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Into the Black [missedstations & Bathos]

Remarque let Vince tie him up quietly, trying nothing. Vince, in a way, reminded him of his captain. That man had loved to toy with his prisoners, and Remarque had watched those interrogations plenty of times. It was a chilling realisation that Vince was probably enjoying this. Remarque should do his best to expect nothing.

He had a more realistic view of the IPA procedures. Sure, the IPA would feed him, but the waiting, the being stuck in one place, and the public trial... It wasn't as if the trial would be fair either. No one wanted to risk their career to defend a potential war criminal, and he had read plenty of those court notes to know that convictions were motivated by politics, not reality. Justice of the victors.

He said nothing to Vince and waited until the man left, and then leant forward as far as his restraints allowed, bowing his head. The adrenaline had made him feel less tired, but now it was back. He could feel again the persistent pain in his fingers, and he knew that with the restraints a little too tight he would be unable to grip anything by the next day.

Briefly he wondered whether Vince would laugh over what happened with his crew, but then he dozed off into a shallow sleep. He could sleep in any situation, however dire, and he was tired.
 
Vince joined Rosemary at the helm where, ever efficient, she was already gaining clearance for take-off. She was lounging in the pilot's chair, but when she saw Vince she made as if to get up. Vince, in addition to being a fairly successful bounty hunter, was an obsessive pilot and rarely trusted the Dioscuri in another's hands.

That day was an exception and Vince put his hand up to halt her and settled next to her in the co-pilot's chair. Rosemary glanced at him in askance, dark eyebrows hitching high on her forehead and her pouty mouth twisting with confusion.

"Not today," Vince said, sounding worn out. "I'm headed to my bunk. I just wanted to make a few adjustments to ..."

He trailed off, fingers already flying over the navigation system with ease. Rosemary watched him and her confusion only grew.

"Vince," she said, "that course is going to add days to our--"

"I know," he cut in, refusing to meet Rosemary's eyes. "And I want you to take it slow."

"But why?"

Vince sighed, exasperated. "You know that thing, where I'm the captain and you're the first officer and it's your job to point out when you think I'm making poor decisions?"

Rosemary just stared at him.

"For the next week or so? Do me a favor and forget."

Usually, Rosemary would come back with a snappy rejoinder. It wasn't in her nature to take orders without questioning them, without dishing out a little sass, but there was something in Vince's tone, some raw, tired current of something, unidentifiable, that held her tongue. She said simply, "Sure, whatever you say."

"Thank you," Vince said, and that, perhaps, was the greatest indication that something wasn't right. He pushed up out of the chair, gave Rosemary a curt nod, and headed to his bunk.

Once safely ensconced in his quarters, Vince locked the door and dosed himself with a shot of powerful sedative, via the side of his neck. No more than five minutes later, he was laying face down on his bunk, fully clothed, and dead to the world.

----------------------------------

Vince woke up swinging, his sleep- and drug-addled brain fogged red and violent. His pillow and thin blanket, in his post dream haze, had become suddenly hostile, and he flung them away with a vicious growl. He laid there after he'd reduced his cot to nothing more than a lumpy mattress, panting and waiting for an attack that would not come, sweat cooling against his temples and his low back, clothes damp and clinging.

It was the middle of the night, Dioscuri time, and Vince had successfully slept through the first day of travel. Rosemary would have reported into the IPA, told them they had a prisoner in transport so they would clear in and all ports without much delay. With a ragged sigh, Vince pushed up out of bed and went to the facility, where he cleaned up and grabbed a fresh change of clothes. He didn't bother with shaving--rarely did until Rosemary looked up at him, clucked her tongue, and shooed him off to get what she called 'presentable'--but he did enjoy chucking the old 'mechanic' get-up into the recycler and donning his own clothes again.

His own boots were in good repair, made from animal hide on the planet of Winston, dark brown and supple. He wore tan trousers, tight fitting and tapering down into his boots, and a white tunic, open at the neck and revealing a dusting of light brown hair.

