random directions and hope for the best.

Luckily, just before he was about to breach that threshold, he found a spot where the music was especially loud. It was behind two cupboards and seemed to be loudest at the small crack where the two pieces of furniture met. Miles placed his ear at the crack, moved it to one side, then back to the crack again. Definitely here. He said to himself and placed the lever action rifle leaning against one of the cupboards. Time to see just how much kick you have. He muttered mentally as he unslung his rifle, took aim at the crack and pulled the trigger. The larger rifle bullet easily punched through the weak and partially rotted wood of the cupboard, smashing into the hidden speaker that was embedded in the wall. Instantly, Miles was rewarded by the silence he liked so much.

"Glad that's over and done with," Miles muttered to himself and slung his rifle on his back before picking up the lever action rifle and heading back for the workbench. He missed feeling the kick of a rifle against his shoulder. It was a nice, familiar and comforting sensation. Of course, it would have been better if there was someone in the distance who would suddenly drop dead. He reached the workbench and placed everything on the table, including the weapons he had on his body. You can never make too many improvements. He said to himself and picked up the revolver, turning it over in his hands.

"Miley!"

The sudden recollection of that specific thought nearly caused Miles to jump back. The sweet voice which never failed to make his heart melt, that old nickname only she was allowed to use.... No, no. Can't afford to...Must focus...Damn you, Guy! Of all the times to bring her up... Miles said to himself and closed his eyes. However, that wasn't enough to stop his mind from digging up old memories and playing them back.

Miles drops the revolver he had in his hands, smoke still curling from the barrel. He disregards the dead body lying in the entrance of his house and immediately turns around to console his understandably shocked sister. "Shh.." He shushes her and pulls her into a hug, allowing her to cry into his shoulder. "I'm here." He whispers and strokes her hair. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

She chokes back a sob. "I'm okay, Miley. I'm okay." She says hesitantly and gently pushes Miles away. "I-I need time to clean up. And..." She trails off and glances momentarily at the body. "W-we should get rid of...That before mother gets home."

Miles nods reluctantly and lets her walk back into their home. He stands up and walks towards the body. He had no idea who that person was. It could have been just a random burglar. They were quite common in the area Miles and his family lived. Or, what was left of it. His father had left a few weeks ago, not that Miles missed him.

He takes a deep breath as he reaches the body and kneels down. That man's life was the first one Miles had taken. It wasn't pleasant when Miles thought about it, but at that moment when he pulled the trigger and watched the man fall forward, Miles didn't feel anything. Not fear, not anxiety, not even joy. There was simply a void where his emotions were during that exact moment.

He turns the body over, deciding that he should at least see the face of the man he killed.

Miles instantly recoils in shock.

The man was his father. Miles' mind works at breakneck speeds to process everything. It was entirely possible that his father had ran out of money and decided to return home only to be met with resistance by Miles' sister.

Violent drunkard or not, Miles still expects to feel something. He had just shot his own father dead. It was an accident and a spur of the moment decision, but that fact still stands that Miles had just shot his own father in the back without hesitation. He waits for the feelings of guilt to eat at his mind, to feel the weight of his action on his shoulders.

He feels none, but that's not the worrying thing.

What worries him is that he likes it that way.

Miles' eyes snap open and he finds himself leaning over the workbench, his weapons lying randomly on the tabletop. He shakes his head to clear it and picks up the lever action rifle. There was work to be done and he didn't want to be distracted, especially not with a mutiny going on. Still, part of his mind lingered on the events of that one day. It was an accident and the authorities had listed it as such. An act of self defense which resulted in accidental patricide. Miles wasn't arrested. He wasn't even given as much as a slap on the wrist.

Miles shook his head again. Necessary. He said to himself with finality.

[The Fauxtrot]

She stood a little hunched over at the waist and shoulders, looking much like a wilted flower outside of the captain's room. Her breathing was uneven from running down the long corridors, and sweat beaded between her two yellow eyebrows. As she lay hand to the crystal door knob, the girl--- nay, woman now--- couldn't help but feel ill at ease. Was the door rigged for an explosion? No, she was sure to have 214 scan the door twice now. Her ribs were sore, her lips... they tingled with the recent touch of an unexpected softness. Her tongue twisted into itself defensively as she shoved away thoughts. Mutiny now. Kiss later.


