Devil's Trap

[Hugo Montegue]

Vertical City, Nar Shaddaa

0630, local time. Hugo crunched his neck from side to side, trying to will away a little of the stiffness that had been plaguing him. Another night in that damn flea-trap motel had done wonders for his spinal alignment; assuming, of course, you considered having a spine that perfectly mimicked the contours of the Perlemian Trade Route. With walking being the occupying activity of the moment however, he was of a somewhat different opinion on the matter: something more akin to the notion that, if he spent another night in that Hutt's asshole room, his bones would probably lose all structure and he'd melt into a puddle that, well, probably looked like a Hutt's asshole.

He needed off this planet, and therein lay the problem. He had a ship - a nice, reliable, fast ship, stocked with weapons, gear, and liquor. At least, it had been when he'd left; he doubted the mechanics would have left much of the latter, knowing how sticky their fingers could get on this gods-aweful planet. The problem was that he couldn't find it. He knew that it was here, somewhere. He knew he'd left it in the charge of one of the vessel storage companies that littered vertical city. But no amount of intensive scrutiny of the planet's docking records revealed the presence of a Class 720 anywhere on the planet; no other Ghtroc Industries craft either, for that matter.

Nar Shaddaa was a shadowed place; things went missing from time to time. But there was going missing, and there was disappearing as if it had never existed. There was no record of a Coromon Headhunter ever having rested its skids on the moon - at least, not in the right time frame. There were no logged flight plans into or out of the system. There were no docking permits issued in that name. Damn strange, given how Hugo was sure as hell he should have had both. The paper trail was cold; dead. Well, almost. One tiny little clue led him in the right direction.

The midget Rodian flailed his legs frantically, heels thudding against the brickwork a good two feet above the floor. Hugo's eyes narrowed, staring into those black, souless eyes. "Where the hell is my ship, Zuri?"

The Rodian blinked, frantically. "I don't - ah - I - don't - ... aaahh!"

The barrel of Hugo's finger dug a little deeper into the bastard's forehead. Sure, it had been built from scraps and calibrated by someone with the IQ of a Rancor, conjouring a lack of accuracy that even Imperial Stormtroopers couldn't match. But at this range, it didn't matter whether the sights lined up with the angle the bolt would leave the emitter. It was still going straight through Zuri's skull, and blasting his brain back to the hell-hole he'd crawled out of.

Hugo's stare was cold; icy. His hand gripped tighter around the Rodian's neck. "Try again."

Zuri squealed; squeezed his eyes closed; tried to shut out the surroundings. He squirmed, wriggled, trying to break free, but Hugo's chokehold had him pinned, and those fat, muscle-fatigued legs from spending so much time sat on his fat lazy ass were hardly strong enough to kick with more than mildly annoying force. The Rodian coughed, struggling to speak; Hugo lessened the pressure on his larynx ever so slightly. "Hutts," Zuri managed to choke out. Hugo dropped him; the body hit the ground like a wet sack. Zuri lay still, gasping for breath. His voice was almost a whisper. "The Hutts took it."

The human lowered his gun; the Rodian was too far away to guarentee a hit now anyway. Hugo cursed himself for not having spent time repairing the pistol he'd bought off that homeless kid; he'd been under the foolish dellusion that his precious ship would be ready and waiting, its armoury crammed with more blasters, slugthrowers and virbroblades than he could ever hope to need. But his brain had been slow lately; his instincts dulled. The face of his captor formed in his mind; a snarl formed on his face. That ice-eyed bitch was to blame. His boot released some frustration on his behalf, smacking into the Rodian's gut.

Hugo kicked the grunting Zuri onto his back. Hell: he wouldn't need a blaster to kill this thing. "Why, Zuri?" he asked, his voice low, eyes drilling into the Rodian's. "Why would you go and let something stupid like that happen?"

"Debts," Zuri wheezed, trying to suck back in some of the wind that had been knocked out of him. "Couldn't pay ... they came ... thought you were dead ..."

A sick smile formed on Hugo's face. "Bad news for you," he muttered, landing a boot in the Rodian's side this time. Something cracked, audibly. "I'm not dead."

