Gima The Beginning : Gima: Gima's Close Call by barkingdog |
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Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence. Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language. Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of sexual content. Dear Reader: This is actually Fantasy-Adventure-Horror, but there is no category for it on FanStory. If you do not like this genre, please do not continue reading. I don't intend to offend anyone, but language and behaviors used are essential to the characters and storyline contrasts. Scenes are meant to arouse a range of emotions. I hope that they do. Thank you for reading. Enjoy.:) barking dog Previously: Trolious beat and violated Gima. By Trolious' order,Teleck, his assistant, has hired two lackeys to deposit her at Club ErrOw for brothal use in a Chamber as a violet enhanced Vertant. To inject violet runs the adrenals at top speed and could kill her. Trolious sees this as final revenge against Gima. Banya and Brewik, two young vermel, are courting. CHAPTER 33 And there is no doubt that Banya wants that dream: a station-cabin home in Subby Wayside and litters of young Vermel, playing on the tracks. Like a small red ferret she slinks underneath Brewik and presses her swelling-back’s invitation against his enlarging question. Banya shyly pulls away and looks toward Heaven’s metal highway and its trail of blinking lights. The two young vermel, isolated by mutual intoxication, chatter love sounds and pant toward a future, away from all of this. Eyes widen in agreement, and they weave through the blur of noise and faceless couples toward the twinkling stairway and neon lit chambers. Brewik slaps Banya’s abundant backside as they near the steep, metal grid steps. She chortles nervously, tottering in her precarious heels. “I … I… don’t know …” A rush of blue euphoria’s after-effects sends her into ripples of melodic laughter. “Got ya.” Brewik sweeps her up. His muscles, pumped, sense her as weightless—doll-like while his mind manufactures things that he’ll do to her – especially her feet. Banya turns her face up toward his, and her bulbous, silver-pierced tongue eagerly swipes across his eye and circles his naris. Banya's nostril flares, and her small body tightens. Coyly, passionately, a silver-flecked lash blinks over her wide green eye and then the content vermel rests her head on his strong shoulder to drift off into thoughts of fertilization, a home, and a family. Safely cradled in Brewik’s arms, waiting their turn at a Chamber, Banya dreams of being filled with young. Brewik jolts her back to the moment when he begins to move ahead, seeing a motion to approach from the man at the top of the stairs. Suddenly, another couple, pushing forward, charges the line. Rolak, a large unkempt Enforcement Officer, drags a Vertant ‘club-worker,’ Lotik by the hair. Rolak is loud, obnoxious and peaked to perform. “Outta the way, you two,” Rolak threatens, slamming Brewik against the wall. “Damn, bitch! Hurry, up! This can’t wait all night,” he grunts, grinding on his double-tenting crotch and slapping her roughly forward. “But I’m hungry, Rolak. You promised …,” Lotik signs, whimpering and sinking to her knees. “I’ll feed you, later. First things first!” Snarling, he pulls her up by her long ash-blonde hair, nearly lifting her starving frame off the floor; he drags and then pushes, kicking her up the stairs. Brewik protectively presses Banya close to him and glares. Asshole! I’m gonna kick your … "Shit, Banya what are you doing?" Banya’s round tongue slides perfectly between his double rows. He grabs her tiny foot and, feeling its high twisted arch push into his hand, all else fades. Brewik’s anger subsides. Halfway up the stairs, Lotik turns and lands a strong kick to Rolak’s jaw. Rolak grins, grabs her leg, and twists. He likes to play rough, very rough. They fall, sliding, bumping down the metal stairway. Laughing as the blood flows from his mouth, Rolak spits teeth. “They’ll grow back, no worries, doll.” Lotik springs to standing at the smell of fresh blood. Her chest heaves and eyes widen. She grabs Rolak’s arm as he swings for her and, using it for leverage, she jumps forward. Mounting him, she wraps her strong legs around his waist. The crowd spreads, making room for what they’ve seen many, many times before – Rolak, the Chief of Enforcement, disciplining a Vertant sex-worker. “Mmmm, Rolak!” she licks, cooing. Ravenous, Lotik encompasses his mouth with hers and sucks the mixture of seeping blood and drool. Her legs tighten, her nails dig into his back. Lotik is ‘attached.’ She gnaws him first on the neck. Then licks across his cheek … She’s hungry … shoulda fed her … fresh pig tails, 10 bruicks … ‘n bought her a nip of blue. Finally, she bites off his ear and swallows it whole. “Vertant, bitch!” Fuck me for being cheap! Damn! This is gonna cost me! Suddenly, realizing what she’s done, Lotik snaps back to reality and is face to face with Rolak’s anger. His blood drips down her chin onto his chest. She knows that it’s too late and howls her last call in fear. Oh, father of my father’s, why did I not obey? “Oww, oww—ooooo.” Those in the street hear her cry. Two of Teleck’s flunkies, pushing a cart, take note. “Rolak’s off tonight!” signs one. “Sounds like it.” The object under the tarp curls smaller. “Let’s drop this off and watch.” “Hurry, before we miss it all.” They key open a chute at the club's front entrance and slant the cart. Gima, hog tied, her ear stapled with a violet tag, indicating inject, slides down to a receiving bin below. Claws clicking and collectors waving to the Duba Buta beat piped into the street, the two lackeys sweep inside Club ErrOw through the brass and glass, revolving door. They eagerly join the crowd that's already gathered to watch Rolak proceed with another of his 'disciplinary actions.' In one swift move, Rolak pushes Lotik’s head back and rams two of his three fingers deep into her frightened eyes. Plucked out, cords trailing, he shakes them off to the floor. Instinctively, Lotik's legs grip tighter, and her nails anchor deep into his back as her teeth snap aimlessly at blood scents in the air. Panic yields no escape. “Snap, snap, baby!” Quickly, efficiently, he breaks her with one tight jerk to the waist. She squeaks and goes limp, her legs release. The crowd gasps satisfaction. They cheer, clap and celebrate the free show. Several off-duty enforcers, members of Rolak’s division, are proud of one of their own. “Way to go, Rolak! Atta boy, show them Vertant bitches whose boss!” Aroused by death, the Enforcers kneel to pound the floor and facing outward, form a circle and lean back to repeatedly, rhythmically, touch swollen back humps. To stop this possible army of rampant destruction, the alerted speakers announce: “Rounds of green on the house!” With a push of a button by the man upstairs, Mr. Colwin, the speakers automatically call for passivity-green. Nip lines drop from the ceiling, and latching begins. “Sit and relax.” The voice chortles calmly. Lights dim. Everyone drinks, calming songs replace the tribal rhythms, collectors connect and as in prayer with Trolious, swaying and a droning hums begin. It lasts for five minutes. With another signal, the music changes back to the usual drumming, and tweeting howls of the Duba Buta Band. The evening resumes with discussion. “So, what do you think this’ll cost him, this time?” “This was just a bit of sport; it’s not considered a punishable kill. Killing a Vertant … isn’t unauthorized.” “But a LICENSED brothel worker… licensed here—to Jack's … These vertant are not illegals.” “Rolak’s got no worries. It’s only a fineable offense.” “Yeah? How much … bet he’ll pay big … it’s his third this month. They let it slide on the first two!” “Mr. C. decides that.” Heads turn toward the burnt-orange recliner. Lotik is merely a trophy, and as such, Rolak struts with his fingers inserted in her eye sockets, holding her light frame high, waving it from side to side like a banner. He roars and stomps, justifying his kill. The crowd, calmed with passive-green elixir hardy notices. Lotik, starved and made to work for food, died well by Vermel standards. If she had obeyed, she could have lived longer – not better, but longer. Vertant workers scurry for cover behind counters and screens, fearing a mass kill when the 'green' wears off. Rolak climbs the stairs, rationalizing. It’s not my fault; the disobedient must die. It’s my job as Chief Enforcer to catch, punish, and kill the disobedient. Too bad that this one was Trolious’ daughter. It’s all in a day's work for Mr. C. who waves Rolak, once again, on toward the all too familiar, dented disposal slot. Rolak deposits his kill, pulls out the wall’s flashing green line and squats to guzzle mandatory sedation. As Lotik’s frail body bounces against the sides of the chute, her disintegration begins. Rolak showers, chooses a black jump-suit from the vending machine, pays Mr. C. a fifty bruick disposal fee and jaunts down the winding exit from Heaven. Meanwhile, dust lands on dust, on dust in the alley. Lotik blows away—Poof!