Private The Circle Complete

[Belfry of Tund]

Oh, he felt it.

The sudden cold to her demeanor. The lack of response, verbal or not. Behind the dry wit Sult grinned. It might turn into a brawl yet. It better... he had been promised a wild night out and right now it was turning into a whimper. This wasn't what he bargained for. So, Locke dragged from his cigarette and settled down on the stool, just to be hit by Sam's tone.

Bitter. An accusation. J'accuse!

It didn't immediately get a response. Instead Elly flagged down the waiter, ordered his noodles, while those bottomless dark eyes watched her. Bottomless because they were hollow. Deep crevices. That face had seen chit and didn't come out lightly.

"Mm, might be a man is swallowed by 'is job. Could be the job catches him." Needles, serrated edges, acid in the veins. Endless screams. "-an' mebbe it adds some sharp knives, deeper needles and twenty-four seven sensory deprivation. They break 'is mind. Force him to their side. Make him beat his kid's face in with armored fists."

Yula Perl 's face.

"Could just be he eventually snaps outta it. Tries to make amends, but at some point years of absence followed by aggravated domestic abuse makes him realize chit ain't easy to fix an' shouldn't be." A stretch, a shrug, as he accepts the noodles. Takes out the flask of bourbon. Pours it in the noodle bowl. Still locking his eyes to hers.

Daring her to react as he told his tale absently. Like it had happened to someone else ... and in a way it had.

"Atta boy figures drinks ain't half too bad, 'cus really does he deserve more than destroying his body, when his mind is already going?" A mmm there as he takes a bite. The whalm of bourbon there. "Or maybe it ain't your damn business and even drunk as a skunk, I can still snap you over my knee. So maybe don't judge the guy you been asking for help just ten minutes ago."

Locke spits.

Almost hits her shoes, but instead landing just in between her feet. A grin... and then refocuses on his bowl of noodle an' bourbon.

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

So he spoke.

Sam stood there, arms folded across her chest in what was a closed expression awaiting the endless excuses that would bounce off of her stubborn frame, but there was no stance that would prepare her for his reasons.

Her stiff jaw churned as Elliot began to run down his list of torment, a pang of guilt even managing to penetrate through the woman's stubbornness at the notion of the man being forced to brutalise his own kin. She couldn't imagine. Couldn't imagine the suffering. Couldn't imagine being driven to such an atrocity. What kind of fethed up shet could make a person do that?

Before Rodarch had a chance to really soften and see through empathetic eyes the flask came out and was poured into his bowl of noodles alongside his unflinching gaze. The smell hit her like an old memory, wrenching forth old echoes of a broken home and a broken man always pissed before noon.

The arguments.

The apologies.

The crying.

Any sympathy that might have been gathering was left in the glob of spit between her feet, as he gunned for her in pride in the process. It would seem they would be finding out who could really snap who in mere moments but instead of her predictable rampage sat contempt. This ran far deeper than the desire of short-tempers.

“Kark you,” came words, both quiet and venomous as nostrils flared and jaw tensed further, fists buried in armpits clenched so hard that they trembled.

“Least I can ask help, least I'm strong enough fer that.”

A snarl, lip curling as she eyes watched the barely recognisable form of a man slurp his pitiful meal, that insidious heat forming upon her cheeks as she witnessed yet another man's self-destruction before her.

“Yer fethin' wastin' everybody's time. Ya want ta punish yersel'? Be my karkin' guest, but don't feth around. Wrap yer lips 'round that scattergun an' finish the job proper,” Sam continued, her voice growing in rancorous intensity as she continued, “don't fethin' sit there like somethin' is gonna change, like it's gonna undo what happened like yer kid gives a shet that dad's destroyin' himself outta guilt, yeah 'cus that makes a fethin' difference.”

Two sorrowful experiences began to intertwine within her words as Sam stepped forward, practically breathing down his yellow neck, her hand shot out, aiming to slap his bowl of noodles and swill to the ground and as Sam did, she spoke once more.

“Give up, or karkin' do somethin'.”

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

Her hand did connect with the bowl.

