Scenario: rope and cuffs

+++
Souvenirs


Tyr ran the rope through his hands. It was a navy blue silken cord, like the one 
that secured Dylan's robe. Apparently, service issue -- as were the sheets, the 
towels -- Tyr was amused at the extent of his current captain's absorption in 
military life. And the luxury of same. Rhade had had somewhat more...personal 
tastes in private. Be sure, Tyr had investigated every change of linen, the 
contents of every drawer and cupboard before the dead man's belongings were 
relegated to storage or destroyed.

It smelled like him, like Hunt. Not like his cologne, like him -- intimately, 
deeply. Where had this elegant, Hunt-redolent rope been, and why was it in 
Rhade's cabin, tucked behind his bed? Tyr twisted the rope in his fists. He 
sniffed it again; he tied a knot; two knots; and he smiled.

+++

Every time the Maru came home, Beka conducted inspection and bitched. She wasn't 
happy this time at all. There was a jerry-rigged patch welded near a sensitive 
bulkhead seam and considerable damage to struts and supports in the drive bay. 
That annoying Niet had spilt some cloying, musky scent in the head and left damp 
towels to mildew on the floor. Her boots crunched over shards of smashed luggage 
-- remnants of flimsy but achingly expensive Toulon Derain cases. Beka bent to 
touch one colorful scrap and a silver ovoid compact caught her eye. She fished 
it out from under the console and buffed it on her sleeve. Flicked it open...

"What's that?"

Damn Dylan, standing right behind her. 

"Something of Elsbett's?" He reached over her shoulder and picked out the two 
slender, twisting bands from the case. They shimmered in the dimmed lights, 
coiled silver lined with crimson leather and sliding beads.

Beka sniggered. "Goodness. Somebody came prepared."

"Meaning?" Dylan frowned.

"Mistress Elsbett had a thing for cuffs. Who woulda thought?" Beka quirked an 
eyebrow at Dylan's suddenly wooden face. "Nietzschean kink, very expensive, very 
illegal. Kinetic restraints, self tightening-- they wind around the blades...."

"Yes, I get the idea."

"See, the beads go...."

"Yes." He let the bands pour back into the case and snapped it closed. "I'll, 
ah, see it's properly disposed of."

"Yes, Dad," said Beka, and watched him pocket the pricey contraband. Looked a 
bit flushed, did Our Hero. Like he'd terminate the nasty little toy with extreme 
prejudice, if he could. Wasted on him. She shrugged and kicked the debris.

+++

"Rommie -- invitation to dinner in Tyr's cabin tonight. Privacy mode, please."


+end+