When he finally woke up, there was a dull throb in the back of his head. His ankles hurt, but not as much as his wrists. He was in the center of a small room, his arms wrenched above his head, wrists shackled to the ceiling. His ankles were shackled as well, but they weren't supporting his weight, and so they didn't hurt as much. He found he could barely move them; whomever had put him here didn't want him kicking. Rather embarassed, he realized he was scarcely wearing anything. All that he wore were his underclothes- a slim-fitting white shirt and a stretchy pair of pants that didn't even go halfway to his knees. They were standard to all vorta, items of clothing that were designed to nullify the effects of sweat and grime so they could go longer without bathing and remain as clean as they had been to begin with.
The dull throb in his head intensified as he craned his neck to look around, but he saw no one. Where was he? What had happened?
And then-
They attacked me, he thought, wishing he could rub his head where it hurt. The cardassians he had been with had attacked him. It was the only explanation.
As a member of the dominion, there were occupational hazards that came with the job. Meeka had escaped most of them, not because he was a coward, but simply because he wasn't qualified. And because, to the other vorta, he was valuable. He was a link; a link to their past. All vorta in the dominion- or at least almost all of them- were clones. Their true bodies, the people they had once been, were destroyed. The few vorta who had escaped the genetic modifications were protected by the other vorta because it was a small way of not only defying the Founders- something they could never hope to do openly- but because they all hoped that one day, things would go back to normal.
All vorta went through various training exercises to assess where they could best be put. One of the excercises was the so-called "resilience" program, a course where a vorta was tortured for a long period of time. Their tolerance to pain was measured, as was the willingness they had to share the small bit of information their tormenters asked of them- always something simple, like their eye colour, or the name of their Gods. All it took was a single sound from the vorta, and the program ended. The longer you lasted, the higher your mark. Meeka thought he had the potential to do well, but the vorta overseeing his training cheated. She had turned the pain setting up really high, so that a yelp was startled out of him. The program ended immediately, and his horrible score stopped him from being sent to the front lines. What's the point in having a vorta in a strategic position who would give everything away?
So Meeka was given to other missions. Smaller, less important ones. Like the one he had been on with the cardassians; he was gathering some fauna samples, small seeds to take back so the scientists could examine their medicinal properties. He had been in the middle of turning towards the cardassian he was with when he was hit. But why had they attacked him? They knew he was nothing. And where was he?
Meeka made a sound in the back of his throat, meaning to call out for someone. But he was gagged, something he hadn't noticed before. He shifted, nervously, and then his captors appeared. When Meeka saw who they were, he suddenly wished he was unconscious again.
Everyone in the Dominion knew that being a vorta had its hazards. A certain border, behind the conquered space where they reigned, was home to a barbaric race called the drachklazeesh. The drachklazeesh society ran on slaves and slave labour- other races within the dominion knew to keep their ships far away from the border for fear of being captured. The Dominion had largely ignored the drachklazeesh, and the drachklazeesh had paid it a like mind. The drachklazeesh were not joined under a single name- they were made of many Houses and battles between the Houses were frequent. This unrest stopped them from joining forces and attacking the Dominion, just as fear of the drachklazeesh forces joining together stopped the Dominion from attacking them. The unspoken truce was to ignore each other. Ships close to the border, on either side, were likely to be destroyed and so only smaller, unimportant vessels dared to venture near the border. The one problem with the drachklazeesh was their view on the vorta.
Most species hated the vorta, both inside the Dominion and out. Those who did not hate them were content with not thinking about the vorta. The drachklazeesh, for whatever reason, viewed the vorta as valuable slaves to own. Meeka had once heard that a drachklazeesh House could rise a handful of rankings simply by imprisoning a vorta. Why the vorta were so valuable to the drachklazeesh, no one really knew; all that was known was that the vorta made sure to be absent from any Dominion vessels that traversed close to the border. If the drachklazeesh knew there was a vorta to be had, they would risk everything short of death to gain him/her. Being enslaved in the Dominion was good enough for most vorta; they did not want to contend with the devil they did not know.