His leg recoiled, ready for another strike, but the shaking, trembling, sobbing figure at his feet made him halt. Zuri was pitiful; hardly worth the effort. Killing him would be a service; put him out of his misery. It wouldn't - despite how good it felt beating the crap out of the guy - get his ship back, either. He snarled, boots clacking against the floor as he paced back and forwards. "You got greedy, Zuri," he accused. "And that made you sloppy. You kept charging my account for berthing, even though you didn't have my ship. I wouldn't have found you again if you hadn't been so stupid."

Hugo crouched beside his victim, plucking a vibroblade from his belt. The knife sang as it hummed into life. Zuri let out another sob as Hugo pressed the flat of the blade against his cheek. "Please don't -"

"-kill you?" Hugo actually laughed. "Don't be stupid, Zuri: I don't want to kill you. I want my ship." He pressed the cold blade against the skin a little harder, the vibrating edge finding purchase against the Rodian's scales, a shallow cut coming into being, oozing viscous dark blood. "But since you went and lost mine, you're going to get me another."

Zuri was shaking; only the vice-grip on his jaw stopped him shivvering so much that the vibroblade sliced his entire face off. "Don't have the credits..." he muttered, voice weak and cracking.

Hugo threw a shrug that didn't extend beyond his face. "But you do have a Baudo in that hanger of yours; I saw it on the way in."

"But the owner -"

"Report it stolen," Hugo said simply. "Tell them that I took it, for all I care. A guy with a ship that fancy is bound to have insurance he can claim on."

He backed away and rose; the Rodian form went limp with relief and exhaustion. "I'll need new transponder codes, and enough fuel, supplies and paperwork to get me from here to Tatooine." Glancing down at the vibroblade in disgust, he wiped the remnants of Rodian blood from the steel. "A pleasure doing business with you, Zuri, as always." He almost smiled. "You have two days."

Without another word, Hugo turned, striding out of the dingy, duracrete hole that Zuri called an office without a second thought or the slightest glance back. Two days wasn't much time; he had calls to make.

[Cambrio Montegue]

Dune Sea, Tatooine

The heat was like a slow-moving stream, thick and cloistered and so heavy it took a full three breaths to beat back the ache that tied itself to lungs. Along the crest of each fire-hued sand dune the air rippled and danced, furthering the illusion of being underwater, while the wind (too hot to provide any relief) blew sheets of fine dust along the terra waves. It was sort of beautiful, in a haunting, wasteland sort of way. Not enough to make one want to spend any more time here than was absolutely necessary but still. Silver lining and all that.

Krasst. Who was he trying to kid? The only silver lining on Tatooine was the brief blinding light before making the jump to hyperspace when leaving this cesspool of a planet.

Cambrio Montegue closed his eyes against the glaring sun and concentrated on keeping his breathing on an even beat. There was a fine line between gasping to regulate body temperature and hyperventilating; cross it here, and you'd be dead. The man lay sprawled on his back on the ground, half under a meager patch of shade provided by a high face of rock that spiraled up toward the sky like some bizarre natural sculpture. It was hardly significant cover and the slight drop in temperature it's shade provided was minimal at best, but it was better than nothing. He was grateful at least for the change in scenery. He could count porous holes on the rockface now, instead of grains of sand.

Apparently when clients offered to pay double your asking rate, it ought to raise to raise a few questions. The first being why and the second being is this really worth it? If he and his brother had just taken the time to follow that line of thinking, they might not have been in this situation. Which was: stranded in a desert with minimal supplies, bleeding patterns into the remarkably absorbent landscape.

The hunt had started off well. They'd mapped their grounds carefully, marking the last sighting locations and making notations about the beast's habits. Krayt dragons were notoriously fierce and scarily clever but it wasn't anything they couldn't handle. Wasn't anything they hadn't handled before. After a few days prep work, the Montegue boys packed up their gear -- traveling as light as was safely possible because who knew how long it would take to track the damn thing -- accepted half their fee up front as collateral, and headed out.

Because Krayts were territorial and liable to pick up on any obvious disturbances, they'd hired a sand speeder pilot to take them out. A local moisture farmer, Kes Folee was friendly, informative, and whipcord smart. He brought them five klicks east of their targeted hunting grounds and set up camp. They'd paid him extra to wait for them. One week. If they weren't back by then they were either dead or lost (which basically equated to the same thing.)

