Battletech Death of the Author (SI)

[Ridli Scott]

Ok, maybe someone would ask "where are these bombs?"
But since she promise retribution in blood pretty sure that if someone asked himself that it would be after the attack, not before.

 

[Flintsteel]

Ok, maybe someone would ask "where are these bombs?"
But since she promise retribution in blood pretty sure that if someone asked himself that it would be after the attack, not before.

Eh, they're pirates, not DEST or Fox Five. I doubt any of them are going to question it - hell, they probably don't care if the reason is real or not!

 

[prinCZess]

The radioman backs down and sends no message to the other dropship. Learning their lesson, the others on the bridge stop trying to engage me in any kind of conversation and keep a single-minded, almost impressive, focus on their screens. The next twenty minutes pass with an agonizing slowness that has my insides vibrating in anticipation, but they do pass.

“So. What are the votes from my bridge-crew?” I finally ask as a clock on the computer nearest me clicks over. I rise from the chair as I speak, calmly inverting myself so I’m standing on the ‘ceiling’ of the bridge and safely out of what will be the line-of-fire.

They surprise me.

“No raid.”

“Against.”

“Me too.”

The crew is either professional or, more likely, scared enough to answer without looking at me. As they pipe up, their answers differ only in the phrasing they use.

“Nay for me as well.” Brevers answers at the end. He’s the only one brave enough to pivot in-place to actually look at me as he answers. “Even if he tried something, we’re still coming out ahead without—“

Turning towards me wins him the grand prize of being first to notice my freshly-drawn laser-pistol and those weapons held by the dozen now-former slaves who’d entered the bridge at exactly the right time. Apparently, Gerard’s military career made him a bit better about things like punctuality and following a plan than the scumbags I’m used to relying upon.

His gasp draws the attention of the others on the bridge. Just like when my sword penetrated Gronley or my nails dug into Arthur, in that instant all the bullshit and lies that have brought me here is worth it! Their faces. Oh, their magnificent faces! They know, instantly, who is really in charge and that they can’t do anything about it! They know that I’m the one who determines if they live or die—and they’re confused which one I will bless them with!

They shouldn’t be. I’m Lady Death!

My trigger finger tenses. Fun, fun, fun!

“We’ll put them with the MechWarriors in the slave-hold.” One of the former-slaves who’d entered says with finality, pointing two of the men with him forward to start awkwardly putting cuffs on the bridge personnel.

One of the former-slaves blocks my shot! I can still shoot through him of course. That would be all kinds of entertaining, but also make things more complicated and difficult for me. So I can’t.

It would be wrong. Evil.

…

It wouldn’t be profitable. Brevers and the others have comparatively miniscule bounties compared to the real killers in the crew. But money is money and turning them over live brings more than dead. I was going to need to draw as much blood from this stone as I can now that I’ve been forced into the do-gooder course of action because my damned second-in-command couldn’t keep it in his pants!

“Sounds good. Though we might have to keep some up here to navigate the ship.” I say, more to fill space and distract from my disappointment as I withdraw my finger from the trigger.

“Actually, there’s a half-dozen back in the hallway who should be capable. Lot of people with at least some experience crewing dropships in the hold.”

…Huh. That actually worked out good. I could even take some credit for it! Hurray for my own foresight in having Sarah bring along competent belongings!—Slaves.

People! Competent people!

I move myself on from the surprised gawking and temptation-to-shoot the bridge crew gives me by floating to the station that controls the dropships internal systems. Navigating the menus is a bit of a hassle, but it doesn’t take long to find the commands that lock all the doors in and out of Hold C where my men have assembled. Navigating around them again and overriding a half-dozen safeties takes a little more time, but in less than a minute I’ve got the command pulled up to run a containment-test on the Hold and its immediate surroundings.

I want to give them a speech. Even go down personally and take their vote before telling them what was coming as a final courtesy before their deaths. I can even hear the argument in the back of my mind that doing such would guarantee their guilt and be the right thing to do. The condemned man had a right to face his death with either a cigarette or a blindfold, didn’t he? It would be a courtesy I’d not given to other, more innocent, people who I’d killed.

But I can recognize the excuse for what it is. I already know they’re guilty and I’m not really concerned with whether they know what’s coming or not regardless of it. I just want to drag this out. Give myself the chance to stand above them as Lady Death and see them. So that it feels better, more personal, when l press a button and make them all slowly suffocate to death.

