A/N: I'm back! Or rather, the story is back. Yes, I know that I'm way behind on this. I meant to have this done months ago. But between school, new ideas for a completely different verse of fanfiction, and a crisis of plot, it's taken me this long to get back on track. And now I know better than to try and put a deadline on myself because once I do that, I almost always renege. So, I'll the next chapter up as soon as I can, should the muse be willing.
Thank you for remaining patient! And, as always, Enjoy!
Ziva came to slowly, her growing awareness limited to little more than a hazy buzz by the pounding in her head. Her face felt thick, heavy. She could barely breathe, until she thought to part her lips and suck in a lungful of muggy air. Her nose was broken, by the feel of it—the ache extended just past the corners of her eyes, eyes she knew better than to open. She knew well from prior experience that to open them would only bring more pain, in the form of sharp, lancing blades of sunlight.
It was several moments before she noticed the subtle rumbling of the floor beneath her. Lying on her side, her arm pressed against warm metal that was gritty with sand, dried mud, and decidedly less innocuous substances. The stink of petrol tickled her senses, triggering a vivid flash of memory that told her exactly where she was.
She was in the back of military grade truck—Damon once called it a seven-ton. It was the same truck she'd been loaded into that first Harvest. The motion of the truck bed was rough enough that she knew they had yet to pass into the City; the road they were on now was in disrepair, if it was paved at all.
The sound of raucous men carried to her ears, muffled by the tarp that covered her and the rest of the vacant truck bed. At least, she believed it was vacant—she didn't hear the heavy mouth breathing seeming trademarked by the Bloods, nor did her nostrils pick up the sharp body odors most Bloods carried around them like a shroud.
A crack of her eyelids affirmed her lonely suspicions, and she let her eyes close once more with a distinct sense of relief.
She broken fingers ached, as the always did when her hands were bound behind her for any considerable length of time. She discovered through a careful inventory that her legs remained unbound, though half a breath later she realized why when an attempt to move sent a blaze of pain racing up her legs.
She couldn't tell if the stitches had actually torn, but she could feel that something was wrong regardless. Something in her right ankle rubbed—grated, really—and she recalled vaguely that she'd stumbled on a rock in the final moments of her short-lived freedom.
Flashes of more memories came to her—Jethro's soundless plea for her to not give in, Tali's fear… The circumstances of her reCapture came rushing back to her, turning her stomach. The only reprieve was the distinct absence of pain between her legs—Damon had honored their deal.
She was a little surprised, but she didn't waste the effort to wonder why he'd spared her. It didn't matter. Nothing did.
Her fate was unchanged. It had been sealed the moment the collar had been cinched around her neck, and even now, it weighed as heavily as a leaden yoke.
With an unexpected lurch, Ziva felt the road even out underneath the truck's wheels, heralding their approach to the City. She took a deep breath, steadying herself against the burning dread growing more and more tangible in the pit of her stomach. As she listened, the men's shouting slowly took on a new pitch, and she realized the slight echoing timber of their voices was a result of the buildings growing taller and closer together.
They'd reached the City.
Ziva pressed her pounding head against the hot metal floor, struggling desperately to banish her most recent memories from her mind. She'd been blessed, she recognized, by those few short weeks with her family, amidst people who couldn't have had her death further from their minds. She hadn't realized it at the time, but it was something she'd taken for granted.
Now, she could almost feel the noose tightening around her neck, and the growing aggression of the men outside pressing closer as they sensed that home was near.
As they pushed deeper into the city, Ziva felt the quiet safety of the woods drifting further and further away. The scent of grass and flowers morphed into the growing stench of gasoline, blood, and filth. It hung over the city like a blanket, encompassing all with suffocating totality. And with it came fresh memories of Games and Cullings and Harvests, all ending in bloody deaths and screams for mercy.
There was a gap between the tarp ceiling of the seven-ton and the anchor points—through it, she could see slivers of blackened windows and graffiti-covered buildings. Nothing but burned out husks of what civilization had once been, now mocked by the crude, blatant symbols of anarchy decorating the abandoned structures.
In her mind, she could see men and women in business suits traversing the sidewalks now littered with rusted nails and broken glass, going about their jobs without a care in the world, completely unaware of the future that awaited them.
How many of her captors had once been like those people, so normal and tame? She knew in her heart that she didn't want to know the answer.
In the past two years she'd already spotted a Blood or two who had once graced the halls of the Navy Yard, as fellow agents, security guards, military personnel… Even those few were too many to stomach easily. Only one of them had had the decency to look away when he passed within sight of her. The others had only eyed her like so much meat.
