Some Light-Hearted Wren Fun

[Derelict Draught]

Things never stayed simple. People always let greed take over. Unfortunately, Shay appeared to be just as vulnerable as any other gambler. She stayed well past her prime, seeming to ignore the subtle gestures Malberry directed towards her. When things escalated, he was left with no other options.

His gaze breaks from the Commander as he pushes away from his position. The first blow passed silently behind him, the response crashed about the walls of the chamber. So the brawl began in earnest. Others in the bar, adhering to jealousy, rage and general dissent begin to frolic to their cohorts aid. Still Malberry skirts about the edge of the room, drawing close to the barkeeper.

The keeper watched the struggle nervously, anxious dancing between his eyes and the underside of the counter betraying his hesitation. Malberry's hand crashes down on the keeper's shoulder, eliciting a shriek of surprise from the man.

"Don't escalate things."

Without further advisement, a chair soared through the air towards the combatants, yet another eager soul lunging into a foolish fight. Malberry pitied them, they'd bitten off far more than they could hope to chew. Bottles shatter as the chair crashes into the display behind the counter, spattering shards of glass and raining whiskey on the keeper. Then they were on him.

Two of the occupants seemed finally have worked the relationship between man and woman, that the two were a party and what that might entail. Two sets of powerful hands grab his shoulders from either side, slamming him down on the counter and dragging him across ingloriously dumping him on the floor.

The sharp toes of a steel toed boot digs into his side, flaring his existing wounds and inducing vomit. Reflex rolls Malberry to his feet a short distance away, bile still clinging to his lips. With a scowl, he rushes the nearest man crashing him into a table and spitting the remnants in the man's face.

The partner's hands grab for him from behind only to find him waiting. Before either of the attackers understood what happened they found themselves forced into a compromising kiss. Two more break from attacking to woman for more 'even' game drawn by the sounds of conflict.

The four men waste little time in outflanking him, each acting fully independent of the others. Front and left rush him, hoping to pin and wail on him. Front is dropped by a swift sweep aimed for his forward ankle, nearly flipping the man a full 180 degrees. Left then stumbles backwards as a spoon seemingly appears in his left nostril.

Back ceases the chaos and wraps himself about Malberry's arms trapping the limbs from causing further damage. Right tackles the legs forcing him into a seated position. Front and Left slowly recover as Malberry struggles against his captors. A sick smile creeps across Left as he steps before the struggling man. Words slip over his lips, seeming to possess no meaning. Malberry knew exactly what followed so there was no pointing in listening.

A soft chuckle escapes his waning consciousness as the blood finally leaks through the filth coated clothes. The chuckle dies out as his eyes drift closed, his muscles relaxed. He'd give them two free hits. Just two....Then...

[Verdana]

Shaygrin knew that it was immature of her, but she loved a good bar fight. Fighters were usually inebriated, and although they were furious, they had no idea why they were so angry. They were wonderfully predictable, brutal and had no attention span whatsoever.

She almost felt justified in wounding them.

She didn't kill anyone, of course. That would have been taking it too far. Corpses were giant evidence sponges. She also didn't injure anyone to the point of needing urgent medical care. Hospitals killed patients, and autopsies could be revealing. However, she did not hold back. She fought with majestic grace and elegant flips. She danced, and she laughed as her palms crunched into noses and pulled limbs back to the point of snapping. She had no fear of any of the men ratting on her. What were they going to say to the authorities:
"Excuse me, Mr Policeman. I'm here to report an attack."
"Oh, yes sirs? Can you describe your attacker?"
"Oh... Well, there were two of them, see. A very average-looking man and... And a small, middle-aged woman."
"They were armed, were they?"
"No, sir."
"And how many of you were there?"
"..."
"Speak up, man!"
"... Thirty?"

No. Men had pride. They would not mention this night, and even if they did, nobody would believe them. They were too drunk to be credible.

Shay did not hold back. She gave any man who came close to her such a thorough beating that soon even the most bloodthirsty of them was studiously avoiding her. That was no fun. She had to seek out her victims. As a result, the men were turning their attention to Malberry and each other. A badly-aimed bar stool flew over her head, delivering a sharp smack to her crown. She cursed, and ran forward to help her companion, who was drowning under a sea of furious male bodies. Shaygrin jumped neatly over the outer layer, and they picked one of the men up and threw him into the bar. The mass parted to reveal Malberry, looking broken and losing consciousness. She bent to pick him up, and one of the men seized the moment to crack a bottle of beer over her head. That hurt, but she didn't let it show. She stood up. Men were fighting between each other. Few were focusing on her, and the few that did had seen how little effect a broken bottle had had on her and were rightly horrified. She smiled politely and slung Malberry over her shoulders.

