Disclaimer: See chapter one...they aren't mine.
Rating: M
Notes: OK, I'll be careful to tone down the depravity from here on out. No sense in scaring all of you poor folks ;) Mosaic again, at least some concepts from it which I've reworked to my own ends.
Thirteen
Kathryn
I can't look at him, can't see that look in his eyes, see the shame or the pity I know must be there as their groping hands and fingers dig uncaringly into me. Instead, I look at the floor, at the far side of the courtyard. At my feet. Anywhere but at his unclothed form while they hold me still in front of him.
I'm a Starfleet officer, I remind myself through gasping breaths of panic. We don't give in to fear. We maintain our dignity, hold on to our pride no matter what …
Tearing sounds at my side. The humid air hits bare skin on my stomach and side as the sleeveless tank falls open, the shoulder strap of my regulation bra dragged down the side of my arm by one cold hand when I move to grab another insistent hand, desperate to keep it from sneaking past the front of my waistband. I feel my cheeks coloring in mortification, in shame as I'm left standing shirtless, but for once I'm glad for the particularly prude cut of the undergarment remaining, blessing it for staying up in spite of the falling straps being pulled off my shoulders. My other hand still clutches the front of it, helping keep it upright, but even now I know I can't stop them all, that there are too many of them with hands tearing at my clothing.
Stop, I want to scream, but the words aren't leaving my mouth. Not this. Please, not this. Not in front of him, don't make him watch this, please… Gritting my teeth instead and refusing to cry – I'm a Starfleet officer. It's all I've ever wanted to be, all I've ever thought I'd be – and Starfleet officers don't give in to fear.
"How well will the little kitten hold up under the four of us?" the one holding my hair, keeping my head up grunts. "You don't mind sharing her with us, eh?"
"Can't promise to give her back in one piece, though," another snickers. "Tiny little thing like her. Looks like we might split her in half, actually."
"What do you think, Admiral? Think she can take it?"
"That one?" The sound of his hoarse, gruff voice makes me look up in spite of myself, surprised. "I'm sure she'll be fine." A harsh laugh as the scorn-filled eyes rest on me – not the men who have tormented him for hours on end – me. "Sorry…to break it to you…boys. But she's no…blushing…virgin. Let me know…how she is, will you?"
My eyes must be the size of saucers as any stability, any security of principle or expectation is yanked right out from under me. I stare at him, forgetting the hands on my skin, forgetting to block their access entirely. He isn't defending me. He isn't telling them to stop. He's encouraging them. And I can only stare in horror, greater horror than I feel at the intentions of the rough men, the aliens still surrounding me.
The comments fade out as the admiral draws in a shaky breath to continue. "Been meaning…to try her. Why I brought her…with me…"
I don't know what he's talking about, or for that matter why he's wasting breath he clearly needs. I almost can't believe he's able to talk in this condition. After what I've heard all day… Maybe what he's saying isn't surprising. Maybe he thinks I'm someone else…maybe he can't see clearly…surely he can't think clearly...
"You expect us to believe you don't care what we do with her? Bullshit," the one holding me sneers, winding his arm tightly around me and squeezing hard, making me gasp. "Nice try, Admiral. You're still watching us play."
Why are his eyes moving over me the way theirs are? I can't breathe. This isn't right, can't be right…I think I've fallen through the looking glass from hell. Maybe the concussion is playing tricks with my mind…
That or I must still be dreaming, have to still be dreaming.
I want to wake up now.
He laughs. He actually laughs. "You really think I give…a rat's ass…what you do…with the little slut?"
"Sir?" the whisper forces itself out of my throat somehow. My head wants to shake in denial, in confusion, but the grip on my hair won't allow it, hasn't been allowing it. I force my eyes to stay open, force my body not to flinch at the wet mouth spreading the stench of alcohol and rotting meat across the side of my neck, the horrid smell stinging my nostrils and churning my stomach. The admiral's blue eyes, hard through the hooded veil of suffering, hold me through all of it. "Admiral, what are you…?"
The harsh laugh again. The open scorn that makes me physically flinch back more than anything the ones holding me is doing. He hates me. Oh, God, he must hate me to be able to look at me like that. He must hate me for not being the one chosen instead of him. Or maybe he can just see through me, can see the weakness I'm fighting not to display even though I haven't been hurt like he has –yet – and he's disgusted by it. Disgusted by me.