But she tried to embrace the city reality around her, wanted it to stain her soul in a way that she'd refused to let it before. Because if it tainted her spirit she knew she would miss freedom less, ache less for her family. Maybe, just maybe, it could help her forget.
Except her efforts backfired—the more she tried to ignore the flashes of more recent memory, the more vivid and frequent came. Two sets of blue eyes, one world-weary but happy, the other innocent and full of unbridled vivacity, filled her thoughts until they were all she could see.
The city fell away, and against her groggy efforts—her skull continued to pound in time to her pulse—she could herself in the Garden, with a warm rock beneath her and a warmer bundle of energy fidgeting in her lap. In the glinting light of the setting sun, she could see a tall silhouette striding towards her, and in her mind her greeting smile was broad and unbridled. She was content… happy, even.
She didn't know how long she stayed there in the Garden. But the warmth of the setting sun and vibrant colors shattered in an instant when the seven-ton slammed to a halt, jolting her back to harsh, painful, stinking reality.
The tarp was ripped away from the far end of the truck bed, sending shards of blinding light piercing through her skull. She winced, but whoever climbed up into the truck to retrieve her didn't take advantage of her weakness. An iron clad grip swallowed her bicep and yanked her up, dragging her towards the tailgate before she could even try to get her feet under her.
She didn't have time to brace herself before the Blood shoved her out of the truck—she fell the three and a half feet to land hard on her back. Her breath fled from her with an audible whoosh as her skull cracked hard against the pavement.
Her vision blackened as her mind went white with pain. It was several dangerous moments before she remembered to suck in an oxygen-starved breath. Slowly, her vision returned as she lay seemingly forgotten on the littered street. Eventually, she realized that the sharp burning pain in her arm meant that the fall must have broken one of her bound wrists. She didn't quire have the presence of mind to discern which wrist was damaged.
When a shadow fell over her, shielding her from the blinding sunlight, she could just barely recognize Damon's outline through the haze of pain. After a moment he crouched down, bringing his face within inches of hers.
"Welcome home," he snarled, his breath hot on her cheek. His hand caught her chin and wrenched her head to the side until her eyes met his. "If you beg real nice, I might take you back to the tracks for a little… celebration."
She didn't need to be fluent in ten languages to know what he meant.
"Go to hell," she gasped breathlessly, mentally cursing her need for oxygen. She only hoped her swollen glare held the fire her voice couldn't.
But Damon only grinned, the expression a twisted parody of the easy smiles he had given her once upon a time, when his only crime had been to love the Corps just a little too much.
Yanking her a couple of inches higher by the front of her shirt, he brought his face even closer.
"Good answer." His voice held no mirth, not even for the gasp of pain that escaped her at the rough handling. "Cause if you had begged," he growled ominously, "I'd have slit your throat."
She believed him. Her response had been genuinely aggressive, but at the same time, she'd known exactly what the terms of her agreement with him had been. He didn't want a dead fish. He wanted a conquest—an angry, fighting conquest.
The minute she stopped fighting was the moment he lost interest in her. He'd kill her, toss her corpse aside, and then shift his attention back to the potential threat the Sanctuary's Residents posed. And then he would go about conquering them as well.
Before she had to give a response, he dropped her abruptly, rising to his feet as she was left to thud limply on the street. He turned to a Blood hovering behind him with hungry eyes.
"Put her with the rest of the Herd," he ordered brusquely. "Chain her up—first level." His voice dropped to a low growl. "No funny business."
She could almost see the lesser Blood's face fall, even as relief stole over her. She'd grown accustomed to the protection Damon's claim on her had afforded—she'd been wary as to whether he would still claim exclusive rights to her. She listened to Damon move away, leaving her to the rough hands of the Blood he'd denied pleasure to.
Hands wandered over her, but the man was now more angry than aroused, for he hefted her onto his shoulder with minimal preamble. He was none too gentle about it— her ribs protested the sharp angle of his shoulder that jutted painfully into her abdomen, and her head swung down against his back unceremoniously, sending shards of pain through her nose a straight to her brain.
She knew exactly where he was taking her, but the trip seemed much longer than she remembered. Their destination was the expansive stone and metal building that sat on the edge of the densest part of the city—a structure formerly used as a prison, back when there were still prisoners to incarcerate. Now it was where the Bloods kept their Herd, the hundreds of Survivors who had fallen prey to the Harvests.
