Saedah, washing dishes in the scullery, found his reflection nearly unrecognizable in the gleaming metal of a pot. It wasn't so much the distortion in the bottom of the pot, as the toll taken on his body. Everything he had gone through these past months had altered his appearance. These past several long, miserable, painful months.

He'd long ago become used to seeing his hair cropped short against his scalp, almost a clean shave. The change that truly caught his attention were his eyes. His eyes had become sunken, with great black circles below. They'd grown dull and had a heavy tiredness to them. His cheeks displayed signs of malnourishment. Looking at his body, he noted how each cord of muscle and tendon stood out from his skin. Despite his appearance, he was kept in far better health than a good many of his fellow slaves. Akumini and her men wanted to keep the entertainment 'healthy', after all.

And he was good entertainment.

Beyond the showings, he couldn't decide whether he hadn't been there long enough, or if she was waiting for something more. She had not quite lost interest in him, but her interrogations had become lackluster when she participated. She had a select crew of officers who'd taken control of his 'appointments'. She had to be waiting on something more than the death of his rebellious spark, even waning as it was. She still did not know for certain that he was a Ghost, but she suspected. Not many of the fomenters had the number of node implants as he did.

Somehow, he still held enough of a spark to resist her interrogations. He wanted it all to end, but they kept bringing him back. So if he couldn't defy her through death, the only thing he could do was remain silent. He'd barely managed it, so far. She still did not know who the Ghosts were.

Akumini would not kill him. Not yet. She seemed reluctant to let him waste away.

She was holding onto the hope that with time, he would break. He was, after all, so close. She'd seen so many willful souls break that she recognized the slouched posture. She knew that heavy-lidded blank stare. He didn't even watch those around him as he once had.

She was showing exceptional patience towards him, but she expected an exceptional payoff. Just as soon as he broke.

As such, she made sure he got the medicine he needed to heal. She left orders that he be well-fed so he could fight. She even sanctioned a higher dose, so he would be more docile and receptive to her questions. She would protect his health above her other slaves. In addition to an untapped well of intel, he was still useful in the arena.

He regained some muscle with the extra protein and vitamins he received. If she was willing to feed him more, he would be more than happy to use it, if only to piss Her Royal Bitchery off. Occasionally he would snap out of his daze and really see the world around him. When he did so, he would find himself in a mood to simply throttle a random rude prick of a staff member.

The feeling of bone crunching under his fist made him feel more human. The metallic tang of blood in the air was the sweetest smell. He could remember nothing smelling better. He knew there was something wrong with that, but he didn’t care. Even the muscle-clenching current of the collar coursing through his body was a welcome alternative to living in the clouded recesses of his mind.

Some of the staff were halfway decent. Well, decent for a den of rabid badgers. He would fall into that daze, leaving the staff to believe he was submissive and weak. Then he would explode and send as many of them to the infirmary as he could. There were occasions when his attacks were planned. Those were times he looked for opportunities to exploit their lax attention. He would catch the target when help was farthest away, when Saedah could inflict the most damage, and beat the ever loving hells out of one or four of the pricks. Usually, this approach was taken only after a females on his rotation was returned with a black eye or covered in bruises.

But the trouble he started always ended in punishment.

His body had slowly become accustomed to and dependent on the drugs regularly given to the slaves. It was the easiest way for the staff to keep the slaves pliant and submissive. It worked. It made him angry that it worked so well. It made him angry that he knew and lacked the self control to defy it and fight against it.

Saedah knew what was happening. Each day was killing another small piece of his soul. Hells, each minute was killing him emotionally- and literally in the physical sense- judging by his reflection. He'd not realized just how much he had deteriorated.

But the drugs? He was learning to welcome the mind-numbing release from the horror of his new reality.

The drugging started out as merely a method of slowing him down when he resisted. Ever so slowly, though, the dosage had been increased. Then they started injecting him even when he was not resisting. In hindsight, that was the beginning of his terrible decline. He'd started to obey. He had stopped fighting tooth and nail over everything. He'd started letting things go without a second thought. Things that he would never have tolerated previously. He'd begun to accept that there were worse things than scrubbing floors, toilets, doing dishes,or any of the other menial task.