After a long minute of bleary mental work, Vince finally came to a decision, grabbed a bottle of clean water, and went to the holding cell where he'd left Remarque. He palmed it open and stepped inside, and didn't speak until the door slid shut behind him.

"I'm gonna uncuff you for a minute. Try anything and you will live to regret it."
 
Leaving him there for hours, with nothing to occupy his mind, was torture. There was only so long he could catalogue what he had seen of the ship and predict what the rest of it would be like. So, like all true nostalgics, eventually his thoughts turned to the past, and he thought of the Requiem's sleek lines, her dark and cold corridors, and her always silent engines. He wondered what she was like now that she had spent years all alone. The Requiem was his only child, the ship he helped design and watched built.

He thought about his graduating class at the military academy. He could imagine their graduation photo, the thirty of them grinning at the camera, their hats rakishly askew. There were only three of them left alive. Him, of course. Maria Cervantes, who now ran a brothel on some remote outpost, and Zachary, who was now in the government, with a different name now. He was glad he did not kill any of them personally.

When Vince entered, he woke from his reverie, sitting up as straight as he could.

He felt the man uncuff him. Try anything? He couldn't even hold anything. His hands were icy cold, and he could barely bend his fingers. Immediately he put them in his lap and bent a little over them. His weakest point, probably.

'Thanks,' he muttered, as if he knew that word was something he should say, but one whose meaning he did not believe in.
 
Vince didn't acknowledge Remarque's word of thanks, figuring it for exactly what it was--some empty, automatic gesture of politeness. Instead, he stood back from him, allowing him the space he needed to move freely if he chose.

His demeanor was changed, partially due to the drug working its way out of his system, but mostly it was his most recent attempt at sleep. Often, it left him irritable and frustrated, stiff with discomfort and an anger that simmered just beneath the surface of his skin.

"You've got ten minutes," he said gruffly, watching Remarque closely on the off chance that he was actually stupid enough to cause trouble. "I assume you'll need to relieve yourself and hydrate." He gestured with the bottle of water still in his hand. "I suggest you get a move on."
 
Remarque stood, just to stretch his legs and his back muscles. Overall, he was so stiff he could barely stand. Ten minutes was a joke. It would take him twice that long just to undo his pants with his hands like this. Usually, it wasn't so bad. So long as he kept his hands reasonably warm and so long he exercised his fingers he had little problems. He was both thirsty and wanted to piss, but he could probably do neither without help.

He gave Vince a flat look, but he knew there was nothing to it but admit it. 'I can't bend my fingers. Not after being tied up like that all day.' He held his hands close to his body, his fingers half curved.

Not that he was going to tell Vince why that had happened. Admitting that he was tortured would just be going too far. Most of the people that used to know him had never heard about it, let alone a stranger. It was just one of his secrets, not one he thought about often either.
 
Vince had not been expecting that and his brain sort of short circuited, impassive expression giving way to confusion and then, slowly, dawning realization. Remarque was in real distress. He noticed now the way he cradled his hands against his body.

"Hm," he said, an irrational anger flaring up in him. He was left with very few options. He could stand there, babysitting Remarque until he gained full use of his hands--and there was no telling how long that would be--or he could help him.

"Dammit," Vince barked suddenly, descending upon Remarque with a red rage in his eyes. He took him by the back of the neck and hauled him toward the door, dragging him along at a pace that surely wouldn't agree with his stiff limbs. He palmed open the door and pulled Remarque through it. He paused there, looking up and down the corridor. There was a public facility, and it was closer than his own quarters with his own private bathroom, but Vince didn't like the idea of any of his crew stumbling onto what was undoubtedly going to be an embarrassing moment.

"Damn it all," Vince said again, this time a mere grumbling under his breath, and dragged Remarque bodily down the hallway toward his own quarters.

