Shards

Brush It Off

Waving to the guards to ease them and dropping his act, Shard says, "Now I am convinced your parents were grooming you to be the politician. Grooming. Hairbrush. Get it? Ha, ha."

Octavia sighs and hangs her head.

"Where's the bot this goes in?" she asks.

"Bot?" Shard says.

Octavia speaks slowly, over enunciating. "Yes. A bot. A robot. The robot you must have obviously dismantled to get this piece off of it. Where's the PrimBot this goes with?"

Shard stops in front of her and leans forward, resting his hands on his knees. "First of all, Sweetheart, I know what a bot is. And that is an all original hairbrush sin PrimBot. I don't mind the banter, but watch the attitude. Remember: I am in charge around here. Not you, Princess. Now fix that rat's nest on your head."

Octavia bites her tongue. It's the only way she can ever seem to contain it. Her hand trembles as she snatches the brush off the bed.

Swallowing before she speaks, she says, "So, I'm supposed to do this without the PrimBot?"

Shard's brow raises. He crosses his arms. "Don't tell me you don't know how to brush your own hair."

"I know how!" The lie flutters her chest. A touch of heat burns under eyes.

"Then get started. Brush."

Octavia angles the brush several different ways above her head, occasionally tapping it to her head but never committing to a stroke.

One fist holding the brush, she throws her fists to her sides. "Stop watching me," she tells Shard. "I can't do it while you're watching me."

"Okay." Shard turns around and rests his hands on his hips.

Octavia angles the brush around again and finally decides on a stroke. Half-way through the stroke, the brush stops moving. She tugs on it, but it pulls at her scalp. The tug is uncomfortable. Trying to pull it out proves unsuccessful. Hair sticks in the bristles and won't let go. Shaking the brush doesn't release the hairs. Fingers from a free hand pick at her hair. This way is painstakingly slow and stings her fingers. She releases the brush to pick at the bristles with both hands. The brush falls into her hair. Going to grab it from sinking deeper and pulling at more hair makes matters worse. With help from her clumsy hands, her hair swallows the brush up. Her hands frantically claw at the brush. Greasy, frizzy, glittery, black locks wrap around the brush. Only a piece of the brush's handle is visible. As a last resort, Octavia sucks in a sharp breath and, using both hands, yanks the brush.

Fiery, stingy pain radiates along her scalp - the portion where her hair is attached burning the most. An "Ow!" escapes from her mouth.

Shard turns around and bursts into laughter. Octavia lets the hairbrush go and balls her fists. The brush dangles. Shard's laughter brings him to the floor. His eyes gloss with tears and face turns pink.

After a minute, he catches his breath and composes himself.

"So, the Princess doesn't know how to brush her own hair," he says as he stands. "And you have the audacity to call me childish. Come here, Sweetheart. Let me get it out for you."

Octavia shields the brush and turns it away from Shard. "No! I can figure it out myself."

"This is something I'd like to see." Shard situates himself in the chair. A smug smile smushes his eyes.

Octavia's eyes squint at the challenge. Filled with determination, she pinches, pulls, and tugs at the hair stuck in her brush. An hour passes. Her fingers cramp and ache. Pain pulses in her scalp. The splotch on her scalp is on fire at this point. Her hands shake. She drops her hands and head. She huffs in frustration. Tears squeeze her eyes but she sucks them back in. But her face remains hot. She hides these emotions in her hair.

"Give up?" she hears Shard say.

Octavia weakly and pitifully paws at the brush completely swallowed up by her hair. She sees Shard's shoes walk up to her.

"We can get this out one of two ways," he says. "One, I cut it out. Or two, I give it one good pull to rip it out. Which do you prefer?"

Octavia shoots her head up and protects her hair. "Are you crazy? I'm not going to cut my hair!"

"Okay, we're pulling it out then." Shard reaches for her hair.

Octavia smacks his hand. "You are not doing that, either!" she shouts.

"That could've hurt if I wasn't wearing these handy-dandy gloves," Shard says. He rubs the fingerless leather glove on the smacked hand. "How else do you propose to get that brush out? Ya managed to get that stuck in there real good. I'm open to suggestions."

Emptiness tosses in her head. The only ideas she gets involve PrimBots that are not available. Octavia doesn't say anything.

"That's what I thought. Now gimme gimme." Shard pulls another object from his jacket: a long knife.

Startled, Octavia moves back. The brush bangs against the wall. Her breath is cut off for a second. "Where did that come from!" Octavia says when it returns.

"Fun story. Long one, though." Shard waves the mini sword around while he speaks. "The abridged version: I got it off a Squad member I killed."

Blood drains from Octavia's face.

"Hey. They started it," Shard says. "But don't worry. The only thing I'm chopping off of ya is your hair. As long as you stay still that is."

He pins Octavia to the wall with one arm and brings the knife down right above the top of the brush. A scraping shink buzzes Octavia's ear as the blade makes contact with the wall's concrete. A tunk follows when the brush hits the bunk.

Shard steps back from Octavia and admires the knife. "Oh-ho-oh, this is a nice, sharp knife. I'm so glad I took it." Putting it back in his jacket, he takes the hair-engulfed brush off the bunk.

Octavia didn't have a chance to react with how fast Shard was. For a moment, she thinks the brush he holds by the hair is part of her head with the handle being her neck. She put her hand to her neck to feel it intact. Then she runs her hand through her hair. A chunk is gone.

Shard looks past the hairy brush to Octavia. His face wrinkles up. "That's unsightly." The wrinkles fade away to a bright face. "So, let's fix it! I'll be back."

Shard barely gives the guards time to open the door as he sprints out of the cell.