With that, she wove neatly through the shouting, stinking chaos and out into the fresh air. The sounds of inside died as Shaygrin trudged beside the road. Malberry was no lightweight, and she was tired. She hailed down the first taxi that she saw. The driver looked at her suspiciously, and pointed at the wounded man, who she slung into the seat.
"Lady, if he bleeds on my cab..."
Shaygrin hadn't noticed that. The beer on her back had hidden the stickier wetness of blood. She cursed humanity's fragility, and handed the driver half of her winnings. He was silenced, and once she had given a destination, he drove off.

Sweetheart? She was careful not to use any distinguishing name. Cabs were a brilliant place to plant an ear.
Sweetie, just hang on, okay? We will be home very soon. We're almost there, love. Almost there.

[Derelict Draught]

He lost count after one. The blows seemed to lack any force after the first strike and his eyes failed to report. They kept telling him that the lights went out which he knew to be highly improbable. No, the little light that came through revealed a mass of pulsing flesh about him.

Hard to believe he'd fallen into the snare of the Blob, a monstrosity so comical that the concept HAD to come from cinematography. How a giant amoeba could survive in a bar passed well beyond his understanding of the natural order which struggled to exist in his world. Struggled seemed to fall short of the situation, his life bore no semblance to a Natural existence.

That considered the appearance of the Blob shouldn't bear much weight on his situation then, just another anomaly in an anomalous life. The appearance still struck him as bizarre. The entire affair didn't seem to fit his memory of the bar. He was certain that he would have noted a flesh toned amoeba upon entry, just as he noted the number of white hairs protruding from the bald man's ear. Just the one ear mind you, the man couldn't seem to grow them symmetrically.

Hmmm...Surely the men had landed their blows by now, nearly an hour must have passed by with the Blob weakly attempting to digest him. As much as he feared breaking his unspoken vow to the men, he really bore no desire to sit here sober. Maybe if he...

Got it!

The bottle on the ground rolls under his foot as he studiously tries to raise the drink to his lips. The easy part had been completed, now for the challenge. With ever so much care, he angles the bottle with his foot. In one swift movement he capsizes the bottle on top of his foot and kicks the drink skyward...Directly into the oaf's leg.

The bottle crashes back down to the earth, shattering on impact and spreading the wondrous drink all about the floor, useless. For ages he stares at the leg which denied him drink. Where had THAT come from? He didn't remember the Blob having feet in the movie. Cilia maybe but...Feet? No.

His mouth opens to inquire as to the nature of the Blob's newest adaptation but the words never slip out, instead some cougar slips him over her shoulder and steals him away. No doubt the woman intended the lay her eggs inside of him and then feed what remained of him to her children when they hatched. At least he had a noble death, ensuring the well being of a new generation.

Lights and sounds flood his consciousness as the cougar carried him from the bar. The other men were in on it as they made no attempt to rescue him from this fate, perhaps the best idea they'd had all night. The streets seemed relatively quiet considering the time and the number of people on the streets at the moment.

Hmmm...Didn't relatively include consideration of the hour and the number of individuals? Unless he isolated the groups to include only limited numbers. In that case there would be a lot of normal things going on. Like nothingness. Very busy in the nothingness group. Very few Blobs seemed to appear in the street. He saw a few pass by but they were moving too fast for him to greet them. Then one stopped and they climbed in.

The cougar and he were really luck. This Blob was being driven by a bear. Everyone knew that bears could be bought of really easily. Even willing to ignore blood stains on their mitochondria for a price. That was good because he had a lot of blood stains coming off of him. With all those open wounds and his bloody nose and the cuts and scrapes and that bite...Not to mention the gash on his arm. At least no one saw that one.

The cougar started talking to him now. Something about a roast being in the oven and making sure not to burn it. If anything he was more concerned about not falling a sleep despite just HOW tired he was, losing lots of blood did that to you. The Commander's words echoed about the chasm of his mind as he sat.

