badpirattitude | Prisonstuck X

The second that sneer comes on is the second a foot snaps up to slam into Dualscar's knee.

...He really is rather out of touch with his "lowblood" side.

With the muscles in his face twitching, the Psiioniic takes a few steps back. "Atholith. But I gueth that'sth the thame thing when it all cometh down to it." In his defense, that's the same look he had to deal with time and time again back in the prison. Of course his first response is going to be... Unpleasant. Especially without chains to hold him to the wall.

Looking away, he tries to get his body to go limp. Not tense, but limp as having given up. He doesn't want to remember how well he played the tool and slave, but he does. At least it's useful. Not tense, because that made a troll look ready to bolt, or scared. Back straight, head bowed... That's what they looked for in the perfect slave.

Dualscar's upper lip rises in a snarl when the Psiioniic kicks him, and he almost belts him across the face for it. But when he shifts forward, his hand clenched into a fist, the way his weight moves sends a dull, pleasant ache pounding up from between his legs, and he stops himself. He remembers the lightshows curling all around him last night, and the way all the books started floating in the library, and he gets some glimmer of appreciation for everything the Psiioniic is giving up, even if only for a short time.

He drops his fist and instead brushes some dust off his knee where the other troll kicked him. Then, just as the Psiioniic fell into the role of a slave, Dualscar embraced the persona of a highblood, holding himself erect and arrogant, his face gone cold and cruel, his eyes glittering purple chips of ice inside his skull.

"Outside. Now."

The words are short, clipped, orders barked from a rough throat, and he turns, his cape billowing behind him, and strides outside to wait for the captain.

The Psiioniic doesn't see the cold look on Dualscar's face. He only sees the tips of his boots but really, does he need to? Not with that tone. With the way he holds himself, it makes him want to shudder from how well he remembers being a slave, how deeply carved into his being his past is. With his head down, he follows after. All these perigees, and his hair has overgrown so now his bangs flop into his eyes, hiding them mostly from view.

Not too close, because you weren't supposed to get in the way of highbloods, but he can lag too far behind, can't be too slow.

God, he hates that he can remember this.

Dualscar stands near the shoreline, his arms crossed over his chest and his feet apart, watching the waves through narrowed eyes. There's already a large ship anchored in the harbor, and a small rowboat, powered by maroonblooded slaves, is making its way towards them. He rolls his eyes when he sees the blueblooded captain of the ship is standing up, the better for Dualscar to see him, and he hopes the oaf will slip and fall into the water.

But he doesn't, and before long the ship has run aground off the shoreline, and the captain is climbing out. Behind him, two of the maroonbloods are picking up a small form, curled up and wrapped in a ratty blanket. Even from this distance, Dualscar can see the troll in the blanket shivering.

It takes work.

It takes work to hold himself back. Work not to give into his emotions. Work not to stab the stupid, arrogant blueblood whose expression the Psiioniic can easily imagine because he's had to face the same kind again and again all throughout his life and he's sick of it. Work not to tear off the helmet and use it to show just what should happen to the people who think it's right to reduce another to this status.

The Psiioniic bites down on the inside of his mouth until he tastes blood and keeps his head down. He doesn't see the Helmswoman- christ not even that, she's more a Helmsgirl so young from what he heard of her voice- but he can hear her small little gasps of pain from being forced to move about.

Dualscar keeps the transaction quick and professional. He brushes off the captain's attempts at learning more about recent courtly intrigues, sneering down his nose at him and making it quite clear that he doesn't know the gossip because he's not supposed to know it. He gives the little helmswoman--cod, she can't be more than seven sweeps old, she's just a wiggler--a cursory glance, and backhands the other captain when he has the audacity to make a snide remark about "the mighty Dualscar finally upgrading." Then he smirks as cerulean blood drips from the troll's lip, split on one of the heavy rings he wears, as they exchange the boondollars. The blueblood tries to jack the price up a little, and Dualscar undercuts him viciously.

Highblood business as usual.

Once it's all completed, Dualscar turns to the two maroonbloods--poor, wasted creatures that they are--and the little bundle they're supporting.

"Give that," pointing at the helmsgirl, "to that," pointing to the Psiioniic, "and then all of you get the hell awway from my hive. You're bringing dowwn the property values."

