/// CW: small scene with gore, lots of blood, sexual references, and mentions of forced detransition and an abusive partner. ///
“Lord Blackford, I presume?” teased the pilot, lazily groping an obviously looted revolver. “Didn’t expect the ball-gown, or the tits in them — but the blood-drench seems about right.”
“Ain’t my blood,” Charlie coughed, pulling against an uncourteous handcuff. It was a medical bed — which wasn’t the worst sign — but 'she' kept 'her' guard, and pitch, high.
“No — none of it is,” they mused. Dink. Dink. “And it’s blue.”
The pilot tapped a pressurised cylinder — humming away as it cycled; blue out, red in. Charlie groaned — didn’t matter the type was killing her, it had felt good. And it had been the first good feeling since the rotting cunt had pressaged her to this fourth-world heap.
“Ya wanna explain why we’re pumpin’ an entire Blackford’s worth outta you then?”
“Cavalry Bioident,” obviously — and not the point. “Who’s we?” she dared. Blackford had invaded someone — but neither Charlie, nor his Lordship, knew the fuck who.
The pilot beamed. “Confederal Cavalry Militia — democratically attached to the Free Vessel Torastan, now landed in pursuit of this world’s liberation from imperialist remnant.”
“Punkers — and pirates, if not the same,” said Charlie — a raised brow guarding against the ridiculous notion she should recognise them. Better that she didn’t, probably. The Third Revolutionaries would blast you with niche political theories but usually not their guns.
“Yeah, pretty much,” they conceded, satisfied. “Kell Kinroth; callsign—” “Devourer.”
“Oh. Catch me a pair of fans?” Kell asked, smiling.
That callsign had punctuated every one of the Lord’s tirades against them — abusiveness in concert with the presumable, worsening humiliation of each successive war council.
“No — and where is she?”
“Miss Blackford.” Her father’s mistress stalked up to her, the shivering and shell-shocked Ladyship— “Ishbel.” —and smacked her. “Ish! Get in the fucking Cav.”
Lord Gorden Blackford, her father — his throat decorated by a mangling slice from ear to missing ear — was staring at her, lying in blood more precious than his life. My Heirloom. And it was dripping, from teeth to cleavage, hidden aneath Charlie’s stolen pourpoint.
“You waiting on daddy’s loyal retinue to butcher each other for the privilege of making you their broodmare?” they spat, a wet and blue-bloody globule of Charlie's spirited disdain for Blackford’s touch – how they hated their own flesh for it.
The Syphon-Scepter was rammed deep into his gullet, where the delicate engine burnt out draining a still-living subject. “There’s nothing left for us, for you, here — isn't there, Ish?”
“No, there isn’t.” she said, taking their hand. You’re all I need now, Charlie.
“I-I had to get out of there — get her out with me. That good enough for you?” Charlie rubbed at her wrist where the cuff had chafed. “Now where is she?”
Kell nodded, gun holstered at bloody last, and answered simply. “Holding cell.”
“Why isn’t she here? You fucking shot at—”
“Nah,” they interrupted. “Seems you took all the internal blast for her. Still, smart— takin’ her hostage—” She’s not— “Meanin’ you weren’t gonna get shot. Least till you walked into us.”
Charlie turned off the bed, stopping anxiously as the infuser cord tugged at her.
“Still— sorry about that. Didn’t spot you’d detached the armaments,” Kell seemed genuinely embarrassed, staring at shrapnel-borne pockmarks. “But good I shot first. Partner’d been itching to vibro-smash the fucker for months. I’d say you’re a defector like her but—”
“Ain’t a pilot,” said Charlie, having not meant to walk into their warzone. There was only so much Ish could backseat, knowing a disobedient amount more than her station begged.
“Yeah, cos ya actually just say pilot. Still catchin’ Bleater say Cavalier sometimes. Ha, chivalric bullshit—”
“And she’s not my fucking hostage!” Charlie wanted Kell to shut the fuck up, to leave them both alone. “The Miss wanted—” “Woah.”
“That Miss of yours is a Lady now, the Lady — Blackford.”
Charlie didn’t yet understand what she’d done. Tangling with nobility used to mean Blackford smuggling himself into Charlie's subdivision of a second-world orbital habitat, to get pegged raw — before Charlie started soaking up all the psychosexual hang-ups that begot.
“What she wants doesn’t matter, she’s too valuable to give up. Sorry, Charlie.”
You aren’t. Kell was relieved, not sorry, and could tell Charlie wasn’t pleased. Not least because Charlie’s shaking fists made it very fucking obvious. She had just delivered them everything they needed to win their little insurrection — all at Ish’s expense.
“No one’s gonna hurt her alright,” they reassured — and a truth revealed in it; we could if we wanted to. It's why she told me your name. Because she’s ours now, not yours.
“And— dropping her off makes you very cool with us.” They were trying to bribe her, mostly so they felt less bad. It wasn’t for Charlie’s sake.
The cylinder beeped — done, Blackford was gone. Kell pulled the infuser out, and it sucked. “Fuck, you really won’t let me keep it? Thought killing him would make me a Cavalry Ace.”
“Kinda." Their formally-disavowed bounty board lighting up for Blackford's death was doubtless darkening the day of many of the militia's lances. "But it was killin' ya, wrong type an’ all — self-replicating too, and eatin’ your blood cells. It’ll only bind properly to her.”
Kell could see the bitter sorrow in Charlie’s eyes. “But?”
“Haven’t felt that good since before his Lordship’s unilateral decision to just abduct me. When I was home and—” Charlie’s head had felt clear — narrow and focused — and had again, bathed in cerulean. “Say— and mind my fucking manners here—”
“Think I have been,” mused Kell. “Blackford had a refined taste in mistress, didn’t he?”
“Yep. Killer.”
Charlie stood up — flexing away the tension in his shoulders, chords purring a bruising memory of hateful words, “You wretched, rebellious queers—” Kell sputtered like a dying engine, and would have fallen over if the chair hadn’t been braced against the wall.
Charlie relaxed. “You got any hormones? Like, androgenic implants — or fuck, I’ll do gel.”
It was that voice, scrambled by interference, that had passed perfectly as Blackford, to the traffic tower, so Charlie didn’t have to blow the fence and their cover.
And that same voice — obliviously transmitted on the shortwave — that had drawn out Bleater and the Devourer. “Oh— sugar. You’re in good fuckin’ hands,” they smiled.
But Kell tensed again — still bargaining, “If that makes us cool?”
“Yeah, it does. Sorry — for what it’s worth.”
To Ish, not to you.
(Masterpost) / (Next)
