Warning: Violence and torture in this chapter.

Light pierced his eyes

He reached out for it and a rope lowered to him

He grasped it weakly

A voice told him to wrap the loop around his shoulders

Despite the sharp pain in his shoulder, his heart thumped with joy

They pulled him up onto a cold cement floor

Four faces looked down at him.

Two of them—his heart shuddered—Gleb and Kent. Their faces half-obscured in the dim light. But their avid eagerness was plain on their faces.

The man with red hair Jason vaguely recognized him as Daric, the man he'd fought in the cafeteria. The other was tall and thin with dark hair and glasses; he rubbed his beard with detached interest.

Jason tried to sit up, but he'd been lying in a cramped position for so long he couldn't maneuver his body or quite get it to agree which way was up. So he lay there in a crumpled, awkward state, his cheek pressed to the cement, struggling weakly like a half-smashed insect.

"This'll be interesting," said Daric, eagerness in his voice.

"Indeed," said the other man.

"Alright, guys, let's get him prepped," said Daric.

The guards avidly grabbed Jason's arms and hauled him to his feet. The shaft of light met his eyes but it was dim now, leeched of its beauty—just a thing that had lured him to the depths.

Despite himself, he felt grateful to them because they'd pulled him from living death. The darkness still clung to him like a shroud, sticking to his skin, a permanent shadow.

The gratefulness evaporated into shock as Gleb propped him up in Kent's arms and cut through his clothes with a knife. The clothes were filthy and torn, but still worth fighting for until the knife nicked his skin, then he stilled.

The blade sliced through the silk like tissue paper and the shreds of fabric fluttered to the ground. Cold flashed against his skin and he struggled to cover himself but Kent kept his arms firmly behind him.

"Take him to the showers," said Daric, "and make sure he's totally clean."

"Aye, boss," said Kent.

And they dragged him down a dimly lit hallway to a room with nothing in it but a drain and a few chains on the walls.

To his relief, they didn't bind him to the wall; they just left him in the middle of the room. He was shaking, his legs trembling from being cramped for so long, but he had gathered enough awareness to know that he didn't want to give in to anything they wanted. They'd stuffed him in a small, dark space, trying to break his will, but he would not succumb that easily.

His heart flipped over when Gleb unraveled a thick, green hose. Then he aimed it at Jason.

So this was what they mean by showers down here.

He barely had time to brace himself before a harsh stream of water slammed into his chest. He planted his feet on the floor, trying to stay standing, but they increased the water pressure and he was pushed backwards. Gleb advanced, spraying him with a twisted smirk on his face. Jason slammed into the wall and the water pinned him there, the pressure so high it felt like it was bruising him. The relentless stream moved to his stomach; it felt like a punch to the gut. He turned to avoid it; the stream hit his back and pressed him to the wall as if it were a powerful magnet.

Kent laughed and said, "Come on, turn back around—you're not all the way clean." He grabbed Jason's shoulders and pressed him against the wall. Then he took the hose from Gleb and hit Jason in close quarters with it, spraying downwards, the cold water biting deeply. When it hit his legs, he lost his balance and fell—the water kept coming, its cold pressure streaming over him, pushing him flat against the floor. The grainy dampness ground against his cheek. Who knew how many people had been in here, or how clean it was. Grit flowed into his mouth.

Kent seemed to enjoy tormenting him with the water, continuing long past when he would've been clean. It felt like his skin was being scraped off, especially as the water pushed him across the cement, scratching him like sandpaper.

Finally the water slid away, only to slam into his head. Raking over his hair, his ears. Then his face, his eyes. "Stop!" he tried to say, but the water poured into his mouth.

"Haha drink!" said Kent, and it felt like he was drowning. He coughed but couldn't get all the water out—his lungs burst with the pressure of trying to hold his breath—

"That's it, we don't want to drown him," said Gleb, and the water mercifully dissipated.

He lay there drenched, shaking, cold seeping into his bones, half-numb. He coughed, sharp pangs jabbing through his chest.

Gleb knelt beside him and grabbed his hair, yanked his head back then struck his back with his fist. Water poured out of his throat and he coughed hard.

Gleb pulled him back against the wall, crouching, a slight smirk on his face. "I'd say you were clean, wouldn't you?"

"He does need a haircut though," said Kent, standing beside him, still holding the hose.

