In the end, I don’t really get to ask Rune too many questions at that time because he distracts me with wet kisses (we’re still in the shower, you see), and then I have my mouth otherwise full for a bit, and then my two spikes start up at the same time and do the tango together and I can’t do much more than gasp for air and twitch, and then scream when Rune adds his tongue into the mix. And then I need a damn nap.
Ironically, I end up waking up again back in bed (in my ditch) and basically as much in need of a shower as I was when I first set out toward the bathroom hours before (or maybe days? I don’t know. Hot porridge).
God, my life is just so hard, innit?
If the two guys think that they can just fuck me until my curiosity goes away, they don’t know me at all, though.
I mean, they can try.
They do try.
Quite successfully, for a couple of days.
Eventually, though, I manage to trap them in a room with me and distract them enough (momentarily) for them to not immediately start banging me again by employing an ancient, secret technique.
That room is the galley (even though the place doesn’t really deserve the name) and the technique is basically frying something in a pot. Or something close to it anyways. I guess it’s not really secret but the boys don’t know that. It’s magic to them.
In my time at the brothel, I have worked the kitchen often enough to learn my way around the many unknown ingredients. I don’t know the names or origins of any of them (and thank the Lord for that), but I can mostly put them into different categories by sight and smell: Meat-ish, vegetable-ish, mushroom-ish, liquid-ish, and plain disgusting. According to the category, they can or must be cooked and combined with other things to make them palatable – or thrown out right away.
Bane and Rune, for all their size and mass, don’t really eat a lot. I guess their metabolism is as on point as the rest of them (or, hell, maybe they absorb nutrients from the air like bloody trees. Anything is possible with the Dryth). They snack on the fruits and veg that can be found in the forest, they eat raw meat from the storage, and they have I’ve started calling Space Lembas. It’s a doughey sort of meat-ish-bread-ish-mixture, mealy and bland but not too bad and it fills the stomach very quickly.
But every once in a while, I get tired of fruit and non-meat-non-bread and just want something for the palate. So I take some garment I found in one of the storage rooms and wrap it around myself like some poor woman’s apron, macgyver the shit out of the room I’ve designated as the galley and absolutely everything I’ve found lying around, and start cooking.
Before long both Bane and Rune, irresistibly lured by the smells of cooking meat and veggies, slink into the room like a couple of orthograde cats and observe my fragrant witchcraft from the door and the far corner respectively.
I like that they keep their polite distance. Food is a stressful topic for all aliens I have met so far. Everyone’s got food envy and ends up snarling and clawing at one another (and also the cook) if someone gets too close. At least my Dryth are civilized enough to take precautions against any outbreaks of unnecessary violence.
Of course, there was a learning curve. I’ve had to throw several meals into the garbage chute mid-cooking because they didn’t behave themselves. They didn’t like that one bit.
In the immortal words of my hard-as-nails mom: “Tough shit.” There’s no fucking fighting in my kitchen. Galley. Whatever.
“So,” I half-yell over the sound of some of the meat-ish stuff sizzling in a puddle of liquid-ish stuff in a rinky-dink pot over the flame of some exhaust vent. “Now that we’re all here, we can finally finish that conversation we were having the other day!”
I throw both of them a blinding smile. They scowl in return. Bane narrows his eyes and keeps glancing down at the sizzling meatstuff like he’s going to pounce on it from ten feet away any second now. My smile only gets wider, my absolutely rational fear of his predatory stillness momentarily eclipsed by a completely irrational confidence inspired by the memory of my mom. Guess I inherited the brass balls from her and they just decide to come out when it’s about food. Just try it, buddy.
Bane stays right where he is. Maybe he’s impressed by my imaginary balls.
“What do you want to know?” As per usual, Rune is the first to cave and give in to my unreasonable demands.
“Oh, just a couple of things. ‘Who are you’ and ‘what the hell is really going on’ covers most of them,” I answer sweetly.
I turn the maybe-meat in the liquidized stuff and lift the pot a bit higher to reduce the heat, then add some other liquid stuff that smells almost like spicy ketchup and swing everything this way and that. Gordon Ramsey would give me endless amounts of shit and any health inspector would keel right over if they saw me, I’m sure, but I’m doing my best here with what I have.
