The Assassin Aeryn Sun
Disclaimer: Characters property of The Henson Company. Used without permission
Summary: This is a set of four stories addressing the question: What did Aeryn do over her summer vacation? These stories take place after "Dog With Two Bones", and before Aeryn returns to Moya. Includes some violence and sexual content
Thanks to Nymeria, sunshine and sarahjane for beta duties on these stories
Rating: R
1. Better Day
When we're young we set our hearts upon some beautiful idea
Maybe something from a holy book or French philosophia
Upon the thoughts of better men than us we swear by and decree a perfect way to end the war of ways the only way to be a…
Work of art, oh to be a work of art
~~~~"Philosophia", The Guggenheim Grotto
The first shot rips thru the dangling sleeve of her dark blue dress; R'sanna feels it pierce her under her arm, catching flesh like a pinch between cold fingers. Her body spins under a kaleidoscope of green and blue, orange and red. Black builds behind her eyes, screams and curses ring in her ears, warmth ripples through her body, filling her sleeve edge.
Not supposed to be like this.
She breathes the words out, reaches up for Koan's hand. The transition ceremony, the handing off of power from one clan to another, from his hand to hers, her birthright.
Her blood.
Blood.
The hot metal taste bubbles up from the back of her throat, filling her mouth. It spills out over her whitening lips-she tries to catch it in her palm.
Her other hand grapples for the edge of the table, slick hands searching for purchase.
"R'sanna!" Koan's voice floats to her from far away.
She glances up from where she lays on the floor. One arm is twisted under her at an angle, the elbow jutting out in a way that couldn't possibly be right. She reaches out with the other, looking for him, the most trusted councilor of his clansmen; his responsibility to ensure that she received the mantle of leadership in this ceremony, etched into their customs for thousands of cycles.
She turns her body so that her back is flat against the cold tiled floor. Clear broken glass surrounds her head like petals of ice covered flower.
Sixteen cycles…I'm only sixteen cycles…I'm supposed to last a lifetime, a hundred cycles of rule…my legacy...
"Koan…" Her voice is a whisper in her ear.
He looms over her, face shaded with one hand over half of it; she can only see one clear black eye. He's standing upright, uninjured.
He shakes his head. "I'm sorry."
He walks over her prone body. She turns her head, right, left…the room is quiet, other bodies scattered like discarded meat. The white floors have turned pink with blood and wine, the blue of her clan's colors turning black with their blood.
She coughs but the effort doesn't even clear her chest.
Koan…he stands near two figures clad in the bright red of his clan. Man and woman; he's gesturing, hands wild in the air, fingers weaving through his long, black hair. Her vision is darkening but she sees the money exchange hands.
I'm supposed to last a lifetime…
The sharp, spicy smell of chakkan oil fills her nostrils, saturates her skin and hair. Aeryn Sun's black boots peek out from the red cloak of their employer's clansmen-rifle at her side, barrel down, an extension of her arm.
The girl lies dead at her feet; girl, because she can't be much more than a child. Her blue eyes, set in Sebacean-like features, stare up at Aeryn, their light gone. The girl's gown is rucked up near her hips; Aeryn crouches, rearranges the garment so that it covers the girl to her feet.
Blood. So much blood.
She resists the urge to vomit, swallows hard, choking back something that isn't supposed to live inside her anymore. Her hand moves towards the girl's eyes and then she's yanked to her feet by a pair of rough hands.
"First kill, Sun?" Braden's voice is low and harsh, his breath hot against her ear. "You'll get used to it."
"A girl…she's a girl…"
"She would have become a murderer," he says. "Anyway, it's not your problem. It's the job, Sun. It's done. Let's get the frell out of here. That frellnik Koan won't hold them off forever."
Her feet shuffle behind him, her head turned.
Just a girl.
It's not supposed to be like this.
She turns away.
2. Wake Up
There's no love
No money
No thrill anymore
~~~Alanis Morisette, "Wake Up"
"Frelling and fighting, eh, Sun?" He pushed his way into the room as she opened the door, kicked it shut behind him then grabbed her and pulled her to him. His breath was hot in her ear, muscled arms tight around her body.
He maneuvered her across the room, toward the bed. She pushed him away, her hands flat against his chest. He stumbled backwards onto the bed, bracing himself with his hands to keep from falling. He'd found her, finally, in the room she'd secured for herself. She'd been here before; nothing had changed.
