The Lucifer Effect [Closed | TG Interest]

[Nalaya]

0300 Hours
Alashi and Ian's Room

Somewhere, there was a click of the door unlocking, so quiet that it might have been a trick of the imagination or a dream. The silence continued for another few moments and then something hit the door with enough force to splinter the wood and crack the doorhandle, knocking it in despite the furniture once braced against the door. Brilliant, blinding light from highly powered flashlights flooded the room as the team moved in with the grace and frightening speed of a serpent striking. "Vostikanayan! Freeze!"

These were not men and woman inclined to be gentle--not a five man M-team. They were wearing body armor that protected even their faces (including respirators) and carrying assault rifles. The Hostillian was the first one they saw and he was armed, which posed an immediate threat. They looked alien, crouched in dark uniforms with weapons at the ready and their faces obscured. "Drop the weapon!" one barked at Alach, rifle trained on him. And they weren't alone. The others weren't going to proceed until he was secured. The other was a drunk and unpredictable, so they might end up needing everyone for that. Simonyan was watching the bedroom door, his adrenaline surging through his veins.

It was the perfect time to go in--even people awake were at their least aware. But even then, weapons were a problem. Particularly blades. If Alashi was within twenty five feet of them and was non compliant, they were fully within their rights to shoot him dead. After all, the Unkndirnei had said "Take alive if possible." That left a little wiggle room.

---

0300 Hours
Alin and Fritz's Room

Alin seemed about as comfortable with sleep as Fritz was, frequently waking even though she did her best to make no sound and return to sleep as quickly as possible. It was a Sisyphean task, certainly. She had finally surrendered to being awake when the smell of aromatic coffee wafted through the room and gotten up with a wry smile to fix herself a cup with an inordinate amount of honey to almost mimic the Nalayan-style coffee that everyone in the country seemed to prefer.

There wasn't very much she needed to say. The silence with Fritz was comfortable enough, reminiscient of the companionship she'd had in the past where talking was nice but hardly necessary. However, it wasn't to last much longer. Someone must have unlocked the door with a locksmith's skill while the coffee pot was hissing and steaming away, because the door suddenly slammed open with a bang. "Vostikanayan! Freeze!" the shout came.

Alin dropped her coffee reflexively, holding her hands up and palms out so they wouldn't shoot. These were the federal, military police. You didn't fuck with them unless you wanted to have a very bad and very short day. And these officers were armored and armed to arrest dangerous people, dark BDUs rigid and bulging in places where there were heavy ceramic plates. She wasn't certain if those assault rifles had simunition rounds or the real thing, but she knew she didn't want to find out. The tasers and batons were definitely real enough. The fact that they were all wearing respirators meant they were armed with tear gas and pepper mace as well.

If there were another exit, she might have entertained the thought of running, but just for a second. Only an idiot ran. Because if the RV had to chase you, they were bringing a vicious ass-kicking with them. Particularly a M-team. "Fritz, do what they say," she advised urgently.

[Kampfenland]

The shock of the assault stunned Fritz into an almost catatonic state. He unconsciously dropped his coffee on the tile floor that comprised the area nearest to the window, the shattering sound sounding like a gunshot to his ears. No games were to be played tonight, only the real thing. He continued staring out the window, half expecting a two man team to smash through the window, their boots driving cleanly into his face and firmly sending him into the sleep he had spent the past six hours trying to accomplish.

The shout that came shortly afterwards was firm, hostile, and with extreme prejudice. "Vostikanayan! Freeze!" The first word sounded as gibberish, but he knew full well who they were when the second word rang loud and clear. Polizei, he whispered to himself, And they mean business.

The sound of Alin's voice was drowned out by the shouting of the men as three broke off to clear the room, but he knew what she said. Resistance would bring only a swift and imminent demise, and so soon before the real thing began would be a waste. He turned around, the bright flashlights glaring into his eyes, illuminating only the barrels of their guns. Whether they were real or not he could not be certain, but it is always wise to err on the side of caution. He had killed people for less.

Dropping to the ground slowly with his hands raised in the air, and slowly putting them behind his head, he awaited what would most certainly be a violent and physical arrest. They may just shoot him, police in his country were not unknown to do this, and he could fall under no assumption that these men were any different. He thought about his family and friends back home, and knew now there was no return, and if there was, it would be many days and nights.