Six stories of grated cells, some of them filled with six or more people who stayed in the cells at all times until they were drafted for a Game. Some were pulled away for a few hours when a Blood sought physical release—even they wouldn't deign to have sex in such squalid conditions. And the conditions on the first level were the worst.
In the summer, it would technically be cooler than the cells on the top floors, as heat rose, but with sometimes as many as seven or eight people to a cell, the difference would be virtually undetectable. And that said absolutely nothing about the accumulated mess the cells had slowly acquired.
The last time she'd been in the prison with the rest of the herd, before that first Culling, she had been on the first level. Even then, it had been difficult to breathe through the growing stench.
She could only imagine what it would be like now, two years later.
Ten minutes later she found out, when they stepped over the threshold of the prison, and were enveloped in a shadowed cloud of waste, disease, and despair. The thunderous racket of moaning, sobbing Survivors didn't slacken at their entrance, but Ziva saw the other inmates cower away from their approach, pressing deeper into their cells as they passed.
Their eyes were wide with fear, but also relief that the body the Blood was carrying like a sack of potatoes wasn't their own.
Her ride paused about halfway through the prison corridor, and nodded for another Blood to unlock the cell they'd stopped in front of. The man—obviously a new acquisition to the gang by the way he scrambled to obey—slid the barred door open.
A hand gripped her bound wrists tightly, even as another fumbled with the collar at her neck. There was a familiar clink of metal on metal and the snick of a lock closing before the Blood carrying her waded through the whimpering Survivors already in the cell.
The hand on her wrists pulled viciously, and she slid off the Blood's shoulders to land heavily on the cement floor. A boot on her chest shoved her into the far corner, where another clunk of metal on metal told her that the second part of Damon's orders had been carried out.
She was chained. Again.
The ziptie around her wrists was cut before both Bloods exited, leaving her with the seven other men and women in the cell. The door clanged shut behind them, and the reverberating echo effectively cut through the cotton in her head.
Her hands flew to the chain connecting her to the metal bedpost, which was itself bolted to the ground, and a frantic investigation told her that a) they'd only left her a foot and a half of slack to work with, and b) the padlock locking the chain to her collar had also been threaded through an eyehole of the leather collar and the D-ring meant for leashes. There was no way she would be getting out of the tether without a key.
She let her head rest against her new hitching post, closing her eyes against the pounding in her head. The metal wasn't cool, or in any way refreshing like she'd hoped it'd be, but it gave her a moment to draw herself together. Her face felt hot to the touch—she lifted her hand and gently fingered the line of her nose. Definitely crooked.
She let her hand cover her eyes, shutting out the close confines of her new cage. But she could still hear the soft murmurs of curiosity as the cell's other occupants grew confident to wonder who she was and why extra measures had been take to keep her secure. At least some of them were male—if one of them decided to try taking advantage, her ability to defend herself would be sorely tested.
"Hey."
A deep voice broke through her cloud of misery, and her head whipped up to meet the empathetic gaze of a male Survivor. But the sudden movement made the room spin around her, and she let her head rest against her drawn up knees with a moan.
"Here."
She peeked out at the man at the sound of his voice, and was greeted with the sight of a damp cloth being proffered. She couldn't hide her surprise at the unexpected sympathy—water was precious here, and to offer even this small gift of it to a newcomer was, to her knowledge, unheard of.
But she accepted it gently, wiping gently at the blood coating her mouth and chin.
"Thanks," she replied, meeting his eyes once more. They were brown, and didn't hold the same emptiness most of the other Survivors' had. He was newer, she decided. A few more months, and he'd either be dead or wishing he was.
She closed her eyes, dismissing him even as she let the damp cloth rest against her throbbing nose. The water was far from cold, but it helped dull the pulsing pain by a hair. Her wrist ached as well, but was decidedly less bothersome than her face at the moment.
She could still move the wrist even, slowly and carefully. It would be a while before she would be able to use it in a Game, but hopefully Damon wouldn't draft her for a few more days.
She figured she'd probably have a week to learn her lesson here in the prison before she began to earn her way back into his good graces. In a manner of speaking.
"Ziva."
It was several seconds before she realized that it was her name being spoken. She opened her eyes to find that same man looking at her intently.
"That's your name, right?" he asked. There was no accusation, no threat in his voice. Just open, easy-going curiosity.