His bunk was still a mess, blanket, sheet, and pillows strewn across the floor near his bed, a myriad of automatic syringes scattered across his desk--he didn't abuse substances, not really, but the sight itself was somewhat incriminating in its own right. His gun was hung over his bed, nestled in a hip holster, and within easy reach of either one of them, though Vince wasn't particularly concerned since Remarque wasn't likely to even be able to pick the thing up.

The facility, consisting of a small sink, a sonic shower stall, and a toilet, was located in the corner, right next to a view portal. Beyond the glass, the blackness of space, punctuated by stars of varying size and brilliance, stretched on forever.

"C'mere," Vince said, though Remarque was already close, tugging him in even further and making short work of the fastenings on his trousers. "Do I need to, uh." He paused, released a sigh full of blustery exapseration, and went on, "Hold it. For you?"
 
He expected Vince to hit him or something, so he was rather surprised that the bounty hunter dragged him along to what was apparently his own room. That was one hell of a lot of drugs. Remarque never touched any mind altering substances – he liked to be able to live with his past without the need of chemical solace. And he did.

He glanced around the room as quickly, since that was all Vince allowed him, and stared at the gun with distinct regret. Goddamn his hands. His grip would probably be too weak to hold it properly, let alone shoot.

'No,' he replied. 'Just can't do fiddly things.'

It would take at least half an hour for his hands to be usable for anything precise, but at least he could do his business without too much effort. He was embarrassed to have Vince watch, but he had little choice.

Holding his pants as well as he could in one hand, the other he leant against the glass. He had always been told that the blackness of space matched his hair, and Jack had always jokingly, but with a little sadness, said that Remarque could never belong anywhere but in the distances between the stars. Some cruel gods decided that if he was born there he could never be entirely happy anywhere else. It reassured him to see the stars still there, far from any planet.

'Could you do up my pants?' he asked, with distinct embarrassment, tearing his eyes away from the window. He did not want to show weakness, but his hand had been forced here. If he could, he would always pretend that he was made of steel and that nothing touched him.
 
It occurred to Vince that he ought to leave Remarque like that, fly undone and pants threatening to slide down to his ankles. It was suitable punishment for the position he now found himself in, helping Remarque to maintain some of his dignity. At the heart of it, Vince was merely being practical. He didn't want the holding cell stinking of urine and he certainly wasn't going to do Remarque's laundry for him.

Ultimately, he decided against the course of action, anyway. It was pointlessly humiliating and not Vince's preferred brand of pointlessly humiliating. So he closed the distance between them again, tugged Remarque's trousers into some semblance of order, and did them up as asked.

As he did so, Vince quirked an eyebrow at Remarque and asked, tone casual, voice still rough with sleep and sedatives, "Your file--least ways the parts I could access--put you on the Requiem for most of your tour. You ever serve on the Crown by any chance?"
 
'What the fuck do you care?' Remarque asked, equally casual. That was a little odd, that the only part of his file Vince could access was his service on the Requiem. What about the time he'd worked on the Melancholia and the shipyards? Most criminals' files were in the public domain. He'd never checked what was available on him, but maybe he should have.

'Am I not just a worthless criminal to you?'

Remarque's dignity was already shredded by having to have anyone do anything for him, and he wanted to reclaim it. Ungrateful bastard, he always was, but he had always valued self-sufficiency.
 
A furious heat spread rapidly through Vince's face, starting at the cheekbones and working its way out, tinging the skin beneath his brown stubble a faint pink. It wasn't a 'no', but it wasn't a 'yes' either, and that made him irate.

Vince's mouth pressed into a thin line, so tight that it went white and bloodless, all the more noticeable against his angry flush. His hands went directly from Remarque's fly to the sharp protrusion of his hips, and he shoved, knocking Remarque back against the view portal in one powerful sweep.

"A criminal? Yes. Pathetic? Clearly. Worthless?" Vince let his attention trail over Remarque's face, settling on his mouth. Meanwhile, he positioned his legs so that Remarque couldn't move his own. He wasn't going to make that mistake again.

