A/N: So, I wasn't sure I was going to write this in detail or gloss over events. However, Jane's past is key to her character development as it offers a lot of insight into why she is the way she is. There are several motivations for my writing this. But the main one is to show the absolutely devastating effect child abuse has on a psyche. Particularly prolonged child abuse. And if I skim over it, the impact is lost.
While I've suggested and hinted, I haven't shown Jane's sexual past before. Which is why this chapter is prefaced with such a strong warning. It delves into some rough topics such as rape and the psychological fallout. And it goes into detail. If that's not something you feel you can handle, please skip ahead. I will be providing a brief synopsis on the following chapter.
True to Maelon's warning, Jane's leg had to be rebroken in order for it to set properly. And Wrex solved the lack of painkillers issue with several hearty rounds of liquor. They celebrated late into the night. She vaguely recalled a conversation with… Garrus? Sometime in the past three days. But it was lost to white lightening and drunken renditions of her fight with Wreav.
It had been three days in the bone regenerator. Three days of celebration, alcohol, and blurry images. But today was another matter. Today she was scheduled to see the Shaman for some enigmatic ritual. Wrex gave her a choice – she could return with him to the male camp, or she could remain with the females, carving out a place among them. The only catch was, he couldn't have unexploded ordinance around the women and kids. And that's exactly what she was. A ticking time bomb that could tear apart Urdnot's future in her sleep. Whatever this ritual was, it would sever the connection between her sleeping mind and her powers, preventing unintentional explosions. Intentional ones would still work though. That much he promised.
Yet, his warning rang like a bell. It was the hardest thing I ever done, girl. Don't go into it with hope. She really didn't want to know what horrors could produce such a repugnant look on an otherwise formidable face. But this ritual was, as Wrex had put it, the healing salt to his wounds. Made me raw. Made me wish for death. Yet, pulled the infection from my core.
Using biotics and a cane to traverse the winding halls, Jane hobbled to the Shaman. Amata too was in the chamber, her own journey before her. They were to take this path together. The wise woman brought forth a pot, steaming hot and scentless. She settled in front of the two women, legs tucked neatly beneath her buttocks, mist obscuring her face. A cup, whose bottom was papered in glowing indigo leaves, was placed in Jane's hands. "V'moora Viia." The Shaman supplied. "A Thessian herb. It connects one mind to another. Allows them to share experience, memory, whatever they so choose. But," A large, meaty finger held their suspense. "For broken minds such as yours, you will travel to your most wretched memories. And share them among the three of us."
"That," Jane bit the side of her cheek, hoping the acrid taste in her mouth didn't flow into her words. "Sounds like a terrible idea."
Amata's protests joined her. "Can't believe I'm saying this, but I agree with the pyjack. Ripping open old wounds is never wise."
"Old wounds?" The Shaman's covered head swiveled to each woman in turn. "Are these memories truly old? Or do they haunt your every step? Let them fester in the dark if you will, and suffer the consequences. You..." She nodded towards Jane. "Whose wayward powers threaten everyone irregardless of friend, foe, or self. And you." Now Amata was in her sights. "Who fear the many stillbirths are here of your own accord, craving resolution. The genophage is on our very DNA young one. You will continue to bear its mark. But I offer, with surgical precision, an answer to your most hated questions. Your journey is optional, whereas hers." Her gaze shot back to Jane. "Is not."
Jane half expected Amata to turn and leave. If she had any other choice, that would be her move. After all, Amata wasn't about to explode, killing everything around her. For Jane on the other hand, it was only a matter of time. Instead, she brought the cup to her lips, and tipped it back, finishing it in a single swallow. Jane followed suit. Although, it took her several swigs to polish it off.
The tea burned and prickled as it slithered down her throat. Its sour nature puckered at her lips. Yet when she opened her eyes, she was no longer with Urdnot, but a massive building, filled with fear and fetid bodies. A hospital. A whisper in her mind, filling in the gaps of knowledge. Amata, alone, laying on a concrete floor and heavily pregnant. Her silent prayer, please don't let the child live - I canna bear having his child, echoed in her mind. Guilt flooded her, but it was not her own.
The images flickered out. Years passed in minutes. She saw how Weryloc used her. How she was nothing but an incubator to them. How, with each stillborn, her place grew increasingly wretched until she was branded infertile and sent to a labor camp.
