bakerstreet | The Helpful Hostage Meme

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The Helpful Hostage Meme

THE HELPFUL HOSTAGE (maybe) (hopefully) MEME!

Running from a wrongful accusation of murder? Wounded by your archenemy and looking for a place to hide? Need a pilot to go after those drug lords escaping across the border? Don't have time to go through the official channels? Find a hostage! And make them help you.

In this meme, one person desperately needs help. And, in order to get it, they grab another character. Off the street, out of their car, from a restaurant.

PROMPTS: (optional)
1 - MEDICAL ATTENTION.. You're bleeding, in pain and desperate, and you need medical attention. Right now. What will you do? Break into a private practice after hours? Find a darkened house or apartment with a convenient bathroom?
2 - SHELTER. The cops are after you. The temperature is dropping below -20. You're out in the middle of nowhere and you're starving. You don't have any options left - except for this.
3 - TRANSPORTATION. You need to get out of town. Fast. Can't buy a car, can't rent a car, can't take a bus - how do you leave?
4 - PROFESSIONAL SKILLS. You need a doctor. A lawyer. A pilot. A spy. And you know just the one. And you're going to get their help whether they want it or not.
5 - A HOSTAGE. You need a body to threaten. Maybe it's the President's daughter; maybe it's just someone off the street. Either way, it's leverage you're after. Maybe you'll turn them loose once you get to the border.
6 - FINISH THE CRIME. Get the manager who can open the bank vault. Or whatever else you need to commit your act of murder, sabotage and/or thievery.
7 - IT WAS AN ACCIDENT???? Fuck.
8 - CHOOSE YOUR OWN.

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As a matter of fact, Malak's evening is just about to go to shit.

Not that he knows this. Or that he registers anything unusual about the woman who entered the shop (besides the obvious: intense beauty, honed like a dagger). No, he's working on a short sword and completely ignoring the world outside, focused on the pulse of the hammer like a heartbeat, on the bellows like deliberate breaths. Times like these, he knows his forge is alive, because he makes it live, with every part of him.

He has, in fact, left the window open. It gets sweltering in here without it, even though the light chill of autumn is getting closer every day.

He works a shirt with rolled-up sleeves (sleeveless still provokes accusations of showing himself off, as though he does it for the sex appeal instead of practicality) and a leather apron. And he thinks of nothing.

Natasha can hear him working, takes stock of her situation, of her options. The riot of panic and alarm that she hears raised in the street, it's for the fire. The death is either not yet discovered (could she be so lucky?) or news of it has simply not made it out of the palace yet. She could maintain the illusion of innocence here. Of course, she's about to vanish, and the assassination will not stay unknown for long, and he seems smart enough to put the pieces together, considering that she's just broken into his place. So she can force him, or she can ask for help. If he refuses, she can always just tie him up and make for the shore on her own. If he comes willingly, however, it makes this whole evening a bit less of a headache.

So she takes the leap.

Her steps are quiet as she enters the main forge, hugging the walls like a shadow stubborn enough to refuse to be banished by the warm glow. "I need your help."

Malak, when Natasha speaks, is holding the sword with his left hand, bracing it so he can shape it with his right. In a moment, before the words have registered, he's seized the sword out of the forge -- scattering coals on the floor -- and held it at the ready, the way he was trained to.

He was fortunate to be trained. Many of the warriors around here wouldn't take on a boy. But the old blacksmith had; she always said you couldn't be a good smith unless you knew what to do with the weapons you made.

This sword might not be sharp but it is heated to the point of changing color, and that's good enough.

(Probably isn't, actually; if anyone meant Malak real harm, and was a professional, they would have moved already. Malak's impulse is never to attack.)

And then he sees, and recognizes her, and the words process. He steps back, right away dropping the sword in the water nearby, where it hisses cool. "All right." He would have said of course, but there's something about this that makes him more cautious. He pulls the leather apron over his head, wiping sweat out of his eyes. "Did you--" His eyes go to the open window. He's pretty sure he locked up. He doesn't usually feel safe otherwise.

She glances to the window when he does, nods her head once. "I did." It's a small window. Natasha takes a heavy leather glove from the counter, and uses it to pick up two smouldering coals that have rolled near her and toss them back into the forge. She stamps on the slightly charred spots on the floor, putting out any remaining embers. She's already about to make his life so difficult, the last thing she wants to do is add robbing him of his home to the list.

"I need to get off the island. Tonight. Now. It's-- the less you know, the better, but my face is too new here. I'll have better luck getting through town with you, and I'd rather you come willingly." It's impossible to hide the fact that the bags near the wall contain everything of hers that she values enough to take with her. This is not a casual evening stroll. She's leaving, and she's not coming back, and he's probably smart enough to draw his own conclusions there. She's just handed him an awful lot of information, between the lines, and some of it can hurt her.

His heart manages to simultaneously do a sort of jackknife up into his throat and sink down into his belly.

"I see." He doesn't, at all. "But I'm coming. Either way."

