A/N: Part two of how it all started. From here, things will take on a life of their own and I doubt there will be any discernable timeline. That should be fun, right?

Warning: References to physical and psychological torture.

Recruitment (2)

Nar Shaddaa
Classified SIS Training Facility

Water splashed across Fynta's face, startling her awake. Her shoulder ached insistently, but she bit back the groan that would have broken her silence. Giving an experimental tug, Fynta found that her hands were still secured behind her back. She blinked up into the bright light above her when someone ripped the bag off her head.

The fist caught Fynta off guard, her vision doubled as the chair she was sitting in rocked on two legs. "Come now," the smooth, Imperial voice crooned. "We've been at this for days. All I asked for was your age."

Fynta's ears rang from the sudden shift from complete silence to this shabuir's chatter, but he'd given her a timeline. The man who brought Fynta and her comrades here loomed over her, he was still wearing that damn red jacket too. He'd caught her looking at it a few times, and asked sarcastically if she wanted one. At that particular point, the temperature in the room must have been negative numbers. Right now, however, it was blazing.

Fynta glared through her left eye, the right was swollen shut, and the man shrugged. "Very well. I'll return in a few hours." The bag slipped back over her head, wreathing Fynta in darkness just as her eye adjusted to the light. His footsteps began to fade, and the screech of a metal door sliding along rusted tracks pierced her ears.

"It's been quiet lately," the man said softly. "How about a little noise to keep things interesting."

Shabbing hut'uun, Fynta snarled inwardly as the alarms began to blare from everywhere at once. She hung her head in an attempt to shield her ears, wiggling her wrists in their bonds. What the hell could Imperials possibly hope gain from a commando recruit? She hadn't even seen field action. Could this have something to do with Verin; had he pissed off a client?

The theories swirled through Fynta's mind, each one more ludicrous than the last. Granted, Fynta's mind could be playing tricks on her. She hadn't eaten in . . . Fierfek. Days, according to the man in the red jacket.

The sirens wailed, and Fynta forced herself to concentrate despite the pounding in her head. We've been at this for days. She grasped onto those few words like a lifeline. Days. The word echoed again, meaning the time had come to get serious about getting the hell out of this place.

The temperature dropped suddenly, and Fynta shivered. Shab. Her cognitive abilities always shut down in cooler temperatures, as if her brain was seizing up.

Think, Fynta. It wasn't much, but knowing how long she'd been captive grounded her in some sort of reality other than pain and stimuli. Now that she could focus, rage squeezed Fynta's chest as the memories of her comrades slammed into the forefront of her mind, flooding her system with adrenaline, and an acute awareness of her surroundings.

Camtre and Mo were dead. Fynta's inquisitor had taken her on a field trip ninety-two hours after her capture. He'd hefted her bodily, and tossed her into a room that reeked of decay. Then removed the hood to show Fynta the battered and bloated bodies of her fellow soldiers. "They didn't measure up," the man had mocked. Then, he left her there for another sixteen hours.

Taking a steadying breath, Fynta vowed revenge. Camtre was an idiot, but he didn't deserve that; and Mo had been a friend. Pull it together, her inner voice growled. She would drive herself insane trying to consider all the angles. That wasn't her strong suit. Escape should be her main concern.

The extreme changes in temperature, the variation between silence and chaotic noise, the constant darkness pierced brutally by unexpected brightness; it was all getting to Fynta. Adding on top, the lack of sleep and refresher breaks, and she was nearing her limit. The pain no longer registered, which would have been a relief, had Fynta not known it was a sign of her body shutting down.

For the longest time, Fynta had clung to her internal clock, monitoring the hours. Then, she'd fallen asleep and that string of sanity was severed. Now, she had it back, and was more motivated than ever to escape this shabbing dump.

Fynta's wrist slipped, pulling her from the safety of her thoughts, and back into the deafening noise of her prison cell. It was getting cold again, and even though her fingers were numb, Fynta could feel the warmth running down her hand. She tested the bonds and her wrist slid a little further. She was bleeding. Heavily, if the trickle of fluid dripping off her index finger was any indication.

