>>5195288>>5195290>>5195295>>5195317>>5195409>>5195546>>5195941…it seems that Elishani didn’t make your status public knowledge. And you’re not sure whether or not to feel grateful about the privacy, or annoyed that it falls to you to break it to whoever comes your way.
Still, Holt and her crew seem like good folk. And the riggers on the Duck, with few exceptions, didn’t seem to mind or otherwise care. There had been ribbing and hazing, no denying that, but they largely had their ire reserved for slackers and dead weight.
“Slaves aren’t afforded nicer equipment,” you say matter-of-factly. The truth, and nothing but the truth, delivered without any sort of inflection. “There’s a cost-benefit risk associated with us that the city bigwigs did the math for.”
She blinks, perplex, but you can see the moment where the dots connect. Her eyes go wide, first in disbelief, then in a sharp, furrowed and analytical brow. “…you’re indentured?”
In the confines of the hangar, her attempt at subtlety comes off louder. Not quite shouting, but just right at around conversational level as the dull roar of her crew tapers off. More than a few look your way, curious at what’s got their deck chief riled up.
“To one Bartholemew Stolze,” you answer dryly. “He leases me out to the city every once in a while, but I spent most of the last three years on the Duck, since that’s where the most money comes from.”
Holt looks at you, as if reconsidering her prior opinion of you. It’s something you’re used to, but it’s more annoying than hurtful at this point. “…you don’t look the part.”
<span class="mu-i">You don’t look like a criminal.</span>
If you rolled your eyes any harder, they would’ve fallen out of your skull. Pulling back your sleeve, you raise your arm, and the sheen of the debt-brands catch the overhead lights. The deck chief squints, forgoing personal space to get a good, hard look at the tattoos.
“…never seen this many before,” she mutters.
You shrug. “I’ve got fifteen more where those came from.”
Her eyes nearly bug out of her skull. “Twenty?! Hold the fuck up, you’re screwin’ with me.”
“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” you say in a flat deadpan. A headache’s starting to form, and you’re having second thoughts about telling this to Holt.
But she seems to calm down. “Right, but…ain’t each one of those brands worth…”
“A million ducats, yes.” Might be a good idea to not tell her about the original twenty-five.
But she seems to have noticed anyway, the faded scar tissue where one of the brands had recently been removed. Not that she makes any more noise about it. “…must’ve been one hell of a thing to put yerself in debt for.”
<span class="mu-i">“All you need to do is sign the contract and take the ink, SInleq. One dotted line, twenty-five brands…a life for a life.”</span>
(cont.)
