Please forgive me
Rachel was dragged swiftly back to the officer's favourite room, all the way half-stumbling behind him, being pulled along by her hair, that the officer held in an iron grip. If she hadn't been so weary, she would have thought it terribly insulting - and have fought to broke free.
He didn't even slow down when she stumbled, didn't yank her back to her feet, just kept walking, and she had to get up herself as best as she could or be dragged limply behind him.
By the time they reached the room she was already dizzy from the effort of keeping on her feet - and the lack of food and water. The officer threw her into a chair, and promptly handed her a cup of hot tea.
She stared at the cup, disbelieving, and then looked suspiciously up at the officer.
"Drink it," he ordered. "You're too thirsty to afford suspiciousness. Too dehydrated, too. Don't want you dying at me."
That settled it. She used the last of her failing energy and hurled the cup at his face. It hit his goal, and the steaming tea made him pull back, startled, gasping from the heat, but as soon as the first shock had settled he calmed himself. He straightened up, slowly wiped the still-hot tea from his face, shook it away from his hands, and - keeping his malevolent eyes fixed at Rachel - called for his guards.
Rachel sat glaring at him with defiance flaming in her eyes. But the next thing she knew, she was bound to the chair, her head pulled back so far that her spine felt it would snap, and fingers tightly pressed around her nose, eventually forcing her to open her mouth to breath.
Fingers grabbed her jaw and held it open, at the same time letting go of her nose.
The officer stood nearby, calmly stirring another cup of steaming tea.
"My sweet," he said. "There is one thing you need to learn: in this place, I get my way. If I want you to drink some tea, that's what you're going to do." He turned towards her. "Even if I have to pour it down your throat myself."
He filled a cup and without another word poured the steaming liquid down at her mouth. His aim wasn't the best, though, and half of the tea ran out over her face, while the other half wet into her mouth, down her throat - and straight into her lungs.
She reeled back, trying to break free from the chair, barely keeping the panic under control as the near-boiling tea filled her lungs and made it impossible to breath. The officer and the guards watched indifferently as she coughed and spluttered, desperate to get the liquid out again. The officer was sitting on the edge of his desk, stirring another cup of tea thoughtfully, ignoring her rasping attempts to breath.
When she had - after what seemed like forever - managed to calm down, and regain control over her breathing, he smiled down at her. "More tea, my sweet?"
Rachel hadn't caught her breath enough to talk yet.
"No? Are you sure?"
The process was repeated twice, until he gave her a chance to speak again.
"Any more?" he asked. "Or will that be all?"
Rachel was too proud to beg him to stop, although her throat and lungs were screaming. "I'm not really thirsty," she gasped instead, still trying to get the last of the half-boiling tea out of her lungs.
The officer smiled. "That's good to know. Guards? You heard that, didn't you? She won't be requiring any water this evening. She's not really thirsty."
Rachel didn't care. She glanced at the officer, who sipped his tea as he looked back at her with an amused expression.
"You know," he said. "I made a bet with a few friends. I said I could break you down in less than a week. It hasn't been a week, but you're already beginning to crumple."
That was too much. She glared up at him, clenching her hands. "I'm not beaten yet!"
"Are you thirsty?" he asked, in an almost friendly tone.
"That depends. Are you going to pour it down my throat or can I drink it myself?"
"That depends, too. Are you going to answer my question or make stupid comments?"
She tried to evaluate the question, tried to figure out what to say, but one glance at the teapot convinced her otherwise. She was too thirsty - too dehydrated - to afford being suspicious. As the officer had said. "I'm thirsty."
"Good for you. Free her hands, give her something to drink."
The guards did as they were told, handing Rachel a reasonably large porcelain cup of water. Afraid that they would snatch it away, she drank it two giant gulps, and sank down in her chair. She held out the cup for more, but her luck was at its end.
"Not this time," the officer said. "If you want more water, you'll have to earn it, my sweet."
She hurled the cup at his face, but his hand flew up and he caught it easily. He slowly rose to his feet.
"I'm not your sweet," she spat, but part of her wanted to pull back when the officer took a step closer, the cup thrown down, shattering when it hit the floor.
"I chose what to call you," he replied.
Rachel, free from her restraints and realising that there was nothing holding her to the chair, stood up. She was tall, as she was well aware of, and standing up to meet his gaze improved her confidence. "Not if you know your own good."
Rachel might have been tall, and perhaps if she had been in better condition she would have been quick enough to duck and avoided being hit, but she had probably never been in a worse condition in her life. As it was, the officer's hand struck her so hard that she stumbled back into the chair. He didn't slow down to grab the chair, with her still in it, and throw it to the side, making her tumble out of it and into the wall.