She nodded, but stopped short when the pain reminded her not to. "Yes," she replied. She looked a little bit closer this time, looking for any part of him that looked familiar. But despite having that 'every man' sort of look to him, underneath the grime and sweat, he was decidedly unrecognizable. "Do I know you?"
He shrugged. "Probably not." He scooted closer to her, keeping his back against the wall as he remained sitting, edging closer to her corner. He held out a hand. "Ethan."
She hesitated only a moment, before accepting the offered hand and giving it a heavy shake.
"I know you though," he continued. "We never met, but… you're kind of a legend here." She almost laughed at that, remembering how Tony's Rosie had said almost the exact same thing. He seemed to interpret the twitch of her lips differently though, because he gave quick, self-effacing grin. "Okay, not really a legend. But a lot of people know vaguely who you are."
"Hah. I bet," she scoffed. She could only imagine how the others saw her. By now, most probably knew what Damon used her for—if the rumor mill was strong, she'd be whore to the whole Black Blood Gang—and at worst they would believe she was actually one of the Bloods.
Well, she reminded herself, she had the tattoo for it.
"Hardly anyone knows your name though," Ethan told her. "They only know that they don't want to ever face you in a Game." This time, his grin went unacknowledged. "But I know who you are."
An eyebrow arched at that, mildly curious at his audacity. However, she realized she didn't much care that he was presumptuous. He was… normal, somehow. Still human, despite being here, treated like an animal. And on top of that, he wasn't treating her like a woman who'd lived through hell. Why would he, when he was in the same hell. He didn't even look twice at her leash and collar. It was a comfort, to be taking part in such a healthy conversation.
"You're one of the Twelve," he delivered, his voice suddenly low. "The last."
She froze.
How could he know? It explained how he knew her name—the first few Harvests had bonded, as fellow inmates, and in the weeks before the first Culling, the Twelve had been well-known as a result of their efforts to spark a revolution. If he'd been there, he would have known her name. But he couldn't have been there. Could he?
She'd believed all of those first Harvests to be dead by now. Even she had only managed to stay alive by the skin of her teeth. And to have been here for two years… his eyes. They weren't dead, desensitized. They should be, after so long. But maybe her name had only been passed on through word of mouth since the Culling.
"You were there?" she asked, her voice soft.
He nodded. "I saw the first Culling. You Survived."
"But…" She hesitated, reluctant to find a kindred spirit in him. If she let herself come to know this man, it could be used against them both in the future. "You're different," she finished finally. "From the others."
"You mean, because I'm not afraid of you?" he clarified. "Well, like I said, I know you. I know what you stood for two years ago. That goes a long way. Besides, I spent my time in Iraq before the Incident."
She perked up at that. "Marines?"
"Army," he corrected, his grin making another appearance. "Did a couple tours there." He paused. "After that… this doesn't really seem all that shocking."
Silence fell over them, but it was definitely more comfortable than it had been five minutes ago. It made sense that he was military. It would have been easy for him to accept this. It would have been easier for him to Survive the Games. It was easy for her to relate to military personnel. She knew the military—she'd practically been raised in it.
And, if she were fully honest with herself, she seemed to have a soft spot when it came to military men.
"I guess the rumors are true then," he went on after a few moments. "You got out of here."
She didn't say anything for a long moment; she was partly lost in her thoughts and partly too engrossed in trying to read his intentions to answer. Again, he didn't seem to be at all covert in his attempts at conversation. It didn't appear that he was trying to weasel information from her. So odds were he wasn't an informant for the Bloods. Perhaps, she reasoned silently, he'd found a kindred spirit in her as well.
"What makes you say that?" she asked noncommittally.
He took a moment of his own before answering.
"It's just—well, you smell…" He paused. "Different."
Ziva could vaguely remember saying something similar to Jethro, after they'd left the Navy Yard. But she shoved it as far as she could from her mind, desperate to keep her thoughts of him so deep inside that even she couldn't get at them. "You mean I don't smell like sweat, blood, and—" She waved at the walls and Survivors around them, both smudged with god knows what, "you know."
He grinned, but shook his head. "No," he countered. Then he hesitated. "Well, yes. But it's more than that."
Ziva gave him a small, understanding smile but said nothing. She knew what she smelled like, and after so long, the scents probably seemed foreign to the man's senses. God knew they had been to her. But again, she banished the memories from her mind.
The sooner she forgot about the trees and the grass and actual soap, the better she'd be. And the man, Ethan, let the silence hang for a couple minutes, until she'd almost forgotten they'd been talking by the time he finally finished voicing his thoughts.
"You smell like freedom."