She watched Amata break rock and build homes. Saw how they worked her past her breaking point and then worked her some more. But the emotions were different here. Hopeful. Filled with a gentle sunshine unbeknownst to Tuchanka. The reason followed shortly after, as a much younger Wrex came into view. No gashes across his face. Lighter, brighter eyes. But it was Wrex. Him and a small tribe invaded the camp, butchered the guards and set the prisoners free. Afterwards she received an unwelcome lesson in krogan anatomy, as Amata thanked him. Profusely.
Other emotions filtered in then. A flash forward in time to the bunker she was all too familiar with. Without the back-breaking work, Amata's fertility cycle returned and this time, when she laid with Wrex, it was for a purpose. Her hopes. Her dreams. They all hinged on the life growing in her belly. Her child with Wrex.
She used her biotics to hold her up, keeping the massive woman from crashing into the stone. The memory ended. Hushed words were spoken around her, through her, but not to her. The words were not meant for her.
Then she felt the Shaman's hands encase her own. Directing her to take another swig of tea. Her problem was not so kind as to be a brief foray into the past. With no clan, no tribe, no one to hold a light in the darkness - hers had settled in the bones. Infected the marrow with its putrid rot. These memories had never been shared in words, had never seen the light of day. Now it was time for them to be revealed among her new sisters of Urdnot.
Memories whizzed around, twisting like a tornado, before focusing on her and Balya's escape attempt. She knew it was a bad idea, that they'd probably be dead before evening prayer. She just didn't know how bad of an idea. How she was fucked before setting foot out of bounds.
Her eyes almost crossed for a second, the picture hadn't finished establishing. It was almost like a camera lens being jostled about, only in her head.
Flashes. Flashes.
Balya crying into her shoulder. It's not fair. It's not fair. I won't leave without you.
Her hand on Balya's chest. Tossing her across the threshold, beyond her reach. Get the fuck out of here.
[Everything she did, and still, Balya got herself blown up. It was aggravating.]
The overseers saw right through her ruse. They knew exactly what she did, the choice she made. Memories flooded, before receding like an evening tide, throttling her to the following night. Performing for her life. If someone didn't buy her, and soon, she'd be euthanized.
The picture settled. The fuzzy edges receded. And it was almost as if she was there all over again, watching greed save her life but not her soul.
"You have a young female who looks like that. Plays like that. And sings like one of Okanna's blessed? What was her price again?"
"Fifty thousand."
"She intact?" Jane shuddered. The way he said that word made her skin crawl. She was more than old enough to know what he meant. And why he asked.
"Of course. None of my men have animal fetishes." Sargent Ponna spat as if the mere question offended her. Jane hadn't been fond of the bitch. But there was something devastating about the people she worked her whole childhood to please talking about her like a piece of meat.
"Neither do I but I certainly make a killing off the aberrations. So, what's the catch. Why are you sellin' her so cheap Ponna?"
"There are plenty of other interested buyers…"
"Don't piss in my ear. You're not as good at subterfuge as you think."
"Fine. Fine. Girl's a biotic fighter. She helped our most promising cadet escape, and can no longer be trusted. I believe in what we're doing here, strengthening our species's potential. But these budget cuts are killing us. I can't run this facility on scraps. She's valuable as more than a fighter. So, I've reached out to a few of my contacts from my less discreet years. Now if you're not interested, like I said, there are others…"
"I wouldn't say that. But how do I keep her under control?"
Ponna waved him off. "There are things, biotic inhibitors to be specific, that will cut her consciousness from the sympathetic nervous system. We'll charge extra for that though, as it's a costly and delicate surgery."
"And you're luring me in with a low price before dropping the other shoe. Fine. I'll bite. How much for the surgery?"
"Double it and we'll do it right. Anesthesia, meds, the whole nine yards."
"And for… say full price and a quarter?"
"We shave the back of her head and shove it in. Maybe she lives, maybe she doesn't. And you've still paid her full slave price."
The man half laughed, half snorted. Dressed in batarian suede, with a black tie and pants that belied his robust figure. "You drive a hard bargain Ponna. But I'll take her, frills attached. How soon 'til she's ready?"
"Three, four days tops."
"Do it. I'll be back Wednesday. And give her a buttload of pain meds. I don't want some wailing bitch on my hands. I want her as she is right now or no deal."
The following morning, she woke from surgery thinking it had simply been another procedure in the White Room. Funny how, when the truth hit, she actually missed those days. Drowsy from I.V. narcotics yet with the tolerance of a champion, she could sense something was different. No static. No vague tickle of electricity on her fingertips. And when she formed a fist, calling to the blue, nothing came. She was empty, ordinary. Abject helplessness encompassed her, pulled her down, made everything less real.
