Re: The Pink Room.loyalty_everSeptember 15 2009, 10:22:10 UTC
Who is this, what is he that he can take a full dose and speak? How dare he speak, when Eihva coiled up shrieking for mercy in moments from the exact same stuff, begging their jailers to yank her eyes out at the roots.
Ayel's face rippled. He lunged forward and struck with the flat of his hand. Knocked the man's words back into his mouth. "Quiet."
He shook the container, pried the lid back carefully. It slid with a hiss, shining wet at the edges. Coolant thinner ate skin very slowly; he'd have to watch his grip. No good pouring it out all at once, even if this man was staring in a weirdly familiar way, eyes too clear, blazing at him right through the drugs.
Something about him was itching at the back of Ayel's skull. All humans looked alike, but these two...no. No, it didn't matter.
His Standard was fairly good. He'd had years to work it over and could snap it out with almost no accent.
"Captain wants to talk to you. You want to talk to me. But only when I ask." He opened his hand, let him have a look, let a little of the thinner fall to the table and hiss against it. "Or it will hurt. Well, more." He could smile, when he had to, though it felt hard and hysterical, like his face would split. "But I'm being rude. Do forgive me." He sneered. "Your ship--the console codes to her shields. I want them. Please."
He didn't wait for an answer before dripping liquid on skin.
Re: The Pink Room.kirk_georgeSeptember 15 2009, 18:07:18 UTC
George bit his lip to not make noise when the liquid hit his skin. He already felt weird, like bees were humming below his skin, heart racing, need to move to run. Fuck, sedative. He hated sedatives with a fiery passion. Made it hard to concentrate, but he put the effort into it.
"Twenty five years and you'd think you'd have new dialogue. I'm not going to talk to you, I'll talk to your Captain."
Re: The Pink Room.mirror_brightlySeptember 15 2009, 19:19:53 UTC
He was brazen, this human, and the bile pooled in Nero's throat as he regarded him. The smell of iron flesh was similar to burning carbide bits, it made him edgy. Memories, half formed and half cracked twisted in his gut, urging him to stop Ayel and snap an exhaust on-but he was not drilling now, and there was no stopping. He stepped between Ayel and the human, eclipsing the blaring light on the far wall and throwing the man into shadow-he looked just as pale as Kirk. Just as weak.
Nero sneered and braced his hands against the table, curling in over the human.
“The console code,” Nero repeated and narrowed his vision on the man.
Re: The Pink Room.kirk_georgeSeptember 15 2009, 20:45:03 UTC
"Lt. George Samuel Kirk, 587-63AB59," George answered. Keep the attention on him, don't let them go after Jim was what was going through his mind, No matter how much it hurts. Focus. Don't let the drugs interfere. It was a struggle, his mind racing worse than it usually did, making it hard to concentrate on one thought. "You're not going to get it out of me. Why are you continuing this? Are you the Captain then? What's his name?"
George angled his chin at his torturer, the one who called Rick to his doom. Couldn't let that happen to his Jim. Protect him. Had to protect his son, give them time to escape, time for Jim to escape.
Re: The Pink Room.mirror_brightlySeptember 15 2009, 21:34:42 UTC
The human was babbling, incoherent syllables uttered through quick, eager teeth. They coagulated into words between them and Nero watched. He repeated what he knew and then individual thoughts as they came. His broken sliding cadence, bubbling through the drugs under his skin, made perfect sense in the harsh fuchsia light, as though he were spelling himself out just for Nero. Enunciating in a language only the shattered truly comprehended.
“Kirk,” he repeated with a low hiss, a rumbling exhalation as the consonants rolled out of his mouth. He cocked his head, his focus bright and solid, cracking like electricity as he studied the human. “Lieutenant George Samuel,” he finished, a quiet addendum. Behind him, the vents in the room kicked on, a shuddering groan of Etrevon jangling and Klivam metal. The spiders in the walls were in George Kirk's skin, he could hear them.
“Ayel,” Nero started-he didn't bother to pull back, his head craning slightly above the tied man, like a predatory bird examining a kill. His voice was a low slither, sliding like a secret into the thick air. It held no jubilation, despite the smile that contorted his lips. “Aihr shikaen ch'Kirk. Daendle, ie?”
He pulled back briefly and cast his gaze to the human at the crates. Jim Kirk and George Kirk. They were very similar, even for Hevam, and it fascinated him. His eyes floated back, high on the heady mixture of fascination and the thrill of luck. It was so rare a thing.
“How do you know us?” Nero prompted in even standard, his voice trained to be light and polite. He'd been unwilling to learn quickness, harshness in this language. It was unnecessary, pointless. His hate coiled in his stomach, waiting, and saw out of his eyes as he fixed them on this George.
