Bloody Lucky

Posted on Apr 29, 2015 @ 7:52pm by Lieutenant James Barton
Edited on on Apr 29, 2015 @ 7:52pm

Mission: Limbo

“Bloody Lucky”



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“Luck is a very thin wire between survival and disaster, and not many people can keep their balance on it.” – Hunter S. Thompson



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LOCATION: LIMBO

SCENE: Tunnels Under the Pit

TIME INDEX: During the events of “Clearing the Way”



Jacen Barnes charged through the tunnels like a freight train. On his shoulder, heaped atop his knapsack, the small woman whimpered, and as her weight sagged, he felt a fresh gout of her blood flow over his fingers. He rolled his eyes and cursed his luck. The rush of the Pits was wearing off now, and as much as he tried not to, he kept replaying the events of the last few minutes in his mind: The raging violence through the crowds, the mindless charge towards the injured woman, the desperate pounding of his heart in his ears as he carried her through the black of the Pit’s tunnels. His racing footsteps echoed in the darkness, pursued by disruptor fire and screams from the Pit behind. As the adrenaline faded, so did his clarity of purpose. What had he been thinking? What the hell had he gotten himself into this time?



He'd found only a single checkpoint blocked by two of the Black Stars. Surprise had been on his side, and his disruptor had dispatched them before they could react. He left the bodies still smoking as he rounded two corners, lumbered down a dark straightaway, skidded around a third corner and thudded heavily into a long disused junction corridor, deep now in the bowels of Limbo. A shape drifted from an alcove he hadn’t seen and was suddenly in front of him. The Ferengi disruptor was already rising, preparing to kill again, when he recognized the Human before him.



He was smiling. He was empty handed.



And Barnes knew he’d nearly beaten two armed Gorn from exactly the same circumstances.



The oversized ruffian was immediately suspicious, weighing his odds of defeating the smaller man while managing the ballast of the bleeding redhead. At the distance they were standing, he’d have one – maybe two – shots from the disruptor before the other man could close the distance between them. If he didn’t kill him in those shots - and he’d seen this man move quickly - then it would be hand-to-hand, and Barnes would be at a serious disadvantage. In the cramped space, with only one arm to work with, he’d likely die and the jarring would be sure to kill the woman he carried. His finger moved towards the trigger…



But it hadn’t come to that. The stranger had asked him about a way out, then inquired after the well-being of the redhead. Barnes tried to tell himself that this was just a strange tack to divert his attention, but he couldn’t make himself believe it. It had been a long time since he’d encountered honest compassion from one sentient being to another, but if he remembered it right, this was what it had sounded like. He’d urged Barnes to find her medical attention, and he’d meant it. The goateed man offered to hold back pursuit, and rushed back in the direction of the slaughter in the Pits. Barnes reassured himself that the man, who hadn't given his name, had demonstrated a knack for fighting outnumbered. The familiar paranoia bucked and reared within him, demanding that he be suspicious, insisting to him that his luck simply wasn’t good enough to encounter kindness.



*So maybe it’s not my luck,* he mused, tenderly readjusting his grip. *Maybe it’s yours.*



He turned his head slightly and looked at her face. Her skin was ashen, beginning to tinge towards blue. Her whimpers told him she was holding tightly to some shred of consciousness, but her eyes were blank and dead, unseeing. Occasionally, there would be a flash of light from some implants embedded under her skin, and when that happened, there would be an ugly electric buzzing from the wound near her neck. Once it had actually sparked. He could feel her blood, tacky and sticky where it wasn’t puddled thick on his hands. *Then again, your luck doesn’t seem so great, either…* He continued on ahead into the darkness, ignoring the protest in his muscles and the overpowering smell of her blood as he ran…





LOCATION: LIMBO

SCENE: Corridor -> Economy Housing Room 4672-B -> Corridor

TIME INDEX: During the events of “Blind Luck,” and “Test of Endurance”



They’d made fairly decent time. Considering. At one point, she’d randomly punched him in the face and shouted, “Sonofabitch!” But that didn't bother him. He'd been punched before and, besides, he was pretty sure that wasn’t actually meant for him. She’d gone quiet again after that, but a moment later she'd screamed.



"Where are we? We ain't in the Pits anymore, are we? Take me back! You gotta take me back," she pleaded.