When the man returned for her, some innate sense of self-preservation stayed her hand. She didn't fight, didn't even try. Simply dressed and followed him to her new life without a word. They drove from the mountains, she knew like the back of her hand, into a valley. The landscape gradually changed, wilderness giving way to civilization. Still drowsy from the meds, rocked by the lumbering vehicle, she nodded off. And when her eyes reopened, she was somewhere very, very different.
With eyes like saucers, she gazed at the heart of a metropolis. Buildings entwined with jungle flora, as it attempted to overthrow its metal invaders. Even the sky-scrapers were encased in webs of verdant green. Life on Kar'Shan simply refused to be choked out. People lined the sidewalks, shopping bags in hand. Talking gaily among one another. Oblivious [uncaring] of the fifteen year old girl in an untenable situation, no more than twenty feet away. It would be beautiful, if not for the stark atmosphere inside the cab. "We're the largest city in the Totin region. Though I guess that's not saying much, we're a far cry from the capitol." The man spoke. She eyed him momentarily before returning her attention out the car window. "My name's Okerag."
"We don't have to be friends." Jane snapped.
"Well, you're going to want to be mine, trust me on that. Now stop looking so dour. We don't use and toss aside our ticket sellers. And if you keep playing the way you did the other night, you'll be one of our top performers. It ensures certain luxuries."
"I'll still be a whore." Her arms were crossed. She sank low in the seat, glaring without really seeing.
"Sure, but one with privileges. Dhay'Groppnah has high caste clientele. We're talking doctors, generals, guys with deep pockets. They pay not only for sex, but for an experience. I listened to you play back at Datmar and you've got some real talent."
He paused, waiting for an answer that never came.
"Bring that passion to the stage, and you don't have to be one of the girls taking it up the ass in some twisted snuff fantasy. Those girls are brought to the brink time and time again. Some of these guys are real sick. And we do cater to them, considering that shit sells high. But, like I said, we don't throw out the ticket sellers. There are three tiers…."
"The Hegemony loves their tiers don't they?"
He slapped her across the face. "Think you're better than me? I don't give a shit who you were back at Datmar. Bein' such an important little shit has made you forget your place. And if you go about with that scowl and shit attitude, you're going to depress the guys looking to unwind. They won't pay top cred for a roll with someone like that. Then guess where you wind up? On the bottom tier. Catering to those who get their ya-yas out of making females suffer."
[Guys like Krapo]
"Now give me a smile."
She grinned then. It didn't reach her eyes.
The first seven nights were spent playing violin until the sun rose. She was extremely grateful for the intense practice sessions her and Balya engaged in. Her fingers were nimble. The notes clear and concise. And she dazzled the crowds.
A week passed before she had to perform a different type of entertainment. Although, nothing other than her compliance was expected. It's not like she'd done… things before. Unlike Balya, who filled an incorporeal void by sleeping with every boy in their cell block. So, she wasn't sure how to go about it. Where do you put your hands? Now she wished she'd asked.
Purpose aside, Dhay'Groppnah was a marvelous convergence of architecture and interior decorating. The main area boasted massive bay windows, a curling staircase, and glittering chandeliers. It flowed with an ethereal elegance. But she was quickly brought back to reality, when they literally auctioned off her virginity. There were still rules, considering her value. No hitting with a closed fist. No marks. No anal.
But her first experience was unpleasant to say the least.
He was a middle aged batarian, built like an ox, still wearing his office getup. An old-fashioned tablet communicator was clipped to his hip. And as she stood backstage, learning who had the highest bid, she spotted his chosen wall paper – another version of that man smiled back. Two kids. A pretty wife. She wondered if they saw through the mask, saw the black turpitude behind the charade.
He paid an exorbitant price for an hour, and her first time being with a man. A conundrum she quickly unraveled. Once they were alone, setup in a posh suite, she held up her hands, admitting her ignorance on the matter. (Why would someone pay so much for an amateur?) Yet, it really got him going. Her naivety seemed to be the secret spice. Something he disliked crossed her face, and he protested. "C'mon now. It's not so bad, just rutting." His belt buckle jingled as it fell to the floor. Her dress, cream colored and translucent, followed as he pulled it from her shoulders.