If I give myself any more time to be tempted by the idea, I’m going to give into it.

I slap my entire palm down against the control-panel in front of me hard enough it doesn’t actually recognize what I was trying to do. Growling, I repeat the motion, focusing it on the ‘Initiate’ button that sits on one side. This time I manage to initiate the test. I have to manipulate the controls a third time to cancel the final safety-countdown that tries to delay the implementation of my genius plan.

“Systems test initiated. Deck seven cargo hold venting air. Deck seven cargo hold venting air.” The shrill, computerized voice of ‘bitching Betty’ says.

I had to trust that Gerard or other slaves had nicked the emergency-masks from their containers in the hold. They should have had enough time while I was traveling to the bridge before the crew assembled for my ‘vote’. Even if they didn’t, there were only a dozen masks available. Not nearly enough for the almost-fifty crewmembers who should be in the hold.

I almost wish the slaves missed a few. Watching the security-camera recordings of so many of my pirates fighting over so few masks as the oxygen slowly bled from the hold and they lost consciousness would be…Wrong. It would be wrong. And weird. It should be enough I’m getting to kill them. I shouldn’t let myself indulge in it too much. If everything goes right it’s the last time I’ll ever get to—have to!—do it.

“All entrances to deck seven cargo hold maintaining seal. An emergency override request has been entered from Door 732B.”

I dismiss the request. The computer, uncaring and no fun because of it, accepts the command without response or comment. A person at least would have looked at me as if I was a monster for ignoring the plea for safety. But they are pirates, and this is the only way to be sure I control the ship post-Arthur without inviting running battles through the hallways.

“Talk about a bargain. This one easy trick cut the cost of their death-sentences by almost a hundred percent!” I joke, twisting my head back and forth to catch the eyes of the former-slaves who have dropped into new spots on the bridge and begun familiarizing themselves with the controls.

They grace me with a laugh, but I’m pretty sure it’s strained rather than authentic. I suppose it makes some sense that slavery would warp someone’s sense of humor so much they couldn’t tell when Death was legitimately hilarious.

*****************************************************************************************************************
A/N: I feel like there's a snarky pop-culture comparison to Darth Vader in Cloud City and 'I have altered the deal, pray I do not alter it any further' to be made here, but this is the only way I can figure to make it.

This does allow me to point to this chapter's bad pun/wordplay/reference in the title however for its relevance and because it makes me kind've snort in amusement (as most of the titles do, honestly...I have a very easy sense of humor, forgive me):

And your covenant with death shall be disannulled, and your agreement with hell shall not stand; when the overflowing scourge shall pass through, then ye shall be trodden down by it. -Isaiah 28:18

On other matters--updates may slow a bit as I go through the last bits of some heavy learnin' and whatnots and have to prioritize that over terrible puns and bad wordplay with occaisonal stompy-robot digressions. But they might not as well. Have to see where my (bad) time management skills take me!

 

[Ridli Scott]

The pirates: This is mutiny!
Her: I'm the captain, also I cast fireball on you.

 

[Atarlost]

The pirates: This is mutiny!
Her: I'm the captain, also I cast fireball on you.

Sounds more like Mass Suffocation. Which says pretty terrifying things about Czena's caster level.

 

[Laskar]

Sounds more like Mass Suffocation. Which says pretty terrifying things about Czena's caster level.

That spell lets her target ten creatures at the most unless Epic rules are in play. This sounds more like Horrid Wilting, perhaps with a Maximized or Widened metamagic feat. The spell level is the same, but the number of affected targets is greater. And unless she lucked into a high level adventuring party for a Pirate crew, they wouldn't know what hit them.

 

[prinCZess]

I’m pooped. After dealing with most of the crew in the hold via boring-old button-press instead of anything more heart-racing, I still had to send messages to the other dropship behind us and DuPont aboard the Ravager that a vote had been held and we were returning to Gronholt to ‘punish’ the ‘treacherous’ Baron. There’s all this silly organization involved in being a pirate—or a ‘Federal agent’. It’s exhausting.

It’s not that I’m getting tired of lying or somehow losing track of things. The lies are still a rush and I still know just how vital they are to me not ending up on the bottom end of a noose. But having to juggle even more lies alongside of one another and use one to reinforce the other is becoming…confusing.

