Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Syndicate Wars: Exspiravit Ex Machina
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SV's Bondage, Slavery, Sex, and Miscellaneous Kink Thread
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Simultaneity
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Joy Riding
by Servus Venandi
"Ma'am, I'm gonna have to take you in. Hands behind your back, please. Ball or bit?"
The short, wiry cop's name tag reads, 'Maroney.' She doesn't have a T-Novian accent—more like a drawl you'd hear in the southern reaches of Zone 9, back on Earth. It's nostalgic in a way.
"What is this about?" Eva wonders.
"Excessive speeding, reckless driving, manual driving in an autonomous-only zone, and … uh … disconnecting a vehicle from the Traffic Management Network. That's it. So far."
"Surely it was a technical glitch."
"Glitched you through the roundabout at a hundred KPH, did it? Take it up with the judge. Ball or bit?"
"The bit, please, officer," Eva replies, placing her wrists against her butt. "How long will this take?"
Maroney says, "Plead guilty, and you can be cruxxed and released in a few days. Fight every step of the way, and you could be locked up for weeks or months."
"Cruxxed," she mutters. "Shit. This was not part of my itinerary."
Maroney snaps on the cold steel and then holds up a red, cylinder-shaped bit gag. "Yeah, well, remember this next time you decide to drive through T-Nova like a fuckin' moron."
--
by Servus Venandi
"Ma'am, I'm gonna have to take you in. Hands behind your back, please. Ball or bit?"
The short, wiry cop's name tag reads, 'Maroney.' She doesn't have a T-Novian accent—more like a drawl you'd hear in the southern reaches of Zone 9, back on Earth. It's nostalgic in a way.
"What is this about?" Eva wonders.
"Excessive speeding, reckless driving, manual driving in an autonomous-only zone, and … uh … disconnecting a vehicle from the Traffic Management Network. That's it. So far."
"Surely it was a technical glitch."
"Glitched you through the roundabout at a hundred KPH, did it? Take it up with the judge. Ball or bit?"
"The bit, please, officer," Eva replies, placing her wrists against her butt. "How long will this take?"
Maroney says, "Plead guilty, and you can be cruxxed and released in a few days. Fight every step of the way, and you could be locked up for weeks or months."
"Cruxxed," she mutters. "Shit. This was not part of my itinerary."
Maroney snaps on the cold steel and then holds up a red, cylinder-shaped bit gag. "Yeah, well, remember this next time you decide to drive through T-Nova like a fuckin' moron."
--
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Gym Spat
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Loose End
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Continued from Joy Riding (above), otherwise I'd have put this in my crucifixion thread.
Joy Riding (Pt. 2)
by Servus Venandi
True to Officer Maroney's word, Eva got a swift hearing, spent a few days chained in a crowded jail, and finally got her day on the cross for egregious traffic offenses. As much as she had no desire to sample T-Novian justice, by the time they marched her out in front of the cameras wearing shackles and a ballgag, she was exhausted and hungry and dirty, and just wanted it to be over.
She lay down on the beam without resisting, presented her limbs to the middle-aged slave tasked with connecting her to the device, and tried to find some measure of inner peace as the hydraulic system raised her for the viewing pleasure of billions.
Eva had seen thousands of people crucified on the 'Net, across multiple syndicates, and she'd never quite understood why nearly everyone fought a pointless battle. The restraints and security were always absolute. Surely just settling in and enduring it, over the long term, would yield less total pain.
When the cross slammed to a stop at its final ninety degrees, Eva rocked in her shackles as Isaac Newton yelled, "Fuck you!" from beyond the grave. She scrambled to pull her high-heeled feet around to take some of the pressure, only to realize her ankles were locked behind the cross. Not only was she crucified, but she had no option of distributing the suffering between her upper and lower body. She would hang by her wrists until someone decided her sentence was served.
Now she understood. People didn't choose to struggle. It was automatic, a biological system in distress trying to separate itself from the source. All those years of yoga and therapy crumbled in the face of some worn metal and a millennia-old judicial practice.
Eva groaned into her gag, twisted her trembling body in search of relief she knew was hours away. The slave who had raised her looked on with a deadpan expression, broken eyes emanating neither malice nor pity.
"Phweef," Eva begged. "Phweef uh muh guh."
Shackles bruised her wrists and ankles, while the strap of her gag pressed tight against her face. With the ball wedged between her teeth, her lungs struggled to find air. Shoulders burned and threatened to pull free of their sockets. It was hard to think, but Eva knew one thing for certain. If she ever visited Terra Nova again, she would take public transit.
Joy Riding (Pt. 2)
by Servus Venandi
True to Officer Maroney's word, Eva got a swift hearing, spent a few days chained in a crowded jail, and finally got her day on the cross for egregious traffic offenses. As much as she had no desire to sample T-Novian justice, by the time they marched her out in front of the cameras wearing shackles and a ballgag, she was exhausted and hungry and dirty, and just wanted it to be over.
She lay down on the beam without resisting, presented her limbs to the middle-aged slave tasked with connecting her to the device, and tried to find some measure of inner peace as the hydraulic system raised her for the viewing pleasure of billions.
Eva had seen thousands of people crucified on the 'Net, across multiple syndicates, and she'd never quite understood why nearly everyone fought a pointless battle. The restraints and security were always absolute. Surely just settling in and enduring it, over the long term, would yield less total pain.
When the cross slammed to a stop at its final ninety degrees, Eva rocked in her shackles as Isaac Newton yelled, "Fuck you!" from beyond the grave. She scrambled to pull her high-heeled feet around to take some of the pressure, only to realize her ankles were locked behind the cross. Not only was she crucified, but she had no option of distributing the suffering between her upper and lower body. She would hang by her wrists until someone decided her sentence was served.
Now she understood. People didn't choose to struggle. It was automatic, a biological system in distress trying to separate itself from the source. All those years of yoga and therapy crumbled in the face of some worn metal and a millennia-old judicial practice.
Eva groaned into her gag, twisted her trembling body in search of relief she knew was hours away. The slave who had raised her looked on with a deadpan expression, broken eyes emanating neither malice nor pity.
"Phweef," Eva begged. "Phweef uh muh guh."
Shackles bruised her wrists and ankles, while the strap of her gag pressed tight against her face. With the ball wedged between her teeth, her lungs struggled to find air. Shoulders burned and threatened to pull free of their sockets. It was hard to think, but Eva knew one thing for certain. If she ever visited Terra Nova again, she would take public transit.
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Making Demands
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Nudist Aspirations
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Trials of Kimberly: Getting Shorty
by Servus Venandi
NORDIN-1 FIELD REPORT
For Internal Use
CONTRACTOR:
Kimberly A. Nordin / Nordin Galactic, LLC.
LOG DATE:
EY2421-03-10
LOG TIME:
05:02 (local)
LOCATION:
Zone 9, Earth | East Coast Megalopolis, Washington Sector
POI:
REMARKS:
In the world of bounty hunting, most targets surrender peacefully. Some flee or fight. Every once in a while, shit hits the fan and you find yourself facing an armed, barricaded subject with a death wish.