In the end it had only taken three days before they found the bastard. Or rather, three days before he stopped toying with them and attacked. Cambrio'd seen plenty of heart-stopping sights in his days but a ten legged, four thousand pound behemoth on the warpath took the cake. Fucking took it and ate it with a pint of Corellian ale as a chaser. The thing had to be at least three hundred feet long and it was graceful, whipping it's spiked tail with expert precision as it clawed it's way across the sand.
They'd realized then that maybe they'd underestimated the stupid thing. Fallback plan number one (run like hell) was out; there was no way they could outpace the dragon and there wasn't anywhere to go anyway. So the Montegue boys had stood their ground and dodged and weaved and fought like it was their life's ambition. Which, at that particular moment, it was.

Finally a clear shot opened up. The brothers had split up in the hopes of distracting the thing, and the krayt had fallen for it, gone after Vitt. Cam scrambled after them, angling himself so that when he reached the top of a nearby dune, he had a clear sight of the dragon's exposed face. The distance was perfect and his position sublime; one shot to the sinus cavity and it would all be over. He'd grinned, gripped his DLT-19 rifle, and fired with no small amount of pleasure.

He missed. Completely.

The ensuing carnage had been pretty spectacular and how he and his brother had survived was still hazy. There had been a lot of shouting and cursing and panic and then suddenly the krayt bellowed and keeled over, a smoking hole in the middle of it's forehead. It wasn't until after they'd trimmed the corpse and the adrenaline had worn off that they'd realized, hey, they were sort of torn up. The walk back to Kes' camp had been more of a drunken stumble.

Or rather, the walk back to where Kef's camp should have been.

It was empty. That had been last night and there was still no sign of him. Cambrio let out a disgusted gust of breath and immediately regretted it as his side spasmed in pain. There was a long, jagged slice running from his ribcage to his hip, bleeding slow but steady. There were other things, small signs of battle, but that was the one that currently had him flat-backed and baking in the afternoon sun like a beached fish, just ticking down the time to it's expiration date. Vitt wasn't much better; worse, even.

Speaking of; Vittore was currently bent over him, one hand pressing down firmly on his chest. "Ready?"

"Frell you." Cam sucked in a breath and winced. He heard the low sound of Vitt's chuckle, dissolving into muted coughs.

"You wish. Alrighty, princess. On three. One. Two--"

"Motherfrelling son of a hutt in heat damn it to hell - !!" Cambrio snarled viciously, fists clenching at his sides and neck arching up only to slam back down onto the sand. His brother grinned and pressed the heated flat of the knife blade deeper into his side, careful not to burn the unmarred flesh around the wound. It was a white-hot, exploding fire that ripped across his abdomen and drew out every profanity he'd ever learned. Field Medics 101. Cauterizing. "You bastard, Vitt, holy mother... you said on three!"

The younger man hissed and tried not to jerk away from the searing hot weapon that burned into his flesh. The smell was spectacular, amplified by the heat and close air. "Just you - ah, crap - wait. You're up next, pal."

[Vittore Montegue]

The effort to try at patching each other up made the wounds scream but in all honesty it wasn’t anything they hadn’t been through before, in one way or another, one form of hurt, burn and bleed or break. The scenes were countless, together and apart, easy and hard. There wasn’t much in the way of gray areas. Either something needed to be done in or it didn’t. The job was usually pretty clear and unconfusing that way, as he liked it. The scars were countless, like badges, medals of honour and personal pride, like a submissive might claim.

Except not. Also ‘except not’ in cases of utter stupidity. Vitt was having a hard time figuring out the difference between what might have been brilliance and idiocy this time. Coming to Tatooine in the first place was never the best idea in his books for a hunt. If things went south, there were any number of things that would be more than happy to make out of him their next meal. Being eaten wasn’t exactly at the top of his list of ‘1001 Fun Things To Do With Your Time’… well, not ‘being eaten’ in the straight up, bodily harm sense, anyway. In the 'fun case, it was him that was the all-devouring ‘monster’.

The high, midday sun had a funny way of wiping even the most errant thoughts of ‘fun’ from the surface of his brain, like slash-burning the entirety of the forests of Corstris. Krayts that were smarter than they should have been tended not to help matters, but if they got out of here alive and kicking, they will have made a killing. If dad was still alive… he didn’t need to go there. Not here, not when the job was still technically in go. It wasn’t done until you were free of its circumstances. Clearly, the boys weren’t.