Distant echoes of a gun shots. Sharp inhale. Arthur. Miles. She took one step in the direction of sound, and realized that her hand was still firmly grasping the door handle. "Oh" what was this? Did she really intend to abandon the plan for a futile rescue attempt? Her features expressed indifference, her eyes cast down, but a certain unrest not quite concealed thereby. No. Not, now. When I am so very close... She was still technically unarmed (save for one nasty little trick reserved for Captain himself) and she would be of no use in an actual battle. Besides, the situation held too many unknowns, for all she knew, the shots could have been a good sign. tick. tock. tick. tock. tick. The door opened without incident or resistence--- a consolation prize for leaving the others behind "Captain-"

Empty. Nora Perish Fifths let out an uncharacteristic expletive. Grey eyes scanned the spacious Captain's Quarters tetchily. All of this, and he wasn't even here. She lashed out with a palm against the mahogany door frame.

Click

"I can see that for myself" her tone was sharper than she intended and she felt 214 scurry down and around her trunk stealing away from it's usual gold nest and into her left rubber boot where it went to sulk in privet. It had confirmed what Nora already knew in one cursory glance. They were alone.

Annoyance gave way into brooding as she stepped beyond the threshold and into the layer of Guy Redmond. What finery-- white marble tile and rich textiles of silk, velvet, and cashmere. Travertine tile and gold leafed trimmings, the works. The furniture looked ordinary in their shapes: a nightstand, a desk, two conversation chairs, and the largest bed she had ever seen, however they were made from rare and exotic woods the likes of which she had never seen before. This room will do nicely

Of all the opulence and splendor, Nora found her eyes drawn to a silver platter of fruit that sat in the center of the bed. Fresh cut strawberries, wedged orange slices, springs of whipped cream. Her pupils dilated.

Clllllick

No control. She fought desperately against her suddenly roaring midsection. She had forgotten to eat-- two, maybe even three days in a row "I s-suppose your right" she said breathlessly drawing ever more near to the jeweled temptations "they could be a trap" Raising a hand on to her stomach "But father always said, I was too thin- I could perhaps have just one bite- and spit it out if it tastes like poison-- do you think that might be alright?" 214's frantic clicking fell on deaf ears. She was suddenly eight once more, with wide expectant eyes.

The bed was higher off the ground, Nora felt like a child at having to hoist a leg over the edge and sling her frame onto the goose down mattress. Crawling on all fours now, a kitten on cashmere sheets with eyes fixed on their target edging curiously forwards. There was more than only fruit on the platter- there were was a wide array of sharp and savory cheeses and thin sliced pastrami cuts- and even tooth picks on which to skewer them! A hand wavered over the dewy looking morsels as if still undecided. Then two words. "Chocolate. Spread."








****************************








Clang

"Mmmmnnn" the empty platter slipped through her fingers and onto the tile. She lay back a bit on the too soft bed admiring the views of the space with full flushed cheeks gnawing and suckling on a last strawberry. How such a large amount of food could fit into her concave stomach was somewhat of an oddity. I could have done with a bit more...

Yawning now, she slid from the bed and made her way slowly over to a wardrobe. The Captain's attire-- she yanked a few off the hanger. The clothing fit too lose over her frame "Yes. I think I'll make a fine captain. don't you think 214?" she mocked in the low tone before laughing, she was in a beautiful mood after filling her stomach. Perhaps, one could almost theorize Nora's standoffishness and lack of enthusiasm stemmed from poor eating habits...Then again, perhaps not. She turned this way and than modeling on clothing of power.

Spoiler

She didn't particularly feel powerful in them though. She frowned kicking the yellow dress to the side, and bending backwards a bit stretching. All she had was time now... Shrugging off the loose clothes she changed into another black top, and quite luckily she found a pair of absurdly small black pants-- perhaps it had belonged to another woman? She didn't care to think about it as her stomach gave another hungry growl.

.

[Old Hero]

Guy's eyes studied Miles as his temper flared and he threw expletives and insults left and right, as if it was a snowball fight, with Miles the only contender. Guy's smile only grew wider, turning his face alight like a jack'o'lantern. He always considered Miles the one who had the sketchiest past, but all men had a breaking point, a line that drew out their inner demons; their inner Miles.

'Hey!', Guy called out, the sarcasm leaking from his vocal cords like melting snow, 'You forgot your present!'

Guy had found it funny how blindsided people became when tense or under stress. They forgot themselves under the gravity of the situation, but most importantly; they forget others. Ignorance remains ignorance, just as wisdom remains wisdom. That doesn't mean that those wise cannot be ignorant, and vice versa.

Mainly, the music was an attempt at irritating Nora, but in essence, Guy was a prankster at heart. Perhaps a prankster whose schemes were always overly drawn out and convoluted, but that didn't matter. They were funny either way.

