Jim crept cautiously through the cargo of the Legacy. A pipe hissed behind him, and he jumped. He held his breath until his heart stopped pounding, then swore. Ever since his encounter with Scroop, he'd been jumpy. True, the arachnid hadn't paid him any special attention since. But every time Jim had to go into the larder for anything, he was reminded of the nightmarish events that had unfolded there. But he kept his cool. After a few days, he was able to stop looking over his shoulder all the time. He'd dealt with bullies before, and treated Scroop like he had them. He avoided him at all costs, and when it couldn't be helped, such as when he was supposed to be sleeping in his hammock, he was careful not to sleep with his back to the arachnid. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that the problem wasn't totally gone.

As he rifled through the contents of kitchen supply crates below deck, his mind wandered to that morning. Morph, sensing his bad mood, had tried to lighten him up. As the teenager had been chopping up vegetables, Morph had suddenly tugged at his ponytail. He'd brushed the blob away at first, but that hadn't deterred him. He'd tugged at the boy's bangs next.

"Morph," Jim muttered, pushing him away. "Not now. I'm busy." Morph wouldn't give up though. His next move had been a bit more mischievous. He'd slid under the counter top where Jim was working, and had tied the strings of his apron to drawers on either side of him. Jim was oblivious, of course, until he'd gone to drop the vegetables into the large caldron. He yelped as his apron had yanked down unexpectedly on his neck, tripping him. There was the thundering sound of the large caldron crashing to the galley floor, which had caused Silver to come into the kitchen, and Jim looked up from where he'd fallen, holding his head where it had smacked into the countertop.

"Jimbo...?" Silver said, looking at him for an explanation. Jim glanced at the spilled contents of the caldron, then at his apron hanging from the kitchen drawers, then at Silver.

"...ow." Silver's mechanical eye began to glow red.

"What the devil are you doin' in 'ere, boy?" Jim glared at him.

"Hey, it wasn't my fault, I-"

"I don' wan' ta hear it!" Silver bellowed, and Jim fell silent. Silver held his breath, and after a moment, his cybernetic eye returned to it's neutral yellow glow. "Sorry lad." Jim gave him a half-hearted smile and shrugged. "I'll give ye a hand." He'd helped Jim clean up the mess, and then had sent him below decks to get a different caldron, one that wouldn't tip over so easily.

He poked through the crates, gripping the crowbar he'd brought with him as he looked around. As he was passing one of the crates, a flash of copper caught his eye.

"Ah. Okay then." He picked the crate up, but it was too heavy. He put the crowbar down and turned back to the crate, and set it down on the floor. Something shifted behind him, and he turned to see that the crowbar had moved. He rolled his eyes, smiling. "Gotcha!" he said as he snatched it, expecting more of Morph's tricks. But it didn't turn to pink gel. It didn't giggle and pull his hair. It was the real crowbar. He felt a chill run down his spine as he swallowed nervously, his mouth going dry. With shaking hands, he went back to his task of freeing the caldron. He gripped the crowbar tightly, prying the wood open. The top splintered into several large pieces, which he pushed aside. He gripped the copper caldron, and was about to lift it out of the crate when he heard what sounded like wood shifting. He turned sharply, noting that one large piece was missing.

"I thought I made it clear," a deep voice hissed from behind him. "No misssstakes!" Jim yelped, turning towards the door, but a thick, strong claw grasped the collar of his shirt, lifting him off the ground and jerking him backward. He clenched his eyes shut as he was slammed against a wall. He heard his attacker hiss, felt his breath on his neck. He swallowed, and forced himself to open his eyes. Sure enough, he found himself looking at his reflection in the eerie golden eyes of Scroop. His mouth tightened into a firm line.

"What do you want now?" Jim snapped. Scroop leered at him, pulling him further away from the ground. Jim kicked half-heartedly, knowing that struggling was useless at that point.

"We've been working all day, ssslaving away in the sssun," he hissed menacingly. "And we climb down in hopesss of getting a decent meal, only to find that our uselesss cabin boy hasss ssscrewed up again."

