The Vindicator at Andersonville

[Kraken]

East Egg

Kraken just couldn't believe that this little punk had tried to mess with him. Really, the stupidity boggled his mind. It was basic prison logic. A man's bigger than you, armed and pissed off, you leave him alone. Yet this stupid inbreed meat sack had actually challenged Kraken for his spot. Well, now prisoner 3782:C was laying face down in the ground drowning in the pool of blood streaming from his slit throat. Kraken's shank dripped red with 3782's blood, showing all around that he meant business. “Anyone else want to screw around?” Apparently, no one did.

The cold, calculating mercenary knew he'd stood out among the crowd, that the petty gangsters and the squandering warlords would want to either kill him or own him. He didn't care. He'd be out of here before any of them made a move, leaving Andersonville and the eggs behind. His employer had promised him that.

Cleaning his shank on the dead man's shirt casually, Kraken left the crowd of onlookers, wandering off to his favorite spot, a nice little perch in the corner of the East Egg. From his perch he could gaze over the little hell hole he'd called home for several weeks now, see the drugs, the rape and the murder. Gaze over the clandestine deals and the weapons merchants hawking their wares in this hole. He sure as hell wouldn't miss any of it.

Kraken trusted his employer, he trusted the promises he'd been told. If the boss said he'd be gone soon he'd be gone soon. All he had to do was wait for the opportune moment. Whistling casually, Kraken sat down on a stone and waited.

OOC: Post here if you're of the criminal stock. Remember that male and female prisoners are separated so make sure you give the appropriate egg at the top of your post. All of our Andersonville posts will take place in this thread

[Deron Briggs]

East Egg

Animals. Every last ruttin' one of them. Why would they keep a man trapped amongst these animals?

Deron wondered this to himself every day when he woke, and every night before he slept. And all day in between, really. Any time he could smell the death, hear the screaming or see the killing, actually. All the time.

He still had his humanity, however. He held onto it as tightly as he could, surrounded as he was by the beasts. The monsters. While they killed and raped and beat mens' faces into unrecognizable piles of meat, as if it changed anything to do so, he remained calm. Serene. Civilized. He was no killer, no monster. He was a man of intellect.

How he'd survived here, he never knew. He didn't care to think about it, but he wondered if Razor didn't have a hand in it. As far as the Professor knew, the leader of the Weathermen still walked a free man. Perhaps he was keeping an eye on his soldiers? The ones who had been betrayed by their brothers, the ones locked in this hellhole. Maybe. Who could say?

Another one of the creatures was shouting now. The one they called Kraken. Fitting name for an abomination of flesh. He sought challengers. Sought blood. But he'd get none from Deron Briggs. The Professor just kept his head down, like always. Let someone else deal with it. Let the animals tear each other apart.

Survive another day. That was his agenda.

[Storm Xiao]

East Egg

His gaze moved every which way as it always did when he wasn't in his cell. Despite being a murder - and yes, he was willing to admit it - Storm had to admit that he was scared of the men around him. Most of them killed as a form of pleasure and entertainment. He was a murderer with a purpose. His purpose: to get back the love of his life. He was not in the same league as the men around him.

Unlike most men here he may have looked around in fear, though, Storm's eye moved constantly due to the fact that he couldn't hear anything around her. Sure, he had his hearing aid in, but it wasn't something Storm was used to, yet. Hearing was so strange that it rarely helped keep him alert of the things around him. Not to mention, it felt like someone's fist was being jammed into his ear.

He stood off the edge of the room, observing the events and men around him. He always found a location to stand where he could see everything going on around him. His depended on his eye sight here. There had been plenty of attempts on his life in the last month simply because he was deaf. None of the other inmates understood how the "disabled" boy had managed his way through the first trials of arrival. Storm didn't either, because he knew that Amber leading him to life was simply a figment of his imagination. However, his hallucination had led him to... well, so far, life.

With his hearing aid, he picked up the sound of yelling. After a delayed reaction, Storm's bright blue eyes moved to look at the murder of another inmate. It wasn't a rarity, so the teenager was numb to the sight. He watched as the murderer walked away, hearing his faint yelling. Storm remembered his name was Kraken, because of the sign of the word. He sighed, watching Kraken go up to his post, one that Storm often used to keep an eye on everyone.

Storm was soon to be out of here, though, and he hoped that meant he wouldn't have to watch his back, front, and sides so heavily. He had been hired by a ship in exchange for his years in Andersonville. Suicide missions versus Andersonville? He'd take his chances on the missions. Besides, with Amber guiding him, conscience or not, he could make it through these trials and missions.

[Felix Lann]

East Egg

He’d never understood why some people found this place so repulsive. Sure, he’d like to get out and back into the life of the ‘Verse—hence his acceptance of the first offer that had come his way—but after a few weeks of life in Andersonville he’d gotten a comfortable understanding of how the place worked. Now, though he couldn’t exactly call his life fun, it wasn’t that bad as long as he was left alone. If his peace were disturbed, though…then there were issues.