It’s really lucky I don’t have to worry too much about sicknesses. Little old (dirty and unhygienic and overcrowded) Earth is an immune system boot camp, apparently. And after three years at the brothel, my stomach is basically lined with Teflon. The ‘plain disgusting’ category has been shrinking at an alarming rate.
Rune takes a couple of minutes to sort out his words and eventually deigns to answer. Sweet boy.
“I was sired by Varfyledoalburune,” he says like that name means anything to me.
Of course it doesn’t, but it sure sounds impressive as heck. I stare and wait for further elaboration.
“I killed all his other male offspring, therefore I am the crown prince of High Y’Dryth.”
Alllllright.
I swallow the question of exactly how many other male offspring there were. It doesn’t matter, really. I’m sure they also tried to kill him back, too. Someone had to be the last heir standing.
“And why aren’t you, you know, at High Y’Dryth? Governing and… stuff? Isn’t that your, uh, duty?” I probe when he doesn’t keep talking. I take the first slab of meat out of the pot, deposit it on a plate-like object I found in one of the storage closets, and put a new one in.
“It is my duty,” he agrees and then says nothing else.
Okay, so, I guess he doesn’t want to be there? If I can extrapolate from the dirty, brutal, uncivilized-even-by-Dryth-standards gaggle of Dryth I met at the bar that one time to the general population of the Dryth planet, I guess it’s not hard to see why it’s not a grand place to be. And the feral womenfolk that occasionally kills a guy when they want to have sex probably doesn’t help, either.
Then again, I’m a sensitive little human and all of the above is just normal life for a Dryth, right?
“Who is keeping you from your duty?” I ask, and just by the way both of them go even more still than they already were, I know I’ve hit the jackpot.
“New blood has overmastered the old crown,” he says.
Ah. Revolt or coup d’etat or whatever. Tale as old as time. I briefly contemplate giving him my condolences or something but then decide against it. I know nothing about it, it means nothing to me and Dryth have no use for empty platitudes like that anyway.
“So, really, I’ve been calling you something like ‘your majesty’ the entire time, right?” I ask and glower a little at him. “You could’ve told me that I’m making an ass out of myself.”
His tail twitches in a circle. “I like your ass,” he states with such complete sincerity that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling like a little girl.
Do you see the appeal of cavemen yet? It’s disarming. I struggle to retain my frowny face.
“That makes no sense at all as a comeback, and also, you know that’s not the kind of ‘ass’ that phrase is referring to, and anyway…” I trail off, grunting in mock frustration. “You know what, never mind. I’ll find a new name for you. Somehow.”
Rune gives me a look so pointedly even that I just know he’s thinking ‘I like being literally entitled on a regular basis and will not respond to any other name for the rest of my life’.
(Pick your battles, Valerie Greene.)
I clear my throat.
“Bane has told me about your, y’know, ears and the… the oor-kidney… thing…” I gesture at the top of my head so they know what I mean even though I mangled the word so badly. “But we were rudely interrupted before he could tell me more.”
Rune blinks slowly, the Dryth equivalent of a long-suffering sigh. “What do you wish to know about kyrhuna and uhr-kideh?” he asks in a very rare show of all the cards they normally play so close to their chests.
“If they are such a weak point, why do you keep them when everyone else cuts them off?”
He ponders the question for a moment. “It is because everyone else cuts them off,” he eventually replies and I suddenly understand. It’s posturing. A peacock’s tail. Aristocrat Dryth carry their vulnerabilities around so that everyone knows that they’re so very mighty they can afford it.
Humans buy useless stuff and cripple themselves financially, or stalk around on ten-inch heels and cripple themselves physically to impress other people. Dryth do this. Oddly comforting to know that Dryth and humans aren’t so very different after all.
“Did it hurt to get your ears pierced?” I ask, turning the slab of meat-ish in the pot.
“It is painful,” Rune answers after a while, and I look up, frowning.
“You mean right now?” My eyes go wide. “All the time?” Holy crap, why the fuck do you wear the damn piercings, then? I almost ask but the answer comes to me by itself: More posturing. It’s all alpha male dominance superiority bullshit. I sigh. Men.