"We won't do it yet, not unless we get specific orders to. Let's get him dressed." Gleb grabbed him and pushed him to his feet, his back scraping against the wall. His legs felt too rubbery to stand on his own. Water streamed down his face from his soaked hair.

Vague alarm hit him that he'd lost track of the days again. It could've been hours since he wandered down here… could've been a week. The Coffin had messed with his sense of time.

Kent tossed Gleb a towel and he began to unceremoniously rub Jason with it. Not taking particular care with his nearly raw skin. When he was done with his front, he slammed him face first into the wall and rubbed down his back and legs.

Then Gleb guided him out of the shower room. When they were outside of it, he let go; Jason had to fight to stay on his feet. He leaned against the wall; mercifully they let him rest for a moment before dragging him further down the hallway to a small room on the left side. There was a bench in it, and a cot, and a small dresser, and a table. They sat him down on the bench and drew some clothes from the dresser. Kent dropped the clothes on the bench beside him, then they left and shut the door with an iron clang.

He was under no illusions they hadn't locked it.

He took a moment to catch his breath. He was still disoriented from the pit, and the 'shower' hadn't helped. His lungs still felt like pools of water were inside them, tightening them; he was afraid he wouldn't be able to breathe. But he told himself it was probably just the aftershocks. It had felt like that another time he had almost drowned—after being pulled beneath the water by an undertow when he was swimming in California.

The outside world seemed even more distant now. As if he'd sunk so deep into the ground he would never be able to dig himself out. The light above might as well be a distant star.

I can't give up, he told himself, but those words were hollow after what he'd thought had been freedom had only led to more slavery.

In a way, it was a more familiar environment than the slave quarters—he knew dungeons. Been captured several times before. And he'd rescued agents from them; they'd experienced much worse than he had. He didn't want to think about how shattered they had been.

By the end of this… that's what I might be.

He hoped desperately that their plans didn't include—

What Zar had almost done to him.

He shut that vision off; Zar was out of commission. He nearly got the better of me, but… I won. No point in thinking about him anymore. Whatever happens, at least I'm not in his hands. If it's just torture, I can handle that.

The viciousness, twistedness, of sexual violence had almost undone him. Whether it was because of his weakness or the actual evil of it, he wasn't sure… it wasn't even that bad…shouldn't even bother me…. shouldn't have frozen me….

He blocked those gnawing thoughts and focused on the moment, dread still chilling him for what was to come.

He distracted himself by pulling on the clothes. They were bluish gray and rather coarse—definitely not soft silk—but when they were on he hugged himself, reveling in the warmth and comfort of the fabric.

Weakly he made his way around the room; the table was rough-hewn wood and the metal stools were bolted to the floor. In the dresser was a change of clothes and a few other items he didn't have the energy to examine. In the corner, thankfully, was a toilet behind a short screen. Back on the other side of the room he sank down onto the cot; it gave just a little, but it was soft enough. He closed his eyes, trying to stay aware of everything around him, and took deep breaths, dispelling the latent panic.

Please help me, he prayed. Don't leave me here. Don't let me drown in darkness.

He shot awake.

A large man barreled into the room; Jason recognized him as Brack, the guard who had first brought him to Elena. Jason had just enough time to sit up before Brack grabbed him by the arms and lifted him, slinging him over his shoulder as if he were a sack of meat.

The gray floor rushed beneath him. He struggled on principle, but Brack's arms held his legs and back tightly.

A door creaked open with the same metallic squeal as the others. Brack rushed past a metal table, chains hanging from the ceiling, massive steel cabinets along the walls. In the back of the room, he unslung him from his shoulder and dropped him onto something hard and cold.

Two faces peered down at him, silhouetted against a rectangle fluorescent light.

"Bind him," said one of them. Daric.

Jason pushed himself up but Brack pushed him down, and the cold metal hit his back and shoulders. Brack held him there while another guard pulled his arms above his head, binding them together, then yanking a chain so that his arms were taut, pain cutting through his shoulder and wrists. He tried to struggle but Brack was too strong, especially in his weakened state, and the other guard bound his legs in the same way and tugged the chain down, binding it under the table.

"We need something to work with," said the thin, dark-haired man who he'd seen when they'd pulled him out of the pit.

"Let's get that shirt off him," said Daric.