Felix stood adrift in a sea of vagrancy, at once both part of the crowd and completely separate from it. That was how he liked it. If he wanted to, he could partake in the bloodshed. If not, it was a simple matter to extricate himself and find a quiet corner in which to be with his thoughts. There was a sick sort of balance there which he enjoyed.

There was a small group of inmates chatting to his left, but Felix paid them no one—until one idiot had the gall to spit, directly on his shirt. Normally, that wouldn’t be a big deal—they weren’t his clothes, after all—but Felix was really bored. So, to alleviate that boredom, he repaid the offense by sticking a knife into the man’s chest once, twice, three times. Blood sprayed out of the wounds, joining the saliva on his shirt, but he didn’t mind. At least the killing had given him something to do.

As the unfortunate phlegm flinger fell to the ground, Felix wiped his blade on the man’s back, then walked away from the crowd. That had been fun, but now he was bored again. He cast his eyes out over the yard, his gaze coming to rest on a certain young man, who looked, as always, wary of his own shadow. He leisurely strolled over to Mr. Xiao, offering the inmate a small smile in greeting. ”Hello there,” he said. He knew the boy was deaf, but figured he could lip read. If not, he wasn’t missing much anyway.

Then, looking down, he sighed. He looked back up at Storm. ”Blood is so hard to get out of clothes. Such a shame.”

[Mari Green]

West Egg

Her face was set in stone. She cracked her knuckles, stretched, and readied herself for what was to come. She was in the pit… again. In the pit, she found solace. In the pit, she thrived. In the pit, Mari Green was queen.

Number one…

Her hair was tied back into a single braid, then wrapped over itself so that no one could get a real good grip on it and use it to her disadvantage. Leaving it long and loose was a recipe for disaster. She knew that, but many of the newbies didn’t. They would let their long hair get all scraggily, hoping it would make them look insane or somehow hardened. Number one figured out the hard way that long loose hair could be used as a weapon. You just get your hands in there and start swinging. The next thing they know is that they are a rutting rag doll getting tossed around until no tossing was needed any more. Yep. Number one made that mistake and she lasted a whole 4 minutes. The crowd roared in laughter. They saw that one coming.

Number two…

Number two had been foolish enough to avoid the pit. Those that tried to shy away from the violence often became the victims of it. Like Number one, she was relatively new, but was unaccustomed to the fact that this was no sport. This was not a mere boxing match. Nor even a MMA style event. This was life here at Andersonville. There were no rules. There was no referee. Mari always wondered how folks that that even lasted an hour here once they arrived. All she knew was that Number two lasted a bit over 5 minutes.

Number three…

Number three was just stupid. She could have been a real opponent, but she tried to play to the crowd. She connected a good one to Mari’s left cheek and the skin just opened up, but instead of keeping it up when she began to do well, she hopped around yelling “WHO’S YOUR RUTTING DADDY NOW?” and working the crowd up into more of a frenzy.

Stupid bitch.

Number three realized her error when Mari destabilized her right knee with a kick from the side, followed with a crushing elbow into the spine and then all you need to do was to grab their head on the way down and twist…

Number three knew who her Daddy was then.

It was Mari Green.

This post has been edited by Mari Green on Feb 24 2012, 11:15 AM

[Brent Woody]

East Egg

Five long years in these walls was enough time for the infamy gained at the time of his arrest to die down. The guards no longer hated him more than any of the other criminals. He was just another animal here. He stood disconnected, off to the side. His stature was enough to keep most would be assaults down, only those with something to prove bothered him much these days, and those were the ones who didn't know any better. There was a pecking order at Andersonville, and in the long years, Brent had managed to carve out a desirable nook in it.

He wasn't associated with a tang, gang, or any of those common affiliations that so many found themselves drawn too. He had managed to survive. More than that, really. He managed to get along with most of these low lives, at the best of times. He spent his time out of his cell working out, remaining in shape well enough to defend himself. By doing this simple thing, he found a tether by which to avoid their ire. Most anyone who used the facilities knew him. He was a nice enough fellow, offering help and instruction to any that approached.

He was haunted by his existence, because some part of him wanted to project greatness onto the inhabitants of Andersonville. The government, which he had no love for, was making more and more actions illegal. By its 'Big Brother' qualities, more and more actions were considered 'criminal.' They were fighting, even if they were unaware. The hard fact of the matter though, that these people didn't care about the greater good. They didn't care about freedom. They were wholly selfish in their actions, which had forced Brent, over the years, to acknowledge the difference between the masters, the trained dogs, and the feral ones. They were all here.

Rather than braking these wild dogs in prison, taming was going to be attempted. His recent meeting, taking a position on an Alliance ship in exchange for a chance at freedom. There was really no other option. He was going to have to work for the Alliance, for any attempt to make a difference in the 'Verse. He wasn't even conflicted when he made the decision. He had figured out a way to make it make sense.

"Even if they are corrupt and self serving, they can do some good. As long as that is what I'm involved in...I can do this.