Callous fingers enclosed around her throat, he didn't squeeze, that would be against the rules. But it ensured she understood who was in charge. His other hand found its way downward, and he roughly shoved two fingers inside. She didn't whimper. Didn't make a sound. Refused him the satisfaction. Giving only of herself what was required, and not a smidgen more. "Sure you've never been with a man?"
A silent shake of the head.
He smiled at the truth on her face, pushing her onto the mattress. A moment later, and he was on top of her, cramming himself inside. White hot pain traveled from the point of origin, to her belly button, and back down her legs. Her fingers dug into his shoulders from the shock of it, hands quickly slapped away. The loss of solidity amplified everything. And she was grateful to be lying down. No way could she have remained upright. Especially when he began to move, causing her insides to roil against the motion.
Normally, she wouldn't let anyone see her soul, her true self. No one other than Balya at least. But her existence depended on fulfilling a certain fantasy. So when he bellowed at her, demanding she open her eyes, the obedience that followed was undeniable. Survive this. Whatever he saw, he loved. And hatred burned through her.
But it was the sweat that nearly got her. Not the rod pulling deep inside, tearing things she didn't even know she had. It was the sweat. A bead fell from his forehead into her mouth and it was all she could do not to wretch. Stay in control. Pretend you like it. dontwindupliketheothergirls. That's when she noticed he was covered in sweat, slick and vile and threatening to descend, staining her even more.
She closed her eyes then, at first it was an attempt to escape – to retreat deep inside her head where this was not happening. She tried envisioning anything, everything she ever saw – Datmar, the jungle, Balya, her long dead brother, anything. But it didn't work. The weight of him on her chest bared down, sending her gasping against the pressure, until she found comfort in something familiar and almost gentle by comparison. Death. Specifically, his death by her hand. Her eyes flew back open, her momentary defiance unnoticed.
The imagery came easily, a little corner of solace. First she'd start with the eyes, stabbing out all four of them, ensuring the blade didn't penetrate through to the brain. That would be fast. No. She wanted to watch him suffer. How would you do it? The question floated above her, the sound of slapping flesh a distant echo. I'd carve out his eyes, let him bleed and howl. Then... A smile broke across her face. Then I'd gut him like a fish. Let his insides fall out. Watch him writhe on the floor.
He was grunting in pleasure. "Yeah? Like that you little slut?" A smack across her face. "I knew it." But she didn't allow him to penetrate this new found power. No. When his mouth opened, she thought of sliding a knife through to the back of his throat, grinning madly at the image.
And eventually she did find a thrill in it. Not the physical, carnal type that they sought, but in her mental evasion. They thought she liked it. But they didn't know, didn't see the truth behind the face smiling sweetly at them.
After her first night the head-slave 3353, thirty-three for short, showed her things. Where to touch. How to apply makeup. Which colors complimented her skin tone. And she never had to see that first guy again. Apparently he only liked virgins, so he was no longer her problem. At least that was something.
The images flickered out. Flashes of light as time sped forward. Memories rushing past. They'd pause whenever her heart rate and breathing increased, a shot of adrenaline ensured it'd be focused on. Oh goody. So much fun. Why don't we just rip out my brain and saw it to pieces while we're at it?
She was onstage, violin in hand, fingers trilling at its neck. Eyes closed. Lost in the music. Lost in the Halix flowing through her veins. One of the rewards for earning her place as the brothel's best ticket seller. Pure intoxicants of her choice. And Halix was her go to. It'd take her away, and she'd lose herself between the notes. Sometimes she was with Balya kicking ass. (Allegros.) Others times she was somewhere she couldn't quite place, warm and bright. Fleeting laughter. The feeling was there, but not the image. A frame without the picture. But it filled her with a longing that she never knew she had. She wanted to go there, wherever there was, more than anything she ever wanted. (Moon River.)
The bow would glide across the strings, chasing that beautiful feeling, enhanced with Halix. Floating free. Warm in her dreamy cocoon. She missed it sometimes. And she wondered, if she could hop back in time, (for a few days) if she'd endure another round in the brothel just to feel that again. Moon River and Halix, Moon River and Halix, take me there. (How fucked was that?)
Then there were her clients. Thankfully, she only had three regulars as very few could afford her price tag. And they were rather benign in their tastes. One didn't even want to fuck her, only talk. And talk. And talk. Sometimes she wished he'd fuck her just so she didn't have to listen to him drone on for hours, it'd be faster that way. Whenever he wasn't ranting about his mother, he'd regale her with dreary tales of his ambitions, his hopes and dreams. (Like she cared.) She'd smile sweetly, nodding, pretending to give a shit. Sometimes picturing running him through with a knife. That produced a genuine grin and earned her points though. So, she made a mental note to reproduce that look in the future.