The Psiioniic is far too used to filtering out background noise in favor of the more important things. Right now? Dualscar's bickering with the blueblood is very much meaningless background noise. Right now, all his senses are focused on the other lowbloods in this gathering. He takes a quiet, hard breath when he hears them move towards him and finally looks up.

The familiar sight of malnourished pings and aches something inside of him and not for the first or last time, he realizes just how fucking good he has it. Running away from it all to join Signless, where Disciple always made sure they had food on the metaphorical table no matter how long it took her to hunt, and now with Dualscar. Really, how better can it get, shacking up with a seadweller like this? It's almost disgusting, really, enjoying these kind of pleasures when there's still so much unfairness in Alternia to others of his blood, and lower.

As the maroonbloods approach, his legs give a small twitch with how he wants to rush over there and take the little troll they carry. Instead, he waits, taking her into his arms and remembering again how it feels to carry a heavy burden. But he doesn't care and only takes a deep breath, holding her tighter against himself. Quietly, so that the highbloods don't hear, he hums quietly in her hear, an old lowblood tune.

You build a wall, I'll dig a hole...

The captain gets ready to leave, but then whines about how it's customary for the buying party to feed the slave labor on such a venture. Dualscar rolls his eyes, knowing full well that the only reason the captain cares is because that means it's one less meal he'll have to provide today, but he was prepared for such. He brings two fingers to his mouth and whistles sharply, and the kitchen drone comes tripping out into the yard, burdened by sacks of food for the slaves. However, the Psiioniic's drone is following it, and Dualscar's brow creases; that wasn't part of the plan, and he tenses a bit, hoping the drone won't give away the game.

The drone performs admirably, completely ignoring the Psiioniic, and helps the kitchen drone distribute the sacks--heavy with rich, filling food, rather than the usual swill given in such occasions--amongst the slaves. Dualscar sees a flash of orange when one of the slaves opens a sack, and bites the inside of his cheek.

Figures. He wonders how much the supply of oranges went down thanks to this little venture.

Briefly, Psiioniic ponders how it would feel to mimic Dualscar and sink one nice fist into the blueblood's face. He doesn't have time to listen to some douchebag bluster and whine. There's a broken little wreck of a troll he's holding that's suffering. He doesn't have time for highblooded bullshit!

Humming softly to the Helmsgirl helps keep his mind off of the oh-so tempting idea of it, and she presses right into him, all bones. There's a strange moment of realization when she does it, because he thinks that this might have been him at some point, tearing up and clinging to Dolorosa when she was dressing the old sores and wounds along his back. But this little thing, she has it worse. He wouldn't doubt every single one of the Helmstrolls out there, in the seas and in space, has it infinitely worse than anyone can imagine.

He can taste bile on his tongue just thinking of the ship that's coming back to Alternia for him.

Lost in his own thoughts of rage and despair, and clinging to the Helmsgirl, the Psiioniic nearly misses how the drones come out with the food for the other slaves. It's the soft scent of oranges, overriding the salt of the sea, which snaps him out of it. In a daze, he looks up, between the girl's horns, and sees the kind of food that's stored in there. He faintly remembers telling Dualscar of the kind of food he used to eat as a slave and it dawns on him.

If it weren't for the audience and the more pressing matter of the girl, he'd grab that finfucked idiot by the horns and kiss him senseless. His heart is going to kill him with how it nearly implodes in his chest.

Dualscar has had enough hoofbeastshit for one day; he can hear the helmsgirl's ragged breathing and quiet, pained little sounds behind him, and he's on the verge edge of control himself. Once the food is distributed and the slaves are back on the boat, he pulls the Crosshairs out of his sylladex and levels it at the captain's chest.

"Off my property and out a my wwaters. Noww."

The captain knows better than to press his luck, and goes scrambling back into his boat, and the slaves waste no time rowing it out into deeper waters. Good food or not, Dualscar is still a highblood, and something to be feared.

As soon as they're out of earshot, Dualscar lowers the Crosshairs and turns back towards the Psiioniic. Although his posture and the expression on his face don't change, his voice is low and urgent.

"Get her inside, help her howwever you can, the guard drones have some medical training if you need help. I'll be in as soon as his ship's gone."