“Yeah…” He started, wincing at the otherwise normal movement it took to remove the hot knife from his brother’s side. “…but I won’t whine like a baby.”

The effort to speak without coughing was virtually impossible between the heat, his injuries and the wafting, eternally unpleasant smell of burning human flesh and dried or drying blood. Vitt sat up from his position over his brother, held the knife so as not to bludgeon Cam further than the Krayt had already done and helped him into a sitting position, at the expense of straining his aches and pains further. Then he handed over the knife, handle first, trying not to touch the blade to the unmarred skin of his hands, which was crusted with blood and other forms of goo due to sourcing marketable materials from their now-dead quarry.

“Don’t worry about me, bro.” He said, trying to get comfortable, putting on the machismo and bravado. “Just get ‘er done.”

As Cam began to put himself into position and direct Vitt as to how he needed the elder brother to sit or lay or what to make prominent, several things occurred to him. Something about this entire trip had been nagging at him and the feeling had gotten heavier with each little clue.

"Does something..." He wheezed, pausing in his words and grimacing as he laid down, like needed to. "...about this whole thing seem fishy to you? I mean, that Krayt was a big frakker, Kes running off on us and the utter pain in the ass just coming to this dump is? I dunno, but... I mean, the pearls and the venom will fetch us something good and we did the job, but I feel a little set up."

Maybe Vitt was just being a teensy bit paranoid, but it had occurred to him that they hadn't yet figured a way out of here that, between their injuries and the mostly inhospitable climate, wouldn't have them finished off.

[Cambrio Montegue]

The temperature was steadily rising and a throbbing sort of dizziness was starting to infect his limbs. Cam swayed as he kneeled beside his brother, one hand gripping the hilt of the knife and the other poised a few inches above his wounded side, hovering as though to stop the jagged incision from bursting open again. The man's stomach was beginning to cramp, a dull headache pounding at his temples, the nape of his neck, behind his eyes; they needed to get out of the sun and off the sand soon, if they wanted to avoid heatstroke. Saliva swelled under his tongue - oh frell, was he going to vomit? He didn't have time for that. He needed to concentrate. Besides, puking was for pussies.

"Shutup," Cambrio mumbled, tightening his grip on the knife hilt. "I gotta concentrate. Besides, that's crazy. Why would anyone want to set us up? To kill us?" He snorted. "Easier ways to do that, man." As he spoke he prodded his brother to roll onto his side, grimacing at the shredded flesh of Vittore's shoulder and back. The cuts were deep and angled awkwardly, making it hard to determine just how to position the blade in order to seal off the bleeding. Cam carefully peeled bits of Vitt's shirt out of the way, swore. "Shit. You've got sand all over you. 'S probably gonna get infected real fast."

There wasn't much he could do about that. Cam wasn't willing to waste water rinsing the wound out and while that was asking for trouble, it was the lesser of two evils. They'd lost a canteen in the skirmish with the dragon, which meant they were down to one between the two of them. It would get them through to nightfall but not beyond, unless they rationed it - one of the more common survival mistakes that people made in an attempt to increase their chance of walking out of the desert alive. Sipping water constantly kept the body cooler, reduced water loss through sweating; rationing that supply did nothing but make for a good shot at becoming a heat casualty.

He brought his own wrist around, tested the flat of the blade against the exposed skin; it was hot enough to make him flinch, but nowhere near where it needed to be. Cam shoved the knife through the grating of the small camp stove they'd brought with them. They'd joked about having some nice krayt steaks to go with their ration bars, but that was out now; food required water to digest. At least the stove had come in handy for something.

The younger hunter waited a few moments before pulling it out and bracing his brother with a shaky hand on his side. Cam made as quick a job of cauterizing the wound as he safely could, jaw clenched when his brother grunted and flinched, hissed as a particularly deep slice oozed and sizzled. Vittore took it with his usual stoicism but it had to hurt like a motherfucker. Cam's side was still ablaze with protest, confirming so. A drop of sweat dripped from his hairline and trickled down his face, beading at his chin before landing on the sand and evaporating immediately.

