It wasn’t so much that he minded losing his hair, it was the fucking indignity of being undressed and shorn, treated like a piece of worthless shit, that made him fight back. Only until Jenkins pressed that fucking button again, though. The jolt that tore through his body made him retch. “You keep doing that, and I’ll keep on turning up the power of that thing until I fry your brain, understand?” Shrapnel couldn’t reply, but managed a nod. He thought for a second or two about fighting on to make them kill him, but he somehow knew they wouldn’t. “Good boy. Give us any more trouble, and I’ll tell Forty to get his shears.” In his near-delirium of pain and blood-loss, Shrapnel didn’t make much sense of Jones’ last words, but he realised even had he wanted it, he had nothing with which to fight back anyway.
They forced him onto his feet and dragged him across the plaza towards the slave pens, throwing him through the gate and slamming and locking the door behind him. Shrapnel remained where he had fallen, flat on his belly, burning with pain and humiliation. When he tried to lift his head, however, he felt his vision swim and blacken. His head hit the ground again.
With a deep burning fury churning in his belly Flak had helplessly watched the whole ugly scene, and it cost him all he had to keep his face under control and remain inconspicuous. “That’s it, then”, Jones said. “We’ve got the ten men we need, so we can get them underway tomorrow. Tenpenny will be pleased.” Forty rubbed the back of his neck. “Sure we can sell that snobbish fucker a raider?” “Raider?” Jones feigned surprised innocence. “What raider? We only have slaves in our pens.” “Yeah… but…” “But what?” “He ain’t broken yet, I tell you.” “Then fucking make sure he is before you reach Tenpenny Tower.” “Yes, boss.” Forty rubbed his hands, and Flak wanted to kill him.
The slavers went on with their business as usual, night was falling and the fires were lit, and a little later, most of Paradise Falls had gathered in the bar. Flak was there, too, but he was sitting in a corner, smoking silently and thinking furiously. His only chance was to create some kind of distraction on the tour tomorrow. For that, he had to make sure he would be among the men making that tour in the first place. Not getting hammered tonight and being one of the first to be up tomorrow was his best bet, and easily enough achieved as he didn’t feel like drinking anyway.
His eyes kept darting towards the male slave pen and the pale, silent figure that was still lying where it had fallen. x-x-x-x-x-x
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timeasmymeasure
Friends will be Friends 2c/8
Date: 2012-04-13 11:37 am (UTC)“You keep doing that, and I’ll keep on turning up the power of that thing until I fry your brain, understand?”
Shrapnel couldn’t reply, but managed a nod. He thought for a second or two about fighting on to make them kill him, but he somehow knew they wouldn’t.
“Good boy. Give us any more trouble, and I’ll tell Forty to get his shears.”
In his near-delirium of pain and blood-loss, Shrapnel didn’t make much sense of Jones’ last words, but he realised even had he wanted it, he had nothing with which to fight back anyway.
They forced him onto his feet and dragged him across the plaza towards the slave pens, throwing him through the gate and slamming and locking the door behind him. Shrapnel remained where he had fallen, flat on his belly, burning with pain and humiliation. When he tried to lift his head, however, he felt his vision swim and blacken. His head hit the ground again.
With a deep burning fury churning in his belly Flak had helplessly watched the whole ugly scene, and it cost him all he had to keep his face under control and remain inconspicuous.
“That’s it, then”, Jones said. “We’ve got the ten men we need, so we can get them underway tomorrow. Tenpenny will be pleased.”
Forty rubbed the back of his neck. “Sure we can sell that snobbish fucker a raider?”
“Raider?” Jones feigned surprised innocence. “What raider? We only have slaves in our pens.”
“Yeah… but…”
“But what?”
“He ain’t broken yet, I tell you.”
“Then fucking make sure he is before you reach Tenpenny Tower.”
“Yes, boss.” Forty rubbed his hands, and Flak wanted to kill him.
The slavers went on with their business as usual, night was falling and the fires were lit, and a little later, most of Paradise Falls had gathered in the bar. Flak was there, too, but he was sitting in a corner, smoking silently and thinking furiously. His only chance was to create some kind of distraction on the tour tomorrow. For that, he had to make sure he would be among the men making that tour in the first place. Not getting hammered tonight and being one of the first to be up tomorrow was his best bet, and easily enough achieved as he didn’t feel like drinking anyway.
His eyes kept darting towards the male slave pen and the pale, silent figure that was still lying where it had fallen.
x-x-x-x-x-x