He knew he was lost when he stopped resisting the injections, but he would take the only comfort he could find. His body was already acclimated to the drug in his system. He had experienced withdrawal, and the thought of experiencing it again sparked an intense sense of dread.

He was thoroughly addicted. Wholly and utterly dependent on the substance. He woke up before the guards called for them, so that he was ready for his dose. He did his duties and eagerly waited for the evening to hurry the hells up.

The evenings, after his rotation was sent back to the cells, was when the blessed medcart rolled through. He was no longer given injections, of which he was both thankful and regretful. Instead, he was given two little capsules, carefully passed through the bars. One was the medicine to control the shaking brought on by the nerve damage. The other was his bliss.

If you disobey, you risk not getting your dose.

Yes, he was an addict. Yes, he hated himself for it. Yes, he had abandoned hope.

At that point, he didn't care. Much. He was just going through the motions, with bouts of the old Saedah breaking through the surface. But those bouts were growing fewer and farther between day by day. The old Saedah was in the final throes of death.

Disobedience and non-compliance was punishable in many ways. The most favored punishment was the Box. The offender would be stripped and placed in a metal box, knees drawn to chest, with only one tiny hole from which to breathe. Time spent in the box varied. He had spent anywhere between a single day to three in the Box. While in the Box, the only sustenance received was hot water fed via a tube inserted through the breathing hole four times a day. The Box was also hot as all hells. Not to mention that the individual entombed in the gods forsaken Box was not given any drugs.

This resulted in the victim going through withdrawals. First, the mind would start to break down in the silent darkness, replaying withdrawal-induced nightmares over and over as the temperature increased. Then nausea would kick in, just as aches began to creeping deep into every muscle. The pain would crawl up every nerve and settle in the brain. Even the bones began to feel like they were cracking. The thirst was unquenchable, but nearly all the water ingested would be immediately expelled. Some slaves died in the Box, despite monitoring vital signs and not actually wanting to lose property needlessly.

Even after their sentence was served, they were not immediately given relief. They were required to work for their fixes, after all.

As such, he had grown to both loath and look forward to the viewings. He detested himself for the thoughts, but when he was chosen to participate, he was given extra doses of bliss. The extra doses did a lot to kill his self-loathing, general distaste for his still-beating heart, and miserable excuse of an existence. For a time, at least, he could forget.

In short, his existence consisted of two choices; behave or act out. If he behaved, he got his high and didn't shake uncontrollably. If he misbehaved, he got the Box, the whipping post, the water-board, or strung up by his wrists in his cell. When strung up, he was forced to tip-toe for hours to relieve the strain on his poorly-healed wrist and arm.

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He was intimately familiar with each and every form of punishment suffered under the rule of Akumini. His back, he was sure, looked far worse than Vorn's, now. He'd technically died numerous times under her tortures and punishments, only to wake in the med wing. The old woman was gleeful whenever he arrived. Be it for sutures, resuscitation, broken bones; it didn't matter. The woman made each and every experience an extension of his torture.

He learned quickly why his bond-brother had never wanted to speak about what he had been forced to endure under torture on Na'Boht. He was positive he would never be able to do so, either. If he was ever to leave.

He was breaking. Piece by piece, day by day, month by month. He was breaking. He'd never been prepared to survive under extended capture.

The guards came to lead the slaves from the scullery back to their cells, breaking his existential ponderings. One of the guards reminded him of Mac, with sharp eyes and the red-brown short-cropped hair that stood in unkempt spikes. He couldn't stop the errant thought of the Ghosts. He wondered if they already assumed him dead. They surely would.

He rarely allowed himself to think about his family. He was worried that if he did think about them, it would hasten his end. He was almost positive that the final shreds of his strength and resolve would not hold up to Akumini's constant torment if he did.