Why was she calling him sweetheart? Her words seemed pointless to him. Of course they would be home soon, they weren't far from their destination, he knew a general layout of the city. What did she expect him to hang on to? And again, what was with the pet names? He hadn't gotten THAT drunk, had he? No. There wasn't enough alcohol for that. He still had far too much control to give into such a simple urge. So why then? He'd have to ask now.

"Tree?"

[Verdana]

Malberry stirred, and spoke. Shaygrin felt a momentary relief, until he finished speaking and it became quite clear that the young man had no grasp on reality whatsoever. Shaygrin withheld a curse. She hadn't realised that there was something seriously wrong. She'd gotten stupid, gotten caught up in the moment. It was a child's mistake, one which she had thought herself grown out of. Apparently, she was wrong. She put a hand on the side of Malberry's neck, feeling his pulse. It was thready and uncertain. Shay said bad words inside her head. Her face was nonplussed.

Yes, dear. Trees, she answered, as if his question had been completely reasonable. She was a veteran professional at appearing unconcerned. She needed Malberry calm but alert, and that wasn't going to happen if she was panicking.
It doesn't matter. Don't worry about the trees, she reassured him, rubbing his back. She didn't encourage him to lie down. Calm but alert. Not that his version of alert made any sense. That didn't matter, as long as he was talking. She'd spent too many long hours trying to keep her daughter aware and alive to be fretting much. They were only a few streets away. He would last.

He'd have to.

She sang to him as they drove, unselfconsciously. She often described herself as 'without conscience or sense of propriety'. However, she sang to her children whenever they were sick or hurt, and as far as she was concerned, once she had accepted an assassin into the Wren, they were family. The first song that came into her mind was 'Old Deuteronomy' from the musical Cats. She smiled to herself as she sang, at something funny that only she understood. As she sang, she sent a message to the Wren. They would be waiting at a designated destination. Of course, she wouldn't have the cabby drop the two of them off at their front door. What sort of idiot would do that? She couldn't carry the bleeding boy all that way, so she arranged for transport, ignoring the frantic inquiries as to where she had been.

As the song ended, the taxi was passing right by base. She hoped that Malberry wouldn't notice, or if he did, would hold his tongue. She chuckled.
I must know that entire musical off by heart, I've watched it so many times, she said, stroking the boy's hair vacantly.
Don't tell her that I told you this, but Bree adores musicals. Try to catch her singing to herself one day. It's wonderfully entertaining, especially if she sees you watching.
Shay was pretty sure that Marcus would not remember the conversation, so Bree's secret was probably safe. Still, it was something to say, and thankfully, no more needed to be said, because one of the Wren's vans (decorated with a false logo) was pulling up beside them.

Over here, please, Shaygrin directed the cab-driver to a corner. He complied, and as soon as the door was open Wren operatives were swooping in to get Malberry. A bit of excitement was good for the medics. It kept them on their toes.

Shay followed them into the van, and got in behind them. She watched with uncomprehending interest as the medics did strange and exciting things to the boy. She had lost track of modern medicine at the discovery of penicillin. She had other people in charge of that sort of thing, and as long as it worked, she was happy.
I want him off any sort of work for a good two weeks, if not more, she told a medic. The man nodded absently.
Two weeks is his minimum at this point, he answered.
But he's not irreparable?
What? No, of course not! The new girl works wonders. He should be right as rain, if you don't pull him out early again.
Shaygrin's expression didn't change at this very direct scolding. Perhaps she had been unwise to bring him back to action so fast, but he had been willing. She sometimes forgot how weak humans were.

Even if they weren't entirely human.

The van pulled up behind the Wren's building, and concealed by walls and strategically-hung washing, Marcus was 'escorted' inside. Shaygrin left his health in the hands of the medics. She followed slowly behind, looking meditative. If she had had a cigarette on her person, she would have smoked it. After a while, she gave a grunt and headed more swiftly inside.

She had been gone a week. There was probably plenty of paperwork to keep her busy.

[Derelict Draught]

Trees? Why would he be worried about trees? Must have been a slip of the tongue. Why trees though? Sometimes he wondered what in the world passed through that womans mind...

AIAGIAGNAIGA!

What was that horrible noise!?! Sounded like someone torturing a cat with a banjo! As if his current situation wasn't terrible enough, now he was being tortured! WORST AMOEBA RIDE EVER! He would have words with the bear when they finally reached their destination, playing lyrics from CATS is just cruel and unusual punishment on a good day. He couldn't let them know how he felt before hand though, otherwise he might not get those eggs.