He has some experience with suggestions that have teeth.

Natasha nods, only once, gratitude in the softened lines of her face for just a moment. In the calm here, she can take a moment to adjust things. It takes her hardly any time at all to empty one bag, various weapons disappearing about her person, items tucked into pockets, hooked onto belts, making her look less like a deadly living shadow and more like an actual person who just happens to have a dark aesthetic. She looks less purposeful. That will be important, as she does her best to find a new way to the docks.

The other bag looks less conspicuous now, slung across her chest, half hidden under her cloak. "We should go now. There's a house fire a few streets over." A beat. "I didn't start it. It'll take focus now, but there will be a bigger cause for alarm soon."

"Wait."

He isn't offering resistance, he's just... he just wants one answer.

"What about after?"

Malak thinks about how the duty of a man, in this situation, would probably be some sort of suicide to protect his honor, or to go down fighting for his children. She isn't threatening his children, and he hardly thinks his honor is worth that much.

"After," he says. "You get to the docks, and if you think there's a chance I'll say something, you'll take me with you when you leave." Or kill me, he adds, silently. "What happens then?"

After. Natasha knows what her after holds. More or less. That isn't what he's asking, though, she knows that. It's a fair question. She can't blame him for asking it.

She has one for him in return, and her face is as open as it ever is when she asks him: "Are you happy here? Content? Do you want this life?"

He breathes in, sharp. Is it so obvious, how much it hurts? He thought he'd done better, learning to lie about it. There are so many who find their happiness here -- and it's true, this was probably a cleaner, safer life than he would have had with his first family. They take care of people here. There are real doctors.

He looks up to Natasha, and there's a fire in his eyes. He instinctively feels that she -- she might really understand.

"They kidnapped and sold me," he says, bluntly. "Would you be content?"

"No. I would boil with rage. I would tear it all down around their ears." There's force behind those words, not an idle musing.

She makes her choice, as she thinks he's made his. "What comes after is your decision. I won't hurt you. I give you my word. Your life belongs to you, if you come with me, if you play the part I need." She can't offer him much, but she can offer him that. To leave and never return, if he wants it, or to come back and claim coercion. She can't say that life will be fair or kind or safe, but she can see to it that it's his choice, his mistakes to make.

She takes a step forward, and holds out her hand. She might not be worth much, on the sum, but her word has value. She lies, yes, but she doesn't give her word lightly.

He can go. He can go. Malak's heart gives that weird lurch again, but this time it feels lighter.

He turns away from her hand, but only briefly. There are a handful of things he won't leave behind. He slides the hammer into the creased leather pocket of his tool folio, and wraps it up, looping the carry strap across his chest. His hands are shaking as he pulls out his keys and opens the little lockbox with the handful of gems to be used in crafting jewelry or to be set in hilts and crests. He empties it into a little pouch, because gemstones are currency everywhere.

That's truly all he needs. The tools, he's spent a long time crafting and perfecting; given someone else's forge and anvil, and some metals, he can start over. A good blacksmith is always in demand.

He is hesitant as he places his hand in hers. Hesitant, but determined, all the same. He chooses to trust.

"What do you need?" he asks.

Natasha waits and lets him pack. He may not be back. She won't rush him. Even a hated home is a home, and leaving it can be difficult, can pull at the very fiber of you. She can spare a moment.

She squeezes his hand in hers. A bargain. "I need the disguise of your well recognized face all the way to the docks. If anyone is there to see me, I need a hostage, someone afraid for their life to get us onto a boat. If I need it, it might sting a little, but I'll be as gentle with you as I can be." She thinks for a moment. "Do you have a client near the docks? Someone you might make a delivery to?" It could get them through the streets a little easier. If not, she'll work with what they've got. She has a willing cohort, which is more than she had five minutes ago.

Oh, he should have thought of that. He could have, if she hadn't first. Of course he's stayed up before, working and working and perfecting something needed urgently. He never feels any piece is truly finished, but maybe an artist never does. There's just a time when it's abandoned.

"Yes..." He goes to a table along the wall, and selects one of the bundles wrapped carefully in leather. The most plausible, for a delivery, because it's the most elaborate. The hilt is simple enough, but the blade itself is double-grooved, only slightly curved, until a wider notch where it starts to curve sharp into a wicked point.

Oh, this is strange, isn't it? Like he has been for much of his life, Malak right now is under threat, compelled, only really free to react how he reacts and feel how he feels. But, unlike with the island's compulsions, he isn't reacting with defiance. Is it because they finally trained it out of him, or because he wants a new master, or because he really is seizing the opportunity to be free? Damned if he knows.

He slides the sword into its sheath, custom-fitted and snug. He isn't half the leatherworker that he is a smith, but he can get by.

And then he hesitates, because he doesn't know if she wants to take it or leave it with him.

