Fic: Itch
Title: Itch
Word Count: 1712
Rated: R for physical violence and the threat of sexual violence.
Setting: Between DTWB and Crichton Kicks.
Characters: Chiana
Summary: Chiana was hot and unsorted, a black splotch of nerves in the white air of the casino.
ITCH
Chiana was hot and unsorted, a black splotch of nerves in the white air of the casino. She pushed against the table and the tiles in her hand jangled together like loose teeth.
“Thirty-seven,” she said, and set the tiles down in an inelegant pile where their edges bit into the adjacent squares. The man on her left cast his eyes over her body as the mercury droplet spun in the scattered light of the ion stream.
“Three-seventy-two,” the croupier said. He was indifferent to her loss.
The man on her left was older but not old; Interon or close enough. He studied the space between her breasts, said, “That’s a shame, love. Let me buy you a drink.”
“Not, not yet,” Chiana said. “I need - I need to play.”
She plunged her hand into her bag, past vouchers and keycards and ident chips, hard candy and broken beads, cleanser, a comms and the weapon Nerri had pressed on her when she told him she was going, gone, its grip stripped bone beneath her fingers. She plucked the last of her tiles from the lining and set half of them on the table. “Four-forty-four.”
The Interon placed his own bet on top of hers and when the droplet splashed on eight-fifty-one Chiana shifted inside her skin and sized him up, his manner, his billfold, his dick. She was hungry, worn thin. The promise of companionship and a soft bed far above the strip made her affectionate. “One more,” she said, and nudged him with her hip, “and you can buy me breakfast.”
He chuckled, a blunt sound amidst the casino’s bright noise, and trailed his fingertips over the small of her back.
Chiana flipped her tiles between her fingers and thought of numbers: Zhaan’s age (eight-hundred-and-fourteen), her age (twenty-two), Talyn’s age (two).
She flipped and thought of Rygel and the number of marjools he once claimed he could eat (a thousand) and the number he actually had (one-thirty-four). Rygel -
She thought of Jothee and the number of times they had frelled (seven) and the times it had been a mistake (six) and it had been (five) monens since she left Moya for Nerri and all the numbers she associated with him slammed into her with a terrible force.
“Miss?” The croupier had a mouth like a sliver of glass and Chiana hissed at him, her body hitching as she sought to balance herself.
“It’s luck,” the Interon said. “Not logic.”
Chiana thought it was neither, it was something else entirely. She hitched again, away from Nerri and Jothee and Crichton and all the rest, and felt the future flicker.
“One-seventy-nine,” Chiana said and set her tiles down. She was uncertain. Fine threads of pain lay between her eyes and the mess the Rider had left in her head, but this was not at all like her other visions, which tore into her with their wild teeth whenever they wanted. This -
The mercury spun, splashed. Chiana watched as little silver spokes spread out in all directions and then it was a droplet again, held close. “One-seventy-nine,” the croupier said, and his glass mouth fractured into a smile.
Chiana clapped her hands together. “She-aw!”
“I told you,” the Interon said. “Luck.”
Chiana tipped her head and stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. She was full of possibilities; he was only one. White light behind her eyes and she knew -
“Three-forty-six.” She spoke slow and clear so as not to stumble. Her heart fluttered in her chest. More people were gathered around the table now and when the mercury splashed on three-forty-six they cheered as though they knew what she had done.
Chiana laughed.
The croupier moved to count out her tiles but Chiana held up both her hands and shook. “Wait,” she said. The numbers were motionless, etched in the air. “Again.”
The mercury spun in the ion stream. Shimmered. Chiana felt the splash in her stomach, her toes.
The croupier fixed his eyes on hers and Chiana shut him out. White crackled, coalesced into an ion stream, into -
“Twenty-three,” Chiana said. Her eyes felt tender and pure. The Interon studied her face now, instead of her breasts. His face blurred around the edges. “Twenty-three.”
There was a splash and there was silence around the table but Chiana was electric. Brilliant. The place the Rider had chosen to nest thrummed and hummed inside her and she couldn’t -
Couldn’t -
She spread out in all directions and it filled her up; the casino dimmed in contrast, a thick, dead thing. The croupier murmured into his comms and the Interon put his hands on her shoulders and said, “Come on, love, let’s go.”
“I’m not your love,” Chiana said. She twisted until she was free. There was the slow gleam of the croupier’s teeth and the slow swirl of the mercury and the mad flutter of her heart. The droplet drifted like ash in the heat and -
“Eleven.” Pain made the room contract as the splash reverberated. She jammed her fist against her mouth and bit down. Time pitched and spun and when it slowed six-ninety-three spilled from her lips.