“Yes,” Rune confirms, apparently totally unbothered by the fact that he’s causing himself constant pain. Significant, crippling pain, if his reaction to Bane biting him was any indication.
“It serves to keep the hraleia silent,” he goes on.
I stop mid-potswing. Ah, the Princess Leia thing. I remember Bane being super-cryptic about it. “Explain to me again what that is?” Something about listening? Having outer ears helps with the hearing, that’s why we have the damn things, so that would make sense. Maybe Dryth ears have literal superpowers? They are already super-sensitive, as I’ve seen, so that would only be fair.
He is still and silent again for a bit.
Then, he glances over at Bane just for a split second.
I follow the glance to see Bane baring his teeth without making a sound, and suddenly he goes down on all fours.
And then he walks out of the kitchen. On his hands and feet, loincloth-clad ass in the air. His tail, swishing side to side angrily, is the last thing out the door.
I stare after him in mild shock. That was… not like him at all. Walking on all fours seems like such an undignified thing to do for a proud Dryth like him, and no alien I’ve ever met has ever walked away from food.
Not voluntarily anyway.
I look back at Rune, very confused. “Did… Did you just...? Was that you right now? Making him do that?”
To my absolute horror, he inclines his head. “It is hraleia. It is a word, unsaid but heard and obeyed. It is planting seeds inside of a mind. It is… listening to unvoiced words.”
Oh. Shit.
I put the pot down before I burn the meat or myself. My hand is shaking a bit and so is my next breath in.
A rational part of my mind tells me that he has kept that creepy ass superpower of his contained the entire time, that he’s bloody hurting himself constantly because he wants to control it, and that he doesn’t like using it because he’s Rune, goddamn it. He’s a decent guy. A good guy, for a violent barbarian from outer space, anyway. He’s been nothing but kind to me, even gentle by Dryth standards, and he and Bane are as friendly with each other as two apex predators can get.
But the other part, the bigger part, is having a moment of panic, like someone trying to save a house of cards that’s collapsing in front of their eyes.
That house of cards is the auspicious future I had dared hope for when Bane told me that I would stay here. That they wanted me to stay because they wanted me.
After all, what does the word ‘want’ even mean when there’s a fucking telepathic mind manipulator on board? Who’s ‘planting seeds’ inside a mind and able to make others crawl across the floor?
All at once I realize that I’m in such deep shit. Not because I am scared of Rune now – which I should be, which I should always have been, if I had any good sense left – but because I now suddenly know with absolute, utter, devastating certainty that my heart is in this. Much deeper than is wise, much deeper than I had accounted for.
And it’s cracking down the middle right now.
(You are such an idiot, Valerie.)
For once, I have no comeback to my own inner bitch. She’s entirely right.
“So he’s basically Charles Xavier,” I mumble to myself and almost laugh out loud because the whole situation is just absurd and overwhelming and so fucking sad. “Just not quite as hot as Sir Patrick Stewart and not in a wheelchair and with hair…stuff…” And possibly entirely without a conscience.
Because exactly how well do I really know him – considering that ‘knowing’ doesn’t mean anything now?
Maybe I’m just thinking of him as gentle and sweet because he made all the less-pretty memories disappear from my brain?
Feeling slightly panicky, I wonder if the past weeks, a.k.a. the most exciting, sensual, engaging, exhausting, interesting weeks I’ve had in a long, long time – or maybe ever … if they could’ve been a fat lie.
I wonder whether I, myself, am a lie.
Have I been me in these weeks? Am I really that gutsy, sexy woman I have been? The one running around bare-ass naked on a spaceship, enjoying the company of not one but two scary, barbaric, hunky alien overlords?
And the two scary, barbaric, hunky alien overlords I have so stupidly, carelessly gotten attached to… were they themselves, really? Really? Did they both really mean to do the things they did to and with me? Or was it only one of them, whispering into the brain of the other and making him dance like a puppet on a string?
The cards silently rain down onto the floor like rectangular cardboard snowflakes.
There goes my future. And my present.
