Disclaimer: Not sure this is really needed since we all know I don't own these characters.

Notes: This is A/U and will not be for everyone. That being said it was written for someone in particular. Many thanks to Froot for beta-ing this for me. I played with it after though so all mistakes are mine.

It's the silence that will break her.

Her own indomitable need-to-know coupled with her insatiable mind will be my allies. She is an explorer, after all, and I give her nothing. No stimulus, no information, no access. There is nothing to occupy her mind or halt her rampaging thoughts. She sits in a cell stripped of everything but a toilet, a cot, and a view of me.

Oh yes, I am her only company. But I don't speak to her, I don't acknowledge her. I simply sit in her line of vision and work. Or appear to work. Occasionally, I watch entertainment or read recreationally. I've even attempted a few of the novels from the download of her ship's database that she seems to favor. She has an eclectic taste ranging between tawdry stories of people creating reasons to fornicate, epically long stanzas of lyrical nonsense, and stilted historicals. I find the historicals most to my liking. She tends towards militaristic encounters which I can at least find useful. I look forward to the day when we can discuss such topics although I doubt that day will be any time soon.

Prax idiotically believes she will not be able to hold her tongue for more than a day. He believes her to be rather mouthy for a female. I'm sure the females that usually have the unfortunate experience of his company do stay rather silent, the better to speed his departure away from them. But I know for me, she will hold her silence out of sheer determination. She enjoys conversation with me too much and will not allow herself to stoop to such levels without putting up a fight. She'll resist her own temptations.

The compulsion to speak, however, is an addiction. There's an uncomfortable silence that builds between people that almost demands to be broken, but even more compelling is the desire for information. She craves to know what is happening beyond her very small space.

Is her crew safe? Did I let them go? Did I keep my word? Is Voyager out of Devore space? Where are we? Where are we going? What will happen to her when we get there? What is to become of her?

For some people that last question would be their first, but not Kathryn. She won't get around to worrying about herself for some time yet which is idiotic considering what happens to her is the only thing she'll know for certain. I can tell her anything I want about her precious crew and ship; I am her only source of supply for information. Maybe I let them go; maybe I didn't. Maybe I'll tell her the truth; maybe I won't. She knows this; it's what keeps her silence.

The first two days between us move at a glacial pace. She inspects her cell; I ignore her. She paces; I continue to be absorbed in my reading. She uses the toilet; I wish that I could do the same. She exercises; I watch. The recorders for the prisoner area capture her every move, and I watch on my handheld device as she jumps and bends and thrusts herself about. I occasionally zoom in on her face; her eyes dart towards me often, waiting for me to notice her, to give her some indication of interest. If she could see just how much attention I'm giving her, she'd be much more cautious during her stretches.

Finally, she sleeps. Not just the feigning of sleep which she has tried more than once, but every sensor indicates she has actually succumbed to rest. I press a button on the desk releasing an odorless gas into her cell. She unknowingly sinks into a state of sedation, and I engage the stasis field over her. Without her steady observance, I am finally able to stretch and allow my own discomfort to show. The forced inactivity has tightened muscles in my back and caused my legs to cramp. Standing, I drink in my first real sight of her in two days. Not even in sleep does she appear to be at peace.

I head for my quarters. My body is uncomfortable in more ways than one; I need a shower, real sleep, and to relieve myself. The discomfort is worthwhile.

I have won round one.

After I remove the stasis, she sleeps naturally for a few hours, but I imagine the scent of coffee is what finally awakens her. She looks around for the source as she sits up. I almost smirk as I watch her on the vid screen, appearing disheveled, and glaring when she spies the cup beside me. Without looking up, I reach over and pick up the steaming mug, bring it to my mouth, and take a sip. She looks away and sees her own breakfast – standard rations and drink. It's better known as grey space sludge and water. Her eyes cut again to me, hoping to catch me lording over her, but all she sees is me engrossed in my reading. The glare gives way to a frown.