That part had been harder, because Barnes had no choice but to point out to her that she wasn’t just wounded, she was helpless. It wasn’t something any fighter bore well, and it felt like he was kicking her while she was down. Her voice had become an agonized wail as she begged him to return to her shipmates, then it bled away like a mortally wounded animal when she acknowledged her situation. She trembled like a frightened child, then, and he was embarrassed for them both. When it seemed her fit had passed, she had been on the verge of offering a suggestion for where they might be able to go when consciousness failed her and she drifted away again. Undeterred, Barnes continued to run, taking rights and lefts without thinking as he maneuvered through the underworks of LIMBO.



He couldn't have said if he'd run for a minute or an hour before he heard the voice behind him. The darkness didn't abate and offered no clues. The Andorian’s shout, such as it was, nearly got him shot. The voice was quiet, but it cut through the darkness of the corridor with such urgency that Barnes found his step faltering. He was spinning, disruptor preparing again to speak, when he recognized the figure behind him. He’d been with the woman at the bar during her performance with the larger, older Terran. For a moment, they stood staring at each other across Barnes' disruptor. They made a strange, yet oddly matched pair: the colossal Human and the slight Andorian, both with unconscious women strewn haphazardly over their shoulders. He couldn't help it; Barnes flooded with relief. At the very least, she could die among friends. But the Luck, whoever it belonged to, was growing bolder in asserting itself. The Andorian with the velvet-steel voice said he was a doctor. The doctor had tools. All he needed, he said, was a place to work, and Barnes knew they were surrounded by any number of soon-to-be-abandoned housing units that would serve well enough.



He selected a door at random and destroyed the lock with a well-placed boot. In moments, the Andorian had stripped the redhead of her bloodied garments and, like an old-time stage magician, had made any number of bandages, sutures, hyposprays, and other assorted tools blink in and out of existence. They must have been stored in the pockets of his coat, but Barnes, even with his sharp and trained-eyes, only caught the Andorian in his sleight-of-hand but a couple times. For the most part, the tools were just in his hands when he needed them, spirited away and waiting when he didn’t.



It was a rare treat to see someone do something difficult exceedingly well. Rarer still to see the thing done to benefit another. Barnes let out a low whistle. “Guess you are a doctor.”



His correction wasn’t patronizing. He didn’t speak like a teacher correcting a student, he spoke with the emotionless certainty of a man holding a PADD, deleting inaccurate data and replacing it. “Neurosurgeon.”



Barnes smirked unseen behind the Andorian’s shoulder. He wasn’t offended, but he couldn’t help but note how nothing the antennaed alien was doing at the moment seemed much related to brain surgery.



Outside, chaos played its symphony. Inside the hovel, silence reigned. A few quiet moments passed before Barnes gestured to the woman the Andorian had dumped unceremoniously in the tiny shower. More to break up the silence than out of genuine interest, he asked, “Who’s she?”



“Someone I used to know.”



*A lot of that going around,* Barnes mused.



“What’s wrong with her?”



“Brain damage,” the Andorian replied robotically, finishing a suture.



*Like maybe she needs a neurosurgeon?* Barnes didn’t voice the thought.



Silence burned for another minute, then reached the end of its fuse and exploded. Amidst the general din of the bedlam outside, a set of sprinting footfalls made themselves conspicuous, racing in the direction of the makeshift triage. The Andorian stiffened, his antennae twitching as he stepped protectively in front of his patient, and Barnes took up a defensive stance in front of the door. A moment later, the door opened and Barnes was looking into the face of an avenging angel. He was neither tall, nor short. Not skinny, or heavy. He would be unremarkable were it not for the raging fury that contorted his face and the nearly six feet of honest-to-holy-God-angel’s wings trailing him. The man called Jacen Barnes hadn't ever been religious, but he was familiar enough with Terran faiths to recognize the fulfillment of prophecy, even if he hadn't been raised to expect it. The newcomer was wearing non-descript civilian’s clothing instead of a white robe, and someone had probably disintegrated his golden harp, but no doubt about it now: End Times, Revelation-style, had come to LIMBO.



“You,” the cherub exclaimed at Barnes, thrusting a righteous finger of judgment at him. It was clear that Barnes had been judged by a power he’d never believed in, and he had been found wanting. Not a particularly shocking result, all things considered. Glancing down the hall at a gang of looters that hadn't noticed them yet, Barnes realized that the benefit of already being damned was that he was allowed to care more about his present surroundings than his reputation with the divine. He reached out, grasped the angel, and more-than-half threw him across the room, slamming the door shut on the mayhem in the corridor. The angel rolled, wings over teakettle, as the Andorian moved to intercede on further violence.