It flew off and smashed itself into the ground. There it shattered into a million pieces. Well, maybe not a million, probably not even more than six. It was the thought that counted however. "I was eating that." He pointed out infuriatingly calmly. Like Sam hadn't just told him to blow his brains out. Or spoke of his daughter like she knew the kark she was talking about.

His hand was twitching though.

Just under the counter.

Eyes turned dead as he stared into the distance. "You say you be strong..." A hmmm there. "What do you know 'bout strength, Rodarch? Cus ya can punch a hole in the wall? Hm? 'Cus ya daddy was sloshed through da day and useless?"

A low stretch there.

It brought him closer to her, if only slightly. If only giving a pathway that only a twitch needed to pass.

Smile there, bloody one, deadly. "Those folks 'round back can attest I ain't useless yet." Hand twitched again. It wanted to go. Under the sleeves of his coat the muscles of his arm were tense. Like ironbound cords, shuddering just under the table. It wanted to fly. Archibald could almost taste the bourbon. So close to being free once more.

Just a few more inches.

"Now- either ya wanna go." Eyes finally meeting her. Odd, that. How clear his eyes were when his breath reeked of the 'Khol. "-or ya apologize for being prissy chit who wasted a bowl of noodles."

Arm twitched.

"-or ya can kark off right now."

 

[Sam Rodarch]

There was this peculiar stillness after the bowl hit the ground, the string between them pulled tautly and waiting to snap at the next scold of a tongue. Life moved on around them, their interaction only drawing a few passing glances in their seedy surroundings.

His response came. Sucker punch. Hit her for six and caused her eyesto grow wide and mouth to hang open.

She hadn't told him.

Hadn't told anybody.

None of their karking business.

Head was ringing, drowning out the rest of his drawl. Eyes unfocused, not looking at him but through him. Rage was always a part of her blood, but this was a different beast. There was something insidious about the way it crept up her throat. The fists at her side unconsciously clenched, stretching stark white scar tissue over knuckles.

Words couldn't form. They tried. It was as if the woman's illiteracy had spread to her thoughts, rendering all logic broken. Images flashed in the place of words under a haze of red mist. Dad slumped in his chair. It's still light out. No lunch. We'll order in for dinner, kiddo. Slurred. He's passed out. No dinner but the shards of broken bottles. Same tomorrow. Then the day after. After that too. Yellow, broken man.

Yellow, broken men.

Sam's eyes suddenly came back into focus, only to find his staring back at her in perfect taunting clarity. Wasn't all that sure who she was looking at any more.

The string snapped.

With no words spoken Rodarch launched herself at him, her arm outstretched and aiming for his neck. A wicked clothesline to hopefully knock the man off of his stool and onto the ground.

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

Blurry rush.

Shiv pushed in deep under her flying ribs. Straight in the kidney. Punctured. Twist. Bloody pain that debilitated and trailed into a slow death. By the time she dragged herself out of the bar? Too late.

Arm twisted as Locke leaped forward under her arm. It didn't slide into the soft of her side. Instead it was aimed towards her outer thigh. Missing all important arteries, but severely limiting her mobility. If it connected anyway. In a fight Elliot didn't guess or consider. He moved. The die had already been cast from the moment Sam's eyes turned dead.

It was an image he was intimate with.

This is why when she barreled in she didn't meet a yellow broken man. Already prepared. Ready for her. Shiv in or out, his other fist would move to slam into the side of her gut. There moving to rock her kidneys. She'd piss blood for a week, but it wouldn't kill her.

Nothing about this was to kill her.

Even if she wanted to end him.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Sam snarled as her blind rage was trumped by his calculated readiness and a sudden blow hit her left thigh. Vaguely through the cloud of hatred, she knew something wasn't quite right with that hit, Rodarch was no stranger to a dead leg or two but this wasn't that.

No time to think. Another fist came crashing into her side, spewing fire into her gut and causing the woman to double over, sprawling over the noodle bar for support instead of falling to the ground. It was a solid hit, which would have been described as a total stunner in the shockboxing world.

Didn't matter that it hurt.

