Plourr Estillo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fighting_mad) wrote2006-12-31 12:20 am
fighting_mad) wrote2006-12-31 12:20 am
[OOM] Eiattu - Priamsta Base
The floor is cold and dirty and she cradles her arm close, trying to raise herself up on her knees and her good elbow. A boot hits her in the ribs and something cracks; she’s sent sprawling again, crying out as she lands on her arm.
“Get up,” hisses Baron Aronnse, and she hears his footsteps as he crosses the room to her. She’s already trying, moving weakly, and she’s on her knees when he slaps her hard across the face, with enough strength to knock her down. “Get up!” He grabs her upper arm and hauls her almost to her feet and she hardly recognizes her own voice in the high-pitched noise that she makes, her vision wavering at the edges.
He holds her there, not quite standing, and he laughs and bats her hand away as she scrabbles at him for purchase. “See here, boys? Not so t—”
She has his blaster from its holster before he even realizes it.
His eyes widen. Plourr’s are narrow in a bloody face. She pulls the trigger.
Aronnse stumbles back with a gut wound, and she puts a green bolt between his eyes for good measure. Her arm rises and she shoots and three guards, three men who spent hours, days causing her pain, are down. A fourth rushes at her from behind and she shoves her elbow into his solar plexus. Doubled over, he is easy to hurl headfirst into a wall.
Plourr Ilo is hurt. She is battered and beaten and bloody and she stumbles rather than walks, sways drunkenly when standing still; she stays up due to sheer force of will. But she is a big woman. She is well-trained. And she is very, very angry.
The final noble -- oh, and she remembers this one, remembers the look on his face when he set the vibroblade on a low setting -- blanches and steps backward, reaching for his forcepike. Plourr takes two unsteady steps forward, the floor cold on her bare feet, and her fist makes hard contact with his face with a meaty sound. The pain that flares in her hand is blinding but it's worth it, Sith, it's worth it to see him crumple. She kills him. It's merciless and quick and not at all what he deserves, but there's no time to do more than put a bolt in his throat.
Plourr looks around, searching for movement, but there is none among the men sprawled across the floor, not even any death twitches. She leans against the nearest wall a moment, closing her eyes and breathing shallowly, each breath stabbing at her ribs. But she has places to go, people to see. She won't allow herself to rest; doesn't trust that she'll be able to keep going if she does. A man's tunic makes a makeshift sling for her broken arm and she gathers up a few blasters and holsters, giving a vibroblade a long look before tucking it into her waistband.
She glances over the windowless room one last time, with its unfinished floor, the chair lying on its side in a corner, the bodies splayed across the ground, and then she steps to the door and moves out.
“Get up,” hisses Baron Aronnse, and she hears his footsteps as he crosses the room to her. She’s already trying, moving weakly, and she’s on her knees when he slaps her hard across the face, with enough strength to knock her down. “Get up!” He grabs her upper arm and hauls her almost to her feet and she hardly recognizes her own voice in the high-pitched noise that she makes, her vision wavering at the edges.
He holds her there, not quite standing, and he laughs and bats her hand away as she scrabbles at him for purchase. “See here, boys? Not so t—”
She has his blaster from its holster before he even realizes it.
His eyes widen. Plourr’s are narrow in a bloody face. She pulls the trigger.
Aronnse stumbles back with a gut wound, and she puts a green bolt between his eyes for good measure. Her arm rises and she shoots and three guards, three men who spent hours, days causing her pain, are down. A fourth rushes at her from behind and she shoves her elbow into his solar plexus. Doubled over, he is easy to hurl headfirst into a wall.
Plourr Ilo is hurt. She is battered and beaten and bloody and she stumbles rather than walks, sways drunkenly when standing still; she stays up due to sheer force of will. But she is a big woman. She is well-trained. And she is very, very angry.
The final noble -- oh, and she remembers this one, remembers the look on his face when he set the vibroblade on a low setting -- blanches and steps backward, reaching for his forcepike. Plourr takes two unsteady steps forward, the floor cold on her bare feet, and her fist makes hard contact with his face with a meaty sound. The pain that flares in her hand is blinding but it's worth it, Sith, it's worth it to see him crumple. She kills him. It's merciless and quick and not at all what he deserves, but there's no time to do more than put a bolt in his throat.
Plourr looks around, searching for movement, but there is none among the men sprawled across the floor, not even any death twitches. She leans against the nearest wall a moment, closing her eyes and breathing shallowly, each breath stabbing at her ribs. But she has places to go, people to see. She won't allow herself to rest; doesn't trust that she'll be able to keep going if she does. A man's tunic makes a makeshift sling for her broken arm and she gathers up a few blasters and holsters, giving a vibroblade a long look before tucking it into her waistband.
She glances over the windowless room one last time, with its unfinished floor, the chair lying on its side in a corner, the bodies splayed across the ground, and then she steps to the door and moves out.