Fatal Fury Fan Fiction / Ranma 1/2 Fan Fiction / Sailor Moon Fan Fiction / Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Sailor Rifts ❯ Chapter 7: Deliverance. Sort of ( Chapter 7 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Sailor Moon/Rifts Crossover (Revised Edition) By Simon Woodington

Chapter 7: Deliverance. Sort of

Despite the pain, Makoto found herself spending the time given her
thinking. Her hand was only broken in five for so places, she felt
vaguely. Gazing at her numbing hand, and the mangled slivers of
polished steel alloy, she cursed harshly at her own stupidity.

:If it hadn't been a mutation, she would have had a force field or
something else; Makoto winced sharply, wondering if Marlanda would
send someone to repair the damage she had done to herself. It was her
swift, unthinking anger that had gotten her into trouble, and she
regretted it. Not that she had acted, rather that her blow had failed
to land. Yet, if consideration could have saved her this agony... What
felt like hours passed. Finally, she gave in to curiosity and gauged
the room with her eyes, pacing slowly about like a woman stoned.

:Stoned? Stoned on pain, perhaps; she sighed. :Is that possible? To be
in so much pain that it's like a drug trip? This could just be the
start. Besides, I've been hurt worse:

Makoto experimentally flexed her right wrist, flinching as pain
stabbed through her numb hand, arm and into her shoulder.

:It's not that bad:

A sordid fascination eased into her mind as she watched the blood pour
slowly through the ports through which the vibro-claws extended. She
muttered a curse, reaching for the nearest cloth to stifle the crimson
substance.

"Makoto?" The voice was distinctly male; deep, with a soft, nearly
undefinable attractive quality to it. Her gaze rose, and fell upon a
figure her mind stumbled to perceive. She gasped, reality faltered and
ceased to matter.

"W-who... Um... what... Uh..." each word was a mountain, and ascending
them was a course of action which was of little consequence. He was
impossibly attractive, flawless in every visible manner. The fact that
Makoto did not really prefer redheads hardly seemed to matter anymore.
His body was that of an athlete; firm, well muscled without the
failings of extensive girth.

"Oh my..." Makoto found herself feeling light headed, and sat down
upon the edge of the bed.

"Oh..." Upon his face was a look of welcome concern. Rather, Makoto
welcomed it. "Are you alright? I'm just here to make sure... if you
are I'll go."

Makoto shook her head curtly.

"No, don't go..." her voice fell to a whisper. "Don't ever leave..."

He said nothing as he stepped towards her with the soft padding of a
cat. The athlete facade waned, and in its place fell the hardened edge
of a war worn man, a soldier, from the frequency of scars upon his
body.

"Show me your arm? The Mistress told me that you struck her." As he
unraveled the bed covering, Makoto's heart thudded violently in her
chest. An inwardly drawn breath drew a clean, pleasant smell from him.

"This is bad. I'm going to have to remove these," he stated softly.
She just nodded, entranced by his presence. How was a question which
failed to occur to her.

"Who are you?" she asked gently, noting only faintly a piercing spike
of pain as he tested the strength and resilience of the claws.

He grimaced.

"This is going to hurt. I'm Chalin."

"Hurt?" she blinked slowly, awareness flickering as a wind-whipped
candle.

Before she could say another word, a shrill yelp tore through her
throat as the first of the three blades came free. She flinched back,
pulling away from him as the fire came alive in her arm.

"I'm sorry... You're bleeding a great deal. If I don't pull the other
two, it will get infected for certain."

Hesitance seemed to hold him, and a squeamishness which drew Makoto
somewhat back into focus. She noted suddenly that Chalin bore a
recently beaten look, which tarnished the brilliant shine of his
beauty, though only by a small degree. Another nagging point hit her:
For someone who looked like he was familiar with violence, he
certainly appeared to be jumpy enough!

"Chalin? Are you alright? Um..." her eyes dropped to his neck. He was
adorned in a collar much like her own. It became transparent. Lacking
eagerness for self apparent reasons, she offered her wounded arm to
him again. He yanked roughly at the second claw, which, with the scry
grinding of metal, came wrenchingly free. Another cry joined the
first.

"Hold still, I don't want this to hurt any more than necessary. God
knows you'll experience enough of it later..."