"Kes was just an asshole, Vitt. Don't go all conspiracy theorist on me." Cam hooked an arm under his brother, avoiding the injured side, and the two of them half-leaned half-lifted each other to stand upright. Cam hunched slightly, unable to straighten; probably busted a couple of ribs too. He squinted at the rock formations on the other side of the basin, jerked a chin in their direction. "Find a cave we can bunk down in, rest up 'til night when it's cooler." Cam glanced at Vittore. "I'll pop your shoulder back in when we're there. Think you can make it?"

[Vittore Montegue]

"Yeah." He grunted, staggering a little in his attempt to remain upright after the joined effort to haul up. They were, without a doubt, a very sore sight to see. Vitt typically preferred to be a sight for sore eyes (and pretty ones, alike), but now was not the time for such a particular brand of masculine pursuits. It wasn't playtime, as nice as that would be. The elder Montegue brother tucked those forming fun thoughts away for a later date and time when they would be considerably more appropriate. 'Cause those times? They always came, one way or another.

Cam was right, as much as Vitt would rather be the one that was right, it was true. There were easier ways to have the pair of them killed, but for a sadist, this would probably be a damn funny and hell of fun way to do it. Schadenfreude, was it? He'd heard the word before, but wasn't sure what convoluted language it came from. He just knew that what it meant made him laugh, too, in the right circumstances... so long as the joke wasn't on him. Right now, none of this was funny. He wanted to slag the sonuvabitch who lured them here. He was certain something about this wasn't kosher, but he laid the thought to rest, seeing as Cam wasn't willing to abide 'Mr. Conspiracy Theorist' coming out for a chat. Survival mode it was, then.

"I'll be fine. Let's just get us there." He winced, the act of standing and gripping his brother tensing all kinds of muscles, running through all kinds of very stingingly sore spots. What he would do for a nice sponge bath and being waited on by a handful of beautiful ladies. Pity it doesn't do him any favours out here. Nobody wants to get delusional in the wastes of Tatooine.

"Focus. Gotta focus. Let's get."

[Cambrio Montegue]

Walking across the basin was like torture, heat beating down from above and heat reflecting up from below so they were pinned in the thick of it as they stumbled along. Underneath his heavy boots - which were torn to shit now, military grade or no - the sand packed just enough resistance to make each step a test in endurance, tugging at his calves and forcing him to lean forward a little to compensate. Cam winced as he bent at the waist, the angle unforgiving to both cracked bone and rent skin. If they - no, when they got out of here, he was damn well gonna park his ass in the freezer section of the nearest warehouse market and not move for a good week. Maybe two.

The more they walked the farther the caves seemed. It was only partly an illusion; with a pained cringe, Cambrio realized he'd underestimated the actual distance by quite a bit, the wickering air creating a deceptive shield in front of them. There was nothing for it though. What else could they do? Stopping wasn't an option and there weren't any conveniently placed shield shacks like on some other desert planets he'd been to. Frelling Tatooine and it's anti-social tourism revolution. Cam yanked at the collar of his shirt, frayed from being washed in one-too-many laundromats across the 'verse, and cursed when the material gave way with a jagged tearing sound, splitting a good two inches. It was drenched in sweat and blood and dirt, the Cockpit Confessional concert logo faded to unreadable a dozen cycles ago, and had small holes along it's seams but it was worn-in comfortable and his favourite t-shirt. More importantly, it was the only one he had left. He'd been running hot for months now, ever since he'd booked it off Coruscant, and hadn't bothered to stop for much beyond ammunition and leads. Clothes? Clothes were pretty far down on the list as far as priorities went.

He'd have to borrow something from Vittore when they got back, until they could hit a surplus at least.

Fuck it was hot. Cambrio wanted nothing more than to stop for just a second but he wouldn't do it while his brother still trudged on. Competition could be a strong ally when it came to survival. He just had to stop thinking. It was more a psychological battle than a physical one - he hurt, yeah, but it was his brain telling him he hurt too much to keep going, not his body. Cam licked his lips and cleared his throat roughly.

"I'm going to hunt a howler and I'm bringing ammunition." He panted, double-timing a couple of steps to catch up to Vittore. There was a stunned silence and then, quietly like he didn't quite believe he was doing this, Vitt replied.

