Quoted By:
Over the sound of the storm, what sounds like dozens of heavy footsteps come running down the scantlings and ladders. Covered head-to-toe in black body armor, they wield an odd assortment of weapons, from guns to nightsticks, bringing them to bear against the men on the platform. Even if not for the orange bands along their arms, you’d have to be an idiot to not know who they are, and what their role is on the Duck.
“Marduk Security!” shouts one of the men. “Drop your weapons and put your hands where we can see them!”
Shannon and McDonald are the closest, utterly overwhelmed as they’re wrestled to the ground with little fanfare, and cuffed with extreme prejudice. But there are still plenty left for you and Pierce. Their body language conveys that the inevitable takedown is inescapable, but you’re ultimately in the end as to how much it’s going to hurt.
The knife falls, and you release Pierce, shoving him forward to collapse atop the deck. A handful of security guards only spare the bare minimum of attention before they bring you down to the ground. Hard and completely uncaring of your injuries.
“Good job,” you groan as the cuffs bite into your wrists, and one presses your cheek flush against the sea-slicked deck. “…impeccable timing, Larkin…”
>>One detainment later…
Rig Manager Declan McGuire looks no less intimidating in his flannel nightgown than he would have otherwise in worker’s overalls. If anything, the dissonant contrast makes him look all the scarier. He runs the Duck with a tough, fair hand, and is by the by an overall reasonable man. But above all else, McGuire hates being woken up in the middle of the night. Even if his aides and officers had a good reason.
Cuffed to the table are you, Shannon and McDonald. Pierce had been carted off to the infirmary under armed escort, delirious and unable to stand McGuire’s lecture. You almost feel bad, since his time’s with the rig manager’s gonna be one-on-one, all of that fury concentrated instead of dispersed among three troublemakers.
Almost.
McGuire’s already in a bad mood from being roused, but his face becomes apocalyptic with every report he’s given. And by the time the evidence is brough to the table: the shiv, baton, Pierce’s razor and your kitchen knife…
“UNACCEPTABLE!” he roars, slamming a meaty fist on the table. Everyone and everything jumps, props and people included, and the noise rings <span class="mu-i">loud</span> in the tiny space that comprises the holding cell. “I expect to read about these kinds of incidents in Lloyd’s List and other nautical periodicals. Not to have them darken my doorstep on this bloody oil rig!”
“Sir, we can explain-” Shannon tries to reason, but he only succeeds in digging his grave further.
McDonald, for his part, is only trying to glare a hole into your shoulder. Not that he's immune from the tongue-lashing as McGuire blows a gasket.
(cont.)
