Disclaimer: Bioware owns almost all.

A/N: This chapter is rated M for violent sexual content.

Chapter 4

Pain blossomed as the tender skin of my back split open, rivulets of blood trickling from my wounds. I struggled against my bindings as I knew Arch wanted me to, restraints digging into my wrists and marking me. I worked the straps, twisting and turning them to get the desired effect with minimal pain. I had learned to salvage what little self-worth I still held, especially during one of Arch's punishments. I had learned he liked the look of torment upon my skin.

He whipped me again, the thin strip of leather licking my wounds and spattering Arch's naked torso with my blood. I cried out again for his benefit, for show, the pain long ago overwhelming my senses. I had expected this after my disobedience, and prepared for it, mentally arming myself against the inevitable. It was a cruel thing to love the person who tormented me, and I did love him, if only for the kindnesses he showed me. I knew better to believe I mattered little to him at all. I was his toy, and he played with me as he saw fit.

Another crack upon the air and a jolt of pain shot through my system. I could feel the scorching heat as the whip sliced into my already shredded skin, the cuts shallow, narrow, minimizing the risk of permanent damage. Arch had a masterful stroke and he in no way intended to ruin his plaything, plying my skin with cheap medigel between punishments. Sometimes I liked to pretend that he was doing it for my benefit, rather than his own.

He leaned over my form, eyes gleaming darkly, chest heaving with exertion. Sweat and blood trickled down his torso, soaking into the waistband of his trousers. He undid the leather straps binding my wrists and shoved me onto the nearby bench, bending my body against the weathered upholstery. He took me from behind, vigorous in his attentions, thorough in his satisfaction, leaving me a crumpled mess on the floor.

He cleaned himself off with one of his many plush towels, black and velvety smooth against his skin. He tossed it my way almost as an afterthought, a small mercy; and I wiped his attentions from my skin. I would have to wait, however, for the pain in my back to ease until Arch was ready. Thankfully, he was quick to recognize the damage he had done, and slathered the cool, medicated cream on my gashes. I laid flat on the bed and let him, exhausted both mentally and physically. I thought of Aria and wondered.

O o O o O o O

I was curled up on his couch when he came in the next morning, a soft blanket wrapped around my body while I devoured one of the many books he had bought me: a study on salarian culture and customs. My back ached at the sight of him, but I forced a smile to my face. He thrust a bouquet of flowers toward me, an almost sheepish look on his face. I looked at him curiously as he had never before even spoken of flowers.

Tentative, I rose, untangling my limbs from the blanket and accepting his offer. I was unsure of his intentions and I prepared myself for the worst. Normally Arch waited until my body had healed before roughing me up again. Painting on an already worn canvas held little appeal for him.

"Thank you." I forced the words past my lips, as light and endearing as I could stomach. Fabric caught on the tender skin of my back as I shifted and I fought to hide any sign of pain. Arch needed no reminders of last night's activities given the large bouquet in my grasp.

He gestured to a small alcove off the bedroom's entryway at a cheap vase that had once belonged to his dead wife. I smiled sweetly and understanding, moved to fill the vase with water and placed the arrangement in a prominent location. I recognized that if Arch was going to spend his credits on something beautiful, he wanted to show it off.

He embraced me before leaving again, pulling me tightly to him, careful of my healing body. I could smell his scent, rich and musky, a hint of the sweet cigars he occasionally smoked. He nuzzled my neck, kissing it as lightly and as easily as if he were whipping me. I suppressed a wince as he squeezed me once more, exiting his abode and returning to work. I watched him go, my skin on fire, wishing only to share such tender moments with him.

I curled back onto the cushions, sinking into the soft fabric, and wrapped the blanket around me once more. Picking up where I had left off, I resumed my study of salarian cultures, intrigued by their customs so similar in many ways to those of humans. The book touched on the formation of the Special Tasks Group and the history behind it. I marveled that such a species could find strength in subtlety and anonymity, and yet the STG was widely renowned for their ability. It was not only the material presented to me that I found interesting, but what was omitted as well.

I soaked up the information like a sponge, drinking in the knowledge of customs and cultures so very different from my own. Normally, anyone on Omega would have the opportunity to interact with a variety of species and grow familiar with their cultures and customs. I, however, lacked that opportunity, locked away in Arch's apartments as I was. I had to live vicariously through literature, imagining a myriad of possibilities which lingered just beyond my reach.

My back itched, and I looked with irritation at the empty glass on the table top. Reluctantly, I set my book aside and exited the room, padding softly down the hall to the kitchen. A fresh pitcher of tea had been brewed, a favorite of Arch's, and I had acquired a taste for it. The scent drifted on the air, and I moved toward it as if mesmerized.

A muffled yelp caught my attention and I peered around the corner. Lying on the hall floor was a young girl, a new slave according to memory, her hand gripping her side. An older woman dressed in servant's clothing loomed over her and I fought back the dark memories that surfaced. Nobody had helped me when I lay bruised and broken on the floor. No one thought to put a stop to it. I had to make my own way, and so should she.

I turned from the scene and entered the kitchen, pushing the familiar image from my mind. The slave girl would either learn to stand up for herself or not. My interference would serve only to anger the household staff, ultimately worsening her situation. It was no business of mine.

Ice tinkled against the glass lightly, cracking with the change in temperature as I poured the tea, the amber liquid frothing against the chill. I popped one of the pills Arch bought for me, hoping it would work fast to decrease my pain, and I thought of the new slave girl. I could still hear her muffled sobs as I exited the kitchen, crossing the hall toward Arch's rooms. The older woman had disappeared down the hall, most likely eager to be away from the notice of Arch's pet. I paused in my steps and handed her a pain pill to ease her discomfort.

