AN: I know! I have too many unfinished fics. But I've been fighting this plot bunny for a while. It actually came to me while I was doing 'Facilitating Fate' – which, for those of you who follow it, is coming soon! I've had a slight issue with pov but it's sorted now.

Anyway, back to this fic! It's slightly AU and some of the themes and plot twists (one in particular) will pop up in my other Kharlan fics (because I seem to have an obsession with doing those).

I had a heck of a job writing the summary...

WARNING: There are allusions to rape and torture in this fic. I've warned you. I'm not doing anything especially graphic. I don't plan to. But I will bump up the rating if I think it gets too dark.

Onwards!

Disclaimer: I don't own ToS. If I did, there would be a prequel, darn it!

Cold seeped through her skin from the stone slabs where she lay. Green hair fanned around her, the only part of her body that was permitted to move freely. Ropes bit into her limbs, igniting sparks of pain in her fingertips each time she tried to bring her arms closer to her body. Her legs were pressed tightly together and pulled upwards, as much of a barrier as she could manage in this state.

"I'm afraid I still don't understand why you would bring her to me here, Jenkins. You know our policy on intruders."

The man's voice was low, deadly. It sent a shiver down Martel's spine that was more than simply cold. Every recess of her mind screamed to run but every part of her body cried defeat. Tears of fury, pain, futility, revulsion and so much more than she could name stung at her eyes but they didn't fall. She couldn't let them fall. Not when she'd already fallen.

"Well, Trin and me – we just thought, y'know, you might wanna bit of fun, Sir. She ain't bad lookin' an' lively too. We just thought – Trin thought, Sir – that you should, y'know, be give 'er 'cause we don' find 'em like 'er often."

Jenkins fidgeted under the glare of the first man. His voice was as rough as his skin had been. His fingernails were caked in dirt. Martel didn't think she could ever forget the way her skin crawled as those nails dragged. A wave of revulsion rose like bile in the back of her throat. Those hands. Those disgusting hands on her body. That putrid smile against her throat.

No, no. It was over, she told herself; it was over now. She couldn't feel it anymore. It had happened. It was over. It was no more real than a nightmare. It was - it was nothing like this. All her body could feel now was cool air and colder slabs. Cold was fine. Cold was good. Anything that wasn't that. Anything that wasn't them.

"What business would I have with a creature like her?" the first man snapped. "If you see another one, kill it on sight. They're no more than sentient monsters that taint our race with their impurities."

Jenkins' face paled, his wide eyes flickering between Martel and his superior. He swallowed a globule of spit and nodded his head like a broken doll. The man's iced glare followed Jenkins' gaze, latching onto Martel like cold sapping strength from limbs, freezing her stare onto him.

But this was fine. This was a different man. These were different eyes. These bled blue hatred. There was no desire in these eyes, only darkness and disgust. A sneer stretched his thin lips. Wrath was an ugly emotion, but it was better than lust.

"Number 18 is especially vicious."

He eyed her with predatory precision. She turned her face away, watching Jenkins' steel capped toes shifting nervously.

"Put her in that cell, Jenkins. And on your way back, be sure to inform the cleaning team to deploy extra staff on it in the morning."

"Yes, Sir."

With that, the man swept into another room, briefly pausing before Martel with a malevolent look. She felt the binds around her legs fall away before Jenkins' hands clamped around her upper arm, pulling her upright. She couldn't bring herself to look at him. His touch on her arm was enough to send memories crashing through her walls and shivers through her spine.

Digust? Horror? Were they the feelings? She didn't know. But thinking about that wasn't thinking about him and if she wasn't thinking about him then she wasn't remembering them, then she wasn't broken. Then he wasn't there and it hadn't happened. And she wasn't afraid. No, she wasn't afraid.

She watched her bare feet. One. Two. Three. Four. A steady rhythm. A solid fact. Boots could be anyone's boots. Legs could be anyone's legs. If she was looking down, she could be walking with anyone. If she was counting her steps then she wasn't imagining the warped faces of men, the feral grins, the... Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.

"Number eighteen, there it is."

There was a sick delight in that perverse voice. In spite of herself, Martel looked up into his sly sneer and recoiled. She had to get away.

But it was too late. A knife appeared in his other hand. His grip was too tight; she couldn't move. It slashed downwards. Her eyes snapped shut. There wasn't the chance to scream.

Then instead of pain came a shove to her back and she crashed to the floor, her hands stretched in front of her to break the fall.

As violently as they had closed, her eyes opened. Her hands were free. Jenkins had gone. The room she was in was walled with grey and stained with fading maroon. One side was dominated by a metal door with a barred window. A cell.

He had thrown her into a cell.

A small sound of surprise alerted her to the fact that she didn't have a cell to herself.

"Number eighteen is especially vicious."

Her eyes weren't quick enough to adjust. All she could see were the bars of light from the window, patches of grey and maroon. All else was smothered in shadow. Where was it?

It moved. She heard it. Muscles slowly flexing. Its body crouching. Waiting. Sizing her up.

She tried to scramble backwards, away from the sound, away from Number eighteen. But she fell back against the door. The clang deafened her, echoed in her ears until it was the only sound she could hear. She couldn't hear the creature, had no idea when it would make its move, had no way of escaping, no way of fighting back.

She was powerless. Like before, she was powerless. Those men, this creature. She couldn't fight back. She couldn't do anything. All she could do was cry and let them do whatever they wanted. All she could do was die.

Fear overrode futility. Escape. She had to escape. Not again – they couldn't do this again. She couldn't break again.

Thighs screamed. Calves shook. Her fingernails scraped the wall, finding no purchase, no escape.

Maroon flaked on her fingers. Iron filled her nose.

In the corner, Number eighteen moved. Martel froze in horror. In her ears, that man spoke.

"Number eighteen is especially vicious."

Those men laughed.

Dried blood was splashed over the walls.

And her blood would join it.

AN: Okay... Umm... Yeah...

Jenkins' speech. I took it from a lot of accents I've heard in England. '...be give 'er' is be given her. It's a speech habit I've heard quite a bit. Another is 'I done it yesterday'.

Don't worry, I'm hoping to be able to make the next chapter longer and it won't be as ambiguous as this one is.

Anyway, please let me know what you think. I am new to writing this kind of thing. The creepy vibe of this chapter isn't something I'm especially good at and I've probably bitten off more than I can chew with a plot like this. But I had to write it. And any feedback helps to improve my writing.

Thanks for reading this!

~ThePurpleRose