He remembered well the pain he had gone through, the things they had done to him. He remembered being so very amused at first when they tried to torture him with heat, going to temperatures considered just a little hot for his homeworld. But then they made it cold, and the cold bit at his flesh hard, so hard he thought his skin may rupture of its own accord, and the blood would drain right out of him and freeze on the ground next to his still body.
He remembered the bite of metal as well; the heavy clasps around his limbs and his body, pinning him to a table as they took small tools and poked and cut. He would always try his damnedest to not roar, to not give them the satisfactory knowledge that his voice betrayed, that they were in fact hurting him, but always they had seemed to find a way, found just the right spot to cut and twist. He remembered the torture they had put him through when they found the sensitivity of his neck, remembered their tiny knives making small incisions that burn more than any cold hell, each little cut bringing a pain he would not wish on any, not even the Hish.
But perhaps most vividly he remembered the day they cut him open, splayed his ribs and exposed his organs. He remembered looking down at himself, opened up like a gomi'uk had burst from his chest and already slithered away. He knew then that this had to be a new kind of hell. He was being punished by B'jai-pe-j'pi for failing on his path. The pain had been so great that he felt the plea for mercy knot in his throat, waiting to burst forth and bring him dishonor. He choked on it as best he could, he would not give them the satisfaction, he would not sink so low, he would endure, he would prevail, he would win.
They closed him up after that, and they moved on to putting liquids into his body and making him breathe in disgusting air. They could not break him, though, he still fought, still roared, there was nothing they could do to him that would wear him down. He was certain there was nothing worse they could do to him.
Then he remembered waking from pitch blackness and the realization that he had been dead. He felt the cold in his muscles as he realized that he had been that close to a dishonorable death and an eternity in cho't. After his panic he realized that a human was touching him, gently with its fingers and whispering. It was crying. The smell of it was familiar but only through association. Its smell would be on the other humans that tortured him, something he did not think was important. He had conquered them again, they had tried and failed to break him and he had come out of death with his pride in tact. He was then for certain there was nothing worse they could do to him.
Until that day.
That day he lost his honor as a warrior. That day that fear truly one its battle against his strength of will. That day when the little female murdered her fellow humans and a sei'ute'praey with her tiny knife. That day that she freed him. That day that she led him to his ship and stayed behind to keep the other humans from capturing him again. That day he was sure that newly blooded human sain'ja met an honorable death rescuing him from the greatest dishonor a yautja could bear.
But she didn't die. She was here still, in the same facility that they now had him trapped, again. His cell was smaller this time, but made of the same glass that was a part of his previous prison. He could see out of it, unlike the other human surfaces or similar texture. He could see as the other humans walked back and forth and worked on their computers whose information he could not see. He noted the one human against the wall with the weapon. He would be the first to go down, and deep within he knew he would take joy in it for the pain it caused to the human sain'ja. The others were unarmed as far as he could tell without his mask, but their bodies also suggested they were not fighters. He would probably kill them anyway.
His muscles were begging him to move but he did not, and he kept his eyes closed.
He had already tested the strength of his small prison and found it sound, any time he tried to test beyond that they would send disgusting air to send him into the blackness of sleep. This is where he found himself now, awake in a heap on the floor of his prison, but he had entered eska to keep his heart slow and his breathing deep. His focus was the heat of the tattoo on his arm; the coiling sei'ute'praey that he had gotten in honor of that human. He owed her a debt that could not easily be repaid, perhaps never, but he was going to try.
He heard the door open and remained still. He heard the humans speak, unintelligible behind the glass, not that he could understand them anyway. There was loud slamming noise against the glass but he still did not flinch and waited. Around him, the entire Cell descended into the ground, he could hear it hissing and the sounds from the outside became clearer. Someone approached, their heavy footwear hitting the ground. The armed human. The steps stopped at his side. He could taste the human's stink in his mouth. His body was nudged.
His eyes snapped open and he rolled to the side, towards the human, moving out of the cell's range before they could cause it to rise again. The human tripped over his body as it plowed into his legs and his hand snatched the human's ankle. He heard screaming as he roared, mandibles spreading. He stood and lifted the human's foot over his head in the same fluid movement. His arm came down, flinging the human through the air and smashing his body as hard as he could into the ground. Heat sprayed all over the floor.