The Andorian doctor’s apparent familiarity with the new arrival gave him pause. Barnes listened as the Andorian and the Angel spoke. He got a name for the blonde napping in the shower and the injured redhead, - 'Evangeline Montoya' or 'Sedna', and 'Kass,' respectively - and the distinct sense that both Kass and this Angel, though he may be in service to an almighty deity, took orders from the blue-skinned neurosurgeon. When the Andorian had stated flatly that the blonde woman would be tapped to provide a transfusion, the Angel was obviously displeased but resigned. *No, not displeased,* Barnes noted. *Grieved.*



A moment later, it was Barnes’ turn to grieve. “I’m going to need a bottle…” The doctor began and Jacen Barnes groaned inwardly. There wasn't likely to be anything to fit the doctor's needs in this apartment, and even if there was something nearby, they couldn't spare the time to look for it. If the woman he’d decided to save would live, he was going to have to make another sacrifice. The Andorian continued but Barnes couldn’t hear him any longer. He could have at least gotten it refilled once, right? He caught the doctor's eye, and realized he was being asked his name. "I can't very well call you, 'you there,' can I?"



"Jacen," he let the word fall mechanically from his mouth. *Well, that settles it,* he thought bitterly as he produced the crystal flask, *Looks like this is your luck, sweetheart. Not mine.* Catching an upturned eyebrow from the Andorian at the flask, he bristled. "I had to use it to sterilize her wound. What's so amusing?"



"Knowing the Major, she probably would have preferred to drink it and face the infection."



*Now you tell me.* He noticed the Andorian hadn't offered his own name.



The three of them set about their work, moving in a near silence born from not only fear and prudence in the face of danger, but from a shared desire to perform an important task well. Barnes held the injured redhead in place while the Andorian performed some preliminary stitching, then resumed his place at the door as the doctor and his winged subordinate moved the blonde woman out of the shower. Then, they'd begun the transfusion and it seemed to be going well. It was a good feeling, despite the horrendous circumstances that precipitated it, working with other competent men towards a worthwhile goal. It was satisfying. It was familiar. It was...



**Remember that?**



He felt his fingers tingle as his blood froze in his veins. A heartbeat later, the injured woman spoke, and for a terrified instant, he was sure she was speaking his thoughts out loud. "It's all my fault, you know. Alla this. It's cos I killed those people..." Barnes wanted to cry out, to prevent her from speaking his secrets aloud, and it wasn't until she said, "Century" (and the Angel had gone pale at the word) that he realized she was locked in a confessional of her own. He struggled to maintain his composure as she continued, reading a litany of sins and condemning herself for each of them. Some of the words she said stuck out. "Century," of course, based on the Angel's reaction, but also, "Marines," “Barbossa,” and "bad luck."



And "blackmail."



The Andorian administered a second flask of Montoya's blood and a hypo of stimulant to the redhead. Her eyes fluttered and her doctor informed her of the most relevant facts regarding her status. Barnes was surprised to see that, though she was clearly conscious, her eyes maintained the vacant, unfocused look they had previously. *She's blind?* As the Andorian and his patient spoke, Barnes picked up some other relevant details. For one, "The Andorian" was named Jos. The “Angel” was Thomas. The Major named four other crew members, and a "Captain," so the Andorian - *Jos,* he corrected himself - Jos wasn't in charge of this entire operation. Whatever had brought them to LIMBO had set them at cross-purposes with Rawyvin Seth, and as a result someone named 'Solomon' was dead. The Angel - *Thomas* - Thomas was taking it particularly hard, and heaping a lot of blame on this Montoya, though it was clear from what he'd said that she hadn't spilled the blood herself. Barnes surmised she'd somehow played Thomas on Seth's behalf, and he was blaming himself for the death. Also, the whole lot of them had come from a ship called "The Phoenix," which, while there was still crew aboard, was woefully understaffed.



While Barnes stewed over all the new information, Jos had declared the Major ready to travel and the other three were preparing to move. Realizing the trio had become his best opportunity at a way off of LIMBO, he didn't bother to object when the Major volunteered him to aid their escape. He palmed the crystal flask, once again empty but for a thin coating of Evangeline Montoya’s blood, and slid it into the pocket of his breeches. He couldn’t imagine ever drinking from it again, and that was a damn shame, but it was expensive and he’d spent too long on LIMBO to leave resources behind just because they had blood on them. Jos had directed Barnes to steer Thomas and Kass, while he would carry the unconscious Montoya. They were headed out the door, when Barnes intercepted the Major. Trying his best not to be patronizing, he stripped what remained of his shirt and dropped it over her. He didn't care much for modesty, nor was he stirred by the display of flesh in front of him, but there was no sense parading a naked woman through a riot.



