Easter Friday so i was able to update. Im on holidays for 2 weeks now so i'm going to try and update every day. Thankyou for the reviews last chapter - please keep them coming

Mosquitos tortured his head as he waited for Brason. Sand slithered around and over his feet, the tiny particles tempting him to swipe them off. The darkness was like a cloak over the desert, but the stars were brilliant balls of fire. In his mind, Aqua began to sing, with the words of "Barbie Girl" dancing around his brain. Unconsciously, his foot began to tap to the imaginary beat. Soon his mouth was moving to the lyrics, his head nodding. His shoulders moved up and down as his brain screamed the song.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. His dance moves suddenly stopped as he turned to face a curious Brason. His arms immediately dropped by his side and he stood to attention.

"Soldier," Brason said.

"Sir," Booth replied awkwardly.

Brason looked as though he was about to comment on Booth's strange dance moves. "What were you doing?"

"Um, well, uh," Booth stuttered. "I was recently listening to 'Hot Blooded' and it's still in my head." It was the first song he could think of.

"Hot blooded?"

"Yeah, by Foreigner." Brason still looked quizzical. "You know, the band?" Blink. "' Don't let go?' Never mind."

Brason looked amused, and then his face turned stony again. "Alright," he grunted. "Bruce shouldn't be too far away, then we'll go in."

Booth's insides reacted at the name, but he tried not to show it. "Bruce?" he asked.

"Yeah, the other guard that's been helping me hit the little lady. He'll be joining us tonight."

This was going downhill. "Will he be going in there with us? I mean, there's not much room."

"We'll fit." Brason closed the subject by folding his arms across his huge bare chest and turning away from Booth. Booth crouched down and pretended to tie his bootlace, but really he just had to gather his thoughts. What would he do know? He would never be able to take two of them down. He had known it would be hard taking down Brason alone, but geez. He didn't know if he could save her AND survive this night.

He heard running footsteps behind him and pushed himself up, the feeling returning to his legs. He turned, watching the shadow of a man, too bullky to look good running, scampering towards them. Brason reached into his back pocket and pulled out a torch. He switched it on, the beam creating a pool of brilliant yellow, its light spreading out for what seemed like miles in the dark, and spilled its colour onto the approaching figure, and Booth could tell he was in trouble.

The man was bigger then Brason. His muslces were well defined, suggesting years of hard training. He looked like the commander of an army, huge and fierce. His hair was shaved close to his head, much like the rest of the men on guard in this waste-land. And the one thing that stood out most the Booth – he had a shotgun holstered to his hip. A simple, light weapon, easy and quick to pull out, even for those with slow reflexes. It was the best weapon for cops to use – if any sudden danger, they would be ready.

Or in Bruce's case, if anyone suddenly needed to be kept quiet, it would be ready.

Bruce was quickly in front of them. Booth could tell even in the artificial light that he was sweating – obviously he wasn't very fit. Brason immediately grabbed him and held him steady.

"Bruce, this is Booth – that soldier I told you about."

Bruce offered a pudgy hand. "Good to meet you."

Booth nodded, but didn't say anything. He certaintly felt it wasn't good to see him.

The men stood in an awkward silence, cut only by the hum of wild nightlife. Brason was the first to speak. "Let's go in." It wasn't an invitation, it was a command.

This time it was Bruce who unlocked and opened the vast metal door. The darkness inside was immeasurable. He waited for Brason to spread the light into the cell instead of out in the night. When he did, the light filled the entire cell, top to bottom, the walls turning a bright yellow instead of its original dirty brown.

He could see Temperance curled in the corner, in exactly the same position as the previous night. This both sent a cloud of relief and a jolt of distress in his stomach. Being awake would be even worse then being unconcious – she would be able to feel every sliver of blood, every cut mark, every bruise whenever she breathed. She would be aware of everything that was happening, and she would cry out every time she was hit, an anguished scream of pain. Booth winced at the thought.

Bruce noticed. "You ok, soldier? If not, I recommend you get out of here."

"No, I'm ok."

"It can be overwhelming, I know. Even if you have seen her before, it's always hard. But it'll go away."

Booth nodded, swallowing. He stepped further into the cell. He heard the door bang shut behind him. He turned. "In case a night wanderer or guard sees," Brason explained. Booth once again nodded. He felt like a rat trapped in a cage, hating its prison and wanting to escape, but unable to do anything about it.

Brason walked over to Temperance. He bent down and rolled her onto her back. Booth was hoping her eyes wouldn't flutter or show any signs of movement, but she appeared to be oblivious. He tilted his head and smiled a malicious smile. "She's still as beautiful as ever," he snickered. He stood up and stared down at her. Then his face contorted and he slammed his leg into the side of her stomach. Her body flopped like a rag doll as the force rolled her over onto her side. Her arms were limp, a sure sign that she was out. Her head rolled to the side and slammed against the dirt floor.

Brason took a step back and motioned that Bruce could go next. He took one step forward, his footprint creating a soft mark in the dust. He ran his greedy eyes smugly over her body, wondering where he should leave a mark. The problem was that nearly her whole body was covered with either blood or purple bruises. The glimmer in his eyes suggested that he was planning on doing something dangerous. He knelt down next to her and rolled her back over. Then he picked up her wrist gently and held it as though he was holding a slice of cake. It looked unnatural for a thick burly man to be gentle with anything.

Before Booth could acknowledge what Bruce was doing, he had bent her wrist back. An audible snap filled the closed cell.

She didn't even move.

Booth stood by, unmoving. It was horrific what these guys were doing to this poor woman – she probably hadn't done anything wrong but obey orders and identify victims.

Bruce got up and dusted his hands. "Job done. Pain caused. And I feel pretty good. Alright, Booth, it's your turn."

Booth walked forward sturdily. He was careful not to show any emoiton. Before bending down, he took a glance behind him. The guards stood there, emotionless expressions etched upon their thick faces. They were waiting for him to hit the woman so they could leave. He turned his head back and looked down.

Temperance was lying awkwardly, her legs curled and her arms at an odd angle. The damaged wrist hung loosely. Her head was resting on her shoulder, and her face looked puffy and swollen. He desperately didn't want to hit her, but knew there was no other choice. So he swung his fist, hard. He felt it collide with her jaw. He immediately regretted it and knew he would never forgive himself. And he had promised her he wouldn't hit her....

"Good job, kid," Bruce spoke from behind. "Want to do another one?"

Booth stood up. "No, that's fine," he said and tried to walk past them and out into the night air. But they blocked his path.

"Booth, when we ask if you want to hit her again, we mean you will hit her again."

"No." Booth couldn't believe what he was doing. He was disobeying orders from guys who could easily kill him. He felt the strong grip of a sausage hand grab his arm and turn him around, pushing him down towards the body.

He landed on his hands and knees beside her. As he sat up, he heard a growl in his right ear, but he couldn't tell who it was from such a close distance. "Hit her again. Unless, of course, you don't want to hit her, but instead....." he let the words hang dead. Booth knew what he was referring to and couldn't be more disgusted. He wondered whether now was the time to make a move, to try and save the woman?

In other words, was now the time to die?

Sorry about the barbie girl - just a random thought that popped into my head and it wouldn't go away, so i put it in.

Please tell me if you think the story is becoming too cliched or needs some more twists or new characters or anything. I will try and update tomorrow, and any ideas would be great.

Thankyou for reading!