Summary: The truce between Humans and Sangheili erases the rules that previously defined the interaction between a prisoner of war and his captor.
Author's note: This story contains descriptions of torture and heterosexual romantic/sexual contact between an alien (Sangheili) and a human being. Squicked? Then please don't read it.
The graphic nature of the descriptions is similar to that which you would find in a Silhouette Nocturne novel, which are sold on the public shelves at Wal-Mart. I therefore believe this level is appropriate for fanfiction net's M rating. I believe that anything more explicit than that qualifies as erotica and/or extreme violent content– the sort of item that you need ID to purchase – and is not appropriate for fanfiction net.
Out of respect for the ratings system on fanfiction net, only the first four chapters of this story will be posted here. At this point the story reaches a satisfactory conclusion without breaching what is acceptable for the "M" rating. I have not yet decided whether I will continue it on adulfanfiction net with more explicit content; those of you who are both legally able and personally inclined to view such a story may check there.
This story does not require the reader to have read any of my previous work, but there is an appearance from a character who first appeared in "Taking the Steel," and mild spoilers for "Cross Blades" and its sequels, "Mercenary Hearts" and the "Duels of Honour" miniseries.
This story is something I've been playing with in my spare time, and should be considered a "bonus" to my usual update schedule. It will update sporadically (ie, when I get around to completing the chapters).
Blood Shadow
Chapter the First: Five Long Years
"Conrad?"
He lay still, not wanting his captors to know that he was awake to hear them.
"Conrad? Are you awake?" The aliens' bizarre mouths mangled his name, but he had become accustomed to their accents over time, enough to understand what they were saying to him.
His eyes were closed, but his other senses were on full alert as he lay on the filthy cot that was his bed. He could hear their footsteps as they approached; there had to be five or six of them. He guessed he was in for another round of torture. They were becoming sadly predictable.
This existence had been his hell for a long time now. He wasn't sure how long. With no windows in the parts of the complex where he had been, and no timepieces that he could read, there was no way for him to tell the passage of days. He suspected that his prison was underground, though he could be mistaken. He might be inside a tall building, beneath the surface of a sea, or on a spaceship for all he knew. He wished, just once, that he could see outside. He had not seen the sky since his final misison.
His last mission had been to blow up a vital power grid. The area was going to fall to the enemy anyway, but if they were to hold the neighbouring territory they had to deny the enemy as much as possible. The area was already in enemy hands before his commandos entered the plant to blow up the grid.
They'd succeeded, but at a cost. He had been caught in an explosion and knocked unconscious; the last thing he remembered was staring up into a painfully blue sky, before he woke up here, in the aliens' prison.
He wondered if any of his teammates had survived. He hoped they had. He was sure they had left him for dead. Just as well—he wouldn't want to think that any of them had been killed or maimed in a futile attempt to save him.
The fucking aliens had thrown a sticky grenade at him. He had thrown up his hands to protect his face. He remembered that part clearly. He had a stump instead of a hand at the end of his right arm to remember it by.
They'd done so much more since.
He needed no words to describe the monsters' torments; his body was a silent litany of scars.
They had biopsied him countless times, making incisions to sample his tissues at their will. Sometimes, when they needed him very still, they sedated him. More often, they simply tied him down and made their cuts.
Other times there seemed to be little purpose to the injuries they inflicted. He wasn't sure if they were getting some kind of biological readings about his reaction to pain, his nervous system, his tolerance levels, his ability to heal…or if they were simply tormenting him for their own pleasure.
Everyone cracks under torture. He'd been told this when he first joined the special forces. He'd been taught ways to stand up against torture, knowing that the most he could hope for was to resist long enough for the information he knew to be useless, to be secure in the knowledge that he'd made them fight him for every single scrap they gleaned for him. He used all those methods and more, including those he'd discovered himself as a child, and he knew he had frustrated the aliens with his endurance and determination…but of course, in the end, he'd inevitably reached breaking point.
He was almost certain it had been the thing with his teeth that had put him over the edge.
He'd actually been fine when they were ripping his teeth out one at a time, if one accepted that "fine" could also encompass "terrified, horrified, infuriated, wild with pain, and choking on his own blood." It was afterward, when he was trying and failing to eat, choking on lumps of meat that he couldn't bite, realizing he'd be eating mush for the rest of his life, without even two hands to tear the lumps apart…that was the point his fighting spirit had faltered. The next day, when they moved on to ripping out his nails, that was the day he would have told them anything just to make them stop.
But they hadn't asked.
