Clipping Feathers - PLOT LOG

Posted on Sun Jun 8th, 2014 @ 5:21am by Admiral Rochelle Ivanova

1,297 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: In the Dark

Drip... Drip... Drip...

The sound of water droplets meeting a standing pool was the first thing Rochelle noticed as consciousness began to re-take it's iron hold. It was shortly paired with a profound sense of cold, a wet cold that bit through the confines of her clothing and threatened to chill her very bones. She began to realize that this cold and the sound of dripping water all stemmed from one other tell tale layer; darkness. Her eyes were open, blinking, but darkness still prevailed heavily. Only pin lights from within what her drugged fingers found to be a moss enshrouded stone walls gave her any ability to see -- and even then there wasn't much to make out.

She couldn't really stretch her legs the way she was laying, the resistance of the rocks kept them furled at the knee for the most part. Her arms suffered the same fate, and so she chose to cross them protectively over her chest to try and help preserve body warmth as she began to shiver. Hypothermia was a bitch. She'd been entombed, that too... Was a bitch.

And then, someone snickered, the shrill sound bouncing off the walls like a crazed racket ball, obscuring its true origin. "Tight and snugly, like a bird in a cage," the voice whispered and chortled a laugh that ended with a short cough. "Are you cold, little bird? hee hee, she looks cold."

"She do," another voice chimed in, lower than the first and full of intensity. The air seemed to vibrate slightly, as if from a breeze. "Maybe we should help. Wha' do ya say, little bird? You need someone to warm ya?" This time two voices chortled, and sounding much closer.

The sound of voices, as derelict as the chasm that held her prisoner, hurt the tender hollows of her ears. She groaned at their over zealous stupidity -- a far cry from the less than lady-like response that sat, bound, behind her parched lips. Chloroform, or whatever it was they had used to knock her out, was a bitch. Somehow that heinous five letter word had managed to become the ultimate adjective in the redhead's mind. "Frak..." She rasped as she fought to try and sit up in her tiny, wet cage, "you."

"She speaks! I like it when they speaks!" one of the voices rejoiced, and the other cackled loudly, the sound once again bouncing off the stone walls into a cacophony, making the entire cave cackle along. "Augh, it's so thin," the other voice sounded closer, to the right. "There won't be much of you to share, little bird," another snicker from the left, "you think we could have a little taste?" its source asked, moving around the dark space, "just a small one before the others come to split their share.." it cooed greedily, hopefully.

It took entirely way too much effort for Rochelle to draw herself up along the wall, pressing her back to the jagged moss covered stone. The wetness soaked through the thin fabric of her pajamas, her jacket missing and presumed dead. "Try it."She grunted, closing her eyes against the strain the obfuscating darkness provided. Each time she swallowed it felt like gravel had been poured down her throat -- another wonderful result of whatever the Hell had been used to subdue her. "I'll end you." The redhead added, reaching to try and warm her frigid toes.

"End you!" one of the voices rejoiced, "you hear that, Sork?" a chuckle, "she wants to end you."

"Maybe she meant you," the second voice breathed, so close to Rochelle's ear she could feel the stinking breeze of its owner's breath, "won't be the first bird to try."

"Aye!" the other voice chimed in with pure joy, this time from the other side of the cavern. They moved with such silence and speed, the echoes of their voices seemed to bounce off of opposite walls every second word. "It's not a good prize if you 'ont have to fight fer it first."

"A bit scrawny for a worthy fight prize," the first voice remarked, "but no prize at all if you 'ont go fer it quick before the others come."

"Aye," the first agreed greedily and the breeze brushed Rochelle's neck. "Quick to catch the little bird."

With a heavy rolling sigh, the redheaded Commander shied away from the hot breath of her captor, her head pulling away blindly only to against a stone shelf with a crack and a swear. The world refused to come to a stop, instead it chose to spin even when she closed her eyes and tried, in vain, to settle her racing heart and painfully compromised equilibrium. She could hear them, their words both chilling and infuriating, but her brain couldn't quite complete the circuits necessary for her to retort without great effort. Maybe it was the cold... Maybe the drugs... Maybe hunger... Maybe the combination of all three that became a tri-fecta straight from Hell, but it left the Commander lost in the dark shivering and flinching away from the scents, feelings and sounds that assaulted every one of her senses.

She wouldn't surrender.

A lesser person would have sat there drooling all over themselves in a haze and stupor, but Rochelle demanded her tired, quivering muscles to coil in wait. "AWAY!" She commanded herself to spring away towards what she perceived was the direction of one of her keepers. In vain, she lunged with her freezing fingers outstretched like claws in hopes of being able to capture and subdue one, if not both. It felt like she was 'airborne' for hours in what honestly took fractions of seconds to complete; a hapless flailing that was far from the collected lunge she'd hoped to accomplish. A flight that was painfully short lived as those fingers met moss and rock with a slap and yeowl as her arms collapsed and her chest and body fell solidly against the same unyielding granite. The lack of control was perhaps the most painful part of it all, even more so then the bruises, bumps and scrapes she'd created for herself.

Blinking open in the darkness, her eyes once more sought faces in the pin lights and only found vague shadows to be found. "Won't... Win." She tried to warn, sucking in a breath against the pain and confusion as her fingers tried to find her combadge and fell away with a mournful whine when she, predictably, found it missing in action.

The figures in the darkness moved quickly, chuckling and cackling occasionally from nearby. They turned silent when she planned her jump, seeing all in the darkness that they were so used to, watching her with anticipated glee, snorting finally when she finally took off in an all-in jump.

"Look! the little bird is flying," a cackle, a chuckle, the sound of shuffling dust between snorts. "You don't fly that good, little bird," one said, and the other laughed out loud.

And then, without much fuss and without preamble, both figures made their own all-in jumps, pouncing on top of Rochelle like a pair of tigers attacking their prey. Her hands were stretched above her head with the strong grip of a desperate animal, turning her over with the murderous ease of madmen who've done this before.

The other man straddled her stomach, pinning her to the ground, and leaned forward to hover above her face. "No more flying for you, little bird," he cooed with a grin full of rotting teeth, and inhaled deeply, taking in her smell with hungry approval. At this, the other let out an excited squeak of delight.

... TO BE CONTINUED

Commander Rochelle Ivanova
Executive Officer
USS VINDICATOR

Sork and Quin
Unknown Noturan Assailants
apb Mooey

 

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