The croupier said, “I’m not placing any more bets for you.”
Chiana twitched. Burned. The people around her were silent, black smudges. She said, “Aren’t you curious?”
When the mercury splashed the croupier was silent too, but she knew.
She knew -
A Sebacean man
with a crooked nose
in a too pretty face
and blue eyes
she thought were 20/20
whatever that meant
slid his arm
onto hers
as the droplet splashed
on seven-twenty-six -
The pain that tore through her head buckled her knees and left her in pieces; she couldn’t breathe beneath its weight, couldn’t see. Sound flooded the space abandoned by sight and Chiana whimpered. She caught herself on the edge of the table. Euphoria extinguished like every other light.
Cold. Her teeth chattered in her head, too loud. The dark pierced her and held her in place.
No.
Hands.
A man on her left. Heavy hands encircled her upper arm and wrist. The buzz of his earpiece bubbled up and over the tumult of gamblers, the tangible smell of his cologne.
A man on her right. Smooth in contrast. Clean. Black air stirred her hair against her neck as he leaned down and whispered, “One more.”
Chiana heard herself say, “Seven-twenty-six.”
He slid his arm onto hers and she arched her whole body, twisted in their grasp. They twisted back, pulling her off her feet and through the blind eye of the casino. Dark sound swirled with their motion; it seeped through her skin to pool in her bones, made her dizzy and sick.
“Frell you,” Chiana said. She clenched her fists and cried out in frustration. “My - my manin is a full-blooded Luxan warrior. A general. He’s gonna - he’s gonna choke you with your own mivonks if you don’t let me go.”
“Shhh,” the Sebacean said. His fingers pressed into her flesh, left little shadows behind. “Calm down. We want to ask you a few questions.”
Chiana was not so disoriented that she would believe that dren. She kicked and she screamed - for Nerri, for Crichton, for D’Argo, for the Interon - and the Sebacean answered with a fist to her diaphragm.
Her voice and breath vanished. Tears filled her burnt out eyes but didn’t wash away the darkness. She blinked again and again. She couldn’t hear the casino anymore. Only their footsteps.
Her heartbeat.
Their breath.
A sharp wheeze as air rushed into her lungs. She retched and gasped, bent double as the walls expanded and contracted. A door. The Sebacean stepped away and Chiana swung her free fist at the other man’s earpiece. Missed by what felt like a metra. He laughed.
Earpiece held both of her wrists in one palm, raised her arms above her head and had one hand cuffed and then the other before she realized his aim and everything scraped: chain against the metal bar, bracelets against her skin, the toes of her boots against the floor. The pain centered in her diaphragm redoubled.
She should have realized, she thought. Even blind, she should have realized.
Chiana’s laugh was bright and broken. “No acid, no collars,” she said. “I’ve had better. Let me down.”
The Sebacean said, “I’ll let you down when you calm down.”
“I’m calm,” Chiana said and shook her head. “You - you said you just wanted to ask me some questions. Ask.”
There was a clattering of small things. Her things. She closed her eyes. It was better to be strong. Aeryn would be strong.
“I want to know,” the Sebacean said, “how a pickpocket wins 15,000 credits in a cheat-proof game.”
Chiana smiled. “I’m a lucky girl.”
Footsteps at the door.
“She wasn’t blind when she started,” the croupier said. He seemed indifferent to this, too. “Her method has something to do with her eyes.”
“Frellnik,” Chiana said, and the back of Earpiece’s hand hit her in the mouth. She wouldn’t cry out, bit her lip and tasted blood.
“She may not be a lucky girl, but she is a pretty girl,” the Sebacean said as he moved in the dense, dark space that surrounded her. “Try not to hit her in the face.”
He was too close. He brushed her hair out of her eyes and Chiana felt his fingers on her neck, on her chest, and she couldn’t do this.
Not again.
“Please,” Chiana said. Sudden shame seized her, skittered over her skin. “Please, let me go and I promise - I promise I will never, ever come back here. Please.”
“I don’t see any money,” the Sebacean said. He snapped his fingers in front of her eyes and she flinched at the sound. “Do you see any money?”
Chiana was silent. Dark. He snapped his fingers again.
Chiana angled towards him.
She was alone.
He wasn’t going to let her go.
She couldn’t stop this.
She wasn't Aeryn.
D’Argo wasn’t going to rescue her.
But she -
She could be strong in anger.
She spoke slow and clear so as not to stumble. "You took the money."
“That wasn’t my question,” the Sebacean said. He angled back. “I said, do you see any money?”
