Private Fists > Pens

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

Perhaps the greatest insult was the fact she didn't even look over her shoulder.

No, Mercy was done and limped through the gates.

Only there did she pause for a moment. A man stood there observing her. Thin, gaunt, sickly color of skin and eyes that held nothing in them. As if inside he was dead already, but the rest of his body had not caught up with him yet. They stood there and watched each other. Until the bony man nodded and stepped to the side.

Mercy was thankful of that.

Breaking another body was fine, but doing it where the crowd couldn't see was just inefficient.

Archibald watched her go for a moment. Only once she was around the corner did the grip on his hidden revolver loosen. Part of him wanted to shoot, in the face or in the back, but... Sult would have to get Sam out of here. That would be tricky as is. There was no way to know how the crowd would react to him gunning down their newly-minted champion.

Trying to both drag her out of here and ward-off the crowd sounded like a bad time.

"Ah, kid..." Sult muttered as he looked down on the animated still-living body that was Sam. "Anyone ever tell ya you should learn when to give up?"

Funny to hear from him.

Or at least ironic.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Sam had little realisation that Mercy had walked, hell, she had little realisation that it was even Mercy who she had just fought.

All of her focus, her strength was reserved towards dragging herself across the ring and even then it was mere inches that hurt like miles. The marathon of effort was heard in each pained grunt that only brought her to the doorstep of a very familiar drawl.

She'd never thought that Archibald Sult's voice would be a comforting presence.

Yet as she reached his boots, Sam finally stopped her crippled pursuit of the woman who was long gone. Her broken hand reached out for his ankle, fingers lightly grazing his trousers as if there was any possible chance that the broken woman could have dragged herself back to her feet.

"...i won...whrrrr...tho..."

His boot made an adequate pillow and one that she bled all over in apparent denial of how the fight actually ended.

"...ya....clck....saw da....whrrrr...throat..."

Sam attempted to flex her cybernetic fingers, only to find that she was weakly waggling her stump instead. It was hard to remember what was still attached and what was even functioning anymore. A sharp groan, as errant movement caused her battered body to cry out for mercy.

"...ya not...clck whrrr...proud...?"

So peculiar that through the haze there was almost a connection of dots, albeit one that Sam didn't realise that she was even making. If only she could wonder why Archibald Sult might have been proud that she didn't hesitate to crush Mercy's throat and end her life.

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

"Won?"

Sult looked down on her with a frown, before crouching through his knees. "Oh... yeah, you did, Sam..." A bit hesitant there as he looked around. This one... was difficult. She was a mess. Not just the regular-sized one that you could patch up with some grease and engine fuel. No, this would require... elaborate work.

Would it not be more merciful (ironic) to put her out of her misery?

Something told Archie she wouldn't be thanking him after everything was done. No, she'd probably hate him even more. Then she asked him if he was proud of her. Something inside of him recoiled at it. Bad chit, innit? But Archibald was too far to properly appreciate the Overton shift. "Hell, yah I am proud." Whispered almost gently as he placed his hand on her shoulder. Then winced at the pained groan escaping from her. "Sorry about that... and..."

Their eyes met there... and suddenly Sam would feel a stabbing sensation in her neck.

If she looked to the side even slightly?

Archibald had jabbed her with a knock-out stim. "Sorry about this too, hun, better if yar not awake for what's coming next." Murmured gently as he rose back up. Time to fetch her arm and then drag the body back to the doc. This one would be annoying. He'd probably need to do a few more jobs and without her assistance in the matter.

But.

What was family for?

 

[Sam Rodarch]

"...i dun...click...wan..."

The black dots that peppered her vision grew into deep holes that swallowed her whole, dragging her bruised mind and broken body into the sweet abyss of darkness, where all the worries and suffering of her world ceased to exist.

Fragments filtered through.

Blurs of moments.

Voices.

Numb.

Red.

By the time Rodarch came to a semblance of consciousness, she was back in their motel room, scarcely aware of the roaches around them, drifting in and out of forgotten sleep. It could have been the same day, or it could have been a different damned week for all she knew.

Eventually, the numbness wore off and in its place sat pain. The concept of licking her wounds after a heavy loss wasn't a foreign one to Sam, she knew the dull throb of fractures and bruises more than most, but it was never this bad. If she didn't have those mechanical lungs the fight would have been over long before Mercy could do the rest of the real damage.

The ache in her knee was blunted; the joint swollen, useless and the main reason that she was confined to the motel.

In her head, the pain was pulsing and came in waves that made her feel sick and yet kept her up with intermittent dizzy spells.

