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S-PLOT JL | Erei'Riov P'mai Tr'Bak, Rochelle Ivanova (MU) | "The Blade's Path" pt 2

Posted on 241710.04 @ 18:32 by Rochelle Ivanova & Lieutenant JG Ra'lin Sha'mer

Mission: Ebbtide

***NSFW TRIGGER WARNING; INTENSE GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AHEAD***


Fiery as she was, Rochelle could feel herself bolster to her full, though still unimpressive, height the moment the much taller Romulan turned in her direction. The tide had turned and for all of the ribbing and silly cattiness, she'd gotten exactly what she wanted; an angry, gaping wound of a creature. "And here all I wanted to do was bake the bastard a cake." She retorted, running her tongue over her teeth. A step forward reminded her of the blade, heavy and warmed by the heat of her body. Still concealed, it began to sing its sweet sonnet to her hand, begging for the moment it would be set free just as its rightful master had. "Tell me, P'mai... Do you think dear V'rith would prefer being served on the bridge or over a private dinner? Hmmm?" She asked, the fingers of her hand closest to the knife beginning to throb and coil.

The words slid past like water over a frictionless surface: nothing to adhere to, nothing to snag on. "I can see it, you know," P'Mai said softly. She looked through the other woman, not at her. "You telegraph your intentions with every word you do not speak, every movement you do not make. I can see the dagger you conceal. I can see the intent in your eyes. I have been watching you for quite some time. Wondering when you'd get around to it. When you finally worked yourself up to do it. And," she gave a small shrug, as if dismissing the other woman, or even her own possible imminent death, as irrelevant, "here you are."

"Then you know I do it on my own bidding and for my own reasons." The sanguine one chortled in repose, hardly able to contain herself now that she was absolutely certain that the woman wasn't just a trophy wife. "You know that every single one of your failures when serving him are none of my concern... Well..." She shrugged and flicked a wrist with a nod, "Other than the fact that I found them wildly entertaining, of course, aren't why I'm here." Again there was a little titter of laughter and the dagger made itself known, held demurely in delicate hands. "I'm sure you recognize this, and frankly I don't feel that your death is going to be a fair trade at all. You're worthless, really." Dar'an hadn't been. His only failure had been caring entirely way too much about a project that should have been considered disposable art. Rochelle made no mistake in considering herself any different until the moment that she'd been instructed to kill him only to find that he'd done the deed himself, committing a crude form of seppuku before she could bloody her hands with anything more than the memory of their brief tryst.

"Your death is more of a message than anything else." Rochelle smiled brightly, spinning the blade's point against the tip of her index finger.

The Romulan smiled in return. "So easily you dismiss me and my work," she said, folding her hands in front of her. "Your short lives and your impatience make you hopelessly unsuited for any of the deep games. You yourself are a worthless symbol and you don't even know it." What could the human possibly know of the deep games, the long games, plans within plans which took sometimes three or more generations to be put into play? Today's confrontation was but one move in one of those games, and the outcome mattered little, whether P'Mai would live or die. Either way, the little human was but a tool. "So come, then, little pet. Do what you feel you must."

"Blah blah blah." The pet's hand opened and closed as if speaking and she blew a hefty, bored, and tired sigh, "You talk entirely way too much for a species that believes they're sooo superior to everyone else. Then again, you were the one who was bested by the bitchy little Commodore in battle and about to be killed by me right here..." Another sigh, "Damn it. It's infectious. The talking too much."

There was no warning, no prelude, to the sudden flourish of movement and the savage flick of a wrist that set the the glittering blade air born. It flew, straight as an arrow thanks to the little redhead's aptitude for follow through and the power behind it. The rule was, as she recalled, that she should never fight angry. This act wasn't driven by anger, or any real form of contempt, it was driven by need and an abstract of curiosity that should never have been born. It begged answer to questions such as; just how would Tr'Bak react? and, does white wine get green blood out of rug fibers just as easily as it does red blood? She'd soon find all of that out... And more. The dagger, with it's savagely sharpened antique blade, bore home true to the mark she'd mean it for, and deep in the temporary sheath of the Romulan's throat at the hollow just above her red jewel sat. Instantly it became brown, the deep emerald of P'mai's blood rushing to cover it impenitent of the damage caused. Rochelle nearly squealed and clapped in delight as she watched the hit press against skin, completing the motion of a crude tracheotomy... Or at least she would have if she wasn't already in flight, using what she was certain would be shock bred from pain and the inability to gather breath around the obstruction of the knife embedded in P'mai's windpipe.

"Here," Rochelle spoke gently to the gurgling Romulan, a hand wrapping around the jeweled hilt, "Let me help you with that." The last word was strained by the effort it took to twist and rotate the blade within it's sheath of flesh. The hole created was a grotesque combination of pink skin and gushing green in a crude amalgamation resulting in what might have been considered art to some. Rochelle couldn't have cared less. She was too busy watching P'mai fall away, bleeding profusely as the knife slipped from her tissues and back into the open air... For now. They'd meet again, reunited briefly when the tiny little human straddled the Romulan's abdomen and stared down at her dying quarry with a pout and tilt of her head. "Too much? Sorry, not sorry." She whimpered, "I'd tell you to send Dar'an my love, but I think you'll be going somewhere very very different than he."

P'Mai's eyes were clouded with pain, but for one moment longer they glittered brightly, fixed still on the other woman's face. Her hands reached up, grabbed Rochelle's arms with surprising strength, and amazingly, P'Mai still smiled. Her lips formed one last soundless word, though whether curse, prayer or a single name was impossible to say. Then she closed her eyes and her hands fell back, their power spent. The last breath left her body through the gap which shouldn't be there and took her spirit with her to the unknown.

A single pinprick of blood remained behind on the thinnest part of Rochelle's arm, just above the pale blue vein, unnoticed by either. P'Mai's final gift was on its way.

"Finally." The redhead huffed and blew that damned irritating loose strand of hair back away from her face... Again. P'mai was dead, limp and lifeless against the strange white rug. Blood still ran from the crude hole in her throat, and the light had left her dark eyes... Rochelle couldn't have cared less. There was no giddiness, no remorse, only a sense of duty to the task she'd assigned herself to perform.

It wasn't an easy one.

No matter how sharp that blade was, it still didn't make quick work of hacking through the remaining flesh, ligaments, sinews, and bone of the Romulan's once elegant neck - but once freed from the rest of her, P'mai's head was unceremoniously set in a sink to finish bleeding out while the rest of her was disposed of in a manner Rochelle felt truly fitting: The replicator. Every bit of P'mai, and the rug she'd been butchered on, was carefully disposed of by way of cordial introduction, piece by piece, into the system that would ultimately feed her to her own husband and his loyal, shivering subjects. All the while, especially as they enjoyed their dinner, Rochelle herself would remain completely indifferent beyond the actual reveal - the thought of which sent shivers down the courtly length of her spine while she checked in on Tr'bak's little trinket in the sink. "You should have listened and worn the red." She affirmed, taping the tip of a viridian stained index finger against the tip of the disembodied head's nose before turning away in search of a shower. The rest of her fun would have to wait just a little while longer. While green was her color, the paint job was sloppy and her clothing becoming crusty as the blood began to set and dry within the sodden fibers.

---

Erei'Riov P'mai Tr'Bak
Sub-Commander
3rd Tal'Shiar Task Force
Romulan Star Empire
APB Sha'mer

Rochelle Ivanova (MU)
Privateer
Romulan Star Empire

 

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