[Hostillia]

The night was an excellent time for a man to practice his forms, it was a time of silence and there was nothing that would break a man’s concentration. The night was even more valuable among the people of the desert who understood that movement was a good way to keep warm, second only to the embrace of loved ones near a mighty flame. And so, without family or friends, here in the exotic yet familiar land of Nalaya, a single man stood breathing steadily, moving his feet and arms in clear and decisive acts to demonstrate a restrained power in balance with liberated grace, and this was good. Alach continued to follow the simple steps in his form, forward, left swipe, right jab, flying roundhouse, back, dart right, feign retreat, turning right slice, and so on and so forth in accordance with the order he had determined. He was still uneasy in the night, respect but suspect, his people had told him and this was something he held very true to himself; his hosts had been polite enough this was certainly true, but with large smiles can larger deceptions and he hardly expected such a cryptic people as the Nalayans to stay true to their hospitable ways indefinitely. They were somewhat like the Han; they believed they were set apart by their past experiences from the rest of the world, they were civilized in the day, and they were always kind while you stayed in their house but in their soul, where they kept their darkest secrets and their most core selves, there was a savagery which could not be described nor forever contained- this was where evil lived and thrived and grew with winding roots like a great tree of death. The difference between Nalaya and the Han’s Dynasty was that here in Nalaya people were aware of this tree and they kept it trimmed and small like a banzai, whereas the Han denied its existence to themselves and to others and in doing so allowed it to grow larger and larger until eventually it would consume the soul.

These were the thoughts that were rushing through his mind in the serenity of practice and steady imagined combat, he doubted strongly that they would be allowed to live here in this luxury for any extent of time at all, and it worried him even more so that they had not been given orders to report in the next day. It felt like a ploy. He glanced over to the blockade he had set up, he wasn’t truly satisfied with it but there was little more he could do, if the bedroom door hadn’t opened out, rather than in, he would have barricaded that as well. He wondered if the city ever truly slept and he could vaguely make out sounds from across the city, things that he honestly could not identify so instead listened to with silent curiosity. Then there was a new sound, one that was almost intentionally quiet. It was strange, coming from the door, his mind began to race- it was possible he had misheard or was over reacting but his culture demand caution, especially when he already had dark suspicions. Suddenly there was an explosion of action and noise as the door came flying in, moving the few bits of furniture it did not shatter, and forcing Alach to jump and dodge no less than three different pieces of shrapnel with expert precision. No sooner had he landed than he was blinded by impossibly blight and the sound of feet slamming forward drowned out even his inner thoughts.

They had shouted at him, said something but the words were lost either in translation or in the chaos surrounding their demands, he had expected them to charge forward and impale him with their bayonets as the Han would have done and then he realized that they were waiting on some kind of response from him. These people either had bayonets or ammunition one, they shouldn’t be waiting unless they were going to offer him some kind of last rights but he doubted that they would be able or willing… then it occurred to him, they weren’t here to kill him. They aimed to arrest him, transport him somewhere else, interrogate him, and then (and only then) kill him. For a moment he considered his options, if they were not permitted to kill him then he had some leeway- he glanced towards the window, he may not have been overly fast but he wasn’t wearing nearly as much armor as they were and so he should be able to outrun them if the jump from the window didn’t break his legs. The city was large enough that he might even be able to lose them, but on the other hand he didn’t know anything about the city nor about the nation, he wouldn’t make it far if he did escape them and, as he had told rebels in Shangmai, you can outrun one but you cannot outrun their radio.

Fortunately, there weren’t too many of them, five maybe if he could judge from his still dazed state. They were almost certainly unaccustomed to arresting people such as him, he was from another country and another world for all practical purposes. He had trained in some martial arts while in Shangmai, he imagined himself more capable than the average arrestee, he could jump, spin, and land within them- then he could probably take at least one or two before they managed to subdue him. By then, the drunkard would certainly be roused and he’d be able to use his guns to finish off the damned aggressors. Of course they may be wearing body armor, his eyes had not recovered enough to judge in which case he would have to physically render them unconscious which would be far more of a challenge than simply killing them.

Then another thought squeezed into his mind, the drunkard in the room over. Why would anyone want to arrest a Hostillian? They were notorious for being backwards technologically and mentally, no one would have any interest in a single Alach Bashi a simple Hostillian. This allowed for two alternatives, either they were here for the drunkard- it wasn’t impossible that the man had broken some kind of contract with his home military and now he was being called and punished- in which case they were not after him and they would gladly kill him if he resisted. Alternatively, they were after him and the drunkard for something they had done with the strange intelligence agency, perhaps there had been a coup or they were in truth a terrorist organization, in which case they had both participated and had received essentially identical information. How many men did it take to relay a meeting? One. These men would kill him, he was forced to determine and they would not hesitate to kill him because they were either not after him at all or they were after everyone who had been called to meet with the group from earlier and in both cases his resistance caused his death. The Maguoren would have happily traded their life for the sake of a violent struggle and a bloody death, but the Shamoren did not engage in waste life, which in the desert was more precious even than water. Do not engage what you cannot defeat, it was wasteful and a sin.