She makes use of the facilities, and I imagine the questions building in her mind.

Where is Voyager? How long did she sleep? Is her crew still looking for her? Have I moved at all? Did anything happen to her while she slept? Is her crew being held in some similar cell? Is the food tainted in some way? Will that be the only food she receives? How much time has passed since she stepped foot into the cell? What is it I want? Why am I ignoring her? What is my endgame?

Returning to the cot, she picks at the bland, tasteless rations. They will give her body all the calories and vitamins it requires, but they will provide little else. The coffee's aroma has more taste and stimulus to it than her entire plate of food. After only a few bites, she sets the tray aside; I finish off the last sip of my coffee.

She begins to watch me for longer periods of time. I remain as silent as she, but I do allow her to see more. I frown at the reports as I make notations. I smirk and shake my head as I watch a nightly entertainment segment. I even get to my feet and pace a few steps. Her eyes hungrily follow my every move.

Mentally, I'd estimated that it would take a week before she started speaking. She takes four. I've been in front of her for every single one of her waking hours. She's never been alone, but after the first week of silence, I switch tactics.

I openly watch her. I track her every movement; how often she shifts her weight, how many times she tucks her hair back, how many steps she takes in an hour when she paces. I smirk when despite my undivided attention she gives in to nature and has to use the facilities provided for her. I stare at her mouth when she eats and drinks. She no longer exercises. She'd been irritated by my disinterest, but being the center of my very focused attention is infuriating.

I also provide tantalizing amounts of stimulus. I take my meals in front of her and the aromas are filtered into her space. When I watch entertainment, the volume is loud enough for her to hear but too soft to be discernible. I stand at the door, out of her line of sight, and allow her to hear me receiving dry reports regarding ship efficiency from Prax. I return my attention to her and can see the questions she so very much wants to ask.

She sleeps when she must, and I make liberal use of the stasis field prolonging her hours of inertia to suit my needs. Each time I return rested and well suited to continue our game of wills; she wakes none the wiser and slips deeper into my net. The lack of interaction is grating on her. My silent watchful presence is testing her patience. Some have suggested that if I would leave her in complete isolation she'd be talking to the walls by now, but what interest would that be to me. I want her broken, not crazy.

At the end of the first month, when she's only been conscious for half that time, she speaks. She is lying on her side on the cot, facing the wall. If I hadn't been paying so close attention to her, I might have missed it. But she shifts slightly, turning her head to look over her shoulder at me before turning back to the wall.

"Did you release Voyager?"

I smirk and get to my feet. She turns over to watch me, her eyes showing the fear she has of my answer. I walk to the side of the room, activate the door, and exit into the corridor. The door closes behind me and I leave her utterly alone.

Her second line of defense has fallen. I couldn't be happier.

"Don't you have better things to do than sit here and babysit me all day?"

The dam has been broken, and I smile at her waspish question. I really don't have anything better to do. We're on our way back to Devore Prime. It will take us six months to retrace our route, the entirety of which occurs within Devore borders and has been rendered safe. My duties are quite null at the moment.

"Who runs your ship while you're down here with me all day?"

"The captain," I answer simply.

It's the first time I've responded directly to one of her questions; today marks the first time she's bothered asking anything that wasn't directly related to Voyager. She's perhaps finally learned her lesson. For the past five days, upon sight of me she would immediately ask me about Voyager. Without answering, I would leave and she would be alone for the rest of the day. It did occur to me that she may enjoy the solitude, but five days of sheer boredom is a long time for a mind like hers. My unexpected response now after a morning of silence stuns her into momentary silence.

"And don't worry about me," I continue, stepping carefully over her lapse. "I've kept up with my duties."

"How?" she recovers. "Aside from the last few days, you spend every waking moment sitting here staring at me."

"Time moves differently for you, Kathryn." I drop the first hint of her new truth. "I may spend every one of your waking moments with you, but I assure you, I do have other duties which occasionally require my attention."