Not much time left, he had to survive until the pick up arrived. Shouldn't be too hard, but then again, he could hear the ruckus in the yard as men shouted. It drew his eyes. Two stabbings. Fights. It was constant. It was quotidian. It was mundane.

For a brief moment, Brent could only feel sad about the fact that none of it bothered him. The frown turned his cheeks, and he ran a hand through the brown beard on his chin. He moved to sit back down on the ragged work out bench. He stared vacantly at the crowd, as he tried to psychoanalyze himself.[B]

This post has been edited by Brent Woody on Feb 24 2012, 12:43 PM

[Karkoff Miller]

East Egg

Blood, mud, and bodies. The features were nothing new to a man who had lived through the pox plague on Higgins Moon. What struck him here was that this was no violent virus, no unstoppable infection that caused this chaos. This chaos was created by men, men who had forgotten the value of humanity. Miller thrust a hand up to flush greasy blond locks from his face and the gesture drew his gaze to the top of the Egg, it's dome stretching away above. Anywhere was better than here. And dead, he'd be with What? Not freedom. He'd never be free again.

And if he was dead, he'd be with Angeli. He couldn't contemplate anything being otherwise.

In front of him, MadDog, one of the biggest, ruttin' baddest gangsters of Andersonville partially blocked his view of the yard as that ruttin' nutjob Felix shanked the fool who was stupid enough to spit on him. At first, Miller thought Felix had been a bit like him. Live and let live. Do what you had to survive. But Felix was ruttin' crazy.

And unlike Felix, or Woody, or Briggs, Miller hadn't had the strength to stand up to Andersonville on his own. Instead, he'd sought unlikely alliances with the only thing he had left to trade. In this hell hole, making it on his own wasn't an option. Miller knew he'd never lasted a week on his own. It was far easier, far safer, to be MadDog's bitch, and Miller couldn't bring himself to give a good gorram, or even a gose gorram, what anyone else in this rot-hell might think of him for it.

That was another lesson he'd learned from Higgins Moon. Survival and pride didn't have much at all to do with each other. Knocking knuckles with MadDog, letting him know he was stepping away, Miller reached for the small sack at his belt. He'd been hoarding provisions for weeks, but soon enough he wouldn't need 'em anymore. He'd already discussed it with MadDog, and they'd agreed they had more hoarded than they could eat before it went bad.

Sidling along the wall, Miller reached the the quiet young man with the hearing aids. He didn't know his name, just thought of him as Kid, and he'd been watching him get skinnier and more drawn over the weeks. Slowly, sideways so as not to startle the kid, he held out the small bag, "Got food here, I'm leavin' soon. Reckon you could use it. For eatin', or bargainin' with."

Miller gestured the yard, "I'll watch yer back while you eat if you want."

[Elliott Lawson]

East Egg

Yet another stabbing. Another day in the life of an Andersonville inmate. Beatings were frequent. Stabbings were common. Shootings were comparatively rare, just because of a lack of ammo. At least, on the manly side of things. He had no way of knowing how things were over in West Egg.

Thankfully, Elliott Lawson didn’t have to worry too terribly much about the random assaults that plagued the daily life of Andersonville. His body bore the scars of his early months in the ‘Ville, before he’d found his niche. As lead Trustee in the maintenance shop, he was as good as a protected man, and his relationship with the local doctor had its advantages.

The man known as Patch kept to himself, mostly, stitching up those who came through his door. Those who knew who Elliott was and what kind of pull he had with the work crews and the doc...well, they tended to shy away from outright attacks in the name of keeping the atmofeed in their particular area running pure, and to avoid being snubbed after a particularly nasty encounter with another inmate. There was the occasional person that Elliott rubbed the wrong way, but for the most part, he tried to keep his head down, and his mind focused on his work.

For those who didn’t know who he was (or his crew)...well, they’d learn.

Two years had come and gone since he was a Greenstick. Since he’d come through the doors into the entry corridor. Since he’d killed his first man.

It’d been a relatively simple affair. After they’d been stripped, and their clothes gassed or scanned or whatever, they’d managed to reclaim their belongings (mostly). He’d wound up with all of his own clothes, plus someone else’s carpentry belt. A handful of nails, a screwdriver, and two different hammers. He’d have preferred wrenches, but hammers and screwdrivers would have to do as far as weaponry went.

Before they’d even been released into the yard for the first time, a beefy gentleman (and Elliott used the term loosely) had decided to have a little fun with Persephone’s premier ladies man. He’d moved over and stood just behind Elliott, sniffing like a dog and chuckling to his cohorts. He’d made some crude remark about how pretty Elliott was with his muscular body, long dark hair, and neatly groomed beard. Elliott ignored him for the moment, waiting patiently for the doors to open so that he could get started with his life in Andersonville.

He’d been sentenced to thirty years, but in all honesty, that was a life sentence. Nobody lasted that long in Andersonville. Even if he managed to live for the first five years and earn some measure of respect, he was thirty when he’d come into the prison, which meant that within the next ten or fifteen years, he’d surely be dead by someone else’s hand.

