She screamed. She screamed until her voice was hoarse, until her throat was raw. She screamed, forgetting her conviction to remain silent. Conviction, rationality, the simplest of thoughts fled as pain hammered her like thousands of white hot needles running through her brain.
As suddenly as it had begun the pain was gone. She slumped forwards, taking gasping, shuddering breaths as slowly the agony receded and the world swum back into focus. It wasn't much of an improvement.
The dimly lit interrogation chamber was a terrifying sight consisting of bare, rough stone walls, floor and ceiling. The hard stone floor was encrusted with dried blood and much worse. There were no windows, what little light there was merely highlighted hints of various dark implements of torture. Sharp, terrifying, cold metal invited the victims mind to fill in the shadowy blanks with apprehension more terrifying than even the bleak reality. Many subjects broke before anything had to even be employed - their mental defences crumbling and melting away. The strong and proud turned to weeping children before a single clawed finger was laid on them, their minds simply unable to endure the thought of what was to come.
Of course, she'd always prided herself on her mind.
Nothing however, in that terrible room quite rivalled the comparatively harmless looking contraption she was strapped into. Scorpius' Aurora chair had been merely a pale imitation of this work of twisted Scarran genius.
"Still, you resist."
She tried unsuccessfully to focus on the slight figure – relatively of course, that stood just out of the light, watching her pain with interest.
She was unprepared as the blinding fire seared through her head again, crackling down her spine and setting every cell in her body writhing with torment. She wasn't even aware of her own involuntary shriek this time, nor could she guess how long it lasted before the pain was mercifully cut short.
"What are you hiding from me?"
Sikosu dragged a trickle of air down her swollen trachea. It felt like she had eaten broken glass.
"I told you..." she coughed weakly, tasting blood, "I am hiding... nothing! I have always been your... loyal servant."
The Scarran took a step forwards into the light. A cruel smile crossed Akhna's reptilian face "Perhaps."
This time the pain overwhelmed Sikosu. It tore through her mind and soul, stripping away pride - ripping though memory - shattering belief - annihilating mere thought, until there was nothing but agony and darkness then finally merciful oblivion.
"Oh crap..."
When a plan isn't going to work, it'd be nice to figure that out before you're already half way through it.
Then again, when did their plans ever work?
"Oh crap." Crichton repeated to himself like a mantra - or possibly a prayer.
The bodyguard regarded him impassively. Crichton wasn't sure whether the man had heard his outburst of not, if he cared, or even if he understood. Crichton studied his unexpected companion nervously. He looked as if the only language he understood was the physical kind, the kind where he caved someone's skull in by way of greeting. That would be his idea of a polite cough of course. If you were feeling impolite or didn't notice (what with the skull fracture and all), he could probably squeeze your chest until your eyeballs burst with just one of his big, meaty fists. Said big meaty fists were connected to big, meaty forearms, connected to upper arms that only got bigger and connected to a body that looked something like an upright elephant on steroids. Perched on top like an egg balanced on a mountain peak was a tiny head with baleful, beady red eyes that peered out with a terrifying lack of intelligence.
Someone like that would be hard to fool.
Whose stupid idea was this? part of his brain screamed, while another part simultaneously reminded him, Yours.
"Remind me not to listen to myself again any time soon." he muttered.
"Ah, Mr. Cretin!"
Crichton turned, trying to identify the owner of the voice. The voice sounded delighted. The voice oozed delight. The voice clearly didn't want to be your best friend, because there was not one feasible variant of the universe in which this state of affairs is not already so. The voice quite clearly said – you my dear sir are the most important person in the universe to me, at least until your credits run out. Then without a moments hesitation I'll knife you in the back and feed your corpse to the carrion birds. But naturally only for profit. Until that moment I'm your best friend.
It was a voice that could put a lot of meaning into a few short syllables. It was accompanied by an owner that completely lived up to it.
If he was forced to wager, he would have guessed that the owner of the voice was female, purely by stature, basic appearance and tone of voice – although out here of course he had learned never to make such a wager. She, he or it had greasy pale yellowish tinged skin. She (possibly) had lank colourless hair that was slicked back and so oily it almost appeared painted on. She wore a sickeningly slimy expression on her face - which matched the slime which coated her body, leaving a trail wherever she walked. Everything about her, from her stance, to her wide grin which revealed blackened and pointed teeth, said – I am your friend. Except her eyes. They shimmered with avarice and malice and all the warmth of a corpse.
Crichton fixed an equally dead grin on his face as she approached. "It's Crichton." he amended.
"Of course. I am Tinala." the creature said easily. She offered a hand.
Crichton hesitated just a moment, then reached out and shook it. It felt like shaking hands with an eel. Absently he wiped his palm on his coat.
"I'm looking for someone." he declared.
The greasy alien gave him a calculating look. "A lot of people are looking for someone."
Crichton returned the stare levelly, "I've heard you're the person to speak to. I'm looking for a... special someone."
The grin broadened slightly. A forked tongue appeared for a moment over jagged teeth. "Maybe I am." the lifeless eyes glittered and the tone turned hostile. "And maybe you just made a mistake coming in here. Maybe it won't be one you get a chance to repeat."
Crichton sensed the walking slab of meat looming over him start to tense. In one fluid movement he pulled out his pulse pistol and aimed it at the slimy little slave traders head with a speed that could have caught lightning by surprise.
"Maybe." he conceded. Without breaking eye contact he reached into his pocket with his free hand. He dumped an assortment of sparkling crystals at the loathsome little creatures feet.
"Maybe not."
Tinala's eyes darted from the weapon to the small fortune, then back again. She made a small, careful gesture. Her protector stepped back grudgingly. She smiled again as if nothing had happened, "I think you've come to the right place!"
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