“Please,” he said firmly, his pupils shrank to their smallest state as he stared directly into where he imagined the eyes of the speaker stared back, he slowly removed his weapons and set them on the ground before lowering himself onto his knees, “come in.”

[McNernia]

The Nalayans came in like he did, some time ago on exercise, the business of the whole affair, the Hostillian had been doing his forms. And Davis would have been doing something similar. Perhaps late night sparring if, he had not been granted the blessings of a headache, the McNernian SAS trooper heard the Nalayans coming through the front door. Evidently they took a route expected but not all together expected. "Hello chaps, I have done nothing wrong. I do belive that it has begun no?" The McNernian would have fought but he was wracked with pain and memories.

[Nalaya]

0300 Hours
Alin and Fritz's Room

There was no speech other than commands to just obey and comply. That was when Alin knew this was not a normal arrest. No charges, no warrant, no rights, nothing. Just frozen cuffs around her wrists as she was pushed forward into the floor, her hands twisted in a joint lock that could easily break her fingers, wrist, elbow, and even wrench her shoulder out of its socket.

Fritz was treated with the same level of gentleness, his arms wrenched powerfully back into the same joint lock as the cuffs were slapped on. Because both of them were compliant and quiet, neither were handled particularly roughly. Their discomfort was incidental to the arrest, rather than frustrated or malicious.

"Up," someone ordered in the darkness. Alin felt herself grabbed by an arm and hauled to her feet even as another figure did the same to Fritz. Both were being watched with extreme care, lest they suddenly prove themselves dangerous. Her nightvision was shattered by the blinding lights, but she could still fight. However, she doubted they would win anything other than a lot of bruises. Time to be a good girl until the chance to fight presented itself.

They were hauled outside and down the stairs into the back of a waiting military truck, where they were very quickly not alone...

---

0300 Hours
Alach and Ian's Room

The experience for the two men was almost identical, though the arresting officers were much less gentle. Ian ended up slammed against a doorframe as one of the RV soldiers actually physically spun him around and trapped his wrist. The woman arresting him was much smaller than Ian and probably not as strong, but she had curled her fingers around several of his and twisted just enough to cause agonizing pain if he so much as twitched the wrong way. One cuff went on, then the other. They hadn't understood a word the Mcnernian said--English was not a common language for Nalayans to know.

Alach, however, they could understand. He spoke like a Vatani, but with a strange syntax and accent. "You are under arrest. Move away from the weapons, Paron," one of the figures in black said, barely distinguishable with the blinding light. "If you resist, we will shoot to kill." It was only after that warning that someone went to handcuff the Hostillian, treating him with the care of a farmer confronting yet another venomous snake in their orchard. They had arrested very dangerous people before, and his little invitation sounded like something worthy of a Khlarar or Inkvizitor.

The two of them were herded out into the cold night air and forced rather unceremoniously into the back of a military truck where two other people were waiting: Alin and Fritz.

[McNernia]

The McNernian did not resist, the business of this selection, they evidently knew what they were doing. He was here for several reasons, for himself to cleanse of his sins, Alcohol, to work with a foreign national security office and for his unit. He figured Nalayan methods would be good for interrogation. The woman did not need strength. In his state he could not put up a good fight, and well dealing with a Tier one operator they would shoot to kill. The McNernian was not inclined to fight, he had expected perhaps to be ambushed on the way to the rendezvous. He let himself be moved out to the truck. He turned back and spoke in his Arabic, which was described by a native speaker from the colonies as Most impressive. "Has it begun?"

[Hostillia]

0300 Hours
Military Transport Truck

Alach listened calmly to the instructions being given, and nodded to indicate he understood their instructions, they’d shoot to kill- just as he suspected. He raised himself onto his feet making it a point to keep his chest exposed, surrendering his life to them if they should care to take it. Strange that they would first shout ‘freeze’ then tell him to ‘drop the weapons’ and then tell him to move away from them, but he supposed they had not known that he would have had the weapons when they entered, though he had assumed with all the technology the world beyond the Middle Kingdom had to offer that they had means of seeing through the walls. He considered moving his blades across the room, but having just removed them he worried taking them up, even to comply with orders, may encourage a lethal misunderstanding. Instead, he simply walked closer to the blinding lights before turning his back towards them, hands still in the air, and returning to his knees. Could he still have reached the weapons if he so desired? Perhaps. But they were a fair enough distance away, and he had no intention of making the effort to resist, in the Desert his word would have been sufficient to demonstrate this, but these people could not know of his concept of honor nor if he was himself an honorable man.