"What took you so long?" she said. She had four arns and his delays, whatever they'd been, had cut into that time by two.
He had a reputation: kill, frell, kill, frell…sometimes both, if the mood struck him.
She had a reputation herself. She didn't give a damn.
Graffiti colored the walls, the smell of decay wafting in through the open windows, eating away at her senses. There were sounds outside the door: moaning, cursing, fighting, the lilt of varying accents hammering in her skull.
She moved to the broken dresser. One of the drawer panels was cracked, possessions, remnants of the room's last tenant. She slid the drawer open, pulled out an empty holster, and a torn, blood stained white t-shirt. The holster was too small to have held a pulse pistol and the blood stains were spattered across the drawer as well. Someone had already bled in here.
He sat back on the bed; she turned her head. He'd removed his jacket and black t-shirt, was watching her, a grin on his face. It was the same look he wore when he did a job, a mixture of anticipation and future satisfaction. He was the kind who would make his victims beg for their lives then shoot anyway, the loose cannon on the team.
When they'd found him over the body of the daughter of their last target, his pants unbuckled, an emptiness in his dark eyes, they'd decided his carelessness would cost them: a target, a life, a mission.
"Collateral damage," he'd said with a shrug. Their squad leader and another man had pulled him up and away.
"I knew you'd eventually come around to it," he said. "I knew the minute I saw you. You have that look."
"What look is that?" she said.
Her fingers played in her hair, unwinding the braid until her loose hair hung down her back, almost to her waist. Sometimes, she'd go slowly on this part, feel her fingers grazing her scalp, lingering over each strand. If she closed her eyes tightly enough, she could imagine leaning into John, his breath warm on her neck, fingers working their way over her neck and shoulders.
Eventually, she'd come around to it. John had known that, he'd told the other as much: she takes time.
She turned away, glanced at her reflection in the cracked mirror that hung over the dresser. No one stayed here long. She knew that already. It had been the perfect place for this squad to settle any lingering disputes, drink or frell themselves into oblivion, then move onto the next place.
The assassination squad wasn't like being a Peacekeeper, the way she had once imagined, and it wasn't being free. It was a messy trap that kept you locked in a cage of your own making, a cycle of behavior…kill, frell, drink, drink, frell, kill…the only ties being the loyalty to your team and the focus on the mission.
That was what had appealed to her: mission. The idea that loyalty, sacrifice and honor might still be a code to cling to. And, like the Peacekeepers, no need for independent thought, for emotional entanglements. Someone to tell you when to wake up, when to sleep, when to eat, when to reduce fluids. Where to fight and where to die.
It wasn't that at all, of course; it was undisciplined and dirty, half the squad ex-Peacekeepers with a vendetta against someone else, the other half an assortment of mercenaries for whom killing was its own reward.
Every man for himself.
She…she did the job as prescribed, knew that whatever death she brought was a tradeoff for the other thousands of lives it might save. Everything was a choice. None of them were easy.
This one, this man, Ran'du…this one was just another choice.
Loyalty, honor, sacrifice…
She'd removed the long leather coat she'd taken to wearing, the Peacekeeper colors of black and red, her attempt to cling to something familiar that didn't hurt. The rest of the hurt wouldn't go away, no matter how many shots she fired or lives she saved.
At first she'd thought it was her punishment for going against her breeding and duty: once a Peacekeeper, always a Peacekeeper. Now, she knew that was folly. It was fate, fate that John Crichton would die in a flash of radiation, fate that he'd have a double waiting for her on Moya. Fate that she'd won the coin toss.
You once said it was as if the fates meant for us to be together….
And I believe that!
Well, then, if it's true, we will be together again…
No. She couldn't leave it to fate anymore. When this was done…when she returned to Moya, it would be by choice, not random chance. It would be his choice to accept it.
"The one that says I need to get frelled." Ran'du's laugh brought her back to now. "Come on, Sun." He spread his arms wide, showing off a smooth, hairless chest. "Look at what you've been missing."
Her eyes slid to him, sitting there with this leather pants already unbuckled. He was pale and thickly muscled, with short cropped light brown hair, full lips and dark eyes. Sometimes he appeared to her to be an amalgamation of everyone she'd ever known, like parts of them had taken up residence in this person, body reminding her of one, dark eyes reminding her of another.
Careless, he was so careless, no thought to consequences, no thought to fate. It was easy enough to hate him, and easy enough to frell him if she had to.