“Do… Do Dryth royals use this, uhm, gift, this… ability often?” I ask. My voice sounds hollow in my own ears. I robotically turn the valve off and kill the flame of my shitty little quasi-Bunsen burner, then set the pot with the half-cooked meat down. My stomach is a tight little knot. I’m not going to eat anything without seeing it again right away, and I suspect it’d taste like bitter ash in my mouth both times.
“Yes,” Rune confirms and then doesn’t elaborate and I want to fucking wring his neck for being so callous, for not alleviating any of my worries which he knows I have because he can read my fucking mind.
I lose the makeshift apron and let it fall to the floor and then walk out of the galley, not stopping when I spy Bane lurking around the corridor right outside, looking about as furious as I am.
No idea where I want to go. Away from the two of them, that’s the important bit. As far as this psych ward cell of a spaceship allows.
There’s really no place to hide on this ship given that there are no locks on the doors and the two individuals I would hide from are in possession of such superior scenting ability that they could follow my trail absolutely anywhere. And even if the doors had locks, they’d be able to break them down easily by sheer force, so I guess it’s better that there aren’t any.
But sometimes I just need a place to hang out by myself for a bit, and the storage closet on what I think of as the first floor works just fine. Not only are the shelves pretty much human-sized so that, after rearranging the various items on the shelf, I have just enough space to slide in there (even if it does feel a little like a morgue on a set of some episode of NCIS).
For some reason, it’s also the only place on the ship apart from the bridge that has a port hole. It’s tiny and the glass is dull, and some genius installed one of the shelves right through it so that the view is clipped down even more, but it’s still a window into space.
Space, as it turns out, is mostly just solid black and super boring. Only very, very rarely do we pass through a ray of light from some star or another, showing up as a dull pinprick of yellow or bluish-white.
Today, I look at the porthole and see two of those pinpricks, one slightly bigger, one smaller, and I let my eyes drift shut and imagine that one is the sun and the other the moon – the ones I grew up with, the ones that don’t need additional names – and that I might be going home, because I really, really want my bed and some Netflix and a glass of Nutella right now… Or maybe I never left home in the first place, maybe I’ve been in an accident with my piece-of-shit Volvo and ended up in the type of coma that comes with super crazy, vivid dreams. I’ll wake up and will suddenly be fluent in Russian or something like that…
I don’t even know what it is that wakes me up, but I resurface completely from a dream (which involved me going to Walmart wearing a hat but not shoes for some reason) and immediately know a couple of things.
A) I’m not anywhere near the sun and moon and
B) none of this was a coma dream but
C) completely and utterly real and that
D) something is completely and utterly weird right now. It’s a gut feeling. A pinky-toe feeling. My heart trips a little in my chest.
Feeling around in the darkness, I slide off the shelf/bed and find the door latch and pull it open, then cautiously tip-tap out on bare feet.
The lights in the corridor are dimmed and it feels… colder? Maybe? Just a few degrees, just enough to pebble my skin with gooseflesh. Or is there a draft in the air?
(Or maybe the ship has always been drafty, cold, and dim, but Rune made you think- )
“God, shut up,” I mumble to myself. As painfully possible as this scenario is, I can’t go doubting absolutely every thought and feeling I’ve had this past month. That way lies only madness.
The short nap has given me the insight that the only way to resolve the frustration I feel is to talk to my Dryth. I need more information and even though they are not entirely trustworthy sources (and certainly the least forthcoming sources in the entire universe), they are the only ones available. Even false and misleading information is better than no information…. or something along those lines, I’m sure. In any case, I can’t bear the situation as it is, not a single second longer.
So I set out “upward” through the ship, figuring that I’ll first check the bridge and, if they aren’t there, go through the hatch to the forest, and if they aren’t there, either, I’ll che-
What’s that? On the floor?
I frown and slow my steps.
At the end of the long corridor, just through the next open door, there’s something on the floor. A pile of clothes or something? Something from storage? Why would Bane or Rune put it in the middle of the corridor though? They’ve never been anything but neat – I’m sure it comes with the Spartan upbringing – so why would they just leave stuff lying around?
I only realize what I’m looking at when I’m barely ten feet away.
The second I do, my stomach drops into my abdomen and my heart crashes into the hollow that has formed. I hear a strangled “no!” as if from far away but it’s from my own mouth.
