Timelessly I listened to the throbbing of my fearful heart emphasising the poisonous ache that flowed throughout my being. Every ache of metal brought forth new doubts and paranoia, and with each doubt and paranoia the noise grew braver, each note of the twinkly melody chimed harder than the last.


    "We've been combing this wreckage for about an earth week!" corrects the burly pilot, evidently he presumes the casual talk will loosen the shackles of the slaver/slave relationship,

"And you say you've been out there for how long? Three hours?" the pilot laughs,

"Four hours." I correct the pilot with a snap, he looks back at me disgruntled and exhales dismissively through his nose,

"We don't take too kindly to cheek boy." he's mumbling as if hoping I wouldn't hear him; maybe he hopes I'll make the mistake to someone with status,

"Cheek and the alliance," he corrects himself and I imagine a daemonic grin dance across his beard - He knows I'm a pilot! And more importantly a pilot of a Leo: An Alliance specific machine,

"Aye, the last alliance daemon we took prisoner was jettisoned out of the ship... Five times" the pilot turns his head round and surely enough the inhuman grin I've reluctantly come to know lines the depths of his beard, he looks disappointed toward my reaction - or lack thereof. He turns back again sighing heavily through his nose and shutting the rusty viewing slate behind him,

"I guess we're done talking..." I mumble, the metal cuffs slipping effortlessly from my wrists. And clumsily ring out on the aged stains carpeting the deck, the tunnel of light opens again to find me gone and I listen to the half-pronounced curse words as the craft comes to a slow halt,

    "Laddie?"  he asks in a tone one might imagine a dog or baby would respond to,

"Laddie?..." he prolongs the "a" to patronise me even more.

Another of his trademark sighs follow, clumsily flowing through his nose and sounding more like a snort than a sigh. I listen to his footsteps grow fainter as he advances towards the back of the small craft, toward the door at the back of the holding cell. The pressing of buttons and an irritated grunt as he hesitates on the last press,

"Seven!" he exclaims and the rusty door opens, flooding the rusted red light of the cell with the purity of the white light outside.

    Shackles in hand I leap forward, colliding with the sweaty, overweight mass in a heap on the deck, baring over him like a hawk would a field mouse.

    He struggles for a minute or so, though the bearded devil admits defeat. He lets the surprisingly clean alloy chains rest comfortably upon his windpipe,

"Where's the nearest Mobile suit?!" I bark pressing the chains slightly harder upon his neck, he splutters and says this,

"One of the boy's picked one up a few days ago, back in that wreckage" he darts his eyes around nervously, probably searching for a weapon though I'd already dealt with that possibility and everything is piled up neatly on the other side of my cell taunting him from afar,

"And?" I ask pressing my knee forcefully into his crotch, he gasps in pain and bites his bottom lip,

"Craft 0045, OZ-Model-72..." he hesitates though not for long as I reinforce my point with a firm press of chains and a determined stare,

"He responds to Arsenic. He found the damned thing around three days ago, near where I found you. It was missing an arm but he said he'd hid a similar looking arm from the boss to sell on the black market, lucky that isn't it? Well he's been working with the mobile suit ever since then in the outpost's dock. Good luck stealing it." he smirks at his little joke, his way of claiming a petty victory amongst grave defeat. I plunge my knee in between his legs and push down the chains, waiting for the satisfying response of unresponsiveness.


The End

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