*After all,* he thought to himself with a grimace, *We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.*



=[/\]=



SCENE: Corridor -> USS PHOENIX Docking Bay

TIME INDEX: During the events of “Easy Way Out,” and “New Faces”



They had just stepped outside of the door (Barnes noted the looters had moved on) when the alarms hit. Barnes doubted that there was an imminent asteroid collision or power core breach so coincidentally timed to the unrest of the day, so he knew instantly what the alarms meant. He tried to explain the situation, as quickly as he could, but under the screaming klaxons, Thomas' patience snapped. He argued bringing the Montoya woman along with them while Jos patiently made his case. *Too patiently!* Kass seemed to understand the situation, and initially argued for haste, but she was stymied herself by the mention of the psychotropic drugs coursing through her veins by way of the transfusion. He was beginning to sweat now. Time had run out, and if these three couldn’t see that, Barnes would have to illustrate the point. He was about to take handfuls of everyone and drag them along when the Andorian saw him bristle. With an understanding nod at Barnes, he directed the odd group forward.



Barnes let out an exasperated sigh as he turned. “Follow me.”



The Andorian raised his voice and addressed Barnes. “Our ship. You can find it at-“



Barnes turned back cut him off. “I know which one it is. Keep up as best you can.”



The Andorian blinked in surprise, but the enormous Human’s face was set. Certain.



There was only one place these strangers could have come from. Barnes had his suspicions earlier, but he’d known for a certainty when the injured woman in the corridor had cried out for her shipmates. Her training in the bar and in the Pit had been not only apparent, it was stamped with a number of trademark tactics and positions if you knew what you were looking for. Then there had been Romulan military in the Pits fighting Yavin’s Black Stars, and the blatant, brazen nature of the conflict had suggested that the Romulans, who preferred their operations run quietly with a smug air of superiority, had been spurred to dramatic action by the presence of some other major player. That player couldn’t have been the Klingon Empire, or they wouldn’t have left any doubt about their involvement. Whoever it was, they called part of their forces ‘Marines’. There was the ship itself which had mesmerized him. Yes…there had been a number of clues, but he became sure when he heard the naked concern this woman had for those who served with her. Whatever made her the Butcher of Barbossa, this Major Kass Thytos was also an idealist - a fantastically well-trained idealist - wired up with bleeding edge tech under her skin, willing to put her life on the line in service to her beliefs and for those who upheld them with her. Process of elimination meant that she was either a fanatic member of some sort of lunatic cult overseen by a trillionaire philanthropist/engineer with a narcissistic complex or…



“I know you’re all Starfleet. I saw The PHOENIX. I can get you there. Let's. Go.” Jos nodded in silent assent, and they were off.



A few times on the way, Barnes had been forced to steer them in a wide berth around a patrolling guard, or backtrack to avoid a checkpoint they couldn't overcome. Barnes didn’t relish what would happen if they encountered trouble. If possible, he’d do whatever he could to shoot his enemies in the back instead of the front, and he guessed that Starfleet still frowned on that sort of thing. Thytos would probably understand – she knew how you had to fight if you wanted to win on Limbo – but she was squarely in the “noncombatant” column now, and Barnes didn’t want to face dealing with the combat ethics of either of the other two. However, their Luck had grown boisterous and they weren’t forced to fight at all. To be honest, the worst part of the walk was when the drugs had fully hit Major Kass. Worst, as far as danger, but even Barnes couldn't deny it was amusing as well.



She sang briefly, though the song lacked both tune and lyrics. For a spell, she made a continuous "Fff. Fff. Fff. Fff," noise. It was more amusing when she proclaimed that she was Thomas' inner monologue, then launched into a profanity filled tirade about a number of graphic subjects until the winged man turned crimson. His favorite part had been when the aphasia had briefly set in. “We have to get back to the Dog… To the Dog.” Her face twisted up in frustration. “I don’t mean dog. I’m trying to say Dog. Dog! Not dog! Dog! The Dog we fly in! The spaceDog! S-H-I-P! Dog! Jos! Dammit! Shit! Why do I keep saying dog when I mean Dog?”