"You think I didn't think about that?" He can feel the way the girl tenses in his arms when he hisses the words loaded with frustration and worry. She knows as well as he does that slaves don't backtalk their masters. Good thing he isn't a slave. "Don't do anything thtupid, got it?"

There's no real way to be gentle about this, so he just heaves her up into his arms. Good thing he's been fed properly, even if he isn't back to 100% yet; if he tried to do this when he had just been removed from the prison, he'd fall right on his ass, especially without his psionics. Murmuring to her at the little cry of pain she makes, he turns around and begins to take long, quick strides back to the hive.

Every part of him wants to look back at Dualscar, but he knows he can't.

When he enters the doors, the drones are already waiting for him, lead by his own little follower. They hustle around him as he strides further inside, going straight for his room. Curling up in a corner, he tears off the helmet with his fangs bared and feels the energy rush through him again. Unlike last time, it doesn't sock him in the head with pain. Less of a time difference.

Quickly, he tugs the blanket from around the Helmsgirl's head. Her hair's been razed short, nothing more than a black fuzz against her skull. Her horns look larger because of it- sharp things which curve a few inches above her hair to follow the curve of her head and with sharp but small spikes sticking out from them on top. But what really draws his attention are the wires wrapped all around her face, sticking into the skin of her cheeks and around her eyes, drawn tight around her head even as the loose ends dangle helplessly.

Psiioniic feels sick and realizes he doesn't want to see what's under the rest of the blanket.

Holding her close against his chest, he draws in a hiss of a breath and releases it with a shudder. "You're going to be okay. I won't let anyone lay another goddamn hand on you without your permithion. Jutht relax." Slowly, his psionics draw out, sinking into her skin and traveling through the biowires. There's a week little noise before she curls in closer. He feels a set of ragged claws, their fingers weak, dig into his clothing.

He closes his eyes and feels the tears begin to slip down his face.

"You're going to be okay."

Dualscar waits the absolute minimum amount of time, waiting to see that ship sail off into the horizon, before he whirls and stalks back to the hive. He maintains the highblood act until he's inside, just in case anyone is watching him through a pair of binoculars; as soon as the door closes behind him, though, it all bleeds away. His shoulders hunch forward, and he fumbles his armor chestplate off, handing it to a waiting drone.

"Wwhere'd he go?"

The drone gestures towards the room where the Psiioniic was supposed to stay, until he found out about the library, and Dualscar hurries up the stairs. Once he's there, though, he hesitates in the doorway, unsure.

"Howw is she?"

"Hurting."

No sharpness, no aggravation, no exasperation. He speaks almost absently, like speech is a silly optional thing. All the Psiioniic's attention is on the troll in his arms and the glowing, flickering red-blue web that is twisting around them like a delicate spider's nest. His own head is bowed, shining eyes half-closed.

"I'm not moving from here." Not until she can be fixed.

"All right."

Dualscar lingers in the door. He knows that the last thing the broken child probably wants to see is another highblood, especially a seadweller.

"I'll contact the blueblood, see if I can't get him here sooner." He takes one shy, hesitant step into the room. "Are you able to help her?"

"I think-" His words are cut off when he feels the girl shake even harder in his arms at the mention of the blueblood and he holds her closer, however miniscule the distance is. "Hey, it'sth going to be alright, we're getting the wireth out, no more thipth, no more powering thome mathine, alright?"

An idea and he looks up at Dualscar. "You tell her."

Him? What good could he do? He's the enemy, he's a seadweller, what could she possibly hear from him that the Psiioniic couldn't... tell her...

Dualscar remembers something then, a memory stirring from his long-forgotten past, and he strides in the room, approaching the two yellowbloods.

"Helmsgirl," he says, using his highblood voice, carrying all the weight and responsibility of his class with it, "my name is Orphaner Dualscar, and you are noww mine. I command you to listen to the Psiioniic, the older mustardblood, and let him help you. I am ordering a blueblood here to remove your wwires, but it might be a feww days until he arrives. Until then, you are to rest and regain your strength."

He glances at the Psiioniic. There, how was that?

There. That's what he'd been hoping the other would catch onto. They can't exactly remove Dualscar's blood and all the rank it carries with it, but they can use it for their own purposes, like this. Highbloods might lie a great deal of the time- to their equals as much as lowbloods- but an order was still an order. Another shake in his arms before she... well she still shakes but considering the state of her body, he can tell it's a more normal one.

