Every couple hours... Days... Weeks? The noise would quit. Suddenly, without warning, ringing silence would fill his ears.

You would think that a reprieve, right? No. The absolute silence following the screech was just as bad. The residual vibrations in his eardrums had a constant, high-pitched ringing in his ears. His breathing sounded amplified, echoing about the cell and in his own head.

It was a new torture.

Then, after a time, the screech returned. Just as his ears would acclimate to the shrillness, his body beginning to succumb to the fever and fatigue, the screech would stop again. His head pounded. His stomach, in response to the audible stimulation, stopped just short of forcing his organs out through his nose.

He lost count of the repetitions.

The fever burned hotter and hotter, burning his blood, and playing tricks with his mind.

Occasionally, through the screeching, he heard voices: the voices of Citram and Vorn. Mac and Vector. Of Vidian and them all laughing. Back when they would all sit and tell stories, trying to forget their stress and exhaustion.

In the silence, over the ringing and rushing of blood that pounded violently in his head, he heard whispers.

Small explosions of light and darkness erupted in his vision. Just as his body was entering blissful unconsciousness, the lights began to strobe.

He screamed in frustration and anger. He screamed in desperation and helplessness. With the burst of emotions, he leaped from the cot, heedless of his injuries, to sprawl against the cold glass of his cage. He beat against it, smearing blood and bile, screaming unintelligible pleas and condemnations.

The flashing stopped. With it the screeching. The opacity cleared from the wall, revealing a man at the controls, reclining with his foot propped atop the console.

"Sixteen days." The guard shook his head. "And in your condition, too. Damn, but I thought you'd die before you broke." Shame and anger rippled through Saedah.

"That bet'll cost me with the night shift." The guard added under his breath. "However, the real fun begins now. And let me tell you; I don't envy your lot in life." He smirked evilly.

She walked in, decked in a military uniform that Saedah didn't recognize. That alone was alarming, in and of itself, as it was literally his job to be aware of any and all adversaries of Conclave. She cast the guard a sidelong look and approached the wall.

"Sixteen long days. I've never had anyone last that long. "She touched the glass, looking him over. "Did you know that the human mind falls to insanity after only a few days without sleep?"

Saedah bared his teeth to her.

"But you aren't human. Are you?" her mask of mock seriousness irritated him.

He growled. He'd thoroughly lost his control of his blood. The Calm was gone completely, and his humanity had no power remaining to fight against what the Baultoni half wanted.

"At least, not fully, anyway. You lasted a full week before we let you sleep more than a half-hour at a time. Three hours that night. Then another week of half hour naps. The past two nights? We've done everything to keep you awake. Paid off, I'd say." She smirked at him.

He insulted her in his native tongue.

She tsked at him and shook a finger. "Don't use that tone with me, Chrontas. I know your language." Chrontas. No literal translation existed in Common, but essentially in the Northern Oon'Aran Muqtal dialect of Oimi, it was slang for half-breed weakling/trash/filth/whore.

Saedah slipped into his native tongue, "Fuck you, harlot."

She laughed. "I assure you, under different... Circumstances, I may have taken you up on the offer. You are… well you were quite attractive. Not so much now, though, and I'm afraid your disposition is quite atrocious." She answered, in perfect Oimi .

The inflections were even spot-on. As she had said, under different circumstances, that would have been immensely attractive. Currently, however, it was pissing him off.

She tapped the glass, and continued in Oimi "Your face is red, Chrontas. Is it the fever, or am I pushing your buttons?" Her words were slimy with false concern.

"You may do with me what you will, bitch, but you will get no information from me."

"And that is where you are very, very wrong." Her face exploded with genuine glee. Her smile was big, exposing her teeth and crinkling her eyes; like a kid who'd gotten the best birthday gift. "George! I believe we have a contestant! If you will..." She motioned to Saedah.

His head, still pounding, erupted in more pain as a deep, bone-jarring roar echoed in the room. In that instant, the gravitational pull in the room strengthened, forcing him to his knees. The wall hissed as a hairline fracture appeared vertically in the center, the two halves sliding apart. Before he could respond, one set of firm hands gripped his arms while another shackled his wrists behind his back. The frog-like man, George, clamped the manacles down about three clicks too tight, causing them to bite into his just-clotted gashes.

