Bargain Beds

[Flex]

A cheap looking Coffin Motel frequented mostly by low-life scum.

[Flex]

After her trip to the gun store, Natasha finds her way to this charming little establishment. She enters and looks about to see if there was anyone on reception.

[The Stranger]

There was simply a machine for slotting a credstick, followed by a series of sealed metal doors, which were probably the coffins.

[Flex]

Natasha chuckled to herself, slotting her script in and waiting for the transaction to be done. Once it was she entered her coffin.

Within she assembled her gun; placing the laser on the rail and adding the silencer. She slammed a clip of the hydroshock bullets into it, cocked back the loading mechanism to arm the gun and then put the safety on.

She put the gun back in her bag, before getting changed into a pair of black hotpants (thong straps sticking out) and a tight fitting top, putting some gold earrings in. She made up her face, grabbed her bag and left the coffin.

[Lord Oswyn Baratheon]

Malcolm stopped in at Bargain Beds, pleased by its close vicinity to Dollhouse. He rented a coffin for the night, intending to use it to store his excess gear before he completed the extraction.

He tossed the whiskey bottles and box of flashbangs into the coffin, as well as the excess ammo for his revolver. The merc quickly threw on his new body arm and holster, strapping the heavy pistol to his right hip. He hung two flashbangs from the front of his vest, not wanting to take any chances.

[Lord Oswyn Baratheon]

///
Malcolm returned to Bargain Beds, figuring a coffin was as good a place to store the strange and valuable little girl as any. He opened the coffin he was using as a storage locker and tossed the little girl inside. If she reacted to this in any way, the merc didn't notice. Before closing the little girl inside, Malcolm removed one of the bottles of whiskey and took a seat on the floor in front of the door.

Popping open the bottle, he drank deep before pouring some over his wounds as disinfectant. He grimaced and swore in pain as the alcohol did its work. He placed his phone on the floor in front of him, staring at it impatiently while enjoying the premium whiskey.

[The Stranger]

"Sir," came the sound of an automated system, "You are not permitted to sleep in the common area. You have 30 seconds to respond in the affirmative or security will be called."

[Lord Oswyn Baratheon]

"Ain't sleeping." Malcolm barked back. "My daughter needed a nap. Don't suppose there's somewhere nearby I can wait? She'd be terribly frightened if she woke and I was gone."

[The Stranger]

"buy another coffin, or step outside the premise." The system replied, "You have 15 seconds to comply."

[Lord Oswyn Baratheon]

Not willing to distance himself from his charge, Malcolm made his way over to the automated check in and inserted his script. He purchased another coffin, mumbling something along the lines of "fragging bloodsuckers" as he did so.

[The Stranger]

"Thank you, alert canceled."

[Lord Oswyn Baratheon]

Malcolm rolled his eyes and returned to his new coffin and continued nursing the bottle of whiskey. He had never done well with these quiet lulls between battles, usually filling them with women. He glanced with resent at the little girl's coffin, feeling that the longer she stayed with him the worse his night would become.

[Lord Oswyn Baratheon]

As time wore on without a phone call, Malcolm began digging into his back wounds in an effort to remove the shrapnel. He used the whiskey as rudimentary antiseptic, though his surgical knowledge was limited. Ninety percent of his combat first aid lessons had been how to properly apply a tourniquet, so they were of little use.

[The Stranger]

Pain is one of the greatest transmitters of information ever devised. It carries with it more information than whole hard drives, in a single blinding pulse.

In this particular case, the pain is telling Malcom two things. One, that if he attempts to remove the shrapnel on his own he will almost certainly die, or, if not, render himself a paraplegic. And two, He needs medical attention, skilled medical attention, and he needs it rather swiftly.

[Lord Oswyn Baratheon]

Malcolm gritted his teeth in pain before slamming his fist into the coffin wall in frustration.

"Lousy fragging armor!" he swore, not having believed the grenade shrapnel was embedded so deep.He knew the wound wound begin to fester of the foreign particles were not removed soon.

The merc weighed his options, loath to bring the little girl out in public with him but equally nervous at the prospect of leaving her here. She had already been tracked down once while in hiding, from a much more secure location. Either way, no job was worth dying for.

His decision made, Malcolm approached the electronic concierge.

"I have to run an errand. Can you ensure no one attempts to enter either of my coffins while I'm away? I would hate for my daughter to be disturbed from her nap."