Wait...

The sound is gone! Malberry could have wept for joy but he needed to keep a straight face, don't let them know the torture was getting to him. Just pretend that he liked it. Maybe encourage more...No. No more. That would be foolish self-destruction. Maybe if he went to sleep he could escape. Yeah. Thats it.

No...

There was something he was supposed to remember. Something about not going to sleep. Was he already asleep? Seeing the commander as a cougar definitely wasn't normal but that could be a trick of his mind. Wait...She just said Bree likes musicals...Bree singing. Had to be a dream then. But Bree didn't appear singing in a cat suit. Then...That couldn't be good. Large object beside, truck or van, the shoddy brakes sounded familiar. Help.

He was in bad shape. Hallucinating. Rather obvious really, once one had a frame of reference of course. He didn't drink and as far as he remembered, no one slipped him a poisoned blade. That left only one other hallucinogen, blood loss. Very bad shape then. The medics would be inside the van, waiting to treat him. That meant he'd be transfered into Jessica's care. He really hoped the numbness would continue until she was done, otherwise he still had a long day ahead of him.

Once the medics were beyond the cougar's hearing, Malberry struggled to sit up despite the hands pressing him down and the voices him warning against the act. He forced speech to the forefront of his consciousness.

"Two..."

Again the hands force him down, this time staying and keeping him pinned in his weakened state. "Yes Marcus. You'll be down for at least two weeks." A burst of strength frees him for an instant allowing him to better angle his body at the speaker, his eyes glower at the antirape panda.

"Days."

The hydra pushes him down with two of her heads as she prepares a sedative. If only he could experience this without the injuries he might find his mind's chosen imagery for each individual more interesting. Perhaps another time.

[Verdana]

Once a syringe filled with in unknown (but presumably potent) substance was plunged into Malberry, he quieted. Shaygrin was not reassured. This was for two reasons. Just because he was stable did not mean that he would recover. And Shaygrin needed him to recover. Also, his parting words had been worrisome. Two days? No. He could barely be poked without splitting open. No, he needed far more time than that. But, how to keep him still? He'd proved himself annoyingly persistent in the past. Shay mulled over to this as she walked to her rather odd but very comfortable office. She patted the crocodile as she passed under it, and sat down at her desk. She picked up an order form for some odd sort of sea snail, and as her eyes passed over it, she started to come up with a plan.

Her desk was overflowing. Bree had been away on her own job, and while she had obviously tried to work upon her return (she was back. That was good) she had barely dented it. Fortunately, this was not nearly as daunting as it looked. Most of the papers could be overlooked and forgotten about. It was sifting through them all which took time. Shaygrin spent a good hour peeling through paper and composing her thoughts before she sent out a call for her daughter. To her credit, Bree was quick. Within five minutes she was in the office, glowering like a moody stormcloud.

Some people in life are forgiving, and some can hold a grudge for months. Bree was a talented sulker, and had nowhere near forgiven her mother for sending her to Morocco. The tip of her nose was sunburnt, and she had a slight limp. This surprised Shay. Someone had injured Bree? She must have been off-form. She looked at the favoured leg disapprovingly and raised an eyebrow. Bree's face was shut. She said nothing. Shaygrin could play that game. She turned back to her work. Bree stood, up straight, unshifting. The women were silent, neither willing to back down. The time ticked on. The crocodile swung. The women were unflinching.

It was Shay who decided to be the bigger person. She pushed a paper aside.
You got back in one piece, I see.
Yes, Commander.
But not unscathed.
No, Commander.
That was sloppy. I don't want to see that ever again, do you understand me?
Yes, Commander.

Shaygrin held back a groan of frustration, but her eyes sharpened as she looked directly at her child.
Stop it right now, do you understand? No tantrums. You are not five years old any more.
Bree hung her head, but more in mocking acquiescence than shame. Shay took a deep breath.
I need you to do something for me. Something important.
Bree's face remained still, except for her eyes, which lit up. She was excited by the prospect of a real challenge. Shay almost hated to bring her back down to earth.

Almost.