She looked up at me with trepidation, sad eyes brimming with tears. I frowned, and remember thinking that she was unlikely to last long with that sort of hopeless desperation in her face. The household staff would pounce on her weakness and torment her until she broke. From the look of her withered body, she did not have long. I moved away, distancing myself from that sad, small figure, and returned to my reading. A new book on Council politics awaited my study.

My escape was interrupted as I heard a familiar voice in the hall. My feet refused to move forward and I plastered my body against the wall, textured paneling cool against my face. I held my breath and willed my heart to stop pounding, certain the palpitations could be heard across the room, but the voice continued unabated. One of the household staff had thought to torture the slave girl, a young woman with only one eye.

The girl grunted softly and I heard the familiar sound of a swift kick to the gut, my own clenching at the familiar sensation. The one-eyed woman proceeded to chastise the younger for imagined trespasses, insults to her and other staff. She berated her mercilessly, reprimands punctuated by the occasional impact of flesh. I felt my interest wane and turned to leave when I heard the woman say my mother's name.

"You're no better than that whore and her daughter," another kick, muffled by worn rags. "You think your worthless hide can beg her favor? Take her place, like she did? Like her mother did?"

The girl wept, crawling along the floor as if trying to burrow in it. The young woman crouched down, wrenching the slave's head to the side and I saw her eyes go wide with fright.

"You want to be his whore, just like she is. Just like her mother. You want to end up dead too, hunh?"

I barely heard the sound her of head as it was slammed against the ground. The slave mewled pathetically, unwilling or unable to fight back. Either way, the damage was done. The young woman left her a whimpering heap on the floor, slithering along the cheap tiling to nowhere.

I stayed motionless until the young woman left, my mind reeling from her words. I doubt she knew I was within earshot. It was rare for staff to beat the slaves in the presence of their masters. Arch would see it as mishandling his property, and the servants were wise enough not to earn his ire.

She had mentioned my mother and called her Arch's whore. I frowned as I peeled my body off the wall and returned to his rooms. The table top clinked lightly as I set my glass down and sunk into the couch. The books remained untouched and the blanket piled beside me, disregarded as my thoughts orbited around the faded memory of Mother's face.

"Just like her mother."

From anyone else I would have considered the statement a compliment, but I knew what I was to Arch. The possibility that he had used Mother in the same fashion was nauseating. I racked my brain, sifting through memory like grains of sand, each one almost identical to the next. I could recall her warmth, her kindness, how the scent of her perfume lingered even after she had left our tiny abode. The image of her face had faded from my mind, but I remembered the brilliant green of her eyes and how they crinkled in delight.

She had been the one to seek out Arch's help, or at least that was what I remembered. Never before had I considered the terms of her agreement with him, and as if arriving on a foul wind, my understanding dawned. Arch was no philanthropist. Everything he did, he did for gain. Mother and I had no money, nothing of physical value; nothing save our bodies. It was in that moment that I realized why I had been taken into his household. Mother had struck a bargain and flesh had been our currency.

I waited for him to return home that evening. My books remained untouched save for one: the History of Omega. I whittled away the hours, forced my mind to concentrate on the material before me, but it refused. Always Mother's face was in the forefront of my mind, drifting endlessly amidst the despicable consistency of Arch's passions. I had no doubt that he had used her as his plaything, but I did not know what other purposes she served. I needed to ask him regardless of the consequences. I needed to know.

He simply blinked when I posed my question, his body reeking of a sweet cigar. Ignoring me for the moment he filled a snifter with imported brandy, the delicate decanter sparkling in the light. Tracing a path across the room he turned his back to me, his gaze fixed out the window to the stars beyond. It was a pose I was familiar with.

Arch woke every morning and stared out that window, as if he envied the stars their domain and plotted to overthrow them. Often I would wake to see a gleam in his eyes, only to have him notice my attention before his face closed over. It was a routine as certain as the cycles of Omega, and as Arch was a man of habit, my question was an unwelcome interruption in his usual pattern.

He sipped on his brandy and turned slowly from the window to regard me. I was perched on the couch, blanket folded neatly to the side, my current book out of sight. I wore the most innocent expression I could muster upon my face, and willed away the fear that crept up my spine. He eyed me, sized me up as if trying to decipher any ulterior motives behind my simple question. Dark eyes glittered with intelligence and he stiffened.

"What have you heard, Jin?"

I explained about the incident in the hallway, purposefully omitting the unnecessary bits. Arch did not need to know I showed kindness to a slave. He studied me a moment longer then seemed to relax, satisfied that my simple answer held no hidden motives. Finishing the last of his brandy he sunk into the cushions beside me and placed a warm hand on my leg.

"Your mother was special to me, Jin." He started, and I marveled at the kindness in his voice. "We had something special and she was willing to help me in any way that she could, even if it meant leaving me for other men."

He paused in his explanation as I'm sure he recognized the bewilderment on my face. Mother was involved with other men?

"She was a desirable woman, Jin, just like you are. Some of my associates found her attractive and by satisfying them she assisted me with my work."

I ignored the sickness churning in my gut, nodded numbly, and forced a sweet smile of understanding on my lips. Lies, bitter and demeaning spilled out of his mouth as he praised my mother and her dedication to him. He continued on, ignorant of my blossoming awareness, and believed all the while that my simple innocence accepted his words without hesitation. In that moment, I made it my goal to accelerate my studies, starting with my book on the STG. I would learn subtlety.