Jitar's eyes burned as he lifted them to the group ahead of him. In an instant his mind processed the battlefield. Three extra humans. Two warriors, one unarmed. More guns. He began moving immediately, knowing that they would not hesitate to start firing. They had only brought in two other gunmen, likely thinking that he was subdued and would not fight. Foolish. A wise warrior knew to treat a dangerous creature as dangerous whether it was asleep or not, but he had counted on their folly.
He could hear the sounds of the darts smash against the walls as he circled, grabbing and using one of the unarmed humans and shoving them towards the humans. The shooting stopped for the precious moment he needed, closing the distance and grabbing both of the guns in his hands, pointing the dangerous ends away from him to either side. His grip tightened and the weapons broke like toys.
"Death to everybody!" he roared, the human language strange in his throat but the words had the meaning he wanted he was sure. He could smell the fear on the humans as they dropped the remains of their weapons to grab their knives. He had one by the head and ignored as their blade stabbed deep into his hand. He used the human as a weapon to smack and beat the other human, relishing in the dual pain he was causing them, a grin spreading his upper mandibles. With the warriors gone, the others would be easy to dispose of.
A crack resounded from his back. He knew the pain of a broken bone well, a cracked vertebra in his spine. It brought him to his knees instantly but he did not stay there, whirling with his bloody claws brandished to tear into his attack with his bare hands. His wrist was caught in an iron grip, and the hand didn't even struggle to hold his strength. His mandibles spread in a roar of outrage.
It faded to a rattle of confusion. The warrior was one of the unarmed humans that had entered through the door. By its voice it was an old human. How was this possible?
The human painfully twisted his arm and he could almost hear his tendons tightening to the point of snapping, feeling his elbow try to adjust to the angle. He was brought down to one knee again and the human struck his fist against his head.
Jitar hit the floor his vision swimming and his distorted thoughts trying to reason out what was happening. Had he been drugged again? Had his muscles lost their strength to some poison they had given him?
He felt a stab go into his shoulder and looked up in a daze to see a bunch of the poison darts sticking out of his skin. The human had taken the ammunition from the guns and stabbed them all into him at once.
He heard the human give an order, "bring the gurney, he won't be giving us any more trouble."
Jitar fought against the unnatural darkness encroaching his vision. Rebelled against the numbness of his mind. He pressed his hand flat to the ground and rolled to his knees, pushing himself up. He had to focus on one thing at a time, moving, then breathing, then staying awake. He heard the wheels of the moving table before it even came to the door. He managed one foot up on the ground, aware that his mandibles were hanging open, unable to close them. He panted, drooling, and looked through his blurred vision for the human that brought him down.
He felt hands on him and struggled but it was as if he had just been dropped from his dam's womb. Directions became disoriented as he was pushed and pulled and it took him a moment to realize that he was lying down again, looking at the ceiling, the bit of metal against his limbs and his stomach.
The strong human came up to stand next to him, but it was impossible to turn to see as his head was secured.
"You should learn to just accept this," the human said, "you're going to be going through it quite a lot."
He tapped the metal with his hand and Jitar closed his eyes against the painful noise. He tried to find his voice but all that came out was garbled breath. He forced his eyes open again but it was difficult to keep them so. He couldn't even mentally prepare himself for what they were going to do to him. Cut him open again? Poison him again? Or did they have something new and different in mind?
He huffed and found some strength to tighten his fists, working his arms against the straps but he was failing fast. Even the sound of the wheels sounded distant. Perhaps it was better to let the unnatural sleep take him. Then he would not be awake for their torture. Yes. That was a good plan. The heaviness in his head filtered down through his body, his hands unclenched and he breathed slowly. His eyes slid closed. He let himself slip.
Then a nightmarish screech pierced through the darkness, he forced his eyes open as panic stabbed at the impending sleep. The familiar shrill scream sent the coldest blades to his bones and he struggled again. His voice found enough strength to break through, a sad and pitiful cry that any warrior would be ashamed to have heard. Just as it had been in that room many seasons ago, again he lost all hope and fear, that dark disgusting shame, stilled his heart.
He knew well now the fate they had in store for him. He knew well the cry of a baiun. And as he slipped away into the drug-induced sleep, heatless forms with thin clawed hands pulled and dragged his body down into his nightmares.