She pulled together and tried to morph by instinct. Unfortunately, the anti-morph ray in the room stopped her easily, and she felt fingers close around her still-human arm and haul her up.
The officer shook her roughly and then threw her down to the floor again.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?!!!" he roared.
Rachel pulled together and crawled in under his desk, all the while searching for something - anything - that could be a weapon. The officer grabbed her foot and yanked her out.
Her palm was cut on something, and without a second thought she closed her hand around it.
It was probably a piece of porcelain from the shattered cup.
But it had a sharp edge. And that was all Rachel needed to know.
When the officer lifted her up to eyelevel she struck with her pathetic little weapon. It caused a deep slash right across his face, and he screamed out in surprise and pain and fury as she slashed again, this time aiming for his throat.
But he caught her wrist in a steel grip and forced the piece of porcelain out of her hand. Then he threw her down to the floor and kicked straight at her head with all the force in his leg.
When she woke up, she was back in her cell, again hanging by her swelling wrists in the chains from the ceiling. The guards were in the room, sitting in chairs, watching her attentively.
"That wasn't a very smart thing to do," one of them said. "Cutting his face open like that."
"I never claimed to be smart," Rachel replied.
He stretched out with the stick he was holding to jab her in the ribs. "People who are smart survive longer in this place."
"Then they're not smart, they're stupid. Who wants to be alive here?"
He laughed at her, and she found her face split by a smile - that made the bruises on her face start throbbing with pain. She was mostly surprised when the stick slammed into her side, all air beaten out of her lungs.
"You don't talk to us," the guard spat. But then shrugged. "I suppose, though, it doesn't matter. In another few days you'll be a hapless heap of skin and bones, following the officer around like a puppy - like the rest of them."
That caught Rachel's attention. "There are others?"
The stick struck her side. "You've been told not to talk to us!"
Rachel silenced, trying to ignore the pain in her wrists and head - and all over her body - and refusing to wonder how long she would have to hang there before she was taken down again. Considering what she had done, her hopes were not that high.
But as she remembered the look on the officer's face when she had cut him with that piece of porcelain she was filled with a grim satisfaction - and smiled, despite everything.
So the officer could bleed, despite all, the insensitive bastard. And since he could bleed, she'd make sure he did.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Author's Note;
More the next time. Although you could have figured that out yourself.
Rachel was dragged swiftly back to the officer's favourite room, all the way half-stumbling behind him, being pulled along by her hair, that the officer held in an iron grip. If she hadn't been so weary, she would have thought it terribly insulting - and have fought to broke free.
He didn't even slow down when she stumbled, didn't yank her back to her feet, just kept walking, and she had to get up herself as best as she could or be dragged limply behind him.
By the time they reached the room she was already dizzy from the effort of keeping on her feet - and the lack of food and water. The officer threw her into a chair, and promptly handed her a cup of hot tea.
She stared at the cup, disbelieving, and then looked suspiciously up at the officer.
"Drink it," he ordered. "You're too thirsty to afford suspiciousness. Too dehydrated, too. Don't want you dying at me."
That settled it. She used the last of her failing energy and hurled the cup at his face. It hit his goal, and the steaming tea made him pull back, startled, gasping from the heat, but as soon as the first shock had settled he calmed himself. He straightened up, slowly wiped the still-hot tea from his face, shook it away from his hands, and - keeping his malevolent eyes fixed at Rachel - called for his guards.
Rachel sat glaring at him with defiance flaming in her eyes. But the next thing she knew, she was bound to the chair, her head pulled back so far that her spine felt it would snap, and fingers tightly pressed around her nose, eventually forcing her to open her mouth to breath.
Fingers grabbed her jaw and held it open, at the same time letting go of her nose.
The officer stood nearby, calmly stirring another cup of steaming tea.
"My sweet," he said. "There is one thing you need to learn: in this place, I get my way. If I want you to drink some tea, that's what you're going to do." He turned towards her. "Even if I have to pour it down your throat myself."
He filled a cup and without another word poured the steaming liquid down at her mouth. His aim wasn't the best, though, and half of the tea ran out over her face, while the other half wet into her mouth, down her throat - and straight into her lungs.
She reeled back, trying to break free from the chair, barely keeping the panic under control as the near-boiling tea filled her lungs and made it impossible to breath. The officer and the guards watched indifferently as she coughed and spluttered, desperate to get the liquid out again. The officer was sitting on the edge of his desk, stirring another cup of tea thoughtfully, ignoring her rasping attempts to breath.
When she had - after what seemed like forever - managed to calm down, and regain control over her breathing, he smiled down at her. "More tea, my sweet?"
