Re: The Pink Room.mirror_brightlySeptember 16 2009, 02:46:20 UTC
Nero heard his words. George's taunt wound around the knife still sliding across his flesh. Nero watched the sounds twine around his blade, flashing with the painful groan it dragged from the human. His free hand ghosted across the edge of the table and he leaned in, relishing in the soft cries the compound drew, unbidden, from the Hevam lips. He sounded red. His knife dipped down again, tracing the length of a bound arm, drawing a hairline of burning flesh.
He watched it.
Watched as the skin welted and flushed around the wound like paper curling under flame.
He was watching still as he spoke again.
“Nohtho draesa aefvadh d'latta,” Nero replied evenly as he lifted the knife again and followed the outline of the human's bicep-his measurements were off, though, because the blade dipped into muscle with startling ease. “We cannot die, fool Starfleet. Mnhei'sahe.
“Tell me the console code, please,” Nero requested again, flat and humorless even as he watched the line of blood blossom across the human's chest. “If you do not, I will get it from him.”
(Nohtho draesa aefvadh d'latta. - Mad men welcome death. Mnhei'sahe - Honor, the Ruling Passion.)
Re: The Pink Room.loyalty_everSeptember 16 2009, 02:53:36 UTC
He stands very still. He knows most of Nero's gestures, a good number of his tells. Ayel knows--intimately he knows, like his own breath--that slow, exact precision, the shining path of the knife. How quickly it can become a downward plunge to rend and spatter.
Sudden movement would be dangerous now. So he stands still.
Slowly, he inclines his head to the man on the table. They're all the same. Always so quick to discount him. Leaping to pick the long way, the slow way, shrieking and weeping and vomiting blood when he could have stopped it with a single strong twist of his hand.
"Veruul," he murmurs, pitching it gentle, caressing and soft. He knows the 'Fleets teach each other this word in bars and brothel doorways, the same as the hated pa'taq or, years from now, worlds from here, bjavt. He knows the man can hear.
For how long has he been stepping between, keeping hands and faces and bodies on the other side of his captain? Trying to deal with them more directly himself.
Because if he does not, Nero will.
But always, their response is the same.
Who is your commander? Is it him?
Nero dealt with that one, too.
He's already talking corpses, pacing, stalking back and forth--accelerating.
Ayel holds still, and fastens his eyes right on the tip of the man's--this Kirk's--nose. Can't quite look him in the eyes. He breathes out and carefully turns his hand back and forth, a little wave, human fashion. "Bed aoi."
(Veruul - fool [strong]; pa'taq - garbage [in Klingon]; bjavt - 'hello' or 'profit', or both [in Ferengi]; bed aoi - goodbye forever)
Re: The Pink Room.kirk_georgeSeptember 16 2009, 03:02:15 UTC
"Reh s'tivh yy'a joaie, reh llhnae," George answered, fey look returning as George dug deeper into his hole, knowing he must stay strong, must keep their attention, unable to stop a mostly choked back cry of pain.
((Reh s'tivh yy'a joaie, reh llhnae I have died willingly once, I returned.))
Re: The Pink Room.mirror_brightlySeptember 16 2009, 03:42:59 UTC
Nero's knife paused and clarity dragged him back to the present with a sickening jolt. Ayel's bed aoi soft and weary slipped across his neck and Nero stiffened. Reality crashed and broke on him like a wave, washing away the haze of hatred with a hiss of deep air and twisting light. He gripped the table with his knife hand and his free fingers snapped to George's throat, wrapping tight.
“What did you say?” his voice was even, his eyes lucid, and his tone sharper. He was no longer amused, no longer angry, and, unfortunately, no longer rational-at least insofar as he had been. “Repeat. In standard.” His fingers tensed, digging against the human's neck, avoiding his windpipe. His knife blade pressed flat against the human's stomach, the meager film of coolant hissing against the flesh.
He watched it.
Watched as the skin welted and flushed around the wound like paper curling under flame.
He was watching still as he spoke again.
“Nohtho draesa aefvadh d'latta,” Nero replied evenly as he lifted the knife again and followed the outline of the human's bicep-his measurements were off, though, because the blade dipped into muscle with startling ease. “We cannot die, fool Starfleet. Mnhei'sahe.
“Tell me the console code, please,” Nero requested again, flat and humorless even as he watched the line of blood blossom across the human's chest. “If you do not, I will get it from him.”
(Nohtho draesa aefvadh d'latta. - Mad men welcome death. Mnhei'sahe - Honor, the Ruling Passion.)
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Sudden movement would be dangerous now. So he stands still.
Slowly, he inclines his head to the man on the table. They're all the same. Always so quick to discount him. Leaping to pick the long way, the slow way, shrieking and weeping and vomiting blood when he could have stopped it with a single strong twist of his hand.
"Veruul," he murmurs, pitching it gentle, caressing and soft. He knows the 'Fleets teach each other this word in bars and brothel doorways, the same as the hated pa'taq or, years from now, worlds from here, bjavt. He knows the man can hear.
For how long has he been stepping between, keeping hands and faces and bodies on the other side of his captain? Trying to deal with them more directly himself.
Because if he does not, Nero will.
But always, their response is the same.
Who is your commander? Is it him?
Nero dealt with that one, too.
He's already talking corpses, pacing, stalking back and forth--accelerating.
Ayel holds still, and fastens his eyes right on the tip of the man's--this Kirk's--nose. Can't quite look him in the eyes. He breathes out and carefully turns his hand back and forth, a little wave, human fashion. "Bed aoi."
(Veruul - fool [strong]; pa'taq - garbage [in Klingon]; bjavt - 'hello' or 'profit', or both [in Ferengi]; bed aoi - goodbye forever)
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((Reh s'tivh yy'a joaie, reh llhnae I have died willingly once, I returned.))
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“What did you say?” his voice was even, his eyes lucid, and his tone sharper. He was no longer amused, no longer angry, and, unfortunately, no longer rational-at least insofar as he had been. “Repeat. In standard.” His fingers tensed, digging against the human's neck, avoiding his windpipe. His knife blade pressed flat against the human's stomach, the meager film of coolant hissing against the flesh.
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