Brack drew a butcher knife from his belt and the light glinted on it as it aimed toward Jason's chest. Fear sliced through him. He struggled, trying to get away, even though he knew it was futile.

The knife cut through the shirt he'd just put on and soon he was exposed under the light. Cold despite how warm the light appeared.

The dark-haired man darted forward, clasping his hands. "Ooh, look, he already has so many scars…. I haven't seen such scarring on a new slave."

"He's a special case," said Daric.

"Nothing in his file indicated his injuries were this extensive….." He traced the bullet wound over Jason's heart. Then the vicious burn scar in his side. Jason flinched. Those things were personal. Something no one should see, let alone touch…

"That's why our hands are tied," said Daric. "Elena doesn't want much more scarring. And she doesn't want us to damage him permanently or inflict irreparable psychological damage."

"That is quite the restraint…. But limits can also heighten creativity – if the artist is sensitive enough." His smile widened and Jason got the sense he wasn't quite sane.

"We are allowed some limited injury. The restorative, if promptly applied, should erase any scarring long-term."

"There's still quite a bit we can do. The scars actually give us an inroad. What are his legs like?"

"Let's find out."

To Jason's dismay, Brack cut through his pants as well, leaving just underwear. He desperately hoped they wouldn't just chop through his clothes completely and leave him naked for however long he was here. It felt ridiculously senseless to cut through the clothes they'd given him not long before, but evil didn't always make sense.

They probably won't let me freeze to death…. I hope.

"Not bad," said the dark-haired man. He slid one finger over Jason's thigh. "A lot we can do here, even if it has to be shallow." He patted Jason's knee and he flinched. "Feet are particularly sensitive. Potential for a lot of pain without that much damage." He seemed almost bursting with glee.

"Well, would you like to do the honors then? Seems like you have a lot of ideas, Val."

"Oh, yes!"

"Just remember, I'm the supervisor here. You're here because this is a special case—and because, yes, you have interesting ideas for what can break a man without crushing him. But I'm in charge. I'll be here to rein you in if you color too far outside the lines. And I reserve the right to jump in at any moment and divert to a new tactic. I'm not averse to delegation and I enjoy crafting the big picture, but I also like hands-on in interrogations. Don't overstep your bounds. Your realm lies elsewhere."

"Of course," said Val, his eyes glinting between narrowed lids.

Val lifted a device from the stainless steel table attached to the wall beside him.

It struck Jason that this was real—that he was about to be tortured.

His vision clouded and his heart tried to scramble out of his chest. He thrashed, trying desperately to get away.

"Strap him down," said Val, his voice somewhat muffled and distorted.

Something cold and smooth swept over his stomach then pressed down hard. A leather band wrapped around his waist. He tugged against it but it held him firmly to the table. Panic shot through his chest and he gasped, air slicing down his throat like crushed glass.

"Quite the trauma reaction," said Val. "He might not be able to stand much of this. We could give him a depressant but he might not feel it enough then. Somehow sharpen his senses without giving him a heart attack."

I have to get through this. If I fall apart right away—I won't emerge with my mind intact.

What's the point? You won't escape anyway.

If there's a slim chance I will, I have to fight. At least do what I can. Not give in to anything they want.

Val slid down almost out of his realm of vision, the metal instrument glinting in the light. Jason tried to measure his breaths but his heart fought his efforts to stay calm. He was completely in their power. And something bad was going to happen, and he could do nothing.

Something poked against his thigh, then jabbed downward and twisted, pinching his skin. Sharp pain cut into his flesh. Then another pincer, then another. Each point throbbed with a deep pulsing pain. He longed for them to be taken off, but Val left them there and moved on to the next device.

Gleaming metal pins, a forest of them. Panic lit his chest on fire. He yanked on the chains but couldn't get away as Val jabbed one pin, then another, into the bottom of his feet. Small, sharp pinpoints.

He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. It's not so bad. I can handle this.

When the needles were in, he could barely feel them—

Something pressed against the needles and they sharpened again. Then—something else—a humming heat—growing—

The pain grew white-hot as if there were metal matches in his feet, burning and burning— They seemed to stab straight through, poking out through the top—

He closed his eyes again, focusing on breathing, focusing on a calm center he'd never really felt a need to practice before—

Dear God, please… please—

Something sharp sliced into his shin – he looked downwards and Val was lovingly carving into his skin with a scalpel

Slicing off the skin

Shock hit him—then air hit the skinned area with a deep writhing burn

He bit his tongue to avoid screaming

And Val appeared above him, looking down with intense clinical interest. "Not bad," he said. "Most people would be screaming by now." He cradled Jason's cheek in his hand.