“Paron,” the sun kissed man said quietly to the arresting officers, he was a flexible due largely to hours of form practicing and other martial exercises, and he used this flexibility to assist the men in shackling him. Oh certainly they were fully capable of doing so without any assistance from himself but he felt this made their job somewhat easier and certainly saved him some pain in the process, “those blades are ceremonial to my people, if it is within your power, please see that they are either returned to me or that they go to a man worthy of them.” With his sole request verbalized, he resigned himself to be relocated, they were marched out quickly and easily into the night’s cool embrace, it reminded him well of his home and he made less than no moves to resist them they had already demonstrated and verbalized their commitment and intent. Besides, he felt he owed them some amount of respect; it seemed that he had been treated far nicer than his drunkard of a companion and they had no reason to do this. As he was being hauled away his mind drifted back slowly to another time in his life when he had found himself captured, only before he had been taken by harsher means and by less honorable captors. As they were marched towards a military truck he allowed the memories of the past to come over him, the wave of memory carrying his mind along with its flow.

Somewhere in Ming Shamo
The Divine Empire of Hostillia

Slowly, Alach opened his eyes and saw the blurred images of a chair, a table maybe but his eyes were too filled with the tears from a fresh awakening to make out any shapes for certain, and before he could focus he found that his eyelids were too heavy to be held open and quickly they collapsed in and closed. Still, his ears were acutely conscious and he could hear people speaking quietly it was his tongue but their accent gave away their origins and they were certainly not of his home village or their neighbors. No, rather, they were from further out, perhaps even from the borderlands, their dialect sounded familiar. Slowly his mind returned to him more fully and he realized that the gnawing pain he was feeling in his extremities, the warm pulsating pain, was reminiscent of a bite from the Shamo Viper. The nefarious little creature was well known to hid in the sands and strike at the feet of the unsuspecting who unknowingly paid it offense, they could be lethal if not treated quickly and properly, but this was not the proper pain for a fresh bite, this was the residual pain of someone who had harvested the viper’s venom.

Their venom was widely sought after and obtained by many tribes of the desert bold enough o pursue the snake, it was useful to dip arrows and blades in as it caused temporary paralysis, rapid loss of consciousness, and memory lapses- there were dishonorable men who used it against women to have their way with those they could not obtain without devious means. However, he doubted that his captors intended to rape him but he also doubted their intents were overly kind either. Slowly his memory came back to him, he had been pursuing the Alaziiri under the leadership of his more experienced tracker and Cousin Sha’yeb, but they had been ambushed and overwhelmed by their opponent as they moved in to attack. Now, he concluded, he must be in the camp and if they had kept him alive it meant that there was something they wanted from him.

He made an effort to move his arms and found that he could not, due to a mixture of the residual paralysis and also, he noticed as he opened his eyes which had been given the time to clear themselves, due to the chains which hoisted his wrists above his head. It appeared his chest had been bared, and his bottom as well, he had little covering and the coldness from beyond the tent was beginning to reach him. If the cold was already creeping in, how much worse would it be by the time the night came? His chains were bound to a small wooden beam that acted to hold up the main frame of the tent, obviously it belonged to a person of some importance as such a home was not especially mobile and they had been moving against a nomadic group. As his mind continued to clear he began to feel his heartbeat; thump… thump… thump… thump…thump… thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. His breathing accelerated to match his new heartbeat, and he felt the beginning of sweat on his brow, what did these people want with him? How was he supposed to escape and by the Ancestors, where was his family who had come here with him? He attempted to give a tug against the restraints but found himself still too weak to do anything of great consequence; he could feel the panic welling up inside of him like some kind of trapped game, locked in a cage, helpless and at the mercy of his captors… he wished immediately that he had not made such a comparison for game was always killed.

The tent door flap opened slowly and a man walked in, he walked with the retrained might of a desert leopard, he did not wear the traditional garb of their people, but instead wore loose black trousers and covered his chest only with the red cloak that would be used to symbolize a high rank within the Shamoren military, had they a military anymore. As the man entered he approached Alach’s restrained and weary form, his face still obscured in the darkness. The only light in the space was coming from the small flickering candle on the table within leg’s reach of Alach’s swaying form, other than that the tent was largely unfurnished save for a chest on the side that seemed tucked away. Alach attempted to follow the man as he was circled, he could feel the man’s eyes on his flesh and could not help but feel like a lamb being stalked by a lion, especially given his helpless state.

