So I feel like this is more on par with the updates you guys are accustomed to length- and quality-wise (thankfully). Developments are incoming!
I promise the boys will be back in the next chapter =)
Perspiration rolled down the back of her neck, soaking into the collar of her already damp robe. The thin fabric clung to her shoulders and back uncomfortably as she wrestled with tools too large for her grip, attempting to meld a blade from the unfamiliar metal alloy she had been presented with. The strip of cloth she'd wound around her palm when her hand had slipped the first time was already soaked through with blood, which did nothing to improve her dexterity. Swiping back another braid which had worked its way loose from the knot she'd tied them into, Jaele dropped the sorry excuse for a knife onto her work station and huffed a small breath.
All around her Yautja of both genders continued on with their own projects, paying her little notice now that the initial novelty of her presence had worn off. She'd been pulled from laundry duty without warning earlier that morning and brought here, to what she presumed to be the dedicated weapons and armor crafting workshop for the ship. The male who had led her had explained nothing of what was expected of her, only grunted and pointed to the station and left again.
Staring down at the laughable lack of progress she'd made in the preceding hours, Jaele felt her throat tighten. The edge was as far from refined as possible, the unfamiliar metal light but proving unbelievably difficult to shape. The size of the blade she was attempting to forge was much of the problem. It was longer than her arm and unwieldy. The right size for a Hunter, but too large for her to manipulate as she normally might. It didn't help matters that she hadn't precisely crafted a weapon before, just statues and figurines. She knew the basics, but she was no weaponsmith.
Swallowing past the anxiety inducing hopelessness which had been building since she'd been left there without instruction, she glanced to the others again. They laboured diligently - competently. Unlike her, they knew their worth. It was apparent in their work. Intricate wrist gauntlets, the serrated blades housed within them, and various other pieces of equipment were being skillfully designed and fabricated at their stations while she struggled to turn out a simple knife. An ugly thing no Yautja would ever wish to carry, nevermind utilize.
That was the issue, she realized. It was bulky and awkward. Zihrait's blade had been hefty, but at the same time there had been a fluidity and beauty to its unadorned design.
Jaele looked down again. Without giving herself the opportunity to regret it, she grasped one of the cutting torches and envisioned the area she needed to remove to debulk the sorry excuse for a weapon. The other Yautja had helmets with tinted visors to protect their eyes from the bright glow of the torch, but since their heads were not of similar proportions to hers, she made do with squeezing her eyes shut and hoping for the best. It didn't always pan out how she wanted, but she did the best she could to taper the knife into a more moderate silhouette and then used the files to more accurately fashion the lines she was envisioning.
It took a long time. Her arms were quivering and weak by the time the last of the other smiths abandoned their station. Alone, she worked on honing the edge with feverish determination, drawing the sharpening tool down its length again and again and again while her back was screaming in protest. Without anything appropriate to test its cutting ability with, she settled on severing pieces from her makeshift bandage in order to discern which areas needed further refining.
Next she moved back to the handle, attempting to smooth it into a comfortable grip, but with no real reference to the size hand which would ultimately be wielding it. She did her best to imagine Zihrait's taloned hand, to picture how he'd held his own knife, and made adjustments as she felt necessary.
When the door slid open, she was so absorbed in what she was doing it almost didn't register. The towering dark figure which approached from her peripherals was enough to startle her back to the moment, however, and she jerked back from her work with a sharp inhale before recovering at the sight of the leader.
He moved in silence despite his stature. His gaze travelled from her to the unfinished blade still held in the vice mounted upon the workstation, giving nothing away.
Justification for the odd design died on her lips as he reached out without preamble and retrieved the weapon from the vice, testing it first for balance and then for how well it fit within his grasp.
Jaele's heart stuttered to a stop as she strained to ascertain even the slightest indication of his opinion of her work, but his mandibles remained relaxed and his eyes were as devoid of emotion as always. He switched grips from forward to backward facing a few times, doing so with such speed that she found the movement difficult to follow, and the smallest of rumbles followed. Then his golden eyes returned to her and she felt the full weight of his impending decision bearing down upon her.
