Author's Note: Hi! I'm back! Yippee!
Pascy: Singapore? You are lucky! But why in the world are you going to Singapore? I'll try to update every day, that's usually what I do with my stories unless I get particularly busy. This one has taken a bit of a depressing turn; you should see the next two chapters, after this one. Well, you will see them, on Sunday and Monday. Thanks for reading and reviewing!
Helliexx: Thanks as always.
Zapwing: Now I feel really bad, I made your Shadow cry! I'm not really sure how, as I don't think they have tear ducts. This chapter is slightly less gloomy, so, well, enjoy! Thanks for reviewing!
Dancing-with-the-devil 1995: Thanks for reviewing! I feel bad for Starling too. Again, I'll try to update every day, at least during the weekend.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Storm Hawks.
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The cell door creaked open, and a familiar figure filled the doorway. "This is really her?" he said, in an uncharacteristically nervous voice.
It had been a week since Master Cyclonis had decided to let me live, and torture me until I joined Cyclonia. A week of refusing to eat all that they gave to me, and forcing myself to barf up the stuff they force-fed me. A week of refusing all drink, and being hooked to an IV to keep me alive. A week of living in hell then nightmares from hell, which grew worse every time I closed my tired, heavy eyes.
A week of torture that I'm not sure how I survived. There was whipping, Snipe dislocated one of my shoulders, branding, and all sorts of horrible things that I didn't want to reflect upon. The only thing that kept me strong was the need for revenge. And when I say strong, I mean conscious. I was weak and helpless when I was trapped in my own head.
Any other person would be dead by now, but I guess I'm just lucky that way. I'm like one of those vermin bugs, those cockroaches—near impossible to get rid of. It was my curse: I'd lived to see my squadron die, now I'd live to survive the next day of hell.
"Hey, Darkie," I tried to say. It came out as sort of a croak/groan. It's really hard to speak when your lips are cracked and bleeding and your tongue is so swollen you can barely open your mouth. "I was starting to think you forgot I existed. Finally came down to say 'hi.' Guess what—I didn't get the same room."
"It's her all right," he said, sounding relieved. He rushed to my side and picked me up, holding me bridal-style. I tried to resist, but I could barely move. I think I put up a pretty good effort, considering.
"Sir? Where are you taking the prisoner?" The Talon at the doorway looked nervous.
The Dark Ace's voice, which had been so kind, suddenly turned downright nasty. "Are you questioning my order, boy?"
"No, sir!" The Talon replied, saluting and jumping out of the way. The Dark Ace was already gone.
We, or I should say "he," as I was only a glorified sack of potatoes, made our way up through the Cyclonian palace. From the glances that I did get, we were moving up, away from the dungeons and torture rooms. I wondered where we were going, but then I decided that I didn't care. There was nothing he could do to me to hurt me any more besides killing me, and that would be welcome now. I was done vainly clinging to this existence.
He entered a room that was a bedchamber, with an adjourning work room, armor and weapons storage closet, and a bathroom. It took me a minute to figure out that we were in his rooms. He set me down on the bed and locked the door.
When he turned to face me again, I would swear he was a different person. He still looked the same—tall, dark, well-muscled, handsome, chiseled features—but there was something in his eyes, a vulnerability, that I was sure couldn't be there. I blinked and it was gone. Hallucinations, I decided.
He glanced down at me, wrinkling his nose slightly, and I realized I was getting blood, sweat, and grime all over his covers. His problem for putting me there. "Let's get you cleaned up," he said, picking me up and carrying me to the entrance of the bathroom. "Shower controls are easy to figure out. I'll be waiting in here. Don't even think about escaping, because I've already checked everything." He set me down again, and I didn't move.
The Dark Ace had carried me up here to let me use his shower? I was definitely having a hallucination, in fact, I was probably in a coma. He let go of me, and without his support, I collapsed to the ground, unable to stand. Instantly, he was kneeling down beside me.
"How much did they hurt you?" he said in a gentle voice.
I hated him for showing me mercy, for offering me support. I didn't need any support, and if I did, I certainly didn't want it from him.
His strong hands started to carefully remove my armor. I had worn the same clothes for a week, my Sky Knight uniform, and it was in a horrible state of repair. Besides being so odious I didn't want to think about it, it was grimy, bloody, scratched up, burned, torn, and overall ruined.