“Salutations,” the man said coming to a stop on the other side of the table, with the dancing flame his face became more visible, he sported a full goatee and beard, and while one eye had a deep gold that many in the desert shared, the other was white and without iris or pupil it seemed, and his the left side of his face entirely seemed horribly scarred with three large red lines which had most certainly been obtained from an enraged beast. Slowly, the full extent of his greeting’s true meaning became apparent, typically in his culture one would greet another with a simple blessing of ‘peace’ and the man’s choice was ominous to say the least.

“Salaams,” Alach managed to reply, he had attempted to cast the fearful gleam from his eyes and the quivering lack of confidence from his voice but had failed to do so, it was as obvious in his ears as he imagined it was in his captors, he hated sounding so small and impotent- he was supposed to be strong and powerful, even in the face of opposition, he was supposed to welcome his enemies and disregard fear. This is what true warriors did… but how he call himself a true warrior? He was nothing, his cousin Sha’yeb, she was a warrior tried and true, experienced in the ways of battle and confident in her prowess as a noble opponent. He was… he was barely a man, and even that was now brought into question.

“No,” the man said, shaking his head without the slightest hint of a smile and keeping his eyes cast to the ground, “no, I’m afraid not.” That was that. He had heard his request for peace and he had flatly and entirely revoked it- there would be no peace here. “I know you, you are Alach of Bashi and I am Niziir of Alaziiri, I only tell you this because I want you to understand two things. Firstly, two gentlemen should introduce themselves before they discuss business, and secondly, so that your hatred for what occurs here tonight, your demon that will haunt your memories, so that both can have a name. I am Niziir Alaziiri. And you will never forget this.”

With these words he made a small call for assistance and two more men walked in, these dressed in the traditional tan clothing of his people, their faces mostly obscured by cloth to keep the sand from finding its way into their breathing passages. He attempted to speak with them, to explain that there was no need for violence- after all, honorable combat was a natural part of living in a land such as Shamo, and there was no reason to expect your enemies to not attempt to strike you. Naturally, they refused to hear him and he immediately wished he could take back the words, they had done nothing to him and already he was begging? By the Ancestors, he was a man of nearly thirteen years! He needed to be strong, to act like a grownup, he had to ask himself- what would his father do in this situation? The large men released him from his bindings and allowed him to fall to the ground before tossing him violently onto the table. His knees were resting on the ground and with his chest pressed against the edge of the table, his arms laid out across it reaching towards the man who identified as Niziir.

“Stop resisting,” one of the men mumbled, delivering a firm knee into his back, slamming his chest against the table edge and knocking the air from him with unapologetic ease, while he knelt where they had placed him breathlessly, the second man went to the chest and opened it, returning with a small handful of instruments.

“What are you doing?” He asked quietly, the cool gleam of the iron nail sat on the table caught the light as it rolled slightly, he had brought two of them, placing one on the table and keeping the other in his hand, the other instrument in his hand appeared to be a simple large rock, probably brought up from the desert somewhere. With surgical precision the man placed the sharp point of the nail into the center of the back of the boy’s hand, the point easily drawing blood from the between the slender bones leading away from the knuckles.

“Wait, no, no!” His shouts were accompanied by what should have been vicious struggling but between the remaining effects of the venom still sapping his strength and the full weight of a man fully grown pressed down on his arm, even his adrenaline fueled struggle was ultimately meaningless. The man brought the stone high into the air, but held it there while the boy winced, he realized after a moment that no pain had come and it was then that he opened his eyes to see that the large man, holding the stone, was staring at Niziir for permission to continue. “Pause,” he insisted, “I call for vis’tm’l,” he shouted, invoking a right for two men to negotiate before a fight, though it was traditionally only observed on the battlefield and held little weight in these circumstances. Much to his horror Niziir simply gave a single nod to his accomplice and the man began to rain blows down from the stone, with each smack driving the stone deeper into Alach’s hand, deeper, and deeper, and deeper, until it eventually pinned him to the table. His initial shouts and curses had quickly devolved into an incoherent babbling of pain and nonsensical pleas for mercy.

“Very good,” Niziir commented, looking over the handiwork, the blood was flowing freely from his hand now; it would have been gushing had the nail not been there to block its flow, Alach tried desperately to form words in his native language or in that of the Han, or anything that might get a message across but his tongue was conflicted and refused to submit to his hellish screams as he pulled against the nail in an effort to retract his hand. “Now the other one.” As his bloodcurdling screams reached new heights it seemed certain that his voice would wake even the dead, and yet over it all the people could hear the steady, violent, thud as the rock came down driving through the second nail.

