Commander's Flight

[Cptn Corizon 0]

Corizon fluttered his eyes as Victria held him by the throat.

 

"Where is your mark?" Yanking his shirt up higher, Victria ran her hand over his chest without regard for personal space or privacy, her brows furrowed in frustration as she sought something that was not there. "This is not possible."

 

He let out a half laugh. "What mark?"

 

"The mark of the Lucam. Every slave is born with the mark." Her gaze snapped up to his, angered by his laughter.

 

"I told you," he growled. "I am not a bloody Lucam... I am a Dameon of the Alpha Quadrant!"

 

Mentally, she compiled his list of excuses – unknown race, from an unknown area of space, unfamiliar with the Al-Ucard, touring the common area, purchasing a necklace he believed to be only jewelry, bearing no mark, and with several differences from fully grown Lucam – and she formed a conclusion that she did not like. She hissed, fangs glinting through partially open lips. "Slaves will say anything to be released. Why would I have believed you?"

 

Now doubting herself, she threw a glance back to the bloodied street, ears catching the sounds of approaching guards. "You've killed Imperial Guards. The punishment for that is death, Lucam or no. They will not care you are a stranger to this planet."

 

His eyes glinted, having not thought about that when attempted his escape. "I suppose it doesn't matter I was falsely imprisoned?"

 

"No." She glanced back to him, her hands working to free him from the restraints. She snarled as if angry with herself for what she was about to do. "If you wish to live, follow me. But if you can't keep up, I won't stop to save you."

 

"You got me into this," he growled moving to follow her. "If I am captured, my crew will hold you responsible, know this..."

 

Her lip curled upward at the threat, revealing her fangs again. "See that you don't leave a trail of blood for them to follow." Sliding past him, she broke into a run, heading away from the four dead guards and in a different direction than the Imperial Palace.

 

He ripped his shirt, making a quick but crude bandage over the wound and took off at gallop on all fours after her. Catching up to her he asked, "Where are we going?"

 

To her word, she never glanced back to see if he was following. Picking her path through the dim alleyways, she ran easily along, neither sweating nor breathing heavily. Without peering in his direction, she muttered. "A safehouse."

 

They reached a dead end and she vaulted to the top of the wall, taking to the rooftops. Corizon followed into the alley, finding himself at the dead end. Though not as nimbly as the female Al-Ucard, he used his claws to clamor to the roof.

 

"Keep as low as possible," she hissed back at him. Skulking along, she made good use of overhangs and the closeness of the city's buildings, moving quickly along the flat roofs until they reached an older, less maintained district. The buildings here were old, some of them scheduled for demolition and most of them abandoned.

 

Corizon, like many Dameon's, were actually quite adept at sneaking through darkness. They were, after all, creatures that once preyed on lesser animals, much as the woman who was but a mere four feet in front of him. He watched her drop into yet another alley and followed her, crouching beside her as she examined the surroundings and the building in front of them. It was taller than most of the others around it, though seemed to be in the worst shape of them all. Several floors were completely open to the elements.

 

"A lovely vacation spot," he muttered loud enough for her to hear.

 

She threw him a sharp look and then rose to her feet, trench coat flapping about her boots. Crossing the alley, she disappeared into the gloom of the building without waiting for him. It was extremely dim with very little light filtering in from outside and no other source of light. Once she passed beyond the outer passage, it was pitch black. She didn't stop for a light, however, her eyes automatically adjusting to compensate.

 

Corizon followed along, happy not to have to run on all fours to keep up. He could see well enough, his yellow eyes adjusting to the lower light of the building. He imagined that by now, the Morningstar crew was either throwing a party, or out looking for him. In either case, he knew there'd be hell to pay.

 

When they reached a flight of stairs, she took them two at a time, boots thudding lightly. Up they went about seven or eight floors and she led him down another corridor, around a corner, through some sort of common area, and finally into an intact suite of rooms. They were completely furnished with various pieces of furniture, different types of equipment, and several medical instruments.

 

"An interrogation room," he observed, taking in the surroundings.

 

"Occasionally. Also a base of operations. Many of the slaves I Hunt attempt to hide in the Old City. I found it prudent to have a base here. I have several of them, in fact. All Hunters do." She slipped out of her coat and threw him a look, her gaze traveling to the bloodied bandage on his wound. Moving closer, she pulled the bandage aside to take a look.

 

He winced as she touched the wound. He'd never cared for physical pain in the least, though he rarely showed it. "One of the other prisoners... he told me of your people's history."

 

"This should be interesting," she said dryly. Guiding him to one of the metal interrogation chairs (though not strapping him in), she unwrapped his wound to take a better look at it. "And what did he tell you?"

"Great hunters he said, Hunters for a Dark Race that made you," he paused searching for words, "made you...and them...what you are..."

 

"And when they left," he continued, not waiting for her to verify or deny, "You took to hunting for food... or for pleasure. And now... you are Death Dealers. Hired fangs for service."

 

Her mouth parted slightly and she ran her tongue over her fangs, nostrils flaring as she inhaled the scent of his blood. His wound began to bleed sluggishly when she removed the bandage. She shifted her gaze to his face briefly as he spoke, though her hands were busy tending to the deep cut. "And your point?"

 

"Just curious," he said leaning back, relaxing only slightly. "My people," he paused, "My Federation... we are explorers. We like to know about the people we encounter."

 

"I've never heard of your Federation, but it seems to me that you should be more careful where you stick your nose." Inserting some sort of medical device into his wound, she filled it with a strange foam substance that dulled the pain. Putting a new bandage over that, she fixed it tightly, though not tightly enough to cut off his circulation. Her fingers were covered with his blood. With a slight smirk, she licked them clean. "Mmmm, you taste differently than a Lucam."