Other than Tytos' psychotic ramblings, they made their way unscathed to the docking bay assigned to The Phoenix. Barnes couldn't believe the scene. Hundreds of refugees had crowded around the airlock, and there were a number of people in Starfleet uniforms milling about trying to interview new arrivals, perform medical scans, and generally maintain some semblance of order. Barnes wished them luck. Order was a rare visitor to LIMBO when apocalypse wasn't pending, in the face of this calamity, people were exceptionally erratic and frightened. His own eyes were glued onto the airlock door as they approached. He cocked an eye as Thomas flared his wings outward dramatically as they passed, but apart from musing at the dramatic gesture, his focus was unwavering, Forty steps. Now thirty.



Their approach hadn’t given them a view of the PHOENIX as he approached, but he remembered it clearly from the last time he had seen it. Just a day ago, she had been a ghost of a past life, tantalizing and terrifying him in equal measure. Now twenty more steps, and he’d be aboard her.



He heard Jos call, "I don't suppose you have the transporters operational," and whipped his head, wide eyed at the sound. Jos was shouting over to an officer in engineering green with a cocky grin. He settled his attention on Barnes' traveling companions with a satisfied air, even as his hands casually thumbed a command on the PADD he carried. Barnes noticed the engineer's eyes narrow as they focused on him, but he was too occupied to care.



*No,* he thought desperately, but as he heard the distinctive whine of the beam - **Remember that?** - he knew it was too late to scream.



They’d killed him. He’d scraped, struggled, scratched and done a lot worse over the past ten years to stay alive on LIMBO. There were a great many times when he couldn’t have explained why, but he’d done it. He’d done awful things, and he’d forgotten how to be ashamed of most of them, all to fulfill the most basic of biological imperatives – to keep himself healthy and whole for just one more day. In the past twenty-four hours alone, he’d faced off with the most notorious killer in the galaxy, fought off Romulans and Black Stars, sacrificed a half a bottle of good whiskey, ripped up his best shirt, and guided this motley band of Starfleet refugees through the bowels of LIMBO unmolested. He had done all this, and a handful of steps away from the airlock that would have meant he’d survived all the way off LIMBO, that he’d lived long enough to finally make it OUT…they’d repaid him by tearing him apart molecule by molecule.



He knew transporters. He understood transporters. A lifetime ago, he’d beamed from place to place more times than he could ever count. It had been during the years of his exile, when circumstance and a habit of traveling on ships too cheap or to unsafe to contain a transporter, that he’d come to realize the nature of the thing. In the modern era, many people insisted that transportation technology was as close to 100% safe as any form of travel would be. He understood that, using the criteria they used to judge such things, those people were right. He also knew those people were idiots who couldn’t face the reality of being a living, and someday dying, thing. They couldn’t acknowledge a simple fact of biology – that when you sunder something so completely that you’ve disassociated its very atoms, you had killed it utterly and completely. Yes, via the miracle science, those atoms could be reconstituted into a thing that looked like you, thought like you, thought your thoughts, but it wasn’t you. Those molecules could be reassembled, just as bricks and mortar could be replaced on a building after a tornado, but at a certain point, it was a new building. People couldn’t face that because they didn’t want to acknowledge just how many times they had died. He could. He knew they were all just little practices for the Big Dance at the End.



But he'd stayed alive this long and he'd gotten so close. Twenty steps. He was battered and bruised, but otherwise uninjured. Kass was walking under her own power, only occasionally leaning against Barnes or Thomas for momentary support. Her situation was still serious, but for twenty more steps, it wasn't necessary to beam her. He could have stepped through the airlock. He could have put his feet, his own feet that belonged to himself, and not whoever he'd be at the end of the beaming process, on the deck of ship and know that he'd finally, finally gotten clear. He'd survived.



It would have been a very...nice...feeling.


He didn't really begrudge his bad luck. He never had. He just wished he’d lived long enough to escape LIMBO…



=[/\]=



NRPG: Believe it or not, this was supposed to be about Barnes on the ship. “I just need to write a couple paragraphs about the actual escape…” *sigh* Like I said, it got away from me a little bit. I’ll have more on Barnes on the ship with the refugees in the next day or two.



SHAWN: We should start working on that JP.





Dale I. Rasmussen

~writing for~

Jacen Barnes

Lucky Man