"You'd better hope not," he said, low and silky, the way he'd spoken to Remarque when he'd first boarded the ship. It was fast becoming apparent that this was Vince's I'm-an-inch-away-from-homicidal voice. "Isn't that what you were trying to convince me of earlier? That you had ... uses?"
 
He really should have expected that, he thought as his head hit the glass. He was, however, so surprised that it didn't even occur to him to resist.

Really, this man was like going back in the past. Funny, he always thought the army attracted all the people that behaved like this, but he supposed some would end up in halfway respectable positions. He was starting to understand this man. Do what he was told or suffer the consequences.

Or maybe...

'You remind me of my captain. He used to throw anyone who was insubordinate out of an airlock, and then expected the rest of us to watch. It's not a nice death,' he told Vince, almost lightly.

'So please, don't be surprised if I am not scared of you. If you want to torture me, well, others got there first. There is nothing I have that you haven't already taken away.' He gave Vince a wry smile.

'And if I don't fancy answering your questions, why should I do something for nothing? You are just going to play with me, I've met plenty like you.'

If that didn't put Vince in his place nothing would.
 
"You think so?" Vince practically purred at Remarque, mouth twisted up into an angry snarl. This kid got under his skin and there was absolutely no denying it now. Before, Vince could have chalked it up to nerves and sleeplessness, but here, now, after a full shift of sleep, and the dark places his mind was going? No, Remarque was special.

It was his apathy that did it, Vince decided. He liked to see his prisoners--the men who fought under The Council, especially--begging for their lives, terrified, shaking in their boots. Remarque refused to do these things and it frustrated him to no end. It also made him ... testy.

"You think I can't hurt you, little boy?" Vince asked sweetly. "You're so good at playing the taciturn prisoner that I've got nothing on you, is that it?" Vince smiled, slow and hungry, and touched two fingertips, feather light, against Remarque's temple.

"Enough blunt force, in the right spot? You won't be able to count your own fucking fingers, never mind running diagnostic on a ship's engine. Thought I hadn't noticed your little love affair with machines? I did." Vince paused again, cocked his head thoughtfully, and went on.

"And what about those fingers of yours? Think they could survive another turn under the hammer? Maybe I'll leave you useless and broken, alive."

Vince leaned in then, licked a hot, excessively wet stripe up the side of Remarque's neck, nothing but salt in the wound, and spoke directly against his ear, "I haven't even begun to 'play with you'. Don't. Push me."
 
Remarque could not help it. As he felt Vince's tongue against his throat, he began to laugh – a bitter, hollow sound. It was true, his fingers wouldn't survive much more damage. But Vince was being foolish. This anger? It meant what Remarque did mattered. And if Vince was reasonably rational, he would know that breaking his prisoner too far would give him no answers at all.

'I hate you.' It wasn't said very vehemently, he hated Vince no more and no less than he hated every torturer he met.

'I would like to lose my mind, you know,' he told Vince. 'Then I wouldn't have to remember everything I ever did, and everything I ever saw. I wouldn't need to remember everything I ever felt.'

'Most humans forget to make things easier, their minds trick them into changing a few details, make it simpler. Their minds dull the pain. Me? I can't do that. I can't see the narrow picture like you. Would hurting me really make you feel better? Then go ahead. As things stand, I'm never going to touch a ship again anyway.'

Now he really was expecting violence from Vince, and he was expecting it to hurt.
 
"Oh," Vince said, still speaking against Remarque's ear. "Is this the part where you do the whole song and dance about how living with your sins in the greatest punishment of all?" He laughed, too, a low rumble originating in the back of his throat.

"I've watched the trials, I know the score. And you know what? I hate you, too. Every last one of you." Vince drew back, glanced down at Remarque's hands, caught one of those pale, slender wrists in his own hand.

