ACTION TIME

[aphelionix]

The two days had come and gone since Locke stayed over at Weiler's. He was tipsy when Weiler had called that night and made their two day check-in rule - not that he forgot, but he couldn't stop the nagging feeling that something was off when he went to bed that night.

On the morning of the third day, he remembered.

The rule was to get out. He tried calling Weiler once, in case he had forgotten his own rule, but Locke was sure by now that it wasn't like him. It was all the sign he needed when the call went straight to voice mail. He headed right out the door of his room, only gathering his pistol and communicator. Through the bustling of the soldiers' morning routines, he managed to keep himself fairly blended in. No one seemed to be looking on him any differently. Locke was on the last stretch of the emergency escape route of Gladsheim's base - for Circle members, that was - when someone called his name.

His real name.

Comments

[pugsmuggler]

"I heard that we had some rats on the base," said a young soldier not but a few feet from Locke. He was in full uniform, hair tucked into a beret and utility satchel on his back. Although small in frame, he was intimidating in his stance, and from the film of dirt on him, it looked like he'd just arrived from the mines. Bad day for Locke.

"You shouldn't be here."

[aphelionix]

Locke slowly turned, his face impassive.

"There must be a misunderstanding," he said. "Where should I be, exactly?"

[pugsmuggler]

"Your ID," The soldier demanded, retrieving a scanner from his belt.

[aphelionix]

"I'm sorry, but who are you? What's your rank?"

[pugsmuggler]

"Vercelli Garamond," The soldier said dryly. "Captain general and fighter pilot."

[aphelionix]

About an hour later, Locke woke up. It was a tense, hardly revitalizing sleep. His knee was hurting like hell, and had woke him up. He ran a hand through his hair groggily, unbuckling himself with the other. The other agents had the right idea, patching themselves up by now, chatting among one another about their escapes and close calls. They would've gotten a kick about his story of Vercelli Garamond crushing his foot in the door, he was sure, but there was a time for place for that. A bar would be more suitable, once all of this was over with.

Before he could lean up, Locke realized there was a weight on his shoulder. Weiler was out like a light. He had half a mind to go back to sleep himself, but he had to do something about his knee. And really, they should do something about Weiler's own injury before it got worse. He already looked paler than usual; probably a combination of things in the past couple days.

"Weiler," he said, giving him a small nudge.

[tactician]

No response.

Had the wound gotten the better of him? Had it somehow infected and attacked his immune system? Was he- no, his breathing was still light but even, even if his sleep seemed pained by the furrow of his brow. It had to simply be the lack of sleep catching up to him, the pure exhaustion that came after running out of whatever supply of adrenaline he had.

Weiler didn't even stir.

[aphelionix]

Locke sighed upon realizing it wasn't more serious. He unbuckled Weiler, deciding to ignore the fact that he was asleep. Scooping him up was easy enough, apart from the pain shooting down his right leg. There was a small, empty cabin for resting just across the way. He brought the medical kit along too, having set it on Weiler's stomach. (Two birds with one stone.)

[tactician]

What Locke's voice didn't do, the jostling certainly did. Upon the sharp sting of pain it produced in his back, Weiler's eyes snapped open, awake and a little panicked. He instantly began struggling. "Mein Gott, you bastards don't-"

Then, he noticed where he was, who it was, and slowly stilled, looking perplexed. "Is there any particular reason why you are carrying me like a princess, Herr Locke?"

[aphelionix]

A flailing hand smacked him right in the face. Locke grimaced, but remained a steady grip on the man.

"You wouldn't wake up," he explained, setting Weiler down on the lower cot of two bunk-bed style ones. Not that he tried very hard to wake him up.

[tactician]

His alarm clock didn't fail to perform, ultimately proving that Weiler had superb taste in who he put his trust into.

Locke was still too soft though - gently shaking him by the shoulder on his uninjured side as not to jostle him, but thankfully, Weiler had managed at least four or five hours of sleep by that time and was infinitely better than how he had started out. It still took him nearly ten minutes, but he drowsed awake between one loud speaker announcement and the other (though he tried burying his face in the medical bed to block out the noise).

"-sonnel report immediately to the landing deck. I repeat, evacuate your ships and all personnel-"

"How do I turn off that alarm?" Weiler grumbled, squinting his eyes.

[aphelionix]

That certainly wasn't normal by alarm clock standards - not even by the Seventh's own landing procedures was that normal. Locke was alert, much more awake than Weiler. (Much less recovering to do.) He was still as he listened to the commotion, but wasn't able to draw anything from the muffled noise.

