#lord arnea

[ladytrollfishes]

Daginy: 16, Not Dead!

Daginy Chamae | Neuja City | 7 sweeps, 15 years old

You’re quickly overwhelmed, and outnumbered. Your face gets introduced to the concrete as your hands get pulled back behind you. You’ve definitely made to many mistakes this time around, and it’s probably gonna get you killed. 

“That’s Arneas’ midget innit?” Gilras, the small time drug lord you’ve been following bends down, to look over at you. You stare up at her as you feel a ziptie close around your wrists. “He’s tryin’ to intrude on my turf?” 

“J-just checking up on how you were doing,” you stutter. “It’s not- I can tell him there’s nothing going on- he knows where I am. It’ll be a declaration of war. I can help you even– I-” 

She squats down at you and pats your head. 

“Threw in with the wrong crew now, sweetheart,” she says. “Now I got no time for double dealing traitors, but war is what I want.”

Oh you’re dead, you’re so dead. You wanted the war too, technically. With a gang war on the streets, the policeradicators would be too busy to pay attention to what you were planning, but.. you weren’t planning on it starting like this. 

“Bag ‘em and drop them in the drink,” she says, and her lieutenants pull out a duffel bag. “We don’t need Arneas on our ass before my say so.” 

It’s not the first time you’ve cursed how small you are. You break a nose with a flailing foot, but they slap some tape on your mouth and slot you in the bag without too much trouble otherwise. 

It’s suffocating in there, as you kick and struggle as you’re hauled away. You’re so fucking dead. The lieutenants around you joke and laugh, like they’re not about to murder you, and the tape muffles your outrage. 

Your stomach drops as they swing the bag back and forth and send you swinging, and you can hear the wind whistling past the bag as you go up, and then down as gravity deserts you and you can feel yourself fall and fall and fall. 

You hit the water like a brick, and scream as you think your shoulder breaks, or at least your upper arm, and a few ribs- tears run down your face as you hyperventilate as water seeps into the bag swallowing you up as you try to grab whatever air you can before you’re completely submerged. 

You’re so so so so dead. You try, in that cramped bag, to bring your hands to the front, trying to force past the pain enough to do something. Instead you have to gasp, and instead of air you take in water, and when you try again, all you do is take in more, and now your air sacs are soggy and in pain– you kind of wish they picked a less painful way to kill you. 

Something grabs the bag, and suddenly you’re moving– pulled in some direction you’ve lost track of already as you fight not to take in too much water. Maybe some weird river monster is going to eat you before you can drown. That might be preferable even!

You feel something push up against the bottom of the bag and it turns out the direction is up- two distinct hands hoisting you above the water. You choke– the pain in your bones intensifying as they’re suddenly affected by gravity again, your body shaking as it chokes up water, forcing its way past the gag as it drains from the bag. 

You’re placed on solid ground, and when the bag opens up, you look up at a freckle faced seadweller with buck teeth and short hair that’s still dripping wet. Three dogs peer down at you with him, and you’re bewildered as one of them bends over and licks your face. 

You freeze, wheezing slightly, unsure what she’s going to do with you, when she grins. 

“Well howdy do,” she says. “Here I though I was rescuin’ puppies and kittens but I diddly darn fished myself out a troll! M’name’s Rickly.” 

She reaches down and takes the tape off your face from where it was flapping pushes the bag back down from around your face. 

“What’s yours?” she asks. You blink back up at her, astonished. You’re under the bridge, you’re pretty sure. There’s a little camp set up down here, and you besides the three dogs, there’s a whole herd of animals watching you from a distance. 

“D’you talk?” she asks, leaning forward again. “Y’need help? Oh dangnabit you’ve been tied up this whole time and I ain’t got a single notice in my pan.” 

She busies herself, and you can’t help but flinch when she touches you, which hurts your bones even more. You’re shaking too hard to speak, as the realization finally sinks in. 

You’re not… dead. 

—

You spend the next few nights with Rickly under the bridge, with her flock of animals. You’re hurt pretty bad, but she helps you stick your arm into a sling and feeds you along with the rest of her rescues.

You’re not even close to 100% when you leave, but you need to make a call. Your own palmhusk is busted, dead in the water. You palm a palmhusk and you dial a number you made sure to memorize before everything. 

“Arneas?” you whisper into it. “It’s Tinnic, Gilras, she’s- no! Help– help, it’s the place at thirty fourth and twent-”

You snap it shut and return the palmhusk to it’s owner, and limp along your way.