"You murder," he said, running his thumb up the thin skin of Remarque's wrist, pushing it into his palm and drawing a circle there. "You torture." He guided Remarque's wrist up and back, until it was pressed against the view portal. "You rape," he said, and entwined his fingers with the thinner, paler ones. "Steal," he said, voice gone jagged around the edges, and squeezed.

"And then you run," he went on, maintaining a vice-like grip on Remarque's hand. "You hide, like cowardly dogs, from the people you wronged. Well, let me tell you, there ain't enough black out there to hide you all, and I'll hunt every last one of your comrades down, and deliver you all to your executioner. And no sob story about how you 'wish you could just forget it all' is gonna make a bit of difference. Not to me, and not to a tribunal."

Vince's jaw clenched then, like maybe he'd already come to regret those words. He'd said more than he intended, taken this little game to far too serious a level, and now he was left holding no cards.

"Prove yourself useful, on the other hand, and we'll talk." He paused and went on, "I'm nothing if not a reasonable man," which was perhaps the greatest exaggeration he'd told in his life.
 
As the weak bones in his hands cracked, any emotion went from Remarque's eyes. He wilfully relaxed the muscles in his hand.

'I know what I did,' Remarque said quietly. 'I personally killed six hundred and thirty nine people, out of which seven were not military personnel. I made no objection to the orders of my superiors that led to loss of civilian life. I stole military data because I could, just because I liked knowing. I stole and hid the Requiem. I regret none of my actions.'

It was a confession that no court would ever hear, and the longest speech he made in years. As he spoke he built his elegant mask, the one that had made everyone under his command hate him. No one could hurt him if they didn't know how to, right? There was nothing in his eyes but metal. He straightened his spine a little. It was as if the pain gave him strength. Every time his bones were broken, the pain was the same. Nothing extra, nothing.

'If I had to do it again, I would do it all the same way. No guilty conscience haunts me. If you didn't fight, you don't know what it was like. You have no right to say anything to me.'

He paused, to smile. 'There is a difference between you and me. I either keep my mouth shut, or tell the truth. And I'll tell you the truth. I knew the name of any officer on any Council ship. I remember every piece of data I stole.' To this man, he would never offer the Requiem. She was too beautiful to be used by such filth.

'You, on the other hand, have no self control.' In Remarque's eyes, a lack of rationality was the greatest sin of all.
 
"I lack self control," Vince repeated tonelessly. "Lack of self control."

Vince's eye twitched.

He released Remarque's hand, let it return to his side, and actually took a step back, putting a solid foot of distance between them. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and his brow was dark and thunderous.

"Lack of self control," he said again, and this time it was nothing louder than a sigh.

His eye twitched again, yet there was no other indication of his fury, unless Remarque had figured out his tells already. Vince turned away, went to the bed, and retrieved his gun. He turned back to Remarque as he worked, but he didn't train the thing on him. Instead, he thumbed out the magazine and slowly unloaded it, round by round. When that was finished, he broke the pistol down and shut all the pieces away in his desk drawer.

Next, he pushed up his sleeves.

"The difference here," Vince said, rolling his head on his shoulders and speaking casually, like an instructor. "Is that there have to be recognized guidelines, inside which I am to operate, in order to exert control over myself. Rules, if you will. Here, now? There aren't any rules. You don't get rules."

Vince froze then, eyes on Remarque. "Just so we're clear, I'm probably going to kill you now. Well, later, actually. I'm going to work up to it. Any last requests?"
 
So, really Remarque was right. It was nice to be proved right. This man was a worse monster than Remarque could ever have become. He collapsed against the wall as Vince worked, curling up on the floor. He wasn't deliberately being pathetic, just he saw no point in doing anything else.

I'm probably going to kill you now. Some part of him was distantly relieved. No public trial or humiliation. It would be a pathetic sort of death though, and he would have really preferred to live.