As Shaygrin explained what she wanted from her daughter, Bree's face got grimmer and grimmer. By the end, Bree looked so morose that one could swear that Shay was sending her to her death. Shay did not appreciate this. Her face grew ominous.
That's enough, Bree.
Her voice was dangerously smooth. Bree's back straightened. Uh oh. That was the serious voice.
I know that you don't like him. If there was somebody you liked more... But, quite frankly, you don't like anyone, and he hasn't made any friends either. You have nobody to watch your back, and you haven't sought anyone out. So I've had to seek somebody out for you. You don't like it, but one day, I'm not going to be around, and you'll need somebody to look out for you. Everybody does.
Bree hung her head again, her face inscrutable.
So you will do as I say, unless you want to do it without me. In that case, be my guest. Now, go.

Bree went.

She did not go directly to the med wing, of course. She hated the med wing with a passion. She did some assorted chores, got some lunch, had a cat nap (since it seemed that a job was not immediately in her future). Eventually, as evening drew in, she knew that she couldn't avoid it any longer.

She walked very slowly.

This is how she came to be sitting by Malberry's bedside, toying busily with a computer and waiting for her new teacher to wake up.

She looked about as sympathetic as a plummeting concrete block, and just about as friendly.

[Derelict Draught]

Malberry couldn't bear to open his eyes. The surgery had gone just as he expected. His body was sore and his wounds tender with infection by the time he hit the table. One of the other medics offered him some prescription painkillers in secret before the but he turned them down in the unlikely event that Jessica might apply some herself. If only the wounds were simpler that way one of the others could treat him.

Fortune left him unlucky. No anesthetic. He felt each slice. Each bone forced back into place. In the end he was left, a sense of violation seeming to permeate the sore tissue of his body as he slipped into a chaotic sleep. Four hours later he awoke in utter agony, still no painkillers administered, their need slipping Jessica's mind.

Hours seemed to drag past the edges of his consciousness, leaving his mind to contemplate his observations. The cold blade. The hot forceps. The grinding. His mind struggled for a moment as he groped for any topic other than the grotesque. Anything. Warm lips. A soft body. The smell of alcohol. Laughter. Smiles which could undermine the strongest defenses. 'Jessica' as he'd named her.

The events seemed so distant even though less than two weeks had passed. They were another life. A false one which left him envious. He could only pretend to have a connection like that with anyone. Something belonging to two humans. She wasn't really one and...The thoughts drifted away, leaving his mind behind and leaving a void within him.

When the footsteps of a new individual entered the room he barely took notice. No doubt they were stationed to ensure he didn't try anything stupid. He wouldn't either. Not yet at least. Two days. Day one was nearly done. After about an hour his mind pieced together the individual's identity.

Why she was there became slightly more complex. She would have most certainly sought any other duty if she could avoid the task, even latrine duty. So why was she selected? Was her mother playing matchmaker or was he expected to teach her some lesson from a hospital bed? Maybe Shay thought he'd feel better if Bree were there when he awoke. After how the training session had gone that was possible.

So they remained for the first night, his ears tuned to her actions as his body feigned unconsciousness. There was no point in trying anything this soon after and he doubted she bore any desire to speak with him so for the first two nights he would give her peace and remain silent. The third night he would strike.

[Verdana]

Bree did not lose her concentration around anyone. Not her mother, not her brother (especially not around her brother), not anyone. She kept up her impassive facade of invulnerability and cold calculation when there was even a chance of her being observed. Malberry may have appeared unconscious, but as time dragged on, Bree grew more and more certain that this was not the case. His breathing was too ragged to belong to somebody unaware, even though he tried to keep it level. She was not at all convinced.

For a while, she played along, reluctant to have to work with him. She made herself more comfortable in her seat, typing busily into her phone. She even slipped her headphones into her ears, although she resisted the temptation to turn them on. She knew from experience (and constant drilling by her mother) that anyone could be an enemy, and Malberry was no exception, even injured as he was. So, Bree kept working, and kept listening and observing. She didn't lose her composure in any way. She had had lots of practice in this.

Eventually, though, she began to get bored and hungry. Malberry still wasn't asleep, and she had been told very firmly not to leave his side unless he was drugged to the nines (and not even then, if possible). She didn't want his escape on her head. She was in the dog box as it was. She began to, if not accept, then at least become resigned to the prospect of working with Malberry for the next few weeks. She planned. She got restless, but resisted the urge to shift. Shifting was a sign of weakness. And still Malberry was awake. That couldn't have been good for him. Or pleasant, for that matter. Bree had been in his position enough to feel a tickle of empathy. She squashed it down easily, but the boredom remained.