Chiana spit in his face.
Word Count: 1712
Rated: R for physical violence and the threat of sexual violence.
Setting: Between DTWB and Crichton Kicks.
Characters: Chiana
Summary: Chiana was hot and unsorted, a black splotch of nerves in the white air of the casino.
ITCH
Chiana was hot and unsorted, a black splotch of nerves in the white air of the casino. She pushed against the table and the tiles in her hand jangled together like loose teeth.
“Thirty-seven,” she said, and set the tiles down in an inelegant pile where their edges bit into the adjacent squares. The man on her left cast his eyes over her body as the mercury droplet spun in the scattered light of the ion stream.
“Three-seventy-two,” the croupier said. He was indifferent to her loss.
The man on her left was older but not old; Interon or close enough. He studied the space between her breasts, said, “That’s a shame, love. Let me buy you a drink.”
“Not, not yet,” Chiana said. “I need - I need to play.”
She plunged her hand into her bag, past vouchers and keycards and ident chips, hard candy and broken beads, cleanser, a comms and the weapon Nerri had pressed on her when she told him she was going, gone, its grip stripped bone beneath her fingers. She plucked the last of her tiles from the lining and set half of them on the table. “Four-forty-four.”
The Interon placed his own bet on top of hers and when the droplet splashed on eight-fifty-one Chiana shifted inside her skin and sized him up, his manner, his billfold, his dick. She was hungry, worn thin. The promise of companionship and a soft bed far above the strip made her affectionate. “One more,” she said, and nudged him with her hip, “and you can buy me breakfast.”
He chuckled, a blunt sound amidst the casino’s bright noise, and trailed his fingertips over the small of her back.
Chiana flipped her tiles between her fingers and thought of numbers: Zhaan’s age (eight-hundred-and-fourteen), her age (twenty-two), Talyn’s age (two).
She flipped and thought of Rygel and the number of marjools he once claimed he could eat (a thousand) and the number he actually had (one-thirty-four). Rygel -
She thought of Jothee and the number of times they had frelled (seven) and the times it had been a mistake (six) and it had been (five) monens since she left Moya for Nerri and all the numbers she associated with him slammed into her with a terrible force.
“Miss?” The croupier had a mouth like a sliver of glass and Chiana hissed at him, her body hitching as she sought to balance herself.
“It’s luck,” the Interon said. “Not logic.”
Chiana thought it was neither, it was something else entirely. She hitched again, away from Nerri and Jothee and Crichton and all the rest, and felt the future flicker.
“One-seventy-nine,” Chiana said and set her tiles down. She was uncertain. Fine threads of pain lay between her eyes and the mess the Rider had left in her head, but this was not at all like her other visions, which tore into her with their wild teeth whenever they wanted. This -
The mercury spun, splashed. Chiana watched as little silver spokes spread out in all directions and then it was a droplet again, held close. “One-seventy-nine,” the croupier said, and his glass mouth fractured into a smile.
Chiana clapped her hands together. “She-aw!”
“I told you,” the Interon said. “Luck.”
Chiana tipped her head and stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. She was full of possibilities; he was only one. White light behind her eyes and she knew -
“Three-forty-six.” She spoke slow and clear so as not to stumble. Her heart fluttered in her chest. More people were gathered around the table now and when the mercury splashed on three-forty-six they cheered as though they knew what she had done.
Chiana laughed.
The croupier moved to count out her tiles but Chiana held up both her hands and shook. “Wait,” she said. The numbers were motionless, etched in the air. “Again.”
The mercury spun in the ion stream. Shimmered. Chiana felt the splash in her stomach, her toes.
The croupier fixed his eyes on hers and Chiana shut him out. White crackled, coalesced into an ion stream, into -
“Twenty-three,” Chiana said. Her eyes felt tender and pure. The Interon studied her face now, instead of her breasts. His face blurred around the edges. “Twenty-three.”
There was a splash and there was silence around the table but Chiana was electric. Brilliant. The place the Rider had chosen to nest thrummed and hummed inside her and she couldn’t -
Couldn’t -
She spread out in all directions and it filled her up; the casino dimmed in contrast, a thick, dead thing. The croupier murmured into his comms and the Interon put his hands on her shoulders and said, “Come on, love, let’s go.”
“I’m not your love,” Chiana said. She twisted until she was free. There was the slow gleam of the croupier’s teeth and the slow swirl of the mercury and the mad flutter of her heart. The droplet drifted like ash in the heat and -
“Eleven.” Pain made the room contract as the splash reverberated. She jammed her fist against her mouth and bit down. Time pitched and spun and when it slowed six-ninety-three spilled from her lips.