"Oh, come off it, Ensign." So much derision in the voice that barely speaks. He knows who I am. I recoil under the impure leer of a man that should be more like a father to me than anything, shuddering, floundering under the icy cold waves it sends crashing over me. "I'm sure you know why I chose you…for our little expedition. You know it sure as hell…wasn't …for your scanning…abilities." He can't mean that. He doesn't mean that. I must be losing my mind, I think. I have to be going mad, but if I am, then so is everyone around me.
"Don't believe…her little innocent act. How do you think…she made it through the academy…to begin with? Trust me, it wasn't…on scientific…merit."
Maybe he's lost his mind. I must have if the only thing I'm worried about while about to be stripped and…if the only thing I can force myself to think about right now is whether or not he believes what he's saying. If he really thinks…
It takes me a full minute to realize that the body pressing up against me from behind has stopped moving or that the vice lock his other arm had taken around my waist has been loosening.
The grip around me slackens, and I slump to a hard surface, groggily opening my eyes to see what I've fallen from. From the set of his sleeping body and the arm still slightly over me, I realize that Tom was doing his best to keep me from contact with the cold floor, which is what I've hit. In sleep, his grip had loosened.
At least when I awake this time, there's no confusion to find myself stirring (almost) in my helmsman's arms. I know precisely where I am and what has brought me here. He groans as I stir, pushing free of his arms, and I'm horrified to note that, while my legs and side feel a thousand times better, every one of Tom's injuries remains. He looks like absolute hell.
"Ensign." I prod his unbruised shoulder and he sits up immediately, grimacing, for which I can't blame him.
At my pointed questioning, he explains that he would have addressed some of his own injuries…if he could have. He wasn't allowed. Aside from having had the opportunity to at least close a few of his wounds, they let him do nothing more. He'd been too closely scrutinized. Gwiln's man Kohr kept him busy with questions, observing while Tom healed my wounds, and the instant the soldier had been satisfied that I would neither die nor appear to have been mistreated, we were taken back to the cell.
They made Tom carry me. He averts his eyes while reassuring me (if you could call it reassurance) that he had been the one to dress me in the uniform I awoke wearing. Pride makes me stiffen, but given the choice between being dressed by my own man, Gwiln's men, or left undressed, I have to admit that Tom did the right thing. I quietly thank him, my eyes finding it difficult to fix on his blood-smeared face for very long.
"What are your injuries? Are you able to determine them, at least?"
"For the most part," he nods.
I listen stoically to the recitation of the list. He estimates that he has a broken nose, several loose teeth, and a fractured arm – an arm, I note, that he was still using to try and keep me from coming into contact with the floor despite the pain it must have caused. No wonder his grip loosened in sleep. He hesitates, and my attention is caught on the pause. Pressed, he admits that he suspects, but can't confirm, that he now suffers from a bruised kidney, as well.
Bastards. They didn't even let him run a scanner over himself, nor was he permitted to cleanse his wounds. He'd sterilized the cuts in his mouth covertly, deeming the risk of infection worth the chance he took in doing so, and I'm glad for that small measure of self protection he's taken.
I don't ask how it is that I awoke feeling clean and fresh, despite the hardships of the day and the filthiness of our bleak cell. I somehow doubt knowing the answer would bring me any peace of mind.
We discuss our options. He apologizes for disobeying my orders in the interrogation room, and I let him off with a fairly light glare and a silent acceptance of his apology. His remorse is genuine, and I'm not in any frame of mind to redress him for long. He did the best he could under impossible circumstances.
"I understand your dilemma, Tom," I tell him, "and I'm…sorry you had to see…" I trail off, assuming he knows what I mean and not having any desire to dwell on what had happened in that room. "But if they do it again, or if you're questioned separately, you're not to resist again, for any reason."
He accepts my direction with a verbal affirmation, and, looking deeply into his doubtful eyes, I have to be content with it.
Now that he's seen some of the layout on his route to the medical facility, we again discuss the likelihood of escaping from the prison.
"Without some form of inside help from one of the guards, our chances don't look good," he admits.
Tom has had no luck identifying any particular weaknesses in the system of the guards' rotation yet, but I'd thought as much. Escape from such a secured location generally takes weeks, if not months, to plan. After a few, frustrating minutes of circular discussion, I realize that our best chance at escape would be to send a signal Voyager might hopefully pick up.