They hadn't asked about his unit, or his mission, or his ship. They hadn't asked about his homeworld, his culture, his faith. They didn't care about his childhood or his motivations or his goals. He'd almost broken on the day when he realized they didn't want him for information.
They just wanted a living captive.
A warm body to provide their samples and serve as a subject for their tests.
They had exposed him to substances, pumped fluids into his veins with needles, forced pills down his throat. Sometimes these experiences had no effect beyond the initial exposure. Sometimes they made him sick. Several times they made him very, very sick, though there was something to be said for fever-induced delerium that dulled the pain of the torture. More than once he'd endured their tiresome struggles to bring him back, because they clearly didn't want to kill him. If they killed him, how would they test their concoctions?
In the back of his mind he knew he should want to die.
He should die, and deny them their lab specimen. It would be the honourable thing to do.
But he had fought too hard to live just to lie down and die now.
Particularly once he realized what they were doing. It had taken much time for him to gather information and string it together in his mind, to learn the technical words in their language, to understand the full scope of their plans.
They were breeding a virus—a genetic virus designed to attack his species. And he was the only one who knew.
He could not leave his world unwarned, and so he had to survive, no matter what, despite the odds. He had to bide his time and wait for an opportunity to arise.
"Do they all sleep as much as this one?" He knew that voice—one of the guards, a younger one. A recent arrival who limped from an injury sustained in combat.
His reply was an evil laugh from another guard whom he knew well indeed. This one derived far too much pleasure from the acts of torturing. The hated voice replied, "We give this one regular workouts."
"It's over," came another voice. It was the warden, the one called Jan 'Cenahdee.
'Cenahdee was a female. He marked her because he saw very few females here in the prison rooms. One of the medics was a female, and one of the equipment technicians was female as well, but 'Cenahdee was the highest-ranking female alien he'd ever encountered.
The aliens' females were disgustingly similar to the males. It had taken him so long to even learn to tell the difference.
Conrad tried to tell himself that he felt no attraction to the hideous females. He had no doubt that, were he at home with even average-looking women within his reach, he would never have even thought to consider the alien females in a sexual way. But after who-knew-how-long in prison, the simple knowledge that another being was female was enough to get his mind travelling in an inappropriate direction.
He wondered if he'd be thinking this way about males had he not seen any females at all.
He was so busy trying not to think of 'Cenahdee as a female that he almost missed the import of her words.
It's over.
Were they going to execute him at last?
He might have precious little time left to act. Recently there had been less experimentation and more torture. Perhaps they had the virus perfected. Perhaps all they needed to do now was test it on him….
"I don't see why you won't let us do it," the monstrous guard muttered sullenly.
'Cenahdee knelt down beside him and put her hand on his cheek. He could not help himself from quivering at her touch. He was not sure if his reaction was attraction or revulsion. Not knowing disturbed him.
There was a part of him that hated 'Cenahdee for more than simply her species and her complicity in what the hated aliens had done to him. 'Cenahdee's touch was gentle, almost soothing, as it always was. At first he had wondered if she were mocking him. Over time he had come to believe that her tenderness, her apparent regret, were genuine, and that belief had taught him to hate her even more.
She was a warrior. She should have no mercy for him. He would have none for her, if he ever escaped his shackles. She was soft, and in a warrior the quality was disgusting. She was not like the female medic, 'Maknzee, much at all. 'Maknzee was cold, clinical, a consummate professional. Conrad could appreciate these qualities in an enemy, even when they were being used against him. Perhaps someday he could use 'Cenahdee's weakness against her.
He had to. Because he felt his spirits lift when he saw her. Because she was one of the only pleasures he had left. Because she would someday use this weakness against him, if he did not strike against her first.
"Conrad?"
He cracked open one eye.
She was looking at him. She knew he was awake. She had known all along.
'Cenahdee had a needle in her hand, poised just a hair's breadth above the artery in his throat. She had been ready. The second their eyes met, she rammed the needle into his artery and slammed the plunger home.
*
"Conrad?"
'Cenahdee again.
He felt himself surfacing after an unknown period of unconsciousness. Apparently the contents of that needle had not killed him. He felt no different, save for the grogginess; he could only pray he would not find himself deathly ill in another day, or hour, or minute.
Would the fucking aliens never leave him alone?
He breathed in and realized with a sudden jolt of understanding that the chemical scent of the prison was gone. He had been breathing in the smell for so long that he rarely noticed it any longer; now, though, its very absence was a miraculous thing. He sucked fresh air into his lungs, and with it, smelled dust and fuel.