The tenderness such a jarring change

Val's gray eyes scraped over his chest and stomach

He caressed the long burn scar on his chest.

The burn scars were somehow the worst— because they had hurt the worst, he supposed –

Val lifted a long fabric-like strip and laid it across the scar—

It felt as if it was burning again, but sinking deep into his chest this time—cutting through flesh and bone –

A scream crashed through his skull

He hardly recognized it—it was barely his own.

Fingers caressed the whip scars, the other burns, the cuts

He trembled in dread

But the hands lifted away

"Get his head stabilized," said a voice, calm in its viciousness

Something pressed down over his neck and he gasped for air—it tightened—

Tears streamed down his cheeks, leaking into his still-damp hair

And then fingers dug into the stab wound in his shoulder—still healing from the Gold Room—

The peculiar cold-hot pain of injuring something still healing sliced into him—

And a dull instrument dug deep into it, exploring, excavating

It felt like it was coring straight through his shoulder

Nausea hit him and he tried to struggle up but the strap held his throat down and he choked—he fought against sickness while the pain ripped through him—

Fire poured into the wound

Agony tore him apart

The next thing he knew, the pain had faded. Val and Daric were nowhere to be seen.

Dull pain hit him as hands wound a bandage around his shoulder. A stinging burn as it seeped through the hollow where something had tried to rip out pieces of him

His chest tingled, and so did his thigh, shin, and feet. Slight ghosts of pain still twisted in each wound.

The guard moved to his shin and wrapped it tightly. Then he vanished.

Jason tested his limbs and was surprised to find he wasn't bound. But when he tried to sit up, his limbs wouldn't cooperate. He was wrapped in a cottony fog. Probably an extra dose of painkiller. He felt he should feel panic, but his heart thumped leisurely, just a vague sense of dread in the back of his mind.

Have to get out. Before they come back.

Before he could make another attempt to get off the table, Brack appeared and lifted him effortlessly, then carried him back to his cell. Covered him with the blanket on the cot, then left.

Away from the torture room, his mind calmed the rest of the way and he sank into a comforting haze.

He jolted awake.

They were coming for him.

Fear and horror burned though his chest.

But everything was quiet. The sound must've been his imagination.

He was safe for the moment.

But what had happened was branded on his mind. He'd been cut, burned—there was a bandage on his shoulder and his shin. He'd been strapped down, helpless—

Panic hit him then and he stood, his legs wobbly. His head spun. He took a few steps then had to sit down.

When was the last time I ate? Or drank? How many days has it been?

The panic was overwhelmed by the gnawing in his stomach, the quivering weakness.

Denying food—another interrogation tactic.

But they didn't even ask me any questions! What was it all for?

Will they get to the interrogation or will they just hurt me for no reason? Somehow it was more bearable if there was interrogation involved. Without something to resist, there was no strategy to fall back on. Just try to endure as long as he could….

His stomach churned and he leaned over the cot but nothing came up. He curled up, trying not to choke, calming his stomach, trying to soothe his soul.

Valley of the shadow of death….. a senseless place where they claw at me, laughing, taking notes…

At least it was just me. At least I didn't get the others captured. But if they'd been with me, they would've been able to subdue Zar….

If I hadn't hit Rave, I wouldn't have been grounded. Could've gotten out on my own. But that wouldn't have ended any differently….. unless there is another tunnel which actually leads outside…

Somehow he doubted it.

But there was a glimmer of hope…

He couldn't look at it directly; the darkness threatened to swallow it completely. Best to hide it away for a rainy day.

This is the rainy day. He almost laughed. He might have if his chest hadn't felt tight and hollow yet at the same time stuffed to the brim with cotton.

He lay down on his cot, unable to do much with the painkiller still fuzzing out the pain, and the ordeal that had drowned him in flames.

Connie floated through his mind but it was too painful to think of her and so he stared at the wall, trying to make his mind blank…

My mind is almost never blank… one of my curses.

Have to find a way to escape…

But escape was still a dull, hollow word. He couldn't get it to mean anything. Not anything real.