"You're taking too much time," he said. His voice had an edge to it; physically, she was no match for him. "I've seen you in the showers. I know what I'm missing."
He got up off the bed, slid his pants to the floor. He was naked, growing hard.
She turned and walked toward the fresher. It smelled like it hadn't been cleaned in cycles. One more mission and then she was finished.
"Hey!" He grabbed her arm, pulled her in and tried to kiss her.
She put her palm under his chin and pushed him back. "I told you. Don't touch me like that again. You'll get what you want."
"Let's see it, then."
She pulled her tank top over her head, shook her hair out again, watching as his face split into a hungry grin. He looked like an animal; any notion she had of him reminding her of anyone else disappeared with that grin. She took another step back toward the shower, unbuckling her leathers when she stopped.
"Come on," he said. "The rest of it."
She shed her bra and underpants, leaving them in a trail to the shower.
She kept her voice light, playful "You like showers?" She reached in and turned on the water, felt it flow coolly over her fingers.
"Yeah." He stood alongside her, his hand running over her shoulders, to her breasts.
She didn't flinch. Cycles ago it would have been so easy to push him up against a wall, let him enter her, hard, until they both climaxed. It would have taken microts. Life would have gone on.
It wasn't that simple anymore, not since she'd found herself on Moya, a consequence of her own desire to distinguish herself in Captain Crais' eyes.
"Say it, Sun. Say you want me to frell you." He moved in close to her, rough hands on her breasts, on her body.
She said nothing, just grabbed him by the arm, pulling him into the shower with her. The water hit them both with a splash. He looked momentarily disoriented then smiled again.
She pushed him up against the wall, under a small window. He wrapped his arms around her, cupped her ass and pulled her to him. He forced her mouth open with his tongue, kissing her deeply, invading her. Water poured down over their faces, into their open mouths. She felt something deep and tight in her chest. She tried to push him away, tried to breathe but his grip on her was more insistent.
She was drowning.
"You like that?" he said against her mouth.
She reached down; felt him hard against her leg. She stroked him, and he pulled away just a little, just enough so that she could breathe. The panic was spreading; the tightness in her chest hadn't gone away. It sat there, reminding her how easy it was to die.
"Frell me," she whispered into his ear.
She guided him inside her, felt him pumping hard into her. She reached up to the window ledge, the cool hilt secure in her slick hands. He stiffened. She heard him moan against her throat, his body shuddering with his climax.
She brought the knife down into the artery in his neck. He growled low in his throat, an animal surprised by the pain. She pulled her head back, trying to avoid the geyser of blood from his wound as she forced the knife in deeper.
He looked at her, a panic in his eyes as he tried to push her away but she was stronger now. Her lungs opened, letting in air again as his blood flowed coolly over her palm.
His hands had dropped away from her body; she tried to catch him but he slipped away from her and thudded to the floor of the shower. She looked down. He was slumped against the wall, mouth slack, eyes open. The floor was dark with his blood; she watched as it circled toward the drain, fading as the water diluted it.
She stepped directly under the shower head, turned the water as warm as she could stand it. On the ledge, next to where she'd placed the knife, was a cake of soap. She took it in her hands, rubbed it until the foam covered her skin, scrubbed at it until she thought that it was her blood drying under her nails, not his.
Hands through her hair, rubbing at her scalp; the water flowed down her back and puddled around her feet. The drain had clogged, the water was rising to her ankles. She continued; soaped her body, breasts where he'd touched her, removing every bit of him that she could.
When she was finished, she turned off the water and reached out for the ragged towel that hung on the wall. She wrapped it around her body tightly and stepped out, closing the fresher door behind her.
She had promised the diagnosan a fresh body in four arns, had given him the room number and had told him the door would be unlocked. He'd already paid her, in spite of his associate's protests, another greasy Grunschlk-like companion who'd stopped negotiating price as soon as she'd pressed her pistol to his forehead.
They'd even paid in advance.
"Services paid, services rendered," she'd told them.
Less than two arns now. She dried off quickly, and plucked her clothes off the floor then placed them on the old broken dresser.
Her reflection wasn't what she'd expected when she looked in the mirror; inside she felt bottled up, tight without any hope of release. Outside, she was wild eyed and naked, hair hanging wetly around her shoulders.
She looked away.
"Have you allowed yourself to fall so far, Aeryn Sun? Is this where my life has brought you?"