Acknowledging the difficulty of getting into a position to access equipment needed to achieve this end, I can't help shaking my head as Tom offers me a sip of water from the sealed container. The contents are meager, and I have to hope we'll be given more soon. I'm parched with thirst, but I'm careful to take no more than a sip of the precious liquid. At least I'm being healed, but with potential kidney damage, Tom will need this water much more than I will. Ignoring his protest that I take more, I hand the container back to him and watch carefully as he, too, takes a scant sip before leaning in to level with him, "I'm not sure I'm prepared to bring Voyager into this mess, assuming they do believe we're dead and haven't already set course for the planet." Hopefully, our whispered musings aren't able to be picked up on any surveillance feeds. It looks a good deal more intimate that we keep leaning in close to each other, I'm sure, but that really can't be helped now.
He nods curtly, batting away at one of the palm-sized insects flirting at the edge of his pant leg. For some reason, they seem to like him better. "I understand."
"But unless we find some way of letting them know we're alive, I can't see much chance of getting you out of here. The prison is too secure." He's already told me that the hospital wing is even deeper into the prison, so I know that escape from there isn't likely, either. "So if the opportunity arises to get your hands on any communications equipment, I want you to send the signals we discussed." He nods without argument. I decide to see if I can take advantage of his remorseful mood by once more bringing up the only point I really care about, the one point I must bring home to him. "If by chance you find an opportunity to get out of here entirely while I'm gone tomorrow – or any other time – you're to take it, Tom. Don't look back." I hesitate to mention this, but if we somehow did put on any kind of convincing performance for Gwiln today, they might try and take advantage of any rifts they think lie between us. I want him to know how I expect him to handle it. "And if they happen to offer you a discharge from military custody in exchange for your testimony against me – tell them whatever they want to hear."
He sets the container down, batting away another of the more curious fellow inhabitants of our cell. This insect chitters angrily as it scurries back into its home at the latrine in the corner. Once again, I can't help a poorly repressed shudder and an odd thrill of gratitude that my system is so thoroughly cleaned out; I don't have to trust any of my more sensitive parts to the mercy of the insects living in that hole in the ground.
Tom isn't so lucky. He settles his back against the wall, eyeing me warily. "Leave without you?" he scoffs almost unintelligibly. His mouth looks like hell with the blood crusted over his lips and nose. "Not a chance."
I shift closer to him, using my movements to mask the fact that my lips are moving. The strong scent of him is something I no longer consciously notice. "They aren't going to take as many chances with me. There's no circumstance under which they're going to allow me an opportunity for escape, but they might be less careful with you." Because you're expendable, I don't add. "And if you're offered a way out, you certainly have to take it. Your confession shouldn't be as damaging as they'd like it to be – they'll still need mine to convict me without any hard evidence."
His quiet laughter isn't strictly reassuring. "No deal," he hisses, making a show of scratching the caked dirt on his neck, staring hard at me. "If we get out of here, we go together."
He more than sets my anger aflame with his callous refusal to obey orders – again. "Ensign, I'm giving you a direct order. If you get the chance to escape, you're to take it. There's nothing you can do for me, and the longer you're here, the more at risk you are. Surely you see that by now?"
He doesn't quail, even when I address him by his false lower rank. "I don't know a single member of Voyager's crew who could follow that order, ma'am."
Damn him, but he doesn't even flinch, and I'm giving the glare all I've got while pretending to sweep away some of the dirt on the floor between us. "I won't have you sacrificing your life for me," I hiss. "In case you've forgotten, you have a family waiting for you back on Voyager. I'm trying to see that you're safely returned to them."
It was a low blow, maybe, but I don't regret using any means available to convince him to see reason.
"I haven't forgotten anything. Believe me, if there's one thing I haven't forgotten in all this, it's my wife." He shakes his head, and again, I have to acknowledge that there's much more of the man in his staunch expression than there is of the young adult I first met six years ago. He assures me quietly, making a show of helping me swipe away some of the dirt on the floor, "And yes, of course I'd like to return to my family. But if there's one thing you've taught us out here, it's that the ship as a whole comes first, and if I don't do everything in my power to get the ship's best asset back to her, then I'm not doing my duty as a member of its crew."
I could hit him right now, but then…he usually has that effect on people. Me included.
"I'm not irreplaceable, Tom. No one person's life is more valuable than another."
"Good," he snorts. "Then you can accept that I could no more leave you here to fend for yourself than I could any other member of the crew."
"It's my job to keep the rest of you safe," I growl. "As captain of the ship, that's my ultimate responsibility."