If it got as cold as last time, maybe her body would filter a sufficient amount of blood to her core, allowing Fynta's wrists and hands to constrict enough to slip free. Fynta pulled forcefully this time and felt more give. Not quite yet. But soon. She just needed to keep the blood flowing long enough to lubricate the restraints. Then, she'd find a weapon.

Observation Room

"Still nothing?" Dewu asked as Theron returned to the observation room. The senior agent had cleared everyone out once interrogation started. Now, it was just them and a couple of techs.

"Nope, she's being tight lipped about everything; why she singled you out, where she was born, even her kriffing name," Theron complained, massaging his knuckles. "I think she actually likes the pain."

Theron hated interrogation. He was much happier slicing into a computer to steal data, rather than beating it out of a prisoner. But Sen admitted that it had been awhile since he'd taken part in a proper interrogation, whereas, the bruises from Theron's last op were still fresh. Granted, those Imperials weren't as creative as the demented Chiss standing at Theron's side.

"If she's Mando, she could be a real candidate for what we need. They train young for this stuff." Dewu crossed his arms, and nodded his head. "Look at this."

Theron leaned closer to the screen. "That's an alarming amount of blood. Should we call it off?"

They'd put Fynta Wolfe through the works, and she'd responded with a bloody smile, even the occasional laugh. In fact, the only time Theron had seen any real emotion from the damn woman was when she retched all over his boots after throwing her in with those two cadavers. Of course, Camtre and Mo were safely back at the academy with a hell of a hangover, but Specialist Wolfe didn't known that. The SIS hosted some of the best plastic surgeons in the galaxy. Giving the corpses a believable makeover had been simple.

"No, not yet. Watch her elbows."

Theron stared at the seemingly still soldier. Sure enough, her arms were twitching. "She's making her move."

It wasn't a question. An hour earlier, Theron thought the woman had finally snapped. Yet, the image he was watching looked like a textbook escape plan.

The Chiss nodded, and began to rub his chin. "She could cut too deep, severing the nerves and making it impossible to hold a blaster."

"Or just bleed out," Theron commented.

Sen considered the screen a few minutes more before reaching out to tap the monitor that contains her vitals. Fynta Wolfe's heart was pounding, but it still remained even. "She's got a plan; let it play out. Alert her guard, though. I want to make sure she doesn't kill the man. He isn't to attempt restraining her, just let himself be overwhelmed."

"Going soft on the recruits, Big Blue?"

Dewu grinned, once again showing off the staggering contrast between his deep blue skin and white teeth. "That girl is running on pure adrenaline. I'm trying to ensure she doesn't kill any of our people."

Theron chuckled, "Sure you are."

Dewu smacked Theron on the back of the head. "Just do it. I'm going to set up a welcome party."

The bag over Fynta's head was the first thing to go. As soon as her hand slipped free of the bonds, Fynta ripped it off, and took the deepest breath she'd had in days. It wasn't perfect, but at least it didn't smell of stale saliva and sweat. Bag or no, the room was still pitch black, and the sirens continued to wail, but she was free. Well, free-ish. It was definitely a step in the right direction.

Bolstered by her newfound mobility, Fynta dropped to the floor and crawled in the direction she'd heard the jacketed man retreat so many times. It took some groping around, but she finally found the edge of the door. To her surprise, it wasn't controlled by some fancy biometric lock, but a simple handle. It wasn't even locked.

The door creaked open noisily and as expected, a rifle stock shot over her head. She'd purposefully stayed in a crouch to avoid just such an eventuality. The guard gave a startled gasp as his momentum carried him forward and Fynta helped him the rest of the way by slamming her elbow into his back. The man landed on his knees with a grunt, and Fynta snatched the first weapon she could get her hands on before darting into the hallway and slamming the door behind her. She flipped the bolt out of spite, locking the room.

Shutting her eyes to the painful brightness outside, Fynta listened. No running footsteps; no shouts of alarm. Either she was surrounded by silent soldiers, or her escape was off to a successful start. Fynta focused on the latter option, and began blindly groping her way down the hall, holding her stolen weapon in a tight fist, while listening to her surroundings. It was difficult, the ringing in her ears was at odds with the silence in the hallway.

Slowly, the light filtering through her eyelids began to burn less, and Fynta risked peeking her left eye open. It was blurry, but she could see the clean, white hallway and the knife in her blood soaked hand. Shab. Fynta hadn't realized she was bleeding so badly.