 

"I would hope so," he smirked. "And we really didn't have a choice in the matter."

He leaned back again, as the pain eased, closing his eyes briefly, but opening them again. "You know, I am not at all disgusted by your... diet... or disturbed by your fangs," he grinned showing his own.

 

Moving back to perch upon one of the tables, she studied him with her strange ice-blue eyes. Her gaze traveled the length of him, still searching for differences between him and her prey. Eyebrows arching at his show of pointed teeth, she snorted. "Why should it? It is the way we survive. The only way. Though, perhaps, some choose only to feed but not to kill their meals. There is a difference. And others do not prefer to eat the newborn younglings. Nevertheless, it was how we were made."

 

"By a virus," he reminded her. "I too eat raw flesh by choice... the taste of blood is appeasing. But you'd be surprised how many people are... repulsed by it." His own yellow eyes taking her in, measuring her.

 

She snorted with contempt. "Many have tried to cure that virus, but it is not possible. And even if it were, there are those that would not wish it." She shook her head. "None of that matters now, however. How do you plan on escaping back to your people?"

 

"They will come looking for me," he said, though it was clear he didn't intend to escape that way. "Have you transporter technology?"

 

"Transporter? You mean teleportation?" She shook her head. "We possess it, but it would not help you. Such centers are heavily guarded and the use of those devices is monitored."

 

 

He growled lowly. "And what of shuttles?"

 

"Ground transports are available, though they are coded to the owner. Faking signatures can be done, but it takes time. More time than you have." She was still peering at him, though her gaze kept drifting to his bandaged shoulder.

 

"Hungry?"

 

"Overdue." Her eyes narrowed slightly, lip curling back to bare her fangs in an unconscious gesture.

 

Corizon considered the situation. "Can I contract the virus?"

 

"That depends entirely on your biological makeup." She waved away the thought with a flick of her hand. "Lucams usually survive, though there are those that will die if bitten. You need not concern yourself with it. I've self control enough to keep myself from lunging to rip your throat out." Her grin was slow and wicked. "I seem to have done enough damage on your person."

 

"Actually," Corizon said quite honestly. "I was going to offer you myself if you needed to feed."

 

"I know." Her eyes widened slightly, pupil contracting to nearly nothing. After a few moments of struggling with the urge, she regained her composure and her breathing slowed. "Do you have pity for the Lucam?"

 

"My own people, the Dameon," he said in measured tones. "We once enslaved whole worlds, for no other reason than galactic conquest."

 

"My great, great, great grandfather..." Corizon's eyes drifted into the past. "He was a general that put to death thousands of Gorn to feed the war machine. Is it ethical to enslave a race? No. Does it have its uses? Certainly."

 

"So, you have never before been a slave?" Victria slid from the table, landing silently in front of him. “I have. That Lucam slave did not tell you the entire story. Every hundred years or so, the Lucam work up enough courage to actually rebel. Unlike us, they breed quickly and already outnumber us. Battles for their freedom are always bloody and full of carnage. Sometimes, they succeed. When they do, we are enslaved to fulfill their whims – to be their prey. I was born in such a time.” She growled low. “Now I kill as many as I am able in order to prevent that from happening again.”

 

Skirting his chair, she kept her gaze upon him as she moved, pulling free her bloodied throwing star as she reached another workstation. "How did you enjoy that muzzle?"

 

 

"As much as you'd enjoy a nice clove of garlic shoved down your throat."

 

She chuckled as she dropped the silver weapon into a container of cleaning solution, circling him around the other side now. She moved slowly, still studying him. "And who are you to your people? Why would they be concerned with your fate, or do you treat all of your clan in such a way?"

 

"I am a Commander," he said watching her intently. "I am the Second in command of my vessel. As for treatment, the Federation is a peace loving organization abhorrent to violence."

 

That brought a hearty laugh from her. She closed in on him, placing her hands on the armrest of his chair and leaning in until they were only inches apart. "And you? Are you a peace lover? You who seem to be built for killing and death? Whose people were once the Masters of all?"

 

"I am a tactician," he said, meeting her gaze and refusing to back away. His eyes were sad though, the pride running through his blood showing. "That was long ago. My people fell from the grace of the Great Makers. Now we are but members of the Federation, our passions dulled by their peace they cherish so much."

 

Corizon shifted uncomfortably, the topics cutting to quickly to his heart. "You know, I never learned your name"

 

She'd leaned further in, her breath warm upon his neck as she took in his scent. She seemed intrigued by his smell, most likely drawn by the subtle differences of his blood. To her, he would be an exotic vintage that she only just tasted and now craved. Drawing back finally, she reached for her coat and shrugged into it.

 

"Victria. Hunter of the House of Mordan."

 

Her own, subtle scent lingered in his nostrils. "I am Ah-Windu, of the House of Corizon."

 

"I remember from your previous ramblings." Pausing near the door, she watched him for a moment. "I must hunt to feed. I suggest you stay here until we know that there are no searches in the area. And, of course, there are always Hunters out prowling that may not be as hospitable."

 

"I am more than capable of defending myself," he curled his fingers, showing the sharp claws. "And... thank you."

 

As her dark figure slowly disappeared into darkness, Corizon sighed deeply, he only hoped that he could hold out until he could devise a way to escape, though he reminded himself that he 0 for 1 on that front. Most likely, as much as he hated to admit it, he would have to wait for his crew to rescue him. There would be no living with them after that…