If he was going to die, though, he was going to do it as gracefully as he had done everything else in his life. 'Find Maria Cervantes, and tell her I'm dead. HS-3545765,' he said, naming the star. She would, no doubt, avenge him. Vince probably knew the name: the Council's only female general, the only one never accused of anything, because there was no evidence of her ever stepping onto a battlefield.

'At least I die knowing I'm better man than you.' He was fully planning to make those his last words, because he set his teeth and expected the worst. He would not permit himself to regret these last minutes.
 
Vince only managed about two steps toward Remarque when, quite suddenly, a disembodied voice filled the room, easily recognizable as Rosemary's: "Vince, you up?"

It came from the overhead speakers installed in every room throughout the ship, though Rosemary had a direct line to the captain's quarters. Vince gave a moment's pause, decided that it could wait, and renewed his advance.

"Vincent, wake up," came Rosemary's voice again.

Vince didn't even hesistate this time, green eyes gone as cold as Remarque's silver ones as he stalked forward, fingers curling his hands into fists.

"Captain Knightley!" Rosemary shouted this time, and even that would not have been enough to deter him from his goal, if not for the violent lurch the Dioscuri gave, nearly knocking Vince to his feet. Syringes went scattering across the floor, Vince heard several things in the rec room go spilling over, and that? That was enough to get his attention.

"What the ..."

"Captain," Rosemary said again, "I really think you should get up here."

Vince gave Remarque a hard look, cursed under his breath, and closed the remaining distance between them. "More trouble than you're fucking worth," Vince grumbled under his breath, and all the ire seemed to have leaked out of him between one breath and the next, because he was hauling his captive back down the corridor and to his holding cell, the plan to murder him seemingly forgotten.

"Stay out of trouble," Vince barked as he shoved Remarque through the door. Without waiting for a response, he palmed the door shut and locked it and headed directly for the helm.

"What in the Hell is going on?" he demanded.
 
Oh. Oh. Oh. This was unexpected. Remarque knew better than anyone what an attack felt like. Of course he would not stay out of fucking trouble, because this was a new chance, another time his life had been saved. Alone in the cell his euphoria hit him. He made his fingers bend through the pain, massaging them until he felt they were flexible enough. Not being tied was all he needed.

It was as if he was awake again. Despite the fact that it still hurt, he began to unbraid his hair, moving with the rocking of the ship. What could be seen as random pieces of grey metal under his hands suddenly became screwdrivers, wire cutters, tiny energy readers. From the heel of his boot he pulled out the smallest computer that anyone had probably ever seen.

And where to start? He went for a grey panel just beside the door, sliding a flat tool under it and then lifting it with some effort, but managing nevertheless. Crouching over the hole he studied cables. Pretty ship, but really inelegant wiring. He could do way better. The cable markings were standard to all civilian ships, and he pondered it. He ran his fingers across cables that led to the thrusters. Better not touch while the ship was under attack.

He identified a cable that was coms, cut it quickly and linked his tiny computer into it before most people would have noticed the line was cut. He'd be fucked if he wasn't going to know what was going on.

Vaguely, he hoped that this would take a while, because he began to lift all the panels around the door. Maybe he could unlock himself. He probably looked like a madman, with his hair all loose around his face, searching the innards of the ship without concern for the cuts he accumulated on his fingers.

And... Vincent Knightley. The name rang a vague bell, but he would have to search his memory to remember and he did not have the time at this moment.
 
Rosemary glanced up at Vince, then she put her eyes forward again. Her jaw was set in a firm line as she manhandled the controls and Vince was reminded, for the first time in a long time, exactly why he'd chosen Rosemary as his first officer.

"It's IPA, Vince," Rosemary said through gritted teeth. "There something I should know?"

Vince ignored that little remark and asked, "Did you try hailing them?"

"Only ten times," she said as Vince was sliding into the co-pilot's chair. He flipped a switch and took control of the ship.