"I'm going to hunt a howler and I'm bringing ammunition and a blaster."

"I'm going to hunt a howler and I'm bringing ammunition, a blaster, and catseye shells."

It was an old game they'd played as kids, passing the silent time in space between planets. Turned out it was just as distracting here. They made it to 'q' (quick-ass reflexes) before finally clambering up the dune and to the gnarled caves. It took a few moments more before they found a cave big enough for the both of them and deep enough to provide relief from the elements. Cam let out a chuff of relief as they collapsed inside, his torso on fire and his drenched hair plastered to his head - as gross as it was, the fact that they were both sweating buckets was actually a good thing. At least they weren't dehydrated. Speaking of which -

Cambrio uncapped the canteen and waited 'til his breath caught up before taking a swig. He held the comparatively cool water in his mouth for a few minutes, waited for it warm to his body temperature before swallowing it; liquid relief rushed down his parched throat and he coughed a bit, the sensation sharp. He screwed the lid back on loosely and passed it over to his brother. It was still half-full, plenty to get them through the next... Cam leaned out of the cave a bit, squinting at the sky; six hours, maybe? Settling heavily against the side of their shelter, he closed his eyes wearily. A quick nap would be good - restore some much needed energy and do more for his wounds than any jimmied field solutions could.

Cam kicked Vittore in the leg, hard, and then stretched out, hands going under his pounding head as a makeshift cushion. The krayt was dead, they were holding a secure position, and they weren't going to bleed out. It was as safe a time as any to grab a little shut eye.

[Vittore Montegue]

Vittore cringed, yelping at the deliverance of the hard kick and seethed for a moment, every sore on his body yowling in more than mere discomfort as he curled up from his laid out position to nurse his leg until it stopped throbbing. The elder Montegue boy was having a difficult time of trying to find anything really comparable to the pain in so many places he was feeling, but he bore it well. He would never admit that, at times, their tousle with the krayt had him edging on terrified - fear wasn't something to induce screaming. Fear was a healthy thing. It let you know you weren't being stupid. The line between fear and cowardice was something he very much tried not to skirt and his tough-man persona did well at this. Never show them your weaknesses - he'd learned that lesson hard and fast, many moons ago.

"Goddamn you, Cam, you frackin' little piece of bantha poodoo!" He uttered under his heavy breathing, trying to will the throbbing pain under control. Cam chortled a small laugh and coughed violently as Vitt stewed, trying to steer his mind to vengeance, away from his utter soreness and the fond memories that made the rest of his life seem better than now. The last thing he'd need was to get all mopey. That wouldn't do. "I swear I'll..."

But by the time he was soothed enough to get the words out, the younger brother was out like Tatoo I & II long after suns-down. It was easy to give up his want for adept retaliation when he hurt this much. There wasn't much point of it, anyway. Conserve energy, rest up for the next move - so that was what he did. Cambrio seemed to have that idea well into his unconscious mind, but after a good fifteen minutes of trying it himself, Vittore just couldn't sleep and against reason, dragged himself to his feet after twenty-five and nudged at his brother with the toe of one boot, muttered something about not being able to sleep and needing to walk some of it off before trudging deeper into the cave.

The progress was slow, due to his injuries and every minute he spent on his feet moving along was another instance of the pain seeming to intensify. Every notching up, he'd choke it back down and continue on, for there was one thing that seemed to be enticing beyond the felt need to stop and rest: It was cooler, deeper in the cave. Not an incredible difference, but enough that even during the still-burning daylight, the slight change in temperature could be noticed against a suns-warmed body. He wanted to keep moving to taste more of the coolness the cave had to offer, but between the overwhelming ache of his body and the newfound need to relieve himself of some liquid baggage had Vittore Montegue stopping, leaning hard up against the cave wall that he had been using for support to lumber along and loosen his belt and fly to do his business.

If one listened, they could surely hear the unique sound of urine against rock, splashing and trickling, seeking out crevices. Despite himself, the firstborn let out a low groan of relief.

[Hugo Montegue]

The click of the blaster controls, and the whine as the power cell charged into life were bordering on silent, but in the echoes of the cave they were amplified well into Vittore's range of hearing. Just in case they hadn't been correctly identified, the figure whose hand held the blaster levelled at the back of Vittore's head cleared his throat.

