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jeriendhalMelika is so far out of character compared to her canon counterpart it's a wonder she isn't coming after me.
The guards came for Rolas again in the middle of the night. Or middle of his sleep at least, he wasn’t sure. The lights had remained on since they had been first placed in their cells and there was no way to tell the time now. They had been served breakfast twice in a row and what might have been dinner after that. But the last meal had been less than an hour after the first, and since then his stomach had begun to growl as the hours went by. They’re fragging with us, Captain Rufus had merely said, as unwilling as Rolas had been to discuss what had gone on during his interrogation session.
One of the guards knocked his truncheon against the bars of Rolas’ cell. “Up und approach, Prisoner Beta. Or do vant another beating?”
Captain Rufus, watching from across the corridor, said, “I advise you to save your strength for the true battle, Leftenant.”
“Aye, sir.” Rolas nodded and stepped forward as far as his leash allowed, gripping the bars as he was cuffed to them and had his forelegs shackled. Then one of the guards retrieved an odd device made of a pair of flat iron bars, the ends bent into half-circles to accommodate his wrists when the bars were brought together and locked in place, holding his arms out in front of him shoulder-width apart. He was led to another chamber, again tiled in white, though lacking the ominous drainage, where Major Softpaw waited, sitting on a metal folding chair. He was pushed down to his knees to kneel in front of her, his leg irons secured to a ring in the floor again.
“Good evening, Prisoner Beta,” she purred, after dismissing the guards. “Feeling talkative today?”
“Not particularly.”
Her riding crop stroked exposed half of his chest, the rest of him covered by an impromptu toga he’d made from his bunk’s bed sheet. “I admire the strength you’ve displayed so far. You’re much healthier looking that your captain.”
“I work out,” he said, then wanted to bite down on his tongue for being drawn into a conversation with her.
“I can see zat. If you are cooperative, perhaps I can talk you for a valk around the manor. Would you like zat?”
“I’ll pass.”
“How about some calisthenics then?
“Not interested.”
“Too bad.” Major Softpaw slipped his leash chain through a ring in the floor, yanking it downward and forcing his head down until his nose was just an inch from the floor and his body was stretched out, his pilloried arms trapped underneath him.
“What the fragg are you doing... Ow!” he shouted as the crop swatted his arse for the curse.
“Helping you straighten yourself out,” the Major said. From the cabinet she brought out a pair of peculiar looking leather sheathes, which wrapped around each of his legs running from his foreleg fetters up past his knees. As she tightened the strap on each sheath his legs were forced into an uncomfortably straight position. Only then did she let him have a little slack on his leash, just enough that could pull his arms out from under his body and rest on his elbows.
“Going to be difficult to make me exercise when I'm wrapped p like this, I should think.”
“Not at all.” With a perfunctory yank she pulled his leash from the floor ring and held up, forcing Rolas to push himself up onto his toes and paws before his collar choked him. Holding him up in this position, she reached into the cabinet and drew out a narrow box. Nailed to to the top of the box were two knifes, each nearly a handspan in length counting the hilts, both pointing upward. Still holding his leash tight, she set the box on the floor and pushed it under his body with her foot, the two knives each barely an inch away from his belly and chest. “I'm sure you know all about pushups, Prisoner Beta. Consider zis an exercise in “Pushholds.””
Rolas glared at her. With the sheathes holding his legs straight, he couldn't bend his knees to give his arms and shoulders relief as he held himself up, elbows locked, palms flat on the floor. “How long do you expect me to stay like this?”
She settled back in her seat, crossed her ankles and smiled down at him. “Until you start telling me what I want to know.”
“You can't make me talk by threatening me.”
Major Softpaw leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Prisoner Beta, you are about to learn zat I don't make threats, I make promises. You vill tell me what you know, until you talk. Or fall.”
Rolas growled and concentrated on holding his position, trying to ignore the painful tingle running up his right elbow from where the guard had struck him with his truncheon the day before. He started moderating his breaths, as five minutes turned to ten, and he began to lose feeling in his toes and fingers.
“What did your base commander tell you to look for vhen you overflew the naval base?” the Major asked.
“That's classified,” he huffed.
Another minute passed. “How many airships does your Air Corps have assigned to reconnaissance?”
“That's classified.”
Two more minutes. “How long haff you been an Air Corps officer?”