There’s a Dryth lying on the floor, face down, in a small, glossy lake of black blood, emanating the kind of stillness that only dead things have.
I swear I can hear my heart splinter in my ribcage like a tree being torn apart by lightning. That’s how it feels, too.
I stagger backward as if putting distance between me and the dead body might save me, blindly groping for something to hold on to and finding the wall panels with my hand, the other gripping my chest, really digging my fingers into the skin as if I could reach inside and close my fist around that organ that’s raining bits and pieces of itself into my hollowed-out body.
Dead. One of my Dryth – my men – is dead.
(You are such an idiot.)
This is my fault.
This is my fault. This is because I asked so many stupid questions and Rune ended up demonstrating his power because I’m too ignorant to understand his verbal explanation, and it must’ve been the last straw for Bane, being forced to perform like a circus monkey-
Or maybe Rune ended up killing Bane because of what happened at the forest, because if the ‘mating frenzy’ they both fell into except that Bane not only overpowered him but also ended up giving away all of his secrets, ended up showing me how it is possible to overcome a Dryth with merely a tweak of the earlobe-
All at once I realize that both options are equally painful.
I want both of them alive. I need both of them alive and well and I don’t fucking care if it’s entirely real for me or if my brain is high on suggestion and smoke and mirrors, so long as they are real and with me and not dead and not murderers of their friend.
Through a rising tide of tears, I register that the Dryth lying there has ears.
Rune. My king.
Someone shoves an unseen dagger into my torso. I moan something incoherent and furiously wipe at the burning tears streaking down my cheeks.
He even put his armor and clothes on. There must have been a fight between him and Bane, and not just a playful- sexy wrestle this time (oh God, the memory sends another loud pang of pain across my heart). Neither of them has worn more than a loincloth in the weeks I’ve been with them because every stitch of clothing was too much of a hindrance to their mission of fucking me every chance they got (and even some they didn’t get). I see the shiny weapons on his belt and his tail wrapped tightly around his waist and-
Hang on.
Hang on a second.
I swallow the tears hard, hold my breath for a half-second of clarity, and squint at the body.
It’s wrong. His tail is wrong. There’s no fray at the end. It ends in a natural taper, like Bane’s does.
But Bane doesn’t have ears.
(Or did Rune just suggest to your brain that he doesn’t?)
(I met Bane, earless, before I ever met Bane.)
(Or did you?)
(…. Stop it…)
(Or maybe Rune tricked you into thinking that his tail was frayed.)
“Ohh noo. No no no, you’re not going to turn into a fucking crazy person, Valerie,” I mumble to myself, sounding exactly like a crazy person, and crouch down, inching even closer towards the body as if it might jump up and at me any second now and crouching could help protect me in that scenario.
The ears have neither piercings nor piercing holes. There’s uhr-stuff on his head that is at least half an inch longer than Rune’s ever was
(or maybe-)
(Maybe shut the fuck up! You’re not helping!)
and his skin has a blue tinge instead of brown
(or maybe that’s just the lighting)
and I don’t know that body.
If I know any fucking thing at all, it’s the bodies of the two men I’ve been with these past weeks, and I do not know that body. It’s too wide in the shoulders, a little too stumpy in the legs, the hair and the ears and the tail is wrong, his hands are too small, and I’m sure if his chin wasn’t tucked to his chest and his face hidden by the floor and his right arm, I couldn’t be any more certain.
I don’t know this guy.
This guy is neither Bane nor Rune.
It’s not him, nor him.
It’s not them.
For some reason, that sends even fatter tears down my cheeks – I almost angrily wipe them away with hands that are suddenly shaking like leaves – and has me somehow so very, very tired I could just lie down right here and sleep.
Well, maybe not right here. But right over there, for sure. Just a couple of feet away from the corpse of this stranger.
“It’s not them, Val.” I say it out loud just to hear it with my own ears, and I breathe deeply.
Once the trembling has abated, I have time for the obvious questions.
Who the fuck is he, then, though? What the fuck is he doing here, on this ship? How and when did he get here? Why the fuck is he dead?