"You made three mistakes," a low growl explained, not moving from his concealed localle in the shadows of the cave wall. "First of all, you're pissing away valuable drinking water in that yellow stream o' yours; I'm guessin' you already lost your purification gear though, so it probably wouldn't do you much good; not unless you like the sterility and taste."

The reflective barrel of the blaster shifted as the speaker took a few tentative paces forward. He, frankly, looked in about as bad a state as Vittore, only his wounds had been allowed to dry a few days, and crack into angry dark scabs and scars. The hand that wasn't holding the blaster steady scrubbed at his jaw; a good few days of growth suggested that he'd been here a shade longer than they had.

"Second mistake; you wandered away from your camp without bothering to bring a blaster." That in particular was an annoyance to the speaker, given how he'd insisted that the boys sleep with one under their pillow since they hit double figures. He would've hoped it had become sufficiently ingrained by now; but apparently, all it took was a few scrapes, bruises and dislocations to undo all his hard work. He sighed at that thought.

"But worst of all," he continued, stepping out into what minimal light the cave had to offer, "You fucked off and left your brother solo, without telling him where you were going. That was a particularly bad mistake, since there'll be no one to come retrieve your sorry corpse when I blast your ass and your little bro too."

If Vittore was ready with some kind of escape plan, he certainly didn't have time to enact it; the steady stream of urine hadn't wavered either, which made his collapse to the floor under the influence of the stun blast all the more embarassing. As Vittore slumped downwards, Hugo stepped over and jabbed a pair of fingers in the kid's shoulder, checking his pulse. Still conscious; that was a reassuring confirmation that he'd calibrated the blaster correctly.

Regarding to scene, he realised the slight tactical error of his plan thus far; Vittore was suffering a 'containment issue' in the below the belt area. To make matters worse, urine was steadily soaking into his pants as his relaxed muscles allowed his bladder to finish what it was designed for. Hugo groaned at the prospect of not only having to manhandle his eldest son, but also sling him over his shoulder in such a way that his urine-soaked crotch would be perilously close to his face.

"Note to self," he muttered with a sigh. "Let the guy pack up his gear before rendering him unconscious."

[Cambrio Montegue]

The rocky surface of the cave floor couldn't be considered pleasant for sleeping, particularly with injuries, but comfort had never been a top priority in their family. Quite the opposite rather; they'd been raised to look upon amenities and frills with an appropriate amount of disdain, smugly confident that no matter what the conditions they would be fine. It wasn't the uneven terrain or the throbbing gash along his side that made his sleep so inconsistent and fitful (though they certainly didn't help matters.) Cambrio's eyelids fluttered and he jerked a bit, aware in some distant part of his mind that someone was moving around; Vittore, his subconscious reminded him, staving off an awakening.

"Is that your brother?"

Cam opened his eyes and turned slightly, met shimmering green irises and frowned. "What?" He shifted onto his side so that he could view the lithe form beside him, all dark skin and sloping curves. Marlee rolled her eyes impatiently.

"Vittore; is that your brother?" She asked again, idly rubbing a palm along his arm. When he gave her a confused look in lieu of an answer, she smiled. "You were talking in your sleep."

"Oh." That was news. He'd never done that before - or at least, hadn't ever been made aware that he did. What else had he said? "Uh, yeah. Yeah, that's my brother."

"What were you dreaming?"

"I don't remember." Cambrio did his best approximation of a shrug, displacing the sheets and blankets that had tangled about them. Marlee sighed and nudged him onto his back, rolled on top of him. Her hair fell around her face as she peered down at him, a coy smile tugging at her lips. Gentle fingers closed his eyelids. Cam grinned.

"Try."