“None of... your... business.” He tried to roll his shoulders to relieve some of the growing discomfort. Then he drew in a sharp breath as her gloved fingers stroked his spine, then pulled at the folds of his toga, tugging it away from his body, the fabric tearing as it brushed against the knives.
“Your stubbornness does you no good. You know you vant to give in and tell me what I want to know. Otherwise vhy not simply drop down on those blades right now and save yourself the risk of breaking?”
He couldn't feel his arms anymore, and it felt as if his shoulders were on fire. “Suicide... makes the Holy Den Mother weep... for she could not... make her child... see a better path.”
“You admit to worshiping the Holy Den Mother? A superstition created by our primitive ancestors?”
“The Holy Den Mother... ahhh... protects us... from all harm. She nurtures... and comforts us.” His voice went high and light as Major Softpaw swung her booted footpads up and rested them on the small of his back, the pressure forcing his spine down. The tips of the knife blades pressed for a moment against his belly and chest before his straightened his back again.
“Lies told to you by your mother. There is no great spirit protecting the world. There is no abstract, omnipotent being vatching over us. There is only vhat ve observe with our senses. The vorld is ours to do vith what ve vill.
Goaded by the pain and by the Major’s outrageous statement, he snapped, “So you feel… you have leave… to rip out stinking rock from the ground… and burn them… and make your cities as grey as your hearts.” He panted, trying to regain his breath, the pressure of the Major’s boots making him feel like his spine was going to snap.
“Our industry and science are the only goddesses Gerwart requires.”
“Empty faith that,” he spat. He tried to lift up his weak right arm a fraction to relieve it, but only succeeded in sending shooting pain up the left.
“Prisoner Beta, the only Goddess you need to vorry about right now is me,” she purred. “So you might vant to seriously consider how to avoid making yourself a living sacrifice on that altar below your belly, for starters.” She shifted her boot heels, resting them directly on the base of his tail, forcing a pained grunt from him. “Just give me one piece of information. Your base commander’s name. Your airship fleet strength. Where you intended to land after overflying the naval base. Just one little thing and I’ll let you go back to your cell and recovery.”
“No!”
She shook her head sadly. “Vhy do you resist so? Do you imagine it matters? I vill get everything I vant from you. It is just a matter of time.” He could have wept in relief as she swung her feet off of his aching tail. His relief was short-lived however, when she planted one boot heel between his shoulder blades, then carefully stood atop him, the other boot returning to the small of his back as her full weight bore down on his pinioned legs and arms. “How strong are you, Prisoner? How long can you truly last?” she asked, her words barely audible to him as his blood pounded in his ears.
He thought that surely his shoulders were going to break, but in the end it was his paws that betrayed him. Sweating, his arms shaking with the effort to hold himself over the blades, his damp palms began a fatal slide, his claws scraping along the smooth floor tiles. His body fell down upon the blade box, knocking the breath out of him. The pain of release from his pushhold position was so great it took him several moment to realize he hadn’t been pierced through by the blades.
Major Softpaw reached underneath his body, pulling the box out from under him, letting him drop back down, belly on the cool tiles. The unbloodied blades stood upright, at least until she pressed her finger down on one and it retracted into box. “A theatrical prop,” she explained, as he gaped up at her, gasping for air, the collar around his neck feeling like a vise as his muscles tried to uncoil the knots from themselves. “Very effective motivation, don’t you think?”
“You… you utter….” He sucked in more air, unable to even think of insult worthy of the horrid trick.
She kneeled down, unlocking his arms from the cuff bar, then removing the leather splints and leg irons. “You can get up now, if you like.”
He tried in vain to move an arm to get leverage to push himself up, but it was no good. He felt as if he had been paralyzed, every muscle bound up from the effort to keep himself from falling into the faux trap. “Why?” he asked weakly.
“I vanted to see, what the effect would be upon you. Would you give in and give me the information? Sacrifice yourself for your nation’s cause? Or fight with every ounce of your strength?”
“What do you think… of my answer?” He prayed she would leave, let him lie here abandoned until the guards came to take him away. Unfortunately his worst fear was realized when she took hold of his arm and turned him over onto his back, exposing him to her cool gaze.
“Ah,” she said, a great smile opening up on her face, showing off her fangs. Her riding crop trailed down his chest and aching stomach, stopping just below his waist. “I think zat is answer enough.”