Her arms cross over her chest. "What the hell does that mean?"

I shut off the report I was reading and give her my full attention. "How long do you think you've been aboard my ship?"

Her glare cools considerably. We both know she doesn't have an accurate handle on how much time has passed, but to answer my question she'll have to admit to her weakness. She doesn't want to answer.

I shrug and reactivate the report.

"A few weeks, maybe," she guesses grudgingly.

Remarkably, she's only off by a few days, but I look at her as though she's a cute child one must indulge. "I'm sorry, Kathryn, but no, it's been a bit longer than that."

"How much longer?"

I sit back, allowing her to see my grimace, the distaste of having to deliver bad news. I choose to delay rather than answer directly. "It's not important. If I were you, I wouldn't worry about it."

My tone is both dismissive and condescending. She hates it. "I want to know."

Of course she does. Who wouldn't? I'm sure by her estimation Voyager should have rescued her by now. She's wondering how much longer she has to put up with me. Knowing that the end of a difficult interlude is nearing will always give one hope, and in her case, more determination to outlast it. I plan to crush that hope.

I brush away a non-existent blemish on my dark pants. I want her to force my answer. She doesn't disappoint.

"Kashyk." It's the first time she's used my name since we were together on her ship. "How long?"

She demands facts, and I offer her my most sympathetic expression. "Six months."

She scoffs, indelicately snorting air out of her nose before shaking her head at me. "You're lying."

"I have absolutely no reason to lie to you," I lie.

"No, you probably don't," she admits easily, "but it wouldn't stop you from doing so."

She knows me so well. "Then why ask me anything at all?"

She ignores that. "I have not been here for six months."

I offer nothing in response which forces her to continue.

"I'd know!" she insists.

"Would you?" I counter, getting to my feet and moving closer to the energy field that stands between us. "Would you be able to accurately track the passage of time if you'd been put into stasis each and every time you've slept since you've set foot onto my ship?"

What little color she possesses drains from her face. "What?"

"I've been putting you into stasis for days, sometimes weeks at a time, while I attend to other duties." I spell it out for her.

Her head shakes from side to side so slightly it's likely she is unaware of committing the motion. "I don't understand."

"Which part would you like me to clarify?"

"You're lying," she tries again.

"Am I?"

"I don't believe you."

She's starting to. "That hardly matters."

She paces away from me, shaking her head. "No." She stops at the far side of her cell and eyes me. "I won't believe this."

"I know it's difficult, Kathryn." She flinches at the use of her name. "But consider for a moment that you believe you've been here for almost a month, yes?"

When I wait for her response, she nods.

"And during that so-called month, you've never once tended to your own hygiene, have you? And yet, you're clean; your garments are clean." I gesture to the walls of her cell. "Your living space is clean."

She glances at her fingernails. "What does that have to do-?"

"The stasis field includes sonic cleansing as well as hygiene protocols upon initiation." I eye her clothing. "The longest you've gone without being cleansed is a day and a half, maybe two days."

"That's not proof," she insists rather correctly. "What's the date?"

I tell her the Devore date and can almost feel the burn from her glare. I offer her the report that I was reading, holding it up to the force field. She glances at it; the written Devore language appearing as nothing but a series of scribbles and dots to her. "Until you learn to read Devore, I'm afraid you'll have to take me at my word."

"And what about Voyager?"

I shake my head and sigh. "And you were doing so well." I head for the door. "I guess we'll have to try again in a few days."

She stops me before I reach the door. "Kashyk, wait…"

I am out of her view but the doors haven't been triggered open so she knows I haven't left yet. I pause, giving her the moment she so clearly needs.

"Please," she says, forcing the word out, clearing her throat before adding, "stay."

Another round to me; I'm gentleman enough to not make her wait.

"I don't want to be put into stasis anymore."