Rachel hadn't caught her breath enough to talk yet.
"No? Are you sure?"
The process was repeated twice, until he gave her a chance to speak again.
"Any more?" he asked. "Or will that be all?"
Rachel was too proud to beg him to stop, although her throat and lungs were screaming. "I'm not really thirsty," she gasped instead, still trying to get the last of the half-boiling tea out of her lungs.
The officer smiled. "That's good to know. Guards? You heard that, didn't you? She won't be requiring any water this evening. She's not really thirsty."
Rachel didn't care. She glanced at the officer, who sipped his tea as he looked back at her with an amused expression.
"You know," he said. "I made a bet with a few friends. I said I could break you down in less than a week. It hasn't been a week, but you're already beginning to crumple."
That was too much. She glared up at him, clenching her hands. "I'm not beaten yet!"
"Are you thirsty?" he asked, in an almost friendly tone.
"That depends. Are you going to pour it down my throat or can I drink it myself?"
"That depends, too. Are you going to answer my question or make stupid comments?"
She tried to evaluate the question, tried to figure out what to say, but one glance at the teapot convinced her otherwise. She was too thirsty - too dehydrated - to afford being suspicious. As the officer had said. "I'm thirsty."
"Good for you. Free her hands, give her something to drink."
The guards did as they were told, handing Rachel a reasonably large porcelain cup of water. Afraid that they would snatch it away, she drank it two giant gulps, and sank down in her chair. She held out the cup for more, but her luck was at its end.
"Not this time," the officer said. "If you want more water, you'll have to earn it, my sweet."
She hurled the cup at his face, but his hand flew up and he caught it easily. He slowly rose to his feet.
"I'm not your sweet," she spat, but part of her wanted to pull back when the officer took a step closer, the cup thrown down, shattering when it hit the floor.
"I chose what to call you," he replied.
Rachel, free from her restraints and realising that there was nothing holding her to the chair, stood up. She was tall, as she was well aware of, and standing up to meet his gaze improved her confidence. "Not if you know your own good."
Rachel might have been tall, and perhaps if she had been in better condition she would have been quick enough to duck and avoided being hit, but she had probably never been in a worse condition in her life. As it was, the officer's hand struck her so hard that she stumbled back into the chair. He didn't slow down to grab the chair, with her still in it, and throw it to the side, making her tumble out of it and into the wall.
She pulled together and tried to morph by instinct. Unfortunately, the anti-morph ray in the room stopped her easily, and she felt fingers close around her still-human arm and haul her up.
The officer shook her roughly and then threw her down to the floor again.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?!!!" he roared.
Rachel pulled together and crawled in under his desk, all the while searching for something - anything - that could be a weapon. The officer grabbed her foot and yanked her out.
Her palm was cut on something, and without a second thought she closed her hand around it.
It was probably a piece of porcelain from the shattered cup.
But it had a sharp edge. And that was all Rachel needed to know.
When the officer lifted her up to eyelevel she struck with her pathetic little weapon. It caused a deep slash right across his face, and he screamed out in surprise and pain and fury as she slashed again, this time aiming for his throat.
But he caught her wrist in a steel grip and forced the piece of porcelain out of her hand. Then he threw her down to the floor and kicked straight at her head with all the force in his leg.
When she woke up, she was back in her cell, again hanging by her swelling wrists in the chains from the ceiling. The guards were in the room, sitting in chairs, watching her attentively.
"That wasn't a very smart thing to do," one of them said. "Cutting his face open like that."
"I never claimed to be smart," Rachel replied.
He stretched out with the stick he was holding to jab her in the ribs. "People who are smart survive longer in this place."
"Then they're not smart, they're stupid. Who wants to be alive here?"
He laughed at her, and she found her face split by a smile - that made the bruises on her face start throbbing with pain. She was mostly surprised when the stick slammed into her side, all air beaten out of her lungs.
"You don't talk to us," the guard spat. But then shrugged. "I suppose, though, it doesn't matter. In another few days you'll be a hapless heap of skin and bones, following the officer around like a puppy - like the rest of them."
That caught Rachel's attention. "There are others?"
The stick struck her side. "You've been told not to talk to us!"
Rachel silenced, trying to ignore the pain in her wrists and head - and all over her body - and refusing to wonder how long she would have to hang there before she was taken down again. Considering what she had done, her hopes were not that high.
But as she remembered the look on the officer's face when she had cut him with that piece of porcelain she was filled with a grim satisfaction - and smiled, despite everything.
So the officer could bleed, despite all, the insensitive bastard. And since he could bleed, she'd make sure he did.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Author's Note;
More the next time. Although you could have figured that out yourself.