“What the fuck is going on?” I ask the dead guy and myself, grabbing my own elbows in a hug and shivering violently for a second, and getting an answer from neither him nor me.
It is colder than it has ever been on this ship, I’m not imagining things. There is a draft. It’s darker. Something has happened, apart from some stranger turning up out of nowhere and getting dead in the middle of this corridor, and I need to find out what that something is.
My gut tells me to head toward the bridge. That’s where the controls are anyway, and if nothing else, I can maybe switch the damn heating back on (or the AC off) before I get frostbite on my nips.
I slowly slide along the wall to pass by the dead guy for no good reason other than having seen too many alien horror movies in which careless people got themselves carelessly killed by being careless and overconfident and stupid. Once past, I power-walk for a bit, checking behind me every so often, just to make sure that the corpse isn’t following me. Better safe than sorry and dead. I send a short prayer for guidance and protection to Sigourney Weaver because I figure that if anyone knows anything about this particular situation and how to safely get out of it, it’s her.
In hindsight, it’s only because of my totally paranoid overcaution that I make it all the way to the bridge without being heard coming by the others. Well, that, and the fact that Rune and Bane both notice my nearness and start acting up at the very same second to cover for and pull the attention off me.
At least that’s what I later surmise they meant to do. They’d never admit it, of course. It was strategically unwise.
There’s a sudden wave of snarls, bellows, and cries of pain coming from the bridge, most of them painfully recognizable for me, and I force myself to breathe so quietly that I almost suffocate myself, and set my bare feet so slowly onto the floor I probably look like a third-rate pantomime doing slow motion. Going all the way down onto my knees and putting my cheek onto the floor, I peek around the corner.
There are my boys. Not well, outnumbered, basically naked and weaponless, but alive.
(For now.)
I bite my tongue so hard I can taste blood.
And there are the others.
I count six of them, tall, wide, dark as any Dryth, all decked out in armor and laden with gleaming weapons. Three of them have Bane, who is breathing hard and bleeding from one closed eye, surrounded at sword point. Two are piled atop Rune who is struggling against them, clawing with hands and feet, throwing elbows and using his tail as a sling.
And the last one of them is clearly the leader of this gang of newcomers. Not only is he the only other guy with ears (not pierced like Runes, I notice, but decorated with a golden curlicue that clearly serves to draw attention to that body part), but he also just has this… air. He’s standing off to the side a little, looking down at Rune with something like attentive boredom and that obnoxious superiority I recognize right away.
He’s the manager.
“Stop your resistance, let the guards go, and we may let the General live,” he says to Rune, and even his voice is annoying and manager-y.
I blink as I realize that by ‘the General’, he means Bane.
Wait, Bane is a General?
Of course he is. Probably a decorated one and shit, too, and more than likely, I’ve been calling him ‘My General’ this entire time, too, just like I’ve been calling Rune ‘My King’ or whatever.
Brazen bastards, both of them. If we somehow make it out of this alive, I’m going to give them a dressing-down that’ll have a fucking echo in space.
Rune doesn’t ‘stop his resistance’ in the least. The three Dryth roll around the floor reminding me of something I’ve seen on Nat Geo, something large and lethal and angry, fighting to the death. Blood sprays the light-gray floor.
The manager watches for a long moment and then turns to Bane who doesn’t seem to be beaten in the least despite being armed with nothing but a damn loincloth and a scowl and facing three dudes with ridiculously large, Cloud Strife-style broadswords.
Bane reminds me of Bruce Lee, calmly waiting for the right fraction of a moment to start kicking ass.
Or at least I hope he is.
I don’t like the way his tail is curled.
(Now there’s a sentence I never thought I would utter a month ago or so.)
But really, there’s something wrong with his tail. Is it broken?
“General Hylve’kairs, your behavior is dishonorable,” the manager states nasally. “The Crestir’fen will hear about this. You will be disciplined.”
I have no idea what a Crestir’fen is but I strongly suspect that he’s an even bigger asshole than this snitchy ass. The manager of managers, so to speak.
“You know that it is his right and duty to claim the old blood for akrieza.”
By “old blood” he must be referring to Rune.
My translator chip takes a second to deal with the last word in the sentence and gives me not one but four translations all at once, so that I have to unravel them in my brain.