"I want Pablo on standby in the engine room," Vince said, taking stock of the situation. Things were, in a word, dire. There were four small IPA crafts on their tail, no outposts in sight, no carrier ships anywhere on the map, and they weren't answering any of their attempts at communication. It was like they were out there for the sole purpose of firing on the Dioscuri.

"Already here, Vince," the communicator crackled. "Things look fine, for the most part."

"Fine?!" Vince shot back, executing a barrel roll out of the line of fire. With the ship's state of the art artificial gravity system, they barely felt a shudder. "Things are not fine, Pablo. Looks like the starboard hull took a major hit before the shields went up and those aren't holding up too great, either. What the fuck are you doing down there?"

There was silence and then, "Uh oh."

"Uh oh?!"

"Oh, never mind, Vince. All's good down here. Really."

"Pablo?" Vince said, in a voice that said, quite clearly, that Vince was on the verge of bashing his head into the console just to put himself out of his misery.

"Yeah?"

"Could you, I dunno, maybe route some of that power you are are wasting on our completely superfluous shields to, um, say, the fucking thrusters so we can out run these guys?!"

"Ohhh," Pablo said. "Yeah. Hold on."

Vince sighed. "Doing that already."

"Mmm ... no. No, not that one."

Rosemary came on the line then and said, "Pablo, I will put you out the airlock myself if you don't--"

"Got it, Vince!" Pablo crowed triumphantly.

"Thank you ever so much, Pablo. Hold onto something."

Just then, the ship gave a powerful lurch. Vince's back pressed hard into the seat, as did Rosemary's, and the stars outside the view portals all smeared across the black into bright streaks, and they were off.

It was several minutes later before Vince felt confident enough to ease off the thrusters, slumping down in his chair.

About that time, Lyle came over the loud speaker and asked, "Did I miss something?"

Vince put his head back and actually whimpered. His crew was truly worthless. "Go back to bed, Lyle."
 
He listened to the coms and concluded that Vince really needed someone better in the engine room. That was pathetic. Looked like this particular crew wasn't used to organised military attack, they'd have probably only defended from the general incompetence of pirates.

But why would the IPA attack a bounty hunter's ship? That was odd. He searched recent communications sent by the ship and found Rosemary's notification to the IPA. So Vince really was toying with him, he'd intended to hand him over whatever Remarque did. In the calm of the room, his rare cold fury began to wake. He didn't like being used.

Oh, and then he found one of the cables that he didn't quite expect, but they would do. He removed his computer from the coms line – it was a shame, but he had to, and reconnected it to one of the cables the ship used to communicate to itself. The tiny screen immediately filled with coding, but that was fine, it was his true language. He added a few lines of code. Just three, really. Three lovely lines that would ask for a password the next time anyone asked for extra power on the port thrusters.

It was really just a prank, for someone of his talents, but it was quick to do and he doubted that anyone on the ship would be capable of finding it. The ship's lurch slammed him against a wall, but it was fine, he was done.

He felt the ship's deceleration and slid his little computer back into his boot. There would be no point trying to hide what he did: the holes in the floor were now too big for him to repair. It was only a matter of time before Vince came down again, or before someone noticed what he did. He braided his hair into a single plait, pocketed his tools, and settled down at the point furthest from the door to wait.
 
Vince picked himself up out of the cockpit, muttering to Rosemary as he passed that there was something he needed to take care of. Because, in reality, there were about five thousand things he needed to take care of, not the least of which being reconfiguring their flight plan, but that would just have to wait.

So would the potential hull damage, the shield problem, and the tiny issue of the Intergalactic Peacekeeping Agency trying to blow his ship out of the black because he needed to restrain Remarque before he could cause any damage to the ship.

When Vince palmed open the door to the holding cell, his heart dropped into his stomach. The room was a disaster, paneling strewn everywhere, and Vince didn't even know one person could do so much damage in so little time without any damned tools, and--

No, one person most definitely could not do so much damage without any tools. Vince made a mental note to search Remarque for the hardware when he was done killing him.