The drachklazeesh entered the small room, two of them altogether, though Meeka decided that one would have been more than enough. They were huge- larger, even, then the stories held them to be. Both of them must have stood close to seven feet tall- even with being suspended a good foot from the floor, Meeka was still shorter than them.
They began speaking, pausing every once in a while to look at him. Meeka began to become quite nervous, though he knew there was probably not a valid reason for becoming so. They viewed vorta as valued slaves- that meant he wouldn't be hurt, right? One didn't risk injuring a valuable slave. He hoped.
The first drachklazeesh approached him and stood there, looking him up and down with his eyes. Meeka froze, staring back uncertainly. The drachklazeesh turned, and the conversation continued until the second drachklazeesh began making a laughing sound and left the room.
Alone with only a single drachklazeesh, Meeka felt a little better, though still not secure. He made a sound, hoping the drachklazeesh would take the gag off so he could speak. Maybe he could negotiate for his freedom; it was a slim possibility, but it was still a chance. It was rumoured that the drachklazeesh only spoke one language- their own. If they came across a slave who couldn't speak the same tongue, they'd beat the language into them. For some reason, the computers couldn't translate the drachklazeesh language into something comprehensible, nor could it translate any of their languages into something similar to the drachklazeesh tongue. Meeka wasn't exactly sure what language the drachklazeesh spoke, but he hoped that the handful of languages he had picked up over the years would help him communicate.
"What a tiny vorta you are," the drachklazeesh said in the language of the vorta, startling him. The drachklazeesh pulled the gag off, then seized Meeka's face and began turning him this way and that, carefully examining him. It was rather unnerving, considering his claws were longer than Meeka's fingers. "And young, too. I'm amazed your superiors even let you go. Have you even properly learned how to walk?"
Meeka knew he was quite young by the standards of the vorta, who's lifespan was almost immeasureable. He was only several centuries old, but most other races couldn't tell; the fact that this alien knew how to tell his age unnerved him. Only other vorta could tell such things, and it was not a secret they divulged.
"I-I-" he jumped as the drachklazeesh ran a finger over his lip, but he couldn't remove his face from the drachklazeesh's grip. "I'm sure there's been- been some sort of misunderstanding," he said as the drachklazeesh slowly released him. "I'm not quite sure what I'm doing here, but I'm sure the Dominion will greatly miss me-"
"I'm certain they will," the drachklazeesh said with a curve of his lips that could have either a smile or a smirk. "I'm also sure they'll get over it."
Meeka twisted his hands, trying to pull them through the shackles, but they were too tight. "Perhaps- perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement-"
"I was just thinking the same thing," the drachklazeesh said.
Meeka felt relieved. "I'm glad to hear you say that-"
"Here is the beginnings of the agreement," the drachklazeesh continued. "During the appraisal, I found a number of small scars on your body. I'd like to know where they're from. I will touch them, and you will tell me how you came by them."
"A-appraisal?" Meeka said, confused. "What is-"
"Where did you get this one from?" The drachklazeesh interrupted again, touching an area beside his ear.
"I...was cutting my hair, and the blade slipped."
"And this one?" the drachklazeesh's fingers slid over his shoulder, and Meeka felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
"I was trying to pull a box from a shelf and it fell...on me."
The drachklazeesh's hand slipped around his arm, and Meeka jumped as the drachklazeesh moved around behind him, out of his vision. He felt hands on the small of his back. "And this one?"
"One of the Jem'Hadar was defective and it hit me."
The questioning continued, and Meeka felt himself becoming more insecure. He didn't think he had been injured that many times, but apparantly, he had been- and the drachklazeesh knew where all the scars were. But the touch itself was frightening. Aside from his parents, all those years ago, Meeka had never really been touched. It was simply not an aspect of vorta society. Even before the Founders demanded the genetic modifications on all vorta to eliminate their need to reproduction, touch was not something the vorta engaged in, regardless of whether it was a simple pat on the shoulder or even a hug. It was just not done.
And here Meeka was, tied to the ceiling and the floor and being forced to answer questions as a drachklazeesh ran his hands all over his body. Granted, the touch was not sexual, but that hardly mattered; for the vorta, it was just as traumatizing.