(Aihr shikaen ch'Kirk. - This is Kirk's family. Daendle, ie? - Fortunate, yes? Hevam - Human, derrogatory.)
Re: The Pink Room.kirk_georgeSeptember 15 2009, 21:41:02 UTC
"I already answered that question," George answered. Keep them talking, keep them distracted. Not that he could give them the console codes to anything but the Kelvin, and fat lot of good that'd do "Twenty five years and his dialogue has not changed. Why are you doing this?"
Re: The Pink Room.mirror_brightlySeptember 15 2009, 21:49:13 UTC
All at once, Nero understood, and his eyes narrowed even as his pupils expanded. He did not look like the human he had smeared across the deck of the Narada, but that had been long ago. His own name had been unfamiliar to him then. The ship-nameless in his memory, save for a few choice invectives-this man had been there. He had seen Ayel. Was he bridge crew? Perhaps. He smelled like consoles and tactical calculation.
“I am doing this, George,” he replied evenly, the letters boiling out of his mouth, returning memories of the last human he'd had in his place, “Because I need the console codes to the Enterprise.
“Give them to me,” he uttered, his eyes locked and grinding against the Hevam pair below. “You escaped me once. Give me the codes and you shall do so again.”
Re: The Pink Room.kirk_georgeSeptember 15 2009, 21:54:55 UTC
"Lt. George Samuel Kirk, 587-63AB59," George answered groaning in pain. He stared directly at Nero, ignoring Ayel for the moment. Ayel didn't seem to have a brain beyond what the Captain wanted anyway. "I know what console codes do...why are you so intent on the Enterprise?"
Re: The Pink Room.mirror_brightlySeptember 15 2009, 22:19:23 UTC
“If I tell you that, George," Nero answered, quietly, a twisted satisfaction lacing his voice as he heard the pain in George's. Idly he fingered the knife at his hip. He always did prefer the easy way, but the hard way was not unwelcome. Not this time. “I can't let you live.”
Re: The Pink Room.kirk_georgeSeptember 15 2009, 23:53:05 UTC
George met Nero's eyes fully at that, a fey look entering them unknowingly. Death did not scare him, not anymore. He had been embraced and let free of the Shadow Lover's intimate dance. His voice was both soft and projective, meant to reach Nero's ears alone. "Death holds no secrets from me nor I from she."
George would meet his death as he had last time, with love on his lips and a hope for the future in his heart if that was what was meant to be, holding on long enough for Jim to escape hopefully.
Re: The Pink Room.mirror_brightlySeptember 16 2009, 00:17:18 UTC
At this, Nero released a sharp, automatic breath. A single, soundless laugh and another twisted free from him. His lungs burned sharply and his chest rattled as his laughter accelerated to a machine-gun staccato. The walls resounded with the sound, amused and cruel, eccentric and hysterical it bounced back at him. It sounded like blades of glass.
The Narada did not find it funny, its hissing grates fell silent and still as Ayel at his back. Narada's judgment was sobering, it stole his joy, his breath, and left him silent and bone tired as he regarded the human. His tiredness was replaced as sorrow fluxed into him, the full circuit of his latent emotions, and his expression screwed up, twisting hard as he withdrew his knife. He slid it into Ayel's container-the coolant thinner, and the black blade glistened as he moved alongside George's table.
He leaned over craning his head so that he was almost touching the restrained Hevam, hovering a hand's width from the man. The light didn't reach his eyes here and, almost conversationally, he pressed the flat of the knife against the human's chest. The smell of burning iron-flesh cheered him some. He had not asked a question, he didn't expect an answer.
“Ayel,” Nero started, as softly as George had addressed him-Ayel's hearing was keen, bright. “When James awakes, we can tie this one's shell to him.” He slid the knife flat across the human's abdomen, slicking a thin pad of skin clear as a razor. “Yy'a dhhaola dryhae nnyyrha.”
Re: The Pink Room.kirk_georgeSeptember 16 2009, 00:34:19 UTC
George was wishing he'd had time for the refreshment courses in Romulan with Uhura, but still, he caught the gist of what they were saying, and it was intriguing. Before Nero's blade slices into him, he remarks on what he'd observed. "Hwi ssuy efvi llaihr."
George clenched his teeth as the blade sliced him and he groaned lowly. "Thought if you were gonna kill me you'd tell me why first." It would buy him time, time to retreat to his secret place, to curl down within himself like he had learned at the Academy. Would only take a minute and he would be safe.
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.
Ayel's face rippled. He lunged forward and struck with the flat of his hand. Knocked the man's words back into his mouth. "Quiet."