The second chubby and balding guard wrenched Saedah painfully to his feet.

"Fuck you." Saedah spat between hisses at the abuse. Then he gasped as his shoulder popped painfully, numbing his fingers. One of the man's eyes was a milky white. A jagged scar bisected it, running from his hairline to one missing nostril. The guard gave a good yank to the chains in return.

"If you don't mind, Linkerman, I would like his blood to remain inside him... For the moment, at least." She leaned closer to him and loosened the manacles, wrinkling her nose as she got a good whiff of his perfume. "Take him to the infirmary. And the baths. His stench is quite offensive."

Of course it was. He'd been in such a fever daze through most of the audio abuse that he'd been unable to reach the toilet in time. Not to mention the dried, pungently aromatic vomit and general body odor and sweat... Or the smell radiating from the infection.

The two guards, George and Linkerman, drug him down several hallways, through more doors, everything looking the same. The metallic walkways, the hissing doors. He was on a ship.

That narrowed his location. He could be on a floating ship on a body of water on some planet, or on a spaceship, somewhere off-planet.

Essentially; anywhere in the universe.

Perfect.

They did not pass any portholes, either, so that was no help.

They reached the infirmary, where a thin, wrinkled and very silvered old woman sat on a stool. Her posture was perfect, and it was abundantly obvious she had been a true beauty in her youth. With delicate features and still-plump lips and large, light blue eyes hedged with laugh lines, she looked kind. Like everyone's favorite, elderly aunt. when she finally noticed their presence, she spun and looked Saedah over with a sharp eye and ugly twist to her mouth. When looking at him, her features were hard and it was nearly impossible to imagine her smiling. Her nose wrinkled when his extraordinary stench hit her.

"Bay three." Was all she said. The guard dragged him down the pristine white walkway and unceremoniously tossed him onto another cot. At least this one was clean and softer than the one in the cell. They unclasped the manacle around his left arm then anchored the free end to the bedrail. Linkerman produced another set and did the same with his right. They chuckled as they passed the woman on their way out.

"Such absolute filth. Feral ruffians being where you have no business, fighting for no reason. Killing sons and daughters. Husbands and wives. Hope you've enjoyed your arm. Glad it spoiled, I am. Better than you deserve in my opinion. Lady wouldn't let me just lop it off and shove it up yer ass, though." She mumbled, poking and prodding angrily as she hustled around him. When she brought out a needle the length of his foot, though, Saedah tensed. "Oh, yes. You can bet yer lucky stars I'm not the sort to make this 'just a pinch' so... Remember to breathe." She smiled, her perfect white teeth gleaming in the bright light.

The next four hours involved a lot of blood, screams, and silent pleas for death. He passed out at some point, after the sadistic granny had finished 'cleaning' the wound with what felt like a steel brush and then started cutting out the rotted meat.

He woke to his arm and both wrists wrapped in red-stained gauze and still chained to the hospital bed. There was a faint beeping issuing from behind him. It chirped in time with the heartbeat pounding in his arm. His throat felt like someone had poured bleach down it. His head throbbed, but less than it had when he first left his cell. There were numerous tubes running from below his thin covering to various machines. Some were red, some were clear. Reading the pouches hanging above his head, he saw his species and blood type listed on the label of the red bag, saline pouch, and attached antibiotic.

A much younger nurse came in. Her gaze passed over him briefly, lips in a tight line, and went about her tasks in the small curtained room in silence. She checked the fluid levels in the IVs, his vitals, and lifted the gauze on his arm. The nurse hissed and cut him a sidelong look that held a tinge of pity. She drew a syringe from her apron and a vial of painkiller from the nearby drawer.

Still silent, she drew a fair amount and injected it into the line trailing from his IV.

Saedah groaned as a fog settled over his brain, while the deep all-consuming pain all but vanished from his Swiss cheese-like arm. The last thing he saw before succumbing to sleep, was the woman at the partially open door, her hand resting on the latch and looking over her shoulder with furrowed eyebrows.

