Interlude 1 "Well, you don't look so bad!"
Lander sat on the chair beside Jackson's bed and grinned, helping himself to a handful of grapes. Jackson, his face swollen and jaws wired in place until the new teeth had properly anchored themselves, could only grunt, but it was a sound redolent of displeasure. Lander shook his head and eyed the heavily bandaged lumps on the ends of the tracker's - oh, your pardon, ex-tracker's - arms.
"The medics say the prosthetics have grafted well. You won't have full feeling, of course, but you'll be able to perform most manual operations."
Jackson grunted again. There was hatred in his eyes. Lander's expression became regretful.
"Hm. I know. Your psi tracking abilities won't work with the prosthetics. Johnson's already arranged a replacement for you. But I gather he's already deposited a very substantial severance payment into your account. Enough for you to live on for years, if you're careful. And given everything you've suffered, Brown has decided not to press charges of negligence." He grinned. "You're lucky. You lost her. He could have made you pay for another pet. Or had you made over in her place."
Jackson hissed. It was the only other sound he could make at the moment. He glared at Lander, then jerked his head towards the door. The taller tracker raised an eyebrow.
"You want me to go? But I've only just arrived…"
Jackson's eyes narrowed, and Lander sighed.
"OK then. I'll drop in again next week." He patted the ex-tracker's shoulder: Jackson pulled away, stifling a moan as the movement tugged at his jaw. He could have sworn there was amusement in Lander's eyes… The tracker sketched a salute and sauntered away, whistling, leaving Jackson to his own thoughts.
Which were ugly. Lander had found him about an hour after Hoss and his little band had left, and managed to get him to a medic before the internal injuries killed him. When he finally regained consciousness, three days later, Jackson almost wished his partner - ex-partner, he reminded himself bitterly - hadn't found him in time. He could deal with the teeth: cultured from real dentine and enamel, they were stronger and in better shape than his own had been, although they'd take a little getting used to. And the medics had repaired the internal damage, sealing ruptured organs and torn muscle. They even thought they might be able to repair the damage done to his penis, in time, with a little surgery - though he was less troubled by that. One unforeseen side effect of the bastards forcing his urethra wide open was to make his dick bigger - and that would come in very handy when he found the little cunt who was responsible for all this. He was going to fuck her till she bled, till she screamed herself hoarse, till she dropped unconscious. He was going to bugger that tight little ass until the sphincter ruptured and she shit herself every time she coughed. Then he'd fuck her throat until she couldn't swallow any more. Then - he smirked to himself - he'd let her rest awhile and do it all again.
They'd taken his hands. And it was her fault. Without his hands he was useless. With the cyberware prosthetic hands, his psi abilities were nullified. Without them, he was useless. He was fucked either way. But losing his hands, losing his talents, wouldn't stop him making her suffer.
And when he'd reduced her to less than nothing, he'd go after that fucking horse-man and make him sorry he was ever born.
© 2003 February 1st Joules
Darkside