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She kept getting flashes of it.
Waking up. Head throbbed. Dizzy. She was sick.
Mal wouldn't have guessed there was anything else they could do to her. They'd broken her. They'd won. And then they'd kept going, taking turns with her, like little boys trying out a new toy. Could they blame her for retaliating? For pouring ten years of anger and self-loathing into that second? For taking from Tex precisely what he'd taken from her. She hadn't even thought about it, really. She'd just flinched, and it had happened. She still had the knife. Tex had given it back to her, tossed it to land on her belly. She'd screamed. She did remember that much.
She'd thought it was his way of relenting, saying he'd won, saying it was over. She'd thought it couldn't get any worse.
She was wrong.
She puked, shifted. Only then realized her feet weren't touching the floor. She thought of Foka. Her left shoulder was on fire, hot and swollen by her ear. She whimpered.
In the darkness, someone laughed.
She was lying on the floor when Foka returned. Some part of her cringed away, just like last time. It was a small part of her. She could say that much for the pain. It kept her present. It kept her here, in herself. It kept her from thinking about the mark she'd bear until her skin rotted off her bones. That part, that would bother her some time, some day soon. Hell, it bothered her now. But it wasn't so bad compared to the pain. Nothing was.
Still. Shock had set in, leaving her shaking, cold and clammy. She'd finished the water. She hadn't meant to. She was thirsty, so thirsty. She'd only meant to take a sip, and then she was drinking the whole thing, and then throwing it up. She didn't really know how to explain that to Foka. She'd try, anyway.
"W'll, lookie -hic- who's'wake." Slurred words. Thick accent. She shivered, but she was sweating. The room was hot. Full of the scent of hot metal.
His voice had made her jump, and she realized she wanted to curl into a ball again. That shape, at least, she knew was safe. Or it had been. But Tex had taken that from her, too. She couldn't bend her knees, let alone make a ball. She only rolled her eyes to watch him come him. He was walking. There was that much at least. Could he still break them out? Did she even want out anymore?
"I finished the water," she greeted lazily. "It was an accident." She lay there, prone, staring up at the ceiling. She'd torn away the bottom of her shirt with her good arm. Hurt too much to have anything on her stomach. Used it to cover up the swollen mass of bruises where her left shoulder had been. Modesty?
Tex would be gone by morning. She knew that. But it gave her no joy. There was another burst of pain. She saw double, fought the urge to vomit again, and whimpered instead.
Tex, limping toward her, pale and slick with sweat. Green. Reeking of liquor. Benny and the Professor behind him looking sick. His wast and hips a mass of red, bloody bandages.
"Y'think -hic- 'mgonna kill you, bitch?" Laughter. Mania. God, she was scared. She tried to wriggled away, heard tendons and ligaments in her shoulder stretch and pop.
"Not gonn'kill you," he slurred. Dying, she realized. Felt nothing. "Gonn'mark you." Heat. The smell of red hot metal growing stronger.
"Benny'n'I, we use'ta own a ranch. Bred big, ugly cows. Broke horses. Stupid, stubb'rn ones. Made 'em lissen. Made 'em work. Branded 'em. Mine."
A realization. Cold fear in that hot room.
She didn't want him anywhere near her. She wasn't afraid of him, quite. Whether she trusted him or hated him, she couldn't tell and didn't care. She wanted to sleep, ideally forever, but the pain wouldn't let her. She'd have shifted away if she'd thought it would be easier. But her shoulder was still huge and hot and swollen and everything else hurt too much to move.
She looked at him, stared at him through fever bright eyes, and tried to remember how to speak.
She said, "Did they find the Catalyst?"
She still didn't know what it was, and still doubted whether he did. But they needed to start lying. Or Foka did. Mal was done caring. She'd do anything now if only she could sleep and escape the pain.
He'd showed her first, holding white-hot metal close enough, she smelled burning hair and would have puked again if her other shoulder hadn't been in danger.
A circle the diameter of a baseball. State of Texas carved inside. And inside then, that clock in London. Big Ben.
Tex laughing as the epiphany came over her. Putting the brand back in the fire they'd stoked. Benny circling around behind her, because she was swinging away, shoulder be damned.
Tex again, slurring, swaying. "Yer mine," he whispered. "Y'hear me? Fr'm now til you rot, yer mine. 'f I never fuck y' again, yer mine. Got this brand. Breakin' stubborn bitches."
Mal had started planning in the hour since they'd left her here. They were like clocks, all of them. Decent at their jobs, or the Warden -- the Warden? -- wouldn't have hired them. But sick, or they wouldn't be here. And they could use that. If Tex was the leader, they'd be weakened. They could strike next time. Maybe get out. Maybe if she screamed. She thought maybe she could still scream. She had screamed so much already, but nothing and everything hurt. Could be worth it.
The pain, the shock, the breathlessness had been bad. The sound had been worse, like steak on a grill. But the smell would be burned in her mind just as surely as the brand in her stomach. Cauterized the knife wound cleanly. No infection there. Not from the knife.
She hadn't eaten in days. She'd just vomited twice. She was hungry. And her burning flesh had smelled...good.
She hadn't passed out. Couldn't. But she'd gone limp, stupid from shock. They'd yanked the shirt back down over her head. She screamed.
They'd left her in the cell in the dark, alone. She'd tried to ball up, screamed again, uncurled and lay on the floor, waiting.
What if Foka was dead?
"Tex is dying," she said slowly. Talking hurt. Breathing hurt. "Maybe dead. Definitely by morning. It's only two fo them left. We could do it. we could run."
She looked at him, gaze only slightly unfocused, swollen shoulder pillowing a flushed cheek. Another wave of pain. She lingered at the far edge of consciousness and delirium.
"We can get out of here. We can fly. I can fly."