I haven't been doing this long enough to have seen much of the last one. In point of fact, my recent encounter with the girlfriend of a notorious chip runner (Omar "El Desastre" Lopez—nabbed while dancing in assless chaps at a Terra Nova BDSM club, by another hunter who beat me to the punch), marks the first time I was ever shot at on the job. This job, anyway.
After her romantic partner in crime's embarrassing fall from illegal glory, Hailey "Shorty" Dixon fled to Hell's Divide, as criminals on the lam are wont to do, and managed to stay off everyone's radar for about three months. That ended when one of El Desastre's former rivals recognized her in some hole-in-the-wall dive in the Stony Warrens. Small galaxy, as they say. An attempted hit ensued, and Hailey slipped away by the skin of her teeth.
For reasons unknown to me, she took her chances on Earth instead. Unfortunately for her, the trail was hot at this point, and it wasn't hard to follow that trail from Hell's Divide to the bustling terran underworld of the Zone 9 ECM. By the time I caught up to her, she was running odd jobs for a small-time black market slaver, who was more than happy to give me her address in exchange for a modest fee.
I should have taken her escape history into better account, because when I arrived at her tiny apartment with a pair of local cops to take her into custody, she was ready. My budget breach charge blew her front door off its hinges as advertised, and I burst in with my weapon ready. In the middle of my scan pattern, I caught a glimpse of a small figure diving out the kitchen window right before the entire place flooded with tear gas.
I'm lucky it wasn't something worse.
Faced with a choice between pushing ahead and falling back, and knowing the second option meant she'd get away and deny me this bounty, I ran though the toxic fog in the general direction of the kitchen movement. The window my quarry had gone through, best I could tell through my watery eyes, led to a fire escape.
I followed, and immediately came under fire from above.
Shotgun. Pump action. Two blasts. I'd recognize the sound anywhere after doing urban combat operations on Andor for the Marine Corp Special Recon. It always varies by the affluence and sophistication of the target, but about 90% of armed resistance, when breaching a residence, occurs in the form of a pistol or shotgun. Tear gas isn't so normal, at least not when deployed by the perpetrator, but those booms took me back.
They also reminded me in no uncertain terms that PTSD never goes away, even when you think it's under wraps. For just a brief second, I was back in my old MCSR kit, eyes darting behind a cracked visor as smoke and flames pressed on me from above, gunfire raging to all sides while I screamed for help into a broken radio, my lower right leg crushed under concrete debris....
Flashback-induced hesitation can been fatal. That's why I got discharged after I turned down the brain chip treatment. At the time I told myself they were throwing me out on my ass, but maybe someone who knows better than me created that policy. In solo bounty hunting, that kind of mistake comes back on the one who makes it, but in a unit during combat it can get somebody else killed.
That one second on Hailey Dixon's thirty-second floor fire escape was the first time I understood this. Some tactical and psychological analysis will be required in the wake of this episode, but I won't belabor the point here. Anyway, if the subject had taken time to line up a third shot, it might have been lights out for me. Luckily (again), she moved on after the double-tap, and I got out of it with only some shrapnel dings on my arms and shoulders.
Resuming pursuit, I followed her up to the roof, where she broke into a run and crossed a utility bridge to an adjacent building. I lost sight of her for about thirty seconds after she dropped through a maintenance hatch, but there weren't many places to go once inside. After following the sound of heavy objects thudding and scraping across the floor, I found her in the building's power center, having barricaded herself between generator units with miscellaneous junk like containers, fuel cells and orange cones.
As I would later learn, the door on the far end of the room was locked, and so she'd found herself cornered and compelled to make some kind of half-assed last stand.
Unhappy about the prospect of damaging the expensive energy hardware in a gunfight, and slightly encouraged when Hailey started pleading, "Please let me go," in a shaky voice instead of shooting at me, I chose discretion and tried to negotiate an unconditional surrender.
We spent a half hour bantering about Hailey's troubled past and the assorted possibilities awaiting her in the future. Awful parents who couldn't stay off drugs, poor academic prospects due to a public school quagmire, a string of abusive boyfriends (including the aptly named El Desastre), and no handholds in sight by which she might have dragged herself out of the hole she was in. Despite her attempt to kill me moments earlier, I felt for the poor girl, but in the end she was barricaded with no way out due to her own choices.
I won't claim to have handled things particularly well (because I have no background in criminal negotiation), but I think Hailey, after venting, decided on her own that she wasn't quite ready to go down in a stupid, no-win shootout. She finally stepped out with her back to me, both arms raised, finger off the trigger, and said she was giving up.
While climbing over the makeshift barricade she'd put in the walkway, I made her discard the shotgun, which she did without complaint. Up close she was a tiny thing, and while taking her into custody I realized her wrists were too small for my standard heavy cuffs. Instead, I resorted to a couple of leather straps I keep folded in my belt, typically reserved for the legs of highly combative subjects. Everything cinched down fine. The regular shackles fit her ankles, and I finished off by removing her top with my knife, and then slapping on some nipple clamps for pain compliance, and of course the usual ballgag.
I took her to the roof, where we crossed back to the original building and returned to Hailey's apartment via fire escape. Most of the gas had dissipated through the open window, but my eyes still burned by the time I got her out into the hallway, where the pair of Zone 9 cops waited with proverbial thumbs in their posteriors.
After checking all the boxes and signing my name a dozen times for the bounty catch in syndicate jurisdiction, plus filing separate reports with both the police and real estate corp due to my fugitive's weapon discharge, I finally marched Hailey down to street level. We took a quiet automated cab ride to the nearest spaceport (there isn't much room for small-talk when one party is gagged). After another round of digital paperwork for prisoner transport, I finally extracted the subject via public shuttle to the Nordin-1.
Following standard intake procedure, I stripped Hailey in full, put her through decon, and placed her in lockup—no restraints or sedation. Despite her giving the middle finger while I closed the cell door, I don't think she's going to be a problem, because she also said, "Fuck you, and thanks for not killing me, I guess." I think she's upset at being captured, but also grateful someone finally extracted her from the nightmare of a life she set up for herself.
Still, I'm flagging her file as high risk due to the fact that she fled and shot at me. If nothing else, I don't want any liability after I've dropped her off, in case she turns out to be a total psycho.
All told, save the pursuit, gunfire and standoff, this was a routine catch without serious injury or property damage. Delivery window is EY2421-03-11 to EY2421-03-14, transit parameters pending.
--
by Servus Venandi
NORDIN-1 FIELD REPORT
For Internal Use
CONTRACTOR:
Kimberly A. Nordin / Nordin Galactic, LLC.
LOG DATE:
EY2421-03-10
LOG TIME:
05:02 (local)
LOCATION:
Zone 9, Earth | East Coast Megalopolis, Washington Sector
POI:
- Dixon, Hailey Autumn "Shorty"
REMARKS:
In the world of bounty hunting, most targets surrender peacefully. Some flee or fight. Every once in a while, shit hits the fan and you find yourself facing an armed, barricaded subject with a death wish.