He was drifting off to sleep when they came for him, and fire shot through his chest, echoed by the burgeoning pain in his shoulder, legs, and feet.

Brack and Val.

His heart froze.

He tried to get up, get away, his mind numb with terror—

But Brack was easily able to grab him, carry him to the room.

Slammed him down onto the metal table onto his stomach, knocking out his air.

Jason turned back around and slid off the table, but Brack shoved him onto it and flipped him over again then yanked the leather strap over his waist. Pulled his arms outward this time and chained them to the sides.

He struggled but the cuffs and strap held him firm.

"Wow, if I thought your chest was a work of art…" Val traced the whip scars on Jason's back and he shivered, sickness writhing through him. Val continued caressing his scars with cold fingers and Jason began to wish he'd just get on with it. He pinched a few of the scars as if testing them.

"Please don't," a pleading voice was wrung from him. Shame gnawed him.

Val chuckled. He rubbed one of the larger whip scars, then moved up to the scar on his shoulder blade, which Karl had cut into.

Another pleading phrase almost escaped his lips but he bit his lip to stop it.

Don't show weakness.

As if you didn't just scream like a baby!

That kind of pain—no one can endure stoically

Just do what you can.

There was a metallic scraping sound. Then the blade sliced through the scar and

Sharp pain, layer upon layer of it, the present mixing with the past.

Tears leaking onto the metal, seeping into his mouth, salty liquid pricking the slight bite on his tongue

More cuts over his back, slicing deep shame into him.

He jolted with each cut, moans of pain torn from him.

Then it stopped. He took a deep breath.

And then a slight creak

Liquid fire splashed over his back

A scream wrenched his jaw apart.

He was aware of a slight lessening of pain… the burns dissipating a little. He dared to hope the session was over.

But then something twisted into the scar on his shoulder blade, a deep clamping bite

It was set alight, an inferno raging in his shoulder, boring into the wound on the other side—

Something cut into his cheek but he barely registered it since the pain in his back was enough to roar through his mind, blazing all thought to a blank violent flame

"What is it with everyone?" said an enraged voice somewhere in the outer darkness. "When I'm gone, you push the limits to the breaking point. What did I say, Valentin?"

"He'll break more quickly with these methods."

"I don't want his body chopped up beyond all repair. I thought you of all people understood finesse."

"I do."

"You're good in your realm, but interrogation is another story. Since Dansk died, I'm a bit short on interrogators. I might have to put someone else on this."

"Besides Daric?"

"We can't have him always on it. He needs a good partner. Who understands my orders."

"I understand them—"

"No, you've demonstrated you don't." She swore. "He can't even respond in this state… How does that accomplish the goal? Besides, I don't want him torn apart like this. I want him to feel something other than pain. There has to be gaps where he can think and consider what we have to offer."

"I was just doing a blitz to start out with, testing his stamina—"

"Enough. Go back to Experimentation. You're needed there, anyway.

"Brack, get over here."

Brack appeared to his left and unchained his wrist, then unbound him the rest of the way.

A face appeared in front of him, blurry except for piercing blue eyes. "Oh, what have they done to you…" A hand reached for him and he felt like pulling away but he couldn't move. The hand stroked his hair back from his forehead. "I'm so sorry, Jason. We'll have you fixed up in no time."

A poke in his shoulder. But then it withdrew and a few moments later, the pain dissipated, replaced by a soft, warm glow.

Elena kissed his forehead, then directed Brack to carry him back to his room. Avoiding his back, he carried him down the hall then laid him on his stomach on his cot and proceeded to wash the cuts then bandage them.

Elena dragged the bench up beside him. She shook her head, golden hair swishing a little. "I won't let anything like this happen again. I promise." She cradled her stomach. "You know, I had a scare too. A lot of pain and blood. I thought about you when I was lying on that bed and they were pushing things back in, trying to save me and my baby. All I wanted was to get back to you. But you were so far…. Finally I'm here, and things will be better from now on. Soon my baby will be born, and we can be together…."

He was so relieved to be away from pain, so bundled in comfort, that he barely registered her words, much less the wrongness embedded in them…

All he knew was that she cradled his head as she tipped a water bottle to his lips and he sipped it like blessed nectar. A few drops of water quenching his thirst more than a gallon could have on the Outside.

She hummed softly, soothing him. Sleep crept up on him and he welcomed it with open arms.