—a small cloud of nothing at all. Harrumph!” Rolak bullies when he passes Brewik and Banya meshing into one. “Get a fucking chamber!” The young couple nipple up to euphoric ‘blue’ and, soon, Brewik successfully carries Banya, Gima’s baby vermel sister, up the stairs to ‘Heaven.’ Just down the hall, the new delivery, Gima is being scrubbed and perfumed with mold blossom extract for a special guest summoned by Mr. C. Mr. Colwin, a fellow with his own agenda, sent news of a new Vertant, a violet one, a captive from Upper Earth to Warik, Jacknel’s competition. Warik waits seated in a secret room beyond the chamber's main corridor, eating pig delicacies—spicy liver and heart with fresh maggot sauce from a low stone table inlayed with ivory vermel symbols. Around him are plush burgundy pillows, wall tapestries and a festoon cornice motif, projecting an air of elegance. All are a stark contrast to Gima’s bleak appearance when the mirrored wall unit opens revealing her clad in a filmy silver fluttering of practically nothing. Her abundant wavy hair is clipped up by alum circles and her hollow face is ceremoniously painted: one half swirled with yellow and brown, her eye near invisible and the other half-- only the lips are enhanced with red and her eye blinks a sequined blue lash. Gima's a simulation of Vermel beauty. Warik straightens his brocade vest and confidently approaches, leaning in towards her. Suddenly, Gima takes a broad stance and, snarling, fights back with every skill Asmel and Hunter ever taught her. A fist to Warik’s nose; a kick to his gut. He gasps. A chop to his throat and a twirling back kick, taught to shatter a knee--did many a small tree. But it misses due to his short stature and hits his thigh instead. Taken aback but a fighter himself, Warik staggers forward and grabs Gima's wrists. She growls and struggles wildly, spitting what little’s left in her, not understanding his strange expression. Warik‘s smile widens beneath the blood from his broken nose; he recognizes something remarkable—talent for the Games. Impressed with Gima’s never seen skills, her unbelievable strength for her size and endurance in an obviously battered condition, he pays Colwin a hundred critons, knowing he'd have gone to five hundred. Warik cloaks Gima under his arm and escapes down the back stairway, as if he’d never been here. Once in his private track-car, they speed by rail to his warrior facilities in Upperton. Gima, as luck would have it, shivers by yet another stranger’s side. Gima has just avoided Rolak’s ‘attention’ by a matter of minutes. He’d had wind of her delivery and is now sedated; his anger was so great at having missed out on a violet enhanced one that he injured two other Vertant workers before he was subdued by the tazers of Mr. C’s downstairs guards, not part of local Enforcement. Note to Jacknel from Colwin: Sir, I’m sorry to report but the Vertant female that you sent over with the violet tag is dead. She didn’t last the night. Regards, Colwin. In the private Chamber, Colwin’s ample belly jiggles as golden critons flow through his fingers to the velvet cloth in his lap—who’s to know ... bodies are incinerated daily. His uncontrollable cackling tickles the tapestry figures who share his secrets in this, his clandestine, room. Colwin, a supposed puppet of Jacknel, watches himself, a sly, rich man, in the mirror. He props his feet up on a priceless relic, a Grizzley’s head whose pelt lies warm in front of the breathing gas fire. In his embroidered silk caftan he sinks into the deep pillows and pops a bite of festive pig ‘n dip, washing it down with fiztel. His assistant has taken his place, for an hour or so, in the dilapidated orange recliner. Ah, this is the life.
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