There are worse places to wake up than in the arms of a C'tarl C'tarl.
Of course, this statement is far from objective on my part. After all, there was, as one might expect, a large amount of circumstantial factors that led to my enjoyment of the sensation. The first of which being, of course, the knowledge that I was still alive- or at least that the afterlife was so similar to the mundane world that the difference wasn't readily apparent. Of course, the nature of the relationship between myself and the C'tarl C'tarl in question is also a key factor. This isn't anything sexual, mind you. It's just a profoundly reassuring feeling to know that the being with its arms curled around you is more than capable of tearing anything remotely threatening to bits. One might think that such knowledge might just be disconcerting, with the threat of the alien strength ever-present, but strangely enough, it's not. At least, it wasn't in that particular situation. I've been forced to trust Aisha with my life on more than a few occasions, and it's this trust that lets me know that she wouldn't do a thing to hurt me.
Allowing the warm feeling to pass over my body, I stretched, gently removing myself from Aisha's arms in order to climb off of the edge of the canopy bed.
It was the realization that I had rolled out of a canopy bed that made me suspicious. Suspicion grew into downright fear as I recalled my last coherent memory before blacking out; namely, crashing into an irritatingly concrete building. The room I was in was decidedly not a hospital; nor like anything on the Outlaw Star.
White dominated most of the room: white wallpaper, white carpeting, white furniture. It was an unnatural, irritating white color, devoid of any stain, speck, or smudge that dared to mar the expanses of ivory material. To a scruffy Outlaw such as myself, there's no color that's more disturbing. All things considered, there was something about the artificially white suite that just screamed 'holding cell'. A quick try at the door verified this- the door was firmly locked and bolted from the outside- and judging from its solid nature, it would even slow Aisha down.
It was an unusually nice place to be kept, but the fact that I had no idea just why I was there
Glancing down, I found myself to be thankfully clothed, and more or less in one piece. Snapping my attention to the bed, I saw that Aisha was in the same state, albeit unconscious. This knowledge put one particularly strange scenario out of the question, thankfully enough. Of course, if that particular scenario, in some unlikely turn of events, did play out, I doubt I'd make it through in one piece.
Shaking my head to dispel these unproductive thoughts, I quickly moved to shake Aisha awake, eliciting only a "Mrrrrph" from the slumbering woman. Frowning, I opted to try the action again. "Rrrhgh."
And again. "Grshrsmn"
Somehow, I hoped that the third time would be the charm. "Ssshrmpgh."
Apparently not.
With this done, I set about taking inventory. My gun was missing; as was my wallet. Not surprising. However, other than these two crucial items, the items in my pockets were more or less intact; a haphazard collection of small tools, spare change, the occasional candy bar…and most importantly, my pocket computer. All and all, it wasn't a bad start; granted, in such a strange situation, I would've preferred to get my hands on some sort of lead-slinging device, but that was probably just a force of habit on my part. After all, the nigh-invincible C'tarl C'tarl on my side was worth an entire arsenal of firepower.
When she was awake, at least. As if to drive home this point, Aisha's slumbering form rolled over and let slip a thunderous snore.
It seemed that I was on my own.
Of course, given my surroundings, things didn't seem to be that terribly bad; while unnaturally white, all of the furniture in the room looked to be of fine enough quality; fine enough that it was of the sort of thing that most Outlaw-types weren't supposed to see in their lifetimes. Then again, there was the fact that I had seen furniture of this quality before; that is, within the confines of The Pinnacle, the most ludicrously overpriced hotel in the known galaxy. Granted, I barely stayed a night in the place- a night in which some of my friends made it a point to blow up the building's foundation, but that wasn't relevant at the time.
Or was it?
Glancing down to the carpet (white, of course), I carefully prodded at it with my foot. This done, I took a few hesitant steps in one direction, stopped, and backtracked the way I came. A few more moments of experimentation like this confirmed the idea that sprung into my mind moments earlier.
The floor wasn't level.
It was only slanted by a small amount- twenty degrees, at most. Even still, the off-kilter surface was surprising, especially given the otherwise flawless appearance of the rest of the suite. Surveying the room again, I found that the entire suite seemed to be listing to the side at the same acute angle- it's just that cunningly placed blocks here and there prevented any sort of gravity-induced catastrophe.
I didn't' have nearly enough time to consider the implications of this, however, as the door to the chamber soon opened, revealing a pair of machine-gun toting men in black suits. Thankfully, they weren't pointing the guns at me. Yet.
"You're awake. Good. Come with us."
In no position to argue, I stepped into the hallway. The hallway was just as uneven as the room itself, perhaps even more so. The two gunmen prodded me along with the barrels of their guns (slick looking automatics, no less) prompting me down the hall. Glancing backward, I caught a glimpse of the door shutting and bolting itself of its own volition. Fancy.
I've been (un)fortunate enough to have been taken prisoner by the best of them, and from my experience, it seemed to me that my current captors knew what they were doing. The unpleasant and far too familiar feeling of getting the muzzle of an automatic weapon shoved into one's ribs kept me going. Thankfully, we didn't walk far; the hallway ended in a large pair of heavy, iron banded wooden doors. Swank.
While one of the guards kept his gun trained on me, the other opened the door with no small degree of flair, gesturing for us to go inside. The gesture would have seemed almost natural if it weren't for that submachine gun hanging from his shoulder. The doorway led into a richly furbished dining room, its contents immediately prompting salivation on my part.
As Aisha has often told me, human olfactory organs are weak, practically useless. Even still, with my mere human nose, I found the scents wafting from the dining room absolutely intoxicating. Dishes and foods of every variety lay on the long mahogany table, the steam rising from them verifying their freshness. Of course, it wasn't just the food that attracted my attention; the silverware glinted up from the place settings, nicely contrasting with the gold inlay of the plates. Not only did the establishment bear the scent of a good food, it also reeked of money. Being a proper Outlaw, of course, such a scent immediately gained my full and absolute attention; I almost forgot about the guns at my back.
Almost.
A man sat at the head of the table, his facial features obscured by shadow; the dining room had very inadequate lighting. "Ah, Mister Hawking- we've been expecting you. Please. Sit."
I did.
"You must be wondering just why you're here, of course." The man at the head of the table leaned forward, revealing a pudgy, vaguely Asian looking face. A shiny scar adorned the side of his face; some sort of burn. As a matter of fact, it looked remarkably like something one would receive from a caster. "By all rights, I should simply kill you." Dread realization dawned on me as the elements added up: the posh establishment I was in would have to be The Pinnacle; an establishment that I, along with the rest of the crew, collectively shot up a few months earlier. Gene even managed to set off a few tons of ordinance in the basement, rocking the foundation, explaining the tilt. This meant that the man at the head of the table could only be one man: Mr. Kao, arms manufacturer and general villain. I thought that Gene had blown him up when we were last at the Pinnacle; I was wrong.
The realization on my face must have shown, as Mr. Kao chuckled. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not going to kill you. As a matter of fact, my niece has been rather anxious to see you for quite some time now." With a wave of the hand, Mr. Kao brought the lights in the room up to full, revealing an utterly striking blonde woman in a white dress, grayish-blue eyes locked intently on yours truly.
Recognition dawned on me immediately, quickly leading into a feeling of intense shock. Of all the people to run into in this particular situation, in this particular establishment, she was absolutely the last woman I'd imagine to come across.
"Helen?"
Author's note: Wanna know who Mr. Kao is? Or what's the deal with Helen? I strongly suggest reading my other Outlaw Star works "Riding Fences" and "Puttin' on the Ritz" in order to find out this important information. Thanks for reading!