She pushed herself off the counter to come at him once more but immediately stumbled as weight was placed upon her usually dominant left leg, Rodarch's thigh burning in a manner that suggested that something was wrong, sending her blundering onto a stool for support instead.

Didn't matter that she couldn't walk right.

Favour the right instead. The old ankle break still nagged, but it was in a better state than the other leg. A slower, even sloppier lunge this time. Left fist reaching out to grab a handful of the clothing across his chest, right winding up to try and rocket a punch straight into Elliot's gut.

That did matter.

Trying to hit him was the only thing that did.

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

A good man wouldn't have stabbed her.

A proper man wouldn't have goaded her into blind rage.

A decent man? Would have let her pick herself up at least, before counter attacking.

Locke wasn't any of those three. It's why he had been such a good agent. The ability to turn that off. To become cold and calculated, only thinking about how to destroy his opponent systematically. The only moment Elliot waited was for her attack. Not out of courtesy, but because it would be cleaner to counter strike once she extended herself.

Turned out that wasn't necessary.

Her first reach in? She stumbled, her leg giving out and Elliot didn't wait past that. Already stepping in to smash his foot into her leg. Sadly, he did misjudge just how tenacious she was. Which was stupid, because Elly knew her. Archibald growled and Sam's hand curled into his shirt. Her fist slammed into his gut with the force of a thermonuclear explosion. That's how it felt anyway. He stumbled back, breaking her hold over his shirt with a twist, but ... no air was coming into his lungs no matter how much he was heaving.

Eyes teared.

Doubling over, but looking at her through his hair.

Archibald smiled a bloody grin, he didn't need to breathe. One hand past his side, it curled around a bloody object. Waiting there. Recovering from the gut punch as a ghost waited for its prey to come to him.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

That's it.

That's what she wanted.

Fist connected, granting that sweet release that saw clenched teeth bared alongside the whites of her eyes. This unrepentant violence was the only thing that granted the woman any kind of relief. Took all that sorrow and frustration that was wrapped up in folded arms and scowls and just let it go. Felt so freeing.

Stronger than a drink, more potent than a pill and yet just as addictive. Didn't really help in the end either, the feelings always came back. Just a different kind of crutch.

Without his shirt to grip onto Sam's unsteady gait staggered back over to the counter for support as she was unable to break the habit of leading with her now injured left leg. It stung. Felt weak. Felt wet. It wasn't right.

Didn't matter.

Had to go again. Had to hit him again. There was nothing else but that want, that need.

She pushed herself off the counter once more and in all of rage's predictability came at Elliot again, her hampered mobility telegraphing her intent as Rodarch staggered forward with fists raised. Another punch was thrown. Right-hander, a hook that aimed to bite the side of his jaw and hopefully take a few teeth with it.

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

Clumsy.

But damn fast.

In that internal struggle Larchelliot almost missed her step in 'n' hook. Almost. He side-stepped. The punch still knocked into his shoulder, pushing through a gritted grunt from gnashing teeth. It send him whirring, but he managed to arrest his movement. Dropping to his knees. All of it... all of it either luck or strategic magic.

Because right there? Knife jutted out, moving to slice through heel of her healthy leg.

As he rose up against her, almost lovingly, the knife almost ran with.

Cutting through precious muscles, arteries, more. Debilitating. Death. It was grand. In his arms she would sink. Bleeding out, not even realizing why her white-hot anger was slowly ebbing out. Replaced by exhaustion. Her roar of fury weakening. Until all there was was Sult's yellow broken face. And a pitch of whisky poured into her mouth to suffocate her whelping mewls.

Locke growled and stepped back, pulling the knife out of her heel and rammed the hilt of it in her lower back. Where another kidney lay. Already weakened and hurting... it was a defeat by a thousand cuts.

"Stay down." Elliot roared as he fought his hunger to kill.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Another hit. Not direct.

Didn't feel as good. Better than nothing. Go again.

He dropped to his knees, and her mind didn't think to question why the only demand heard was one of blood. Go. Again. Arm was raised this time, elbow primed to crack upon the top of his skull. It'd bust him open, if not knock him into next we-

Pain. Sharp. All the weight poured onto the ball of her right foot spilt in an instant, forcing her to try and switch to her already wounded left as he rose once more. Preoccupied with simply trying to keep steady and not fall Rodarch was left defenceless to his next blow.