He would have, she thinks. It was a flicker of hesitation in his own expression that gave her the idea of something to justify them. She doesn't speak much. Never the most talkative person, but here it doesn't feel necessary. She looks at the blade, looks into his eyes, searches and finds. "We're in this together, aren't we? You decide." She trusts his knowledge of this place and the nuance of the customs. What makes the most sense? What role would she be filling? Protection, as he walks late at night? Who should carry the weapon?

No matter what, armed or not, she can make sure no one doubts his inability to defend himself against her. She has that skill set, and she will use it to create the illusion he needs to have all options available to him after this. His life will be his, including the option to return. She will not go back on her word. It's not just his presence, but his wisdom, that is a benefit to her now.

An exhale. "Good men don't go out at night." He glances sideways to her, the way he would out of shyness. Maybe it is a little shyness -- if she's leaving, if she's not from here... sometimes the men that come from other places are shocked at what it's like here. "Better if there's someone along."

To defend you, in case a drunken warrior gets handsy. And given that there are a lot more warriors and bottles of beer than there are people wandering at night...

He holds it loosely in his hands. "All right. Which way do you want to go?"

He'll leave the rest. Unlocked, like a quick robbery and kidnapping.

Natasha smiles, just a little upturning of the corner of her mouth. "Soon, good men go wherever they want." She rests a hand lightly on his shoulder for a moment. She's asking a lot, yes, but she has something wonderful to offer, too - a choice.

She walks outside, looks up and down the street, and marks that most people near them are heading to help with the fire before it can spread. They'll have it under control, soon... "Straight shot, I think. The sooner we get there, the better. We're going for the line drawn ferry, no other boat unless it's life or death. Got it?" In her hand is a dagger, palmed from his things, the edge not yet sharpened. If she has to hold it to his throat, it won't cut him, and no one who isn't right on top of them will know why.

A nod. He tucks the sword under his arm, and pushes open the door of the forge.

The sounds of the outside world flood in. He had never really processed the shouts and the sound of the fire, nor the smell of it -- overwhelmed by the smell of the forge. It seems to be more or less under control, as the local fire brigade is really very professional. They have several wagons they always keep filled with sand or water.

He turns down the street, leaving the fire about a block to the right. He does not look at her; he is very, very tense.

Natasha can't blame him for the tension, she doesn't even try to correct it. Maybe it will work for them. He shouldn't be out late at night, right? Being anxious and uncomfortable makes perfect sense. She does feel some pity, though - this seems like a nice place, a reasonably safe and happy place to live, but he's not here by his choice. The most wonderfully beautiful and safe cage is still a prison.

For her part, Natasha lets the aura of danger bleed from her - surly protection for hire, why not? It's easy to slip back into the familiarity, to put aside the role of a curious and relatively harmless bystander, a traveler for pleasure and curiosity. It's a strange role every time she puts it on, and a relief every time she gets to take it off again.

He gives a little shake of his head, after a moment. "Not like that," he says. An impish impulse seizes him -- or at least something must be seizing him, because otherwise he never would have let the following words escape his mouth:

"I don't have to pay for protection. Have you seen me?"

And then he's blushing very hard, because the little surge of daring apparently doesn't extend to all of him.

Under normal circumstances, Natasha might laugh. This does not seem like the time. "Maybe you've got a thing for danger." The barest hint of a smile will have to do. "Too intense? Got it." She softens her walk a little, relaxes her posture into something alert, but not on edge.

After a moment, and considering the way he blushes and the confidence he must have for that statement (and she can't say it's not accurate) she puts a hitch in her gait to fall half a step behind. She is staring at his ass.

This is insane. Everything about this is insane. Malak is fighting the urge to laugh and the urge to freeze, at once. He's on the edge of going a little hysterical, and he can feel it rising. It's happened before; the expectation here is that men are steady and calm, sweet and caring, and this has a tendency to deny them their anger, their pain.

When he realizes what she's doing, he almost stumbles over a crack in the stones that make up the street.

"Hey! Who's there?" This is accompanied by the brightness of a magic-enhanced torch.

It's a watchwoman. Malak adjusts the package, the delivery, and holds up a hand to shade his eyes. "Evening," he says. "Just heading to drop off a package." He indicates.

"Oh, it's you, Malak." He doesn't know her name but apparently she knows his. She's a tough-looking woman, a little older. She lets her light play over Natasha. "Why so late?"

She's looking to Natasha for an answer, not to Malak. She doesn't like it, but this is not the time to say so. So, instead, she slowly peels her gaze away from his ass, with visible regret, and looks to the watchwoman. "Due today, but not finished in time. I told him he could just take it over in the morning, but he feels guilty and it keeps-- distracting him." Lips pursed in mild annoyance, and then she catches herself.

That won't do. She can't be anything but obliging to him yet, because her supposed reason for escorting him has just changed slightly yet again. She takes her half-step closer to Malak, and slings her arm possessively around him, low on his hips. "I think it's sweet. You're such a perfectionist." To Malak, her voice is all honey and flattery. Not an unkind word to say, wouldn't dream of it.

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The Helpful Hostage Meme

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