"And as an officer of that same ship, my ultimate responsibility is to make sure you're equipped to do that job properly," he counters smoothly, sounding bored, and I'll be damned if it isn't infuriating. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure you can't do that if you're dead or stuck in a cell here indefinitely."
"And what good is it to the ship if we're both imprisoned?"
The determined light in his eyes intensifies, and it only serves to frighten me more. "Captain, I'll follow your orders to the best of my ability. You know that. But there's no way in hell I'm leaving you here alone, even if I somehow did get a chance to escape on my own. Besides, there's no guarantee that I'll get the chance. I haven't seen any opportunity so far. In fact, I haven't seen so much as an opportunity to get near enough to anything that might give us the opportunity. As for any offers in exchange for my false testimony against you…I haven't heard so much as a whisper of that, either."
No. I've just been hoping he will. It's not outside the realm of possibility that they'd make him the offer... A hiss of pure frustration escapes me at the stony set of his expression. It's familiar, somehow…oh yes. I know where I've seen this look before now; he comes by it honestly. Unfortunately. I force in a deep, not quite so calming breath. "I'm not going to be able to talk any sense into you, am I?"
"Nope. Not this time, Captain."
I've given it my best. In the end, it's his decision. There's nothing left to do but to brush my palms together in an effort to swipe away some of the dirt from the floor and slide down the wall and sit next to him. I lean my head back against the cool stone, reveling in the soothing sensation against my now throbbing headache. "Tom?" I venture, after a moment of silence.
"Yeah, Captain?"
"You really do piss me off at times – you know that, don't you?"
"Yeah," his slow, easy grin displays relief that I'm not going to pursue this any further…for the moment. "I know, Captain."
God, his face is grotesque with those injuries swelling his lips and his nose and mouth still covered in streaks of blood. I can't help what I say next. "You look like hell, Ensign."
"Thanks," he deadpans.
I ignore him, forcing my exhausted limbs to cooperate as I crawl back to our water container. "Let's see what we can do about it."
I do my best to help him clean the blood and grime from his face, ripping off a sizeable strip from my left pant leg (mine being the cleaner of our two uniforms by far) and pouring a few drops of our drinking water onto it. A few drops will be worth it to keep these wounds from becoming infected, and he doesn't argue only because he knows it, too. As his face begins to become visible once more and I continue running the cloth over the blood-streaked stubble now growing in thick on his face, I find I can't help the wry quirk of my lips at the sight of it.
He sees it, drawing back to hide a wince as my fingers press too deeply into the cut on his lip. "What?"
I let him draw back. "Sorry. Nothing."
"Well, you obviously found something funny. Is it that bad-looking?"
Worse. I manage another small smile. "You've looked better, but that isn't what I was smiling at."
"What then?"
I wave him off. "It's nothing important."
"You can't do that and then not tell me what's so funny."
"I can. I'm the captain, remember?" He looks unimpressed as I use a few more drops of water to moisten a clean edge of cloth and continue dabbing at his lip. "Believe me, it wasn't anything worth mentioning."
"Oh c'mon, Captain! That's not fair!" He's actually whining now. At my raised eyebrow, he shrugs, unabashed. "It's a polite rule of any civilized society."
He wants to be distracted – desperately, I can see. It's probably the least I can do for him, considering… "Fine. You win." I lean back, dropping the cloth on my thigh. "I've just always wondered..." It's really a stupid thing to wonder, I muse, trailing off in a frown.
"You've always wondered…?" he prompts eagerly.
I sigh. "What is it with men and shaving?"
"Huh?" He looks surprised but then passes a chuckle while I wring out the small amount of water from the strip again.
I dab a few more drops of "clean" water from our container and begin wiping off the cuts over his nose, taking even more care to be gentle this time, knowing it's probably broken.
"Honestly? That's what you were wondering?"
"Honestly," I nod. Determined to settle this once and for all now that he's dragged it out of me. "Almost every man I've ever met – some of you quite intelligent, mind you – and hardly one of you has the sense not to handle a sharp instrument first thing in the morning. Particularly on a starship, of all places." I shake my head, wringing out the cloth and unfazed by his laughter. "An average of three trips to sickbay in any given month are for shaving related injuries, did you know that?" I didn't, until Seven pointed it out a few months ago.
It takes him a moment to contain his laughter. "I take it you mean you've wondered, why don't we just have the hair follicles deactivated, like women with their legs?"
