Initiation. It was the only word they'd spoken as they carried him away that Jiao-long could say he honestly didn't understand. But if this was its meaning, then it was synonymous with one other word he knew:

Hell.

Jiao-long's ears were bleeding. He could tell not only from the feel of warmth dripping from the side of his face, but the numbness inside and all over the appendages, the stinging, pulsing pain in his head, and the particular tone of ringing. It had happened twice before, both times in the desert, heat and dehydration ripping through his small body as he dodged between the miniature sandstorms the desert devils kicked up every time they moved. He knew this, just as he knew his right wrist was broken, the bone sticking through and tearing his skin with every minute movement he attempted to cease. His lower ribs were badly bruised, if not already cracked, every short, quick gasp resulting in sharp pain shooting through his gut, into his chest, his back, his shoulders. His left foot was crushed, more a memory of the way the sharp boot-heel that had slammed into it than an actual feeling of pain. The same man - or so he guessed - had also artfully dislocated the last two fingers of his left hand, leaving his nerves buzzing with a dull ache that spiked in frequency into a sharp jolt though his whole hand and arm as it spasmed sporadically. As well, he had crushed Jiao-long's nose into his face, making the already struggling breaths even worse, as he hated the taste of his own blood. And the larger artery in his leg, which had been more of a threat than anything, was only kept from bleeding out by the serrated knife that someone had stuck deep into it, at the perfect angle to keep it there while Jiao-long struggled. At least, for as long as he'd been able to struggle.

And slowly, one man behind him to bind his arms, one to hold his head, one at his feet, they spread him out between them, sent those warming pulses of electricity through each wound - after setting them, of course - and then lay him back down, tightened his blindfold, and stood back to do it all over again.

"Say it again," they prompted, someone spitting to the side before toeing him almost eagerly. "In Midgarian this time." If they hadn't emphasised enough that his dirty self, his dirty eyes, his dirty skin and dirty tongue were most of the reason they were being so hard on him, that was the knife in the gut. No - the real slice of metal had been.

Jiao-long found himself wanting to wretch, imagining this group of men. At least, he guessed they were men. Their two spokespeople, one of them the very man who had pretended to take care of him, had voices easily identifiable as male. He imagined them staring down at him with lustful hunger in their eyes, their sin so much like those whom Jiao-long had frequently been forced to kill. They wanted him for his body - but not to rape, not to obtain that baser sexual need from his small limbs. No, they wanted to break him, wanted to feel him angry and trembling at their feet. The sheer satisfaction he could feel in every kick, every small movement, the sound of feral need dripping from their voices as they threatened him. The small things, turning to big things, branching and twisting and boiling into a frenzied attack that charged the air like electricity. These men were predators, and Jiao-long knew without so much as a thought that he was exactly the same.

Quirking his lips into a defiant smirk, which made the air go still and cold as the men must have found in them a sense of derision for the expression, Jiao-long turned his face toward the voice that had spoken to him, and hesitated for timing. It was a game, all an elaborate performance that they each played a role in. The victim, the killer, the rapist, the devil in disguise, the reaper, the nutcase...Jiao-long ticked them off in his mind, as he'd seen them. And where was their bold leader? The one with the tired eyes.

"Call me by my name, you fuckers!" Jiao-long spat, earning a swift kick to his side, as he rolled away from the predicted trajectory and received the brunt of the movement to his muscles. Bruises didn't heal as well when they fixed him up...that one was going to hurt. A sound from the direction he knew the devil was, his sometime saviour, and Jiao-long ticked off the placements of everyone else. They should know better than to let his bonds loose, but they liked the game too much.

