White Hands, Bitch Boi

Journal of Rowana, daughter of Rowetha
21 / 04 / 2120 of the Fourth Age

I was perched atop the Hobbit hole, peering through the optical scope on the .22, the ring heavy on my finger, as Azzie met with the Orc representative by the edge of the creek.

It wasn't how I'd planned it. Shouldn't have been me down there, staring the leading Orc in the eye. However, in our argument last night Azzie had made two good points: I was the better shot with the rifle, and she was the only one fluent in the Black Speech.

So I kept the Orc representative in my crosshairs as Azzie spoke to her. Their leader was a heavyset woman, taller than most Men and with broad shoulders; her head shaved into a dyed white mohawk, a pair of pistols stuck into her broad leather belt. If it came down to a fight, she had the edge on Azzie in both reach and sheer mass.

My palms itched. I couldn't focus on what every Orc and Goblin was doing. They had rolled up at sunset, the battered truck covered with canvas that sheltered the half-dozen or so bodies inside, which quickly came outside. The white hand was emblazoned on all of them, in some form. Azzie had met them, a shotgun on a string sling at her side, but not actively pointed at them.

Too far to carry their words to me. I'd watched the dust cloud all day. Saw the truck peel off from the bigger caravan of vehicles. They'd stopped at where the vehicle the dead assassins had left behind first, then stopped at our garbage pit. Azzie had stood on a rock by the creek, to show herself to them, and they had approached her, not the house itself.

The night deepened around us. It was weird, with the ring on; the shadows were sharper, there was no haze in the air. With the optical sight, I had the weird sensation as if I looked down through seven leagues of purest crystal, every detail stark and easy to realize. We had, after some discussion, left the lights out in the house. While it might convince them that Azzie was alone, the lack of lightspill meant my low-light vision was better if shooting did start. The bare crescent of the moon hadn't risen yet, but stars emerged from the dusk. The shadow of Mount Doom loomed over us all.

We had worked out a basic signal. If Azzie pointed at someone, I was to kill them. Idiot-proof. In order not to give false signals, Azzie kept her arms crossed across her magnificent green hills. Which did nothing but emphasize said breasts. A couple of the Orcs made gestures at their own chests, but the Orc rep turned her head and they shut up instantly. She had NCO written all over her.

At one point, the leader's hand grasped the butt of one of her pistols. Azzie carefully pointed at the ground between her and the leader.

My bullet kicked up dust almost exactly between them. The crack echoed, and from everywhere, most of the Orcs and Goblins pulled out pistols of various makes. Eyes scanned everything—but they didn't see me. The Orc leader and Azzie never blinked. Slowly, the leader's hand moved away from her pistol. Respect achieved.

The conversation went on longer than I thought it should to explain what happened to their scout. Then Azzie did something unexpected. She pulled the sling up and over her head. Handed the shotgun to the Orc rep, who examined it with care and familiarity. As Azzie dug her spare shells out of the pockets of her camouflage pants, the Orc rep turned her head and shouted something.

An Orc from the truck was led forward. He was barely clothed. A loin cloth that couldn't hide a massive bulge. Leather sandals of some kind, and he walked with a stiff, shuffling gait—it took me a moment to realize he was hobbled, a wooden board bound between his ankles. Young, skinny; I couldn't tell how green his skin was in this light but he lacked muscle mass, skin smooth and scarless, head shaved, his lower tusks poking up from his lips. His nipples had been pierced, as had his nose, and a cord tied to his septum ring is how they led him to Azzie. The white hands were painted on his ass-cheeks. The Orc was tugged forward hesitantly, shoulders hunched as if trying to shrink in on himself.

They put his lead right into Azzie's hand. She looked him up and down, nodded once.

"Azzie, love, what the fuck are you doing?" I whispered to myself and the wind. "You better not have just traded a shotgun for a fucking ****."

That was it. The other Orcs turned and left. I followed them in the scope until they disappeared into the deepening darkness.

By the time I had scrabbled down from the top of the house, the ring off and heavy in my palm, Azzie had the new Orc in the creek. I got there as she washed the white paint off of his asscheeks. Despite the coldness of the water, I could see he was about ready to burst out of his loincloth. The new Orc made our dildo look puny. She looked up at me and grinned wolfishly.

"Ro!" she said. "I freed a ****!"

I hesitated, bit back the heated words that I had wanted to say. "Freed" she said. I harrumphed deep in my chest as I looked over the skinny green twink. There were a lot of things I could say, but it felt like I'd already lost whatever argument we might have over it. I was the one who had decided to be an abolitionist, I couldn't very well fault her for freeing someone else who was obviously enslaved. Even if it did cost us one of our shotguns.

"What's your name?" I asked, hoping he at least spoke Westron.

The eyes—they were green eyes, I saw in the scanty moonlight—looked at me hesitantly. His ears weren't nearly as expressive as Azzie's, but they flattened a little.

"Dey calls me 'Bitch Boi,'" he muttered, accent thick in some Southron pidgin dialect.

Azzie made a face. "White Hands call you Bitch Boi. We'll call you Bebe."

I sighed. This was like the fucking cat all over again.

"I just hope this one is housebroken," I said, to no one in particular.