He indicates the strip of my ankle and lower calf now visible as my legs stretch out beside me and I nod curtly. "Exactly. It's a simple, five-minute trip to any sickbay. Considering the amount of time it must take each morning…the danger involved in nicking yourself with the blade…" I shake my head in genuine bewilderment. "There must be something I'm missing there. Apparently, even Tuvok does it."
"I know Tuvok does. You'd be surprised how hairy Vulcans can be."
"How would you…?" I realize it and answer myself before he can. "Sickbay."
Tom nods. "Yep. But I'd have known from the time he and the doc and I fell into that gravity well."
"Right. I hadn't thought of that." I keep forgetting that, to the three of them, it was months on end they were stuck down there on that planet...what was yet one more occasion I came closer than I'd like to losing some of them.
"Well, it's worth mentioning that a few of the men just use an auto-powered razor, you know."
"The more intelligent among you, no doubt."
"Not me," he adds hastily. Looking almost proud of the fact, to my utter disbelief.
"Why not? Why the insistence on such an archaic method? It would be far less disturbing if you'd at least use a safer instrument."
He shrugs, offering another small grin. "The auto-powered stuff doesn't do the same quality job." He ignores the snort of disgust I don't bother repressing. "Does Chakotay, by the way?" he quips innocently. "I've never noticed. I haven't seen him come by for a dermal regeneration, either, that I can recall."
The death look, as usual, has little effect. "He might have mentioned something about it once or twice." I move on before he can get comfortable on the topic I least want to discuss. "So what's the attraction with shaving? Please. Explain it to me."
"I don't know. I'm guess I've never really thought about it." He chuckles, scratches at the dirt on his neck again, and I brush his hand aside to use the last of the moist cloth to clear some of it away. "I guess for me it comes from having watched my dad do it when I was little. I remember not being able to wait until I was old enough to do it, too. It's kind of like a coming of age thing."
"If that's the case, why not do it manually for a few years…and then do it the sensible way? Surely having to deal with the regrowth under circumstances like these can't be worth it. Doesn't it itch?"
"Like hell, at first. But it goes away in a few days." He actually looks uncomfortable at the thought. "I dunno." He shrugs. "I guess I don't like the idea of having to go to someone else if I want to grow it in…it's just a part of being–"
"Male?"
"Yeah," he nods, seemingly grateful that I understand. "Kind of."
He looks far too satisfied with his non-answer. I can only shake my head. "So you deliberately choose to handle a dangerously sharp blade – at the risk of the ship coming under attack while you're doing it and killing yourself in the process – because it's the male thing to do." He doesn't argue, flashing a sheepish expression at my summation, and I huff. "If personal shavers weren't specifically sanctioned in the regs, you'd better believe I'd outlaw the damned things. And I consider it proof that most of those regs had to have been written by men, I might add."
"Well bless the guy who made that one, then." He pauses, reflecting. "And especially whoever kept those short skirts regulation for as long as they did. Ah, the good old days…" His grin stretches across his face as much as possible given his swollen mouth. "I do miss 'em."
"I'm sure you do," I agree dryly. "I think that's all I can do for now." Sitting back on my heels, I scrutinize the result. "It's not perfect, but it's a hell of a lot better. You aren't likely to frighten small children, at any rate."
He takes the cloth I slap into his upturned palm, folding it up and setting it aside for future use, offering a quiet, "Thank you, Captain."
"You're welcome. Now try not to go getting yourself used as a punching bag anymore, if you'd be so kind."
A small smile as he settles himself back into his preferred corner along the wall. "I'll do my best."
I hope he will. I take a seat next to him as the lull of utter exhaustion pulls at me. With nothing more to be said, we lapse into silence for a long while, each of us lost in tired thought. It's no mystery where his thoughts lie during the long, eternal silences in our bleak cell. And, as I've begun to suspect, given his deliberate prods time and again, it may not be such a mystery to him where my thoughts inevitably wander, either.
I miss him, ache with the gaping loss I feel without his familiar presence by my side. It's strange. I thought we'd been growing a little distant from each other lately. But it's one thing when the separation is purposeful, intentional...and something else entirely being separated by such a large physical distance without any say in the matter. It hurts not to have his steadying counsel, which I've always known is available to me any time, day or night, regardless of how well we're getting along otherwise. It hurts twice as much not to have his calming presence at night. To hear him snoring lightly beside me. Even when I can't sleep at all, which is often, the sound of his breathing has seen me through some of the darker nights of the past two years.