What the frell?
Caught in the faint light coming in off the street was a shadow; it appeared to gaze out the open window, ensnared in the myriad sick sweet smells coming in on the breeze, the kaleidoscope of lights reflecting nothing against it.
"Go away." She brought her hands back, started braiding her hair. In the mirror, she saw the shadow move, though it still hadn't taken any actual form. She didn't need to see it to know.
"This is a ruse," she said.
"Is it? You've been here before, Aeryn. Stark told me."
"Stark." Her derisive laugh caught in her throat as Zhaan stepped into the light. There was nothing changed about her, nothing brilliant. Just Zhaan, beautiful blue.
"It's what his death has brought me," Aeryn said. "To answer your question."
Zhaan shook her head, stared out the window. "Take this gift." She turned to face Aeryn. "Not for my sake. Not for his. For yours, and the life you carry inside."
The shadow was gone.
She blinked, then closed her eyes and braced both hands flat against the dresser to support her weight.
Chest tight and heavy, head like it would explode, body covered in ice. Cold, never so cold before. Later, a fire inside her: life.
She pushed away from the dresser, stumbled to the bed, fighting back a rising tide of nausea that was threatening to sweep her away. She fell to the bed, eyes shut.
His fingers ghosted her skin, breath warm against her neck, voice playful and teasing…"You can't bring me back…"
She knew that; she realized that wasn't the point at all anymore.
The wind fluttered in through the window, chilling her, and a voice sounded over her comms. The sound made her jump.
"Sun?"
She rolled onto her back, tapped the comm from where it lay on the bedside table. "Mission accomplished."
"Fantastic! You realize—"
She tapped the comm silent.
Mission accomplished.
3. Doesn't Remind Me
Took my love and I took it down
Climbed a mountain, and I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills
Till the landslide brought me down
~~~Fleetwood Mac, "Landslide"
"It's over."
Subversions.
Deceptions.
She looks up at him from the corner where she sits at a crudely wrought stone table. Blood, pieces of bone and flesh, mat the hem of the long beige gown she wears.
The tavern cleared after the shooting began. In this lawless back end of the universe, no one came to clean up the mess. Bodies are strewn across the floor, over tables dripping blood and raslak. One face stares at her, eyes open.
A child. He couldn't have been much older than sixteen cycles, pale hair, dark skin. In life, his eyes carried nothing but hate; as she peppered the room with shots, he drew a gun but she was faster. His eyes locked on hers for that one microt before she released the trigger then he fell onto a table in front of him.
His choice; death was his only release. With these slavers, once in, it was done. Whether he'd been conscripted or volunteered, it all ended the same. He fought for them, he died with them.
Thanks to her squad, the prizes had been set free, returned to a waiting cargo ship that would take them back to a planet far out of the slavers' purview. It wasn't a perfect solution—they were refugees now—but they were free.
Free.
And in some agrarian community, the slavers would find another batch of prizes for the taking.
She pulls the hem of her gown up, takes a knife from her boot and cuts the cloth away.
Lechna stands over her. His light brown hair curls over his forehead and casts a shadow across his eyes. He looks so young and clean, his commando uniform unsullied, his face smooth. She hears his fingers tap his pulse pistol, watches as he gazes across the darkening room; the mission was timed to coincide with the planet's setting sun.
His face breaks out in a smile.
Only two of them had done the tavern job, she and one other who'd already gone down the street where the raslak was still flowing and people had gone back to their business.
"Join me," Rina said.
Rina's gown remained clean; Aeryn isn't sure how she'd managed to get herself so dirty.
But Aeryn shook her head. "Go. I'll wait for Lechna."
Rina gave her a knowing smile, and a nod. "I'll drink to you." She left the tavern, hand in the air like she was holding a glass of raslak.
"Well done," he says. He's still smiling as he slides into the chair across from her. "I'm waiting for a transmission—"
"No. I mean all of it." She sweeps her outstretched hand over the room.
"They'll clean it up—"
"Lechna…" She faces him, reaches over, runs a quick hand over his face. "I'm finished."
He pulls back a little, his smile shrinking like he's not sure he gets the joke. "There's another mission, much like this one. You don't really want to see the slavers pick up a bunch of kids, do you? Look at this place. You don't miss."
She laughs. It's a brittle sound, discordant among the bodies. The smells are stronger now: rich, meaty, rotten.
"No." She shakes her head slowly. "No. Rina can do it alone. No."
