Sean sat on the floor, Indian-style, awaiting his fate.

SGT Powell, leader of the work battalion, inquired as to if Sean had any skills of value to the operation. Sean mentioned his experie nce in journalism and the fact he was a good shot with a rifle, neither of which has anything to do with mining!

SGT Powell asked sarcastically, "Journalism? that's almost funnier than us giving you a rifle... so are you any GOOD at journalism? What books did you write?..."

[Sean] "Actually, I wrote for newspapers, a few in Europe...but worked for CNN in the States..."

[Powell] "Get the fuck out... you ain't Bernard Shaw -- you're white!"

Sean's smart-assed retort was rewarded with the jab of a baseball bat into his abdomen from Thompson. He sucked air good and hard... and it would be a little tender for quite awhile. Powell hauled back to strike him as well, but he slipped during the deliver, and Sean elbowed him in the nose as he fell, never rising from his meditative seated position.

[Thompson] "Make this easy, or I'll make it hard, MR. " he says, and pulls back for another swing...

[Powell] (blood streaming from nostrils) "Just beat the FUCKER !!!"

[Sean] "I'm sitting on my ass, you fuck, minding my own business... how much easier do you want it, want me to drop my pants and sprrrread 'em, so you can fuck me too?"

Thompson checks out the scene... he looks kinda big and dumb... but still can put 2+2 together...

[Sean] "What's the matter, Powell you punk ass...you loose your temper and get your clock cleaned -- mind you I could have killed your redneck ass while you were down -- and now you need someone else to do your beating... worthless piece-a shit punk!"

Powell glared at you hotly, and made it to his feet. He looked around the room, and grabbed the first thing that was nearby, a wooden chair. Meanwhile, Thompson backed up...

Sean tried to stand. He was wobbley on his damaged foot, which had swollen to the size of a canteloupe, but stand he did, glaring defiantly in as defensive a posture as he could maintain.

A female trooper appeared. She was not the ugliest female Sean had ever seen, but she would encourage even the loneliest man to hide in a monastery. Her skin was hairy and bumpy, and her frame looked like she spent more time at the weight room than anywhere else. She had a huge scar which ran from he forehead, over her eye, down her neck, and apparently further down beneath her shirt. From the way she carried herself, Sean got the impression she was real fast and loose in various ways. "What's all the racket?" Powell and Thompson straightened, looking scared. Sean might have been a little scared of her as well. He noticed the CPT bars on her collar.

MAJ Wynn, the camp commander, also stoods in the doorway...

Sean relaxed a little, but then the MAJ piped up, "SGT, handle this man or I will....", and the MAJ cocked the M92 in his hand.

[Sean] "Nothing to handle sir...I am cooperating fully."

[Wynn] "Cooperating fully is alot quieter than you two were. I heard you two 50 yards away. This is strike two for you MR... (he searches his memory) Cunningham, and when you're out, the dugout you go to is PERMANENT..."

Sean rolled his eyes at the very cliched and uninspired analogy.

[Wynn] "I have a mind to shoot you myself after what happened earlier during your escape, but with 9 of my men dead, I need some work out of you to compensate for what they won't be able to do... Now, screw up once more, and the scales will.... be those of vengance and not of economics...."

[Sean] "You know, Major, at the risk of getting shot, I don't have much sympathy or remorse for the 9 men you lost. If you hadn't kidnapped us in the first place, and kept us against our will, those men wouldn't be dead. So why don't you climb off that high moral horse and admit to what this is... modern day slave labor and you're the king pimp!"

The Major's eyes nearly popped out of his head. Sean could at once read this man, and tell that he was 99% talk and only 1% action. He was weak, and Sean's insult had dug at him to the core. MAJ Wynn turned to someone in the hall, saluted, and returned to the room, looking nervous. Very nervous. Laughter is immediately heard in the hall....

[a voice](from the hall) "You always did have a colorful way of phrasing things, Mr Cunningham"

that voice... Sean recognized it. Yes... NO!....

COL Stryfe strode into the room....

[Stryfe] "You were half right, Sean. the Major is the Pimp, and I am the King. How's the ankle?", he said, gesturing at the aching limb with his chin.

[Sean] "Good enough to kick your ass!"

[Stryfe] (laughing mockingly) "Mind your temper... I wont' let MAJ Wynn kill you, but I might..." He paused. "I was so curious to see you myself, after the message from the MAJ here said that he had picked up two prisoners, and one of them was Irish, bald, BIG-ASSED, and a biker. Said your partner got away. Who are you running with now... Too cowardly to stick with those pathetic incompetant assholes at the 3/103rd?..."

[Sean] "Ya, just like you *Colonel*...."

[Stryfe] (still laughing) "They were useful, for awhile..."

[Sean] "So what's the story here, Stryfe?"

[Stryfe] "I'm not a storyteller, you are. Figure it out. My time is money. So are you going to tell me anything new about the 3/103rd, or will this have to get messy ?", he said giving the ugly female a lewd look. Stryfe is much better dressed than when you saw him last -- crisp tigerstripes, green beret, but still the leather duster. He's armed with a huge .44 Magnum in a shoulder holster.

[Sean] Told the truth, more or less, hoping it would be believable. "I dunno know much new...I split not long after the attack. I don't see how they could hold, there at Lewisburg."

[Stryfe] "Yes, of course not, but where did they go after the attack ? Some of them survived, we do know that..."

[Sean] "You're a smart guy, I am sure you have that all figured out."

Stryfe smiled coldly. Sean showed no trace of emotion on his face.

[Stryfe] "Oh yes, I've figured out all of that and more. Like that kid Wiz's hot air balloon being nearly completed, their sole armored vehicle being an M113, and MAJ Fisher and Doctor Novak not being available currently. And, ahhh, like what you swore *you* would do to *me* if given the chance." His eyes were cold and firey and scary all at once.

Sean tried to meet his glare, but Stryfe out-stared him.

[Sean] "Then ya *don't* need me at all, Stryfe... go fuck yerself, and if you want to call off yer mentally challenged goon squad I can make good on me promise"

[Stryfe] "You are an arrogant cock, Cunningham. You should have read Sun Tzu more, instead of indulging in Penthouse, and wallowing in drunken self pity most of your life. You could have *been* something.... For now, your threat will have to wait."

[Sean] "Reading? Reading! Why don't you read the pimples on me arse, ya traitorous fuck!"

[Stryfe] "The Major is correct -- economics outweighs vengance, at least at this time. But perhaps later..." He turned on his heel and left.

Sean spit in his general direction.

Powell felt well enough to slug you as Stryfe exited. Sean attempted to block but failed. He connected with a kick to Sean's throat, and you are silent for a time, after gagging noisily...

The guards removed Sean from the room and tossed him in the wire enclosure with the 158 other worker-POWs. Sean was given a day to recover, but the ultimatum was this -- meet the required quota of work on light duty for one week, or be shot. After that, he should have recovered sufficiently to be productive on regular duty. And if not, again, he would be shot.

Sean begged some rags from another POW. He bound up his ankle, and moved close to the fire. Other POWs had branches or sticks for poking around in the fire; he found one too, partially to help get around with, and partially to fend off any of these desperate looking men. What they'd want with Sean, he didn't want to consider. But he knew he'd not go down without putting some damage on whoever would try to assail him.

Sean hopped around gingerly on his enormous ankle. The pain was unbearable. Light duty tomorrow, he might be able to manage. Regular duty in one week, that was a death sentance...