“Just kill me,” the boy chocked out in between sobs, he couldn’t think about what his father would do, he could not even manage to create an offensive curse to sling, he could simply whimper as he felt the cold metal inside his hands, his hot blood seemed to steam like breath in the nighttime cold. “Why torture me, I haven’t anything you could want…” he could not finish the plea, breaking into silent and slow weeping.

“That was not torture,” Niziir said matter-of-factly, “that was restraint.” The man placed the stone on the table and began to move over to the chest a second time, eliciting screeches of protest from Alach, “the Han, savage people though they are, are very skilled in provoking men to speak.” He paused only briefly as the man returned with what appeared to be a small wedge with a long neck, “they believe that a man should be first forced to see the instruments which will force him to talk, an effective strategy I believe.” As he spoke the room became darker as the man held the small metal wedge beneath the open flame, Alach, unable to retreat was forced to watch in dreadful anticipation as the tip became slowly red with heat.

“What is it’s,” he began but could not finish before an elbow was delivered violently into his spine, the force of it cause him to jump which pushed his flesh against the iron of the nail and caused him another shout of misery. Reaching down to the pinned hand, the man singled out a single finger and the other came over to hold it firmly, still nailed to the table he was unable to move without causing himself agony and so he simply stared agape in horror as realization dawned on him mercilessly, he attempted to scream but his voice had left him and all that emerged was a dry croak, all of his water had gone to his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. “Please,” was all he managed to murmur before the angry red wedge was shoved between his nail and it’s bed, and with methodical slowness the man hammered at it with the stone until the fingernail was slowly peeled further and further back before finally freeing itself all together, his voice had returned with renewed force in this time and he found himself giving cries no soul of this realm should be capable of producing. They seemed to give him a moment to recover himself as the wedge was reapplied to the flame. “What do you want?!” He shrieked to his tormenters.

“I want my questions answered quickly and truthfully,” Niziir replied plainly, standing with his hands clasped with authority behind his back.
“You haven’t asked me anything!”

“Not yet I haven’t,” the man retorted without a moment’s pause, “but we as long as I require and I am in no rush.” The two men stared into each other’s eyes for no less than a solid minute, and in that moment Niziir could not determine if the child was staring with terror or with hatred or with both. “Again.”

0300 Hours
Military Transport Truck

As he came back to reality he realized he was standing before the opening of the truck and soon found himself tossed, or perhaps more correctly, thrown in, the doors slamming behind him quickly. Using the gifted momentum that the police had provided him he rolled gracefully deeper into the truck and in doing so brought his hands in front of him and taking his seat on the floor of the truck. It looked like an act out of the circus, but it had hardly been any great feat- this was why they practiced their forms and other exercises so frequently, so that when they found themselves in such a position they could correct it. He glanced down at his wrists, and at the cuffs, they could be used as a powerful weapon, strangling with ease- and at the moment they were certain his best weapon. There were also three other people present, two faces he didn’t recognize and the drunkard, though he held no animosity towards any of them he could hard claim to trust them and even less confidently could he claim to have any understanding of their capabilities. But they were handcuffed certain as he was, and the chain had a strange way of making comrades out of competitors. Brothers in bondage, so to speak.

He turned his mind back to the matter at hand, he was still unconvinced that these adversaries were at all of friendly intention, and he had reason to believe they were the opposite, they did have guns and that was certainly the greatest obstacle in any escape attempt. But in their haste they had made a mistake and had not taken his sight nor his tongue and so he could see and he could speak and both of these were worthwhile traits that could easily save his life in the coming hours. A moment’s thought indicated that what he lacked, however, was the element of surprise- he supposed he could come bounding out of the back as soon as the doors opened like an untamed monkey from the forest, but regardless if he came out like an ape or a rhinoceros they could open the truck door into a gun or off of a cliff whereas he had only one way to go- out. No, if anyone had it, the element of surprise belonged to them.

“Has it begun?” The McNernian asked him, his Arabic was studied, that much had been obvious from the beginning, but it hardly changed the fact that they were speaking too languages that, though closely related, had suffered from considerable change over the course of divergent evolution, and even then the dialects spoken were not overly similar. Still, he could understand the general meaning of this statement and all the ones that came before. He, frankly, had little desire to have any more associated with the man of drink than he had to be, which is why he had said so little… but, it appeared as though the minimal amount of necessary association had just increased… rather dramatically, and he would not allow petty preferences and prejudices impair his ultimate goal of survival.