I haven't been doing this long enough to have seen much of the last one. In point of fact, my recent encounter with the girlfriend of a notorious chip runner (Omar "El Desastre" Lopez—nabbed while dancing in assless chaps at a Terra Nova BDSM club, by another hunter who beat me to the punch), marks the first time I was ever shot at on the job. This job, anyway.
After her romantic partner in crime's embarrassing fall from illegal glory, Hailey "Shorty" Dixon fled to Hell's Divide, as criminals on the lam are wont to do, and managed to stay off everyone's radar for about three months. That ended when one of El Desastre's former rivals recognized her in some hole-in-the-wall dive in the Stony Warrens. Small galaxy, as they say. An attempted hit ensued, and Hailey slipped away by the skin of her teeth.
For reasons unknown to me, she took her chances on Earth instead. Unfortunately for her, the trail was hot at this point, and it wasn't hard to follow that trail from Hell's Divide to the bustling terran underworld of the Zone 9 ECM. By the time I caught up to her, she was running odd jobs for a small-time black market slaver, who was more than happy to give me her address in exchange for a modest fee.
I should have taken her escape history into better account, because when I arrived at her tiny apartment with a pair of local cops to take her into custody, she was ready. My budget breach charge blew her front door off its hinges as advertised, and I burst in with my weapon ready. In the middle of my scan pattern, I caught a glimpse of a small figure diving out the kitchen window right before the entire place flooded with tear gas.
I'm lucky it wasn't something worse.
Faced with a choice between pushing ahead and falling back, and knowing the second option meant she'd get away and deny me this bounty, I ran though the toxic fog in the general direction of the kitchen movement. The window my quarry had gone through, best I could tell through my watery eyes, led to a fire escape.
I followed, and immediately came under fire from above.
Shotgun. Pump action. Two blasts. I'd recognize the sound anywhere after doing urban combat operations on Andor for the Marine Corp Special Recon. It always varies by the affluence and sophistication of the target, but about 90% of armed resistance, when breaching a residence, occurs in the form of a pistol or shotgun. Tear gas isn't so normal, at least not when deployed by the perpetrator, but those booms took me back.
They also reminded me in no uncertain terms that PTSD never goes away, even when you think it's under wraps. For just a brief second, I was back in my old MCSR kit, eyes darting behind a cracked visor as smoke and flames pressed on me from above, gunfire raging to all sides while I screamed for help into a broken radio, my lower right leg crushed under concrete debris....
Flashback-induced hesitation can been fatal. That's why I got discharged after I turned down the brain chip treatment. At the time I told myself they were throwing me out on my ass, but maybe someone who knows better than me created that policy. In solo bounty hunting, that kind of mistake comes back on the one who makes it, but in a unit during combat it can get somebody else killed.
That one second on Hailey Dixon's thirty-second floor fire escape was the first time I understood this. Some tactical and psychological analysis will be required in the wake of this episode, but I won't belabor the point here. Anyway, if the subject had taken time to line up a third shot, it might have been lights out for me. Luckily (again), she moved on after the double-tap, and I got out of it with only some shrapnel dings on my arms and shoulders.
Resuming pursuit, I followed her up to the roof, where she broke into a run and crossed a utility bridge to an adjacent building. I lost sight of her for about thirty seconds after she dropped through a maintenance hatch, but there weren't many places to go once inside. After following the sound of heavy objects thudding and scraping across the floor, I found her in the building's power center, having barricaded herself between generator units with miscellaneous junk like containers, fuel cells and orange cones.
As I would later learn, the door on the far end of the room was locked, and so she'd found herself cornered and compelled to make some kind of half-assed last stand.
Unhappy about the prospect of damaging the expensive energy hardware in a gunfight, and slightly encouraged when Hailey started pleading, "Please let me go," in a shaky voice instead of shooting at me, I chose discretion and tried to negotiate an unconditional surrender.
We spent a half hour bantering about Hailey's troubled past and the assorted possibilities awaiting her in the future. Awful parents who couldn't stay off drugs, poor academic prospects due to a public school quagmire, a string of abusive boyfriends (including the aptly named El Desastre), and no handholds in sight by which she might have dragged herself out of the hole she was in. Despite her attempt to kill me moments earlier, I felt for the poor girl, but in the end she was barricaded with no way out due to her own choices.
I won't claim to have handled things particularly well (because I have no background in criminal negotiation), but I think Hailey, after venting, decided on her own that she wasn't quite ready to go down in a stupid, no-win shootout. She finally stepped out with her back to me, both arms raised, finger off the trigger, and said she was giving up.
While climbing over the makeshift barricade she'd put in the walkway, I made her discard the shotgun, which she did without complaint. Up close she was a tiny thing, and while taking her into custody I realized her wrists were too small for my standard heavy cuffs. Instead, I resorted to a couple of leather straps I keep folded in my belt, typically reserved for the legs of highly combative subjects. Everything cinched down fine. The regular shackles fit her ankles, and I finished off by removing her top with my knife, and then slapping on some nipple clamps for pain compliance, and of course the usual ballgag.
I took her to the roof, where we crossed back to the original building and returned to Hailey's apartment via fire escape. Most of the gas had dissipated through the open window, but my eyes still burned by the time I got her out into the hallway, where the pair of Zone 9 cops waited with proverbial thumbs in their posteriors.
After checking all the boxes and signing my name a dozen times for the bounty catch in syndicate jurisdiction, plus filing separate reports with both the police and real estate corp due to my fugitive's weapon discharge, I finally marched Hailey down to street level. We took a quiet automated cab ride to the nearest spaceport (there isn't much room for small-talk when one party is gagged). After another round of digital paperwork for prisoner transport, I finally extracted the subject via public shuttle to the Nordin-1.
Following standard intake procedure, I stripped Hailey in full, put her through decon, and placed her in lockup—no restraints or sedation. Despite her giving the middle finger while I closed the cell door, I don't think she's going to be a problem, because she also said, "Fuck you, and thanks for not killing me, I guess." I think she's upset at being captured, but also grateful someone finally extracted her from the nightmare of a life she set up for herself.
Still, I'm flagging her file as high risk due to the fact that she fled and shot at me. If nothing else, I don't want any liability after I've dropped her off, in case she turns out to be a total psycho.
All told, save the pursuit, gunfire and standoff, this was a routine catch without serious injury or property damage. Delivery window is EY2421-03-11 to EY2421-03-14, transit parameters pending.
--
Last edited by a moderator:
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Trials of Kimberly: The Independence Illusion
by Servus Venandi
NORDIN-1 FIELD REPORT
For Internal Use
CONTRACTOR:
Kimberly A. Nordin / Nordin Galactic, LLC.
LOG DATE:
EY2421-03-27
LOG TIME:
18:33 (local)
LOCATION:
Morse, Devon | Residential Sector Delta
POI:
REMARKS:
Nyxi Cobb, aged 21EY, is a runaway i-slave from Andor. I accepted the bounty posted by her master, a renowned [redacted] named Dr. [redacted], after she escaped low-security confinement nearly four months ago. The purported reason for Nyxi's escape was impregnation by her master three months prior, and I confirmed as much upon tracking her down on Devon, after a lengthy investigation that saw me following bread crumbs though half a dozen star systems.