If the bruiser behind him had his way, it’d be much sooner than that.

The instant that he’d put his large, meaty paw on Elliott’s shoulder, the smaller (though not small) man had spun, the claw hammer in his hand digging into the man’s cheek, as the geologist’s hammer cracked his orbit, sliding into his skull to pop his eyeball out. Elliott retracted as the man began screaming, and laid another blow to the man’s forehead, silencing him as he fell to the ground.

Elliott sighed, remembering the feel of the man’s blood as it had spurted out onto his face like it was yesterday, though in fact half a decade had passed since then. He moved off to the side of the street as Kraken roared to the other inmates, sidling up to another of the men on his work crew. They were collectively known as “the Mechanics”, though that only designated the men who worked with Elliott in the maintenance shop. They weren’t an actual gang, though they’d back each other in a fight.

He saw Mad Dog and his big guy, who's name Elliott didn't know, approach the deaf kid and offer him a pouch. A lot of inmates were "that one guy with the hair", or "the really skinny one with the scar" to Elliott. Only those who were extremely violent or dangerous warranted names in Andersonville. Mad Dog. Kraken. Jackal. Leo. The really bad ones...

Other than that, Elliott had little use for anybody other than his crew. They kept each other safe, for as long as it was convenient. Any man could come and go as he pleased, as long as he had the mechanical aptitude to pull his own weight. Electricians, carpenters, mechanics, they were all welcome in the Mechanics.

Elliott propped himself up on the other Mechanic's shoulder, using the shorter man as a leaning post. He hadn’t mentioned any details to anyone about his impending career change. Or, incarceration change, as it were. He'd let people believe what they wanted. Once he was on the Vindicator, he'd figure out how things were, and where to go from there. For now, he settled in to watch what would surely be the day’s entertainment, and wait.

This post has been edited by Elliott Lawson on Mar 3 2012, 08:24 AM

[Storm Xiao]

East Egg

Storm caught movement out of the corner of his eye and his head snapped in that direction. He trusted his eyes more than his hearing aid. Growing up without hearing the world, you learned not to trust your ears, even with a hearing aid. When you lost one sense, it was said that the others compensated for it and Storm found that to be true, particularly with his sight.

He looked at the inmate that stopped next to him. He heard his voice faintly, but chose to read his lips instead. It was easier on him. Something about food and leaving and watching his back. Storm had to admit he didn't eat much, not since he'd arrived in Andersonville. He was too busy watching his own back. Due to this, he had lost quite a bit of weight and some of the inmates were starting to notice. It was seen as him becoming frail.

Once the other inmate offered to watch his back, his eyebrows furrowed. He hadn't met anyone here willing to guard him. Storm felt conflicted. He could trust the guy and hope he stuck to his word or go another day with barely any food, try to survive until his new imprisonment option approached. There was a chance this guy was being genuine. The way he saw it, he had a seventy-five percent chance of this guy not killing him. The other twenty-five said he betrayed Storm and murdered him while he wasn't paying attention. Good odds.

Storm thought about actually opening his mouth to say "Thanks," but decided against it. He didn't want to scare anyone. More importantly, he didn't want anyone to hear what he sounded like. So, he lifted his hand and signed his thanks before taking the offered food. Before he could reach in to grab something, though, Felix came along.

Storm studied the blood splattered on his clothes and his nostrils flared in disgust. Most of the time, Felix could be rather calm. It was something that Storm had noticed about the killer. However, he did have moments where something seemed to snap in his brain and he went homicidal. Storm tried to avoid triggering the latter.

The deaf teenager found a way to attach the bag of food to his person before lifting his hands to Felix. He knew he really didn't understand him, but people typically caught a word or two and connected the dots.

"Dude, what happened?" he asked. Part of him was hoping that someone had been killed next to him and that Felix hadn't just lost his cool.

This post has been edited by Storm Xiao on Mar 3 2012, 02:40 PM

[Felix Lann]

Felix watched, curious and a little amused, as Storm performed some sort of deal with another prisoner. It looked like the teenager had been gifted with food, but had given nothing in return. Well, that wasn’t very nice of him. They may have been trapped in quite possibly the most morally deficient place in the ‘Verse, but surely even here etiquette demanded an exchange of goods rather than a one-sided offering? Perhaps not. Then again, what did it matter? The act hadn’t involved him anyway.

The young man secured his newly acquired sustenance before signing something at him. Felix raised a questioning eyebrow in response. The two might not be very well acquainted—Felix liked to keep to himself lest he accidentally offend—but surely the teenager wasn’t just expecting him to understand sign language? That would be a little rude.

Luckily for Storm, Felix was in a decent mood, and was willing to expend the effort needed to read his facial expression and deduce from that what was being said. Not that that was very hard, since the boy looked pretty shocked by his appearance. Felix looked down again, realizing that he may have acted a little impulsively in stabbing his fellow vagrant. Ah well, nothing for it but to wear the bloodstains proudly. At least he’d gotten to do something other than standing around like the rest of them.