After a quick glance down the hall to ensure she was still alone, Fynta used the blade to cut a strip from her already shredded shirt. Grumbling at the mess her captor had made of it. Holding the knife between her teeth, she wrapped her wrists tightly, wincing as sensation crept back into her lower arms and hands. Flexing her fingers, Fynta grabbed the blade again, and began working her way through the compound.

"She's two floors up-ouch," Theron chuckled. He'd patched into the security cameras to watch the woman leave a trail of destruction through the upper floors. Sen Dewu had ordered a strategic retreat of all personnel, and Specialist Wolfe seemed to be taking the drawdown personally.

"She hasn't permanently hurt anyone, has she?" Dewu asked as the two agents traversed the floors parallel to their target.

Theron smirked. "Not yet, but Ganner might benefit from hazard pay." The man was on his back with Wolfe sitting on his chest, her blade pressed to his throat. They glared at one another while she demanded to know where she was and who he worked for. Wolfe lost interest in questioning her unresponsive target when the lift doors opened. She knocked Ganner unconscious and darted inside the elevator.

"She's in."

Dewu smashed his fist against the lift call button and crossed his arms while they waited. Sure enough, Specialist Wolfe was heading for the surface, her trip being interrupted by a stop on their floor. The doors slid apart and Theron locked eyes with the woman. Her face contorted into a snarl and she lunged for him, blade ready. Theron fell back, surprised by the ferocity of her attack. Her blade scraped across one of the alloy implants his left eye, producing a spark.

Dewu was on her in an instant, landing on the woman's back, and pinning her to the floor with his weight. He grunted when she elbowed him in the ribs before managing to pin her wrists. The Chiss chuckled and turned to check on Theron. "She didn't damage your pretty face, did she?"

Theron grumbled as he scrambled to his feet to aid in restraining the recruit. This time, they each grabbed a wrist and lifted Fynta into a sitting position. The woman snarled and struggled, but her blood loss and fatigue were beginning to show. "She has spirit," Theron admitted, losing his Imperial accent. "Or she's completely insane. But, she's clever."

Fynta Wolfe eyed them, her struggling stopped, as the woman attempted to interpret the meaning behind their words. "SIS," she hissed. The name was a curse everywhere in the galaxy, including the Republic.

Dewu nodded, sitting back on his heels and releasing Wolfe's arm. Turning his head towards Theron without taking his eyes off the woman, he smiled. "I think you're correct. Let's clean her up and have a doctor look at her." The Chiss stood and dusted his pants off, refusing to look Theron in the eye as his smile grew. "You're responsible for her training, Shan."

Theron grumbled quietly as he twisted the recruit's wrist, wringing a pained growl from Fynta, until she finally dropped the blade. For all the venom in her voice, Wolfe didn't lash out with her free hand, though.

Sen paused at the lift, waiting patiently for the elevator to arrive. When he looked back, red eyes slid over the soldier still sitting on the floor, and he smirked. "I want her in my squad." The doors opened and Dewu disappeared inside.

Theron sighed and released the woman's arm, being sure to stand away from her. He was prepared for another attack even as he adopted a casual stance, arms crossed. Wolfe glared up at him, cradling her wrist. There was intrigue in those dark blue eyes and he wondered if Dewu might be right about her. I guess that means introductions are in order. "Hello, Specialist Wolfe. My name is Theron Shan. Welcome to Epoch."

Instead of the expected aggression, demands for her freedom, or even a disbelieving laugh, Fynta Wolfe surprised Theron yet again. The woman threw herself onto the floor, lying on her back to stare up at the ceiling. Only one word left her lips, more of a sigh than an expletive.

"Fierfek."

Mando'a:

Shabuir: [SHAH-boo-EER] extreme insult - jerk, but much stronger

hut'uun [hoo-TOON] coward (worst possible insult)

Fierfek [FIRE-fek] a Huttese slang word that meant "hex" or "curse," but was commonly accepted to mean "poison" by non-Huttese-speaking races. Later adopted as an expletive.

shab - excrement (used as a curse)

Other Languages:

Kriff or Kriffing: a vulgar expletive