By the time I caught up to her, Nyxi was well into her pregnancy. Local law enforcement overrode her apartment's electronic lock on my behalf, and I found her in the living room, sorting through newly-purchased infant clothing. Cradling her belly as she looked at me with wide, desperate eyes, she fled to the back of the suite, apparently intending to use the fire escape, only to be delayed by an uncooperative window latch (an obvious fire hazard, for which the property owner would have been fined).
I approached from behind and placed my hands on Nyxi's shoulders, calmly telling her who I was and why I was in her home. She pulled away. I escalated force level slightly by grabbing her elbows, and she again managed to slip her right arm from my grasp, but not her left. I gently manipulated her left arm into compliance position behind her back, applied a small amount of pressure to wrist, and requested that she stop resisting.
Fortunately, she did, and I received no further trouble from her aside from dirty looks and verbal protests. I escorted her to the kitchen for processing, and informed her of the terms of the bounty and what was about to happen.
Her main objection was that she had left Andorian jurisdiction, under which she was an i-slave by law, and should now be free to live normally. I explained that, if she had wanted to nullify her i-slave status, then she should have fled to a Free Zone like Meridian or Xena, instead of Devon. Devon Investigative Services (DIS) maintains slave extradition policies for most syndicates in civilized space. While it's fair to say these are selectively enforced at best, it's nonetheless within the legal rights of slave owners to pursue runaways.
Nyxi, being quite pregnant, claimed she had taken a food service job to pay her medical bills, and couldn't yet afford a gray market starship ride to Free Zone space. While I am not unsympathetic to her plight—and while I have moral issues with the very notion of independent slaves born into servitude rather than earning it through criminal behavior—the fact remains that Nyxi had a better life than many, yet broke the law in search of more. The saddest irony is that she will be convicted of a crime upon returning to Andor, and might lose the i-slave status that has so far protected her from the more unsavory realities endured by regular slaves. At the very least, her days of low-security confinement are over.
In accordance with procedure, I required Nyxi to strip (though I let her keep her boots on) and submit to shackles, a ballgag and, due to her previous resistance, nipple clamps. She wasn't happy, but took it as well as could be expected. Once she was in my custody and I had signed the necessary documents to satisfy DIS, I walked her out of the apartment to the nearby tram station. We rode to the Morose Port District, where a commercial shuttle extracted us to the Nordin-1 in low-Devon orbit.
After decontamination, I placed Nyxi in a cell without restraints, save for a basic collar (I have no intention of using its disciplinary functions on a pregnant prisoner, but she doesn't need to know this). I also fitted her with sensors for medical telemetry, and am keeping her under video surveillance to ensure she doesn't remove them. If she does, I might have to rethink my no-restraints charity, but I want her to be as comfortable as possible.
Truth be told, I don't often feel bad about jobs, but this one gives me pause. This certainly isn't information I'll be volunteering to my clients anytime soon (bounty hunting is hard enough without labeling yourself a bleeding heart), but barging in on a pregnant lady while she's folding baby clothes, chaining her up, and delivering her into slavery to preserve some wealthy noble's ego....
It pays the bills. With the proceeds from Dr. [redacted]'s bounty, I should be able to upgrade the conversion coils of my aging warp engine. The price was merely a young mother's dreams and a piece of my own soul.
Expected delivery window is EY2421-04-03 to EY2421-04-06, transit parameters pending. Here's hoping the stress doesn't send my captive into premature labor. I don't even want to think about it.
--
by Servus Venandi
NORDIN-1 FIELD REPORT
For Internal Use
CONTRACTOR:
Kimberly A. Nordin / Nordin Galactic, LLC.
LOG DATE:
EY2421-03-27
LOG TIME:
18:33 (local)
LOCATION:
Morse, Devon | Residential Sector Delta
POI:
- Cobb, Nyxi Corrine
- Devon Investigative Services (various field personnel)
REMARKS:
Nyxi Cobb, aged 21EY, is a runaway i-slave from Andor. I accepted the bounty posted by her master, a renowned [redacted] named Dr. [redacted], after she escaped low-security confinement nearly four months ago. The purported reason for Nyxi's escape was impregnation by her master three months prior, and I confirmed as much upon tracking her down on Devon, after a lengthy investigation that saw me following bread crumbs though half a dozen star systems.
By the time I caught up to her, Nyxi was well into her pregnancy. Local law enforcement overrode her apartment's electronic lock on my behalf, and I found her in the living room, sorting through newly-purchased infant clothing. Cradling her belly as she looked at me with wide, desperate eyes, she fled to the back of the suite, apparently intending to use the fire escape, only to be delayed by an uncooperative window latch (an obvious fire hazard, for which the property owner would have been fined).
I approached from behind and placed my hands on Nyxi's shoulders, calmly telling her who I was and why I was in her home. She pulled away. I escalated force level slightly by grabbing her elbows, and she again managed to slip her right arm from my grasp, but not her left. I gently manipulated her left arm into compliance position behind her back, applied a small amount of pressure to wrist, and requested that she stop resisting.
Fortunately, she did, and I received no further trouble from her aside from dirty looks and verbal protests. I escorted her to the kitchen for processing, and informed her of the terms of the bounty and what was about to happen.
Her main objection was that she had left Andorian jurisdiction, under which she was an i-slave by law, and should now be free to live normally. I explained that, if she had wanted to nullify her i-slave status, then she should have fled to a Free Zone like Meridian or Xena, instead of Devon. Devon Investigative Services (DIS) maintains slave extradition policies for most syndicates in civilized space. While it's fair to say these are selectively enforced at best, it's nonetheless within the legal rights of slave owners to pursue runaways.
Nyxi, being quite pregnant, claimed she had taken a food service job to pay her medical bills, and couldn't yet afford a gray market starship ride to Free Zone space. While I am not unsympathetic to her plight—and while I have moral issues with the very notion of independent slaves born into servitude rather than earning it through criminal behavior—the fact remains that Nyxi had a better life than many, yet broke the law in search of more. The saddest irony is that she will be convicted of a crime upon returning to Andor, and might lose the i-slave status that has so far protected her from the more unsavory realities endured by regular slaves. At the very least, her days of low-security confinement are over.
In accordance with procedure, I required Nyxi to strip (though I let her keep her boots on) and submit to shackles, a ballgag and, due to her previous resistance, nipple clamps. She wasn't happy, but took it as well as could be expected. Once she was in my custody and I had signed the necessary documents to satisfy DIS, I walked her out of the apartment to the nearby tram station. We rode to the Morose Port District, where a commercial shuttle extracted us to the Nordin-1 in low-Devon orbit.
After decontamination, I placed Nyxi in a cell without restraints, save for a basic collar (I have no intention of using its disciplinary functions on a pregnant prisoner, but she doesn't need to know this). I also fitted her with sensors for medical telemetry, and am keeping her under video surveillance to ensure she doesn't remove them. If she does, I might have to rethink my no-restraints charity, but I want her to be as comfortable as possible.