Remembering that the young man was still waiting for an answer, Felix looked back at him and smiled, a little sheepishly, and shrugged. ”I got bored,” he said slowly, doing his best to make sure that his lips were easily read. ”And some moron spat on me. You can’t expect me to let that go, can you?”

[Deron Briggs]

Deron watched the crowd forming curiously, the animals were socializing, it seemed. He was used to the usual gangs that formed in this place (and shot a sneering glance toward Lawson, the rapist, while he thought of it. He was fortunate to have made the connections he had so quickly. Rapists usually got their due, and though he insisted on his innocence, the way he strutted around this place...) but this was a strange group indeed.

Lann, heartless and unrepentant. The man was skilled with a knife, and he seemed likely enough to stab a man just to be sure his blood was red. What he lacked in compassion, he made up for in lack of compassion. The Professor tended to avoid that one at all costs.

Then there was Miller. The man confused him. Disgusted him. It didn't take long for him to give himself up to the Dog. For what? Protection? What sort of life was that for a man? Hell, even an animal wouldn't behave like that. Miller was a coward, plain and simple. Too afraid to live. Too afraid to die.

Finally, the kid. Briggs never learned his name. All he knew was that the kid had gone down for multiple murders. You'd never know by looking at him. He was small, getting smaller every day. And he knew that the kid was deaf, too. Apparently, none of the monsters had seen fit to kill him yet, because there was really no other explanation to why he was still living. Seemed like he'd be an easy target.

None of this was going to be a problem for him much longer. He'd gotten the call not long ago: he was leaving Andersonville. Honestly, it wasn't really freedom, but anything would be preferable to this hell. Clearly, the fact that the Professor had turned terrorist didn't make much difference to the powers that be. In fact, they were more than happy to put those skills to good use. A few bombs would bring him closer to his sons. That was all he wanted.

He watched this strange group and wondered which, if any, of the beats would be leaving with him. He'd hoped none, but he was smart enough to know better. He supposed it was preferable to tolerate a select few of them than to stay here with all of them.

He closed his eyes. It was only a matter of time now. Vindication was coming.

This post has been edited by Deron Briggs on Mar 17 2012, 12:21 PM

[Kraken]

East Egg

Weasel approached him first.

The man was scrawny, ragged and had ears in every wall. He was hardly to be trusted, caring only for whatever he could eat, screw or get high off of. In short, he was entirely like the vast majority of Hell’s residents.

“We’ve got a ship that touched down, not more than a few minutes ago,” he told Kraken nervously. Weasel’s fingers were shaking uncontrollably, a clear sign of drop withdrawal. Seeing the much bigger man noticing his discomfort, the information broker hid those fingers within baggy pockets.

“So?” Kraken did his best to hide his boredom, shifting his position on the rock to get more comfortable. It didn’t matter to him that someone had decided to visit this piece of go se they called a moon. It didn’t matter at all.

“She’s called the Vindicator. My sources guarantee it. We've run an ID scan and everything.” Weasel told him nervously, eyes darting side to side from behind his dirty face and shaggy mop of hair. “Kraken, this is it.”

The big killer’s eyes lit up at that. His mouth pulled back into a wolfish grin, his teeth gleaming in the Egg’s darkened interior. This was it; this was what he’d been waiting for. “Good,” Kraken chuckled, his voice chilling Weasel to the bone. “Very good…”

[Nikki]

West Egg

"Tian xiz . . . shou . . . you de ren dou gai si!"

The words weren't snarled in anger, but forced through clenched jaws in pain. The woman, somewhat heavy in a way that could say "muscle" or "fat" depending on how she maintained herself, with tattoos and short, spiked reddish hair, was clearly in quite a bit of it, for obvious reasons. Her right arm was wrapped in a bloody towel, not exactly sterile, but probably the cleanest thing that could be found. The woman with her, smaller, her long hair pulled back and braided, blue eyes staring out from behind clunky prescription safety glasses with screen side shields; they were too weak for her actual prescription, but better than nothing, looked scared but resolute. Worried the worst would happen, but unwilling to accept that it actually could. You could have spotted them as a couple from across the yard. She wasn't sure if the smaller woman was more worried about losing her lover or her protection, but here, it really didn't matter either way. It was what it was.

"I'm gonna have to unwrap this to see what we got." said Nikki.

The heavier woman drew a deep breath. Using her left hand, she slowly laid her wrapped right arm on the table, wincing with pain. The arm lay there like a wrapped, dead fish in its red soaked makeshift bandage. Broken, she could already guess, and probably pretty badly. She gently unwrapped the bloody cloth, revealing the injury beneath it.

"MotherRUTT . . ."

The only visible reaction was a slight widening of her eyes, she was too well trained and experienced to react to a patient's injuries in a way that would upset them, but this was . . . worse than she had expected.

"Tell me nobody did this to her in a fight." she said, carefully examining what had clearly once been someone's arm. "I don't want to think there's someone in here that needs to be avoided this badly."