"What about this one?" The drachklazeesh slid his fingers up his leg, and Meeka shuddered as he found a scar on the inside of his thigh.
"I- I fell," he said, trying to pull his leg away. "On a rock."
"My, you are a clumsy vorta," the drachklazeesh said, sounding as if he was tasting the word. "And a squirmy one. Stop wiggling around so much; as a servant, such superfluous movements are not allowed."
"As- as a servant?" Meeka looked at the creature, his eyes widening.
"I will start to question you now," the drachklazeesh said, unconcerned for Meeka's worry. Why whould he be concerned? There was nowhere Meeka could go, with the way he was shackled. The drachklazeesh picked up an instrument from the only table in the room, and it took Meeka a moment to recognize the instrument as a whip. "If you do not answer truthfully, you will be punished."
Meeka's eyes remained widened, and he tried again to try and slip his wrists through the metal.
"Where do you come from?" the drachklazeesh said.
"I come from the Dominion," Meeka answered, but the drachklazeesh shook his head, as if his answer was a lie.
"I don't think that is the correct answer," he said. "I think you come from House Toril."
"What? No, you're wrong- I come from the Dominion." Meeka was confused as the drachklazeesh began to shake his head again.
"You get one more try," the drachklazeesh said, unravelling the instrument. "Where do you come from?"
Meeka swallowed. "I...I come from Kurill Prime, a planet within the Dominion."
The drachklazeesh shook his head sadly, then reached forward and smoothed a piece of sticky paper over Meeka's mouth before the vorta could say anything else. "In the future," the drachklazeesh said as he moved behind the vorta, "I would ask you to tell the truth when I ask you a question."
Then there was a crack of the whip, and Meeka screamed.
Meeka wasn't sure how much time had passed. There were no windows, only torches that sent uneven light throughout the room; there was no way to tell the time. He was whipped several times after the first incident, first because he kept trying to explain that he was from the Dominion. When he finally caught on that the drachklazeesh wanted him to say, he was still whipped, this time for sounding insincere. And when he finally said it convincingly, the drachklazeesh made him repeat it three times.
"I c-come from H-House Toril," Meeka said through gasps of pain. Gods, he had never felt anything like this before; his entire back was on fire.
"Good," the drachklazeesh said, drawing out the word as he cleaned the blood from his weapon and leaned against the table. "But I am the only one in this House that speaks your language. That means you must learn to say such things in my own language. You need to say, 'Mafh hast gachke Toril jefachke'."
Meeka licked his lips, trying not to look at the whip. "Muh-maff...hast gack Toril-"
"Gachke," the drachklazeesh interrupted. "Mafh hast gachke."
"Gack," Meeka said, realizing he didn't know how to pronounce it correctly. "Maff hast guh-gack-"
The drachklazeesh frowned and began to stand. "Gachke."
"Gack!" Meeka said. The drachklazeesh scowled and began to approach, unravelling his weapon as he did so. "No wait- please! Gack, gach, getch- wait-mmph!"
As the drachklazeesh finished smoothing the material over Meeka's mouth, he said in a dispassionate voice, "Vorta are not allowed to butcher the language of the drachklazeesh."
Meeka was shaking by the time the drachklazeesh finally announced they were finished. Meeka's face was swollen from crying, his throat raw from screaming, his shirt in bloody tatters because of the whip. He had finally learned to say the phrase successfully, and several other smaller phrases as well, mostly greetings or words of submission. The drachklazeesh made him repeat the first phrase several times before he finally nodded in satisfaction and moved a lever. The chains holding him grew slack, and Meeka fell to the floor, sore all over. His arms had lost all circulation; he couldn't even feel his fingers. He shook as the drachklazeesh came over and undid all the shackles, then pulled him to his feet. "Get on the table."
Meeka stumbled as he tried to do what he was told, and ended up falling. His legs were mostly numb as well, but he gained no sympathy from his captor. He was pulled to his feet and made to lay down on the table so the drachklazeesh could dress all of his wounds. Once that was done, he was given rags to wear in replacement of his ruined shirt. The drachklazeesh tied him to a stake by the side of the wall, telling him to sleep on the floor.