Waking up. Head throbbed. Dizzy. She was sick.
Mal wouldn't have guessed there was anything else they could do to her. They'd broken her. They'd won. And then they'd kept going, taking turns with her, like little boys trying out a new toy. Could they blame her for retaliating? For pouring ten years of anger and self-loathing into that second? For taking from Tex precisely what he'd taken from her. She hadn't even thought about it, really. She'd just flinched, and it had happened. She still had the knife. Tex had given it back to her, tossed it to land on her belly. She'd screamed. She did remember that much.
She'd thought it was his way of relenting, saying he'd won, saying it was over. She'd thought it couldn't get any worse.
She was wrong.
She puked, shifted. Only then realized her feet weren't touching the floor. She thought of Foka. Her left shoulder was on fire, hot and swollen by her ear. She whimpered.
In the darkness, someone laughed.
She was lying on the floor when Foka returned. Some part of her cringed away, just like last time. It was a small part of her. She could say that much for the pain. It kept her present. It kept her here, in herself. It kept her from thinking about the mark she'd bear until her skin rotted off her bones. That part, that would bother her some time, some day soon. Hell, it bothered her now. But it wasn't so bad compared to the pain. Nothing was.
Still. Shock had set in, leaving her shaking, cold and clammy. She'd finished the water. She hadn't meant to. She was thirsty, so thirsty. She'd only meant to take a sip, and then she was drinking the whole thing, and then throwing it up. She didn't really know how to explain that to Foka. She'd try, anyway.
"W'll, lookie -hic- who's'wake." Slurred words. Thick accent. She shivered, but she was sweating. The room was hot. Full of the scent of hot metal.
His voice had made her jump, and she realized she wanted to curl into a ball again. That shape, at least, she knew was safe. Or it had been. But Tex had taken that from her, too. She couldn't bend her knees, let alone make a ball. She only rolled her eyes to watch him come him. He was walking. There was that much at least. Could he still break them out? Did she even want out anymore?
"I finished the water," she greeted lazily. "It was an accident." She lay there, prone, staring up at the ceiling. She'd torn away the bottom of her shirt with her good arm. Hurt too much to have anything on her stomach. Used it to cover up the swollen mass of bruises where her left shoulder had been. Modesty?
Tex would be gone by morning. She knew that. But it gave her no joy. There was another burst of pain. She saw double, fought the urge to vomit again, and whimpered instead.
Tex, limping toward her, pale and slick with sweat. Green. Reeking of liquor. Benny and the Professor behind him looking sick. His wast and hips a mass of red, bloody bandages.
"Y'think -hic- 'mgonna kill you, bitch?" Laughter. Mania. God, she was scared. She tried to wriggled away, heard tendons and ligaments in her shoulder stretch and pop.
"Not gonn'kill you," he slurred. Dying, she realized. Felt nothing. "Gonn'mark you." Heat. The smell of red hot metal growing stronger.
"Benny'n'I, we use'ta own a ranch. Bred big, ugly cows. Broke horses. Stupid, stubb'rn ones. Made 'em lissen. Made 'em work. Branded 'em. Mine."
A realization. Cold fear in that hot room.
She didn't want him anywhere near her. She wasn't afraid of him, quite. Whether she trusted him or hated him, she couldn't tell and didn't care. She wanted to sleep, ideally forever, but the pain wouldn't let her. She'd have shifted away if she'd thought it would be easier. But her shoulder was still huge and hot and swollen and everything else hurt too much to move.
She looked at him, stared at him through fever bright eyes, and tried to remember how to speak.
She said, "Did they find the Catalyst?"
She still didn't know what it was, and still doubted whether he did. But they needed to start lying. Or Foka did. Mal was done caring. She'd do anything now if only she could sleep and escape the pain.
He'd showed her first, holding white-hot metal close enough, she smelled burning hair and would have puked again if her other shoulder hadn't been in danger.
A circle the diameter of a baseball. State of Texas carved inside. And inside then, that clock in London. Big Ben.
Tex laughing as the epiphany came over her. Putting the brand back in the fire they'd stoked. Benny circling around behind her, because she was swinging away, shoulder be damned.
Tex again, slurring, swaying. "Yer mine," he whispered. "Y'hear me? Fr'm now til you rot, yer mine. 'f I never fuck y' again, yer mine. Got this brand. Breakin' stubborn bitches."
Mal had started planning in the hour since they'd left her here. They were like clocks, all of them. Decent at their jobs, or the Warden -- the Warden? -- wouldn't have hired them. But sick, or they wouldn't be here. And they could use that. If Tex was the leader, they'd be weakened. They could strike next time. Maybe get out. Maybe if she screamed. She thought maybe she could still scream. She had screamed so much already, but nothing and everything hurt. Could be worth it.
The pain, the shock, the breathlessness had been bad. The sound had been worse, like steak on a grill. But the smell would be burned in her mind just as surely as the brand in her stomach. Cauterized the knife wound cleanly. No infection there. Not from the knife.
She hadn't eaten in days. She'd just vomited twice. She was hungry. And her burning flesh had smelled...good.
She hadn't passed out. Couldn't. But she'd gone limp, stupid from shock. They'd yanked the shirt back down over her head. She screamed.
They'd left her in the cell in the dark, alone. She'd tried to ball up, screamed again, uncurled and lay on the floor, waiting.
What if Foka was dead?
"Tex is dying," she said slowly. Talking hurt. Breathing hurt. "Maybe dead. Definitely by morning. It's only two fo them left. We could do it. we could run."
She looked at him, gaze only slightly unfocused, swollen shoulder pillowing a flushed cheek. Another wave of pain. She lingered at the far edge of consciousness and delirium.
"We can get out of here. We can fly. I can fly."