Fic: Arc, Part Fifteen
Jul. 22nd, 2009 05:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeriendhalStill continuing the previous scene.
“Then what?”
“Find a Resistance cell.”
“Then what?”
“Do whatever you want.”
“I don’t know what I want, except to be out of here.”
“That’s a start. Other goals can come later.”
She paused and bit her lip. “What’s your goal?”
“Like yours, to get out of here.”
“It didn’t seem that way an hour ago.”
“An hour ago I would have defined “getting out” as being killed and joining my father and sister beside the Holy Den Mother’s fire. Selfish of me. There’s still much work to be done.”
“Oh.” Work for who? His Goddess apparently, an invisible entity who didn’t seem much help right now, especially coming against the much more substantial god who dwelled at the center of this station.
There was nothing more to be said after that. Whitepelt used the hygiene station and ate a meal that was shoved through a slot in the transparent door. A pair of creo medtechs applied electrostim to Marty’s broken leg, cleaned his catheter, and stuck a feeding tube down his throat briefly. He took it all without protest, with the weary look of someone who’d endured such indignities many times before.
The pattern repeated itself for three work cycles. The medtechs eventually sedated Marty again after the second meal was delivered to Whitepelt’s cell, assured that their patient wasn’t going to lapse into a permanent coma from his injuries. It left her with no one to talk to but herself, as she lacked a deity for a companion. She rather wished she’d had one at the moment. Her mind tended to dwell on her fellow traitors, wondering how many had already been interviewed and euthanized while she say awaiting her own fate.
On the start of the fourth work cycle there was change. Still unconscious, Marty was wheeled out of his cell by the guards and medtechs, presumably for interrogation. They returned for her about six hours later. Whitepelt considered her chances of escape as they opened the door to her cell and bound her arms behind her once again, but there was a guard with a stunner standing out of her immediate reach the whole time.
The led her down the corridors back to the Varn Social Shaper’s audience chamber. Marty was lying unconscious on a pile of cushions near the feet of Social Shaper. Beside him sat another Varn, who sipped on a tall glass containing a dark red liquid as she looked over Whitepelt. This Varn was definitely female, with thin, sharp horns that rose of a curling, flame red headpelt, which matched the little holographic flames that darned at her shoulders and in the center of the crystal at the top of the staff she held in her other hand.
“Hello, my dear. You must be Marturari’s little friend,” she greeted, her voice a musical alto. “I am the Varn Dream Stalker. We’re going to have so much fun together.”
TBC
“Then what?”
“Find a Resistance cell.”
“Then what?”
“Do whatever you want.”
“I don’t know what I want, except to be out of here.”
“That’s a start. Other goals can come later.”
She paused and bit her lip. “What’s your goal?”
“Like yours, to get out of here.”
“It didn’t seem that way an hour ago.”
“An hour ago I would have defined “getting out” as being killed and joining my father and sister beside the Holy Den Mother’s fire. Selfish of me. There’s still much work to be done.”
“Oh.” Work for who? His Goddess apparently, an invisible entity who didn’t seem much help right now, especially coming against the much more substantial god who dwelled at the center of this station.
There was nothing more to be said after that. Whitepelt used the hygiene station and ate a meal that was shoved through a slot in the transparent door. A pair of creo medtechs applied electrostim to Marty’s broken leg, cleaned his catheter, and stuck a feeding tube down his throat briefly. He took it all without protest, with the weary look of someone who’d endured such indignities many times before.
The pattern repeated itself for three work cycles. The medtechs eventually sedated Marty again after the second meal was delivered to Whitepelt’s cell, assured that their patient wasn’t going to lapse into a permanent coma from his injuries. It left her with no one to talk to but herself, as she lacked a deity for a companion. She rather wished she’d had one at the moment. Her mind tended to dwell on her fellow traitors, wondering how many had already been interviewed and euthanized while she say awaiting her own fate.
On the start of the fourth work cycle there was change. Still unconscious, Marty was wheeled out of his cell by the guards and medtechs, presumably for interrogation. They returned for her about six hours later. Whitepelt considered her chances of escape as they opened the door to her cell and bound her arms behind her once again, but there was a guard with a stunner standing out of her immediate reach the whole time.
The led her down the corridors back to the Varn Social Shaper’s audience chamber. Marty was lying unconscious on a pile of cushions near the feet of Social Shaper. Beside him sat another Varn, who sipped on a tall glass containing a dark red liquid as she looked over Whitepelt. This Varn was definitely female, with thin, sharp horns that rose of a curling, flame red headpelt, which matched the little holographic flames that darned at her shoulders and in the center of the crystal at the top of the staff she held in her other hand.
“Hello, my dear. You must be Marturari’s little friend,” she greeted, her voice a musical alto. “I am the Varn Dream Stalker. We’re going to have so much fun together.”
TBC