"What the fuck have you done to my ship?" Vince bellowed, impotent with rage because he wasn't even sure where to step amongst all the chaos.

"I swear, if you hurt it, I will sell your ass into human trade, and I guarantee you that I know the kind of people who can make it happen, you little shit. What did you do?"
 
'You know, Vince, if I was locking me up, I'd have picked a room with a solid floor,' he said with a feral smile, using the bounty hunter's name deliberately. 'And walls, and ceiling. Because, you see, these cables... they lead places!'

He settled himself more comfortably in a cross-legged pose. Looking up at Vincent with a smirk, he continued, 'I'd love to say it's my ship now, but I really didn't have time for that. Hacking the mainframe would have taken too long.'

Remarque never lied. He said the truth when he described his character to Vince, and he was going to say the truth now. 'I put a piece of code somewhere. I think that, uh, you might try turning the ship? In all directions, I'm not entirely sure what I fucked up. Don't worry, nothing will explode, and no one will die.' He was being slightly creative with the truth here, but he really wanted to see the look on Vince's face when he worked it out.

He was happy to play now. Lucky him that Vince forgot to tie him up. Well, one did not look a gift horse in the mouth, whatever that meant. If Vince killed him now, he would have to get a new ship. When Remarque played with code, he made his changes permanent. Or, he supposed, they could try guessing the password, but that wouldn't be much fun if they didn't know how long it was and what it consisted of.

'It's such a pretty ship. I couldn't possibly do anything to hurt it. Also, if I was you, I'd want a better tech. That Pablo guy? He seems a bit useless. I'm way better.' Anyone could just tell he felt smug and very clever.
 
Vince could imagine a thousand ways to wipe that smile off of Remarque's face, and he took a moment to savor every image before his angry scowl gave way into an oddly resigned expression. He pushed the button on the communicator just outside the door.

"Problems, Rosemary?"

"Er ... I think Pablo's got it ..."

Vince nodded and took his finger off the button. For a long moment, he just stood there, arms folded over his chest, swishing his tongue around in his mouth as he fought against every homicidal urge that pounded against the inside of his skull--and there were many.

It took Vince several minutes before he could find his voice. He alternated between rubbing his face, shaking his head, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and opening his mouth like he had something to say, then promptly shutting it.

He knew Pablo did not have it. He knew Remarque was a better tech than Pablo, that he probably had some fool proof way of sabotaging the ship. He wasn't going to tell the rest of the crew, though. At least not yet. If they thought it was hopeless, there really wasn't any chance they'd lift a finger to try to fix it.

Finally, the long, long silence was broken by Vince, who cleared his throat and said, as if he were choking, "Excuse me." And he palmed the door shut, locked it, and walked to his quarters.

Vince's footsteps rang out as he made his way down the corridor. He went inside, locked the door and, a moment later, a muffled, exasperated yell--long and hoarse--echoed through the Dioscuri. He returned to the holding cell a moment later and seemed infinitely more relaxed.

This time he spoke up right away, voice raw, "Name your terms."
 
Remarque really found that he could not wipe the grin off his face. Fuck, he missed this. Keeping his head down and doing his job was all well and good, but he really liked this ship. He liked unleashing his sheer brilliance again. He liked being respected. This wasn't home and dry yet though. He needed more than three lines of code to keep himself safe here.

His smile wasn't quite so obnoxious when Vince came back. Idly exercising his fingers he considered Vince's words. He liked the man way better when he was civil, but really, he didn't care so much about that. All Remarque wanted was to get to know the ship better.

'I'd love to meet the main computer. Any chance of that?' He'd also love some food, a gun and a bed, but that was of secondary importance to self-preservation. Well, a shower wouldn't be bad either... But he could be demanding later.

He stood up in a single motion, pushing a few strands of hair out of his face. 'Also, I'd love to know why the IPA attacked you.' He was curious to see what Vince felt about it. Whatever it meant, Remarque supposed that that this ship must be now as fugitive as him.
 
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