A/N: I think this will be the most dark fic I've wrote, and let me tell you I am excited. I got this idea when I was awake until four trying to go to sleep and, with nothing to do, I decided to try and break my readers. I'm not going to have many a/n's in this, for the pure fact I really don't want to. So, if anything needs to be clarified, message me or make a review. I'll try to write it in somewhere the clarification, if I can.

Warning: There may contain mentions/implications of torture (physically, psychologically, and sexually), as well as non-explicit descriptions of physical and psychological torture. Gore, insanity, slavery, phobias, nightmares, etc. may be described in detail. Murder, assault, and main character death will all be present in this fic. Don't read if you don't to see any of that.

blank :: Tabula Rasa :: slate

Chapter I . Soulless Organization

He lay in silence.

Every part of his body hurt. Even places he didn't even knew existed hurt and god was he in agony. Every time he breathed, shallow and labored, every time his heart beat, with every shift it even felt like his hair felt the lancing pain as much as his abused torso did. With every shallow breath, there was not only the pain but the disgusting scent of his surroundings and himself. Blood, bile, the scent of charred meat. The sight of all these things were even worse, and he nearly kept his eyes closed at all times. The only thing lighting his cell was a tiny oil lamp that lay outside the criss-cross bars, casting frightening shadows on him that seemed to dance and flicker at all times, even when he was certain the air was still.

His body was naked, prone on the ground. There were messily bandaged gashes and scars and slashes, tears and marks and whatever one could imagine, on his body. There was a large burned area on his calf, a punishment for an attempted escape from the place. A tear in his skin, right along his left eye, prevented the eyelid from opening by himself. One of his ears had a large chunk cut away, and his hair was reaching his mid-back, his bangs easily covering his eyes and parting messily along his face, reddened with his own blood.

His pale skin was endlessly marred, seeming to have a countless amount of wounds. One wrist was obviously broken, as were both of his ankles, and his nails were vaguely like claws. Stubble was obvious on his chin; his hair grew slowly, even this, but it was vaguely noticed. Lashes and more burns were on his back, and his wrists looked like barbed wire had been dug into it, and his arms were red with rope burns and the markings of heated metal. All in all, he was definitely worse for wear.

The young, beaten man was not sure how long he had been there. At first, it had been easy to tell; he could tell the days one from another. He had previously been visited twice a day, once at morn and eve, and thrice every other days, at noon, to be given a small, measly meal that wouldn't hold him to the next visit. He counted out the first month, then the next, then the third, and the fourth, then...he lost it. The longer he progressed in this hellhole, the more fuzzy his memories became. He could not remember the days of the week, first, no matter how hard he tried, and with that he could no longer name how long he had been there. His sense of time was lost. He lost his memories of where he came from. It was simply a blur of grey and blue, he could see a few papers and a large window, a small bed.

Then, it was his companion's names. He could still see all of them - a woman in blue, a dog, a smaller but mature boy, a man with shoulder-length dark hair that sometimes looked different, everyone. Then he forgot their voices, and finally, their appearances altogether. He began to forget himself; if it weren't for the fact he reminded himself every day of who he was. Well, every time one of them visited and he was left conscious. That's who I am, he thought. You musn't forget. You can't! They're relying on you...

Who was relying on him? He really didn't know. All of his thoughts and memories and dreams and nightmares and hallucinations were swirled together in a mix of colors, shapes, noises, thoughts, words, actions, anything...but he didn't recognize anything but himself.

He didn't even know what he looked like anymore. He could see his body, but that was it. He had no idea on what he himself looked like. He couldn't look the same as always, of course.

...But, then, it was all he could do to remember himself. They were trying to change him. They did everything they could; beat him, whipped him, raped him, made him feel like he was going to die, but they kept coming back. He would be force given a few gels that would help with the wounds and the pain for a bit, occasionally a cure bottle in his water to keep away infections, but that was it. He wished they would leave him alone. Leave him to die, and rot away in this cell. Hope was something scarce; so scarce, it was nonexistent.

He shifted, curling up. It hurt, it hurt so bad, but he did it anyway. He looked like a cowering dog awaiting its abusive master, pressed against the wall and seeming to try and shrink away. He knew his captors would be coming soon for another one of the sessions. He almost had an uncanny ability to tell when they were going to come, when they were going to be there to attack him and beat him and make him feel even worse than he already did.

He never showed defiance anymore, because if he tried to fight back, even talk back or look at them, the beating grew worse. They would spit insults at him, they would snarl hatefully and make him believe he was worthless - what good had he done in the world? Little, he was taken away too fast, it was their fault! Their fault!

...their fault for what?