Of course, she was always careful to play dumb, short phrases, one or two syllables per word. Gods forbid they learn she had a brain between her ears. That she had far more intelligence than they chose to believe. No, she had to pretend to be an idiot only capable of a few basic phrases. How they thought that speech took more brain power than playing a violin, she'd never know. But that's how it was.
It's not like she cared. Truth be told, she stopped caring about almost everything. Even herself. Especially herself. Sciffy changed that (an unfortunate side effect of taking her in.) Although she refused to admit it, until the day she snapped.
Sure she was certain to complete the tasks necessary to survive, but her motions, and her (sober) mind, were robotic. She'd apply makeup, slip into a slinky outfits, seduce the clientele. But she didn't care. Everything was an act. Nothing was real. All that extra effort was simply a way to ensure her supply of Halix never ran dry. The sole thing she was loyal to.
Flicker Flicker Flicker
The day her and Sciffy met. She was taking the trash out, six-inch pumps clacking across the cement. First she heard a strange scrabbling. The clank of a dropped can. And then she saw her. A naked, emaciated little figure that could scarcely walk was rummaging through an overturned dumpster. They stared at each other for a moment. And for the first time in her life, Jane felt like a giant. The child scarcely reached her knees, eyes sunken. Skull protruding. She could count every bone in her chest. A few wobbly, unsure steps backwards, trying to get away, only to fall on her butt. But the child didn't cry. Didn't even react. Just stared.
You regret the child? The Shaman's thoughts rang through her with clarity. No judgment. But there was a note of something there. And she wasn't certain it was something she should like. Or maybe she was just being defensive because they were literally tromping through her brain.
Regret isn't the right word, but caring gets you in trouble. Why are we even here? This is not the worst thing that happened to me. Not that I'm eager to go there.
And yet, this is where your mind led us. Clearly, it holds significance.
Flicker Flicker
Making funny faces with Sciffy late in the morning after a long shift. It was the first time she smiled, a silent laugh. The joy she felt seeing a glimmer of happiness on that pudgy face was indescribable. Better than the rush of drugs any day. Originally, she wasn't even certain Sciffy would survive. She was prone to vomiting up the food her body so desperately needed. And it's not like she could call a doctor. For months, she stayed up with the child, coaxing a few bites, holding her and rocking her while singing softly in her ear,
You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey
You'll never know dear
You'll never know dear
Please don't take my sunshine away
hoping against all hope the food would stay down. Although, she had to stop taking Halix. It was impossible to both care for a child, keep her hidden, and indulge her drug habit. Still, she missed Halix terribly. It made things harder, much harder, but having a clear mind paid off. And a plan began to form.
Flicker Flicker
The lounge became another hunting ground. Her sexuality a weapon. She spent months searching for a mark. (Maybe years? Sciffy grew. Became harder to hide.) Smiling sweetly, lips promising ecstasy. An act of subterfuge. They'd be so focused on her delicate fingers dragging across their thigh, that the fact it was all a was a ruse – a ploy to scan their biometric chip, passed them by completely. The Hegemony utilized the same technology behind slave tattoos as IDs for their own people. Only, it was installed in the back of their hand, without any discernible features. She had to steal the scanning-tech from the guard's off-duty quarters, a grave risk. But she had to know who they were if she was to find what she needed.
Eventually, a regular caught her eye. Always in swanky, new garb. Always alone. He never bought time with the girls, choosing to simply listen to her play. A rare individual. And one that she actually believed when he claimed to be there for the show. Perhaps he was saving up for a night with her. As she spent the following weeks in subtle observation, she threw out that possibility. This guy was loaded. He could easily afford a night with her. Yet, there was something different about him. A mellow nature. Thoughtful eyes. But, when she approached, he was still just a man. One who was quickly taken in by her provocative nature, the thrill of her attentions, and she took full advantage. Subtly scanning his biometric data while stretching suggestively on his lap.
Later she reviewed her findings with Sciffy, nestled in a blanket fort. The girl's head tucked beneath her chin. Those little hands grabbing at the screen. That baby breath. To her this was a fun game. To Jane, it was the key to their survival.
He was a surgeon.
Exactly what she needed.