She cried out this time, being staggered by the bomb that had just hit her other side. Legs couldn't handle the movement and once again she reached out to try and support her weight but the momentum was too much, and the stool went down with her.

It was a familiar feeling. Back on the mat. Staring up. Stay down heard through blood-muffled ears. Usually half-concussed though. Pain seemed more noticeable now, from the deep aches that echoed out from her sides to the sharp stings of her thigh and ankle. Stay down?

Won't do that.

Can't do that.

She rolled over with a grimace, trying to get back to her feet. Or foot. Seemed as if her right foot was rendered useless. Getting onto hands and knees seemed to be the best she could muster. Flash of crimson on the ground. Wet thigh. Wet ankle. She was bleeding. He'd stabbed her. Cut her.

Took the wind out of her sails.

Just get up.

Unless he intervened to keep her down, Sam kept trying to get back to her feet. Wasn't a pretty sight, as the realisation of her injuries hampered the power of adrenaline. She struggled wordlessly, collapsing face first upon the ground. Wasn't for lack of trying, or sheer willpower. Her legs just weren't cooperating. Didn't stop her from going again.

And again.

And again.

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Watching that for a moment, before sighing and sitting himself back down on his stool.

Most watchers had disappeared by now.

Better to be elsewhere, because this was just ugly. A brawl was one thing ... what Locke had done was something else. Something grotesque. With such casualness that it sickened. "Another bowl, please." He murmured over his shoulder as he watched her struggle. The street chef knew better than to argue here. This guy had just expertly cut a woman almost twice his size without breaking a sweat.

That wasn't worth an argument.

A groan there as he touched his stomach. "Got a few swings in, Sam, pretty dang good." Trying to stretch, but his body hurt. It was his age. Maybe the alcoholism too.

Once upon a time this wouldn't have even fazed him.

"But ya blind. First ya saw a friend, then you saw weakness ... or what ya thought be weakness." His accent warping away from his own there. Pouring more bourbon into his bowl, once the noodles came-a-round. "And ya pounced on da weakness. Dumb... but I respect da hustle." Eating, bite here and there as she continued to try and get to him.

Failing, but that was to be expected.

"I should probably kill ya, but even tho ya hurt mah feelings ... and mah body ... I like ya." Standing up there. Bowl in hand. "You a real go-getter, aintcha, lass? Killer... just like me." Bloody smile there. "Well, you should probably get some sleep. Gonna be a tough morning for ya." Unless Sam did something there?

He'd kick her in the face to knock her out.

The last thing she would see is his bloody face first. His boot next.

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

It was done.

Didn't stop her from trying to get back to her feet but for everybody else, it was clearly over. He was back on a stool ordering a new bowl as if he'd just dealt with a minor pest problem. It stung like another blow, getting right under her skin as she struggled upon hands and knees. Even his compliment seemed to be tossed to her like scraps for a stray mutt.

Rodarch hadn't troubled him. At all. He knew it. She knew it. All that shet she'd given him. If he was a yellow broken man, then what was she?

The realisation began to creep in. She was weak. What was the point of getting up? She'd only get knocked down again. Maybe the drink wasn't the issue. Maybe this was just the cloth she had been cut from. She'd stopped trying to get up now, remaining upon hands and knees as her eyes stared a hole in the ground. Idiot. Loser. Just like your father. Just stop trying.

Just. Give. Up.

The voice at the noodle bar still spoke, but it was different now. Strange kind of drawl. Sam actually had to drag her head upwards to see if it was still Elliot that was speaking to her. Apparently, it was but at the same time something wasn't quite right. That smile. She never seen that smile before. Who was he?

The boot connected.

Right in the eye. Broken orbital bone without a doubt. Sent her slumping into the ground as intended. It was over. Time for a dirt nap.

Or it would have been, were it not for the Mandalorian's dense skull. Her tenacity had caught a lot of opponents off guard, thinking she'd be down for the count but Rodarch would keep getting back up. Not smart. Not kind. Not much of anything. But tough.