He was lying somewhere new, too—somewhere hard and cold, with metal against his back. As the grogginess faded, he realized he was also lying on metal, metal made warm by the heat of his body. He also felt aches down the length of his body. They were probably mild bruises, and if that was the worst he got, he would count himself lucky. His remaining hand was secured to one of the vehicle's bulkheads by a chain.
'Cenahdee touched his cheek again. "Conrad, I know you're awake." She used her sharp fingernails to carefully open the lid on his eye.
He could not stop his eye from focusing on her face. This portion of the game was over; there was no longer any use in feigning unconsciousness.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked mockingly. He spoke rarely, but when he did he noticed that the timbre of his voice had changed. He wondered if he'd ruined his voicebox permanently from all the screaming.
"I'm letting you go," 'Cenahdee said softly.
Ah. A new torture.
He sat up with some effort. 'Cenahdee put her strange hands on his arm and helped haul him up until he leaned with his back against the metal. He was sitting inside some kind of vehicle, possibly a cargo transport. Its hatch was open, and through the hatch he could see bright light and greenery. Ground, not sky. It was still impossibly beautiful.
"Where?" he managed to whisper from his toothless mouth.
"Home."
Conrad effortlessly hid his triumphant smile. Expressions had become things he felt, rather than things he showed to others. His emotions could run the gamut from elation to rage to sorrow without a hint ever showing on his face. He had learned this skill long before the aliens had taken him prisoner. Now, he simply blinked at his captor, never letting her guess that he was thrilled by his new edge. He did not want to go home. The alien thought she was hurting him, and he would play along as long as it suited him, even if his only victory was the private knowledge that he had denied her from achieving her intended ends.
"How do I call your people?"
She was persistent. His mouth was dry. "Why would you do such a thing for me?"
'Cenahdee took his hand, as though he were one of her own kind. Her touch was revoltingly moist. "Our war is over."
He could only blink stupidly.
"Your people and mine have signed a truce. An alliance."
"This is ridiculous." He was disgusted by the ludicrousness of this move in the ongoing game. He expected so much better from the aliens by now. "Tell your psychologists that their newest game is utterly unbelievable."
She seemed angry. "I can show you the transmissions if you want me to."
Conrad had nothing better to do but play along and see where the game went. "Why such a hurry? Do you no longer want me for your guest?"
'Cenahdee's eyes darted. "You'll die if you stay."
"I thought there was a truce."
"Yes, and all the loose ends—like yourself—will be swept under the rug, as though you never existed." She folded her arms. "That injection I gave you was supposed to kill you. I was ordered to take your corpse into the forests and burn it." 'Cenahdee glared at him and her words were heated, angry. "I could still do that, if you really want me to. I've got the original injection in my pocket. Is that what you want, Conrad? Your people—your family—thinking you died from that grenade five years ago?"
His breath caught. "Is that how long? Five years?"
He saw the dismay in her eyes. In all this time he'd learned to read the aliens' facial expressions. She hadn't meant to tell him that information. That had not been a smoothly delivered lie—he was sure of it. He felt another private smile.
'Cenahdee looked away. "Yes."
He tried to understand what that fact might mean. The soldiers in his old unit—those who had survived the war—would be five years older. Some of them would have children now, or more children. Some of them would have married. Some of them might even have saluted in front of a memorial plaque bearing his name…
He was a ghost now, five years out of history.
"What about the virus?"
She stared at him.
He met her gaze, fearless. "The virus. Wasn't that what you were after? A biological weapon? How can I leave when you still have the virus?"
Jan shook her head. "We don't have the virus. It didn't work. None of the things we tried worked."
He folded his arms. "Five years of hell and you failed."
"You should be happy we failed." She turned away, muttering something to the effect of "arrogant bastard."
"So all I went through was for nothing. Nothing for you, nothing for me."
"I can't replace those years or make up for what we did to you," 'Cenahdee said. "All I can do is give you back the rest of your life." She swallowed; he could practically smell her guilt. "The war is finished. When a war ends, prisoners are supposed to be set free." She leaned closer. "Conrad, tell me how to send you home."
"You want to free me so I do not die." He snorted. "You know nothing. If you send me home I will die just as surely and far more painfully than if you injected me now. You are a fool, 'Cenahdee."
"Get this straight, Conrad," the warden hissed, angered by his words. "I know you say that just to annoy me. My name is Kennedy. Janice Lisabet Kennedy."
He looked her in the eye, unimpressed.
"If you insist, Ken-na-dee, then you must also be clear on my name, which is 'Corad. Arde 'Coradee."