It's not a surprising request, and honestly, now that she's conceded to the defeat of accepting my company, it's not a request I mind granting. Appearances, however, must be kept. "No, it's not a good idea."

"It was never part of our agreement."

I resist the urge to scoff at her naiveté. The only part of the so-called-agreement that we ever discussed was that in exchange for me releasing her ship she would come quietly. And that "discussion" took place when I already had her entire crew and ship in custody. It was more of a plea from her than an agreement. Allowing her to believe she had some influence over her fate may have been a mistake on my part.

"It was never not part of our agreement," I counter. "The conditions upon which you placed yourself in my custody were never discussed. Be thankful that stasis is the worst addendum to our deal that you've had to accept."

She has to concede that even if she doesn't want to admit it. Her life could be so much worse.

"But it isn't the worst part I've had to accept, is it?" she says quietly.

She holds my gaze. The forbidden subject of her ship is not mentioned specifically but it lies between us all the same. She silently beseeches me to tell her of Voyager's condition; the sapphire gaze never as crystallized as it is when she thinks of her former crew.

"It's the not-knowing that's difficult to accept, isn't it?" I ask conversationally. She sits up straighter, bracing herself for what she hopes I'm about to impart. "Very well, I will consider your request regarding the use of the stasis field."

Her face flushes and the sapphire quickly hardens into frozen grey ice. One hand clenches into a tight fist at her side and the muscle along the underside of her jaw flexes. I allow her time to throw invectives at me, but, for the moment, none seem to be forthcoming. Despite her isolation, her self-control appears to be intact.

"Speaking of our little arrangement," I press, surprising her. "There are some details we need to discuss."

"What sort of details?" she asks tightly, the hard bite in her voice voiding the calm she strains to project.

"Well, for one, we need to record your statement of submission."

She blinks. "My what?"

"Statement of submission," I repeat. "It's a verbal acknowledgment that you have put yourself under my control. It's just a matter of paperwork, really." I wave it off as inconsequential. "It saves the government from having to process and condemn you, insures that you are listed appropriately under my household properties for tax purposes, that sort of thing."

The color is high in her cheeks and her lips have thinned to almost nothing. "No."

For her benefit, I release a long suffering sigh. "Kathryn-"

"No." Her hand cuts through the air like a knife. "You are out of your xenophobic mind if you think that I would ever record a statement suggesting that I'm some sort of…concubine."

By the old gods, I do enjoy her spirit. "You will," I reply evenly, "or you'll regret it."

The blue is as cold and hard as I've ever seen it. "Are you threatening me, Inspector?"

"I'm stating a fact."

"I hardly think-"

"A year from now," I talk over her, "you will be lying on your back beneath some rutting Devore politician, and you will think back on this conversation." I pause briefly, insuring that I have her attention. "He will likely be the sixth or seventh member of the government that you will have been passed around to as entertainment. When they have grown tired of using you as a plaything, they will finally issue their judgment. You will then be sent to a processing center where you will once again be passed around amongst whoever is considered to be of high enough rank and of questionable enough taste to deserve a treat. After a month or so when all of their cocks have run dry and all of their floors have been cleaned with your tongue, they will condemn you to a work detail." The coarse description of how she will spend her time falls freely from my tongue. "Depending on how well you've been rated, you may get assigned to a brothel. More likely, you'll get thrown down the shaft of a mine. The life expectancy of either option is four to seven months. You'll hope it's the former and not the latter."

She's quiet for a few minutes, gauging my truthfulness, waiting to see if I have anything else to add. "Or, I can live out my life with you?"

"Yes, if you choose to stay with me, you'll reside within my quarters. You'll be clean and eat hot food, sleep in a warm bed. You'll have access to entertainment; you'll be allowed to pursue your hobbies. You'll be amongst the stars, Kathryn."

"And will that warm bed include your company?"