"You don't," he said quietly, frowning. He got to his feet, pressing against the wall near the door, peeking out carefully. That... his eyes had to be fooling him. The agents that were just on board had their hands behind their backs, with officers holding them at gunpoint. Were they being arrested?!

Did that mean the whole of Seventh had been...

Locke swore under his breath. Soon enough they'd be coming on board to see that everyone had been flushed out of the ship.

"Weiler, come with me to the flight deck," he said, voice low, motioning him over.

[tactician]

Weiler's eyes snapped open, recognizing that tone of voice and all its implications. He was used to, after all, picking out when things were important or not; his very means of survival relied on that one base ability. Sliding off the bed (with only minimal difficulty), Weiler followed after Locke with a hand at the back of the other man's uniform, careful to keep his footsteps silent against the metal flooring of the ship.

Peeking out one of the windows in the main cabin area, Weiler couldn't see what was happening directly below them, but the spacious docking bay of the Seventh Circle afforded them a view of what was happening with the other ships that had managed to escape to what they had thought was a safe haven. All the ships, just like theirs, had their boarding hatches open, mechanical stairs still extended to the ground, and all the ships, from what it looked like, had their former occupants lined up in front of them, hands on their heads and kneeling on the ground as uniformed Circle members kept them subdued with cocked submachine guns.

All except theirs.

Weiler pressed back to the wall and whispered, "Were we forced to dock?" He was suddenly regretting sleeping at all, because it meant he was more in the dark about the situation than the others, but at the same time, would they have been down there on their knees as well, if Locke hadn't had to take the extra time to wake him up? "Did you know?"

[aphelionix]

"Everything seemed normal until a minute ago," he whispered back. "I didn't hear anything until that announcement. They must have got them as soon as they got off board."

Locke ran his tongue along his bottom lip in thought. They didn't have any weapons. Maybe one of the agents left one behind? But there was no way they could survive fifty officers with submachine guns. It looked like hijacking the craft was going to be their only choice if they wanted out of this.

"I think I have a plan," Locke said. "How fast can you run to the docking door and close it?"

[tactician]

Weiler didn't question what Locke's plan was exactly, but after a moment of pause, during which he looked from the view outside to the lowered docking door to the pilot's dashboard and finally, back to Locke, he seemed to have understood at least the rudimentary construct of the soldier's plan. He raised a brow. "Would that work? They've closed the gate to the launching chutes."

[aphelionix]

Their fuel stop went smoothly, but not without a warning from the attendant there that they were most definitely riding in a ship flagged as hot. It took some bribing (and a fair amount of threatening) to get the man to give up the information, and even more (threatening) to get him not to report anything. It wasn't guaranteed by any means, but the first step Locke planned to take was to get rid of the ship.

And someone owed him a huge favor on Boriniat.

All fueled up, they definitely had enough to get them there. It was a little more out of the way than Erclesse, but definitely more urgent. Besides, peaceful little Erclesse had nothing on Boriniat's ships and deals; assuming you knew how to bargain. It was a shady planet in many ways, and one of the more restless ones. Some of Locke's reputation came from here.

Locke had landed them at an equally shady port, that also didn't ask for documentation or scan their ship as they came in. (More trouble than it was worth, most of the time.) The ship was docked, and he plucked up the ship's access cards.

He went back to the medical room, shoving supplies into a bag. You never knew when you'd need them.

"Ever been to Boriniat before?" Locke asked Weiler as he got ready for leaving the ship. He didn't intend to ride this thing out of here.

[tactician]

Weiler, looking more mussed than ever having both escaped from prison, escaped a military war planet, escaped (again) from the Seventh and having endured a back injury all throughout that, ran a hand through his already-helpless hair and shrugged with a smile.

"Boriniat's come to visit me before, does that count?" he answered vaguely, shoving his empty hands into his trouser pockets. He hadn't had much coming onboard to begin with, so he wouldn't be leaving with much either. What an oddly liberating way to live, without having to worry about someone else's toiletries or their handheld devices or the fourth of their seventy designer suits. They didn't even have an itinerary.

"This is too far into Circle territory for Wallabin to have come often."

[aphelionix]

Locke didn't bring anything either; he was stowing away some bandages and medicine for the two of them. He could probably find a doc for Weiler while they were here, but it wasn't so dire anymore. It definitely would leave a nasty scar if not.