The croupier said, “I’m not placing any more bets for you.”
Chiana twitched. Burned. The people around her were silent, black smudges. She said, “Aren’t you curious?”
When the mercury splashed the croupier was silent too, but she knew.
She knew -
A Sebacean man
with a crooked nose
in a too pretty face
and blue eyes
she thought were 20/20
whatever that meant
slid his arm
onto hers
as the droplet splashed
on seven-twenty-six -
The pain that tore through her head buckled her knees and left her in pieces; she couldn’t breathe beneath its weight, couldn’t see. Sound flooded the space abandoned by sight and Chiana whimpered. She caught herself on the edge of the table. Euphoria extinguished like every other light.
Cold. Her teeth chattered in her head, too loud. The dark pierced her and held her in place.
No.
Hands.
A man on her left. Heavy hands encircled her upper arm and wrist. The buzz of his earpiece bubbled up and over the tumult of gamblers, the tangible smell of his cologne.
A man on her right. Smooth in contrast. Clean. Black air stirred her hair against her neck as he leaned down and whispered, “One more.”
Chiana heard herself say, “Seven-twenty-six.”
He slid his arm onto hers and she arched her whole body, twisted in their grasp. They twisted back, pulling her off her feet and through the blind eye of the casino. Dark sound swirled with their motion; it seeped through her skin to pool in her bones, made her dizzy and sick.
“Frell you,” Chiana said. She clenched her fists and cried out in frustration. “My - my manin is a full-blooded Luxan warrior. A general. He’s gonna - he’s gonna choke you with your own mivonks if you don’t let me go.”
“Shhh,” the Sebacean said. His fingers pressed into her flesh, left little shadows behind. “Calm down. We want to ask you a few questions.”
Chiana was not so disoriented that she would believe that dren. She kicked and she screamed - for Nerri, for Crichton, for D’Argo, for the Interon - and the Sebacean answered with a fist to her diaphragm.
Her voice and breath vanished. Tears filled her burnt out eyes but didn’t wash away the darkness. She blinked again and again. She couldn’t hear the casino anymore. Only their footsteps.
Her heartbeat.
Their breath.
A sharp wheeze as air rushed into her lungs. She retched and gasped, bent double as the walls expanded and contracted. A door. The Sebacean stepped away and Chiana swung her free fist at the other man’s earpiece. Missed by what felt like a metra. He laughed.
Earpiece held both of her wrists in one palm, raised her arms above her head and had one hand cuffed and then the other before she realized his aim and everything scraped: chain against the metal bar, bracelets against her skin, the toes of her boots against the floor. The pain centered in her diaphragm redoubled.
She should have realized, she thought. Even blind, she should have realized.
Chiana’s laugh was bright and broken. “No acid, no collars,” she said. “I’ve had better. Let me down.”
The Sebacean said, “I’ll let you down when you calm down.”
“I’m calm,” Chiana said and shook her head. “You - you said you just wanted to ask me some questions. Ask.”
There was a clattering of small things. Her things. She closed her eyes. It was better to be strong. Aeryn would be strong.
“I want to know,” the Sebacean said, “how a pickpocket wins 15,000 credits in a cheat-proof game.”
Chiana smiled. “I’m a lucky girl.”
Footsteps at the door.
“She wasn’t blind when she started,” the croupier said. He seemed indifferent to this, too. “Her method has something to do with her eyes.”
“Frellnik,” Chiana said, and the back of Earpiece’s hand hit her in the mouth. She wouldn’t cry out, bit her lip and tasted blood.
“She may not be a lucky girl, but she is a pretty girl,” the Sebacean said as he moved in the dense, dark space that surrounded her. “Try not to hit her in the face.”
He was too close. He brushed her hair out of her eyes and Chiana felt his fingers on her neck, on her chest, and she couldn’t do this.
Not again.
“Please,” Chiana said. Sudden shame seized her, skittered over her skin. “Please, let me go and I promise - I promise I will never, ever come back here. Please.”
“I don’t see any money,” the Sebacean said. He snapped his fingers in front of her eyes and she flinched at the sound. “Do you see any money?”
Chiana was silent. Dark. He snapped his fingers again.
Chiana angled towards him.
She was alone.
He wasn’t going to let her go.
She couldn’t stop this.
She wasn't Aeryn.
D’Argo wasn’t going to rescue her.
But she -
She could be strong in anger.
She spoke slow and clear so as not to stumble. "You took the money."
“That wasn’t my question,” the Sebacean said. He angled back. “I said, do you see any money?”
Chiana spit in his face.