"New Roommates"

[Guest Fiona Weber]

Bardolph was just about to prove his worth -- at least from Fiona's point of view, which was shrinking to such things as "was her roommate quiet enough she could sleep", "was he capable of polysyllabics", and "could he get water without being helped". As far as Fiona could tell, the security officer met all of those prerequisites. It didn't mean that Fiona was happy, as she would have liked for all of the prisoners to be reunited (especially with Kwai's deteriorating condition), but then... anything was an improvement over the last arrangement.

 

Whiskey, for his own part, was rapidly souring on the old adage that a change of scenery was good for one's mental health. This particular change hadn't made him feel better at all, and given that he was growing less and less confident that Captain Kwai wasn't in danger of pitching over the next time she tried to walk, the last thing he'd wanted was for one of those pale-skinned buggers to come in and tell him to go walkabout again. That, combined with the fact that he had no idea what would be happening to the kid during this period and the fact that he still had the bloody pain-chip in his neck, hadn't quite shattered his poise altogether but left him feeling at best very restless, and with the disappearance (again) of their mysterious captors, he found himself pacing along the sterile-white walls, looking for some seam or sign of an exit venue.

 

"Alright, Doc?" he asked absently, running a finger over the bulkheads before turning around to face his companion, deciding abruptly to take another stab at breaking the uncomfortable silence this place tended to engender. Weber hadn't proved much for idle conversation in their past encounters, but Whiskey could think of worse ways to pass the time. "They give you any sign what they wanted to put us in here for, then? I ain't been able to get a word out of them."

 

"They don't talk. I doubt they're capable of it," she answered, leaning back on the bench and grimacing. "I imagine that if they could have communicated with us, they would have already." Fiona frowned. "I think I'd be less unhappy about this if I actually knew what they wanted..."

 

"Aye, I suppose that's the real trick of it," Whiskey said dryly, trying the effect of a faint grin on the conversation. "Near as the captain and I could guess, they're testing our reactions...and responding accordingly. I shout, they shock me in the neck...I sit quiet, they give us some food, or turn the lights down. Hell, maybe they figure they're training us like pups."

 

Fiona shot a heated glare in Bardolph's direction. "I am not a dog to be trained," she declared, sitting up again and crossing her arms. If possible, the thought disgusted her more than just being a proverbial lab-rat. "I will not be... fetching, or barking, or... or anything." Stewing for a moment, she scratched at the implant-spot on the back of her head, finally sighing. "So why do they continue to rearrange our... habitats, then?" she asked, refraining from referring to the cells as "kennels".

 

"Easy, Doc..." Whiskey said, backing up a step and raising his hands in an expression of mock-surrender at the glare, though he couldn't resist letting the small smile grow for a second into a lopsided grin. "Ain't no one aboard this ship could mistake you for a dog, ma'am, I assure you." Folding his arms, he glanced around the room again. "I guess they want to judge if we deal different with different people...whether there's some we can't get along with. Though why they'd want to know that, I'm not sure..." He had a few ideas, of course, but he was damned if he knew which ones were plausible at this point. The whole business seemed determined to hover just out of range.

 

She snorted. "Perhaps they're looking for breeding pairs. Though why they'd abduct that child, then... I'm not certain. Perhaps they wish to observe our methods of care for it?"

 

Whiskey quirked an eyebrow. "I reckon we're disappointing 'em on all fronts, if that's the case. The kid's still determinedly lookin' for his mother and I'm pretty sure there's been no breeding going on." His eyes narrowed at the corners in some amusement but he decided not to add the addendum 'yet'. Weber didn't seem in the mood to appreciate the joke right now.

 

Instead he plowed on ahead, more seriously. "Which I guess leads to the question of what they'll do with us if we're not matchin' up to the tests."

 

"We saw one... well, if he wasn't a corpse yet, he soon would be." Her frown grew. "I imagine that's what happens when we misbehave. I've been tempted to see what would happen if we started to ignore more of our orders... or even try to remove one of the chips. It bothers me, knowing that it's in there."