I’ve been easily-confused ever since the fight with Gronley. Easily distracted by things that shouldn’t matter to me and don’t have any impact on my own well-being. It’s aggravating.

Having to walk instead of just float around doesn’t help, even if the thrust-induced ‘gravity’ isn’t as heavy as it could be. Gerard was using his dirt on the Baron and my own supposed good guy status—cemented by the tape of my meeting with the Baron—as leverage with a small but growing faction of supporters in the planetary militia. A coup was on the horizon. The plotters included virtually the entirety of the planet’s space-observation and traffic-control, so the dropship’s descent was being offset by the Baron’s ‘triumphant’ return to the capital city from ‘fighting pirates off’. Somehow, that timing translated to needing to accelerate? I’m not really up on the rocket-science and trying to think about it just makes me regret the attempt.

I just want to revel in being, relatively, safe. All the pirates of my old crew who made career out of slitting throats were either blue in the face from lack of oxygen (or excess of nerve agent in Arthur’s case) or, for those MechWarriors and dropship-crewers few not dead, safely entombed in the slave-quarters under guard. Plus the new crew of former-slaves and Gronholt-refugees think I’m actually a Feddie and their blessed savior instead of a pirate deserving of punishment. It’s a perfect combination for easing stress and lulling me into a nice nap prior to sitting back and enjoying the show as Gerard’s militia rebels on-planet string up Baron Tsanma!

I know I won’t get it. Despite the throbbing pain behind my eyes from fatigue, I’m going to get into my cabin, undress, and roll into my bunk only to stare at the bulkhead right above me until we transition to a deceleration burn into orbit. Unless I find a way to ignore it…

The crew had trusted me. That had been their mistake. But now Gerard and the slaves trust me. If they don’t get me what I need, will that trust also be their mistake?

It should be! All I should want is to run. Be safe. Maybe make some easy money on the way. So why is everyone making that so difficult for me? Making me enjoy killing them or twisting me around their desires and wants? Why can’t I just do what I want! It’s not fair!

“Fifty dead men on Death’s dropship, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum. I’ll turn their bodies in for a hint o’ scrip… ” I sing-song to myself with a toothy smile, wishing the clever twist on words and the half-consideration I make towards new verses for the song could actually relieve the weight squeezing around my chest.

“My mate I killed with poison nails, rest with no O-two to inhale, pilot’ll be locked for life in jail…”

It’s funny enough I know I should be laughing at it. Instead it just makes me feel empty. More empty.

I have got the remains of the booze left in my desk, and I can probably find a QwikStim or something else more potent in my men’s belongings if I raccoon through them a little bit. Now might not be the best time to take advantage of something that’d get my mind buggered, but it’d sure be the time that would feel the best!

Acting on autopilot, I open the door to my cabin and stumble inside. It snaps closed behind me, then makes an audible thunk as a magnetic-lock slides into place. Usually I have to do that from—

“That’s far enough.” Sarah says from the opposite end of the room.

I don’t know when she got the delusional idea she could tell me what to do, but—

I freeze and feel my eyes go wide and as I actually process what I’m seeing. Standing behind my desk and the chair behind it, Sarah is staring at me from behind the sights of Arthur’s pistol. She must’ve taken the chance to grab it when I had her lock-up the man’s cabin!

I am an idiot.

That thought repeats itself in my head for the next few seconds as I desperately try to come up with something to do. Maybe if we were still in zero-gee and I had more directions to juke to throw off her aim I could’ve tried rushing her, but with the microgravity from the thrust, I’m stuck charging her on a pretty flat trajectory. Even if it’s a relatively short distance, it’s still suicide. I might be able to get close enough to dig my nails into her, but I’d get chunks taken out of me in the process.

I could try to draw my own pistol, but the gun in her hands is right on me! I’m not going to win that one-sided of a quick-draw competition. All she has to do is squeeze when I make the wrong move and…and suddenly it’s fifty-one dead men on the late Death’s dropship!

My insides stutter in fear that the morbid humor only makes worse, and I just-barely manage to keep from wetting my pants. Is this what the bridge-crew felt like? Or the dozens of other people I’ve held at gunpoint before them? It’s terrible. I shouldn’t be on the receiving end of this!

“Right hand up. Left hand drops the belts. Slowly.” Sarah orders, emphasizing the words with her pistol.

 

[Ridli Scott]

Well... shit.

And she is totally at the bottom of the crash right now.

