by

Yanick Champoux (38%)

Lee Watts (18%)

Josip Nað (17%)

Michel Lacombe (16%)

Dorian (4%)

goldkngt55 (3%)

Andrew Avila (2%)

Marten (1%)

Oliver (1%)

Part 34

Yanick Champoux (18/2/2002)

Combat shields. Technological marvel stolen -- the forgiving soul would be more inclined to call it 'inspired from in a reverse-engineered kind of way' -- from the Vau. Devices able to deflect the most wickedly serrated blade, to damper the impact of the most explosively brutal high-velocity round.

Magdalena's body sprung like a weasel out of a kitchen drawer, reaching for an empty chair that was doing what chairs do near by. The Hazat didn't even had the time to ponder upon the relevance of warning the lady not to try anything funny that the erstwhile piece of furniture celebrated its promotion to bludgeoning apparatus by batting his hand away from the hilt of his sword. The chair's second pass slammed against the back of his knees, sending him flying into the bedroom's restricted aerial space.

Although not a noble suite, the room that Demuel had taken wasn't totally devoid of luxury. The carpet, for example, was pleasantly plush. Enough to tickle your average tootsies. Or soften the fall of a hapless ensign from a bone-rattling impact to a mere muscle-bruising collision.

The Hazat was enough of a soldier to know he was in trouble. Not that years of military training was required to reach such conclusions; any tortoise could tell you how bad for one's long-term health resting on one's back could be.

The chair that smashed legs-first into his face hastily proved the point.

Fortunately for him, his shield absorbed the impact and saved his mien of spontaneous restructuration. Unfortunately, the chair still achieved the goal its yielder had in mind, namely to pin the ensign against the floor long enough for Magdalena's hand to penetrate the shield's protective field and grab a handful of gorgeous Hispanic black hair.

The Hazat shrieked as he was pulled upward. The topmost part of his skull was such a shrill symphony of pain that he barely had conscience of being dragged across the room.

However, he once more became aware of his surrounding when his head got forcefully shoved down the toilet bowl.

Combat shields. About as useful as parakeet guano against someone who fights dirty.

Magdalena, snugly installed in the backseat of her own body, was contemplating the whole scene with befuddlement.

Isn't that a little extreme? She thought, starring at the ensign desperately trashing to get some air. Fat chance he would manage to do it: Demuel had Magdalena's heel, with all of her body weight, firmly set on the nape of his neck.

"Extreme?" snarled Demuel, his hands once more busy penetrating the noble's shield. "The guy was reaching for his sword! What did you want me to do? Talk him out of it?" Demuel gave a small grunt of satisfaction as his fingers found the shield's power module at the Hazat's belt and deftly snatched it away.

Magdalena felt a pang of pity for the poor lad as Demuel fished him out and sent him waltzing out of the bathroom and across the bedroom.

Well, yes, you could have. He seems like a reasonable fellow. And it's not like we are guilty of anything. We rescued Toast, remember?

Demuel couldn't believe it. "You are really serious, aren't you?"

Yes I am. It might surprise you, but there is other ways to get out of trouble than sheer violence.

Demuel quirked an eyebrow, then shrugged. "Okay. He's yours." He slipped the body's controls to Maddie.

Maddie straightened their body, adopting a more friendly pose than the fighting crouch Demuel had. She flashed a most warm smile, the one she was reserving for mortgage re-negotiations in the long-gone era when she was still nothing but a simple Reeve, and took a step forward. "I'm sorry, mister Linares, but I think we have a misunderstanding..."

Hazat are nothing if not gallants. Most of them learn to respect and venerate women around the same time they are potty trained, and would never dream of mistreating any representant of the opposite sex with anything else than insipid poetry.

Having barely escaped drowning in a toilet bowl, however, is one of those experience that makes you reconsider the fine prints of chivalry. And it is in the progressive point of view that gender equality begins with the right to uppercut rabid harridans that he hurled his fist in direction of Magdalena's face.

Maddie was in possession of all of Demuel's finely-honed reflexes, but had never been in a fight herself. It was like being at the wheel of a racing car while never having learned to drive manual. She, barely, managed to dodge the angry fist, but she never saw the Hazat's knee before it hit her sqaure in the stomach. She staggered backward. Just in time to receive a punch that split her lips like an over-ripe tomato.

Byran was nonplussed. "Dem, my man, what in da name of the Pancreator's hairy shin are you doin'?"

Demuel wiped the blood from his chin. "Being pedagogical, Byran, being pedagogical..." And he shoved the commands back to Magdalena in time for her to enjoy the Hazat's kick aimed at her kneecap.

"OKAY!" bellowed Maddie, backing away, "ENOUGH!"

What? You don't want to talk him out of it?

"Demuel, this isn't funny! He's going to kill me!"

Nah. He just want to beat you up real good. Nothing to worry about.

Maddie was close to tears. "Demuel, stop it. Please..."

Demuel sighed and slipped at the commands. The fist that was going to land on her face suddenly met the obstacle of an outstretched palm. A moment later the Hazat's little finger broke with a twig-like snap. The Hazat screamed and felt to his knees. Demuel didn't let go.

"Lesson number one," smiled Demuel, "most men have the tendency to become quite docile if you manipulate their little bits."

I could have told you that.

"Oh. A nasty potshot. There is some hope for you, after all."

"Miss..." It was the Hazat, still on his knees, his free hand holding the wrist of the hand whose savaged digit Demuel was holding firmly. "could you please stop the freaky soliloquy and accept my surrender before I pass out? Pretty please?"

Demuel snarled in a way that would have made a famished wolverine look homely. "I might. But first, tell me how you found out that we're here?"

The Hazat draw a short, shuddering breath. The crazy broad had stopped twist his fingers in ways the Pancreator hadn't devised the appendice to bent, and that was all he needed for the time being to feel happiness fill his heart. "I saw Ben's name in the guestbook... I asked a few stewards... I swear..."

Demuel tilted his head on the side. "The guestbook...?"

We left Byran and Toast alone a few minutes when we made the arrangements for the room, didn't we?

Maddie threw a dirty look at Byran.

"Byran...?"

The drunk pilot was suddenly quite uncomfortable. "I 'ssumed he was just doin' doodles..." He attempted a weak smile. "He looked so happy..."