Slave. Concubine. Trophy. Trash.
What the ever-loving fuck.
Is that how the line of succession is determined on Planet Dryth: He who manages to catch, yoke, sodomize and eventually dispose of the predecessor is legitimized as the new king? Involuntarily I imagine Rune underneath a guy like the manager, and Rune’s head on a spike or mounted to a wall somewhere like a dead deer, and press my lips together to suppress the moan of distaste. Fucking barbarians.
To be fair, humans also beheaded their old kings and queens now and again not so long ago, but I’m fairly certain no one enslaved and buggered Louis XVI before they lopped his head off, and afterwards, he was buried and left the hell alone.
Bane bares his teeth in a snarl so cold and vicious that it gives me a shiver, and I’m not even at the receiving end of it. As I watch, the snarl deepens and one by one, his muscles shift until I can read agony there between all that anger. His face becomes a mask of pain, his one open eye is as dull as I have ever seen it, almost lightless.
The same agony is much clearer in the face of one of the guards. I can only see him in profile, but it’s enough.
And then I suddenly understand the weird standoff.
Rune must be holding the three swordsdryth back with his Princess-Leia-Professor-X-gift-thing. That’s why the manager told him to ‘let go’ of the guards. He wasn’t referring to the two Rune is wrestling with but to the three guys who are not advancing farther against an unarmed Bane.
Meanwhile, the manager is trying to force Bane into submission with his own mental manipulation bullshit, but Bane is refusing to go down on all fours for him.
For an absurd second, I think to myself how easily this would all be resolved if the manager just went and helped his own guys out against either Rune or Bane.
Rune is obviously working at capacity already. He’s got his literal hands full against the two smaller Dryth currently trying to rip out his tail with their teeth, and the metaphorical ones are busy working against the three guys surrounding Bane.
Judging by the cramped twitching of Bane’s tail, he’s fighting a battle inside of his head that barely lets him breathe.
The manager could literally just walk up to Bane and knock him over with a feather, or throw one or two of the shiny, shiny knives that are dangling around on his belt at Rune and decide the brawl that’s happening on the floor right in front of him.
But then I remember that he would never voluntarily lift a hand because he’s a bloody manager. It’s a law of nature that managers cannot, at any cost, be observed doing work.
Well. If he doesn’t want to tip the scales in his favor, he probably won’t mind much if I do the honors!
I get back up onto my feet as silently as I can manage, take one deep breath and let it out slowly and quietly, and then step out from behind the corner where I am hiding.
Bold, Valerie. Be bold and tall. Be Wonder Woman.
I stand there, as boldly and tall as I can physically manage while being naked, cold and so scared I’ll start to pee myself any second now.
“Hey, fuckhead!” I want to yell, but it’s actually more of a warbled little gasp.
I also only actually get to the ‘Hey’ before all hell breaks loose.
The manager turns his face towards the sudden, unexpected distraction – me – and apparently loses just the slightest bit of grip on Bane’s mind.
That’s enough.
Bane slides forward, so quickly I hardly even see what’s happening, and goes for one of the big silver weapons on the belt of the guard right in front of him, grabs and pulls it out of the sheath, and swings it in a horizontal arc that catches the outstretched arms of the other two guards, slicing them clean off.
Spookily, the guards don’t move for a full second even as their swords, hands and lower arms fall to the floor, the blades clattering to the ground, their dead flesh making a sickening wet sound as it almost immediately turns to something gooey, like melted wax.
A split second later Rune sets them free and they come out of their unnatural stupor. Two of them start bellowing in pain and grab at their bleeding stumps. The third one, the one who still has both of his hands and his weapon, is still in Bane’s way.
Rune, now freed from the taxing task to keep three Dryth from killing Bane immediately, turns his scary brain power on the two attackers who are physically piled onto him. One of them gives a scream so piercing that I feel it in my teeth, and flings himself to the side, holding his face. The second one manages to sink his fangs into Rune’s neck.
That all happens within a couple of seconds, and that’s all I see before I realize that I still have the manager’s furious attention.
I do the only thing that comes to mind, even though it’s dumb.
I run.