We've been having our differences lately. It isn't often that he's made it over to my quarters in the past few months, and I know much of that has been me pushing him away again. It always is me. He's just not as spiteful as I am – as I can be. I never have liked that about myself, for the most part have kept it in check. But he always has gotten saddled with the worst parts of me out here, usually in trying to keep it from spilling over to the rest of the crew. It isn't fair to him, this relationship, never has been. He only gets the leftover parts of me, what remains after I've given every ounce of the best I've got to the ship and the others. And some days, the leftovers aren't so pretty. He'd never say that, though. Would never let me say it…
And as the days crawl slowly forward, I find it's harder and harder to remember all the reasons he gets under my skin. All the fights, the heated arguments and disagreements fade into the background, until I find I can't even recall the specifics of most of them anymore…or why I was punishing him this time in the first place. I think it was Teero.
I wonder if it's the same for him, back on Voyager. If he's thinking of the last time we argued, or if he's forgotten most of it by now. If he thinks I'm dead…
I don't want to think about that now. I wonder how the ship is doing. Will B'Elanna remember to check that the plasma manifolds aren't sticking again? Will anyone else put together the connection between the problem in the hydroponic trays and the faulty replicators we used to replicate them with? That had come to me three days ago, while I'd been trying to block out Gwiln's efforts during a session. I hope someone has put it together by now. Any issues with our food production systems have a tendency to radically alter the status of the ship's food stores if not properly monitored…they can't afford that, especially now…
The entire night, like the last four, we have one visit from the prison guards. The pair brings with them the standard tray of barely edible prison fare. Again like the past four nights, they make sure we both remain at the back of the cell while one keeps a weapon on us and the other warily sets the tray down just inside the perimeter. And again, as usual, they take great pains to assure me that better amenities could be made available to us if I could only find it within myself to "be nicer" to them.
I hold back on my scathing retort this time; Tom's condition still overrides all other concerns, including sleep. I've been waiting for this moment, so that I can approach the guards for assistance…
When I demand that they take him for treatment, gesturing to his obvious wounds with anger, I'm laughed at and asked, in a way that can only be considered especially crude, what it's worth to me. When I remain silent, glowering, the guards simply laugh and stalk away down the corridor – leaving Tom to suffer with his injuries in the meantime. Not that it was entirely unexpected.
They still haven't healed him. As of this morning, when I was summoned by Gwiln's men for the fifth consecutive round of interrogation, Tom's injuries have not been addressed.
I made the same demand for Tom to receive medical attention before being sent into the tiny room for "purging", but Gwiln's soldiers didn't even bother to reply before shoving me into the tiny bathroom. A short while later, Gwiln himself only raised one of those thin, dark Jifani brows and accepted my uniform, which the one called Airrek held out to him upon entry. Gwiln fingered the material idly, looking me over much more closely than he had the days before, and asked whether or not I was ready to cooperate yet.
"Not a chance in hell," I took great satisfaction in replying, keeping as tight a reign on my anger as possible.
He smiled slightly, shrugged, and set my clothes on the bare shelf beside him. "Then I really don't see what I can do for your officer," he retorted before ordering me positioned against the wall exactly as I had been the day before.
The rest of the routine has been the same. Standing in the same awkward position, forced to bend at an odd angle and to keep my palms flat against the wall in the freezing section of the small room. If I moved for any reason, even to scratch at an itch on my nose or to alleviate the discomfort in my stiff limbs, another jolt of that God-forsaken baton was administered. Several times, buckets of frigidly cold water were dumped over me to ensure that I never had the chance to completely dry out and warm up.
Now, as I stand here shivering, I have to admit it's working, to some degree. It's amazing the amount of demoralization that can be inflicted by techniques that leave hardly a single mark on the body. I try not to dwell on the last time I pondered this concept or the fact that Tom is sitting, injured in that cell and that I can't do a single thing to help him. I focus on Voyager and the hope that, by holding fast to my resolve, I can protect the ship and keep Tom alive for as long as possible. It grows harder to do, however, with each passing moment.
Hours pass with Gwiln pressing, taunting. Questioning. Insinuating, trying to intimidate, to confuse… It takes me until the third jolt to begin silently praying for relief, but of course, none comes. There are only hours of the same. Cold, extreme discomfort, more and more severe as time passes. Dizziness and weakness from the purging and the energy weapon discharging jarring volts of energy into my aching body. Questions, one right after the other. Gwiln laying out the scenario I'm supposed to adhere to, intermittently throwing out different details for me to pick up on…for when I finally break and want to "confess", of course. I couldn't very well do so convincingly without having any knowledge of this resistance movement, its capabilities, or its agenda.