“Something has begun,” he said quickly and making minimal effort to be fully understood, “but I would not be so arrogant as to presume to know what.” He had already examined the other two individuals, one was clearly a Nalayan the other had the sharper features of the whites but he had a very difficult time distinguishing between the individuals of that race… they all bore a striking resemblance. Turning his head to the only woman present, he made his upmost sincere effort to annunciate with Nalayan accent and dialect, “and you, Paron, do you speak the common tongue?”

[Kampfenland]

The shock of being arrested so meticulously was not lost on Fritz, but was very quickly disregarded. All part of the game, his mind mused, too focused on what was happening to readily comprehend anything beyond stark realizations. His orders were as vague as they were specific, but had he known a month ago that he would be in a foreign land being arrested without charge and certainly awaiting a quick and brutal end, he would have stabbed a scalpel into his belly, if only to declare him psychologically unstable. This was just a part of what was to begin, the surge before the plan, as in a winter lightning storm: Lightning struck, but it was the darkness that was most terrifying. He couldn't imagine what the girl was thinking, her thoughts were as alien to him as any, and he felt a sense of loneliness from it. All alone, and surrounded by people who have as much control over his life as he lacks.

The trip to the ground was quick, painful, and perhaps overly brutal, but it was certainly better than being captured by the southern rebels of his own country. Then again, they rarely dealt with captives, especially from among the rank and file. They preferred single bullets at close range and bodies left on roadsides. He thanked the Gods that he had not met quite such a dishonorable end; there was no Valholl for those executed as captives. As he reached the end of the line, he felt himself being forcefully lifted and physically thrown into the back of a truck. His blue eyes still dazed and without sight from the sudden bursts of light that flashed his face during the arrest, and the ensuing minutes leading down to the truck.

As he came to, his sight still without focus but at least he could see, if only just barely, he saw the girl, Alin, already in front of him. He presumed that she had been loaded shortly before, and there were no others. He found this odd at first, the scope of the operation was just too big for two captives. A force this size could presumably take a platoon's worth of captured and killed, especially given the size of the operation and the shock and awe of the assault. His suspicions were quickly confirmed as he saw one more man loaded in. He appeared to be quite uncomfortable, and not just from the attack. This man rather clearly had been drinking, and was not feeling as well as he could. The pallor of his face gave the hangover away, and the clean inclination that he was none to pleased with moving his head. Shortly, a second man, this one somewhat larger than the first, was thrown into the truck. Completely opposite of the first man, he was fully aware of the situation, and the sudden acrobatics were almost laughable. Not in a humorous way, but in a kind of unexpected way. This man was large, but still remained highly flexible and balanced. Fritz had never seen such a display before, and it was certainly an interesting surprise, given the night's more unwelcome surprises.

The first man said something in a foreign language, a language he had never heard before. It was certainly not a language any neighboring countries around his own used, it seemed far more foreign, as if from another planet. The second man returned in kind, but Fritz could detect some slight difference, particularly in enunciation. It seemed like a difference between Spanish and Italian, but far more alien. The second man proceeded to address Alin, directly and calmly, as if formality itself had precedence to even this particularly unfortunate series of events. It had no bearing to Fritz, however, as it was not directed at him. It was not necessary to speak unless spoken to, unless the situation deemed it necessary.

Something deep inside Fritz told him that tonight was only the beginning. This was going to be a very long process indeed, and he had a sinking suspicion that there was no guarantee that he would be alive at the end of it. They will want information, but he knew he couldn't give it to them. Failure was more likely a quicker end than success. His life was far more important than the information he had been given, but it appeared that for the first time in his life, the dilemma bore only one course of action that would bring success to both.

[Nalaya]

Before Dawn
The Back of a Truck

Despite herself and the grimness of her situation, Alin laughed gently at the Hostillian's attempt at her language. "It is Siruhi when you speak to a woman, Paron," she said softly, without a hint of reproach or offense. He spoke Nalayan--that was good. "Welcome to our new little slice of hell. This is, if I know anything, simply the beginning of Selection. Gentler than I expected, but still a test."

For her, the cuffs had been a very temporary measure, stripped off as soon as they reached the truck. Instead, they pulled her wrists so one hand was against each elbow and used duct tape to bind her from her fingertips all the way up her forearms so there was no possible room for her to maneuver. They knew what the scars on her body meant as well as anyone. She wasn't completely dressed, just wearing a camisole and the jeans she'd fallen asleep in. It exposed her arms and collarbones, networks of scars left by intent and the lumps of bone that had healed not quite right or calcified in response to constant abuse. She shrugged a little to her new companions as she felt the truck roar to life and begin the long uncomfortable, rattling ride out of the city. The back was half full of crates and other supplies strapped down, so it could only hold six people in the back if they wanted to get really friendly.