"It's my bed or more than a dozen others." She hasn't bothered hiding her disgust so I don't either. "If you are sent to the mines, you will die a filthy, broken plaything at the bottom of a shaft. You'll be mourned by no one and likely incinerated with the rest of the trash before your designation has even been recorded as missing."

"You paint a grim picture," she says far too lightly.

"The truth is grim."

The corner of her mouth quirks upwards for a moment before flattening again. "Surely Inspector, some people must survive in the mines. How else would you get any production done?"

"There are some who survive," I admit. "There are some who have been down there for so long that they've forgotten what sunlight feels like. Although I don't know that I'd call them people anymore. After all, they no longer survive simply on the provided rations. They aren't exactly living off carrion as they prefer their meat to have a bit of life left in it."

"Cannibals?" she asks skeptically.

"Yes," I confirm. "Scavengers that follow the rape gangs and pick up the scraps that are left behind; the ones that are weakened and destroyed but not quite dead yet make the most tender morsels."

"You'd truly say anything, wouldn't you?" She shakes her head. "No, I don't think I'll believe you. The stories are becoming a little too dire, even for you."

I gather my things before she truly tests my patience. "The choice is yours, Kathryn. I hope your convictions bring you comfort when you feel their teeth shred the meat from your bones."

I stay away from her for a week. As requested, I don't engage the stasis field. I want her to feel every second of every minute that passes by. The lights never dim and the silence is never broken, but I haven't left her with nothing.

On the bulkhead next to her bed, I activate a video screen and transmit the live continuous security feeds from Mine 947, a spice mine located on the southern hemisphere of Devore III. There are long hours of monotonous drudgery as the condemned live out the remainder of their lives in dirt and grime. But on three separate occasions, there are attacks. During the third incident, the security guard manning the surveillance system zooms in on the melee.

The assaults are not interrupted nor are they over quickly. Crowds gather on safer, higher levels to watch as a group prevails and enforces its will onto others. The attack takes hours, but eventually the crowd begins to disperse. The reigning group carries away some victims, taking them back to their dens with them. As they leave, another group emerges from the shadows, less of a group and more individuals scrapping against each other as they pick over who or whatever has been left behind.

Kathryn turns away as the scavengers slip back into the shadows, dragging their prizes with them. She sits for a moment, staring into nothing before looking up to the right corner of her cell. She's looking right at me, directly into the recorder that is completely concealed from her vision. She holds my invisible gaze for several long minutes. I discontinue the feed from the mine, shutting it off in her cell. Slowly, she inclines her head before turning away.

She believes me.

I continue to use the stasis field on her whenever it suits my needs. She notices, of course, now that she's no longer ignorant of the hygiene application, but she refrains from asking about it. When possible, I've arranged for her to use refreshers located in empty quarters. She's transported directly in and out without seeing anything other than the room itself and her cell. Tonight, however, I have something different planned for her.

I'm sure she notices as soon as she materializes that she is somewhere new. The shower is larger than the cubicles she's been using; there are towels and personal items present. And, perhaps most surprising, the door stands open.

I sacrifice seeing her initial reaction as I wait in the shadows of my room for the moment I do want to witness. Sitting off to the side, I wait for her to emerge. The light spilling from the refresher backlights her features as she steps through the doorway. It's a harsh contrast of light but in my more fanciful moments, it makes her appear soft. I drink in the sight of her, standing for the first time in my personal quarters; she stares at the bed.

It's large; ridiculously so, but it serves its purpose of capturing her attention so completely that for the moment I go unnoticed. The lighting in the bedroom is low, making it even more difficult to truly distinguish where the bed, swathed in black linen, truly ends.

Her hand briefly flutters at her side but stills quickly before she speaks. "What is this?"

Her voice isn't as cold as I would have expected; the anger that usually tinges her tone isn't present. She sounds more tired than anything. I'm not entirely convinced she's even speaking to me as the question is all but whispered towards the bed itself. I remain still.

But she's known all along that I'm here, and she looks directly at me. "Why did you bring me here, Inspector?"