Truth be told, I don't often feel bad about jobs, but this one gives me pause. This certainly isn't information I'll be volunteering to my clients anytime soon (bounty hunting is hard enough without labeling yourself a bleeding heart), but barging in on a pregnant lady while she's folding baby clothes, chaining her up, and delivering her into slavery to preserve some wealthy noble's ego....
It pays the bills. With the proceeds from Dr. [redacted]'s bounty, I should be able to upgrade the conversion coils of my aging warp engine. The price was merely a young mother's dreams and a piece of my own soul.
Expected delivery window is EY2421-04-03 to EY2421-04-06, transit parameters pending. Here's hoping the stress doesn't send my captive into premature labor. I don't even want to think about it.
--
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Trials of Kimberly: Fighting Crime for Fun and Profit
by Servus Venandi
NORDIN-1 FIELD REPORT
For Internal Use
CONTRACTOR:
Kimberly A. Nordin / Nordin Galactic, LLC.
LOG DATE:
EY2421-04-10
LOG TIME:
17:05 (local)
LOCATION:
Gorburg, Terra Nova | Sunward Estates Residential Towers
POI:
REMARKS:
Sometimes this job is depressing. Sometimes it's incredibly satisfying.
I tracked collegiate basketball washout and wannabe revolutionary Rebecca Alizandra Simone down on Terra Nova, and followed her home from the gym. All I had to do to get in was ring her doorbell and announce that something had fallen from her backpack outside. When she opened her apartment door to retrieve the nonexistent item, I instead barged in, showed her the bounty, and explained that an Earth Authority magistrate had issued nine warrants for her arrest, covering crimes ranging from assault and arson, to tax evasion, fraud and seditious conspiracy.
Her response was to drop into some kind of weird fighting stance.
For about three seconds, she cut an imposing figure. One, she's several centimeters taller than me, which always sparks a weird, uneasy feeling (I'm 180 cm and almost always tower over female targets). Two, she's clearly put her gym membership to use in keeping her lean basketball cut. Three, she had the Look—that glint of self-righteous crazy in the eyes, the one that screams, "I'm right, you're wrong, reason be damned, and I'll ass-rape the whole universe to prove it."
Then she actually opened her mouth.
She said, "My sensei told me training in martial arts means I can never be disarmed. You won't take me, and I'm giving you one chance to leave."
I have no idea what she expected. For me to put up my dukes and brawl with her for sport and honor? No, I operate in reality. I whipped out the stunner and, in my best old western imitation, hip-fired at center-mass. Turns out her rigorous martial arts training doesn't grant sufficient reflexes to dodge a magnet-propelled stun dart.
Fifty thousand volts later, Rebecca fell over like a tree in a hypercane. While she recovered, I slapped shackles on her wrists and ankles and told her, "Your sensei owes you a refund."
It was horribly unprofessional of me, and it also felt very, very good.
When her muscles had returned to working order, she struggled and cursed for several minutes. I waited for the steel to sap her will to resist, and then I cut off her shorts and top, clamped her tits, collared and gagged her, and marched her out to the tune of sobs and muffled profanity. After clearing the catch with local police, I extracted Rebecca to the Nordin-1 in low orbit, put her through decon, and left her strapped to the St. Andrew's for transport after she fought me again en route to lockup. She's still shouting into her ballgag as I type this, but she doesn't know the cell is soundproof and the security cam audio is muted.
Stupid girl, total menace. Good riddance. Society is better off without her.
Delivery window is EY2421-04-14 to EY2421-04-16, transit parameters pending. Justice is served, and Nordin Galactic's balance sheet thanks Ms. Simone for her contribution.
--
by Servus Venandi
NORDIN-1 FIELD REPORT
For Internal Use
CONTRACTOR:
Kimberly A. Nordin / Nordin Galactic, LLC.
LOG DATE:
EY2421-04-10
LOG TIME:
17:05 (local)
LOCATION:
Gorburg, Terra Nova | Sunward Estates Residential Towers
POI:
- Simone, Rebecca Alizandra
- GBPD, Precinct 47
REMARKS:
Sometimes this job is depressing. Sometimes it's incredibly satisfying.
I tracked collegiate basketball washout and wannabe revolutionary Rebecca Alizandra Simone down on Terra Nova, and followed her home from the gym. All I had to do to get in was ring her doorbell and announce that something had fallen from her backpack outside. When she opened her apartment door to retrieve the nonexistent item, I instead barged in, showed her the bounty, and explained that an Earth Authority magistrate had issued nine warrants for her arrest, covering crimes ranging from assault and arson, to tax evasion, fraud and seditious conspiracy.
Her response was to drop into some kind of weird fighting stance.
For about three seconds, she cut an imposing figure. One, she's several centimeters taller than me, which always sparks a weird, uneasy feeling (I'm 180 cm and almost always tower over female targets). Two, she's clearly put her gym membership to use in keeping her lean basketball cut. Three, she had the Look—that glint of self-righteous crazy in the eyes, the one that screams, "I'm right, you're wrong, reason be damned, and I'll ass-rape the whole universe to prove it."
Then she actually opened her mouth.
She said, "My sensei told me training in martial arts means I can never be disarmed. You won't take me, and I'm giving you one chance to leave."
I have no idea what she expected. For me to put up my dukes and brawl with her for sport and honor? No, I operate in reality. I whipped out the stunner and, in my best old western imitation, hip-fired at center-mass. Turns out her rigorous martial arts training doesn't grant sufficient reflexes to dodge a magnet-propelled stun dart.
Fifty thousand volts later, Rebecca fell over like a tree in a hypercane. While she recovered, I slapped shackles on her wrists and ankles and told her, "Your sensei owes you a refund."
It was horribly unprofessional of me, and it also felt very, very good.
When her muscles had returned to working order, she struggled and cursed for several minutes. I waited for the steel to sap her will to resist, and then I cut off her shorts and top, clamped her tits, collared and gagged her, and marched her out to the tune of sobs and muffled profanity. After clearing the catch with local police, I extracted Rebecca to the Nordin-1 in low orbit, put her through decon, and left her strapped to the St. Andrew's for transport after she fought me again en route to lockup. She's still shouting into her ballgag as I type this, but she doesn't know the cell is soundproof and the security cam audio is muted.
Stupid girl, total menace. Good riddance. Society is better off without her.
Delivery window is EY2421-04-14 to EY2421-04-16, transit parameters pending. Justice is served, and Nordin Galactic's balance sheet thanks Ms. Simone for her contribution.
--
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
City Crew
Just a random doodle of some Syndicate Wars originals: Austin, Sonia, Sage and Kira.
Just a random doodle of some Syndicate Wars originals: Austin, Sonia, Sage and Kira.
Last edited:
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Loyalty
"We had a deal, Jazz. It wasn't signed in blood, but it was fucking close enough. Maybe that doesn't mean anything to you, but I'm loyal to my people when they're loyal to me. The inverse is also true, as you are about to learn."
"We had a deal, Jazz. It wasn't signed in blood, but it was fucking close enough. Maybe that doesn't mean anything to you, but I'm loyal to my people when they're loyal to me. The inverse is also true, as you are about to learn."
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Hard Labor
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Freedom Fighters
Detention Sector, Hell's Divide.
