Yonduweek

With it being Yondu week, but focusing on the Ravagers too, though I'd do a flashback to my favourite OC Proctom, at a time when he was exiled by the crew.

The Worst of Times

Proctom slipped quietly from the bunk he shared with Jamsean and Gunnsen and slipped off his bed and into the small shared bathroom. Their beds were closest together since it was common knowledge, they were screwing each other, but Proctom's was further away, where they never had to see him or acknowledge him.

Most nights, Proctom came back to his quarters to either find them locked or one of them just throwing him from the room, using swearing at him in the process. Since then he had become very acquainted with the abandoned secondary bridge, it wasn't like he could ever fight back, or even say anything.

He had abandoned all concept of speaking two years earlier, and only he was spoken to when he was working, and his replied were brief, and then could even earn a decking from another crew member.

He had learned to take it and deserved it, he was in exile, a noting even though he could barely remember the reason why he had committed the most despicable act a Ravager could commit.

When he was lying there, in the Brig, his mind going over everything, remembering the screaming baby, the knife in his hand and the blood. He still didn't know why he had done it, he was drunk, he was often drunk back then, getting drunk was easier, the other Ravagers blotted out the pain through booze why should he be any different.

Proctom had no imagination to take away the pain, all he had were memories and the overwhelming self-loathing of being him, a slave, ex-slave. The brand on his arm was meaningless even if he was free, five years with the Ravages and two in exile had taught him that. And he could just leave, but he had nowhere to go.

Proctom looked at himself in the mirror, dark green eyes similar to Jamsean, who was snoring in the next room, and hair which was dark but had thin streaks of blonde, which could be lighter if he ever went out in the sun but didn't. It was also cut very short, so no one could grab it, but what was left just looked lifeless, Life had sapped all colour from him, and he was just a spectre living on the edge of his own existence.

Even though he was only twenty, he looked and felt older, as pulling his clothes over his scarred body, courtesy of his late master's whip, he left the room and made his way to the mess hall.

At that time of the morning there were only a few Kree crewmembers who were new to the Elector and who did didn't even look at him, and Iztel the main cook, who just looked up, recognised him, gave him a sneer and looked away. Not that he blamed Iztel for that, he was Peter's carer when Proctom had attacked the baby, and when he emerged from the Brig learned that Peter was staying forever.

Proctom had to get used to the boy's constant presence and managed it just by staying out of the babies way, not even talking to him and never being in the same room if he could. None of the crew trusted him, and even though since that day no drop of beer had touched his lips, Proctom wondered if he trusted himself.

Eating alone, since his exile meant that no one would ever speak to him, Proctom was used to the silence, and never questioned it, he deserved everything he got and was still amazed that Yondu didn't kill him, instead he was being punished with being an unperson, a nothing.

Yondu though he was Captain at times to Proctom felt like a Master, who would never abuse him, but let him know he was a nothing, just by ignoring his presence.

Proctom ate quickly and leaving his plate with Iztel who didn't give him a second glance, as he who was talking to Yondu, and Proctom heard the tail end of the sentence.

"Look Yondu, I don't care if you can't spare the crew, I need a fucking Assistant, it's hard enough doing this job as it is"

Proctom didn't hear the reply and just went down to the hanger, and to where his work was, scattered on a large table in a quiet area. Xandarians were social, but he worked along, everyone insisted on that.

He never intended to become any good at maintenance, though he was skilled at other things he had kept hidden and he knew it was too late to bring that up now, especially to Yondu and Kraglin, the latter who had been pissed at him for years and never bother d to hide it.

Getting to work, it was work for the work crew, he had his own M-Ship on loan, but he hardly ever used since he could fly it, but no one wanted to fly with him. But everyone else's work, he did that, was never asked, never said no and was never paid, and he never asked for payment.

However, it did make him wonder how much money he did have since he was getting paid for other things, but being unable to read made that impossible, and if any of the crew had ripped him off somewhere, he didn't blame them.

Proctom just worked for hours, fixing blasters, repairing warp coils for M-Ships, and his hand's grew tired in the process, but he never let up, and just kept working, trying to ignore how wretched he really felt inside.

Sometimes working took him away from all the pain, and someone's it overwhelmed him, to the point he often slipped away to the airlock and just stood there, fighting the urge to just space himself as Yondu should have done two years earlier. But he knew that Yondu had tightened the codes, so Peter couldn't have an accident, and that was impossible. he wondered if he just asked Yarovesky, to do it, would he?

Back then, Yarovesky used to keep an eye on Proctom on the slave ship because he was several years younger, but that was then, and this was now. Maybe he would or wouldn't. Proctom just didn't know, and even though he knew he could never bring that up.

Putting his tools aside after several hours, Proctom was crossing the decks, when he heard the first sounds of blaster fire and shouting, and instantly backed away, his hand searching for his blaster on instinct before he remembered he didn't have one. One of the conditions of his exile, he wasn't to be trusted on the ship, unless he was on a mission.

"Where the hell is that brat", he heard one voice, and he recognised it as one of the new Kree crew, which was then followed by more blaster fire. Proctom would tell where the Kree were just from their echoing footsteps and was just about to run in the opposite direction, when the sight of little Peter Udonta, came running down the deck.

Proctom caught the fearful look in Peter's eyes, and though he was running he wasn't getting far, he was only three after all and Proctom heard the Kree steps getting closer.

Proctom just looked once more, and with no hesitation, ran after the boy.

The End

Please review