Right - here's her opportunity. To really make an advocate for herself and for New London. To give him something really wretched to take back to his commanding officers, so that they'll be sympathetic to this cause. So that after she's dead and gone, they'll keep on fighting for her people and her world. And yet...Yet even just thinking that causes in her a little twist of guilt. Ivan's already broken bones for her cause. For her carelessness, really - because she ought to have found a better place for him to touch down, oughtn't she? One where the government forces wouldn't have swarmed them. And as much as she wants to have that hard heart, as much as she wants to view him and his mercenaries as a tool to bring about the freedom of her world...
What do you want for your birthday. This madman. This insane chatterbox. This funny, wry, brave man. A mercenary is definitely not supposed to act this way.
"There's not so much to tell," she starts, her hesitation not completely feigned. "I was born in the city of New London - that's the capital of our world; you can guess from the name. My mum was a washer-woman, and my dad was a shopkeeper." And they both turned out to be cowards more than happy to throw their daughter to the wolves. That was something that had left her devastated at the time, but she's gotten well over it now. She's gotten...somewhat over it. "I went to school till I was fifteen - that's as long as you're allowed to stay in school - " How educated is this off-worlder? He's clever, that much is clear. She supposes Beta Colony wouldn't let its children stay ignorant. She supposes illiteracy must be nonexistent there. "And then I went to work as a barmaid. I was lucky to get that job, actually. People who are unemployed...We've not got good terraforming here, see, so the southern continent's still overrun by things terribly deadly to humans. People who can't find work, the only work for them is going to clear the south, and they die out there, lots of them."
Faintly, she hears footsteps. How many sets? How many people? And are they coming for Ivan again? To break more bones? A fierce protectiveness bubbles up in her, and her fingers go for the little weapon in her shoe. She's gotten this far by being smart rather than reckless; she ought to stay smart...
"The rest of us work in factories. Those are our options unless we're really lucky. Factories or front lines. You at least can expect to live a little longer in the factories - but not by much. They're dark, and in the dark it's hard to see what you're doing, so people get chewed up, quite literally. And it's not because we haven't got the technology to light them - oh, no. The homes of our betters are filled with technological marvels. They just don't care."
Two sets of feet. Four had come for Ivan - justified caution for an unpredictable off-worlder. Two guards probably means they're coming for her. And only two...The voices outside her door are low. Someone's going for the lock. And so Kitty says up to the grate, fiercely -
"We deserve better. We deserve to be free."
Which are perfectly acceptable last words, if last words they prove to be. The lock clicks, the door opens, and immediately she's on them. Two, just like she thought. And she sold her role well enough, it seems, or maybe these two are just awful at their jobs; they seem totally unprepared for her. Her razor catches one across the throat, and he falls. It's less coordination or skill than sheer luck that Kitty manages to grab his gun as he slumps to the ground, and it's completely luck that her first shot catches the second guard; he goes down, too, though he goes down still breathing. Just a stun, then.
When she uses their key to open the door to Ivan's cell, she's probably frightful-looking. Gun in one hand red with blood, shirt marked with the same, hair mussed, eyes ferocious. There's just a single moment where her expression falters when she takes in just how small he is - well, there go any notions of the fierce mercenary battling through hordes of enemies one-handed - but then it firms up again.
"Let's find a way out, yeah? Can you still shoot in your state?"
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What do you want for your birthday. This madman. This insane chatterbox. This funny, wry, brave man. A mercenary is definitely not supposed to act this way.
"There's not so much to tell," she starts, her hesitation not completely feigned. "I was born in the city of New London - that's the capital of our world; you can guess from the name. My mum was a washer-woman, and my dad was a shopkeeper." And they both turned out to be cowards more than happy to throw their daughter to the wolves. That was something that had left her devastated at the time, but she's gotten well over it now. She's gotten...somewhat over it. "I went to school till I was fifteen - that's as long as you're allowed to stay in school - " How educated is this off-worlder? He's clever, that much is clear. She supposes Beta Colony wouldn't let its children stay ignorant. She supposes illiteracy must be nonexistent there. "And then I went to work as a barmaid. I was lucky to get that job, actually. People who are unemployed...We've not got good terraforming here, see, so the southern continent's still overrun by things terribly deadly to humans. People who can't find work, the only work for them is going to clear the south, and they die out there, lots of them."
Faintly, she hears footsteps. How many sets? How many people? And are they coming for Ivan again? To break more bones? A fierce protectiveness bubbles up in her, and her fingers go for the little weapon in her shoe. She's gotten this far by being smart rather than reckless; she ought to stay smart...
"The rest of us work in factories. Those are our options unless we're really lucky. Factories or front lines. You at least can expect to live a little longer in the factories - but not by much. They're dark, and in the dark it's hard to see what you're doing, so people get chewed up, quite literally. And it's not because we haven't got the technology to light them - oh, no. The homes of our betters are filled with technological marvels. They just don't care."
Two sets of feet. Four had come for Ivan - justified caution for an unpredictable off-worlder. Two guards probably means they're coming for her. And only two...The voices outside her door are low. Someone's going for the lock. And so Kitty says up to the grate, fiercely -
"We deserve better. We deserve to be free."
Which are perfectly acceptable last words, if last words they prove to be. The lock clicks, the door opens, and immediately she's on them. Two, just like she thought. And she sold her role well enough, it seems, or maybe these two are just awful at their jobs; they seem totally unprepared for her. Her razor catches one across the throat, and he falls. It's less coordination or skill than sheer luck that Kitty manages to grab his gun as he slumps to the ground, and it's completely luck that her first shot catches the second guard; he goes down, too, though he goes down still breathing. Just a stun, then.
When she uses their key to open the door to Ivan's cell, she's probably frightful-looking. Gun in one hand red with blood, shirt marked with the same, hair mussed, eyes ferocious. There's just a single moment where her expression falters when she takes in just how small he is - well, there go any notions of the fierce mercenary battling through hordes of enemies one-handed - but then it firms up again.
"Let's find a way out, yeah? Can you still shoot in your state?"