"No I didn't," Jim said in his defense. "I just- AH!" Jim yelped as Scroop swung at him with a fractured piece of the crate, catching him across the arm. He hissed in pain, rubbing his arm against the wall to stop the sting. Scroop threw him to the floor and swung at him again, this time landing a blow to the side of his neck and face. Tears sprang into his eyes, and he jumped backward, crawling away from the armed spacer. His back brushed up against a door, and he stared, wide-eyed with fear as Scroop came near him. He reached down and grabbed Jim by the neck of his shirt, and dragged him into what was once a small control room. The Legacy was an old ship, one that had once been operated by maintained computers in several rooms all over the ship. After it had been renovated to operate through a different console, the control rooms had been altered into store rooms. It was in such a room that they were in now. Scroop thrust Jim up against the far wall, and the boy held his arms up in front of him to protect himself.

"N-noo!" he yelped. "P-please, stop!"

"Silence," Scroop snarled in a low voice. "What did I sssaay?"

"N-no more m-misstakes." Jim repeated in a shaky voice. "I'm sorry, it wasn't my fault, I-" Scroop swung the club at him again, effectively halting all arguments. Jim yelped, and tried to get out the door, but Scroop caught him about the waist and hauled him back, delivering a series of sharp blows. The wood cracked each time it came into contact with his body. He dodged to the left, to the right, tried to crawl under Scroop, but each time he was thrown back against the wall and beaten more severely. Just when Jim thought that it couldn't get any worse, Scroop grabbed his shirt and pulled it off over his head. Without the fabric there to soften the blows, the pain was intensified. Jim looked up at Scroop, begging him to stop, promising that he'd be more careful. He'd have promised anything if he'd thought it would help. But Scroop wasn't done yet. Jim covered his head and neck with his arms, curling into a ball. Scroop grabbed his cargo pants by the hem and pulled. Jim felt them rip at the waistline, then felt the sharpened pain as the wood came down on his legs and back. Suddenly, they stopped. Cautiously, Jim looked around, keeping his eyes on the floor. Scroop was still standing there.

"Maybe your earss will work better from now on," he snickered darkly. Jim tenderly touched one of the angry red marks on his arms, and winced. Scroop grabbed him by his ponytail and jerked him upward, looking him in the eyes. "That isss, unlesss you want another meeting like thisss one." Jim glared at Scroop, aware of the tears that were running down his cheeks. His chest shuddered as he started sobbing, and he shut his eyes tight as his body began trembling uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry..." he whimpered again. "I..."

"Hush." Scroop said softly, and the boy jolted as the spacer suddenly...hugged him. He froze momentarily, shocked, but then felt the arachnid's claws moving for his waistline. Jim's pulse skyrocketed and he suddenly jumped away and backed up into the wall. Scroop let something akin to a hiss slip from his lips, mimicking a laugh. Then, just as suddenly as he'd appeared, he was gone.

Jim had never been so terrified in his life. He was shaking so hard, it felt like his body was out of his control, jerking in spasms. Everything hurt. He was terrified, and in places where the wood had scraped his skin, he was bleeding. The cold air on his skin made everything seem surreal. Like a nightmare come to life. This was worse than the larder. Much, much worse.

He bowed his head and cried.

"Jimbo?" Silver asked softly. The boy slowly turned towards the cyborg cook.

"Yeah?"

"Boyo, why are ye wearin' tha' jacket?" he asked. Jim glanced at his black leather jacket and shrugged.

"Because I'm cold...?" he replied sarcastically. Silver studied him for a moment. Something just wasn't with the boy. He thought that Jim had gotten over Arrow's death, but as of late, he was slinking around as if he were hiding from everyone. Was it out of guilt? Was it because he had yelled at him for spoiling the stew a few days before, and wasting all that food? Or was something else going on? Then again, if he was basically becoming a living shadow again, what else could be going on? Jim sighed irritably, pulling Silver out of his thoughts. "Do you have to stand there watching me every second?" The boy snapped. Silver looked at him sternly.

"Eh, none o' tha' no'." he chided. "Twas only askin' an honest question." Jim rolled his eyes.

"Whatever." That word again. Silver walked away from the boy, dismissing the change of attitude. If he wanted to be difficult, better to let him get it out of his system than to crack down on him and make it worse.