 

[Laskar]

Ah yes. Time for the real Fedsuns agent to make her move.
(That's the way we're going with this, right?)

In all seriousness, though, if my earlier guess about Sarah isn't correct, I think Lady Death's rampant backstabbery and making-it-up-as-she-goes has convinced Sarah that she can't be trusted, so it's best to eliminate Lady Death before Lady Death considers her collateral damage.

 

[prinCZess]

I swallow and try to buy some time to think before so thoroughly putting myself at someone else’s mercy. Being held at gunpoint is bad enough. Being held at gunpoint with no weapons of my own at-hand? That’s the end of things right there!

“I’m flattered and you’re gorgeous, but I’m not actually that big into—“

Sarah thrusts the pistol towards me, eyes flashing dangerously. She’s going to pull the trigger. I know it! My eyes squeeze closed again and a thin, hot, wet stream slides down both my cheeks and the inside of my legs. So much for Death with dignity.

I’m going to have to come up with a damned-good excuse for all the evil shit I’ve done. ‘It wasn’t me’ isn’t going to fly when it was me.

My heart beats. One of my tears rolls to my chin and drops off it. My pants…I try not to think about. No shot comes.

I creak one eye open. Sarah’s still glaring at me. But she’s confused. She clearly had not been expecting such a reaction. I can use that against her!

With deliberate precision I bring my right hand up, and move my left down my body towards my belts. It’s awkward to remove them with one hand, and made even more difficult by how impossible it is to see through the haze blocking the lower half my vision, but I manage after a few fumbled attempts. I make no effort to hold back the tears now. They’ll make me more convincing.

“Kick them over there.”

I numbly obey. With my leg in the middle of the action, Sarah grabs something off my desk. Before I can take any advantage of the split-second distraction to choose between diving for my pistol or charging her, she tosses a small bottle to me and retrains her weapon on my chest.

“Rub that onto your nails.” She demands, “While you do that, you can tell me who you are.”

That limits my options some more. But if she was going to shoot me, she’d have done it by now. She’s trying to remove my options for defending myself and asking me questions. That means there’s a chance!

Squeezing out some of the antivenom and carefully sliding it onto my nails, I default to the most recent lie I’ve been telling. That it’s so difficult to speak past the lump in my throat and one moment away from sobbing makes it that much better for the right appearance.

“I’m Jane Bond, an agent with the Federated Su—“

Bright-red coherent light sears my eyes for an instant, and a brief wave of heat drafts against the side of my face. I close my eyes and flinch away, bringing my hands up to uselessly cover my face and on the way trying to feel out where on my body I have a new hole. I don’t want to die!

She shot me!

“Next one goes through your chest instead of the wall. No more of that bullshit. You are a pirate from Tortuga, Paula Trevaline.” Sarah says flatly.

The name ignites something in me. Something stupid that I can’t stop before it comes out. “No I’m not! I’m Lady Death!”

She’s not convinced. Because of course she isn’t. I’m not even certain I am. Not when my defense is…that.

Even my biggest argument against the charge of piracy, that I’d turned on my own crew in favor of the Law, wasn’t convincing. Betraying my own crew for personal safety and profit was well-within the realm of things I’d have done. Would do? Am doing? I don’t even know!

I wonder if the reason the greatest pirate-hunters back on 17th-century Terra had been former pirates themselves was a motivation thing. Either their own necks were on the line…Or maybe some of them grew to know stopping their former comrades was the right thing to do? That seemed like a doubtful transformation, going from looting and murder to apprehending people doing the same because of some moral awakening.

But even if that was the case, had they really changed at all if they still enjoyed killing the looters and murderers and taking their stuff?

“I think we should go down to the slave-hold, I put you with what remains of your crew, ‘m’lady’, and Major Gerard decides your fate with all the information.”

“That’s not fa—. But…I’m not a bad person?” I stumble-speak, madly clawing to think-up the best thing to say that would get me some safety. I could try telling the truth, but that’s insane and unbelievable. I could pass-off some bullshit I had half-prepared for this about how I’d had visions of the future, but maybe I shouldn’t pile on even more lies? I might lose track at this pace and I’m scared, and crying, and sick to my stomach, and I’ve peed my pants and…

“Can I clean up first? Please?” I ask, taking the risk to bring one arm down and wipe away my tears. If I just have some time! I can puke, shake in privacy, and maybe I can come up with—

Sarah shakes her head, even if she looks a little less certain of herself than she had a moment ago. “No.”