"Listen, Aeryn, we need you here…" He reaches across the table, runs his hand over her hair, then he's on his feet, pulling her to him.
His lips are insistent on hers, arms around her, crushing her to him. She gives in to it, feels the warmth spreading through her body.
"Upstairs," she whispers against his lips. "There's a room upstairs."
"Here," he says. He pushes her onto the table top, pulls up the remains of her dress.
His hands are warm on her body, sliding from her shoulders to the small of her back, pulling her to him. Lips soft on the shell of her ear, trailing along her jawline to her mouth. When he enters her it's slow, a fusing of bodies; like unity, a sharing of mind and souls. Her legs wrap around him, sliding him into her like the two of them can meld into one thing.
"Aeryn." The voice is suddenly unfamiliar, breath hot against her ear.
Her hips move with his, her legs tight around him, close.
But she feels lost and unsure, eyes shut, conjuring up something that she knows exists apart from her.
If I close my eyes tight enough, I can pretend you're someone else.
Her climax catches her by surprise; she opens her eyes. A man she hardly recognizes looks down at her, expression relaxed, then pushes away and adjusts his trousers.
Reduction of fluids.
Done.
He moves off to the corner at the sound of the comm attached to his uniform.
She sits up, then stands. She's suddenly disoriented; the metallic smell of death brings her back to reality. Lechna faces outward, a comm in his hand. She doesn't catch any of the words.
"Aeryn!" He turns to her. "You have one more mission. That's the best I can do. The brief will be sent to your Prowler." His face softens a little. "You're sure?"
She nods. "Yes."
He returns the nod. "I won't see you again. Good fortune." She watches him pick his way over the bodies and out the door without a glance backward.
She stoops to grab her holster from under the table, raises her dress to strap it on, takes her pulse pistol in her hand. Its heft is the one sure thing.
The dead boy's hand is curled in a loose fist, his pistol just short of his reach. She approaches him, then lifts him under both arms; he's smaller and lighter than he appeared with a gun in his hand.
She positions him away from the others, kneels, closes his eyes. How different was this, really, from being a Peacekeeper?
Where to fight and where to die.
Sometimes we keep making the same mistakes.
If you had lived, perhaps I could have truly changed…
You are gone.
I am what I was bred to be.
Subversions.
Deceptions.
Her leathers are in the Prowler; right now all she really wants is to shower, wash away the blood, wash away Lechna… put on her leathers, feel the way they mold to her skin, hear each buckle of her boots snap into place, her pistol firm in its holster.
Aeryn…Crichton loved you. He wouldn't want his death to bring you here.
She closes her eyes, sees Rygel hovering in front of her, scared grotless, his tiny hands clutching the armrests of his thronesled.
Feels the wind in her face like a cold slap. On the ledge, infinity in front of her.
Aeryn. Come here…
Dead history standing behind her, beckoning.
Well, there's a familiar face…
The future standing before her.
She opens her eyes, stares out a fragmented window, hears the splintered shutter bang against the building's façade.
The room is almost pitch now; the howling wind overpowers the din of voices outside, the roof groaning in protest.
The boy's comrades will return under the full moon to retrieve their troops and prizes; they'll find neither.
Her time is running short.
She strides over the bodies, careful not to step on anything, even in the darkness. The tavern's door flies loose in her hand as a gust of wind sweeps past her, sending dust and soot into her face. Something's burning outside; the glow lights up the dark sky, sends an orange cast over the bystanders who stare, transfixed, as flames arc upwards.
The perfect distraction.
Head turned toward the fire, she moves in the direction of the Prowler. Two steps and the toe of her boot hits an object lying in her path. She holds her hands out, reaching for nothing, and stumbles to one knee. She looks down at the beige gown fluttering in the wind, the woman's face covered in blood from a wound to her head. It's not a pulse blast; she can see where the skull is caved in.
But it's not enough to mar the identity, not in the harsh light of the fire. Rina's dark eyes are open, her mouth frozen in a look of perpetual surprise.
Aeryn touches the face. The blood's cool, fresh. She takes a quick look around, her hand still firm on the pistol's grip, eyes adjusting to the ebb and flow of the fire's light.
She fought for them. She died for them.
She scrambles to her feet, pistol gripped with both hands.
No one.