"I'm gettin' sick 'a hearin' 'is voice," the man drawled, and Jiao-long made a point of staying relaxed as he heard him move closer, the leaves crunching under his boots as he took up a position kneeling by Jiao-long's side. He looked up toward the man, offering him not even so much as a smirk. He didn't deserve it. Suddenly, the air around him flared up in intensity, a heat that was truly tangible, and Jiao-long rose in an instant, the men around him tackling him to the ground before he could begin to move and holding down his squirming body at all of his limbs. A sharp heat seared against the flesh of his exposed arm, and startled Jaio-long screamed, throwing his body against the hands that bound him. It burned into his skin, the nerves of the entire left side of his body screaming in agony as Jiao-long bit his cheek and shut the hell up. And just as suddenly it was replaced by a deep and stinging cold, colder than anything Jiao-long had ever felt. An iciness that bit into his skin and seemed to rip through it more viciously than even the fire had. Though each sensation only persisted for a moment, by the time Evander withdrew Jiao-long's entire body was spasming weakly, his mind refusing to communicate his muscles to move. His arm had been seared and cauterised, and then frostbitten into an ugly black mass that felt like a sloshing, dead weight as it shivered feebly with the tremors racking his body. Curling slightly into himself, Jiao-long squeezed his eyes shut, and felt every ounce of energy in his body relieve itself as he spewed upon the ground. The men stood back, and were silent.

"You do not speak unless spoken to." It was the first thing he'd heard in what felt like hours, the cold and helpless fear having settled in him and made his mind completely blank. What would it mean to survive this? What would it take to? The words penetrated his mind like a spike, his swimming head receiving the information and not even needing to process it. The words that signalled they were pausing, the words he'd heard a thousand times already. They were associated with pain, with weakness, with absolute desperate need.

"You act with purpose and deliberate immediacy."

"You do not question authority."

The spinning phrases were overlapping each other, as each man provided one rule, one demand, one more law Jiao-long knew they all lived by.

"You do not kill unnecessarily."

"You live and die solely for the company."

"If ya fight, ya fight ta kill."

"You do not speak of your fellows, or yourself."

Jiao-long felt more than heard the last man, their second spokesman, come to kneel by him, his aura invading what was left of Jiao-long's sense of personal space as he bent close and spoke against his cheek.

"Everything you do, everything you know," the voices were joining, a chorus that spoke out the last truths Jiao-long could ever believe, "everything you are...is ours now." The dropping of a gavel, the sudden dying of the winds, the sharp breath before the kill...and somehow, Jiao-long knew that this moment, this breath, the trembling of his body, the cold that made him sweat, the feeling that those around him were a part of him, stifling, cutting off all ability to breathe, to move, to think...this was it. This was, matter-of-factly, everything.

"Say it." Had those words even been spoken? Had the man whose hot breath skimmed across Jiao-long's face like a torrent uttered a single syllable? Or was it all just the wind, his mind playing elaborate tricks on him? He was too afraid to question it. He spoke.

"You do not speak...unless spoken to," he began, his words foreign to him, their accent punctuating amid the slurring syllables, "You act...with purpose...and deliberate...immediacy." The man near him moved back, but Jiao-long still felt him, felt him like he felt them all around him and within him. "You do not...question...authority." The shivering was intensifying, as he forced himself to breathe, as he realised he did not even think about the movement of his lips reciting the words that were all that was left of his being now. "You do not kill...unnecessarily." Blood and vomit was still stagnant on his lips, in his mouth and his nose, and it tickled him as he focused each breath into a phrase. "You live...and die...solely for the...company." They were still around him, weren't they? They were there, yes. They felt like a hive of bees, constantly in motion in his spinning mind, one part of him that seemed so frantic and yet so still and peaceful. "If you...fight...you fight to kill." Spinning, spinning, making him sick, deadly sick, his only ground in a sea of nothingness. And they were closer now, he knew. They were everywhere around him, pulling him taut while touching him gently, one hand on his hair, another on his hip, one on his decaying shoulder, his knee, his back, his stomach, holding his chin still, his mind stable, his hand like a caring parent and his neck like an executioner. "You do not...speak of..." the words tripped over his tongue, breathy and meaningless, all of his existence, "your fellows...or yourself..."

Like the humming of a prayer, Jiao-long heard their voices rise to meet his own, whispers of men that spoke of something more solemn than anyone could ever understand. This was life, this was the life they had brought him into, made him of. In one single day these men had torn him apart and sewn him back together more literally than the gods themselves, made him whole as he never had been, one piece of a thing that was so much greater than Jiao-long himself. Something smaller, something more significant, and yet somehow Jiao-long knew that this was only the beginning.

"Everything you do..."

Pain.

"Everything you know..."

Devotion.

Everything you are..."

Placidity.

"Is ours now."