She squinted at the barely audible statement.

"What?"

"Just hold still." He set the pliers carefully as closely to the back
of her hand as possible, and with the visible flexing of firm arm and
chest muscles, the third drew additional bloody blade and a whimper
from Makoto. She leaned forward, tears of agony welling.

"I'm so sorry! I... I didn't mean to hurt you... Please forgive me...!
It was that, or the Mistress had commanded me to amputate it!"

:By the Goddess!; Makoto thought raggedly, feeling weak, as though she
had been summarily flattened by a Great Horned Dragon.

"It's th-uh-the blood luh-l-luh-loss... uhm... L-uh-ie down... um...
Makoto." His hands trembled, reaching for her, and halted. Supplying
comfort was something he seemed unable to do. He retracted the unseen
offer. "Th-uh-the big... uh... pain I-uh, is over nuh-now. I-i... need
to set y-your hand."

She looked up at him, as she lay back, waned curiousness in her eyes.
He carefully shifted aside the crimsoned blankets, urging her to
relax.

"Chalin, why are you scared? I won't hurt you!" she breathed.

It was clear that he expected her to.

"I... Uh..."

He swiveled away on a single foot, picked up a hand cast, a somewhat
extensive collection of bandages, and some rubbing alcohol. Makoto let
the subject drop. The primary image of him drifted romantically in her
mind. She felt, and saw with such definition his purity, and his
beauty. A furious blush rose to her cheeks as she recalled Hanlan, who
seemed such a contrast, yet so similar in comparison. His soul was as
pure as that of her husband, yet Chalin was an obviously cultured,
properly educated man.

As he cured and bandaged her hand, she felt the sensual nature of his
touch. Her eyes followed his long fingered, silk skinned hands, how
they traced carefully the outlines of her fingers, straightening them
to fit into the cast, setting the bones so as to heal properly.
Finally, after an eternity of study, of relishing his touch, wondering
how it would feel to have him touch her elsewhere... another flash of
warmth added a tint of crimson to her cheeks.

"You're not the first to wonder," he stated gently, calmly, his
stuttered tongue replaced by the refined calm and ease that permeated
his touch. A trained mode, she realized with a dull wash of horror.

"Uh..." Makoto gasped. Her left hand found her mouth and covered it.

"It's alright Makoto, if you want to..."

Makoto was shocked.

"No, I... um..." :I can't say yes, even though I want to... It's not
right! I don't love him!:

"I'm... I'm married."

He smiled. It was a warming, beautiful smile.

"That's wonderful."

His words drew the tension from her. He meant it.

"Chalin... why offer to have sex with me?"

"It would please the Mistress."

"No, no, no no no," she chanted self determinedly. "Never. I will
never bow to her! I would rather die!"

Chalin spoke, his response so clear it was as through this was a
conversation he had carried out before.

"She won't let you. She is a very possessive woman. She is also very
meticulous in keeping her new slaves."

"I don't care! I'll fight her with every last bit of strength! That
whore'll never touch me... I won't let her."

Chalin had no reply.

"I've fought and destroyed tougher than her," Makoto finished,
realizing Chalin's state of withdrawal. "Is that it? Is that the only
reason? You just offered to have sex with me to please her?"

He was silent.

"Have you ever actually loved anyone?" Makoto realized the error of
the question a moment too late. By then the time had passed to correct
it.

"No."

She succumbed to the abundant tranquility in sound. Awkwardness was
shared as the intimate distance between them.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, uselessly.

He stepped back from her.

"No... I am. If there was any reason to make love to you, it would be
out of love... not just for the Mistress. She will not be pleased, but
I will accept the consequences on your behalf." In his hand trembled
the medical equipment, and the shattered strength of a once impressive
seeming fist. Makoto's mouth opened, but not a word introduced itself.
What in mercy's name could she say? 'I'm sorry for having morals'?
Yet, as she gazed at him, she could see plainly enough that beyond his
pain, and submission, he understood. There was no anger within him.

It was an errie thing, to glance into his tormented soul.

"I must leave. The Mistress will wonder if I linger too long." Then he
was gone, the white door having shut automatically behind him.

"...the Mistress..." Makoto muttered, lost in thought, before lying
back upon the lightly blood stained bed and drifting into a listless
slumber.