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Victories

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Author: Jake-Rabbit

https://jake-rabbit.sofurry.com/

Twitter: @DamnDirtyFurry

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Inspired by an Illustration by:

Ellis Q. Clark Jr.

http://bookofrat.com/

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A thunderous rumble of ceremonial drums echoed throughout the pilot's ready room, a rhythmic, primal beat whose fervor was only then rivaled by the distant cheer of a crowd stirred up into a frenzy; full of pride, rivalry, alcohol, and a thousand years of tradition. In that moment, the drums were but only a steady beat to the rising and falling drone of the hundreds gathered outside. In the empty ready room, Leja heard it all. Her large murine ears swiveled, attuned to each and every rhythm and crowd's roar, as if below a coliseum. Although the moment was high, her mind was elsewhere, orbiting a million miles an hour around a singular thought, caught in its own gravity.

Win.

The bench was cold underneath her, and her elbows rested upon her thighs as her eyes looked downwards; focused on nothing. Her mind ever so slightly coming back into focus and pulling her consciousness back into reality. She lifted one weathered hand up, and in opening the palm towards herself, noted how the scars along her palms ran; long scars that traversed crosswise along her leathery palms. A remnant from where she'd held her child-like palms up atop a table, her blue doe eyes clouded with tears as the marks were inflicted upon her. She gingerly traced each flesh-drawn line with her fingers, noting how many years had gone by, and yet they still rose, red and angry, a constant reminder and unwelcome companion.

Leja traced one scar that ran from her wrist up to her index finger, following its path with a short, white claw. It was clear, that, despite any amount of care she could levy upon them, her hands were near completely devoid of fur; the mark of someone whom worked with and depended upon their hands. She'd been using them since she was a little girl; always the tomboy, always helping her father around the machines, always being chastised by her mother for getting oil onto a pretty, pastel dress that she didn't want to be wearing in the first place.

She turned her hands over and made two tight fists, the gesture emphasizing just how her fingers were battle scarred but strong, and the tendons exposed themselves in girder-straight lines of flesh against the backs of her hands. Her knuckles, long since calloused over, went white. She flexed her fists, and then extended her fingers back out again. Her hands kept her in work, but her fists kept her sane. They protected her, kept her own personal demons at bay, and kept her focused.

The ache in her back plucked at her placidness until it overtook her, and, standing strong, she extended her arms up towards the sky, letting her chiseled muscles along her arms coil and load. The top she wore showed off the fighter's physique under her steely grey pelt, her back looking as if it was sculpted of hewn stone, with thick, corded muscles that ran to her spine and up through her collar, visible even through the black fabric she wore. As she willed them to, her muscles reluctantly relaxed, still spring-loaded and ready for what she knew was coming.

While she was alone in the room, she mentally battled her own sapping doubts and the myriad pressures of her own life. Shuffling towards a mirror built above the ready room's sinks, she started in on bandaging her hands, using her thumb to hold the rough wrap in place as she slowly wrapped the cloth about her hands. The fabric easily covered up the scars and old battle wounds, until she could tie one hand in place and start in on the other. A brief pause, and an urge to look up into the mirror; she saw herself, and for a moment, saw the young girl she used to be; father having passed on, and her mother having gone further into a stupor of her own making. Her life existed on the streets then, and only there did she feel alive, as if discovering a purpose in living was the same as discovering a purpose in life. The vision was of a young girl, spending her time running with the wrong crowds for fear of otherwise being alone, using her father's knowledge of machinery to easily lift vehicles, to break them down, and to sell the parts back. The little girl had swapped her bright, oil-stained dress for dark street clothes that hid her body and hid her core.

Leja let her mind return, then set about wrapping her other hand, stopping to caress her thumb along the scars again before covering them up, quickly, tying off the cloth. She rested her palms to either side of the mirror and dared to look up once more, only to see the young girl staring back, eyes wide and tear ducts wet, hands on a cold, wet brick wall, the strobing lights of patrol cars behind her. Her purpose in living had become a reason for having her life taken away.

Memories flooded back, few of them good. She dug her feet into cold flooring, bare soles flexing out against the decking, her short but sharp claws digging in against the diamond plate steel. Her strong legs flexed, and her mind wandered. She remembered that, then, her mother hadn't come to help her out of jail; that mother never was around again after that incident. It wasn't long before she found herself held down against a frigid table by other inmates, her dignity taken, and once they'd found those scars on her hands, they'd added more of their own. Her cold fright turned to burning rage, and it was in that very instant that she found her sanity.

Leja had not been able to tear herself away from the mob that night, but her drive to defend herself hardened her in body and mind. While her palms burned and bled, she pushed herself to her limits. A young girl's body transformed into a woman's physique. She learned her lessons through many fights, she hardened her body through work, and she hardened her soul through naked necessity.