God, this is fucked up, that he has to deduce her mental state from the way she shakes.

Letting the psionics wash over her back, Psiioniic raises an eyebrow. "I think thee getsth it. But we can't really call her a Helmth- that, fuck that word." A bare of his teeth before he calms down. "Thinthe thee'th no longer going to be one." A whisper, against his collarbone, and he falls silent, letting his head lean down. Another whisper, still painfully soft.

"Oh."

"Wwhat? Wwhat'd she say?"

"Thonica Adalt. That'sth her name." A weak nod against his chest. "Can you get uth thome water? I don't know what they fed her, if they did at all." His voice catches on that last word; Psiioniic doesn't know anything about the Helmsman systems besides the pain and the slavery. The more he thinks about it, the closer he gets to flipping his shit.

He really needs a distraction right about now.

Dualscar turns and barks a few quick orders to the drones lurking behind him and sends them scrambling to the kitchen. He, conversely, does know a bit about helmsmen systems, and knows that what the child--what Sonica--needs right now is fluids, fluids, and more fluids. Some weak broth won't hurt her either, if she's up to eating it.

He then walks further into the room, until he's standing behind the Psiioniic. Cautiously, he reaches out and puts one hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, before he addresses his attention back to Sonica. He gives the new commands in a much softer, gentler tone of voice.

"Sonica, I order you to not answer any longer to helmsman, helmswwoman, or helmsgirl. Henceforth, you will answer only to your name, Sonica Adalt." He pauses, considering. "Tell the Psiioniic wwhat happened to your lusus wwhen you wwere commissioned."

If her lusus is still alive, he'll send a drone out after it.

More miniscule shifting in his arms, and he lets the little troll practically crawl into his lap. He is now the filling of a very strange cuddle sandwich: the light weight of Sonica curled up against his chest and Dualscar's large hand steadying his back. It's strange and comforting as it is almost alarming. Psiioniic takes a deep breath and nudges one of his horns against hers as he listens to her. Her voice is raspy and hoarse, shaking with every syllable, and it takes him a few moments to piece it together.

"Thee thayth her guardian wath going to be culled but thee thinksth it might have ethcaped..." Idly, some of the webs of psionic energy begin to encircle and entwine around Dualscar's wrist.

Dualscar glances down at the bracelet of psionic light he's wearing, and one corner of his mouth quirks upward, like he's going to smile and then changes his mind.

"Wwhere wwould your lusus hide, Sonica? Wwhere wwould it go if it wwere separated from you?"

Silence. A shudder of a breath and her claws knead into his shirt. There's no real wonder why she's keeping quiet on that matter. 'Orphaner' Dualscar? Not the most reassuring person to want to speak to on the matter of a wayward lusus.

Kneading at the base of her horns and being careful not to catch the spiny protrusions, he lets more energy sink into her, trying to reassure her. "I'll bring him back to you. Don't worry. Everything will be alright." She makes a soft little snuffling noise and Psiioniic grins. He knows that noise: angry or nervous hedgehog.

"Tho... plain or foretht?" Another snuffle. "Underground." A hesitant pause and she raises her head. Nervousness, pain, and fear has her pupils nothing more than terrified slits amidst all the yellow.

The irony here is that the title Orphaner was given to him as part of a cruel joke, but that's neither here nor there. Dualscar does realize, though, how such a thing could make the little troll nervous, and he takes a step backwards, his hand still on the Psiioniic's back.

"Tell her I have no intention of hurting her lusus, only of retrieving it. The sooner she tells us wwhere it is, the sooner she can have it back, if it's still alive."

Still more silence before she ducks her head down again. Finally, after waiting for what feels like forever- Psiioniic's ears twitch as he listens to her carefully.

"...You know Reticulum, right?" City on a river that leads to the ocean, a trader city more than anything. If he had to guess, he'd say she was a domestic slave before being commissioned. Also with a lot of expansive plains at its back. From what he's heard, lots of highblood bickering over there. "Thould be around there, might be underground."

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/finally gets back to this after forever

I'd wait forever for you, you know that

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her name should be Sonica, I think

all the sonic the hedgehog jokes

gotta go fast, gotta stay ahead of the highbloods!

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