"It was an accident." the smaller woman said, sounding as though she were a mile away from her own voice, not controlling or believing her own words. "She was working on an electric motor we were building, a big one, you know, primitive, but it works . . . her arm got caught on the shaft and it just started . . ."

"Yeah." said Nikki. "That'd about do it."

"Is it . . . as bad . . ."

"Oh yeah. It is." Nikki shook her head. People here didn't have the luxury of sugar coating things. They needed the hard truth, and if they weren't strong enough to deal with it, they probably wouldn't last long enough to be comforted by less.

"Medically, what you've got here is an open, comminuted, spiral fracture of the radius and ulna. There's broken bones in the hand too, but really, with all the rest, that's like the jaywalking you did running from your bank job. It just doesn't make it any worse. We can just toss it all in together and add it up to ruttin' r.u.b.a.r. That's not medical, but it's accurate. It's like lookin' at all the worst ways you can break a bone and sayin' 'You know what? I can't pick. Just gimme one o' everything.' It's about the worst I've seen."

"Can you fix it?"

The injured woman breathed slowly, conserving her words.

"Oh, hell no!" said Nikki. "Not like it was."

"But . . ."

"She ain't gonna die, if you're thinkin' that. But look. If you were in the best hospital on Ariel right now, and talkin' to the best trauma surgeons in the place, they wouldn't even try to put this back together. They'd just cut it off and give her a new one. Here, I'm afraid I can only do half o' that."

"No, no, I can't . . . I can't lose my arm . . ."

"I'm afraid you already done did that." said Nikki. "I'm just making it official."

"No, don't cut off my arm. NO . . ."

"I'm sorry, but it's got to be done."

"Isn't there any way . . ."

"No . . . I can't . . ."

"Look at me, ok?"

Nikki stared into the injured woman's eyes, laying a hand gently on her good shoulder.

"This is never gonna heal right, no matter what anyone does to try to put it all back where it belongs. What it will do, in a gorram dirty place like this, is get infected. If I don't cut this off, it's gonna be a race between blood poisoning and gangrene, and whichever side wins, you'd crawl off into a corner and die crying for your momma, even if you hated her guts. No matter how bad things are for you now, you do not want to go out that way. Losin' this arm is the one chance you got."

"But how can I . . ." Her eyes glanced over at her girlfriend, and despite her horrific injury, there was a flash of something there besides pain and fear.

"You can do a lot with one arm." said Nikki. "You can work with one arm, you can fight with one arm, you can give your girlfriend some lovin' with one arm. You can. Just tell yourself you got somethin' worth livin' for, and you can gorram well live with one arm. Plenty o' vets learned that."

The woman took a deep breath, the fear receding.

"But you can not live with this dying meat attached to your body. It's got to go, or it will kill you.

The woman closed her eyes, her good hand tightening into a fist.

"Ok." she said. "Just do it."

"It's really going to hurt, isn't it?" the smaller woman said, worried. "Is she going to have to bite on a piece of wood or something?"

"You see the people I got here to hold her down in case it's too much and she starts thrashin' around while I'm cuttin'?" Nikki asked. "Me neither. 'Sides, I think she's had her pain for the month. Best I just use anesthetic."

"You have that?"

"Hell, yeah!" Nikki smiled. "Not the kind they use in a real hospital, but I got it."

Getting up, she stepped away from the table and walked behind the injured woman's seat, pausing to look out the window.

"Oh, you got to be kidding me!" she said, staring. "Since when are they letting men in here?"

The women turned to look, even the injured one taking her attention away from her pain. If you could sell them on the acting, they always looked. Even if they were as sly as the day was long, and wouldn't rutt Krete Karmalov for a day pass, they still looked, because it was something they never expected to see again.

Every time.

Nikki quickly stepped in behind the injured woman, snaking an arm around her neck, her other hand planting in a hammer fist at the base of her skull and pushed forward into a sleeper hold. The woman's eyes went wide, but she quickly slumped. The hold was fast acting on a fully healthy and combative opponent. Here, it was no contest.

"What . . ." The smaller woman looked shocked. "What are you . . ."

"I told you I had it." Nikki replied, releasing her hold. "That's what I got. You ain't got the tools, you got to use what your momma and daddy gave you."

She reached up, tapping the side of her head.

"Even if they didn't give you nothin' else, they gave you that. Now, I want to get this done before she wakes up. And don't worry, She'll be alright, 'cept for the arm bein' gone. I'm gonna give her a proper stump, stitch it up. None o' that reaver actin' cauterizin' go-se. On the one in a million shot she ever gets a chance to get this fixed for real, it'll be a lot easier that way, and it won't hurt as much either."

Nikki opened her bag, and pulled out a sharp, heavy knife.

"I think I should . . ." the smaller woman stumbled up from her seat.

"Yeah, probably should." said Nikki, wiping down the blade with disinfectant as she slipped out.



Later, as she was cleaning up from the operation, there was a knock at the door.

"You busy in there?" came the voice.

"Not any more." said Nikki. "Come on in."

"We need you out there. There's pit fights."

"Again? Seriously? Is it . . . no, don't tell me."