He stepped forward and his talons swept up towards her face, forcing a reactionary blink of surprise. Drawing forth one of the loose braids, he pinched it between his index finger and thumb so that it formed a loop and raised her knife up, setting the edge to her hair. Far from protesting, she watched in rapt anticipation as he pulled the loop tight over the blade and held her breath.
When it sliced cleanly through the braid with barely a tug against her scalp, Jaele had to refrain from a whoop of pure joy and relief.
The male twirled the severed end between his fingers and then tossed it onto the work station with another rumble, this one louder. The abruptness with which he then slammed the knife down into the surface of the bench and the resulting crunch of rending metal caused her entire body to seize in shock. Cold assessing eyes slid over the blade as he jerked it free again, his tusks clicking as he did so.
There was a distinct knick now marring the edge she had worked so tirelessly on and her heart hammered frantically against her ribcage in response. Her mouth ran dry.
He was going to send her back to the 'aseigan. Or worse.
She was useless.
After an indeterminable moment, he lifted his biomask from his belt and donned it. His voice was as gravelly and harsh as she'd recalled. "Your skills are unimpressive but perhaps of some value if improved upon. You may stay and labour with the artisans for now." The knife clattered onto the table, precipitating her first real breath since he'd entered the space. "Choose a vacant cabin on this level. Do not make a burden of yourself, 'ooman female."
Jaele stared at his broad shoulders as he left, too overwrought and stunned to reply.
She'd given up struggling against the restraints. She was barely coordinated enough to do more than vainly jangle the magcuffs holding her captive to the examination table anyway. Whatever had been in that jet injector they'd pinned her down and administered had been potent enough to render her a vegetable, unable to control even the most minute bodily function.
Someone kept putting drops in her eyes, making her vision increasingly blurry - the figure only a vague blob which encroached and then receded without saying anything. Not that she could speak beyond some weird and incoherent throat sounds. Her tongue felt as though it was slowly rolling down her esophagus, suffocating her centimeter by centimeter.
What a way to die. Riot would be disgusted.
He wasn't going to be too jazzed about being an involuntary sperm donor either, Pheist figured. She entertained notions of how the androids might plan on going about forcing said donations to amuse herself while she waited to eventually choke on her own tongue.
There was probably some irony in it considering her smart mouth's propensity for getting her into difficulty.
Something shuffled near her head and a light shone into her eyes. "It's taking longer than expected for the sedative to work its way out of your system, sorry. I told them it wasn't dosed appropriately. Can you talk yet?"
Pheist grunted in answer to the feminine voice. None of the androids up til now had been overtly female but they were likely programmed with multiple vocalization options.
"I don't have a reversal, unfortunately. It should soon wear off." The light switched off again. "Your vision shouldn't be affected, at least."
Was that supposed to make her feel better?
More noises from nearby indicated whoever it was had moved away again and was doing something.
Summoning every ounce of determination, Pheist blinked. Then once more, and again. As her vision began to resolve into more distinct shapes, she noted she was in a different area than any she'd previously seen. It had the atmosphere of a medical facility despite the fact she knew she must still be on the same station they'd been transported to. She would have recognized space travel even in her vegetative state. Though if the intended project was production of human-Yautja hybrids via artificial insemination, that would require the use of some medical facilities. The resurging fury of being used as some kind of brood animal gave her the wherewithal required to lift her head for a better look.
Utilitarian gray walls encompassed a fair sized room bordered by several pieces of medical equipment of the very expensive looking variety. A dark haired individual stood next to one of them, studying some readout or other on the monitor. Features were still indistinguishable and her head thudded back down onto the table, unable to hold it up any longer.
This must have drawn the other's attention, however, since she shifted back into Pheist's line of sight. "I heard you broke W-181. I always got the feeling he had it in for me, so I can't really say I'm sorry about that."
What? Some of Pheist's facial muscles must be working, as it seemed to register that she had no idea what the hell the female was talking about.
"The android, W-181. You impaled him with his own spinal column? I checked the footage when I overheard some of the others complaining about your incivility. Apparently you've regained full articulation of your arm - I wasn't sure if you would initially." She paused here and Pheist managed to blink again to further clear her vision and bring the other's conflicted expression more fully into focus.
None of the other androids had ever looked at her like that. Their expressions remained infuriatingly neutral all the time. Was it possible this was a real person? If only her tongue wasn't impossibly thick, she might be able to ask.