His legs hurt. The ache was dull but true, so with each step his front knee half considered buckling. He tried to walk naturally, ignoring the stiff pain in his thighs. A display of weakness would only encourage the Cardassian guards, who made a policy of kicking men when they were down. An alarm went off and the automatic door of his cell swung open. O'Brien stepped into the grey, flat-lit hallway as he'd done twice a day for the past 27 weeks and exchanged a small smile with the man emerging from the cell to his left. He'd spoken to his neighbor only once: "What's your name," O'Brien remembered murmuring.
"Rick—you?"
"Miles."
They might have spoken longer, but a guard cut their conversation short by electrocuting them both with some sort of taser.
Rick walked behind Miles as they joined the accumulating mass of prisoners trudging out to the yard. A flight of stairs. O'Brien stared at the ground and tried not to cringe against the twinge in his way quads. Any stumble or misstep and he could expect a blow to the back of the head followed by a smattering of insufferable cardassian laughter.
The prisoners, numbering perhaps 200, gathered on the field and waited for something to happen though none, of course, could know exactly what they were waiting for. The "field activity," as O'Brien had once heard it called, changed from day to day without pattern or reason. Sometimes they were just lined up, looked over, and returned to their cells. Once, they exercised for an hour, the Cardassians apparently intent on keeping their specimens healthy enough to live and die on the terms of the founders... or the Obsidian Order, or whoever was actually in charge. Of course, there were...bad days, too. Sometimes guards would grab a few prisoners and take them somewhere. At first, the remaining inmates were simply dismissed, but recently they'd been made to stand on the field and listen while somebody screamed, and cried, and suffered over an intercom system. The poor souls were eventually returned to the group, sometimes unconscious, usually bleeding, once shaking uncontrollably. The infirmary was run by a cardassian overseer and several inmates—generally those with medical backgrounds. These men would help the injured inside and see to their needs. Usually the victims had recovered and returned to their regular cells within two or three days. No one had died, at least not as far as O'Brien knew. It seemed the Cardassians mistreated these prisoners with the intention of harming, not murdering. After all, what fun were prisoners after they'd been killed? You can't torture someone who's already dead, O'Brien mused bitterly. I guess it's in our best interest, then, that these bloody cardies enjoy human suffering so much. They don't want to break their favorites toys...too badly.
O'Brien didn't look up until he was safely surrounded by a cluster of other prisoners in the yard. A second alarm went off and the whole crowd turned at once to face the line of Cardassians standing across from them at the opposite end of the field. Silenced ensued. No movement. No sound.
The Cardassians approached the group, and O'Brien knew at once that this would be a bad day. A man standing near the front was snatched by the arm. He put up no fight. The Cardassians wove deeper through the field of prisoners. Another was taken somewhere over to O'Brien's right. A Cardassian wandered near him, close. Now too close.
In the span of maybe three seconds O'Brien noticed something, thought it over, and acted on it. He noticed that the Cardassian was on route to intercept Rick. This information made his insides feel prickly, so he decided to alter the Cardaissan's path. He looked up, one set of raised eyes among hundreds of bent heads, and made hard eye contact with the guard. The Cardassian stopped. A chill penetrated O'Brien, who, having used up his nerve, looked down again. The Cardassian changed course and seized O'Brien's shoulder with a hand like a vise.
Miles felt no comfort in the thought that he'd sacrificed himself for another. Neither did he experience regret. Fear, alone, consumed him, leaving space for nothing else.
He tried to gather his reason, but it broke against the fear. He scrounged for shards of it, anything to ease his heart and lungs. You've been through worse. A scrap of sanity punctured through his mind. You're going to survive this. Momentary solace. Everything is going to be all right. He forced himself to believe it.
And then he was led through a solid steel door into a square room made of concrete. Someone pushed him against a chair, to which he was promptly cuffed. Static buzzed briefly, an indication that the monitor was on. Try not to scream. Not if you can help it.
A Cardassian produced a club from a drawer that, in a different environment, would have made for an excellent filing cabinet. Miles examined the weapon's heavy wooden body and recalled the time he knocked a tooth out with a kayak paddle. He noticed a drain installed beside his chair. His torturer advanced. Like thick mud, a sickly understanding sucked O'Brien in: This guard could cripple him without any worry of repercussions. No law, no code of ethics, nothing save the dangerous whims of a Cardassian mattered here. Cortisol came in sickening pangs so he felt hot and shivered. The Cardassian raised his weapon. O'Brien went rigid, expecting a blow to the jaw or the ribs. He yelped from surprise as much as pain when the Cardassian struck him swiftly across the legs. The impact amplified the ache already present in his muscles. Another blow, harder this time. The old ache was gone, replaced by sharp decisive agony. Again he was struck. Again. O'Brien choked over a cry, stifling it as best he could.
Again.
"Scream."
O'Brien didn't register the command.
"Scream."
He heard it this time.
"What?"
"Scream, human."
The Cardassian jabbed a fist into O'Brien's mandible. "Scream."
Slowly, almost exasperated, O'Brien leaned over the left side of the chair and spat blood into the concrete. "No."
The guard grinned and adjusted his grip on the club. O'Brien exhaled and closed his eyes.
He did scream.
He screamed over the cracking sound of his left tibia, bludgeoned to the point of fracturing.
He screamed while a blade carved two parallel gashes across the bridge of his nose.
He screamed when the letter "C" was branded into his skin. Twice. Once on the back of his neck, then again on his right cheek. The torturer ended with a vicious right hook that blackened O'Brien's eye and broke his skin. Even dizzy, half blind, and somewhat delirious, O'Brien could sense the satisfaction his captor derived from this exercise. O'Brien's restraints were unbuckled. He didn't move.
"Stand."
With tremendous effort, O'Brien rose, weighting only his right leg before he collapsed, unable to balance. The Cardassian guffawed and kicked him before lifting his ruined body and draping it over a scaly shoulder.
Barreling through his pain came a hot sense of hatred and humiliation. To be tortured senselessly was a terrible thing. To be tortured then forced to rely on his own torturer for crude transportation was an appalling indignity, less painful but more enraging than the physical suffering.
At least the field was nearby and within minutes O'Brien's torturer had reached the crowd. The cardassian dropped O'Brien as one might deposit a sack of flour or a bale of hay. In an inelegant effort to preserve his broken leg, O'Brien fell rather hard on his back and struggled to inhale. He heard voices coming toward him and wondered momentarily why he couldn't see anyone before realizing that he'd closed his eyes.