I do my utmost to block him out. I don't want those details. The very last thing I want is for those bits of information to sink into my brain for later recall, but the intendent is uncommonly good at his job. Every time I manage to withdraw into myself or to find some way to maintain my mental distance from what is happening around me, either a sharp slap or an icy shock awaits me at his hands. Sometimes, he simply raises his voice and shouts into my ear. Condemning, threatening. Anything to bring my focus fully back to him.
Hours of this, followed by long periods of silence. His men leave the room (I think, from the sound of the door opening and closing), and Gwiln busies himself with paperwork or whatever administrative tasks a military interrogator has. Hell, for all I know, he's practicing his tennis serve behind me, but it's the silence that is the worst of all.
My tongue begins to loosen. I want to talk. After what seems like hours of standing in silence, doing my utmost to block out every single threat that has passed from Gwiln's confident lips, I find I have to add a certain perverse craving for communication to the list of things I have to fight with everything I have.
And, already, I don't have much of anything left over. Physically drained more and more as time has passed, I begin to feel my resolve to keep silent weakening, crumbling away…
My mind must have wandered. He's noticed, of course. I'm brought back to the present by the shifting of his weight behind me…when did he approach? I hadn't even heard it this time…
And then, without warning, something large and round, not the energy baton, digs deep into my upper back. The acute stinging sensation as the unknown implement pierces into my over-stimulated musculature catches me entirely off guard.
This is new. I cry out, unable to stop myself. The instrument is withdrawn just as brutally as it was inserted. Swinging my head around, I note Gwiln insolently soothing what I assume is a mark on my lower shoulder with the tip of his gloved index finger.
It's worse than the moderate pain he just inflicted by far to feel him touching me so arrogantly. As if he has the inherent right to do so…
He twirls the end of the crude Jifani hypospray in his other hand.
From deep within my throat, I feel the growl rise out of me. "What the hell was that? What did you just give me?" Damn him, this is the second time during our short association that he had caught me unawares with some unknown substance. I should have anticipated it, and… And what, my inner voice mocks. Even if you'd known what was coming, what were you going to do to stop him?
I ignore the voice: consciously, anyway. It does nothing to help maintain my resolve. "Was that another one of your sedatives?" I demand, feeling the weak, residual trembling in my arms, which ache to fall down and rest at my sides.
"Don't worry, Captain. It won't kill you." Of course it won't. That would be too easy. "It's just a little something to help things along."
"Meaning?" I hiss, wanting desperately to reach behind me and feel the small wound left behind. It stings like hell – much worse than before.
Something tells me this isn't the same mild sedative I was given at the reception hall.
He only continues to smile insolently. "You'll realize on your own soon enough, I'm sure. Which brings me to another matter. Since you're proving so remarkably resilient to our methods, the prefect has given permission for our time together to be extended. Instead of tomorrow, your new plea hearing has been scheduled for two weeks from now."
At this casually offered information, my stomach feels like someone kicked me in it. That plea hearing…that break in this torturous routine…has been keeping me going for the last five days. Knowing that tomorrow is now likely to bring a hideous repeat of the last five days of suffering only increases the spasmodic trembling in my arms and legs.
My God. Two more weeks of this…my eyes close tightly as I withdraw inside myself to find my dwindling source of inner strength. I'll need every last dreg of it that I can access to hold out that long. Two weeks?
"Why, Captain," his hated voice drawls next to me. Close. Too close. "Is that disappointment I sense? Really," he clucks his tongue, "you'll have me developing a complex. Surely spending time in my company isn't so bad? I know I, for one, am enjoying every momentof our time together."
I tense, hating it, but again, unable to stop doing it. His tone is getting to me. The weariness, the constant discomfort, hunger and fatigue are all getting to me. There are cracks developing in my wall of stoicism.
He sees them. I've never encountered anyone quite so good at noticing every little nuance of every single motion I make…
Well, that's a lie. There's Chakotay, of course. But this man is foe, not friend. My first officer has known me for years; he's a trusted and dear friend. He's…well he's so much more than that, when my guard is down enough to admit it, like it is now.
Gwiln has only known me for a scant ten days. He shouldn't be as good at this as he is.