 

Whiskey shrugged slightly, his expression losing a considerable amount of his energy at hearing of one of their crewmates having fared so poorly with this bizarre situation. "It bothers me when it does its stuff, that's for sure," he muttered. "Even if I thought I could get away with it, I wouldn't know how to start digging it out, short of making like a shovel." He glanced at Fiona, and his gaze took on a bit more than idle interest. "With the right tools, though, you could get it out, aye?"

 

"I should hope so. I imagine it's linked into the neural networks of each of us. The 'pain' we experience, therefore, isn't really pain -- our nervous systems are just being fed the equivalent of pain." The doctor leaned back, thinking. "I'd attempt to take out my own chip if I didn't suspect that they somehow wrap them around the spinal cord."

 

"Ow," Whiskey said with feeling, then perked a little bit. "Though I guess if it ain't really doing us damage, just making us think so, that's a plus." He paused, then leaned against the wall and slid slowly down into a sitting position, feeling suddenly very tired. "So what do we do, then?"

 

"I've been trying to figure that out," she admitted. "I'm... not sure. Maybe that's why it's so damned frustrating. No matter what... I think the next time they start handing out commands that I really don't want to be following that I might try a little more resistance against the chip. It's going to hurt, though -- and I don't really want to be the guinea pig who finds out if the chips can do more than feel like hurting."

 

Whiskey was silent for a moment. "You don't have to be. If we figure that's the only next step, I ain't afraid to be the one to try it out," he said slowly, with somewhat more confidence than he felt. But...well, hell, that was his job, wasn't it? He smirked faintly. "But I'd rather be damn well sure first that we don't have any other options."

 

Fiona smirked. "I'm not sure whether to verbally reprimand you for going 'protective male' on the weak little woman, or applaud you for being the brawn-before-brains," she teased -- mostly. "But believe me, I'm open to other options. Kwai's idea with tapping out rhythms seemed to have some results, unless that was just coincidental."

 

Whiskey smiled, not bothering to get offended at the jibe. He'd been accused of worse in his life than just skewing towards the gorilla end of the gun-jockey spectrum. "It mighta been -- even if it was, there's probably other ways along the same lines that we can get their attention and show 'em we're aware in here, maybe even get some communication through to 'em. Art, drawing'd be my next suggestion but materials are a bit limited..."

 

She nodded. "I somehow think we're beyond their understandings of sentience. Establishing that we are not mere beasts could go some distance in disproving that belief." Another smirk. "Perhaps we'll receive some charcoal will accompany our next dose of paste and insects, and we can sketch a frowning-face."

 

Whiskey barked a laugh aloud. "Very minimalist of us...but as good as any other idea, and likely enough to make some kind of point. Entails waiting to see if they provide us with anything new the next go-round, of course, which patience is not in the highest supply around here, I think. But it's an idea."

 

"Either that, or perhaps we can create our own artistic materials from the food. Many insects have dye-like qualities in their bodies." The doctor grinned. "Perhaps you'll get a chance to smash a few and find out."

 

"I think I could enjoy that..." Whiskey said with a chuckle, his shoulders relaxing a little as he leaned back against the wall. "Brighten up the walls around here a bit too, which couldn't hurt."

 

"Mmhmm," Fiona agreed, staring at the walls in question and blinking a few times. "And if they bring in anything... I assume you're more than competant to engineer some sort of... dye... out of them?" she asked. "Please consider it a compliment when I say that I need a nap. You're the first roommate I've had in what feels like an eternity that hasn't come yanking on my uniform and begging for something every time I close my eyes." She cracked an eyelid, twisting on the bench. "Assuming you don't start screeching at random intervals, either."

 

"I could give it my best shot if you ask nicely..." Whiskey said dryly, tipping his head back to rest on the wall. "But I don't make a habit of it." He puffed out a slow breath, trying not to think too hard about the fact that none of them had had a really decent rest that didn't involve controlled substances in an amount of time none of them could gauge. "Rest well, Doc. I'll give you a nudge if anything important starts happening."

 

"Much appreciated." She actually smiled. "I believe I will owe you one, Mister Bardolph."