In the drive to defend herself, she'd employed her brain and her body as a cohesive whole; her body took on the look of a valkyrie, and her mind a steel trap. Leja studied and applied herself, taking everything that father taught her, remembered his values and his lessons. Soon, she was reading in the prison courtyard, by herself, and not a soul around dared to get too close. She worked in the prison's shop, and no one bothered her. She could lash out wrongly, and no one corrected her. She could feel absolutely alone, and no one dared to comfort her.

Her eyes focused into into the mirror once more, seeing those blue doe eyes and dark, curly hair of her youth change, eyes turned steely and cold, and black, curly hair hair done in tight braids down past her shoulders. She reached down, cinching her shorts tight about her narrow waist and tight midsection, hearing the drums outside rise in tempo. Not long now. She sat again and remembered, though her body started to ache from rising tension.

She had volunteered for deep space work release. One year out, and her sentence would be complete. It would be hard, potentially deadly, but letting her soul rot away in a system which she'd already eschewed was worse. Feeling alone felt like hell, itself. She could be out in the vast expanse of lonely space, and it would feel warmer and more comforting than the shell she'd built around her.

Basic Training was of no difficulty, and she found herself adapting well to the strict regimen. While other soldiers in the penal battalion were simply grateful for a change of scenery, she was grateful for a change in life. Suddenly she felt as if there was a purpose in living, and the aptitude she displayed, both at being a soldier and a mechanic, caught attention.

Aboard the Commonwealth Naval carrier Silverstrand, she came into her own. The Chief took note of how this convict - this rank prisoner - was working herself to the bone. How she'd spend the days lifting electrical junctions into place and fixing broken drives until her fingers bled, and then spend the night learning new systems, new machines, reading until she passed out. The Commander, however, had also seen how she bullied, how she fought, and how she intimidated. He saw through her facade, however, and he understood her.

The drums outside stopped their thunderous beat, and the crowd cheered louder in their stead. Leja splashed water onto her face and turned, walking down the hall, bare feet on metal and claws clicking against the flooring. She was stone-faced, but could smell the sweet fuel, the burning ozone, and feel the raw fervor from the flight deck down the hall.

When the regular enlisted decided that they'd had enough of her making them look bad, and conspired to teach her a lesson, she didn't let it go without a fight. She'd not ever again. She'd left them a broken lot, and taken a few hard blows herself, but when she stood in front of the man, and readied herself to be dressed down and put in the brig for a year, she was instead presented with an option.

"I want to see you put those brains to work," the commander said. "I want to see you live up to the potential you have in you. But you're angry. You're vicious, and you're a hazard. You think you need to get respect through force. You have an option. Fight for something other than yourself, or fight for the respect of the nothing and nobody that you came from. It's up to you whether you want to have a purpose in life. Give yourself one last fight, for something good, and let others come into your life. Show us heart instead of hate, and let us make you whole again."

Once she had stepped out onto the flight deck, she felt the warmth of simulated sunlight on her face. The raucous crowd numbered in the hundreds, all races and ranks, all come out for tradition, for a symbolic exchange between two ships at sea, a last fight to get it out of their systems before they had no choice but to work as a unit for a year or even until eternity. The winners were rarely clear, and rank meant nothing. The many hands of her shipmates reached out to her, and they cheered her on. She strode forwards, and saw the ring, cast in bright white light that reflected off the white oval's marked surfaces.

Leja took measured, practiced steps up to the ring, slipping under a rope and, in that moment, she saw her opponent. He was a large Mujina from the Dark Sun, a Lieutenant Commander. His chest was barreled, the hair atop his wedge-shaped head cut short. He had two bright white stripes that ran down his face typical to a badger, and he was a mountain. He also knew it; his sneer conveyed what he thought of her.

But she'd seen through him already, seen that he was as unlike her as could be. He'd not been through the life she had, and he'd not learned how it could go terribly wrong at a moment's notice. He's not ever feel the desolation of hitting rock bottom, and in the back of her mind, Leja pitied him that he would never recognize the elation of pulling yourself from that pit. His hands were thick, but his palms clean, and his knuckles coated in black fur. .

When she last felt real purpose and a guiding hand, she was a little girl, dressed in bright pastels and hair done in cute braids, her father crouched in front of her, and playfully dabbing her cheeks with oily fingers. She'd smiled, and laughed, and played around the workshop while he worked, stopping to watch him, admiring how his hands were devoid of fur, how they were scarred yet strong, and how he gladly gave of his mind, soul, and heart to her, without asking for anything in return.

Fight for honor, open your heart and mind willingly, anything else is madness. She knew that now. She'd let the monster out one last time, to fight for honor, and once she was stripped of the fighter's defenses, she'd have to give herself, heart and mind.

She would win this, for him.