"...I think we were on a ship?" He hazarded. Marlee shifted on top of him and he swallowed thickly at the sudden pressure. "Yeah, a ship; not one I know though, just someplace random uh..." His smile shifted into a grimace as the weight grew more insistent, unpleasant. Cam tried to move; Marlee moved with him. The muscles in his thigh spasmed suddenly, bunching together, and Cam hissed and opened his eyes "Ow, babe--"

Whatever words had been coming were lost because instead of Marlee there were fangs and claws and a snarling face leering down at him and suddenly it pitched forward, saliva dripping from it's open mouth as it dived toward his neck --

"Fuck!" Cambrio's yell echoed in the small chamber as the dead weight landed atop his abdomen, a stray limb thumping against his side. He jerked up despite his muscle's protest, hissing and shoving at the body - Vittore, the fucker - on top of him. "I didn't kick you that hard you --"

Whatever words had been coming were lost; there was a burst of pain in the back of his head and then Cambrio slumped backwards, vision swimming dizzily before everything faded blissfully to black.

***

He woke in the eerie blue-grey light that meant dawn wasn't far off, his head throbbing like he'd gone on a Starshine Surprise-induced bender and an unpleasantly sharp odor in his nose. Cam winced and immediately hissed; just moving his freaking face sent little knives into his skull. The man forced his breathing to quiet, listening to discover whether or not anyone had heard his little outburst; there was no noise save the gentle rasping of sand being disturbed by the early morning breeze.

Sand. Why the fuck was he lying on the sand? They'd gotten out of the dunes.

Cambrio shoved aside his discomfort and forced himself to take stock of the situation. He was on his stomach and the reason his shoulders felt tight, he realized with a cautionary wriggle, was because his hands were bound together in the small of his back and secured with a length of - what, cord? - to his legs, which were also fastened rigidly. Someone had spread a tarp out beneath him but he'd shifted off it slightly and what he'd mistaken for a pile of cloth was actually Vittore, tied in a similar fashion. They were close enough and positioned conveniently so that Cam couldn't help but inhale the tang of his brother's damp clothes. The glee that the knowledge of his big brother pissing himself brought was dampened by both his regret at having the evidence so close to his olfactory senses and his complete and utter confusion as to what the hell was going on.

"Vitt," Cam whispered lowly; he waited for a long moment, straining to hear any kind of noise. "Vittore, wake up you fucker, we've been taken friggin' hostage by..."

God, what? What the hell was this far out? Sand people? No, they'd have been strung up or dead by now if that were the case. Jawas? As far as he knew they weren't much for kidnapping sentients. Kes - had he come back to finish them off, take the Krayt bounty for himself? Cambrio knew without looking (which was good because he physically couldn't turn that way to check visually) that both his blasters and his vibroblade were missing. Not that he'd have been very formidable with them, all trussed up like he was, but it did mean that who... that whatever had them was intelligent enough to disarm them.

Wasn't exactly how I was hoping to start the frelling day, Cam thought dryly, testing his restraints again. They held fast. He slumped back down, even the small exertion tiring him. Vittore hadn't yet stirred and the limited view that his position afforded was only enough to confirm that they were in the open air again.

Whoever the frell this is, Cam thought darkly, Better not count on letting us loose and living.

[Vittore Montegue]

"unnnngh..." Vittore's eyes squeaked open to slits, daring to peek around at his earned surroundings. The sound of Cam's voice brought a sigh and an uncomfortable groan as both relief and discomfort hit him - one from that voice, the other from the slowly coming realization that his physical senses brought him. That is, the one of being pretty damn hogtied and virtually helpless, no thanks to his sluggishly healing battle wounds. Vitt lifted his head and tried to crane, hazard a look at the expense of stretching one burning portion of himself or another, but after a stretch of moments, flopped back defeatedly. A slightly frustrated moan followed.

"...that fucker ..he's so gettin' his ass kicked." Again, one eye creaked open at the further realization of the current environment. It wasn't the coolness he was enjoying prior to blacking out and the pounding of his head (which had plenty to do with said period of unconsciousness of indeterminate length) was not helped by the twinned brightness of Tatooine's suns, whose heat was also a very big threat in this situation. "Cammy..."

Vitt licked his lips and squeezed his eyes shut. He could now feel the absence of several items normally affixed to his body, namely the ol' blaster. He found himself mildly pissed off about not knowing the whereabouts of the heirloom.

"...shit, that was so stupid of me. And I swear it was Dad's voice behind it all."

Of that much, he was certain. The loyal soldier boy would never and could never forget his commander's voice. Even with that, he wanted so much to kick the ass of said 'commander', even if he knew very well that their current situation was more or less his fault.

Even if it had been a pretty wily trap.