A quiet, airy whine left him, burying his nose into his wounded arm. He hated being so clueless, feeling like an unknowing idiot. He hardly knew how to communicate anymore; his thoughts were the only real form of communication he had. Everything was so...distant now. Everything he felt in the past was like trying to see in dirty water. It was fogged, and he knew it was there...but he couldn't see it at all.

At that time, he heard two voices. One was feminine, the other masculine; both he recognized. Especially the female voice. She terrified him, worse than any of the other ones. She only came when they tried to change him. When they performed...what was the word, what was it...

Experiments. Yes, experiments, that's right. When they performed experiments on him. Incredibly painful ones, at that.

The cell's door unlocked with a quick and the hinges protested as the heavy door was open, and he grimaced and curled up further. He heard the footsteps draw nearer and a fearful whimper escaped him. He heard the female laugh.

Then, his torture began again.

Two years earlier

"Attention!" Flynn shouted, striding down the small rank - there could not be more than fifty knights in the perfect square - his long cape flowing out behind him with his swift, confident steps. There was a clamor of armor as the forty-odd knights slammed the butt of the spear against the ground, right fist going over their heart and left stiff at their side, holding the long weapon straight up. Flynn made them hold the stance in silence, scanning over the rows as he walked around them, occasionally muttering something to a knight or telling them to adjust their stance.

All in all, though, he was quite pleased with how they were working. The drill had gone on for quite a while, and these were rather new knights. They were patient, as well, and he briefly let a proud expression flicker over his face. I'm glad we can train such good knights, he thought, a small smile lingering on his face. He opened his mouth to speak another order when he heard the clank of armor and he turned to see a knight in an orange uniform running towards him. The man stopped, breathless, and looked up at him behind the helmet. His armor looked messily put on, and he would have berated the man for not meeting regulation if it wasn't for the urgency in his actions.

"Commandant, sir!" He didn't recognize the voice. "There's something going on in the Lower Quarter - you've been requested to come at once!"

The Lower Quarter? This alerted him; what in the world could be going on down there? He nodded, looking over to the ranks, able easily to pick up the golden-haired form of his lieutenant. "Lieutenant Sodia!" he called. "Continue the drills - I'll be back soon." The second-in-command paused but nodded, turning to the knights assembled to continue their drilling.

Then, the blond-haired commandant turned and nodded to the knight, who began a swift pace back down towards the Lower Quarter. Flynn took this time to inspect the man; he'd not be able to get any real details as of yet about whatever was happening in the Lower Quarter.

He was tall, taller than Flynn, and upon closer inspection his uniform seemed a little redder than he last remembered the Schwann Brigade's uniform to be. Strange, he thought. That's the uniform for a swordsman, isn't it? But he has a...spear?

Things in the Lower Quarter were calm. Completely calm, it seemed. Flynn raised an eyebrow, confused, but the man urged him on and he quickened his walk a bit. "...What's going on?" he asked. "Didn't you say something was wrong?" The man nodded, and Flynn couldn't see the smirk under his helmet. However, the blond reached for his sword, just in case. Soon he was led into a back part of the Quarter, where a terribly large amount of crime did occur. The part where anyone, noble or knight or commoner or pauper, stayed away from.

"..." His questioning grew when he was led towards and alley, and he finally drew his sword. "Where are we going? Tell me now!" he demanded, and the knight turned, backing up and raising the spear.

"Oh, commandant, we're not going anywhere. We're already here," the man responded, raising the helmet of his uniform with a grin. This was not a knight, he was sure of it. Flynn growled and stepped forward, and at that moment he heard three pairs of boots hit the ground behind him and he whipped around. Great, now he was surrounded in this alleyway. Two of the black-clad people carried swords- one a greatsword and the other a broadsword-, the other a pair of chain scythes. The commandant clenched his teeth, and heard the clink of armor behind him. He hopped to the left, easily avoiding the spear.

However, the sword and scythes were not as easy to avoid. They were all three on him at once, like cats pouncing on their prey. He parried one blow only to have to duck away from another. They were not holding back, and neither could he, but they were strong; once, when their swords clashed - the song of steel colliding sounding - and their crosspieces met, he felt like he had tried to hit a brick wall with his wrist. Cursing, he was driven back - and soon nearly cornered at the back of it. The person with the scythes lunged, making cutting motions at him, and he ducked to the side and sprinted, trying to get back to open ground as quick as he could, but the not-knight intercepted him. He moved to the right in just enough time that the flat of a sword didn't come down on his head.

And that's what alerted him; this wasn't an assassination attempt. If it was, they would have cut him in half by now. They were trying to capture him - which might be worse, in some ways.