As soon as Silver had left, Jim glanced over at the pile of clean dishes he was accumulating. Biting his lip, he picked up a small knife, one of the sharpest in the kitchen. He stared at his distorted reflection in the blade, having second thoughts. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. It had occurred to him sometime after he'd hauled himself out of the storage room and had limped back into his clothes that if Scroop was doing these things as a way of punishing him, there might be a way to make him stop that didn't involve telling anyone. Inflicting injuries on himself.

Cutting.

He'd thought about it for awhile now. The bruises were fading. They still hurt a bit, but the visual marks were disappearing. Then he could stop wearing his stupid jacket, and stop being roasted alive while he was scrubbing the decks. He'd have to be careful, but he had known a girl that had cut before. She'd always worn tank tops and short-shorts, but she'd cut in the one place that no one ever thought to check. On her stomach, right under her breasts. Back then, he'd considered starting. He had to work at getting his nerve up to cut his own flesh, and in the end, he'd chickened out. But out of everything that could happen, he did not want another beating from Scroop. They were horrible, and they left him smarting for days afterward. He felt so vulnerable now, whether Scroop was around or not. Later that night, Silver had gone below deck for something and had found the pieces of splintered wood. Thinking that Jim had been the one that had left them there, he'd ordered him to go back and clean it up. That had been torture. But once again, he'd done everything he could to keep it a secret. There was definitely no way he was telling Silver now.

What would he say? The first time, he might have been able to say that Scroop had snuck up on him in the larder, and that he'd had no way of knowing what Scroop was capable of. But now? Now he knew what Scroop wanted. He should have been protecting himself better. He should have known better. That's what Silver would probably say if he told him. And then the look of pity would come. The same look he'd given Jim when he'd commented on how his father had left.

No. He couldn't take that. He would rather take Scroop's beatings than Silver's pity. He didn't care what Scroop thought of him, but he did care about what Silver thought of him.

He swallowed the lump forming in his throat, and rolled up his shirt. Just under his chest was a large bruise that was turning scarlet. He pressed the blade against his skin, feeling the razor edge threatening him. He drew in a deep breath...and pulled suddenly.

Immediately, he gasped out in pain, and instinctively placed his hand over it, pressing hard. It stung, it burned, and the bruise was smarting now as well. When he opened his eyes again, he glanced down at his trembling hand and saw blood. Not a lot, it wasn't like he'd gutted himself, but there was still blood. He had a sudden memory of himself when he was still very young. He'd been playing outside their house, before they'd moved to the Benbow Inn, and he'd cut his knee open on a sharp rock. It had been a tiny cut, but at the time he'd cried like a baby. His father had come running out of the house, but when he saw what had happened, he'd been angry.

"You stop that!" He'd scolded fiercely. "Stop that now! That's nothing to cry about! Keep it up and I'll give you something to cry about!" His tone, of course, had scared him even more, and he hadn't been able to stop crying, so his dad had given him a spanking with his belt right then and there.

"Thomas!" His mother had screamed. "Tom, leave him alone!" She ran out to them and pulled a very tearful Jim away from her husband. "He's only a little boy!"

"No son of mine is going to cry like that, Sarah." Tom had replied. Jim had bitten down on is lips to keep himself from crying, but now it was harder, and therefore impossible. Sarah had taken him inside and kissed his knee and put a band-aid on it, and had tried to calm him down, but all Jim could think of was what his father had said. No son of mine is going to cry like that. It felt like he was saying Jim wasn't his son.

Jim jumped when he realized tears were forming in his eyes again. He growled angrily and brushed them away. A new fear leapt at him, seemingly from nowhere. What if Silver was like his dad? Scroop was only leaving bruises, not doing any permanent damage. If Silver found out...what if he...? Jim shoved the thought away, and wiped away the blood coming from the cut.

Something was different now. It was as if part of the fear he'd felt had diminished. He remembered that girl telling him about that, too. About how good it felt to have some authority of who hurt her, about how much she bled, about how the pain felt. She did it for control. But he would do it to protect himself. He lined the knife up next to his skin again, pressing it tight once more. His hands weren't shaking anymore. They were steady. Calm. His anxiety was less now than it had been in weeks. In fact, he felt almost normal. A small, mirthless smile formed on his lips as he envisioned what his dad would say if he could see him now. He wasn't crying.

He pulled the knife again.

a/n: pls review