Fic: Altered Trajectory (cont.)
They took him from the comfortable prison cell/hotel suite down a short corridor to a considerably less comfy looking, standard issue ship’s brig. The walls were beige painted steel, and the only accommodations were a toilet in one corner and a cot welded to the wall with a foam mattress covered with fireproof linens. Rufus lay down on the cot after they’d shoved him inside, the transparent plassteel door shutting tight behind him.
He lay there for a while, clutching his stomach as the Need built up there, feeling like his nerves were afire as the comforting tranquilizers that kept his PTSD at bay finally gave out. He stuffed the pillow over his head to block out the cell’s harsh florescent lights, trying to find some relief from the raging war of addiction, mental imbalance and outright shame going on in his head.
Right. What had been the lessons taught him by his therapist? You must be able remember that what you’re feeling is not normal. Once you acknowledge that you will be able to take at least partial control of your emotional state once again.
So. Right. What was he feeling? The shakes and burning in his gut were obvious. He’d felt that often enough when he hadn’t been in a position to get a hit of Juno quickly enough to satisfy his backbrain. The feeling of mortal fear, the need to find shelter from the nameless Thing that was about to pounce on him was from the stress disorder. That realization was a raft that he had to dig his claws into. No, wait, bad analogy that, given what claws could do to a rubber raft. Never mind, maybe it was made of wood.
The rest of it was just plain old shame over what he had done. Yes, punching that irritating little officer’s snout in had been satisfying, for all of a second. Then he’d seen the look on Hazel and Softpaw’s faces, as he'd committed what was for a Farmer Lord an almost unspeakable act of violence.
Most of the rules governing Farmer Lord/Commoner behavior were unwritten. From a sheer technical standpoint in fact, they could do damned near anything they wanted to a commoner in their own domain. The fact that they didn’t was a monument to Vulpine conservatism, and a shining example of How The Game Was Played.
The Game was simple in its rules and ever more complex in its strategy. You treated your commoners well. Made sure the taxes and rents were high enough to support basic services and the social safety nets, but not so high that they might think its just cheaper to move to another Lord's domain. Oh, and maybe poach the occasional commoner industrialist or researcher from your neighbors with promises of tax breaks or project funding, as a form counting coup. Abusing your commoners, hell anyone's commoner was most decidedly not part of the Game. Not only was it cruel, it was tasteless.
So Rufus could believe with some conviction that punching Mac was safely in that category of things that was Right Out. Come one, come all, a mocking voice in his head called out. See the brave Farmer Lord knock the stuffing out of the chained up prisoner.
TBC