March 26, 2013

They brought Trouble in to the offworlder with a shock collar chafing his neck and an Elder standing to one side, in plain view, his thumb twitching close to the activation button of a remote. The off worlder said something, the Elder answered in the same gibberish. Trouble watched them, the Elder wanted something, so did the offworlder, but not the same thing. Easy enough to guess what the Elder wanted, the last time Trouble'd gotten lose, he'd tried to strangle the nearest Elder, and now they didn't allow him to go collarless, even when they locked him into the box to sleep.

The Elder pointed at Trouble and slapped at his shoulder. Trouble dodged without appearing to leaving the older man to slap air. That earned him a quick jab of the button, and he stiffened, fighting to show no pain. The off-worlder shook his head, hand raised, and turned to leave. The Elder caught his arm, turning his back to Trouble.

Trouble looked at the fourth man in the room. The Lesser-Elder didn't have a remote, but the stick he held could rattle Trouble's brains easy enough. The off-worlder signed with mock resignation and took out some scrip and some kind of thin metal box that he gave to the Elder. They moved to a table at the far end of the room, bending over things, and the Elder put down the remote, Trouble, still watching the Lesser-Elder did nothing.

The Elders nodded at each other and they left, the Lesser-Elder to the rear, just like the procession when they carried the Fire from the Temple to the fields, for blessing.

The off-worlder picked up the remote, but held it negligently. He walked up to Trouble and looked up at him. “Scavvi metiz?”

Trouble looked at him with loathing, he could snap the off-worlder's neck in an instant, if he moved. He didn't know how quick the off-worlder could move, if he held other, hidden weapons. The collar was bad, but he knew its limits, could fight it, a little, if it wasn't set to maximum.

The off-worlder tapped his own chest, “Liamurphy.” he gestured to Trouble, eyebrows raised, his mouth stretching in a smile. He barely reached to Trouble's shoulder, scrawny as a calf at the end of winter, a shock of sparse reddish hair standing up every which way.

A name, that was what he wanted. “Trouble.” he gave it easily. “Speak Winthuran?”

The off-worlder smiled, “Little little. Yes, no.” He walked to the entrance of the room. “Come. Work.”

Trouble followed him, not sure what would happen next.