When next he awoke, it was with cold water thrown in his face. He was again in a cell. His hands were bound with the familiar primitive manacles and chains. This one was similar to his previous cell, but larger and with bars instead of glass. There was even a tiny square porthole high in the wall overhead, just below the ceiling.

George, tossing the bucket aside, bent to bring his face closer.

"Hey, asshole. Time to party." He grabbed the chains and hauled Saedah painfully to his feet, where Linkerman grabbed his wounded arm and squeezed, dragging him down the darkly lit passageway. The pain from his grip caused Saedah's knees to weaken and nearly dump him on the floor.

But all the hells would freeze before he'd voice it to those two mouth-breathers. Sheer willpower locked his muscles and kept him vertical.

"Welcome to the promised land, my esteemed guest."The accursed woman announced, enthusiasm soaking her words. "Where promises made will be fulfilled." she paused to hum, attempting a seductive purr. "I did promise pain, and a bit of spilled Intel, didn't I? Both will be had."

"Blah blah." Saedah growled, "Just get on with it so I can go back to sleep." Linkerman actually laughed.

"If you insist." She motioned for the stainless-steel chair. The contraption was something out of a medical-themed horror movie. According to the visible gears and joints, the arms and legs swung independently. The whole thing looked like it could be made to lay completely flat. Small stains of dried blood clung to the bolts and wires and between the gears and joints.

He was tossed unceremoniously into the uncomfortable chair.

"You know, I can get in a chair by myself." Saedah was tired of being thrown around. The men ignored him and worked to strap him down. The woman chuckled but only watched. After checking all the straps twice, the guards took position in chairs placed along either side of the door.

When the men sat, she turned and lifted a syringe from the table beside her. It was filled with a bright green, eerily clear liquid.

"Know what this is? No?" She jabbed the needle deep in his thigh and thrust the plunger home, emptying the contents in one swift, painful motion. She was heavy handed, and the injection felt more like being punched. Despite attempting to swallow the grunt, it escaped. "This is most commonly called 'liquid polygraph' you'll get the point in a few minutes. Meanwhile, what is your name?"

"Veron DeCrawley"

"Birthdate? What calendar?"

"December 25, 4680. Standard."

"Native planet?"

"Hyphos."

"Birth date for that calendar."

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Sepsudon 3, 110."

"That should be long enough. How are you feeling?"

The drug was beginning to kick in. His vision blurred as his eyes dilated. Saedah could feel his pulse quickening. Apparently, the drug was laced.

He felt... Great.

"Feelin' light headed and like kicking your face in." His voice slurred drunkenly. His tongue and lips were slow to form the words.

"Very good." She drawled. "Your name?"

"Veron DeCrawley." They went through the same questions four times before she administered another dose, and moved on to more pressing matters. From experience, she was getting dangerously close to the maximum amount that would leave a subject living. In high quantities, the drug could cause the heart to fail.

"What is your affiliation with the conclave?"

"My affiliation is a paycheck. Merc, baby cakes. I'm sure you can understand."

"Where is your base?"

"RREC Colonies."

"Planet?"

"Yes." The liquid polygraph was strong. He had come way too close to spilling. He ground his teeth and had to think of redirections and part truths.

"Planet Name?"

"There are a lot of them." It was not a lie.

"Which Ghost are you?" Of course she had to ask that. Think, Saedah. Does she really know, or is she hoping? He prayed she was hoping.

"I'm not a Ghost." He was alive and corporeal.

"How does the Conclave militia recruit?" She was frustratingly specific with this question.

"Meetings." The serum was a difficult thing to combat. It would rip the answers from his lips if he was not careful.

"Where are these meetings?"

"How the absolute assfuck should I know? Location changes on a monthly -check me, MONTHLY- schedule. And last I knew, I'd been in your oh-so-delicate Neanderthal hands for at least that." He spat it all at her in a rush, trying desperately not to slip.

"Keep your responses short." She snapped back, pinching his cheeks painfully in a grip meant to intimidate. All it served to do was to piss him off more.

"Oh, because 'I don't know' would have worked so well, huh? If ya wanted short answers, ya might have laid off the talky-juice, sweet cheeks." Anger started to build, heating his face. He could feel his ears burning.