She breaks into a run, legs pumping, lungs sucking in air filled with smoke and dust. Behind her are screams, people asking for help in fighting the fire, in recovering those still trapped inside but she keeps running until the voices are silenced in the rush of blood to her head.
The Prowler sits in a spaceport among other battered ships; it's old and battle scarred and looks like it was made from scrap. There's nothing about it that's suspicious, not among the other heaps of old ships. She keys in a code, steps back as she waits for the steps. Then she's up and inside the cockpit, buckling in even as she alights from the landing area.
Another forty eight arns and she has no time to sleep. She left her sole companion on this mission lying dead in the streets.
She reaches for the stimulants that she's assiduously avoided; they're for weaklings or fools, people too careless to see the possible dangers lying in wait.
Tired, so tired.
Every muscle aches, her head is pounding; when she closes her eyes, she only sees fire and blood, the life as it leaves John's eyes.
She cracks open the capsule, inhales its contents and leans her head back, feels the chemical flow through her body. Her eyes are open; she swears she can still see the flames from the planet below dance against the starlit sky but she's too far away.
"John." She runs her hands through her hair, feels the sensation drill through her. She can see him now, standing in front of her, bathed in the dreary light of his Earth, the way his profile cuts through the haze as she sits on the bed, drinking beer.
Tastes like fellip nectar…Fellip's a creature from Tarsus—
Aeryn… just drink the beer…
So beautiful…
She's wide awake, alert, letting the images comfort and torment her: with John that first night, his hands on her body, running through her hair even as her mind denied what was taking place. Holding him beside her as Scorpius raged in his head. On fire as she sank to her knees in the maintenance bay, his hands on her hair, lips crushed against hers.
"Vector is set, mission brief for the Prime Hokathian…"
The bland voice of an unseen commander breaks through her memories. One more mission. She dismisses the memories, focuses on the brief.
Then it will all be over.
4-In the Blood
Maybe there is a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
~~"Hallelujah" Brandi Carlile
There's a pistol in her hand, unfamiliar, heavier than she's used to. She's dressed in the robes of the Hokathian guard, black, enveloping, covering all but her eyes. Under these, it's difficult to determine if the wearer is male or female, guard or betrayer.
She's banking on it.
The signal comes, a shout from the comrade to her left. She'd barely known his name; can't remember it now as she's firing, as the shots ring out alongside her. The Prime Hokathian falls dead, body tumbling end over end from the top of the risers. She glances over her shoulder as she runs toward the door, robes fluttering behind her, the pistol slipping from her hands into a receptacle near the door.
She sees him land like nothing more than a heap of clothing, his features barely visible as the room around him becomes a cacophony of screams and curses.
"Left, left!" Someone shouts, and she veers and gets lost in the crowds streaming in and out. Something pricks her at the join of neck and shoulder where the robe has fallen away as she bumps her way past the throng.
She leaves the robe in an alleyway. The mission had gone as planned but she feels like something's off. The pain in her muscle niggles at her, whispering wrong, wrong, wrong…She's been through enough missions to know the grim satisfaction of success, not this cold uncertainty.
Her own pistol is secure against her leather clad thighs. She taps it like a talisman, her remaining tie to something she'd left behind.
Her contract is fulfilled; she's released from its services with an extracted promise that she not divulge any of their contacts or secrets, limited as she is in their knowledge. She's lived up to her vow to them, promises delivered and sealed.
She knows it's time.
She's lost, the forest spinning around her, greens and blues and orange, black, the prowler covered in brush. She's trod this path over and over; looks at her boot tracks laid down in the mud like a child had gone behind her, jumping into her boot steps just to tease her into getting lost.
Someone's frelling with her. Her muscles tremble as she reaches for the pistol, pulls it from her holster and slings it in front of her, aim unsteady.
"Who's there?" Her voice is raspy, unused. It's hot here, too hot; she hadn't remembered the heat from reconnaissance of this planet, or from the entrance to the chambers of the Hokathian Justice Hall
…justice hall? Slaughtering the peoples of the northern provinces? Broadcasting the vid that showed corpses rotting—children, elderly, families—to the southern provinces; a warning, a threat, a reward?
Her commander had told her in response: "Not your fight, Sun. Do your job. That's sufficient."
The rage had broiled inside her at the images, had steadied her hand. She's summoning them now but it's hot, and the rage is coursing through her body.
John.
"Good bye, John Crichton…"
Hot, blue swirling in her eyes. The images taunt her: John's expression hard on her, a coin drifting in the air between them, drawing her gaze upward, away from his.
