Author's notes: Folks, this is JayneTorture, plain and simple. Yes, I know I'm a sick puppy so there is no point in telling me. It's a little on the heavy side, so if you're a sensitive soul - best stay away. There is no comfort in this piece - it's all hurt - but I do have a rescue and much loving in mind later for Jayne, and if anyone's interested, I will definitely write it for you.

Also, I think I wrote Jayne as being much more lyrical and well-spoken than he actually is. Sorry. This is my first foray into this world. I'll try better next time.

Death of the Spirit

Jayne was not a man that was prone to fear. He had felt it sure; anyone that was sane had felt it at one time or another. But it just didn't happen all that often. In fact he could count the times that it had on his fingers - a fact that he was secretly very proud of.

But right now, he was surrounded by fear; suffocated by it, choking on it, and yet he felt weirdly disconnected from it, like he wasn't an actual participant in what was inducing the fear. He felt almost as if he were a stranger looking in, looking through some secret porthole, watching as someone else was dragged off by Reavers.

And yet this disconnect did not cause him to remain docile in the midst of the attack. He kicked and lashed out and bucked and howled against it . . . against them . . . for all he was worth. And despite all this, it was quickly becoming apparent to him that all the strength and all the energy that he was expending was for nothing. There were at least ten of them and there was one of him. They were insane and fought like madmen while he was...mostly sane and existing on an adrenaline high. And so despite his best efforts, they steadily dragged him from the small, empty store that he had been perusing through, out through a back alley, and into another bigger building.

As soon as he hit the floor of this new place, he looked around wildly, trying to get his bearings. It was a saloon, once maybe bustling with people and songs and drink. Now, it was nothing but a charnel house - the mutilated bodies of Reaver victims littered throughout.

'It isn't fair,' he thought inanely as one of his attackers picked him up by his hair and proceeded to throw him face down over a table so that his legs dangled from it. But it really wasn't fair. They weren't supposed to be here. Everything had indicated that the Reavers had already left; none of their ships were in the area. So what the hell?

No, this just wasn't fair. At. All.

He continued to think it as his hands were brought together behind his back and tied with cord. Another cord was thrown around his neck and tightened just enough so that breathing wasn't altogether easy anymore, then it was looped around the one that encircled his wrists. This caused continual tension on the one around his neck and he found he had to keep his head back just a bit to prevent the cord from slicing into his neck.

The feeling of disconnect that had been protecting him so nicely from complete overload ended abruptly when he felt a knife cut through the simple t-shirt he wore. It split it straight down the middle, carelessly splitting his skin in the process.

He shut his eyes against the slight burn of it and tried to prepare for what came next. But the fear, the gorram fear was making it hard to do anything save get lost in it. And it was ever-present now. No more looking through a porthole at some poor, unfortunate slob. This was it. He was the poor slob and he was living this nightmare in full-blown color.

The knife dropped to his pants and began to cut at those also, although they were mostly just pulled down. Shivering as he felt his legs exposed, he was vaguely aware that there were many hands touching him, and that they were all rough. He felt them in his hair, on his face, and on his bare back. There were even a couple pressing him down to the table by his arms. As if he could do anything. As if there was any point in struggling or fighting now. Now was about accepting. Accepting that you were about to die in the worst way imagined. Ever.

His breath hitched dangerously in his throat as he felt hands on his hips fumbling with his underwear. But those hands were suddenly removed, and another pair quickly replaced them. Then it happened again. And again.

Jayne opened his eyes. The guttural sounds that the once-men were making could barely be understood as language, but if you listened hard enough, you could detect meaning. It seemed that they were arguing about him. Arguing about who was going to go first, most likely.

Jayne allowed himself to entertain a fantasy of the Reavers becoming so immersed in their arguing that they essentially forgot about him. Maybe he could escape.

This fantasy became so real to him that Jayne actually smiled a little. But the happy fantasy was quickly dissolved when one pair of hands latched onto his hips, pulled down his underwear and entered him roughly.

He gasped as his body was propelled forward by the force of the intrusion. But the hands on his hips somehow turned into claws and pulled him back. He rode it all out; the rutting, the hot, fetid breath in his ear, the tongues and lips on his face and neck. He rode it all out and managed not to scream, not even when the once-man finished and pulled out so damn quickly that it burned. He managed not to scream when the second one entered him. But he couldn't hold it back when he felt teeth at his shoulder; impossibly sharp teeth that gracelessly sunk into his flesh. One of them had marked him; though not the one inside him, just one of the ones holding him down. But this seemed to give the one inside of him an idea, and when he finally tensed and shuddered and finished, he lowered his head to Jayne's other shoulder and bit. And tore.