“Not...like you,” she spat weakly, pushing herself off of the ground somewhat, legs still useless but arms ready to put the work in. She dragged herself closer to him as he towered over her, hands grasping out for his ankles as if to say she had caught him.

“Archibald Sult.”

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

An ooooh there.

Something broke against his boot. He felt it, but it seemed this wasn't enough for Sam to be taken out. "Mmm, ya be a machine, lass." Another compliment her way. Such an odd dynamic. Just a minute ago Archibald had been trying to kill her dead. Now ... now he was brushing her ego with a brush. Maybe not even Sult knew how his mind worked.

Truth to be told?

There needed to be reason behind something, before you could understand it.

About to retort to the not like you, but then Sam said something that made him blink. Something sad in his eyes for a moment. It was snuffed out almost immediately.

The grin growing wider there. All teeth, all boldness.

"Got it in one, babe." He murmured there. Inclining his head in a theatrical admission. Sult rapped his knuckles against his own forehead. "Been trying to swim up and say hi a couple'a times, but... mmm Elly baby kept me in pretty tight." The knife flickered into existence again. Blood clung to it, her blood, crimson stained.

"Ya really should'a been nicer to 'im, been tryin'a save ya live this entire time."

A laugh there, but there was nothing nice about it.

Instead of cutting her again? Sult started to pick out the dirt from underneath his nails with it. "Ya gonna let go of mah boots any time soon? I got places to be, killer. Ya really do remind me of mahself. Real go-getter."

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

So she was right.

Who was he? Had he always been Elliot Locke? Or had he always been Archibald Sult? Why would he have offered to help her catch himself? The only thing that Rodarch could reckon for sure was that he was karked up in the head. All that shet he said had happened to him...

Started to make sense now.

Rodarch didn't stop dragging herself over to his boots, going until she was practically hugging his legs. Wasn't like she could do much from there aside from being a mild annoyance.

Her small voice of reason felt a pang of guilt. Should have grit her teeth and minded her own business, let the man have his drink but she didn't know. Didn't know that beneath his trauma lurked something so demented, so dangerous. Yet even throughout it all the man that she had tried to hurt with both words and fists guided the blade of certain death into the relative safety of her leg.

Hopefully, she'd get a chance to thank him later. Maybe even apologise if she could gather the courage.

Would have to stay alive for that.

“No,” she mumbled, head resting upon his boots as she rejected any and all notion of being anything like Archibald Sult, “m'not a killer, not like you.”

Might have seemed as if Samantha Rodarch thought herself as somewhat noble in her denial as she grasped upwards at his knees, lifting herself up a little as if she were about to try and climb him.

Not noble at all.

Archibald would find this out as the woman suddenly moved to sink her teeth into his ankle with all the strength that she could muster. Wasn't terribly pretty, but Sam wasn't above dirty tactics when the situation was dire. She'd try and rip a chunk out of flesh if she could.

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

A vain part of him liked her on her knees.

Groveling at his feet.

Of course, he didn't know what was to come, because then Archibald might have been less smug in his victory. "Not a killer?" A laugh there, bright and free in a way that no sentient should be. "Seen ya eyes, lassy love. Ya wanted to end me. Kill me. Murder me." There was something giddy about Sult there as he thought back to their frank 'discussion'.

"And all cus Elly likes da 'Khol, and cus I brought up ya daddy."

At that point Archibald even clapped his hands in encouragement.

The clap halted mid, because THAT is when Sam suddenly bit him in the ankle. A curse, pain flaring through his leg, as he tried to kick her away. Failing at that, because she was really wrapped around his legs there.

"Feth woman, ya want a piece of mah in ya mouth, ya could ask for it." He growled, but seemed less angry and more ... infinitely bemused. Twapping her over the head there with the back of the blade. "Off now, cus mah patience ain't infinite. Push more and ya get mah pretty knife in ya throat." Dreamy smile there.

Wouldn't it be nice to see her bleed?

That smile turned toothy once more.

"Elly says pretty please to listen."

