Ripper

This is an idea that popped in my head the other day.  Anyone familiar with the Dreadnoks knows Ripper as not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree who just likes cutting into things.  BUT–what if Buzzer wasn’t the ONLY one with a brain?  What if they call him Ripper because of  a certain fascination with murder?  Since ol’ Harry is really independently wealthy, what if his idle hands picked up a knife, a history book, and a taste for blood?  Now, in the LD stories, Zartan is a particular kind of sadistic mysoginist.  He captured her, but what if Ripper wanted to play, too?

The seat below her was still just short enough to make it uncomfortable no matter how she managed to contort her shackled limbs.  Through the less swollen of her eyes, she saw dim sunlight coming through the grime-smeared glass in front of a tattered floral curtain.  In her first weeks after capture, she’d focused on the incongruity of a prison cell provided by the Dreadnoks with flowered curtains.  The incalcuable beatings and…other things

—–DON’T YOU TOUCH ME YOU FILTHY—–

…now, is that any way to talk to the one caring for you?  HE’s not coming to get you this time, HE doesn’t even know where you ARE….

that had been done to her.  Occasionally, someone would bring her thin gruel that she was now sure was probably drugged.  No matter how she tried to stay alert, she would invariably find herself waking up sometime later.  At first, she’d tried to free herself, but that proved impossible.  When first she’d tried, she discovered that the shackles carried barbs on the inside that would pull at her flesh as though they were toddlers and her flesh was an apron.  Tiny red rivulets would slip down from the shackles, but then be cleaned up when she awoke later, always carrying the pungent bite of antiseptic.  After the first few times this happened, the realization struck home that they–HE–intended to keep her here.

The lapping of water below her, mixed with the occasional sound of a bird, was suddenly joined by a faint buzzing.  Curious despite herself, she looked around.  Several indistinct golden shapes circled around the window, then came further into the room.  With effort, she tried to force her exhausted eyes to focus.  A few wasps the size of Sky Strikers were exploring the room.  Chills shook her weakened form as though she were a pinwheel in a tornado.  Suddenly alert, her mind remembered one of Rat’s breafings before a mission.

“A particular nasty girl we might run into,” he’d said, knowing of her fear, “is the cicada killer wasp.”

Camo had snorted.  “Oooh, wasps!  Yeah, I’m going to worry about something smaller than my fingernail!”

Rat had literally smacked him upside his head.  “Hoser, these guys are about an inch and a half long.  The boys don’t have stingers, but the girls, well, they’re pretty nasty if you piss them off.  Their venom will give you a hard time.”

One of the pumpkin-hued intruders was circling the room, coming to light on her leg where the fabric had been shredded.  She felt it walking, exploring, circling.  Her breath caught in her throat as the second one also landed near the other.  A tiny whimper slipped through her frozen muscles.  Somehow, these two scouts must’ve sent word to their compatriots, for now several more came into the room.   She shook her head, quiet sounds rising in her throat.  One of the wasps rose up, landing on her chest.  Its tiny, mocking eyes looked up at her, probing her very soul.  It took a few steps closer to her face.  Her eyes, feeling as though they were open so wide that they’d fall from her head, couldn’t look away.  With a distant part of her mind, she realized that everything was quiet.  A second wasp now stood with the first, approaching her face.  Everything was quiet, the wasps didn’t want their work disturbed.  One set of wings rose at the wasp looked at her face.  She saw the tiny legs flex, too frozen by her fear to move.  The wings flattened, then rose again.  It got closer, closer, then–

BANG!!

The wasps scattered as the rickety door shook in its frame after striking the wall beside it.  Sunlight streamed behind the looming silhouette, and hope rose behind her fear.  The figure took it’s hat off as it took a step forward, and her eyes closed.

“Rat?” she whispered.

Heavy footsteps came forward, and the hand landed in her lap.  The smell of sweat and stagnant water clung to the figure that leaned over her.

“Not even close, luv,” a distinctly Tasmanian drawl in her ear.

A sob rose but caught in her chest.  She heard a gently sliding sound, then several points pressed against her cheek.  “Let’s see what that pretty flesh of yours does with my trench knives, shall we?”  The pressure slowly increased on one of the points as it rotated.  The pain quickly increased under one of the points as it rotated.  She tried to move her cheek away, but the newcomer growled in her ear above the point.   ,.

“You” turn “DON’T” jab “GET” point “TO” turn “MOVE!!”  The point was driven hard against her face, and with an almost distracted realization, she knew that it had broken her skin.  Surprisingly, as the fluid gathered, then slipped down her cheek, it felt cold, as though she were caught in a salty squall.  A chill ran down her spine, followed immediately by an explosion on the other side of her face.   Now, the whisper was next to her ear as the trench knife’s flat pressed coldly against her wounded cheek.  “You-don’t-get-to-move!”