TBC
Author's Note: And yes, Rolas' bits are turning into an angst-fest. It's the nature of the poor boy. Should have know better than to write comedy with him onboard. :/
The guards came for Rolas again in the middle of the night. Or middle of his sleep at least, he wasn’t sure. The lights had remained on since they had been first placed in their cells and there was no way to tell the time now. They had been served breakfast twice in a row and what might have been dinner after that. But the last meal had been less than an hour after the first, and since then his stomach had begun to growl as the hours went by. They’re fragging with us, Captain Rufus had merely said, as unwilling as Rolas had been to discuss what had gone on during his interrogation session.
One of the guards knocked his truncheon against the bars of Rolas’ cell. “Up und approach, Prisoner Beta. Or do vant another beating?”
Captain Rufus, watching from across the corridor, said, “I advise you to save your strength for the true battle, Leftenant.”
“Aye, sir.” Rolas nodded and stepped forward as far as his leash allowed, gripping the bars as he was cuffed to them and had his forelegs shackled. Then one of the guards retrieved an odd device made of a pair of flat iron bars, the ends bent into half-circles to accommodate his wrists when the bars were brought together and locked in place, holding his arms out in front of him shoulder-width apart. He was led to another chamber, again tiled in white, though lacking the ominous drainage, where Major Softpaw waited, sitting on a metal folding chair. He was pushed down to his knees to kneel in front of her, his leg irons secured to a ring in the floor again.
“Good evening, Prisoner Beta,” she purred, after dismissing the guards. “Feeling talkative today?”
“Not particularly.”
Her riding crop stroked exposed half of his chest, the rest of him covered by an impromptu toga he’d made from his bunk’s bed sheet. “I admire the strength you’ve displayed so far. You’re much healthier looking that your captain.”
“I work out,” he said, then wanted to bite down on his tongue for being drawn into a conversation with her.
“I can see zat. If you are cooperative, perhaps I can talk you for a valk around the manor. Would you like zat?”
“I’ll pass.”
“How about some calisthenics then?
“Not interested.”
“Too bad.” Major Softpaw slipped his leash chain through a ring in the floor, yanking it downward and forcing his head down until his nose was just an inch from the floor and his body was stretched out, his pilloried arms trapped underneath him.
“What the fragg are you doing... Ow!” he shouted as the crop swatted his arse for the curse.
“Helping you straighten yourself out,” the Major said. From the cabinet she brought out a pair of peculiar looking leather sheathes, which wrapped around each of his legs running from his foreleg fetters up past his knees. As she tightened the strap on each sheath his legs were forced into an uncomfortably straight position. Only then did she let him have a little slack on his leash, just enough that could pull his arms out from under his body and rest on his elbows.
“Going to be difficult to make me exercise when I'm wrapped p like this, I should think.”
“Not at all.” With a perfunctory yank she pulled his leash from the floor ring and held up, forcing Rolas to push himself up onto his toes and paws before his collar choked him. Holding him up in this position, she reached into the cabinet and drew out a narrow box. Nailed to to the top of the box were two knifes, each nearly a handspan in length counting the hilts, both pointing upward. Still holding his leash tight, she set the box on the floor and pushed it under his body with her foot, the two knives each barely an inch away from his belly and chest. “I'm sure you know all about pushups, Prisoner Beta. Consider zis an exercise in “Pushholds.””
Rolas glared at her. With the sheathes holding his legs straight, he couldn't bend his knees to give his arms and shoulders relief as he held himself up, elbows locked, palms flat on the floor. “How long do you expect me to stay like this?”
She settled back in her seat, crossed her ankles and smiled down at him. “Until you start telling me what I want to know.”
“You can't make me talk by threatening me.”
Major Softpaw leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Prisoner Beta, you are about to learn zat I don't make threats, I make promises. You vill tell me what you know, until you talk. Or fall.”
Rolas growled and concentrated on holding his position, trying to ignore the painful tingle running up his right elbow from where the guard had struck him with his truncheon the day before. He started moderating his breaths, as five minutes turned to ten, and he began to lose feeling in his toes and fingers.
“What did your base commander tell you to look for vhen you overflew the naval base?” the Major asked.
“That's classified,” he huffed.
Another minute passed. “How many airships does your Air Corps have assigned to reconnaissance?”
“That's classified.”
Two more minutes. “How long haff you been an Air Corps officer?”