Mari Green.

"Doesn't she ever get tired and take a rest? A bye week? Off season? No?"

Nikki gathered up her bag.

"Is she at least laying off the head trauma? I got jack-all for serious head trauma up in this place!"

Heading out of her "office," a shack, really, Nikki crossed the yard with the women who came to fetch her to the fighting ground.

[Mari Green]

West Egg

Mari Green sat on a rock near where she had been fighting. She had done it.

Again.

Five came to fight her and five lost.

Numbers 1, 2 and 4 were still either dazed or unconscious. Numbers 3 and 5 were dead. Normally, Mari would feel a little remorseful about that. Andersonville had changed her, but not to that extent. In order to survive, things like that happened. In response, Mari made herself into a machine. A fighting machine. One that had the power to rain down punishment. At least she would have just a smidge of control over her own life. Plus, after a good show, they would leave her alone knowing that she’d recuperate a bit and be back in the pit soon enough.

This time, she didn’t feel any regret towards Number 5. Number 5 was a cheater and deserved what she got. She came to the pit with more than one advantage. She was a behemoth of a woman and she came to the pit with a shank. As soon as she saw the woman, she knew that she had been found out. They found out she was leaving and their steady source of entertainment was about to end.

Rutting cheaters. That's what they all were.

But Mari was fast and the jolt of adrenaline from the realization that the shank was there only bolstered her energy. It was almost a blessing, because she was downright tired. Number 4 had taken more time than she liked.

Adrenaline was Mari’s friend. The two were quite acquainted with each other. Adrenaline and stone cold resolve. One of these days she was going to get out of here. One of these days she would see her father again. The Vindicator was going to be a means to that end. She only hoped he’d still be alive and she wouldn’t get the chance to only visit a grave.

She looked over at Number 5 who proudly wore the shank she brought into the ring. Only the thing was sticking straight through the woman’s eye socket. Mari wanted her to know it was coming. Mari wanted her to watch her own shank pierce her eye and go straight into her brain. She wanted her to die with the knowledge that her little attempt to raise the odds even further in her favor had failed. She also wanted the folks who sent Number 5 to her to know that they had failed too. No matter what, she was leaving on that ship when it got there.

”Rutting cheaters,” she muttered as she looked at herself. Covered in blood, she’d have to remember that a shank through the eye could be messy. She got up and walked a few paces closer to the double crossing bitch and yelled at her. ”Won’t be doing that to anyone else, will you? That’s what you get!”

She spat at her too and saw blood. Only this time, it was more than just spit from a bit tongue or the impact of her cheek between her teeth and a fist.

Mari wiped her mouth quickly before anyone noticed. She couldn’t show any kind of weakness, especially now. If she did, then they would surely be on her like wolves. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. She slowly moved back to sit on the rock she was just at with remarkable control.

As she sat, she moved her hand that was hiding the spot where she first became aware of the advantage and assessed the damage. Yep, she got cut good.

”Stupid bitch,” she muttered, but this time she wasn’t talking about anyone she had fought. This time, she was talking to herself.

She looked up to see Nikki coming across the yard already assuming that Nikki was probably very unhappy with her. She shrugged a little and tried to laugh it off, only to cough up a little more blood. She wiped it away quickly again.

”No sense being all concerned, Nikki,” she said with a smile when the medic was close enough. ”They’ll be OK soon enough.”

She shrugged again and pointed at Numbers 3 and 5.

”Well, except for those two.”

[Elliott Lawson]

East Egg

Elliott watched as things went back to normal, people milling about in the wake of a murder. He snorted derisively. Folks killing and dying, and nobody so much as moved the body out of the street so as not to impede traffic. This was what Elliott’s life had come to. Hell in a handbasket, or rather, in an overturned outhouse.

Ta mah de prison...

Elliott couldn’t wait to get out of this ‘Verse forsaken place. All he had to do, was be patient. Not his strongest suit, patience, but he had some. A little. It was wearing thin, though, and it made him squirrellier than normal. Made him sharper, pick up on things that he wouldn’t normally notice.

Like the Weasel making an appearance at a murder.

As the Weasel approached Kraken, Elliott’s short and curlies straightened out and stood on end. Any time the Weasel had news for one of the big dogs in Andersonville, it meant trouble of the grandest kind.

“¿Qué pasando allí, Jefe?” asked his companion

“No sé, amigo.” Elliott said, spitting a mouth full of tobacco juice onto the ground. “Ya feelin’ adventuresome?”

He glanced down with a smile on his face to see his shorter companion roll his eyes.

“No, Elliott Lawson. Yo no ‘adventuresome’.” the shorter man said in perfect English, making quotes with his fingers in the air, and grunted his disapproval. “Me quiero morir, imbécil estúpido.”

“Come on, Pepe. We ain’t gonna die. We’re just gonna go ask the Weasel a question, ‘s all.” Elliott said, stepping away from the curb.