Slinging the pack over his shoulder, he ducked back out of the medical room and to the deck. Last precaution was a gun tucked in the back of his trousers.

"Makes sense," he said. "How's your back?"

[tactician]

Weiler laughed a little self-deprecatingly at that, not even bothering to look at what was probably an ugly state of affairs. Instead, he tugged his loose T-shirt down a little more, as if to hide it more securely. If posed the same question again, however, he still wouldn't have opted for sticking sharp needles into it multiple times. There was a limit to how much he could endure while conscious or without drugs, and that was certainly breaching the end of it.

"Not so bad that I can't walk," he said truthfully, before nodding at the gun Locke had just put away. "I don't suppose you'd have another one of those?"

[aphelionix]

Locke looked at the seats, which since their escape in Seventh, hadn't been cleaned up after the other soldiers. Used bandages all over, some torn up clothes that had been abandoned, and... ah, a gun. He yanked out a pistol that had gotten wedged in two seats, passing it over.

Upon paying attention to Weiler instead of getting ready to get out of here, he couldn't help an amused look at the state of him.

"Good look for you."

[tactician]

Weiler's first chance for a real bout of sleep came only after a handful of errands on Boriniat, ranging from returning the junked ship to Ace (it almost gave out half way there) to getting their injuries finally looked at by some unlicensed medic in the back room of some pharmacy building (it was clean, at least). They couldn't afford to be checking into officially outfitted hospitals, having no records they could fall back upon, but the medic seemed to be well suited to his job and well acquainted to having dress injuries of this sort for clientele of theirs.

For all the hubbub Weiler made about avoiding shots, that was the first thing the medic did to him anyway, though whatever numbing agent he had was at least three times as strong as the stuff in the first aid kit of the Gladsheim aircraft. Almost even before he was done expressing his doubts about jabbing sharp, pointy objects into his back, Weiler found his strength from waist down giving out, forcing him to flop face-down on the sterilized medical bed, breathing in the scent of laundered sheets, alcohol and iron.

Weiler frowned, taking his cup out from under the nozzle of boiling dark liquid just as it cut off its constant stream. There was no need to dwell on that - they were well-rested, medically treated, on their way to recovery and a few hundred thousand miles away from Boriniat by now. That was far, far away from needles and the uncomfortable sensation of something wedging into his flesh when he couldn't quite feel it. On the other hand, it was much, much closer to small luxuries like the small mugs of coffee he was holding in either hand.

Of all the foods that had carried down from more archaic human times, coffee was definitely one of the best of them.

Leaning against the co-pilot's seat, Weiler tapped the bottom of one of the mugs gently against Locke's shoulder, careful not to spill any. "I don't know how you take it," he cautioned, as the drink was still rich and dark, devoid of sugar and milk, which was how he usually took his. "But we don't have much back there anyway."

idk where they're headed but I'm putting erclesse for now

[aphelionix]

"It's fine," he said, not one to complain when someone else went out of their way to make him something in the first place. (He was pickier about tea, anyway.) Locke pulled his hands away from the controls, having finished up some ship permissions for him and Weiler, taking the mug carefully. "Sleep well?"

Weiler had gone to rest almost immediately after becoming spaceborne, leaving Locke to pilot and mess with the settings of the ship. After things became smooth, and they were on course for Erclesse, Locke had nodded off himself. It was much easier to rest knowing they had a plan now - and supplies on top of that. Fueled up with a full water tank as well, food, and a couple changes of clothes. (And, only because Weiler's complaining, Locke gave in and budgeted in a thing of hair gel.)

sounds good to me

[tactician]

"Like a baby," Weiler answered, sitting on Locke's armrest rather than in his own nearby seat. It was true, too - he looked much better, less pale and less like he was always trying to squash down an ever-present ache. The combination of treatment, sleep and coffee apparently did medical wonders good enough to patent, if it were possible.

The position put him right up against the other man's arm, which gave him the perfect vantage point to peer both at their flight plans (which had gone a little dull in power-save mode due to inactivity on the holographic screen) and at the pilot's face, which looked a little nap-muggy itself (that mustache was a little askew, which really only pointed to one conclusion). "Did you sleep here?"

cool beans

[aphelionix]

Locke nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. The initial bitter bite was enough to start edging away that grogginess. He rested the cup on his lap in his hands, leaning his head back and to the side, up against Weiler's arm.

"For a couple hours, 'til something started beeping."

[tactician]

Weiler smiled down, rolling the head against his arm a little. "What was it?"