“None of... your... business.” He tried to roll his shoulders to relieve some of the growing discomfort. Then he drew in a sharp breath as her gloved fingers stroked his spine, then pulled at the folds of his toga, tugging it away from his body, the fabric tearing as it brushed against the knives.
“Your stubbornness does you no good. You know you vant to give in and tell me what I want to know. Otherwise vhy not simply drop down on those blades right now and save yourself the risk of breaking?”
He couldn't feel his arms anymore, and it felt as if his shoulders were on fire. “Suicide... makes the Holy Den Mother weep... for she could not... make her child... see a better path.”
“You admit to worshiping the Holy Den Mother? A superstition created by our primitive ancestors?”
“The Holy Den Mother... ahhh... protects us... from all harm. She nurtures... and comforts us.” His voice went high and light as Major Softpaw swung her booted footpads up and rested them on the small of his back, the pressure forcing his spine down. The tips of the knife blades pressed for a moment against his belly and chest before his straightened his back again.
“Lies told to you by your mother. There is no great spirit protecting the world. There is no abstract, omnipotent being vatching over us. There is only vhat ve observe with our senses. The vorld is ours to do vith what ve vill.
Goaded by the pain and by the Major’s outrageous statement, he snapped, “So you feel… you have leave… to rip out stinking rock from the ground… and burn them… and make your cities as grey as your hearts.” He panted, trying to regain his breath, the pressure of the Major’s boots making him feel like his spine was going to snap.
“Our industry and science are the only goddesses Gerwart requires.”
“Empty faith that,” he spat. He tried to lift up his weak right arm a fraction to relieve it, but only succeeded in sending shooting pain up the left.
“Prisoner Beta, the only Goddess you need to vorry about right now is me,” she purred. “So you might vant to seriously consider how to avoid making yourself a living sacrifice on that altar below your belly, for starters.” She shifted her boot heels, resting them directly on the base of his tail, forcing a pained grunt from him. “Just give me one piece of information. Your base commander’s name. Your airship fleet strength. Where you intended to land after overflying the naval base. Just one little thing and I’ll let you go back to your cell and recovery.”
“No!”
She shook her head sadly. “Vhy do you resist so? Do you imagine it matters? I vill get everything I vant from you. It is just a matter of time.” He could have wept in relief as she swung her feet off of his aching tail. His relief was short-lived however, when she planted one boot heel between his shoulder blades, then carefully stood atop him, the other boot returning to the small of his back as her full weight bore down on his pinioned legs and arms. “How strong are you, Prisoner? How long can you truly last?” she asked, her words barely audible to him as his blood pounded in his ears.
He thought that surely his shoulders were going to break, but in the end it was his paws that betrayed him. Sweating, his arms shaking with the effort to hold himself over the blades, his damp palms began a fatal slide, his claws scraping along the smooth floor tiles. His body fell down upon the blade box, knocking the breath out of him. The pain of release from his pushhold position was so great it took him several moment to realize he hadn’t been pierced through by the blades.
Major Softpaw reached underneath his body, pulling the box out from under him, letting him drop back down, belly on the cool tiles. The unbloodied blades stood upright, at least until she pressed her finger down on one and it retracted into box. “A theatrical prop,” she explained, as he gaped up at her, gasping for air, the collar around his neck feeling like a vise as his muscles tried to uncoil the knots from themselves. “Very effective motivation, don’t you think?”
“You… you utter….” He sucked in more air, unable to even think of insult worthy of the horrid trick.
She kneeled down, unlocking his arms from the cuff bar, then removing the leather splints and leg irons. “You can get up now, if you like.”
He tried in vain to move an arm to get leverage to push himself up, but it was no good. He felt as if he had been paralyzed, every muscle bound up from the effort to keep himself from falling into the faux trap. “Why?” he asked weakly.
“I vanted to see, what the effect would be upon you. Would you give in and give me the information? Sacrifice yourself for your nation’s cause? Or fight with every ounce of your strength?”
“What do you think… of my answer?” He prayed she would leave, let him lie here abandoned until the guards came to take him away. Unfortunately his worst fear was realized when she took hold of his arm and turned him over onto his back, exposing him to her cool gaze.
“Ah,” she said, a great smile opening up on her face, showing off her fangs. Her riding crop trailed down his chest and aching stomach, stopping just below his waist. “I think zat is answer enough.”
TBC
Author's Note: And yes, Rolas' bits are turning into an angst-fest. It's the nature of the poor boy. Should have know better than to write comedy with him onboard. :/