He led his slightly unwilling companion out into the street, following the small, twitchy man as he scampered (for there was no other word for his furtive movements) down the road. They rounded a corner and found him leaned against a wall, out of breath, holding his trembling hands together.

Elliott moved quickly, slipping one of his wrenches out of its holster on his tool belt. He held it close, and in three long strides he was up next to the informant, digging it’s spiked end into the smaller man’s ribs.

“Come on, now, Weasel. We’re gonna have us a little chat.” he said, half-pushing-half-carrying the smaller man towards the nearest alley.

As the three men stepped into the shadows, Elliott shoved the smaller man, causing him to catch himself on a stack of empty crates. Pepe stood watch as Elliot removed another wrench, flipping it over and over in his hand.

“Alright, you listen here, Weasel, and ya listen close. I swear ta any dear and fluffies that you hold holy that I'll shove my wrench so far down yer throat I'll be able ta adjust what needs a wrench ta adjust, if'n ya don't tell me what ya told the big ugly." he hissed, his teeth bared.

For a long moment, the Weasel gave him a defiant look, which then turned to one of terror as a shadow fell across his face. Elliott heard a gurgle and a thud, and his snarl slowly faded, and he had to resist the temptation to close his eyes and sigh.

“The big ugly’s standin’ right behind me, aint he?”

Weasel, the helpful little man that he was, nodded. Elliott took a deep breath, and turned slowly, to find Kraken standing over him. Behind him on the ground was Pepe, bleeding from the throat, almost dead. The larger man stood very still, though Elliott didn’t miss the tense muscles, nor the recently used shiv in his hand, dull in the dim light, though no doubt sharp enough to get whatever unpleasant job it had, done.

“Big and ugly huh. You might want to watch yourself pretty boy.” Kraken chewed over the words slowly, letting them out in a quiet, menacing tone.

He took a step closer to Elliott.

“You know a pretty boy like you shouldn't have lasted this long. How'd you do it? Huh, Lawson?” Kraken's gaze bore through Elliot, looking him up and down. “Are you someone's little bitch?”

Kraken chewed on something in his mouth for a moment.

“Well? Are you?” he growled.

Elliott backed away, not really wanting a fight (which is why he’d gone after Weasel, a much smaller target).

“Easy now, Kraken. There ain’t no need fer this right now. I was jest havin’ a word with yer rat here.” he said, keeping his tone light, carefully adjusting his grip on his wrenches. “Ain’t no need fer killin’.”

“Huh, I wish I could agree with you. But violence seems pretty necessary right about now.” He grabbed Elliot's shirt. “Give me a reason not to cut a new rutt hole in your chest.”

Elliott glanced meaningfully down at Kraken's hands, and gently (mostly because Kraken allowed him to) removed them from his person.

“Put your hands on me again, Kraken, and you won’t get 'em back.” he said, his tone suddenly deadly serious.

“Are you sure about that pretty boy? I can put my hand wherever I please.” He paused, casually tossing the shank from hand to hand. “Try and stop me.”

Elliott sighed, and shrugged.

“Get him, Pepe.” Elliott said, looking to his now fully dead companion.

“Do you think I'm stupid enough to fall for that one law man?” Kraken asked, placing his shiv in line with Elliott’s face.

Elliott let a small smile slip and shook his head.

"Nope. Just wanted ya focused on me so my other partner could get behind ya.”

As Kraken began to turn, in spite of himself, Elliott sprang into motion. He swung one wrench in an underhanded arc, slamming it into the larger man’s crotch, and lashed out with a foot, hooking the taller man’s knee, and assisting him with his rapid descent to the floor. He managed to dodge the flashing shiv by a few hairs breadth, and dashed past Kraken, out of the alley, and that’s when he played his best con ever.

He whistled.

Not just any whistle, mind you, but one he’d been saving for three years. One of the first men he’d come through with was a member of the “Cutters” gang, and they were at war (perpetually, it seemed), with the “Slicers”, both vying for the spot of “Most feared gang who uses lacerations as their preferred method of murder”. The young man had taught Elliott a three note distress signal that would alert any Cutters in the area that Slicers were to be found and murdered ASAP.

And so, Elliott whistled. Two short blasts and a piercing shriek.

“Cutter down in the alley! It was a Slicer!” he cried, making his way out of the alley and away from Kraken and the suddenly very interested groups making their way towards the darkened passageway.

Roars of rage and calls for vengeance began echoing out throughout the streets, and suddenly the whole area erupted into violence. In the chaos, Elliott made good his escape from Kraken, thankfully only having to kill one and maim three on his way back towards the Maintenance Shops. He needed off this ta mah de rock, and on to his next home. Surely a prison ship couldn’t be as bad as Andersonville, right?

(((Translation:
¿Qué pasando allí, Jefe? –What’s up there, boss?
No sé, amigo. - I don’t know, friend.
Yo no ‘adventuresome’. Me quiero morir, imbécil estúpido. – I’m not adventuresome. I don’t want to die, stupid idiot.
Kraken modded with permission.)))

This post has been edited by Elliott Lawson on Mar 26 2012, 07:02 PM