No surprises here.
Cementing her place as one of this season's best female Freedom Fighters, convicted thief Sydney "Dovetail" Cutter defeated serial speech code violator Olivia Robinson by pinfall in under five minutes. While by no means the shortest Freedom Fighters match ever recorded, it was the shortest Fury tournament semi-final in over a terran decade.
To an untrained eye the fight might have seemed competitive in the opening seconds, as Robinson unleashed a flurry of elbows and nails, managing to bloody Cutter's nose and leave claw marks on her left cheek. However, as she has done all season, Cutter maintained composure and adapted.
By minute one it was obvious Cutter controlled the contest, and by minute two a confused, fearful Robinson had been warned twice by the official for failing to engage.
A skillful leg sweep by Cutter at 3:09 took Robinson to the mat, and there she would stay. Initially, the Redemption 1A contender sought a submission victory by rear naked choke. Robinson squirmed out before being locked down and—perhaps foolishly, in retrospect—retaliated with a sequence of wild, desperate punches. Several landed, but to no obvious effect on Cutter, who met the onslaught with a quick series of hooks to Robinson's undefended torso.
When Robinson lowered her hands to deal with the threat, Cutter refocused northward and pounded the everlasting hell out her hapless opponent's skull. Robinson was obviously done at 3:58, but as there are no technical knockouts in Freedom Fighters, Cutter landed blows until all resistance ceased.
After a flamboyant pin at 4:22, Cutter basked in the three-count before leaping to her feet, shouting obscenities at the crowd, and challenging a nearby camera operator to a bonus fight while flexing her right bicep. She was promptly shackled by security and escorted out of the arena, to a raucous mix of cheers and boos.
In two weeks, in what is projected to be a historic showdown, Cutter will face the winner of tomorrow's Deliverance bracket final: Savannah Salvatore or Tara Stiles-O'Donnell.
Olivia Robinson is eliminated. While numerically qualifying for the Lucky Losers tournament pool at season's end, the resounding nature of her defeat in the Freedom Fighters Fury semi doesn't bode well for her selection, despite the fact that she fought well until getting humiliated by the feisty Dovetail Cutter. Current projections have Robinson being denied further competition and sent back to prison, where her original sentence of slavery will be carried out.
Predicted Result Holds In Redemption Bracket Final
by Vyle Stone, Staff WriterDetention Sector, Hell's Divide.
No surprises here.
Cementing her place as one of this season's best female Freedom Fighters, convicted thief Sydney "Dovetail" Cutter defeated serial speech code violator Olivia Robinson by pinfall in under five minutes. While by no means the shortest Freedom Fighters match ever recorded, it was the shortest Fury tournament semi-final in over a terran decade.
To an untrained eye the fight might have seemed competitive in the opening seconds, as Robinson unleashed a flurry of elbows and nails, managing to bloody Cutter's nose and leave claw marks on her left cheek. However, as she has done all season, Cutter maintained composure and adapted.
By minute one it was obvious Cutter controlled the contest, and by minute two a confused, fearful Robinson had been warned twice by the official for failing to engage.
A skillful leg sweep by Cutter at 3:09 took Robinson to the mat, and there she would stay. Initially, the Redemption 1A contender sought a submission victory by rear naked choke. Robinson squirmed out before being locked down and—perhaps foolishly, in retrospect—retaliated with a sequence of wild, desperate punches. Several landed, but to no obvious effect on Cutter, who met the onslaught with a quick series of hooks to Robinson's undefended torso.
When Robinson lowered her hands to deal with the threat, Cutter refocused northward and pounded the everlasting hell out her hapless opponent's skull. Robinson was obviously done at 3:58, but as there are no technical knockouts in Freedom Fighters, Cutter landed blows until all resistance ceased.
After a flamboyant pin at 4:22, Cutter basked in the three-count before leaping to her feet, shouting obscenities at the crowd, and challenging a nearby camera operator to a bonus fight while flexing her right bicep. She was promptly shackled by security and escorted out of the arena, to a raucous mix of cheers and boos.
In two weeks, in what is projected to be a historic showdown, Cutter will face the winner of tomorrow's Deliverance bracket final: Savannah Salvatore or Tara Stiles-O'Donnell.
Olivia Robinson is eliminated. While numerically qualifying for the Lucky Losers tournament pool at season's end, the resounding nature of her defeat in the Freedom Fighters Fury semi doesn't bode well for her selection, despite the fact that she fought well until getting humiliated by the feisty Dovetail Cutter. Current projections have Robinson being denied further competition and sent back to prison, where her original sentence of slavery will be carried out.
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Trials of Kimberly: Petitioning Saint Andrew
by Servus Venandi
NORDIN-1 CAPTAIN'S LOG
For Internal Use
CAPTAIN:
Kimberly A. Nordin
LOG DATE:
EY2421-04-15
REMARKS:
My brand new St. Andrew's broke thirty seconds after I switched it on.
As documented in the Field Report dated EY2421-04-10, I elected to place the combative subject of a previous job, Ms. Rebecca Simone, on the Nordin-1's old NoN-Tech cross. It is the base metal model—simple, sturdy, but with no bells, whistles or powered features. I purchased it when I launched Nordin Galactic late last year, mostly as a cost-saving measure. Most of the company's startup capital (i.e. my Andor MCSR medical discharge package) went into the ship and essentials, so I've spent the last several months operating with bare-bones lockup facilities. The Nordin-1 has one small cell, one cross mounted in the cell, and a med-bay fitted with five tiny last-gen sedation pods, which I bought at auction and repaired myself (they mostly work).
After the aforementioned incident, in which the athletic Ms. Simone put up significant resistance to being strapped to the NoN-Tech cross, I realized my security situation is untenable. I am one lost fistfight away from having my ship hijacked, and possibly losing my business, my freedom, or even my life.
So, I decided it was time for an upgrade. Of course, what I really need is help, a partner—flesh and blood, not the budget Mel AI that came with my ship. But since I'm not made of money, I thought I would start with a restraint upgrade, something with automation that minimizes my exposure to hostile prisoners, but is also compatible with my out-of-date systems.
The DV-X3 Mk2 Restraint System won me over. I found one in stock (refurbished) at a local warehouse after dropping Rebecca Simone off with the Earth Authority bounty office. I bought it and had it delivered to the Nordin-1 within a day.
According to its documentation, the DV-X3 is a powered, wall- or floor-mounted titanium and steel St. Andrew's cross, with full medical and legacy AI integration. The main draw for me was its configurable locking system, whereby the shackles can be programmed to close either by voice command or by making contact with the inner surface.
I set it up for voice and calibrated it to myself. This would, I reasoned, ensure I could dedicate my entire body to wrestling combative prisoners into the apparatus, without needing a free hand to actually apply the restraints.
Mel (the AI) and I followed the installation procedure meticulously. There was heavy lifting involved, and integrating the power unit with the Nordin-1 required some drilling, soldering and improvisation. Still, it was mostly straightforward, and everything checked out when I ran the unit's self-diagnostic for the first time.