Jayne screamed even louder as he felt his flesh tear and completely give way under the onslaught. He shut his eyes tightly and tried very hard not to be sick, breathing very heavily until he was sure that he wouldn't be.

By this time the third one had entered him, raking claws with talons instead of nails down his back, as others joined in on biting his exposed skin.

His back and his shoulders were now constantly on fire, but that was nothing compared to the throbbing, burning pain inside of his body.

'So this is what being raped to death feels like,' he mused as pain assaulted him from all sides and on so many different levels.

But it wasn't just physical pain. It was the very solid, real pain that comes from acknowledging the fact that you really didn't want to live after something like this.

The spirit dies first, then the body.

The thought was an eloquent one and it surprised Jayne that he would come up with it at a time like this.

Then the third one finishing (or was it the fourth? he was losing track) and another one was coming to take his place. Jayne breathed deeply through his nose and once again tried to prepare.

But this time there was no entrance. He held his breath, waiting for it, wondering what was taking this one so long and thinking that he'd much rather the psycho monster would just get it over with already when he realized that they were arguing over him again. He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all. Him, who no one had ever wanted for anything, was being fought over. Not once, but twice.

He clamped down hard on the laugh and waited, his eyes closed, his cheek pressed to the hard wooden table, and listened to the sounds of their warring.

Finally they quieted and one of them moved behind him. He felt a possessive hand running down his back while another one carded almost playfully through his hair. Then suddenly the hands were gone.

'What the hell is going on?' managed to flit through his mind before he felt something warm and wet hitting his backside.

He didn't need to see to know what had happened.

He'd been urinated on. Marked; like an animal marks something that belongs to it. He groaned, deep in his throat, and wished for death from a God that he wasn't even sure existed.

A moment later, he felt strong hands on his shoulders - hands that flipped him over as if he weighed no more than a rag doll.

The suddenness of it caused him to open his eyes; his death wish momentarily forgotten.

He found that he was on his back now, legs still dangling from the table. He winced from the new pain of the unyielding wood meeting the welts on his back before cautiously looking around. What the hell had changed? Why was he like this now?

For a horrible moment, he thought that maybe one of the others had been brought here, that the game was changing because it included a new player, but looking around he could see no one else from the ship. He breathed a sigh of relief without even realizing he was doing so.

Eventually he became aware of the men clustered around him . . . no, not men . . . Reavers. Monsters. Ghouls. One of them was sitting on a stool right next to him, lips curled up in a parody of a real smile. His sharpened, pointed teeth seemed to glint at him in the soft light of the saloon. The Reaver placed his scarred hand on Jayne's chest and slowly leaned down toward him. Jayne stared at him, wild-eyed, waiting for the kiss that was sure to come. But the monster didn't kiss him. Though he was close enough to, all he did was grunt out the word, "Mine."

"Oh, God," Jayne said before he turned his head away from the grotesque, slashed face that hovered so close to his. The hand that was on his chest moved to his hair, grabbed it, and pulled his head back. Now he had no choice but to look at the thing. "Mine," it said again. Then, "Say it."

Any other time, Jayne would have spit in the face of whoever was trying to force him to do what he didn't want to do. Or at the very least, he would have laughed in it. But he could no neither. He had no strength to laugh and his mouth was as dry as a desert moon. So he closed his eyes and settled for a whispered, "Go to hell."

The Reavers laughed uproariously at his small act of defiance. All of them, that is, except the one whose hand he still had in his hair. It pulled viciously at his hair while its other hand punched him square in the mouth.

"Say it."

But there was not a rutting thing in this world or any other that was going to make Jayne say it.

"Fuck you."

The hand pulled again and this time Jayne felt hair being pulled from his scalp. Another punch came a mere second later. Then another. Jayne rode all of it out, secretly pleased that this was his punishment. A nice, solid beating he could handle, no problem.

Then suddenly, it seemed to be over.

Reflexively, Jayne opened his eyes and saw that the Reaver was now sitting back holding a beer bottle in his hand. Curious despite himself, he watched as the top of it was smashed on the side of the table. Then he felt his head being lifted as the jagged edges of the bottle were brought to his lips.

He was told to do something, and although he didn't understand the words, he was pretty sure he was being told to drink.

He winced as the edges of the bottle bit into his lips, but the cold liquid felt so good against his throat that he didn't care. He swallowed awkwardly, grateful for this one, small kindness. When the bottle was pulled away, the loss of it was so overwhelming that he nearly wept. But only a moment later, it was back again. Except this time, the bottle was pushed roughly past his lips and into his mouth. It scraped at the delicate skin there, the liquid from the bottle sloshing dangerously fast down his esophagus, and suddenly the kindness became cruelty.