A wave of…something…washes over me. It's internal. Physical. My vision wavers, and everything seems to…pulse. The cracks in the wall in front of me, so familiar by now, seem to be…breathing, somehow. I suck in a breath, a tiny one, as the muscles at my damned side still haven't been fully healed. It hadn't been one of the medic soldier's priorities, or so Tom informed me; therefore, Tom had not been permitted to do much to repair the basic tearing, and I've done further damage to the injured tissue today.
God, it's cold. My eyelids flutter closed. So tired…
A strong slap against my wet thigh snaps me back to the present. "Focus, Captain," Gwiln drawls, mortifying me as I realize that I've indeed been letting my mind wander...but this time entirely unintentionally. "That would appear to be growing increasingly difficult for you."
Another growl rises up in my throat. The urge to scream at him is intense, but I clamp down on my tongue in the last instant before giving in to the urge. That's exactly what he wants. He wants my explosion, my anger. This man is trying to break me, and he'll use any means necessary to do it. But I'm a Starfleet officer, as I remind myself for the hundredth time today. A ship's captain. I have my officers and Voyager to protect. I won't let his idle taunts get the better of me. I'm smarter than that. I'm trained better than that, damn it.
I cough. As I do, I realize dimly that it's the second time today I've done that. The ventilation systems in this room leave much to be desired.
Gwiln bends down to inspect my bindings. They aren't as tight today – the one kindness I've been afforded in this room – but they still hold me in this damned awkward position. He withdraws, moving farther away from my back. As much as I'm pleased by the additional space this puts between us, I can't help feeling the loss of his natural body heat. And he's a bastard for that alone, I decide, knowing he has probably done this on purpose. I shiver more violently.
"Cold, Captain?" he taunts. "Tired?"
I bite harder into my tongue. Now I can taste blood, and I have to let up. I settle for grinding my teeth together instead. Again. It's a wonder I haven't worn them down to nothing by now.
"You know you'd be perfectly comfortable back in your cell right now…if you would only agree to be reasonable."
"Our definitions of 'reasonable' differ, Intendent." My teeth are so clenched it hurts to speak through them.
"But they don't have to," he replies quickly, jumping on the opening my reply has created for him. "Tell me about meeting with members of the resistance; what harm can it do? It'll put an end to all your suffering. Surely that sounds good right about now, my dear?"
Too good, in fact. My anger and irritation are growing. Gwiln's footsteps are drawing near again.
"And…obviously, I'd have no problems with treating Mister Paris's unfortunate injuries if you were inclined to cooperate."
I'm sure he wouldn't. Bastard. Despicable bastard. I might actually think less of him than I do of Kaelo. Damn him. He's doing it. He's slowly backing me into yet a tighter corner. If Tom's injuries become serious enough, Gwiln is going to force me to choose between defending against a potential threat to my ship and an imminent threat to my officer…
"No." Once more, it takes everything in me to keep my reply short. Annoying, anomalous spots have appeared in my vision, and I attribute them to exhaustion. On top of everything else, I don't think I can handle the assumption that I've been given a hallucinogen.
"Well, then. There's always tomorrow, eh, Captain?" Through the exaggerated sigh of regret, he sounds positively cheerful, "Though I regret to have to inform you that our session is ending early today."
My ears perk up at this. "What?" Am I hearing things, already? At this early juncture in the process?
"I said that our session, unfortunately, has to end early today," his voice carries over from the far side of the room as I continue to fight the urge to slump in my restraints, despite knowing how painful that would ultimately be.
"Oh?" I'm not hearing things. It is a reprieve. "And just why would that be?" There has to be a reason. If I can just provoke him into telling me what it is…"Don't tell me I've worn you out already, Intendent?" My raw, scratchy throat drips scorn at him, finally, the way it's been longing to all day.
He smiles his small, indulgent smile. I can't see it, but I know it's there, just the same. "Your concern for my well being is…touching. But you needn't fear a woman of your age is any danger of exhausting me. At least not in any such mundane pursuits as you force us to engage in here, Captain."
Again, he's infuriating me. I don't know why, all of a sudden, that should be the case when I've weathered so many worse insults from this man for the past five days… it hits me then. I feel my eyes drawing narrower. "What the hell was in that hypospray you just gave me?" I demand again, surprised and not in a good way, at how long it's taken me to remember it.
His laughter is mocking, light, as though he doesn't have a care in the galaxy as he calls for his men to step forward and escort me to the hospital wing.
At least this time, I don't pass out before we get there.
And now I really owe the NE people an update on the shadow account, so give me a few days please while I finish that up for them :)