He did not want to betray his old comrades. His friends. His family. But he knew that eventually, if death did not claim him first, he would. He prayed death would find him first. He begged each and every god he'd ever heard of for them to take and never release him. Any of them. Even any of the hells would be preferable, if he could escape the resuscitations.

Then there were the days when Akumini would come down to the cells and lead him away. Sometimes he was led away in manacles, kicking and fighting, if only feebly. Mostly, though, he was resigned to his fate. Apparently Akumini thought today was another great day for bloodshed. His heart shriveled a little more at the sight of her and four guards striding down the row of cells. A pair of slaves he tentatively considered friends cast him pitying looks. Not wanting to add to their mental anguish he forced a brave face. He still found pity distasteful.

Despite the brave facade, he definitely didn't have the drive or energy to put up the fight he once had. But the guards were cocky and left themselves open against their unarmed charges.

A quick plan played out in his mind. The four guards were essentially ignoring him. This corridor was narrow enough that he could use it to his advantage. If he tripped this one and sent him into that one, the furthest guard would be blocked and he'd have a mere moment where he could face only one opponent. After that, it would be a game of momentum as the guards charged him.

The first two went down smoothly, hindering the thirds path. He managed to land a punch to the fourth, but it lacked the power to do more than anger the guard. He was too weak, too tired.

The follow-up kick he aimed at the man's head missed its target, resulting in a swift attitude adjustment via knee to his midsection and simultaneous blow of a baton across his left shoulder blade. In short, he was overpowered quite easily.

"Okay, okay. I give." He gasped at the second swing of the baton, fighting to suck in air. They made quick work of cuffing and dragging him to The Room.

After strapping him into the familiar chair, the questions quickly followed. They were always regarding Conclave. Sometimes those questions inadvertently gave him little clues as to the well-being of his old friends. Akumini would ask questions regarding their call signs. Or ask why the Drakkar or another ship was seen in orbit around a particular planet.

He almost blew his own story when she asked about the Pegasus. Apparently it had been reported in a fight on Hyphos. That was likely for reputation reasons. It would be a blow to morale to learn that one of the Ghosts had fallen, right?

"How would you expect me to know? I was a mercenary. How many-" The slap echoed on the bare walls. He turned his head and spit blood at her. "How many times are we going to play this game? I. Don't. Know." And it wasn't a lie. Not anymore. He really had no clue. When he left the base that day, the Ghosts had been living life moment to moment, one mission at a time. His stay in captivity had exceeded any potential future plans he knew regarding Conclave movements and targets.

After each questioning, he was put back in the Box. He assumed it was because he couldn't answer any questions to Akumini's satisfaction. He was left in the dark box with nothing to do but think of his friends and who was flying the Pegasus. The hours ticked by slowly. His muscles were cramping and he wanted nothing more than to sleep.

The hose snaked through the hole to his right, blocking the little light the box allowed. He squirmed, needing to get his face closer to have access to the trickle of water. The hose poked his eye and splashed a stream of hot water across his face. He grappled in the darkness, trying to find the hose. When he finally found it, he shuddered at the first hot, sweet drop that touched his tongue. Unbidden, a sob escaped him. His eyes burned with unshed tears. He simply had none left to shed.

By the time someone opened the top of the Box, his body was a screaming mass of cramped muscle and thirst. He knew he was dehydrated. His mouth felt like a cotton ball and tasted like bile. He had puked up most of the water he'd been given. The goons in charge of watching the box brought the high-pressure hose over the rim and blasted him with frigid water.

After a solid day in near-triple digit temperatures, the frigid water hit his skin painfully, the shocking cold seeping into his bones and muscles quickly. Already tense muscles clenched spasmodically. His breath left him in a whoosh and his vision went dark. The shock of it rendered him unconscious.

He awoke, again, in med bay.

"Wake-y, Wake-y, smell the malarkey." The old woman said, rolling her stool over to the table and laughing as she taunted him. "Did you know that you've been here for over ten months, now?" she wore the biggest grin he'd seen on her to date. It was hard to believe he'd once doubted that the woman could smile. He now wished she would stop.