I hate having smart sla—subordinates. Captors? Maybe by some miracle telling the truth will make me more believable? I don’t want to die! If I get locked-up? That’s all she wrote. It’s just a waiting game from there to the gallows—no backwater Outback world in the Federated Suns is going to bother with a padded-room for the pirate who claims she’s seen the error of her ways because she grew a mental-tumor alternate-personality that was from 21st-century Terra but somehow knew a bunch of bullshit about the 31st! I’m as good as dead, and it’s all because I’d tried to do the damned ‘right thing’ and—

Not even the fear of what Sarah might do or the shame of showing anything in front of her can hold back the explosion of anguish and fear my thoughts cause. I lose track of my immediate surroundings in favor of tears, snot, and sobs as my mind fixates in a way I hadn’t let it since my first night in Gronley’s house.

Through the haze of tears I’m no longer bothering to restrain, I notice Sarah’s lowered the pistol and is staring at me. The immediate thought of how that suits my purposes perfectly only makes everything worse. How am I supposed to convince anyone else I’m a good person when I know I’m not?

I start talking—babbling, more like. Throwing out anything I can think of to see what sticks. I’m not a pirate, I’m a dancer! Not an experienced murderer, a sub-par student out of her depth. A coward who knows the future! But even when I run, those thoughts still interfere. I still love the power? God help me, killing still makes me feel alive! I’m trying to do the right thing. At least now. I had been just running. I’d known what Arthur was, but I’d not let it bother me so long as he benefitted me. I’d seen the slaves on Tortuga but…but they had been mine, and that had made it okay! But Baron Tsanma had been selling his own people into slavery and it makes me a hypocrite but that was wrong and now that I’ve been forced into recognizing it I need to help put a stop to it—here and on Tortuga! But I’m scared. I’m isolated. I don’t know what I’m doing! I’m probably only going to make things worse if I try, or get killed in the process! And I don’t want to die! I’m Lady Death, and I’m a killer, and I don’t want to die because I’m afraid of it? How silly is that!?

I quickly lose track as I start jumping between the different points and repeating them with what little variation in wording my brain is capable of.

 

[Ridli Scott]

She collapsed inside her head, it's very understandable. I would have done the same... in the first chapter.

 

[prinCZess]

The first thing I notice as my wits return is the clinging, rapidly-cooling dampness of my pants where the piss-soaked fabric is pressing up against my skin. At some point of my pathetic, begging collapse I’d dropped onto my knees. I don’t remember doing it, but it fits with who I am. Crumpling at the first hint of personal danger into whatever shape would give me the best chance of survival.

I snort up as much of the mucus coming from my nose as I can and bring one hand up to wipe away some of the dripping mess that covers my face. It lets me notice Sarah isn’t directing the pistol at me anymore. Instead standing a few steps closer and staring at me with an expression I can’t really place. It’s some bizarre mix of fear and wonder and pity that I can’t stand.

Ignoring how it makes me feel though, it’s perfect! A little closer and I can rush her and get the pistol. The shots might be overheard and getting the body to an airlock to dispose of might be a challenge all its own without anyone to help me, but I can worry about that when—

I bow my head, latching onto my own legs with my hands so I don’t do something stupid. My nails tear through the fabric and press against my skin on the verge of drawing blood and give me something else to think about. No matter how hard I snivel I can’t keep from leaking salty garbage from my nose onto my lips.

“You’re serious?” I hear Sarah ask, her voice flat and filled with doubt.

I can’t stop myself. My eyes rise to meet her own while one corner of my mouth rises into a smirk. “Deathly.”

It’s the obviously wrong response. I should give a reason. Make some kind of convincing argument for why she should believe me instead of making the smart choice and shooting me dead to spare herself the risk. She’d even earn herself a hell of a bounty off my corpse even if there is temporary confusion because of my claim of being a federal agent! It’s what I’d do in her position! It’s equal to what I have done already! On Arthur, on Gronley, and on an entire hold worth of pirates that were in the way of my living. I’m in the way of Sarah’s living, so she should just shoot me, and I’m being a wiseass instead of giving her a reason not to!

I’m being stupid. But I can’t bring myself to be smart. It’s too perfect an opportunity! Too bad a joke to pass up! At least I’ll go out amused rather than terrified. Maybe that would count for something in the grand scheme of things. Burning in hell might be easier if I can look back on a pre-death one-liner.

