IC: Dorian (Guard HQ, Ta-Koro)
"You've been a busy man, Dorian Shaddix."
Please don't use my full name like that. Only people I like can do that. I kept that little pet peeve bottled, though, let it simmer in my abdomen as I leaned back, handcuffed, in a chair. There was one Ta-Matoran in the room, and he paced up and down the length of the table across from me like an uppity racehorse as I traced shapes in the walls with my eyes and whistled a jig. Throw a banjo into the background of this, it could be the national anthem for this group of little midget country bumpkins.
Doo doo doo duh duh doo, dooooo.
"Let's see, here, you, uh, you wanna have a round of story time with me?" Bumpkin asked, waving around a thick collection of documents held together with a band that could only be the file that Tuara had compiled on me; I smirked as I examined the top page and saw that it was a table of contents. I'd always loved chapter books. "Maybe we could even let you try and tell a story before we toss you into the volcano, you psycho freak."
"How old are you?" I asked in disbelief. "Does Jaller know that you escaped from your sandbox?"
"Oh, a funny guy. Lovely. Alright, fine, I'll tell the story anyway."
"Once upon a time, there was a yellow brick road, and all the shiny happy people followed this road because it was yellow and shiny, but one day, a little midget man decided that he wanted to go and be shiny and happy somewhere else, and..." I interrupted cutely, smirking and trying to stretch out my hands. No dice: the handcuffs prevented me from separating my hands more than eight inches. Seeing his face, and noting that I was already getting under his skin, I shrugged innocently.
"Fine. Go ahead, read off the rap sheet. But after that, straight to bed, mister."
"Oh, a gentleman," he snarled sarcastically before looking down. "We've got you on 83 counts of murder, 62 of them first-degree--"
I snorted derisively: "Just 83? Man, it's like I have to tattoo my name onto the victim's forehead for you people to put clues together."
"--20 counts of armed robbery--"
"Well, I take it back: you've figured out that I use my arms to rob things. You truly are a master of your craft; your powers of perception gifts must be gifts from the Spirit himself..."
"--14 counts of distracting Guards from their duties: all female, I notice--"
"Not my fault you can't hire ugly Guards."
Well, now he'd had it: slowly, I'd watched as I continually interrupted him, causing his face to get more beet red with every word I spoke until finally my file dropped onto the hard metal table with a loud, dull thud; resisting the urge to snicker, I looked up at him as he leaned across the table, standing on his chair to provide some support for himself, and got his face inches from mine.
"You should learn to think before you speak, murderer."
"And you, my dear Bumpkin, should learn to always watch the hands of a guy who has the power to create the key to the handcuffs you put him in," I said lightly, smiling at him as though we were sharing an inside joke before grabbing him with my now-freed hands and pressing two fingers into the pressure points by his jaw and another two into the points beside his neck. The little lion man dropped like a sack of yellow bricks into the chair he was standing on, and I lifted up his unconscious wrist and shackled him to the arm of the chair before walking out the door and locking it from the outside.
Now. To find my Kanohi, get outta here, and forget that this little self-help experiment with Tuara ever happened.