Eventually, she could take it no longer.

I know that you're awake, she pointed out without looking up. Her fingers did not stop moving over the phone's keys.
Your breathing is annoying me. If you stay silent, I will assume that you are in enough pain to be incapable of speaking. In which case, I will call one of the medics and have you pumped so full of morphine that you won't walk straight for a months.
If you're not, though, then wake the hell up and maybe I'll give you a lesser painkiller.

We have work to do. No time to waste.

[Derelict Draught]

Hours of blissful silence dulled past the two occupants, allowing thought and suspicion to pass unhindered. Finally the peace broke. A soft sigh slipped over his lips as he angled his body towards the girl. "Missy, if I wanted painkiller then I would have painkillers."

His head tilts slightly as his eyes slowly open against the lighted interior of the room. This was the worst part of surgery, waking up afterwards. The lights burned more than the worst hangover, the entire body remained stiff and sore. Everything ached and groaned against his movement. His body agreed with the medics, he should stay in bed. His mind disagreed entirely.

There was plenty to do though. Things he needed to work on. Places to go. People to torment. So much and so little time. Even less if he remained bored and bedridden. Gritting his teeth against the pain racking his body, Malberry pushed off the bed with his elbows to rise into a seated position.

"I agree. I imagine you've been assigned guard dog which means you are to keep me in place."

His eyes narrow, having finally adjusted to the light.

"I'm leaving. The question is whether you intend to follow orders and prevent me, or show empathy and turn a blind eye. What will it be?"

The words were chosen loosely, his mind still reeling with a thousand other thoughts. Above all else he just needed to move. To walk and free up the tension which had settled in his muscles. Help to ease his tattered body and his weary mind.

[Verdana]

Bree heard the rustle as Malberry stopped pretending, but did not look at him. Her piece of hardware seemed fascinating as it absorbed all of her attention, leaving none for the man on the bed. Nonetheless, she communicated with him readily enough.
Don't be a martyr, she grumbled irritably, although she tended to take a similar stance towards any sort of medication.
The only good martyr is a dead martyr. If you're in pain, take something to dull it. There's no use point in suffering unnecessarily.

She didn't look up at his next declaration, although her eyebrows raised.
Empathy? she asked innocently.
Never heard of it. I haven't been assigned as a guard dog, as such, but if you don't lie back down right now I will sit on you, and even though I weigh less than the average child soaking wet, you are in no state to move me, and then you'll look like an idiot, feel like an idiot, and I can guarantee that it will hurt.

It was only then that she looked up, and although there was a threat looming on her face, in her eyes was... Something, just as quickly pushed away, never to be seen again if she could help it. She pursed her lips.
Besides, you don't need to move for what the boss has got planned for us. Do you want to go back to sleep? You still can. I promise, sleep will be preferable to what I'm about to suggest.

Bree's face became stony as she recalled the conversation she had had with her mother. She was still displeased with the outcome, and suspected that Shay had only said what she had to punish Bree. She held out a forlorn hope that it was a bluff, but doubted it. She would have to learn to deal with the problem. This did not make her accept the problem, or like it. She would cope. Bree was good at coping.

The Commander said that you met the Power. It's about time. Most people meet it before you did.
In any case, the Power has its uses. One of them happened to be teaming. Two people have to work to create teams. Three is too many, one leaves room for error. The Power was brilliant at it. It has absolutely no bias, and makes judgement based entirely on skills. It was flawed, but our system was as near to perfect as any is. It took me six long, painful years to create that system and find a method that worked.
Bree's face became brooding. Her brow sunk. The thunderclouds gathered above her head. Metaphorically, of course.

The Commander, she spat the word out as if it were rotting between her teeth,
Has deemed the Power unfit to choose teams. As you are the new deputy, you are my new teaming partner. I do not have six years to work out a system with you. We are going to have to find a solution more quickly. We have all of this month's jobs to assign teams to. Twenty-three in all, and it will grow in the next few days.

You'd better hope we find a way to do this quickly, because until we have assigned these teams, you are not allowed to leave this bed, by order of the Commander. If I let you leave, she is going to make us both very miserable. I will not elaborate, here a slight reddening of the sides of her neck, But it involved your scrotum and a lot of duct tape. You have doubtlessly heard one of Shaygrin's threats before. You get the gist.

Do you still want to get up so badly?