Alas, I wasn't about to trust a self-diagnostic without something resembling a field test. I've seen too many pieces of military gear check out, only to crap out in the middle of an engagement. Since Nordin Galactic is a one-woman operation, and I'm the only human aboard the Nordin-1 at any given time outside of prisoner transports, the task fell to me.
I climbed into the rig, positioned my arms and legs in the classic St. Andrew's X, took a deep breath, and said, "Close all restraints."
As advertised, the shackles snapped shut and locked. The ship's standard G-force dragged me down a couple centimeters until my shins wedged in the bottom restraints, and there I was, hanging on my own cross. It wasn't comfortable at all. In fact, I gasped in surprise when the nature of my situation became apparent. But that's the point, right? I'm not putting every prisoner on this thing, just the ones who fight. It's punishment, not the default.
After a bit of vigorous struggling to make sure nothing came loose, I was satisfied with the result.
I said, "Open all restraints."
Nothing happened.
I said it again, and then a third time. Still nothing.
My heart started pounding. At this point the damn device blared out some ominous error tone and announced, "Firmware conflict. Please contact manufacturer."
Knowing I would achieve nothing but injury by mindlessly struggling, I remained calm as possible. Over a span of two hours, I managed to talk Mel through disassembling the DV-X3 enough for me to finally get free. As artificial intelligence goes, she is very stupid and hardware-challenged, and she kept pausing for long stretches to let her processors catch up, but I'm grateful for her presence. Without her (and specifically without the humanoid utility platform she controls), I'd still be crucified.
Post-mortem on the DV-X3 revealed that the error message was correct. There was a firmware conflict between the shackles and the unit proper—a known bug disclosed by neither the seller nor the documentation. So long as the rig received voice commands with no touch input, it was fine. However, if the inner shackle sensors were activated while a voice command was given, it caused a software exception that crashed the whole system.
Best I can tell, the problem is fixable, but it's going to require a separate memory flash for every component. Also, Mel damaged the right leg portion of the cross while taking it apart. Luckily, upon hearing my story, the Earth-based seller (after he was finished laughing) agreed to send up replacement parts at no cost.
While I would prefer to have not spent two hours spread out in shackles, this was a good lesson. Moving forward, I will be judicious in my use of the St. Andrew's, because—surprise—it hurts. I could reposition the rig to let the prisoner's feet touch the floor during restraint, as was the case with the NoN-Tech cross. But again, prisoners should be miserable if they've pushed me to the point of cruxxing them.
However, I think I will configure the shackles to pull the subject's body taut after locking, and I'll probably need to add some kind of cushioning that doesn't interfere with the sensors. Those two hours left my one organic shin bruised and sore from holding my weight. I think being stretched out—while by no means pleasant—will make the pressure distribution more symmetrical, and the overall experience less painful over the long term.
Further testing required, unfortunately(?).
Meanwhile, the Nordin-1 will remain in Earth-orbit for another one to two days. I'm not about to depart until the DV-X3 is either operational or shipped back in lieu of another solution.
--
by Servus Venandi
NORDIN-1 CAPTAIN'S LOG
For Internal Use
CAPTAIN:
Kimberly A. Nordin
LOG DATE:
EY2421-04-15
REMARKS:
My brand new St. Andrew's broke thirty seconds after I switched it on.
As documented in the Field Report dated EY2421-04-10, I elected to place the combative subject of a previous job, Ms. Rebecca Simone, on the Nordin-1's old NoN-Tech cross. It is the base metal model—simple, sturdy, but with no bells, whistles or powered features. I purchased it when I launched Nordin Galactic late last year, mostly as a cost-saving measure. Most of the company's startup capital (i.e. my Andor MCSR medical discharge package) went into the ship and essentials, so I've spent the last several months operating with bare-bones lockup facilities. The Nordin-1 has one small cell, one cross mounted in the cell, and a med-bay fitted with five tiny last-gen sedation pods, which I bought at auction and repaired myself (they mostly work).
After the aforementioned incident, in which the athletic Ms. Simone put up significant resistance to being strapped to the NoN-Tech cross, I realized my security situation is untenable. I am one lost fistfight away from having my ship hijacked, and possibly losing my business, my freedom, or even my life.
So, I decided it was time for an upgrade. Of course, what I really need is help, a partner—flesh and blood, not the budget Mel AI that came with my ship. But since I'm not made of money, I thought I would start with a restraint upgrade, something with automation that minimizes my exposure to hostile prisoners, but is also compatible with my out-of-date systems.
The DV-X3 Mk2 Restraint System won me over. I found one in stock (refurbished) at a local warehouse after dropping Rebecca Simone off with the Earth Authority bounty office. I bought it and had it delivered to the Nordin-1 within a day.
According to its documentation, the DV-X3 is a powered, wall- or floor-mounted titanium and steel St. Andrew's cross, with full medical and legacy AI integration. The main draw for me was its configurable locking system, whereby the shackles can be programmed to close either by voice command or by making contact with the inner surface.
I set it up for voice and calibrated it to myself. This would, I reasoned, ensure I could dedicate my entire body to wrestling combative prisoners into the apparatus, without needing a free hand to actually apply the restraints.
Mel (the AI) and I followed the installation procedure meticulously. There was heavy lifting involved, and integrating the power unit with the Nordin-1 required some drilling, soldering and improvisation. Still, it was mostly straightforward, and everything checked out when I ran the unit's self-diagnostic for the first time.
Alas, I wasn't about to trust a self-diagnostic without something resembling a field test. I've seen too many pieces of military gear check out, only to crap out in the middle of an engagement. Since Nordin Galactic is a one-woman operation, and I'm the only human aboard the Nordin-1 at any given time outside of prisoner transports, the task fell to me.
I climbed into the rig, positioned my arms and legs in the classic St. Andrew's X, took a deep breath, and said, "Close all restraints."
As advertised, the shackles snapped shut and locked. The ship's standard G-force dragged me down a couple centimeters until my shins wedged in the bottom restraints, and there I was, hanging on my own cross. It wasn't comfortable at all. In fact, I gasped in surprise when the nature of my situation became apparent. But that's the point, right? I'm not putting every prisoner on this thing, just the ones who fight. It's punishment, not the default.
After a bit of vigorous struggling to make sure nothing came loose, I was satisfied with the result.
I said, "Open all restraints."
Nothing happened.
I said it again, and then a third time. Still nothing.
My heart started pounding. At this point the damn device blared out some ominous error tone and announced, "Firmware conflict. Please contact manufacturer."
Knowing I would achieve nothing but injury by mindlessly struggling, I remained calm as possible. Over a span of two hours, I managed to talk Mel through disassembling the DV-X3 enough for me to finally get free. As artificial intelligence goes, she is very stupid and hardware-challenged, and she kept pausing for long stretches to let her processors catch up, but I'm grateful for her presence. Without her (and specifically without the humanoid utility platform she controls), I'd still be crucified.
Post-mortem on the DV-X3 revealed that the error message was correct. There was a firmware conflict between the shackles and the unit proper—a known bug disclosed by neither the seller nor the documentation. So long as the rig received voice commands with no touch input, it was fine. However, if the inner shackle sensors were activated while a voice command was given, it caused a software exception that crashed the whole system.