Her backlit face is somewhat obscured in shadow and I call for half-lights. She blinks against the increased illumination, but keeps her eyes fixed on me.

"I thought you might enjoy dinner in my quarters," I tell her, "and a chance to get cleaned up a bit."

"And this?" she gestures at the bed.

"It's my bed, a piece of furniture that I believe you are familiar with."

No reaction. "Do you expect me to join you in it?"

I consider lying. "Not tonight."

"Never," she states coldly. "I will nev-"

"Never is a long time, Kathryn."

"Not long enough for me to change my mind," she snaps then mutters, "Not about this."

But about other things perhaps.

I get to my feet and move closer to her; she considers moving away. I see the hesitation and stiffening of her posture. It's the closest we've been without a force field between us since her ship. I look down at her, waiting for her to look up, but she doesn't.

She speaks to my chest. "Send me back to my cell."

"No." Our chests are almost touching. If she breathes any deeper, they will be.

Her eyes close briefly and her voice is a strained whisper. "Please, Kashyk, don't make me do this."

I stroke one glove covered finger along her jaw and guide her chin upwards, forcing her to look at me. "Make you do what, Kathryn? Take a shower? Eat a decent meal?" I grip her chin lightly. "That's all I've offered."

She doesn't lower her eyes from mine. "You want more than that."

"As do you," I reply before moving away from her and taking a seat on the edge of the bed, "but not necessarily tonight."

"Not ever, Kashyk. Not willingly. Not on my part."

"In that case, I see no reason to wait. Shall I force myself on you now or shall we postpone our interlude until after dinner?" Her obstinacy has my blood rushing. The thought of throwing her onto the bed and ravaging her is stymied only by my desire to have her as an active participant when the deed occurs. "Personally," I manage to grit out, "I'd rather have something to eat first."

"I'll resist you," she insists. "I don't care what our agreement is, or how you think I should behave. I will fight you with every bone in my body until the last breath leaves my chest."

I'm upon her in a second, pushing her back until she hits the bulkhead. I trap her hands with one of mine, pinning them above her head. Her knee comes up and I easily sidestep it, trapping her thighs with one of my own. My free hand closes around her neck, the dark black of my glove covering the entire expanse of her pale throat.

"Do you want that last breath to be now, Kathryn?" She jerks against me; I press harder, my chest flush against hers, my entire body trapping hers. "Or do you want to live a while longer?"

All the muscles in her throat are flexing beneath my hand as her face reddens under my increasing pressure. She thrashes beneath me, scratching her face against my rank insignia.

I lean in to her, nuzzling her hair; she stiffens. "If you force me to kill you now," I whisper into her ear, my teeth grazing her lobe, "you'll never have a chance to escape." We both know it's what she wants, that single moment of inattention to take advantage of. It's the fantasy that lingers in her fading dreams. I breathe in her scent and exhale warm breath across the fine hairs of her skin. "Give me an answer, Kathryn. Do you want to live?"

We hold our pose of death for a moment longer before I feel all of her muscles relax beneath me. I pull back to find her looking directly at me. Moisture leaks from the corner of her eyes, running down her cheeks and onto my glove. She gives the slightest of nods, all that she is capable of, and I release the grip I have on her throat.

She coughs and draws in a deep shuddering breath. I lower her arms to a more comfortable position, but I don't move away from her. Her chest brushes against mine as she catches her breath; my body remains flush against hers.

"I don't want to have this conversation again," I inform her quietly. "We both know you want to live, and we both intend to see that you do."

She's looking into the refresher, away from me. "I meant what I said; I'll resist you."

"I know." She wouldn't be her if she didn't. I move away from her, pull down on my tunic to straighten it. "Now, enjoy your shower, and when you're finished, we'll have a decent dinner."

The look she gives me is unreadable, equal parts fury and remorse, loathing and gratitude. I find I understand her immensely.

...