| Entry Two, Continued |
| What wouldn't be spattered on the walls would be charred to a crisp. The Hutts didn't care; all they'd have to do is import some new, more compliant, slaves. I thought that the best we would be able to do would be to free the Terrans in our complex, sneak out, disable the other Terrans' S.T.I.'s, and convince them all to escape in a slow trickle, and not in an attention-grabbing mass exodus. The Hutts would eventually get it into their slimy, ugly heads that Terran slaves were a bad business investment. The boys, of course, didn't want to listen to me, so we had to cut a deal; they'd get my implant out, and in return I would help them get their little revolt off of the ground. Of course, in order for a revolt to be effective, they needed to make sure that Glar couldn't just push a button and blow them up, so they were planning on breaking into the complex's main control room to see if they could figure out how to shut the S.T.I.'s off before Joe started cutting. Apparently, there was a computer mainframe in there that recorded not only who was in the complex, but also where each person was. Each slave could be found immediately simply by telling the system the name that Glar had given that particular slave. Apparently, my name was some indecipherable bit of Huttese that meant "graceful killer". I thought that it was kinda cute, actually. Too bad I couldn't pronounce it. Ryan had already managed to get into the room, and he was pretty sure that he knew what would trigger an implant's destruct sequence. Leaving the atmosphere was an automatic no-no. So was leaving the village surrounding the complex. So, Ryan needed to see if the damn computer would not only let him turn someone's implant off, but also tell him where it was in the slave's body so that Joe could cut it out. I was hoping that we were having that meeting so that Ryan could tell me that he'd finally figured out how to do exactly that. The dancing girls were doing okay that day, since none of the rougher traders had been visiting. Glar seemed a bit nervous, though; my Huttese was very rudimentary, so I couldn't pick up all that much. All I could tell was that someone important was supposed to be there, and from the way Glar was acting, that VIP's being late was definitely Not A Good Thing. Ryan had picked up on it, too; he was kept scanning the room's perimeter, like he expected something to bust in through the walls. He'd just turned to look at me and shrug when the main doors flew open. We had both tensed up, our hands on our blasters, when he came in. Dressed from head to toe in a black-hooded robe, his face was hidden from us, and he was carrying Glar's Twi'lek overseer by his collar. The stranger spoke in a low voice, and though I only caught every third word, I could tell that he wasn't happy. From what I could pick up, the Twi'lek had denied him admission into the complex, and as the stranger had come to see Glar about some missing money, the stranger was definitely not happy. Glar made soothing noises, basically told the stranger that it was probably a mistake in the books, Glar could sort it out, and oh, would the stranger like to rest and wait while he summoned his accountant? The dark-robed stranger pretty much said that the Hutt had one hour to "fix" his mistake, and he would be back to collect his money. Gracefully, with the most poise I have ever seen in someone that short, he turned on one heel and stormed out. Now, even if I didn't know my Star Wars/Lucas Influenced history, I'd have had to say that that guy really made my badass meter go off; and knowing what I knew by then, the stranger screamed "Sith!" But, knowing my �owner�, there wasn't no way, no how, that the slimy worm was going to pay up to him, no matter how much of a badass the dark stranger might be. So Ryan and I had less than an hour to ready up for a gunfight. The Hutt gave us permission to leave, and we walked into the bowels of the complex together. Ryan started whispering the news I�d been dying to hear at me almost the moment we were out of earshot. "I've figured it out! I need to get back in the control room, but I can access each slave's personal info now. I can find those implants and turn the damn things off!" We decided to grab Joe, and the three of us headed off to the control room. We'd swung by my room, and I'd picked up my spare knives; Ryan was already armed to the teeth. We broke into the room, and Ryan immediately got to work, pulling up my file first, as I'd volunteered to be the guinea pig. "Looking...looking..." he mumbled "Aha! It's in your shoulder, there!" and he touched my back right where the itching was the worst. Since it was a spot I couldn't scratch myself, it made sense to put it there; there was no way I could cut it out without help. I stripped to my waist, and Joe took a good look at my back. "You didn't tell me that you had tattoos." he said quietly, and I shrugged. "I didn't think that they would really matter; neither of them are where you need to cut." Joe sighed at me. "I can't feel the implant, Ria, so it's probably going to be down in your flesh a little bit. Are you sure that you want it out now? We can wait until we can get you drunk for this." I turned, crossed my arms, and stared Joe in the face as Ryan worked hurriedly to shut the implant off. "Joe, I want it out. This strange guy looks like serious trouble, and I need this thing out now, before he comes back. If we're lucky, we can put up a token fight and he'll get pissed off enough that he'll kill that slimeball for us. Just in case, though, Ryan and I both need our implants out. As in, yesterday wouldn�t have been soon enough. We don't need Glar figuring out our little plan and blowing the two of us up." Ryan crowed suddenly. "I got it! �Ria, you're good to go. Joe, I'm in your file now...yours is on the back of your leg. And it's going...going...gone!" Joe looked at me. I looked at Joe. He continued to bore into my eyes, like he was trying to change my mind through pure force of will. Tough poodoo, I wanted that thing out now. Joe sighed, and gestured for me to sit backwards in the room�s only chair. He opened up his improvised medical bag, and pulled out a scalpel that I'd sharpened myself, and a bottle of high-proof alcohol. He figured that it would work fairly well as a disinfectant. He poured some of the alcohol over the scalpel, and began slicing my skin as I tried to ignore the pain and sit still. Even with Guns 'n' Roses stuck in my head, it was hard to not move as Joe searched my flesh for the device that had been such a pain in our collective asses. I prayed that he would hurry up, and he finally shouted triumphantly, "Got it!" I heard him reaching into his bag, and felt a stinging wet cloth pressed against my back. God, alcohol in an open wound hurts! Joe was a good cutter, though; the wound felt like it was long and gaping, but Ryan assured me that it was a slit only about 3 centimeters long. Joe held the cloth to my back until the bleeding slowed before he stitched me up. "Now, don't forget, those stitches need to come out in two weeks. You don't necessarily need me to do it; just have someone cut them, and they'll pull out like taking an earring out of a pierced ear. Ryan, have you got your implant turned off yet? Ryan?" |
| ~ Continue ~ |