I didn't have the strength to resist him, so I just sat there as he gently stripped me to my undergarments. The only time I reacted was when he pulled my shirt over my shoulder, making me raise my arm. Then, I whimpered, as my dislocated shoulder screamed in protest.
He was examining my shoulder now. "Okay, I can't hold you and get it back at the same time. You'll have to stay very still," he said softly. I couldn't nod, but I hoped that he understood.
He twisted and shoved, and my shoulder exploded in agony, then suddenly, there was relief. Something clicked and my shoulder was back in its right place. I took a deep breath, deeper than I had in a while, and tested it out, rolling it. It was still sore, but it was a great improvement to how it had felt before. "Thank you," I whispered hoarsely.
"So you do have manners, when you feel like it," came his deep reply. It sounded like he was smiling.
Strong hands grabbed me under my armpits and carried my into the bathroom. He started the shower, and waited for the water to warm. "This is going to hurt a lot," he explained, "but you need to clean those wounds. Don't worry, I'll be here."
He stepped into the shower with me, into the cleansing stream. He was right—each drop which hit my various lashes felt like I was being whipped all over again. I clenched my hands so hard that blood dripped from where my fingernails touched my palms. Still, I didn't scream at all. The entire time, he was holding me, supporting me, whispering into my ear, but I couldn't hear him. The pain took up all of my mind.
Slowly, the sensation faded, and I did feel better. I felt cleaner, more pure, less infected. I closed my eyes and, for the first time since I had arrived here, I began to relax. Under this warm rain there was still pain, but also healing.
His steady hands grabbed a washcloth and lathered it up with soap, then gently started wiping down my shoulders and my back. Of course, I was humiliated, not being able to stand on my own, and now having this man have to wash me, but it felt good. Truth be told, I wasn't able to clean myself, so I kept my silence. I just stood there. One of his arms was always around my waist, keeping my upright.
When I was finally clean, he took shampoo, and began to rub it through my hair. It felt really nice, his strong fingers massaging my head. I had long since decided that I had absolutely no control over the situation, so I surrendered. I mean, it was one thing to fight back when they're torturing you, but I wasn't too stupid to see that I was being helped. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. As much as I hated the fact that it was coming from him, if I were healed, I could resist better, and perhaps even escape. That's what I kept telling myself.
He washed the shampoo from my hair then grabbed a comb, carefully brushing out all the knots and dirt until it hung sleek and shiny by my neck.
The water turned off, and I shivered at the cold caused by my wetness. He softly pulled me back, pressing me up against him, warming me. I didn't care that I was nearly naked; as of then, I only noticed how cold I was. He lifted me up, setting me down on another seat and getting a box out.
Torture instruments? He approached me with a syringe in his hand. "Get that thing away from me," I hissed.
He put his hands in the air. "Some of the places you were whipped need stitches. This will numb everything."
I took a deep breath, pushing down my distrust. "You can do whatever you want with your Cyclonian medicine, but you are not drugging me up." He opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it, getting out a needle and some special thread.
For about an hour he rubbed various creams and ointments into my various wounds, stitching up the worse ones. Some of them had already closed over, so he left those alone. It did hurt quite a bit, but after all that I had been through, it was a breeze. I drifted off, not really to sleep, but to a place where I felt detached from the world and everything was dull. Finally, I was all bandaged up.
He pulled a large shirt over my head, one that came down nearly to my knees, then carried me back to the bedroom. He tenderly laid me on his bed (which was now clean, a part of mind noticed), and tucked me in.
All my instincts screamed against relaxing. Despite the way he had treated me, he was still the enemy, and I had no idea why he was trying to patch me up. Still, I was warm, I wasn't hurting, and I was so, so tired.
He laid a hand on my forehead, comforting me. "Go to sleep, Starling. Rest, and heal. You're safe here, I promise. Go to sleep."
I did as he told.
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Ok, that chapter was kind of a mix of sweet and plain old creepy…
The faster I get reviews, the faster I update. So please, review! (Actually, I already told you that the next chapter was going up on Sunday, but if I get enough reviews, I might change my mind and post it tonight. So review anyway!)
Thanks for reading!