George strangled a chuckle.

"I was under the impression that your particular breed was more conservative."

"What's left of us after the exodus? Yeah. Usually." Saedah worked a kink from his shoulders with what range of motion he had.

"Mixed breed," she hissed.

"And proud."

With that, the woman sighed and unfurled a canvas bag, revealing a row of normal mechanics tools mixed with medical items. In any other setting, the tools would have been innocuous. Presently, though, the array was frightening.

Saedah cursed. Yep, looks like fun just rolled in with friends.

"We'll see if you say you're proud again later." She selected another fairly large syringe, looking over Saedah with a demonically sweet smile. She drew a small amount of clear liquid from a bottle labeled with the digit 1 before pocketing the vial. Her fingertips caressed his exposed skin as she moved to his left foot. "Where is your base?"

"Your ass." His teeth gleamed in his snarl. Still smiling, she took his big toe and slowly slid the needle below the toenail. Her grip only tightened as she fought against his thrashes. "Try again." her voice purred around his hisses and uncontrolled thrashes. His body had primal survival mechanisms that would not be denied.

"Fuck. You." He growled. His voice skipped an octave as he all but screamed 'you'.

"Wrong answer." She sank the plunger in one swift motion. The liquid had to be acid!

Holy hellspawn in a handbag! He screamed in his mind. It burned! The sensation crawled up his nerves, burning every nerve up to his groin. The muscles of his leg bunched and twitched, writhing in their attempt to flee from the pain.

She drew the needle from his toe, blood oozing from under the nail. She drew another dose and moved to his right foot.

"Where is your base?"

"We're gonna be here a while." he gasped, knowing that if he gave, even a little, she would win it all. Again, the needle slowly made its way into his toe, just below the nail. This time, she twisted and wriggled the needle, drawing out and heightening the pain, before asking the same question again. Saedah insulted her, again. She injected the contents of the syringe.

Again.

Rinse and repeat 8 more times.

His feet and legs were on fire. His nails had turned a sickly mixture of blue, black, and red.

The woman stood and sighed, reverently setting the syringe aside before lifting a pair of pliers. She blankly stared at the tool for a long moment before ordering another dose of the psychoactive stimulant. Linkerman stood, and Saedah was surprised to see uncertainty in his eyes. When Linkerman emptied the syringe in Saedah's veins, Saedah could feel that the substance was more heavily laced than the previous doses. His whole body relaxed and he nearly lost the reluctance to spill precious intel. That was, until he looked back at the woman and her pliers, taing in her completely insane horror-movie grin.

"Oh, goody." Saedah laughed, slightly crazed.

"Where- oh fuck it." she clamped the pliers on the nail of the first big toe, and slowly -oh so sickeningly slowly- ripped the toenail from flesh. Saedah let out a reluctant, gurgling moan. At this point, it was all he had the strength to do.

His toes were almost numb now. Almost. Mostly. Sort of?

Honestly, not at all. The pain was agonizing.

This would not be the worst of it. The worst was still to come.

She did the same to three more toes before she stopped and looked Saedah over. He was sweating and his eyes were pinched shut. She could tell he was struggling to keep his faculties about him. "Where is your base?"

Lon'Byal! He thought, biting back the response before it could be verbalized, but just barely.

"Go fuck a cactus." It wasn't his most creative quip, but no one could expect him to be creative at this point, could they?

She clamped the pliers onto the toe she just de-nailed, the ridges biting into the extremely sensitive flesh. She squeezed hard enough that Saedah could have sworn he felt the bone crack.

Several hours later, Saedah sat in a new level of pain. The straps on the chair served only to root him in reality. Blood dripped from fingertips, crushed and nail-less. His toes were in the same shape. The bitch had brought the syringe out again, injecting it into the webbing between his fingers and toes. She then poured a salt water solution over his raw nail beds, followed by bubbling and burning peroxide.

He never answered her question. He never begged. He did scream. He did cry. And pride be damned, he did piss himself. Especially when WitchyBitch dropped some sort of liquid burning hell into his eyes.