Guy exited the room, swaggering through the various halls and corridors until he proceeded up at least five flights of stairs, which were all unceremoniously oak like everything else. His feet cracked against the floorboards and steps, but he could care less. Unlike the 'traitors', he had no need to do anything in secret. This was Guy's ship; his kingdom-- and he knew it.

He opened the door to his quarters with a theatrical flourish, content flooding his visage as Nora was caught near his dresser, his wardrobe, trying on the various outfits and...forgotten clothes of one-night-stands, modeling herself as she spoke with her toy spi-

Spider?!

He held back his fear and anxiety, nearly choking on an all-too-loud gulp. Still, he tried to ignore any doubtful feelings, and he stepped foot into his room, the beautiful and unnaturally white tiles glistening. His smirk returned as he saw Nora completely ignorant of his existence, as did the toy.

'Aye, miss.'

He grabbed her on the shoulder, turning her body to face his. Of course, it was only with great reflexes that he caught her slap in his hand, and nearly cringed at the thought of it touching his face. She was strong.

Guy placed his index finger against her lips, shaking his head gently and whispering so low that even the spider could not hear.

'Shhh! Not respecting someone is one thing. Disrespecting them is another.'

Guy began to tug at Nora's clothing, already loose from the size difference.

'G-get off!' she stammered, her voice a mingle of indignation, and surprisingly, wonder. Guy wondered if it was due to her mostly-obvious social naivete, or if because he was a fine specimen of male meat. He liked both.

After lots of force and pinning down, Guy had felt enough like a wrestler, and watched as she kicked in his direction, but he caught her foot. Ripping the boots off like a bear hungry for honey, he watched her feet in surprise. They were pink socks with miniature bunnies on them. He ripped those off, too, placing them in his pockets not out of creepiness, but out of a secret love for bunnies.

He slowly tickled her feet, treating her with more tact than you would think someone in this situation would give, but his attention flipped over to the door as it thundered open. Brale stood in the frame, shaking his head in disapproval at Guy.

'Oui, Guy. I kind of got drunk and fell asleep on the elevator. But that ain't no reason to go preying on young'uns now. It's mornin', the cooks are almost done with breakfast.

Oh, But, before I go, lemme tell you a story about when I was li-'

'For fuck's sake, Brale, not anther story! I'll be down with the lady in a moment. Now go.'

Of course, Brale obliged, even if begrudgingly -- disappearing with the elevator. Soon after, Guy had hefted Nora into his arms, carrying her in his hands like a bride. He made his way to the elevator.

'It's time for breakfast, Nora. Now, let me first say you have guts. Then let me say you're an idiot. There had been plenty of ways to kill me, first--'

His voice disappeared with the machine that had brought Brale back down.

[Old Hero]

The gurgling of the stomach.

The loud rumbling of a deep burp, reverberating through the windows and narrow corridors of the ship. 'Sssthh-'. More slurred speech; the inarticulate and incomprehensible words that stream out of the lips of a man all-too-drunk. Along with a little vomit.

...And some saliva.

Stumbling and tripping down atop the oak floor --ass first, mind you--, Lucky was planted against the now-creaking wood. A large smiled etched across one ear to the next, and more gurgling as he hacked up phlegm. Goddamn, he must be drunk.

Of course, this was nothing particularly surprising for those who understood the extent drinking triple the normal dose of an unknown bartender's liquor was. Brale usually included a lot less yeast when he brewed the alcohol, giving it a stronger scent, as well as a...stronger 'touch'. Triple, and Lucky had been lucky he hadn't gone on a killing spree, wearing the crews heads as ornaments for his room. Or as undergarments.

His head leaned forward for a second, taking in its surroundings-- his eyes rolling around in their sockets. Then black.

[The Fauxtrot]

Her grip was so tight around him that her very fingernails began to ache- and she figured he must hurt too. Sparks flickered at the edges when emerald and sliver grated against one another in a clash of will. Nora could almost swear she saw a glint of intelligence in those eyes before she lowered hers. She had lost. And although she gave no visible signs of fear-- her hand dug into the back of his shoulder blade like a razor sharp talon- fingers steepling into the flesh creating five points of pain as she was humiliatingly carried away damsel-style and down into the elevator.

Her brain rewound the scenes several times slowing down frame by frame in some non linear order:



His full weight pressing on her, the smell of rum on his breath, sweat from his forehead pressing against her exposed navel. She remembered twisting in one quick motion as they fell from atop the desk in which they had been struggling on. She fell on top of him as they hit the marble tile. Hard. He was dazed, and she was way out of her league. They both were breathing heavy now, as he used strength and experience to his advantage while she employed textbook knowledge of human anatomy. Her mind worked on several levels and she held her own for a while-- here and there he would pin her and she would aim whatever he had forgotten to pin down at his eyes, nose, shins, and occasionally the unprotected space between his legs.