"Something like that." He responded. His tone was flat as he turned his eyes back to the ceiling..

"For someone who was Conclave, you sure break easy." She muttered, shoving a far-too-large needle into a deep, lengthy gash on the bottom of his foot. He tensed and pure reflex caused his foot to jerk against the strap. He glared down his body at the woman.

He almost missed the wide-eyed, shocked expression of the new nurse as she slowly turned around. Had she not been standing just beyond the woman's shoulder, he would not have noticed her. As their eyes met, she swallowed and attempted to school her features. Pre-occupied as he was with the stitches going into his foot, he couldn't process what emotion was still in her eyes.

He awoke in his cell.

"Can I not die in peace?" he asked himself, in Omoi.

"I believe not that should please …." The male voice cracked in broken Omoi. "What is word I search? Queen?" Saedah turned his head to look at a new face in the neighboring cell. He looked like a Ceur, like Citram. He was young. Possibly not yet old enough for the Rites of the wilds. According to the unmarred and unadorned ears, he would guess the boy less than eleven Gaean years. Eleven was the age when the Ceurish mothers first pierce the cartilage of their sons in a ceremony dedicated to honor their ancestors.

"Slave Mistress, Lady, or Lady Akumini" he offered in Common, knowing there were cameras in the cells. He didn't wish to get the young male beaten for misusing a word taught him by Saedah. "She is no queen."

"Ah, indeed. Slave mistress. I thanking you." He paused and twisted his lips as he considered Saedah. "You are well?" The boy was well educated, and Saedah immediately wanted to slip into teacher-mode. Instead, he only nodded. There was no use in trying to teach a slave.

"You need to be silent. It is time for sleep. You will face punishment next, if you continue." Saedah whispered in the central Ceur tongue. The boy's eyes widened in pleasant surprise, nodding.

Before he fell silent, however, the boy whispered, "I am not Centran Ceurish," Those were the Ceurs of the largest congregation. "I am of the Retho. Of the Arctic Pass. My name is Rehsh Oznam."

"I am unfamiliar with the Retho, Rehsh Oznam. I am Veron Decrawley, of the…" he paused, hardly remembering what his story was any more, after the Box and having had a dose pushed through his veins. The high was setting in, and he was so tired and calm after so long. "Of the slaves. I honor you, young one… " he forgot the rest of the honorific greeting. Rehsh brightened, anyway.

"I did not think this was known to others!" he happily chirped. Nearby, several seasoned slave hissed at him to quiet down. "I honor you, elder, and beseech your wisdom. May your ancestors find you worthy." the boy bowed, awkwardly from his position on the floor, and beamed at Saedah. "Good night, friend."

Friend, huh? Saedah thought mournfully, knowing that cheerful disposition would be squashed soon.

"Good night." Saedah breathed, unaccustomed to such high-spirited newcomers. They normally arrived already in shambles. The rest were angry. He had never seen a happy slave. Even after days in the Box and the drugs in his system, Saedah slept fitfully.

The next morning, Rehsh stumbled and spilled a tray of soup on one of the guards. The irate guard lashed out with his staff against the boy's back. Saedah watched it all in slow motion, frozen in place. Rehsh, with manacles binding both wrists and ankles, could not catch himself when the staff connected. The boy was knocked forward into a stairwell, attempting vainly to catch the smooth wall of the stairwell. His foot landed on open air above the first step. The binding chains got in the way, and the boy vanished from sight.

When a set of slaves returned with his limp and broken body, the guard laughed at the 'weak' creature. It was then that the long buried ember of retaliation rekindled. Saedah vowed these people, all of them, would burn. It may be his last act, but they would burn.

He marked the name of the guard: Harl Opans.

It had taken the unnecessary loss of a child's life for him to remember why he should fight; why he should rekindle that spark. That he had been part of a movement to make all worlds a better place for everyone. That he had once fought to free slaves.

He just hoped he would be able to keep the spark burning this time.