Plourr Estillo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fighting_mad) wrote2006-12-30 11:01 pm
fighting_mad) wrote2006-12-30 11:01 pm
[OOM] Eiattu - Priamsta Base
“Sign the agreement, Princess.” The dark-haired baron paces patiently, his hands settled in the small of his back. “Sign it and this will be over.”
“What do you think I am?” Plourr Ilo turns her face to one side and spits, and then she skewers Baron Aronnse with a look, sharp despite one eye that has swollen shut. “Stupid?”
“No, Princess,” says Aronnse, still perfectly composed. “I have every confidence in your intelligence, which is why I trust that you shall sign.” He halts in front of her, looking down steadily. “Sign now, and you and Count Pernon shall be free to leave the planet.”
In his immaculate purple uniform and shining boots, handsome Count Aronnse looks far more the planetary leader than the woman before him. She sits in a heavy chair, her shoulders yanked back cruelly and arms tied behind her, and her ankles bound to the chair legs. Her necklace, bracelets, and cape are gone; she still wears one earring but the other has been ripped out, her earlobe torn. Her face is swollen, bruised and bloody, but she still holds her head up, chin high and defiant. The nobles may hate her, they may be taking full advantage of the opportunity to rain their hate down on her, but she can and will sit tall under it.
“The only place I’ll be free to go is down, Baron. I wasn’t born yesterday.” She glares up at him, hands clenched behind her, and she tosses her head and says, “If you’re in such a position of strength, why do I need to sign a damn thing?”
“Because,” says the baron, and he audibly grits his teeth, “dear Princess, the commoners have taken an inexplicable liking to you.”
“Maybe it’s because I don’t lie to them.”
“And,” he goes on, “the Priamsta shall not be in a position to put down a rebellion when we first take control.”
“And you think they’re not going to revolt if I just sign a piece of flimsi and leave?” Plourr barks a laugh, twisting her hands behind her for the umpteenth time, but the cords won’t give.
“They won’t if you tell them not to.”
“Which I won’t,” she says, and she flashes her teeth at him in a carnivore’s approximation of a smile. “Stupid little man, y—” At a terse nod from Aronnse, a guard steps in and swings the butt of his blaster rifle into her jaw.
The blow snaps her head to one side and she breathes sharply before she looks back to Aronnse. She tastes blood and she stares up at him in furious determination. “I won’t sign.”
In any other situation, she would probably laugh at the sour line that Baron Aronnse’s mouth becomes. “Then someone else will,” he says, and with a snap of his cape and a gesture to his personal guards, he storms out.
“He won’t,” Plourr says to the several nobles who remain. One of them draws back his fist and she repeats,
“He won’t.”
She can’t tell how long it’s been, whether it’s been hours or days or weeks. They wave the agreement in front of her again and again; again and again she spits on it, on them; she laughs and mocks them. They curse her and they beat her and they ask and she laughs and they beat her, and the faces change but the cycle does not. No food comes in, no water; only demands and blows.
“Sign, whore.”
“Whore? Whore. Seriously? That’s the best you can do? Come o—nnf!—on, that’s pathetic. Try someth— Thing like ‘you scum-sucking Sith-loving bastard H-Hutt-kriffers!’ ”
Eventually, they seem to get it through their thick heads that she isn’t going to sign a damn thing.
She thinks she keeps laughing when the bones in her arm shatter. She isn’t entirely sure.
It all blurs.
Something is happening. The feel of the cold blaster muzzle pressed to the back of her neck slices through the haze. She dimly hears the instruction -- to shut up, to keep her head down -- and she does it. There is no question of doing otherwise. She is flickering in and out of consciousness.
She hears someone standing in front of her and she stares sightlessly at her knees, and she breathes.
After some time -- minutes, hours? -- she hears the distinctive bzz of a vibroblade.
She closes her eyes; hunches her shoulders.
“What do you think I am?” Plourr Ilo turns her face to one side and spits, and then she skewers Baron Aronnse with a look, sharp despite one eye that has swollen shut. “Stupid?”
“No, Princess,” says Aronnse, still perfectly composed. “I have every confidence in your intelligence, which is why I trust that you shall sign.” He halts in front of her, looking down steadily. “Sign now, and you and Count Pernon shall be free to leave the planet.”
In his immaculate purple uniform and shining boots, handsome Count Aronnse looks far more the planetary leader than the woman before him. She sits in a heavy chair, her shoulders yanked back cruelly and arms tied behind her, and her ankles bound to the chair legs. Her necklace, bracelets, and cape are gone; she still wears one earring but the other has been ripped out, her earlobe torn. Her face is swollen, bruised and bloody, but she still holds her head up, chin high and defiant. The nobles may hate her, they may be taking full advantage of the opportunity to rain their hate down on her, but she can and will sit tall under it.
“The only place I’ll be free to go is down, Baron. I wasn’t born yesterday.” She glares up at him, hands clenched behind her, and she tosses her head and says, “If you’re in such a position of strength, why do I need to sign a damn thing?”
“Because,” says the baron, and he audibly grits his teeth, “dear Princess, the commoners have taken an inexplicable liking to you.”
“Maybe it’s because I don’t lie to them.”
“And,” he goes on, “the Priamsta shall not be in a position to put down a rebellion when we first take control.”
“And you think they’re not going to revolt if I just sign a piece of flimsi and leave?” Plourr barks a laugh, twisting her hands behind her for the umpteenth time, but the cords won’t give.
“They won’t if you tell them not to.”
“Which I won’t,” she says, and she flashes her teeth at him in a carnivore’s approximation of a smile. “Stupid little man, y—” At a terse nod from Aronnse, a guard steps in and swings the butt of his blaster rifle into her jaw.
The blow snaps her head to one side and she breathes sharply before she looks back to Aronnse. She tastes blood and she stares up at him in furious determination. “I won’t sign.”
In any other situation, she would probably laugh at the sour line that Baron Aronnse’s mouth becomes. “Then someone else will,” he says, and with a snap of his cape and a gesture to his personal guards, he storms out.
“He won’t,” Plourr says to the several nobles who remain. One of them draws back his fist and she repeats,
“He won’t.”
She can’t tell how long it’s been, whether it’s been hours or days or weeks. They wave the agreement in front of her again and again; again and again she spits on it, on them; she laughs and mocks them. They curse her and they beat her and they ask and she laughs and they beat her, and the faces change but the cycle does not. No food comes in, no water; only demands and blows.
“Sign, whore.”
“Whore? Whore. Seriously? That’s the best you can do? Come o—nnf!—on, that’s pathetic. Try someth— Thing like ‘you scum-sucking Sith-loving bastard H-Hutt-kriffers!’ ”
Eventually, they seem to get it through their thick heads that she isn’t going to sign a damn thing.
She thinks she keeps laughing when the bones in her arm shatter. She isn’t entirely sure.
It all blurs.
Something is happening. The feel of the cold blaster muzzle pressed to the back of her neck slices through the haze. She dimly hears the instruction -- to shut up, to keep her head down -- and she does it. There is no question of doing otherwise. She is flickering in and out of consciousness.
She hears someone standing in front of her and she stares sightlessly at her knees, and she breathes.
After some time -- minutes, hours? -- she hears the distinctive bzz of a vibroblade.
She closes her eyes; hunches her shoulders.