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Still in the Uncharteds...somewhere.
"I won't, I won't, I won't, I won't," Stark repeated, hugging his knees tightly to his chest. "I won't." It had been...he didn't know how long, actually. A weeken, at least. Maybe more. Once Stark had boarded the game designer's ship, he had found himself locked in a cell. In some situations familiarity can be comforting. This was not that kind of familiarity.
"I would have hoped you'd have become more cooperative by now. That will come. Eventually," Yoti said flatly from the other side of the door. Stark jumped. He hadn't known the man was there. The protests were for his own benefit, not Yoti's. But the Banik offered no response. He could already hear the footsteps as Yoti walked away.
*
Stark didn't know how much time had passed since Yoti's last visit to his cell. He was there now, outside the door, and that was all that mattered.
"Not mine to give," Stark insisted before Yoti could speak. "They are mine. My memories. Or theirs, and mine to hold for them. Won't do it." It was easy enough to deny what he was certain was an inevitability from the other side of a door. Words were easy. Suiting actions to them was not.
"Idiot Banik," Yoti snarled. "Shut up. We've arrived. Enough of this 'I won't, I won't.'" Yoti's tone was mocking, his smile more so as he opened the door. "We both know how this will end."
Stark flinched and gritted his teeth before answering. "I know. Still. Have to say it. Have to try. Not mine to give."
"Now, I've told you before. I have no interest in the deaths you carry with you. Save for one. The others are unimportant, uninteresting. And if I take these memories, you aren't giving them. I'm taking them. Perhaps you can offer yourself some solace in that. And remember, you cooperate, give me what I want, I let you go. You don't cooperate..." Yoti's voice trailed off threateningly.
"You hand me over to the Scarrans," Stark finished dully. He knew that would be worse. Knew that they would kill him if he proved less than useful. With the game designer, at least there was the faint hope of freedom at the end of it all. And then there was the voice in the back of his head. 'You living is more important than some dead guy's thoughts. Even if I'm the dead guy. And he's right, about the taking.' Stark looked up at Yoti now and nodded, barely.
"And their methods are sure to be less...pleasant. Now be a good boy." Stark barely had time to register the weapon held in Yoti's hand before his vision went black.
*
He awoke in a chair, arms strapped down. That was enough, in itself, to make Stark scream. The process of neural template creation, at least, proved far less painful than previous sessions in previous Chairs.
Then there was the same voice again. 'You've had worse, Astro. Just remember to hide the important stuff. Just like with Scorpy.' Stark couldn't argue with the voice. He also couldn't keep the thought from his mind that this, like so many things that had gone wrong, were the fault of the man that voice belonged to. That was his last coherent thought. He'd regret that, later, when he saw the finished product.
Stark's mind had never been the most straightforward of places. When he was in situations like this, it only became worse. Someday he might find some small measure of satisfaction thinking Yoti's precious and valuable neural template was a mess. What came out of Stark's mind to be put in the game was a mess. He made no effort to organize his thoughts, why would he? But that didn't matter, Yoti would make it fit. Princesses and TVs and a Gammak base. A Delvian, a Nebari, a Luxan, an Interion, a Sebacean, a Hynerian, and that Human everyone was so anxious to acquire. All of this and anger at the Human, anger at losing the Delvian (that, Yoti thought, he could easily exploit in his game), anger at losing his freedom yet again (again, easily exploited). And, for some reason, rather a lot of rhymes.
So many things that the game designer didn't recognize, and so many things that made no sense together. Yoti had been aiming for unique, and unique was what he had received from the Stykera. What he hadn't received, in spite of his best efforts, was anything to do with any wormholes. Oh, there were memories that clearly belonged to the Human in the mix, but they offered nothing except nonsense in Yoti's opinion. Of course, he was no expert on these wormholes that everyone was so eager to master. Perhaps there was something there, something he'd missed. The memories, such as they were, would still earn him his payment from the Scarrans. And the Banik was worth something to them as well.
[I'm mean to my poor alien. But it's fun. Mostly. And comments? They are like cupcakes.]
"I would have hoped you'd have become more cooperative by now. That will come. Eventually," Yoti said flatly from the other side of the door. Stark jumped. He hadn't known the man was there. The protests were for his own benefit, not Yoti's. But the Banik offered no response. He could already hear the footsteps as Yoti walked away.
*
Stark didn't know how much time had passed since Yoti's last visit to his cell. He was there now, outside the door, and that was all that mattered.
"Not mine to give," Stark insisted before Yoti could speak. "They are mine. My memories. Or theirs, and mine to hold for them. Won't do it." It was easy enough to deny what he was certain was an inevitability from the other side of a door. Words were easy. Suiting actions to them was not.
"Idiot Banik," Yoti snarled. "Shut up. We've arrived. Enough of this 'I won't, I won't.'" Yoti's tone was mocking, his smile more so as he opened the door. "We both know how this will end."
Stark flinched and gritted his teeth before answering. "I know. Still. Have to say it. Have to try. Not mine to give."
"Now, I've told you before. I have no interest in the deaths you carry with you. Save for one. The others are unimportant, uninteresting. And if I take these memories, you aren't giving them. I'm taking them. Perhaps you can offer yourself some solace in that. And remember, you cooperate, give me what I want, I let you go. You don't cooperate..." Yoti's voice trailed off threateningly.
"You hand me over to the Scarrans," Stark finished dully. He knew that would be worse. Knew that they would kill him if he proved less than useful. With the game designer, at least there was the faint hope of freedom at the end of it all. And then there was the voice in the back of his head. 'You living is more important than some dead guy's thoughts. Even if I'm the dead guy. And he's right, about the taking.' Stark looked up at Yoti now and nodded, barely.
"And their methods are sure to be less...pleasant. Now be a good boy." Stark barely had time to register the weapon held in Yoti's hand before his vision went black.
*
He awoke in a chair, arms strapped down. That was enough, in itself, to make Stark scream. The process of neural template creation, at least, proved far less painful than previous sessions in previous Chairs.
Then there was the same voice again. 'You've had worse, Astro. Just remember to hide the important stuff. Just like with Scorpy.' Stark couldn't argue with the voice. He also couldn't keep the thought from his mind that this, like so many things that had gone wrong, were the fault of the man that voice belonged to. That was his last coherent thought. He'd regret that, later, when he saw the finished product.
Stark's mind had never been the most straightforward of places. When he was in situations like this, it only became worse. Someday he might find some small measure of satisfaction thinking Yoti's precious and valuable neural template was a mess. What came out of Stark's mind to be put in the game was a mess. He made no effort to organize his thoughts, why would he? But that didn't matter, Yoti would make it fit. Princesses and TVs and a Gammak base. A Delvian, a Nebari, a Luxan, an Interion, a Sebacean, a Hynerian, and that Human everyone was so anxious to acquire. All of this and anger at the Human, anger at losing the Delvian (that, Yoti thought, he could easily exploit in his game), anger at losing his freedom yet again (again, easily exploited). And, for some reason, rather a lot of rhymes.
So many things that the game designer didn't recognize, and so many things that made no sense together. Yoti had been aiming for unique, and unique was what he had received from the Stykera. What he hadn't received, in spite of his best efforts, was anything to do with any wormholes. Oh, there were memories that clearly belonged to the Human in the mix, but they offered nothing except nonsense in Yoti's opinion. Of course, he was no expert on these wormholes that everyone was so eager to master. Perhaps there was something there, something he'd missed. The memories, such as they were, would still earn him his payment from the Scarrans. And the Banik was worth something to them as well.
[I'm mean to my poor alien. But it's fun. Mostly. And comments? They are like cupcakes.]