He had never once believed that the Ghosts would benefit from their stint with the Spectors, building resistance against such drugs and learning how to resist their effects. He had thought that learning how to think under the influence of such inhibitors was a waste of time and energy, not to mention an embarrassment for all involved. He had thought that the training and exposure to such torture methods were a waste of blood and emotions. He had been very, very wrong. He would kiss Vector if he ever saw the boy again.

After that, Linkerman and George drug him limply back to his cell. He laid in pain, shackled to the bed, chains wrapped around a pipe. He used the sharp edge of the manacles to carve a line into the paint on the pipe. He then began to beat out codewords he'd once used in the tunnels of Oon'Aryx as a boy. He avoided patterns. He switched up and mixed the messages, adding pauses at odd intervals. It was something to help keep his mind from breaking.

Occasionally, he thought he could hear responses. He wasn't sure if he was hearing things, considering his state of mind. He did not have room, emotionally, for hope.

He actually fell asleep at some point, and dreamed of snakes eating his toes and fingertips. In the nightmare, he was weighed down with them, unable to fight back, as they slowly poisoned him and ate at his extremities.

He was jolted to consciousness with ice cold water to the face, again.

Yippee, he thought, a fleeting notion of guilt seizing his heart. He knew what was coming, and was tempted to simply tell the woman what she wanted. Maybe it would stop the pain.

He tried, repeatedly, to enter the Calm. However, they knew what he was. They knew that by drugging him with litrispanol, he wouldn't be able to find the trance; the Calm. The drug had been a huge turning point in the war his people had fought several hundred years ago.

They'd fought and lost.

Akumini explained that she was using this drug on him. It was added to his sedatives, anti-bacterials, healants, and food. No one knew what the long-term exposure would do to a Keroai Baultoni, nor to a human. The Keroai were Baultoni that could achieve the Calm. The Keroai were the precious few Baultoni that could achieve the Calm. They were considered the purest Baultoni. So imagine his people's surprise when he, of all people, started exhibiting the symptoms. The schools had been hell, barely teaching him to control it. They taught him more about survival of the fittest, in a ruthless world where everyone else was much larger than himself.

During the war, the drug had only been used for a short time: a mere three weeks.

In those few weeks, his ancestors had nearly been eradicated. Those Baultoni alive today, lived only because their ancestors hadn't fought. They'd been refugees who'd fled before the enemy patrol's barricades blocked all possible escape.

Now, however, he was under the same drug that had helped defeat forefathers. He'd been rendered helpless, hopeless, and a liability. He should have died in that raid. He should have let that grenade end him.

With a start, he realized his mind was wandering.

He snapped back to reality while the wonder-dorks were dragging him back to the promise-land. What glorious manners of fun awaited him this time?

From the brightly lit secluded room, his routine began. He had no way to judge the passage of time. The only regularity he witnessed from his cell was the shift-change. The always silent guards were quick in their shift changes, with only a quick unintelligible conversation passing between the two teams.

Then Akumini would arrive randomly with either two or three goons, depending on what was scheduled for that particular class. There was arts and crafts; his body the canvas, and the only available color: red. Unless you counted the varying shades of bruises. Then there was science class. This was broken into sections: chemistry and physics. They drugged him, poisoned him, and tested his skin's resiliency to increasingly unpleasant concoctions. Physics included lessons on gravity, hanging him from his ankles for a few hours, or days... He couldn't tell. Learning how quickly water fell onto his face. How objects in motion stayed in motion, unless blocked by his body; or every action has an equal and opposite reaction. I.e. - a bag over the head causes asphyxiation, and one helluva headache. Every session came with only one question.

"Where is your base?"

To which, if he was able, he would respond with: "Don't I get a shag or something out of all this?", "Those pants look a little tighter on you today… eating well?", "Dear gods, woman… brush your teeth!", "I think I can smell your tuna from here." ... The list goes on. Usually, this instigated a fury-filled beating that left him staring at the ceiling wondering when he'd passed out.

But 'electronics class' had to be the worst. There was a fine line in torture between trying to get information, and doing it for the sheer joy of seeing your victim helpless at the end of your cattle prod. These sadistic bastards would gag him and play until he passed out.

