Private The Circle Complete

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

What did Sult see?

Himself, first and foremost. Always. This shouldn't surprise anyone. He was Id wrapped in flesh. She could feel his eyes exploring her. Not as a woman, it wasn't desire... as such. It was the hunger of memory. Reliving the moments that brought them together. From the drunken bender through the junk den to the slow escalation, which ended in her total destruction in front of him.

A soft groan there as he stretched.

It was a reminder to the both of them. While Archie might have karked her up? She had gotten in her fair few hits too. Somehow that didn't seem to bother Archibald whatsoever.

"Oh yaaah, one sip an' am sure ya down for the count." Grin there. This grin underlined it for her. He knew she was full of chit. Knew it for that frown disappearing, replacing by her soft tender big eye. Studying his lines in its proximity. "Alright, luv, let's get ya to the auto-doc. An hour more and ya be useless to me."

Implying that Sam wasn't right now.

He didn't elaborate on that.

Instead opting to slip off his stool. Bowl of noodles still in his hand, being balanced as he sipped from it. "Got a lad who still owes me 'un. Block ahead... ya gonna be okay walking or we gonna need to get you a walker?" His ugly smirk returning there.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

His persistent carnivorous grin would simply have to be endured as it took chunks out of her pride, her stare distant as that awful taste still lingered in her mouth. It was the taste of guilt. Even letting a pathetic swig of alcohol past her lips felt like a betrayal of self. Rodarch had vowed that she would never touch the stuff.

A broken promise.

It's for a good reason, a worthy cause. Besides, people might have known that she didn't drink, but they didn't know what it meant to her, right?

Stare returned, looking into the bloody smile of Archibald Sult.

Right?

A stark nod was offered as talk of the 'auto-doc' returned to the forefront of conversation, although notions of being useless to him in an hour was a moderate concern. He didn't elaborate. She didn't ask. The last thing she wanted to hear was his sickening drawl, spewing forth more shet and giving any more reason for Sult to smile.

“S'fine,” she mumbled, taking a few practise limps that demonstrated perfectly that it was not fine. Had it just been the one leg then she would have managed a lot better, but between her punctured thigh and slashed tendon her gait was left painful and precarious, as if a single crack in the ground would send her spiralling back down.

“Ain't got all day.”

Hard to say if it was a joke or not, the speed she hobbled at said yes, but the hollow tone of her voice said otherwise. Didn't matter how slowly she walked, she wasn't going to ask him for help. Sam Rodarch would ask Elliot Locke for help, but not him.

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

"Literally." Sult agreed with her cheerfully.

No, the sight of her limping didn't worry him at all.

In fact? It cheered him up even more. The gut punch was still aching him, after all. Maybe a few more swigs of the bourbon would help. There was only one way of figuring that out. Bowl of noodles (most of it long gone) went off the side. Slamming into a wall, dashing to pieces there, just like the first one had that had started everything off.

Funny thing that.

If she had just let him eat his food. Not talk chit about his drinking?

None of this would have happened.

"You got a ride off planet?" Sult inquired politely. Wistfully. Ooooh, Sam was so many opportunities. All wrapped up together in a very nice bow-tie. "A ship or sumthing?"

Presumably Elliot Locke had one too. The only problem was that that rat bastard refused to tell him. He had tried to crush that nugget of information, but to no avail as of yet. Maybe it would slip at some point. Maybe. Who really knew, eh? It didn't matter though. Not if sam-sam here had a nice little ship that could get them the kark outta dodge.

Nar Shaddaa was nice, sure.

But this quarantine couldn't hold for much longer.

"Tired of this metal tin moon. Time for brighter pastures." The drawl lazy... nonchalant.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

As she hobbled along with great difficulty it was hard to miss the casual disregard that Sult held for his eaten noodles. Not a single care in his stride as he tossed it aside once it had fulfilled all use, leaving it broken and desolate upon the streets.

“Ain't got a ship,” she half-groaned, the occasional pained inhale slipping out as they continued to walk, she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that it hurt that much, but he likely already knew, “but I got a ride.”

The notion of Samantha Rodarch piloting a ship was beyond terrifying, even she herself was aware of that.

Her mouth still lingered with the aftertaste of his whisky and it refused to shift even after the woman so-elegantly hurled a glob of spit onto the street. Maybe it was better to linger there, to keep that disgust at heart and remember why she had vowed never to drink in the first place.

“Got a few jobs here 'n th-ah!”

A sudden wince as Rodarch tweaked her bloody heel, sending a shooting twinge of pain all the way up her spine that reverberated through both damaged kidneys. Fists had to be clenched and teeth had to be gritted to prevent the woman from succumbing to the urge to ask for his shoulder to lean on.

“...jobs here 'n there.”

At least in knowing that she was a terrible bounty hunter Sam had at least lined up a few other ways of getting paid, courtesy of Darkwire.

“Headin' to Kelada next fir a bit of work,” she told him before scowling at the realisation of what that meant, “guess yer comin' too then.”

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Finger tips, stained caked crimson and slurry black, unscrewed the flask of bourbon once more.

The waif of booze trickling back into the air.

"A ride, eh? Sure. Works out." Keeping the interest strictly out of his tone. No sense in letting her know exactly how desperate he was to get out. It was like a prison. Oh, the pretty twinkly lights of the tin moon seemed nice. And it was nice. The first day. Week. Month. The drinks always flowed, never not someone to murder, but it was the gorram quarantine.

The fact that he was stuck here.

It went against everything he stood for. How could he be anarchy, if it was contained without his own say so?

"Those rider-along-ers gonna be fine with me sticking around?" Nobody was surprised at the small smile there. Clearly if they weren't? There was always a solution for it. The twitch of his hand said enough. Already a part of him looking forward to it. The flush of the drug den was seeping down.

Wouldn't be long, before they'd have to solve that.

A laugh there as Sam's realization hit.

"Kelada. Yes, sure. I am positive there be some chaos to cause there. I will teach ya, Sam-Sam. Teach ya good. By the time I am done witcha? Ya gon' struggle to remember why ya ever hesitated."

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

“Don't see why not,” Sam replied stiffly, the smell of bourbon making its unwanted return to their scene, her expression darkening the minute it hit her. Would have to just grin and bear it, if she was to get anywhere in helping Elliot then she would just have to accept the rampant alcoholism that would be shoved in her face every day.

“They're smugglers. They don't ask questions.”

The less said about it, the better. She didn't exactly want to invite him into the details of her life and about Darkwire. This wasn't the sort of man you spilt your secrets to.

Sult's laugh crept underneath her skin, Rodarch's jaw grinding as she tried to keep everything taut. Just like his smile, there was something in it that inherently bothered the woman. It was nasty without even trying to be.

His words were even worse than his mirth.

Sam-Sam sounded like the kind of nickname you'd reserve for a pet, didn't make her feel like a tenacious woman with a formidable pair of hands but instead made her feel like a stupid kid. It wasn't even the worst part of what he was saying. The implication of what he wanted her to be? More like him. A killer. At least that's what she presumed he meant.

A pained grunt was the only response that got, as she continued her agonising limp down the street alongside him.

“Feth. We there yet, Sult?”

Belfry of Tund