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

It wasn't her finest hour. The fabric of his trousers in his mouth made her want to gag and prevented any real chance of doing any damage beyond pain. A dirty act of desperation that spoke more about her character than anything else.

Didn't seem to be all that effective either as the flat of his blade bounced off her head, the threat of her untimely demise dropped casually into the air. Didn't stop her. The only thing that did was mention of Elliot. Was he in there? Did he feel it?

Why did she care?

Rodarch let up, releasing his ankle from her jaw with a disgusted sneer plastered across her face, the future harsh bruising on her eye already beginning to show as it continued to swell from the impact of his boot.

“M'not 'fraid of you.”

Didn't know why she felt the need to tell him as if he needed to know that she only let go because of Elliot and not because of the knife in his hand. As if it might have made her feel less pathetic as she remained slumped at his feet. As if saying it would salvage some scrap of pride and hurt him more than feral teeth would.

As if she owed Elliot Locke that much.

“An' am not like you,” she spat once again, her breathing laboured from all of her prior exertions, each inhale drawing stabbing pains in her sides, “'ve not killed nobody.” Surprisingly true. Maimed and brutalised, yes but killed? She hurt people because violence filled that void in her heart, not because she wanted to end lives.

“Don't...don't plan on it neither.”

Not a good person, but not the worst. Certainly not like Archibald Sult.

“Yer a fethin' monster.”

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Head tilts there.

Luckily for both of them she let go of his legs.

Otherwise he would have to kill her. A threat was only worth as much as their belief in its veracity. Don't follow through? And there would be no reason to believe it would be different another time. "Luck has it that I do not need fear to kill someone." Saying it without much concern. Archibald didn't really care if people feared him or not.

In fact?

It was usually better if they didn't. The expression of surprise on their face was usually delicious. It also gave him an edge during a fight. Wasn't that partially why he had won so 'easily' here?

Sam Rodarch hadn't considered him a threat.

That turned out to be her fall.

"Oh? Never? And why is that? Did you stop yourself in every fight, Samantha? Or did you have to be dragged off, frothing at the mouth and raging spittle as you were denied your prey." Stretching there as he sat back down again. Picking up his bowl to eat further. His eyes were absent there, playing with the knife in one hand while sipping from the bowl.

Until.

Until that last part, which made him laugh loudly, head tipping back.

"Yes, lassy. Yes. I be a monster. In fact? The monster. It is wonderful, my world. My life. No worries, or crying about the past." Something twinkling in his eyes suddenly. "Join me, eh, Sam-sam? I can teach you not to give a chit about ya daddy or da 'Khol. I can set you's free. Mmhm, I can."

Extending a hand to her.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

There was a twinge of visible discomfort on the woman's face as he delved into the truth. There'd been quite a few fights that had ended in such a manner. Gotten carried away. Usually mounted them. Ground and pound. So easy to just keep throwing fists and elbows until you break their guard. Then after that.

It's just hard to stop especially when it feels so good.

Her silence spoke volumes about that particular truth, her smarts leaving her lacking in terms of a reasoned retort or even an excuse that separated them as horrible people.

As he resumed eating his noodles Rodarch tried to adjust herself so at the very least she wasn't lying on the ground like some kind of resentful worm. Having to roll over, she managed to sit up, the adrenaline fading now and all the throbbing pain coming to the forefront. The woman sat, pulling her knees up to her chest with a grimace as she inspected her twin knife wounds. The one upon her heel was nasty, still pissing crimson into her sock and boot.

The ruthless efficiency he held in disabling her couldn't be denied, almost admirable really, she chose to believe that it was all Elliot's work.

His proposition came full of sickening mirth and nine times out of ten she would have told him to 'kark off' and his boot would have probably finished the job of sending her to sleep but on this occasion that small voice managed to pipe up through the rest for once.

There was a chance here. Could do something right. Try and get through to Elliot, help him conquer this split. After all, in reality he'd saved her life today.

Still, there was something tempting in the idea of being able to let go of the past. Release the chip on her shoulder. It did sound freeing. But at what cost? Become like him? That'd never happen, she wasn't like him and she'd never be like him.