However, the worst of it all was her entire torso which had been painted in violent black and blue. Her back in particular had borne the brunt of the vicious assault, done by her own cybernetic arm no less. Every time she moved the wrong way it sent stabs of sharp anguish through the fighter's core, causing her to groan and whimper into her sweat-sodden pillow.

The apparent painkillers offered little relief and Sult had suddenly made himself scarce, leaving the woman alone, unable to sleep and with only insidious thoughts to keep her company.

He was a-

Every time she tried to blink them away she heard the thick heavy thud from Mercy's assault, which caused eyes to flinch back open with a yelp. It was relentless.

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

It was late when Archibald returned 'home'.

Scatter rifle leaning against his shoulder, blood still on his collar, hair all ruffled but by the looks of it no worse for wear otherwise. That was the thing with this bastard. Humans had one life, cats had nine, this one? Infinite amount up until now. Some kind of sly insidious personality that let Archie slink in and out of any dangerous situation without too much trouble.

Oh, he'd gotten the chit beaten out of him a number of times, but usually it was a 'oh, you should look at the other lady'-type of deal.

You thought that line would go different? Equal rites, man.

Archibald was a feminist, you sexist.

"Wakey, wakey, Sam-Sam." He murmured as he put the scatter rifle against the wall and opened the fridge. Still mostly empty. The plan was to leave and find a ship to steal, but they had been in 'search'-mode, when the opportunity to a lot of creds was offered to them.

Of course, it didn't happen that way.

Nobody had expected Mercy.

"Got you some more pain meds." Dropping that on her chest as Arch pulled a seat up with a beer. "How's your head feeling?"

 

[Sam Rodarch]

The cycle repeated itself on an unrelenting loop. Hurt. Think. Thud. Wince. Hurt. Think. Thud. Wince. She wanted to scream. Hurt. Think. Thud. Wince. She could feel it wearing her down. Exhaustion sitting on her chest. Hurt. Think. Thud. Wince. Just want to fucking sleep. Hurt. Think. Thud. Wince. The seconds went by like marathons. Hurt. Think . Thud. Wince. C R U N C H.

Wakey, wakey, Sam-Sam.

It had to be bad when instead of revulsion, his entrance filled her with relief. The woman thought she'd be long dead before she ever acknowledged the moniker of Sam-Sam but yet here they were. Perhaps it was merciful that Rodarch didn't have the energy to consider it further as she grunted in some form of primitive and pained greeting.

"...thanks," Sam winced as she gingerly sat up (wincing all the way) and grappled with the painkillers that were so-thoughtfully dropped off upon her chest, "and like shet," there wasn't an effort to conform to recommended doses as the fighter tossed a hearty handful of pills down her throat, "ah jus' wanta fethin' sleep."

Like an elderly cripple, she moved, getting her legs over the side of the bed, grimacing with pained swears all the while. The afflicted knee refused to bend all the way and her leg sat awkwardly, suspended in mid-air.

"Don't 'spose ya found any seds on yer travels?" Sam asked, the faintest glimmer of hope lurking behind dark hollows. She didn't really doubt that Sult would have much difficulty in sourcing the good stuff, well, at least the good stuff in terms of sedatives, although spice wasn't probably much more of a stretch for him.

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

"Sounds about right, but then again- ya got torn in half by that lady, so I am surprised yar as conscious as yar right now."

No judgement in the tone.

Hell, Arch was proud of her. Going for that deathblow without any hesitation. It had been a thing of beauty and if that Mercy chick hadn't been a freak of nature... probably would have been a beautiful win.

Instead.

Well, they all knew how it ended up. Sometimes that was just the way of it. Your opponent almost never fought fairly. And if there is one thing that Archibald didn't consider fair... it was contuining to fight when you were supposed to be dead. That was... yeah. That was basically the epitome of unfairness as far as Arch was concerned.

"Naw, didn't. I got a lead on it- on the real good stuff. The chit that won't interfere with yar healing, but it will take a while to get that." He gestured towards his beer bottle as he took a sip.

"I can get yar a bottle though. That shit will knock you out after a few bottles alright."

A shrug there. Sult knew how Sam felt about alcohol.

But hey, sometimes? "You only got bad choices, Sam-Sam. Gotta take the ones that give ya some relief, I reckon."

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Couldn't do shit with a lead.

The glimmer in her eyes faded and her already hunched postured shrivelled a little more, causing another wince.

So then he offered her the bottle and Rodarch just stared, falling into her warped reflection that wrapped around the glass. Through concussed eyes, all it took was a blink and she was a teenager, catching herself in dad's third morning beer.

Just to get through the day.