After about two week, based on his best estimation of time, they arrived on a planet. The gravity shift of entry and the typical sounds of docking had his nerves frayed beyond belief. When they drug his shaking body from the cell, it was night. He attempted to commit the constellations to memory and spent the next few solitary days pondering his location solely on a few moments' worth of recollection. It took his mind off his hellish situation while he sat naked and starving in yet another cell.

From there, his sessions of torture grew shorter and less frequent as he was given to other slaves for training. He was fitted with a collar, which was controlled by the 'Ceeder', or head slave. If he did not obey an order, he would receive a shock. If he did not meet expectations, he would receive a shock. If he breathed wrong, or looked at an employee or valued slave wrong, he would receive a shock.

Before he knew it, another month had passed.

A month to the date after his arrival on the planet the cursed woman returned to his slave cell. He'd become docile, resigned to his new position in life. He gave no resistance as her men stripped him to his loincloth. They led him to a vast arena, where he and every other male slave were presented to a large gathering of guests. By this time, the trembling in his damaged hand was minimal, due to the drugs pumped into him. His wounds were healed, even if they had healed sloppily.

Of the twelve male slaves, he and two others were chosen for their sick entertainment.

He stared at Akumini, not wanting to believe he heard her correctly. He knew her depravity. He was a first-hand witness to her darkest side. Or so he had thought.

He was ordered to fight the other two male slaves to earn the right to eat that night.

The penalty was death. It wouldn't be too horrible a fate, considering his life at that moment. He didn't want to fight. Looking to the others, one's eyes were wide with fear. The other's were narrowed with determination. Saedah just shrugged and took a seat in the sand. Closing his eyes, he imagined he was sitting in his solarium, basking in the warmth of sunlight. His breath was knocked from him as one of the other males tackled him bodily. The face above him was twisted in a snarl, streaked with tears and sweat. Spittle flew from his mouth as his breath left him in great heaves. His blazing blue, bloodshot eyes were crazed. He began beating Saedah's face with double clenched fists. Each punch was accompanied by a shaky 'sorry'

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Saedah would not fight. He plainly refused to do so, even when he could feel blood running from a broken nose. He was sure he swallowed a tooth, and blood was flowing into his right eye. It would be all too easy to end the fight. The one above him left himself open.

One quick, well placed jab to the groin would disable him. Saedah could then kill the poor soul three different ways, never leaving his back. Even so, Saedah would not fight. He plainly refused to give those dark-blinded bastards the amusement.

Then the guards were sent in to prevent his unentertaining death.

The guards were prepared for just such an event. Two of them held him while Akumini herself drugged him. The drug, designed to incite rage and promote fighting, reacted intensely to his mixed blood and sent him into a killing frenzy.

He was informed later that he had murdered the two opponents methodically and gruesomely. It was one of the best viewings Akumini had hosted in years. He remembered only snippets, like pieces of an odd dream. However, he preferred not remember it at all, and he felt guilty for that.

It rekindled in Saedah a hatred for every living creature in the universe, aside from his fellow slaves. He began lashing out at any guard stupid enough to let his attention wander for even the briefest of moments.

He added two eyeballs to his mental collection. They had popped right out of the guard's eye sockets with so little pressure. Granted, it had been gross to dig his thumbs that deep into the guy's eye cavities. He also had a thumb and an earlobe in that mental collection. He managed to mete out this damage, even with his collar shocking the literal piss out of him. The guards were always quick to over power him, so he had to pick one target and do as much damage as he could before the collar went off. After a swift beating, he was hauled off and publicly punished. After each incident he hoped he would not live to see the next day.

Unfortunately, that hope had not yet been made a reality.

Yet another long month later, the cuffs were once again required. He was told it was due to his 'elevated aggression'. He scoffed at the term, both amused and irritated. They labeled him as though he were an unreasonably aggressive puppy. Those fools had brought a wolf into their house and cornered him.

So as he had nothing better than to ponder his captivity, he practiced the hang. It was a large metal drum the Ceeder had given him after hearing him banging his cuffs against the bars. He grew up with Oon'Aryn Code and began playing short harmless messages. The other musically-inclined slaves were quick to create intricate melodies around the beautiful patterns he produced.

No one had caught on, so far as he could tell.