I giggle madly. It’s not really funny. But it kind of is.

For whatever reason, Sarah doesn’t shoot me for the insolence.

“You really plan on going back to Tortuga and freeing everyone?”

A glimmer of hope in the darkness. Naivety I can take advantage of. Whichever, I leap on the opportunity to prolong my life.

“Yes. Of course.” I spit out, almost stumbling over the words in my rush to get them out. But then I have a moment to think about it, “I mean…I guess…”

Guess what?

Hell, maybe honesty would keep helping. I wasn’t dead yet! “I’ve kind of been making this up as I go along and just doing whatever I thought I needed to not die and since you’re holding a gun on me I’m probably exaggerating how much I ‘planned’ to do that. But you have my word that I will! For whatever that’s worth.”

I wince. Should not have added those last words. I’d sound a lot less shifty without them.

Sarah keeps staring at me for an uncomfortable amount of time. A concert worth of different emotions flashes by on her face, the new replacing the old in warring crescendos before I can do much more than guess what each might be. Surprisingly few are the looks of retribution or hatred I had been expecting, though a flat, unreadable glare that returns periodically comes close to imitating them.

She’s clearly hesitating. For whatever silly reason, she’s not shooting me and solving her problem the easiest and most enjoyable way!

I swallow and slowly raise one hand as if I’m a schoolgirl, “I-If you’re okay with it, could I clean up and…change my clothes…and then I’ll-I’ll do whatever you like, answer whatever you like.”

The blonde looks surprised that I spoke, her eyes flash to my legs before she speaks, “Stay there.”

Her pistol comes back up, though not actually onto me, as she steps closer. As she passes nearest me and slides around the edge of the bulkhead I have to turn an urge to tackle her into an awkward knee-shuffle that, I think, just looks like I’m uncomfortable from my wet pants. I can’t attack her. It would be wrong. Right? More importantly, it’d be dangerous and make her lose any doubt she might actually have.

Sarah searches the bathroom with the precision of…a person I’d ordered to clean it for me multiple times. This time there are still weapons in it for her to find. The pistol still directed halfway towards me, she removes a knife from below the sink, the Tortuga scorpion-venom from its place in one drawer, and even the pair of stun microgrenades I kept taped behind the small intersection of pipes near the ceiling. She starts to leave.

It would be so easy to just let her. I could arm myself and everything could go back to how it was supposed to be. With me on top.

In charge. Me in charge.

“There’s a holdout pistol in a false-panel beside the toilet.” I growl out through clenched teeth, having to force every word out through an almost-supernatural urge against speaking.

She finds it quickly enough. The glare she gives me this time as she passes around the corner again is something else. She flicks the pistol in her hand towards the now-weaponless bathroom. Suitably chastised but excited for the chance to live and regain a bit of my hygiene, I stand and shuffle into the other small room with all the dignity that an adult woman who peed herself can.

“I’ll be expecting answers.” My former slave says.

“You’ll have them.” I assure her.

Whether she would like them or believe them is something else. But I need to try. To prove I can tell the truth even. It shouldn’t feel so weird to be honest, should it?

I briefly clean myself up, calling on Sarah to pass me a fresh set of clothes. The five minutes that follow as I explain my lives are the longest of either of them.

 

[prinCZess]

Lay by your Pleading, Law lyes a-bleeding
-The Power (or Dominion) of the Sword, ballad from the English Civil War ​

My spine is buzzing, driving a chill through my body even inside the sauna-like environment of the cockpit. I can’t shake the whisper of foreboding in the back of my head that tells me to expect a bullet from the woman in the jumpseat behind me. It’s not like I haven’t earned exactly that with how I’ve treated her.

I take my hands off the controls and rub them against my cooling vest, resisting the urge to fondle the pistol at my waist for comfort. Thanks to her it doesn’t exist. The sweat does. With the ‘Mech stationary and unfiring, the cockpit hasn’t actually gotten all that hot. But my palms are clammy anyways. I’ve had nothing to do for the last hours but worry about getting shot or worse while me, Sarah, and my Banshee are cooped-up inside the warehouse at the edge of the spaceport. The nervous anxiety and the fear over the silent, armed woman behind me are both gradually turning me into as much of a dripping, messy, bundle of nerves and fear as actual full-on combat probably would.