Although that was all just self-assurance.

“Fine. Shet at bounty huntin' anyway.”

Rodarch reached up, grabbing his hand before roughly using him as an anchor to pull herself up to her feet, wincing and grunting as the injuries became more evident with every passing second. Once upright she could stand without support, barely, but getting about was going to prove more of an issue.

“Need patchin' up afore you teach me anythin', Sult” she mumbled, trying to avoid looking at him in the eyes, was it because of shame or because Rodarch didn't want him to realise her intentions, maybe a bit of both, “can barely fethin' walk.”

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

No reaction to her sudden about-turn.

Mostly because it didn't matter.

Not to Arch anyway. Oh sure, she wasn't being truthful with him, but that was besides the point. Intentions were all pretty and nice. Until they hit the cold stone moment of reality. She'd kill once. Thinking to herself oh, it's just a junkie and I am doing it to get his trust. Then again. And again. It would get easier as her hands got more bloody.

By the end of it? Oh, Sam would have Archibald's trust.

In return? Sult would have the shriveled remains of her soul. Palmed in his red right hand.

"Mmm, or are ya?" Tugging her in until their faces almost touched. This close she'd get a better look at him. He didn't look much like Elliot from this angle. His eyes red from sleep deprivation, sockets deep as the shadows cast. Teeth yellow and sharp. It was the general shape of Locke. Like someone tried to draw him from memory. "...since ya had your target in your palm."

Letting go there with an ugly laugh.

"Yeah, sure. We will find ya an auto-doc. Patch yar riiight up. First tho. Some whisky for ya, on me. Take da edge off." A smirk there. Challenging one, because if she was REAL about her commitment here?

She'd take it.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Seemed to be good enough for him.

Maybe he had little idea of her intentions. Maybe he had too much. Maybe he just didn't care. Rodarch couldn't even gleam an inch of an answer from him, she knew he was a monster, a killer but beyond that nothing else.

The chance soon came to get to know Archibald Sult a little better as she was forcibly pulled towards him, their faces so close that she could see nothing else. The drink that clung to his hot breath invaded her sense of smell and stung her eye (the other now swollen shut as a result of his boot). He would feel her body try to pull back out of instinct, his visage almost a cruel caricature of a man.

Something about the hollows of his eyes and teeth that seemed monstrous cast unease in the pit of her stomach, and it was shown in the way she stared back, in the absence of usual frown lines and a slighter wider, but softer eye.

What did he see in looking back? Could he see her trepidation beyond the slivers of scar tissue that littered her features? Could he look beyond the way her nose sat, so crooked from a lifetime of fists and feet? Or did he only see himself in the shine of the bruise in her eye, the trickle of blood that still wept from the cut? His handiwork.

When he let go Sam was sure to take a precarious limp backwards to put some distance between them before his flask was offered.

“I don...”

She had to stop her auto-piloted response as she stared in abrupt horror at the whisky for a few moments. Now there was fear. Undeniable. If she said no he'd think she wasn't committed, would walk away and with that Elliot would be gone too. She'd resolved herself to help him, the closest thing she had to a friend.

What if she liked it?

What if her blood ran craven like her mother who ran, like her father who only found solace in those amber liquids. What if that was her destiny? Broken yellow woman.

Was she still a coward if she didn't?

The seconds passed by before her mottled hand grabbed the flask with a little too much roughness. Had to do it swiftly. Not think about it. The more Sam stood and considered it the less likely it would be that she could go through with it.

Lid unscrewed. The briefest swig. Couldn't swallow. It sat in her mouth a few moments more, the acrid burn coating her tongue and the inside of her cheeks. Tasted like fire. Felt disgusting. Just swallow it. Took her time, but finally she did, that same awful taste hitting the back of her throat and reflexively causing Rodarch to make a face.

She didn't like it.

Good. There was a comfort in that.

“Thanks,” Sam abruptly barked as she practically shoved the flask back into Archibald's chest as if were an active cryo grenade, “ahm sure that'll be plenty.”

As if a single swig could take the edge off of anything.

Belfry of Tund