Post by alyssawrites on Feb 2, 2019 21:33:55 GMT -5
The transport shuttle’s engine went silent as the craft shuddered to a halt, and I shifted in my seat as far as the restraints snug against my body would allow. The guard
to my right turned his head, and his cold gaze zeroed in on mine, held. A challenge. I lifted my hands from my lap and tugged against the slim metal cuffs biting my wrists.
A toneless voice cut through the cabin.
Docking complete. All safety measures secure. Exit allowed at this time.
The guard reached for the buckles of his restraints, unsnapped each one with a slow, deliberate movement. He pulled free of the straps, stood. Motionless.
I didn’t move.
The door at the front of the shuttle hissed open.
A group of four guards marched down the aisle, stopped at my seat.
Hands grabbed my arms. An arm wrapped around my throat.
The guard at my right never broke his gaze as he reached for my restraints, popped the series of buckles open.
As the last strap slid free, I struck out, my hands balled into fists, my knees and boots aiming for any area of the guards’ bodies. But outnumbered, they yanked me to my feet, snagged arms around my waist, my hips, my shoulders. They imprisoned my arms, my hands.
They shoved, and I staggered, dug my heels into the shuttle’s deck.
Their hands tightened, bruised my skin.
And my feet moved. Out of the shuttle and down to the slick white deck of the station’s airbay. The guards’ bootsteps rang, the rapid stride a thunderous rhythm driving through my feet and up into the tense muscles of my legs.
I barely glanced at the walls of the slender, snaking corridors as they passed.
The guards halted at the closed door to a locker area, and one of them released a hand, placed it against the thin glass palm plate.
I shuddered, sucked in rapid breaths and tugged against the hands holding me.
The palm plate’s slim screen glowed green. The door slid open.
The guards pulled me inside, and the door hissed shut, locked with a faint click. The screen of the palm plate shifted from bright green to red, a dark crimson shade too similar to the color of blood.
I shouted. I cursed. I struck out, flesh striking flesh, but I lost.
The cuffs were unlocked, and my gray school rigs were stripped, traded for the combat uniform of the Aviation Station. Black T-shirt. Black jacket. Black pants. Black boots. Black gloves. Flat black from head to foot, the only accent of color, three thin stripes of bright blue running the length of the sleeves and the pants, and a maze of silver zippers.
Rough hands tugged at my arms, my elbows, bending them behind my back as one of the guards palmed the door open. They pushed me into the bright white corridor.
Like being inside a swirling snowstorm, the flakes of frozen water forming one solid mass until depth perception failed and vertigo set in.