Flicker Flicker
Pouring rain. She was soaked to the bone, barefoot, dress stained with blood. Sciffy's hand in hers. Showing up on Potok's doorstep. She fucked up, fucked up big time. So big that maybe it couldn't be fixed. But what was she supposed to do? They found Sciffy. Now they were searching for her. The streets were littered with commandos. Death lurked around every corner. But Sciffy was on the line and they needed help. Jane needed a surgeon.
Time moved again. Rapid and disorienting.
Thirty-three shrieking. All her sister wives shrieking. What did I do? What did I do? It was an accident! I didn't mean…. I didn't mean for this… Words died in her throat. They were empty against Potok's gasping. Blood everywhere.
"I tried to house-break her, and look what she does! You betrayed us all, you little freak. We're dead because of you." A slap across the face. I deserved that.
She begged them to come with her.
Flicker Flicker
Memories became disjointed then. A flash. It was almost as though her mind knew what was coming before they even arrived.
The worst day of her life.
Sciffy's capture. Five men dragging her off. Men that, were it not for the inhibitor, would have been easy prey. Sciffy was screaming, flailing, desperately trying to escape their grasp. But she was a child. And a small one. Her efforts didn't even make a dent. They laughed at her, asked her where her mommy was. How her heart broke remembering a conversation they had not a few days before. No I'm not your mom. I just keep us alive. I look after you, that's all. And still, Sciffy covered for her. Jane saw something that broke a damn inside, a lie. Sciffy claimed to be alone, forced herself not to peer, even for a second, in Jane's direction. And they left without discovering her because of it.
Jane tracked them to the auction block. Sciffy was in a cage. Knees pulled to her chest. Sobbing against the bars.
A small hop forward in time.
She was standing at the cliff's edge. The drop would kill. And fast. At its peak, the dormant volcano pierced the clouds. She'd often come up here with Sciffy on the hotter days, enjoying the Waterfall's mist cooling their sticky bodies. They'd laugh and sing. And she'd delight in hearing the girl's voice, loud and boisterous, unlike anything she'd ever heard from her before.
Weakness won that day. She couldn't do it. The act of suicide was beyond her. But she also couldn't live there without Sciffy.
The tea was flickering her through the same day. (Fuck this day.)
Little black dots blotted out her vision as she pressed the chip deep into the cavity. A gap left by her long-removed tracker. Don't think about Potok. Stay conscious. Stay upright. Finish this. The Resistance had a surgical grade staple gun. Thank the gods. She couldn't have closed otherwise.
Her jerky, robotic walk to the auction block. Head still bleeding. The slavers joked about how she had probably wandered off right after the chipping process. (Such a fortuitous event. All they ever cared about were profit margins.) When Sciffy showed clear signs of recognizing her, they tossed her into the same cage. The child crawled into her lap. And Jane stared, numb, wondering what the hell she got herself into. What have I done now?
A warm feeling interrupted, an unexpected respite. It encompassed her. The knowledge that someone was looking for her. Garrus fighting through the Ubralle. The steel predator. Large and intimidating. His memory cushioned the edges, held her from the encompassing despair. All claws and teeth. Yet so gentle with her, as he lifted her arms guiding the gun lesson. Her side. He was on her side.
But then her mind balked. Refused to budge another inch. A hurricane of raw emotion unleashed. I won't go back to those ships. I won't go back to those ships.
The Shaman's voice boomed through her consciousness. If you do not confront it, it will fester in the dark.
Images sped through her field of vision. Krapo. A knife. Krapo. His cruelty. His delight. She vomited the first time. And here she thought she was immune to depravity. But her thick and unyielding mental barriers shattered as he laid a towel across her broken, oozing body. "Normally I don't enjoy that with females. But you... I can make an exception for." His voice was a devastating sound.
A frantic wail echoed through her skull, dribbling out her ears. I can't. I won't. I can't. I won't.
A vague voice answered from far away. Pull her out. I have enough for the block. Pull her out now before she is lost to us.
And then it was over. Her vision was dim, tarnished by Krapo's mere image. She gasped, ragged. A thousand bugs skittered beneath her skin, and she clawed at her arms. Desperate. Get it off. Get him off. Somewhere next to her, she could feel Amata holding her up, keeping her from being completely inundated by the darkness. Suffocating. She was suffocating. Five fingered hands scrabbled for purchase against her solid, krogan form.
"The block is complete. Your powers will betray you no more." The Shaman's voice gentled. "The rest... the rest is up to you."
Amata held her like a child as she gagged, nestled in the crook of her arm. But there were no tears. She ran out of those a long time ago. Lost in the empty.