Correction: this both alerted him and distracted him. He was trying to think and move at the same time, and wasn't paying attention to the knight behind him. He felt an iron grip grab his forearms, yanking them back and then forcing the sword from him. Shit, shit, shit, no! The knight kicked the back of his knees, where there was an opening in his armor, and he felt himself being forced to his knees.

One of the figures, the one with the greatsword, raised the pommel of the weapon high above his head.

Everything went black.

Flynn woke up to almost-complete darkness. He was lying on the ground in a shadowy cell, but upon opening his heavy eyelids he could see the flame of a small oil lamp. He raised up and felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, his vision briefly spinning and going in and out of focus. He lie still again, definitely not daring stand. His movements were off balance enough as it was. He tried to survey his surroundings, slowly taking them in. There was an uncomfortable cobblestone floor where he lay, a pair of shackles in the corner - he noticed with a flinch that the inside of the cuffs had tiny spikes that would gouge into one's wrist - and a similar pair of shackles, though not with the spines, lower down, presumably for ankles. There was a hook on the other side of the room, lit only with the dim gleam from the lamp.

The bars were in squares, tiny and not letting him see very much outside but still allowing the light to filter through and illuminate the place a bit. The door was solid iron; there wouldn't be any simple breaking out of here. There were no vents or passages he could see obviously, and finally, vision having calmed a bit and focused, he stood. He felt a pang of pain in his head but kept himself steady, glancing around. He slowly circled the cell, feeling and looking for any indentations that could signal a secret passageway; obviously, he'd been kidnapped and he'd rather not stay til when whoever his captor was came back down for him.

There was nothing, though, and he grimaced; this was just his luck, wasn't it? He closed his eyes, leaning against a corner. His memories were fuzzy, hardly there, but if he concentrated he could remember a bit. That's right, he'd been doing drill inspections with a section of the Flynn Brigade. And then a knight wearing an orange uniform had ran up and told him there was something urgent going on in the Lower Quarter. The man had seemed hurried and so Flynn had believed him, following him to the Lower Quarter and leaving the Lieutenant to finish off the inspection for him. However, upon reaching the area the knight had designated, he was met with an ambush. The last thing he remembered was the pommel of a broadsword being risen above his head while his arms were restrained, and then he had woke up disoriented here. No doubt what had happened in between that.

Ok, you know that much. All you have to do now is think reasonably, calmly, and collectively, he thought, eyes closing. Who was it in the first place?

He tried harder to pull back the memories. He remembered something - thinking that the man's orange Schwann Brigade uniform looked a little off. A little more red than he remembered, but now he was certain it was different. The armor didn't appear to exactly fit the main, either. And he was carrying a spear, while wearing a uniform of a swordsman. So, it was a spy. Man, I was off my game.

Really off his game; how didn't he know? The more he thought, the more utterly suspicious the man had seemed. His voice was a little too frantic; the man was overacting. A man in the Schwann Brigade, as noble as the majority of them are, would still care little about the Lower Quarter. There were few that did, not counting the ones actually from there. He should have noticed how there was no commotion at all in the quarter, as well, but he'd been determined to make sure nothing was wrong. He was overprotective of that place, after all.

"I feel like an idiot," he muttered under his breath.

Suddenly, he heard a door open. It wasn't the iron door to his cell, though, not yet, and he turned, walking quickly to the bars to try and look through. He heard footsteps coming down stairs and narrowed his eyes, reading himself to fight. Whoever it was, though, was expecting it, and when they opened the iron door, they ducked and Flynn's aimed strike missed their target of the man's head. He straightened, glaring down at the slightly shorter blond.

"Well, well, if it isn't the little commandant," he spat, grabbing him by the hair. Flynn hissed and lashed out, but the man jerked him roughly. Closing the door behind him, he practically tossed Flynn to the ground. The dazed blond felt his head hit the floor, sent into another bout of dizziness and random focusing and blurring of his vision. The man who'd thrown him was stronger than Flynn had anticipated, and when he started to get up the man grabbed him by the hair again. "Not lookin' so high and mighty now, are you?"

Flynn cursed softly, glaring up at him. With the glare he earned a strike to the jaw, but that didn't offset him very much. The knight growled and spat in the man's face, who leered back. He didn't seem to be getting really mad, though, which was what Flynn wanted. The angrier, the clumsier, right?...but also the stronger.

"I never was looking 'high and m'-"

"Shut up! I didn't say you could talk, did I?" the man snapped, slapping Flynn hard. The commandant jerked and then tried to pull away, aiming a swift kick at the man's shin. However, this was intercepted by the man kicking Flynn's leg out and forcing him onto his knees on the floor, and then onto his stomach, heel digging into his back. He grinned toothily at the blond, a glint in his eye that the blond's azure eyes caught. A cruel, heartless gleam.

Then, Flynn's torture began.