He choked, tried not to choke, and choked some more as he wondered if this was how they were going to kill him. Then the bottle was yanked back out again and he was left coughing and spluttering all over himself. The cord around his neck pressed cruelly against him as he tried to lift his head to spit the liquid out, so he let it drop. He tasted blood in his throat and winced as he was forced to swallow it.

It was only after a few minutes, once he had gotten his breathing back under control, that he realized two things. One - the once-men were laughing hysterically. And two - he was crying.

He wished desperately for the use of his hands so that he could wipe the tears away. That these monsters could see them, that they could see that they had broken him in any way, was almost more than he could bear.

Once again he closed his eyes, trying for the precious disconnect from earlier. He might have reached it too, given enough time, but the Reavers lifting him from the table ruined his chance of that. They stood him up, then let him fall down hard on the ground when his legs failed him. Then the big one, the one that had claimed him, grabbed his arm and began to half-drag, half-pull him from the room. Jayne groaned as his already sore body connected with the floor time and time again.

He was taken upstairs, to where the rooms lay. The monster seemed to pick a room at random, stopped at it, then knocked the door open with a ferocious kick.

Jayne was pulled up into a standing position and forced into the room. This time he was not allowed to fall.

Out of years of ingrained habit, Jayne's eyes began to search the room. It was in shambles, completely torn apart by savage force. The bed was the only recognizable piece of furniture left. It sat right in the center of the room, next to a small window. And in the middle of it, surrounded by spattered gore, lay the room's sole occupant - a man wearing no clothes and no face.

The Reaver pulled Jayne toward the bed, and with only one hand, grabbed the corpse's arm and flung it onto the floor. Jayne turned away...had to...until he felt himself being pulled forward once again.

The thought of being on the dead man's bed was for some reason almost more than Jayne could handle and desperate words began falling from his mouth before he could even think about what he was doing.

"Please, don't. Please don't put me on that bed. Please. Please."

The Reaver, paying absolutely no attention to Jayne's half-mad pleadings, threw him onto the center of the bed easily. Jayne landed on his back, felt the congealing blood against his skin, and continued to beg even more incoherently than before. The Reaver stared at him for a moment, eyes dancing with what could pass for amusement in a sane man's face, then reached out and slapped him hard across the cheek.

Jayne's litany stopped as his head was snapped to the side from the blow. As he lay there, in the room that reeked of death, he felt alternately grateful and resentful that he'd been pushed off of the road to madness.

He felt the bed dip down from extra weight and knew that the Reaver now sat beside him. He refused to turn his head to look at him, choosing instead to focus on the dark, bloodstained wall across from him.

But when a clawed hand dug into his chin and twisted, he had no choice but to allow his head to follow.

The Reaver bent down a little and said, "Mine. Say it."

Jayne rolled his eyes. Couldn't the thing come up with anything new?

Then the creature's hand, which had been laying splayed across Jayne's chest, began to move downward. Its nails left thin, bloody trails as it moved from his chest to his stomach and then between his legs.

Jayne tensed, instantly regretting the rolling of the eyes. Whatever was going to happen now was going to be bad. Real bad.

A moment later he felt fingers inside of him; he guessed two but he couldn't be sure. Instinctively, his body arched up, trying to get away, but really there was nowhere to go. A moment later another finger was added, then another, then . . .

"Oh, God!" Jayne gasped as his body was rocked by a whole new lesson in pain.

The thing's hand . . . no, his fist...his entire first...was inside him.

Jayne froze, mouth open, eyes fixed to the ceiling as the hand began to move inside of him. In and out. Slowly. Nails scraping away at his insides. He would have screamed had he the breath to do so. He would have pleaded for it to stop had he the breath.

The creature's hand moved for what seemed eons, its leering face on the edge of Jayne's peripheral vision. And just when dark spots began to dance before his eyes and consciousness began to fade, the Reaver finally withdrew his hand. Jayne howled as the air that had been held captive in his lungs was expelled. His scream destroyed his throat just a little bit more, but he barely registered it. There was no other pain right now except the agony deep inside his body.

The Reaver moved into his line of sight. Jayne was dismayed and surprised to find that the once-man was blurry.

He'd been crying again.

"Mine. Say it," came the rough voice.

Jayne nodded, feeling very desperate and hurt and scared now. Feeling very much like the little boy who used to hide in his closet when his father got just a mite too drunk.

No point in fighting anymore. Now was about accepting.

"Yours."