'Shhh! Not respecting someone is one thing. Disrespecting them is another.'


The very fist moments came to mind. Her body being jerked and forced to turn about-face. The surprise and immediate sense of danger when her wrist was caught in a four fingered fetter mid swing. Above all, frustration as the captain pressed one long index finger against her lips.

Again? It seemed to be somewhat of a running joke now- being crept up on from behind. Nora didn't have time to dwell on this before he had begun pulling at the clothing. What was the meaning of this? Were the clothing really that important to him? Did they actually contain the source of his greatness? She froze a moment, a low rrrrrip of cloth as the captain busied himself with the shirt. Surely he didn't mean to... 'G-get off!' her voice was incredulous with lewd suspicions.

Another moment flickered into thought. On her communicator, there are a few buttons, two clocks (one holding a false compartment containing two last mind wiping chips), and a thin, long metal half cylinder. The cylinder was hollow, and held a small syringe full of sodium pentothal concentrate. She wasn't a chemist- however Nora was positive the dosage would be strong enough to act as a sort of "Truth Serum" or more likely- an effective sedative. The semi-cylinder slid open but the captain was upon her then, the small needle was knocked from her hand and rolled under the large executive desk. Nora made a wild break for it only to be once again pinned face down over the desk. She flailed with her arms out knocking over maps and scattering documents across the floor. Her back arched under his weight as he began to snicker directly into her ear, mock her will he? His laughter cut off abruptly as she brought up the heel of her boot.


Her memory skipped forwards. They were between the two conversation chairs now-- against the wall, at first glance they might have been lovers in the throes of passion. Her arms around his neck, crying out as he supported her weight with his arms under the backs of her legs. And truthfully, the couple were in fact, locked in a "throes of passion" so to speak-- her arms however, wound tighter around his neck than any lover, his laughter was stifled into wheezes as it dawned on him that the scientist meant to throttle him. Nora coughed blood as she was slammed against the wall for a third time. Brief surprise colored the captain's features as he cast a glance downwards at the gap between their bodies. Although she had acted swiftly, on luck and instinct he managed to catch her kick with his knees, effectively preventing them from traveling painfully northwards. Smirking openly, he reached down and backwards to pluck the boot from her leg. She tried once more- however it was weak and poorly aimed, so he caught that one too and pulled the other boot. Astonishment, as he even had the gall to take off her socks and tickle her feet! But her energy was seemingly spent, and to her deep chagrin she realized that he had been toying with her the whole time- had he truly meant to kill her he could have done it with his gun from the very moment he came up behind her, hence the sock theft wasn't all too concerning.




She shuddered, and worked at trying to suppress the memories, God knows they will do more harm than good if she kept thinking about it.

[Ender Wiggin]

An agreement, so to speak...

Arthur's opponent had fallen over, apparently overcome by the intoxication. Arthur sauntered over, triumphant, and pointed his rifle in Lucky's face. "Tsk tsk. Infantrymen! Bah!" He spat on Lucky's face. "Yet, my quarrel is not with you."

He began to continue on his mission, growing incredibly alarmed by the noises he heard down the hallway. Nora! The Captain has found her, and now...

Yet, he was neither dumb nor ignorant to thing he could rely on the alcohol to keep Lucky out. "I'm sorry, my good man. That spitting was quite crude of me. Please understand my quarrel is not with you, but with your captain. I would let you go, but, seeing as I can't have you following me..." A few minutes hauling Lucky into a relatively empty closet, tying him to a chair and breaking off the doorknob on the inside, his righteous indignation was ignited afresh.

Arthur cycled the action of his carbine and threw caution to the wind. A lady was in danger! Again! The sounds grew more metallic as he rushed to the Captain's chambers, and after pressing his ear to the elevator doors, he could tell they were now going down. As it was morning, the logical conclusion would be to breakfast. Detention would be a bad strategic idea, for the only areas the Captain COULD know he controlled for sure were the areas he was in and secured. Putting Nora in a prison cell would not do, because for all the Captain knew, someone would just free her. Besides, being a swarthy pirate, distance from Nora was not part of his intentions.

Rather than taking the elevator, he took the quickest way to the kitchen that did not involve the elevator. As was slowly becoming a habit, he again reached a closed door and in a mighty motion fueled by chivalrous anger, removed it entirely from its hinges. He followed basically behind it, raising the carbine and pointing it at all the cooks.

"Sorry, gentlemen. Breakfast is going to be a little late this morning. All of you out! NOW!"