John's cold flesh against her lips, muscles rigid in the body beside her.
The cool interior of a command carrier, empty/full of life, an inert vessel juxtaposed against Moya's warmth that pulses through her blood.
She knows where she belongs. Has known it from the moment she followed a ship into starburst. Someplace else, someone else.
I don't know how to live someplace else.
But she'd learned, layers of skin shed until something new emerged.
She's not going to lose herself here in some hot, musty world where her last act is retribution. No.
She stumbles, hands outstretched, eyes blurred with tears. Her head pounds with every step through the brush…small animals scurry underneath her boots, the snap of broken branches and vines echoes in her ears.
It's an accident when she finds it, canopy up, ladder out. Her foot slips on the first rung as she holsters the pistol, and she catches herself with her free hand.
She manages to throw herself into the cockpit, half falling into her seat. Instinctively she buckles in, checks her readings, and brings the Prowler to life; leaves the planet in the distance behind her.
When the Marauder lights up her cockpit array, she doesn't notice it, head lolling against the back of her seat. She's shed her clothing, can't remember when or where; she's nearly naked, legs sprawled in front of her, hands limp on the controls as she feels a tug near hammond side like the ship's being pulled out from under her.
Atmospherics are at optimum but she knows these symptoms.
Hands grasping at gold thermal blankets between your fingers, a hand in your hair, warm, too close, blue eyes looking into yours, more promises, cold water running over your head, down your back, shivering…
Not really remembering.
She's fighting for air, chest tight and lungs closing fast under the pressure of an elastic band that's been wrapped too tight, somewhere else in a chair, free falling, hands slapping at cold water...
...clinging to the cold; lungs on fire, head on fire, until she feels like she's going to combust, every organ stretching against the confines of her body until she simply expodes like a star going supernova.
It's quiet, a hum in her ear, her body encased in something cool. The hum reminds her of Moya but it sends a chill through her. Her eyes blink against ambient lighting, blue tinted, not amber.
The heat's gone but there's pain where her clothing binds her from head to foot, neck rigid, a strip of leather bracing against the bridge of her nose and under her chin like glue holding her together. If she removes one piece, moves, she'll come undone completely.
But she can breathe, the elastic inside her chest released, and the pain is not much more than a low thrum through her body.
Sounds filter through the muffling around her ears, purposeful footsteps behind her. She can't move enough to see anywhere but up, can't lift her body off the bed.
"Where…" The word drops out of her mouth and she can't seem to manage anything more.
"Officer Sun."
She tries to sit up; her heel moves feebly, right foot trying to twitch into action to leverage her out of bed. Her hands seem frozen to her side, unrestrained. All she can move are her eyes; she uses them now, taking in as much as she's able.
Steel beams, familiar weapons array to her right and slightly overhead.
The voice is unmistakable.
"Oh, you'll be fine, I assure you." He looms over her, not much more than a blur of black, a speck of white in her gauzy vision.
Inside she's thrashing; outside, motionless.
"No."
"You're most difficult to track, but certainly much easier than Crichton." He lays a gloved hand against her cheek, traces his fingers to her jaw. "No need to thank me, Aeryn…May I call you Aeryn? Certainly 'Officer Sun' is too formal for our new arrangement."
She reaches up, force of will the only thing fueling her, wraps a weakened hand around his wrist.
"Bravo," he says. "You've regained a bit of strength."
"We…we have no arrangement."
"Ah, the heat delirium has quite affected you, hasn't it. I am the difference between life and death to you. I'd say one act of kindness deserves one in return. I'll accept safe passage onto Moya as an adequate thank you."
Heat delirium. Of course. This is a dream, a nightmare that she would be at his disposal. She wants to move her hands to her stomach, to protect what's there. It's still in stasis but she can't remember, isn't sure, if he'd have the means to discover what she's protecting.
…so many things to protect, secrets and promises.
"Frell you."
"You and I have common purpose, Aeryn, as well as a common bond." He runs a smooth hand over her head, takes her hand into his, holding it up to her face. "You see?"
Two hands joined, hers in his, black gloved. He removes her glove, puts her hand to her head, runs her palm over it.
She closes her eyes, stomach sick. She turns to her side, vomits over the side of the bed, more bile rising in her throat as she vomits again, shivering.
"I saved your life," he repeats. "And now we're both going to save Crichton's."
#END#