It wasn't the first time that Sult had offered her alcohol, knowing full well her feelings on the matter and she had taken a few half-hearted sips to appease him, but this was the first time that it didn't come across as malicious. Like he genuinely couldn't find any sedatives and booze was all that he could offer to numb the constant ache.

Could she get through the day?

"I'll take anythin' ya got," she groaned, hooded and swollen eyelids obscuring bloodshot eyes that wouldn't have looked him in the face even they could, "...jus' don't..."

Sam didn't finish the thought, decided against thinking.

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

Why did he care?

Odd to think that he did.

It had been a long time since Archibald Sult could truly say he cared about anyone. Elliot's family excluded, but that was different. Sam wasn't like that, oh sure, Elliot had known her first. But didn't really know her. Not the way Sult got to know her. Weeks and months of it spent together in the grime and dirt of one hive or the other.

Elliot had seen Sam at her best. Archibald?

Oh yeah, this was definitely her worst, since she took the beer without even cursing him out.

"Yeah." Tapping her lightly on the shoulder, which probably still hurt and made him wince. "Sorry. But nah, we all need something to get through the heavy shite, Rodarch."

A shrug there.

"Ain't no shame in that."

That was... wow, was that the first time Archibald was completely straight with her? Hell, even used her name (or one of them anyway) without any mocking prefixes or suffixes attached to them. "Don't expect it to taste well though. Tastes like piss water, but it will numb the pain all the same, I promise ya that."

He went ahead and got himself a different beer- and then after a thought decided to pull out the whole six pack for them both.

"So, whatcha been up to, while I was running that job for our mutual friend?"

 

[Sam Rodarch]

That bad, huh?

It wasn't quite like Archibald Sult to pass up on an opportunity to make a sly dig through his crooked little smile, which was all the indication Sam needed to know how bad it must have looked. She was suddenly very glad that a previous tenant had gone away with the bathroom mirror.

The tap on her shoulder sent wicked reverberations through the cobwebs of contusions across her back, causing the women to inhale sharply and twist swollen, purple features into a pained grimace.

"...don't have'ta taste good..."

Mostly because Rodarch had no designs on tasting it, as if not acknowledging the taste of the piss water would avoid running the risks of liking it.

No need to like it.

Just to numb the pain.

Just for now.

So she took the beer and drank, the cheap swill being chugged in forceful, thoughtless gulps by a woman desperate for one ounce of relief. His stupid fucking question bounced off her head as she finished downing the first one and let the bottle drop to the floor with a heavy clunk.

"Wha'do ya think I've been up ta?" Sam questioned bitterly, as she held out a hand for the next bottle, "Fuck all. Lyin' here feelin' like a useless sack a'shet."

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

Archibald had to disagree there.

It was very important it tasted good. Half the fun, wasn't it? Then again... to his taste buds most alcohol tasted just fine. As long as it left a long burn that was all that mattered.

"Sure, yeah..." Murmured all the same in a generally supportive tone, while digging out another bottle and handing it over without a comment. Sure, usually Sult would have gotten pleasure out of her brought so low. With the airs she displayed and acted? Yeah, of course. But. This was just a fraction different, wasn't it?

No real choice behind it.

And that could shatter the best of them. Best not to poke the bear even more so.

"Okay, okay. Easy." Hand going up there as he took a can himself to take a deep sip. "Just trying to make conversation. This chit don't come naturally to me, y'know?"

"Ask me to kill someone, sure done. Raid a place, of course. Steal, ransack, plunder some treasure? Investigate? Yeah, sure, yes." Raising his fingers as he counted the things that Sult could do. "But nursing someone to health?" He showed her his hands. Healed wounds and rough. "These things ain't made to make someone better, ya feel me?"

And yet Sult was trying.

For Force knows what reason.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Rodarch just looked at him as she took the next beer, entirely unsure if Archibald Sult was just tryin' to make conversation and play bed nurse or if she was just simply that exhausted that this was all some sort of sick fucking fever dream.

Her re-attached arm, the only part of her that didn't hurt (because it physically couldn't) clutched the second bottle, metal thumb flicking off the cap and sending it tinkering to the floor.

"...why'do you even fuckin'..."

Sam interrupted her own sentence with the second beer, which got drained much like the first, in a steady stream of subsequent gulps that made bruised nerve endings across her face and torso twitch. When it was drained, she dropped it next to the other, droplets of backwash and foam soaking into the filthy floor.

"...maybe it'sa sign, Sult," she grimaced, holding out her hand for the next bottle before a deep belch ruptured through her maw and caused a new wince of pain, "...can't fuckin' keep up with them freaks..."

First that Forcer that took her arm.

Now that nigh-fucking invincible queen.

Next time might kill her.

"...gotta quit the ring an' move on."