Best I can tell, the problem is fixable, but it's going to require a separate memory flash for every component. Also, Mel damaged the right leg portion of the cross while taking it apart. Luckily, upon hearing my story, the Earth-based seller (after he was finished laughing) agreed to send up replacement parts at no cost.
While I would prefer to have not spent two hours spread out in shackles, this was a good lesson. Moving forward, I will be judicious in my use of the St. Andrew's, because—surprise—it hurts. I could reposition the rig to let the prisoner's feet touch the floor during restraint, as was the case with the NoN-Tech cross. But again, prisoners should be miserable if they've pushed me to the point of cruxxing them.
However, I think I will configure the shackles to pull the subject's body taut after locking, and I'll probably need to add some kind of cushioning that doesn't interfere with the sensors. Those two hours left my one organic shin bruised and sore from holding my weight. I think being stretched out—while by no means pleasant—will make the pressure distribution more symmetrical, and the overall experience less painful over the long term.
Further testing required, unfortunately(?).
Meanwhile, the Nordin-1 will remain in Earth-orbit for another one to two days. I'm not about to depart until the DV-X3 is either operational or shipped back in lieu of another solution.
--
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
Trials of Ariana: The Sacrifice
by Servus Venandi
When the Malus'rett rose to power, its influence remained confined to cities for years before finally spilling into the borderlands between the Borra Empire and the Exalted Republics. Country folk received this development—the usurpation of their gods and traditions—with unmitigated revulsion. Alas, they by and large found themselves powerless to resist, and blasphemous shrines, temples and inquisitions were soon matters of everyday life.
Such was the case with West Falls, when an inquisitor named Prelate Iscario arrived with a company of armed men and declared the entire village guilty of heresy and consorting with demonic forces. The people's only hope of salvation, he said, lay in a blood sacrifice to Malus. He would leave for one day and allow the villagers to sort out the evil in their midst. Upon his return, Iscario would either accept the sacrifice and leave West Falls with his blessing, or he would find them disobedient and execute a holy purge.
It took the council of elders mere hours to conclude that Molly Slade, a young herbalist beloved for her healing skills and cheerful nature, was the closest thing to a witch anywhere near West Falls. With regret and a heavy heart, the bailiff dispatched his right hand, Constable Elisa Featherock, to arrest and jail the chosen sacrifice.
There was argument and unrest, but a majority of people in West Falls ultimately agreed with the elders' reasoning. After all, no one wanted to take young Molly's place, and a single tragic loss was, of course, far better than the razing of the entire village.
And so the following morning, with a pall of black clouds overhead and the villagers sequestered in their homes, a reluctant Constable Featherock fetched the trembling Molly Slade from the village jail, rendered her half-naked in half-adherence to custom, gagged her as befitting a so-called witch, and led her into the nearby woods with her hands shackled behind her. There, the gallows previously reserved for thieves and murderers waited to drink innocent blood.
There seemed so much to say, but nothing worth saying. How does one apologize for murder … and to the soon-to-be victim, no less? The fact that it was a democratic murder somehow made it even worse. A single idiot stabbing someone in a tavern brawl was at least something everyone could understand. A governing body deliberately snuffing out an innocent life made far less sense.
The elder council should do this themselves, Featherock told herself.
Still, always a good minion, she placed the sobbing girl on a rickety stool and draped the noose around her slender neck. After a moment of hesitation, Featherock kicked the stool away and stood before the gallows, pleading to Khyius for mercy and forgiveness—the former for Molly, the latter for herself.
The girl fought bravely, gasping and kicking for nearly five agonizing minutes before gravity finally took her.
Later, upon Prelate Iscario's return, the elders presented Molly Slade's pale corpse at the end of the rope. She was a witch, they said, a witch who had hexed the village and brought demons into the midst of the innocent. With her demise, West Falls had been reborn in the light of Malus.
Iscario accepted their submission, and then ordered Molly's head spiked outside the village gates as a reminder of the price of heresy.
When the bailiff turned to order his right hand to carry out the deed, Elisa Featherock was nowhere to be found. In her abandoned home, however, a ritual fire to Dargos, god of justice, burned bright amid the scent of fresh blood and jasmine.
--
by Servus Venandi
When the Malus'rett rose to power, its influence remained confined to cities for years before finally spilling into the borderlands between the Borra Empire and the Exalted Republics. Country folk received this development—the usurpation of their gods and traditions—with unmitigated revulsion. Alas, they by and large found themselves powerless to resist, and blasphemous shrines, temples and inquisitions were soon matters of everyday life.
Such was the case with West Falls, when an inquisitor named Prelate Iscario arrived with a company of armed men and declared the entire village guilty of heresy and consorting with demonic forces. The people's only hope of salvation, he said, lay in a blood sacrifice to Malus. He would leave for one day and allow the villagers to sort out the evil in their midst. Upon his return, Iscario would either accept the sacrifice and leave West Falls with his blessing, or he would find them disobedient and execute a holy purge.
It took the council of elders mere hours to conclude that Molly Slade, a young herbalist beloved for her healing skills and cheerful nature, was the closest thing to a witch anywhere near West Falls. With regret and a heavy heart, the bailiff dispatched his right hand, Constable Elisa Featherock, to arrest and jail the chosen sacrifice.
There was argument and unrest, but a majority of people in West Falls ultimately agreed with the elders' reasoning. After all, no one wanted to take young Molly's place, and a single tragic loss was, of course, far better than the razing of the entire village.
And so the following morning, with a pall of black clouds overhead and the villagers sequestered in their homes, a reluctant Constable Featherock fetched the trembling Molly Slade from the village jail, rendered her half-naked in half-adherence to custom, gagged her as befitting a so-called witch, and led her into the nearby woods with her hands shackled behind her. There, the gallows previously reserved for thieves and murderers waited to drink innocent blood.
There seemed so much to say, but nothing worth saying. How does one apologize for murder … and to the soon-to-be victim, no less? The fact that it was a democratic murder somehow made it even worse. A single idiot stabbing someone in a tavern brawl was at least something everyone could understand. A governing body deliberately snuffing out an innocent life made far less sense.
The elder council should do this themselves, Featherock told herself.
Still, always a good minion, she placed the sobbing girl on a rickety stool and draped the noose around her slender neck. After a moment of hesitation, Featherock kicked the stool away and stood before the gallows, pleading to Khyius for mercy and forgiveness—the former for Molly, the latter for herself.
The girl fought bravely, gasping and kicking for nearly five agonizing minutes before gravity finally took her.
Later, upon Prelate Iscario's return, the elders presented Molly Slade's pale corpse at the end of the rope. She was a witch, they said, a witch who had hexed the village and brought demons into the midst of the innocent. With her demise, West Falls had been reborn in the light of Malus.
Iscario accepted their submission, and then ordered Molly's head spiked outside the village gates as a reminder of the price of heresy.
When the bailiff turned to order his right hand to carry out the deed, Elisa Featherock was nowhere to be found. In her abandoned home, however, a ritual fire to Dargos, god of justice, burned bright amid the scent of fresh blood and jasmine.
--