Or as just getting held at gunpoint would. Maybe not as bad this time. I haven’t peed myself!
Yet.

I gave a slight snort at my own self-deprecating joke, but can’t fully hide the quiver of lingering terror the memory of being so at someone else’s mercy gives—especially when I’m at almost as much of a disadvantage now. I’d convinced Sarah not to shoot me and to keep quiet about my ‘federal agent’ lies in return for assurances that I’d return to Tortuga to free the people I owned who I’d left behind. Whether I convinced her of anything else I’m still not sure of. She’s been frustratingly hard to read since my explanation of the bimbo in my head with memories of schlocky sci-fi that came from the 20th-century.

Who would have guessed? Being a madwoman who thinks they’re the victim of a time-traveling body-hijacker from the past who knows the future because she read about it in sci-fi books is…not exactly the most sane explanation.

But it’s the truth! It’s supposed to set you free and all that! So why don’t I feel free? I just feel like an insane person who’s given up their last tenuous claim on being able to handle their own life. Once again, I’m doing what someone else wants me to just to stay alive in this stupid madworld! Maybe it’s the right thing this time instead of buying slaves off a corrupt ruler, but I’m not doing it because it’s the right thing, I’m doing it so I don’t get shot or punished. Am I really that selfish?

Of course I am.

I can’t place why, but I almost whine at the thought. Sarah’s presence in the cockpit kills the noise while it’s in my throat. I haven’t earned displays of that kind of weakness around her—around anyone. I can’t handle the pity I can tell it’s intentionally trying to evoke, and precisely because it’s a ploy for sympathy I don’t deserve it.

Making up some crap about seeing the future during a jump through space would have been more believable. Or I suppose I could have asked Sarah if she knew much about Multiverse Theory and BS’d about how I was from an alternate universe where I was a wonderful, storybook princess who cared for her people deeply instead of being a pirate-queen who got a kick from murdering them.

I shake away the regrets over lies that could have been. Making certain Sarah didn’t blow my cover had been the important thing at the time, and she had given me a barrel’s-worth of encouragement for my honesty. With my cover intact with everyone else, I at least won’t get hung on this shitty backwater. For whatever it was worth, I also at least know I am capable of telling the truth! If I have to.

I just have to be held at gunpoint for it. What an honest and good person I am! Give yourself a round of applause for your moral character, Lady!

The descent through the atmosphere had, somewhat-surprisingly for a makeshift crew of former-slaves, gone off without a hitch. Thanks to Major Gerard’s orders, testimony from the slaves the Baron had sold to ‘me’, and my own bullshit about being an undercover federal agent, there hadn’t even been any atmospheric interceptor-craft or anti-aircraft fire sent out by the militia to challenge our touchdown just outside the capitol. If anything, Gerard was greeted with excitement and astonishment by comrades who had believed him to be dead because of some intrigue or another in the recent past that I couldn’t be bothered to note the details of. The man had quickly rallied the planetary guard to him on the back of the story and waited for Baron Tsanma’s return from ‘fighting off pirates’.

If everything continued to go well, Gerard would be arresting the Baron shortly. He was supposed to be timing his arrival at the head of a short battalion of militiamen in armored vehicles with the Baron and his bodyguards relaxing in the Ducal Mansion after their lengthy hours of piloting. My Banshee and I aren’t supposed to be needed at all. Present just in case more firepower is needed for the arrest. The coup.

Since the only other MechWarriors on-planet are Gerard’s sworn-men or Timothy and Michelle—‘Lady Death’ the pirate’s sworn-men…

I shift position on the piloting couch. The reminder of my job combined with the knowledge that those two will get hanged in my place…That I’ll get to walk away when I will but don’t deserve to? I know I’ve done worse things than Tim. Less certain of Michelle since she was a late-joiner to Gronley’s crew before mine, but still.

“Redemption for me but not for thee.”

I don’t realize I’m sing-songing the words out loud until I hear them echoing in my ears when they bounce off the cockpit.
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A/N:
I narrate and exposition thoughts way, way too much. Been something I've been trying to improve on, but NaNoWriMo project has made me realize just how atrociously bad I am about it. Gotta edit and work on leaving implication rather than writing everything out and slapping readers over the head with a club.
...So here's an update of me slapping anyone reading over the head with a club!

Self-improvement is hard stuff.