He shook the container, pried the lid back carefully. It slid with a hiss, shining wet at the edges. Coolant thinner ate skin very slowly; he'd have to watch his grip. No good pouring it out all at once, even if this man was staring in a weirdly familiar way, eyes too clear, blazing at him right through the drugs.
Something about him was itching at the back of Ayel's skull. All humans looked alike, but these two...no. No, it didn't matter.
His Standard was fairly good. He'd had years to work it over and could snap it out with almost no accent.
"Captain wants to talk to you. You want to talk to me. But only when I ask." He opened his hand, let him have a look, let a little of the thinner fall to the table and hiss against it. "Or it will hurt. Well, more." He could smile, when he had to, though it felt hard and hysterical, like his face would split. "But I'm being rude. Do forgive me." He sneered. "Your ship--the console codes to her shields. I want them. Please."
He didn't wait for an answer before dripping liquid on skin.
Reply
"Twenty five years and you'd think you'd have new dialogue. I'm not going to talk to you, I'll talk to your Captain."
Reply
Nero sneered and braced his hands against the table, curling in over the human.
“The console code,” Nero repeated and narrowed his vision on the man.
Reply
George angled his chin at his torturer, the one who called Rick to his doom. Couldn't let that happen to his Jim. Protect him. Had to protect his son, give them time to escape, time for Jim to escape.
Reply
“Kirk,” he repeated with a low hiss, a rumbling exhalation as the consonants rolled out of his mouth. He cocked his head, his focus bright and solid, cracking like electricity as he studied the human. “Lieutenant George Samuel,” he finished, a quiet addendum. Behind him, the vents in the room kicked on, a shuddering groan of Etrevon jangling and Klivam metal. The spiders in the walls were in George Kirk's skin, he could hear them.
“Ayel,” Nero started-he didn't bother to pull back, his head craning slightly above the tied man, like a predatory bird examining a kill. His voice was a low slither, sliding like a secret into the thick air. It held no jubilation, despite the smile that contorted his lips. “Aihr shikaen ch'Kirk. Daendle, ie?”
He pulled back briefly and cast his gaze to the human at the crates. Jim Kirk and George Kirk. They were very similar, even for Hevam, and it fascinated him. His eyes floated back, high on the heady mixture of fascination and the thrill of luck. It was so rare a thing.
“How do you know us?” Nero prompted in even standard, his voice trained to be light and polite. He'd been unwilling to learn quickness, harshness in this language. It was unnecessary, pointless. His hate coiled in his stomach, waiting, and saw out of his eyes as he fixed them on this George.
(Aihr shikaen ch'Kirk. - This is Kirk's family. Daendle, ie? - Fortunate, yes? Hevam - Human, derrogatory.)
Reply
Reply
“I am doing this, George,” he replied evenly, the letters boiling out of his mouth, returning memories of the last human he'd had in his place, “Because I need the console codes to the Enterprise.
“Give them to me,” he uttered, his eyes locked and grinding against the Hevam pair below. “You escaped me once. Give me the codes and you shall do so again.”
Reply
Reply
Reply
George would meet his death as he had last time, with love on his lips and a hope for the future in his heart if that was what was meant to be, holding on long enough for Jim to escape hopefully.
Reply
The Narada did not find it funny, its hissing grates fell silent and still as Ayel at his back. Narada's judgment was sobering, it stole his joy, his breath, and left him silent and bone tired as he regarded the human. His tiredness was replaced as sorrow fluxed into him, the full circuit of his latent emotions, and his expression screwed up, twisting hard as he withdrew his knife. He slid it into Ayel's container-the coolant thinner, and the black blade glistened as he moved alongside George's table.
He leaned over craning his head so that he was almost touching the restrained Hevam, hovering a hand's width from the man. The light didn't reach his eyes here and, almost conversationally, he pressed the flat of the knife against the human's chest. The smell of burning iron-flesh cheered him some. He had not asked a question, he didn't expect an answer.
“Ayel,” Nero started, as softly as George had addressed him-Ayel's hearing was keen, bright. “When James awakes, we can tie this one's shell to him.” He slid the knife flat across the human's abdomen, slicking a thin pad of skin clear as a razor. “Yy'a dhhaola dryhae nnyyrha.”
(Hevam - Human, derrogatory. Yy'a dhhaola dryhae nnyyrha. - Dead bodies loosten tongues.)
Reply
George clenched his teeth as the blade sliced him and he groaned lowly. "Thought if you were gonna kill me you'd tell me why first." It would buy him time, time to retreat to his secret place, to curl down within himself like he had learned at the Academy. Would only take a minute and he would be safe.
(Hwi ssuy efvi llaihr You still fear death)
Reply
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.)
Reply
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)
Reply
((Reh s'tivh yy'a joaie, reh llhnae I have died willingly once, I returned.))
Reply
“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.
Reply
Leave a comment