"W-wait!" he said before clamping a hand over his mouth. The drachklazeesh turned anyways, and Meeka said quietly, "Where are the cardassians I was with?"
"The ones that sold you to me?" the drachklazeesh smiled, baring his sharp teeth. "You will meet them soon enough, I would imagine."
He left, closing the door behind him, and Meeka found himself in shock.
They...they sold me? How could they?! I did nothing to them!
He bit back a sob, sitting away from the wall. He didn't dare to lean against anything, for fear of the pain it would cause him. He pulled at the manacle around his ankle, but it was just as tight as the shackles had been. He wouldn't be able to get out of it, and the stake he was tied to looked as if it had held many creatures before him. He could not escape from this place when he was like this. He would not escape tonight.
Meeka wrapped his arms around his legs and wished for someone to save him.
The same drachklazeesh came to him just as he had gotten to sleep, and woke him with a kick to the stomach. After untying him, he led Meeka over to the same place he had hung for most the day yesterday, and made as if to tie him back. Realizing he might have a chance, Meeka jumped to the side and tried to run, but the drachklazeesh caught a handful of his hair in one fist. Meeka cried out as the drachklazeesh pulled his head back, forcing him to look straight up into the creature's face.
"Where you trying to run?" the drachklazeesh said, sounding amused. Before Meeka could say anything, the drachklazeesh slapped him. Meeka was tied back into place, and his pain began anew.
The day finally ended. Meeka never thought he would be so relieved for a day to end, but he was. The drachklazeesh pulled the lever, but didn't untie him just yet. He made Meeka repeat all the phrases he had learned, several times each, and then finally nodded. After cleaning and re-bandaging the new wounds, and tying the vorta to the stake once more, he smiled. "Are you hungry, little vorta?"
Meeka swallowed. He was famished; never before had he gone so long without food. All of yesterday, and all of today, he had eaten nothing. But he didn't know what to say, so he finally nodded.
"Would you like something to eat, little vorta?"
He hunched his shoulders. "Mahf-fah jacke," he said. They were the drachklazeesh words that were equivalent to 'yes, please', or something like that. The drachklazeesh smirked, then left.
Within the hour, he had come back, this time with a bowl of something steaming in his hand. Meeka's mouth watered before he even saw what was in the bowl, but he looked to the side, avoiding eye contact, when the drachklazeesh knealt down in front of him. There was no spoon, but Meeka didn't care; he was so hungry, he could eat the rags from his back if he knew they would help.
"My people do not tolerate disobediance," the drachklazeesh said, staring at him. "It is a lesson you would do well to learn." He placed the bowl down, then stood up and walked off, his reptillian tail swaying from side to side as he left and closed the door behind him.
Meeka waited until his footsteps had vanished before reaching forward and taking the bowl. It smelt strange, but as long as it was edible, he was willing to eat even klingon food. He rose the bowl to his mouth and took a long sip, savouring the warm liquid as it trickled down his throat. Something large bumped his mouth and he paused, staring at the thing. After a moment he lowered the bowl and, using careful fingers, pulled the object out. It was grey and hard, and after turning it in his fingers for a moment, Meeka's eyes grew wide.
He had seen it before. It was the cardassian equivalent to an eyebrow- an eyeridge, formed by a formation of bone and skin, across the foreheads and faces of cardassians, and along the sides of their necks. He swallowed, the liquid in his mouth suddenly thickening. He moved the contents of the soup, and found even more. The smell- he recognized it now. It smelled of cardassian, that musky, alcoholic odour they all had from drinking so much Kanar.
Meeka thought he would have no voice left. He thought he would never be able to shout. But he did. In fact, he screamed. The bowl went flying from his kicking foot, and he felt the bile rise in his throat. He began to vomit, crying in between the times when he felt his stomach heave. And even when there was nothing left in his stomach, he still heaved. When the reflex finally abated, he stayed crouched on his hands and knees, sobbing uncontrollably.