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It hadn't taken Sync long to be bored with just humiliating Luke during the--irregular--feeding times. It seemed Van and the God-Generals had a purpose more than just keeping Luke from the passage rings as well.

Sync watched Luke simply hang from his chains, head hung low--his face was bloody, bruised, and swollen, and his stomach had signs of beating as well. Sync jabbed a foot at his captive's middle again, the corner of his lips twitching into the semblance of a smile as Luke coughed and gasped for proper breath.

"What are the others up to?" Sync demanded. "What are your plans for beating Van? Answer me!"

A punch to the face, a kick to the ribs. Luke's chains rattled with the sudden force, and glimpses of deep cuts peeked from their sheath of iron. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, the only free movement in his hands left to him.

The Fabre glared at Sync, emerald eyes smoldering.

"You're a child God-General. Don't you have a decent head on your shoulders?"

Sync threw a punch at the wall, missing Luke's face by mere inches. The prisoner felt the sharp sear of Third Fonons channeled in the strike. If that had hit ...

"My head's not hollow. We know you're screwing with the passage rings--Van could try using the other rings to stop that, but using the rings in the normal way is dangerous to his well being. That, and your forcing your orders to the rings with hyperresonance royally screwed up the network--normal means of commanding won't suffice anymore."

Luke heard the truth in the Tempest's words. The passage rings were ancient technology from the Dawn Age; there was no way they could know the full consequences of operating the passage rings--or attempts to. After the lowering of Rugnica and Chesedonia, Jade had said the passage rings had been rendered unstable and that the Sephiroth themselves were strained, going out of control.

One way or another, the Outer Lands would fall when the Sephiroth failed or else when Van decided to drop them first.

"Judging from the way Chesedonia and Rugnica came down without harm," Sync continued thoughtfully, "it's a pretty safe assumption to say you want to bring down the Outer Lands safely. But the problem is how. We don't quite know how you're going about it--lowering the land itself, we know that, you command the rings--but what about the liquefaction of the crust? How will you prevent the land sinking in the mantle when the Sephiroth fail?"

For once, Luke knew the answers to these questions and more. His mind subconsciously recalled that day in Sheridan when his party had made plans to be able to keep the crust from liquefying without having to stop the Planet Storm, an essential civil resource.

The Tartarus would be able to match the core's vibration frequency, canceling it out and allowing the crust to solidify. As long as the Planet Storm went on as normally and the Tartarus didn't give out, there would be no easy way for Van to carry out his replication plans.

Sync's voice brought Luke out of his thoughts.

"Come to think, you guys did contact Belkend researchers and Sheridan craftsmen. It seems unlikely that they could manage anything of such a large scale, but you never know ... "

Luke's eyes went wide, and Sync instantly knew he was onto something. Smirking, the God-General bent on one knee before his captive, at eye level.

The way Luke couldn't see Sync's eyes but could hear and feel his malicious intent frightened him.

"You could just spill it now," Sync's mouth stretched in a Cheshire Cat grin, "and save yourself a lot of pain and grief."

Indeed being in the God-Generals' captivity was a whole lot of pain and suffering--Luke was trapped in pitch darkness all hours of most days, feeding times were irregular (the food itself wasn't exactly fine dining), and when Sync did deign to come down to the dungeon it was usually for a beating.

And Sync the Tempest dished out quite the beating.

Luke was sore all over--from being in the uncomfortable, awkward position he kept at all hours slumped against the wall, and the countless bodily injuries Sync had dealt him.

A part of him would have been indignant at the very idea of being beaten to a pulp by a sneery child no older than fifteen, possibly younger, but at this point, Luke simply didn't have it in him to protest any part of his captivity anymore.

If only Luke had been stronger--if only he'd thought of Van setting up an ambush in a place ideal for ambushes--if only--if only--

If only he wasn't such a failed replica.

Asch certainly would never have let himself be captured the way Luke had--Asch would have fought back, he'd have had the sense to think of the possibility of an ambush, kept a cool head, perhaps even had a backup plan should his initial one fail.

He certainly wouldn't have flailed his arms and fallen over like Luke did.

Luke could just imagine what Asch would say to him now--stupid replica, getting yourself caught by the enemy! What use are you if you can't even fight back?

Useless, useless, useless.

In all the incidents that really counted, it had been Asch, not Luke, who had managed to get anything done right--Asch had been the only one to recognize the danger at Akzeriuth, Asch had saved Noelle at Daath, Asch had been the one to rescue Tear and the others in Baticul, thus indirectly rescuing Luke and Natalia from attempted murder by the king's hand.

And what had Luke done?

Luke had destroyed the city he was sent to protect, Luke hadn't been able to lift a finger to help Noelle, Luke would have let himself and Natalia be murdered by the royal family for the sake of a meaningless holy war ...

The original Light of the Sacred Flame certainly outshone its pale imitation.

This was just what he deserved--what was that one saying, that Guy used to say back at home?

What goes around comes around.

Luke clenched his fists, jaw set, mouth stretched in a grim line.

"No." he growled. "I won't tell you or Van or any of your followers anything! Go ahead, beat me to a pulp, starve me, whatever--I will not betray my companions."

Luke wasn't entirely sure if he could call them "friends." That would certainly be much more than he deserved. They were probably better off cutting ties with him anyway.

Sync chortled, amused by the newly rekindled determination in Luke's eyes.

"Too bad," he clicked his tongue, "we'll find out one way or the other, sooner or later. We'll find out just how resilient defective replicas are."

Luke bit back his retort--it was true, he was a defective replica--but that did not make it any easier to swallow.

Sync mockingly bid him farewell as he left, and Luke was submerged in unknowable darkness once more.