The back was rolled closed so there was no light and no window to the outside world, making it very difficult to measure time or know what to expect. Alin was under no misapprehension that it would be pleasant or easy. The Unkndirnei only wanted the best, after all. When a whole nation depended on you for security, there was no room for error.

She wrinkled her nose slightly. "Someone smells like a distillery," she commented, before looking at Fritz and giving him a more directed smile. "Don't worry, Paron Graebner. Together? We can survive this."

Then Alin bowed her head slightly to Alach and Ian. "Alin Vardanyan. It's nice to meet you, though the circumstances could be better. I think we're all in this together now, so welcome to the group."

[Hostillia]

Before Dawn
The Back of a Truck

“Si… Si,” the man stumbled over his own tongue with a near comical effort, this language was infinitely more complicated and more exotic than he had ever cared to know, he had been under the impression that come what may he would at least have a honorific form of address established and with a giggle and a sentence even that minimalistic security had been blasted away like a wooden shack targeted by artillery in the snow touched mountains. “I see, my apologies to you Siruhi,” he was confident that he had mispronounced the new word- sounds simply did not mix and mingle in such a queer fashion in the Desert and Nalaya could either accept that or provide him a teacher, “It is under the least pleasant of circumstances that we have met of unfortunately,” he attempted to eye the woman without being rude, casual glances and unassuming eye movements in an effort to avoid doing any offense. She was restrained; he had been shackled certainly, but he was not truly bound as this woman had been. It seemed it was especially important to their captors that she should not be free, and that could mean only that she was more competent than one may expect at first glance. Although only fools would accept their first inclinations in such a country as Nalaya, he understood they had undergone hardships comparable to those faced by the Middle Kingdom and that could harden the heart of any society.

Still, her dark experiences could be beneficial eventually- if they wanted her restrained so completely than she was certainly a valuable ally to have supporting you rather than acting against you. Eventually, he felt strongly that she would be a powerful friend, especially so if he needed to resist his captors- which was a possibility he would not disregard. He turned his attention to the other man, he was not restrained as the woman had been, but he was well built and had the posture of a soldier. In his years, Alach had learned that there was something unique and universal in the way that soldiers walked, ran, stood, sat, and slept- they did so with a sense of order and authority and these were traits not at all lost on this man. The martially sharp features of his face implied he was from a land far from this place where the people were tanned olive, and if that was true and he was a foreign agent then this light skinned man was presumably similar to himself, selected by his government to serve. Certainly then, if he had the posture of a soldier and the skin of a non-native he also had skills that could be put to good use in any battle that would approach them; but there was something else about the man- hidden behind his eyes that he had seen before, on the field, in the mountains, and in the mirror like surface of pure waters- an instability almost, a terror waiting to be unleashed. Or, he could be entirely incorrect, he supposed- who was he to assume he could predict this man’s mentality based merely on a glance and an interpretation built entirely on a culture entirely foreign to the subject? Still, it was enough to give him pause.

Alternatively, there was the man he had been forced to spend this much of his time with. He was a man of the drink, cursed with spirits who came to torment the weak of mind and spirit. Ancestors, what was such a specimen doing here at all? This was a question worth pondering; after all, they had proven that this experience would be brutal, intense, all-demanding, and potentially lethally brief. If this was the case, why would anyone assign a man so obviously unstable as he to this position? After all, he had simply presented himself to their attackers and surrendered? Had he entirely missed the simple realization that he did have a door blocking their line of sight? He could have prepared an ambush, there weren’t enough of them to fight them both if they were unready for combat- and despite the armor and weapons they had arrived in, he wondered if they were not expecting compliance in their hearts. Of course, perhaps they would have been wise to expect such as it was precisely what they received. Still, this man must have some skill if he had been brought here to experience the hellish horrors that everyone seemed to acknowledge was approaching them. He wondered how many others had thought to barricade their rooms? It had done him little good ultimately, but he had no experience with these people, his next defenses would be far more intricate and hopefully also effective.

Then there was another thought that had been lurking in the reaches of his mind, if he was being evaluated, it was not impossible for the entire matter to be a grand hoax. Perhaps these people were just as much the enemy as the captors who had dragged him to this vehicle with no struggle. A drunk, a killer, and a man he had not yet placed- and then himself, a man from the least developed province in the least developed nation in the, quiet possibly, the world. Was there anything to bind them together and create something resembling a group? There did not seem to be, and there was most certainly more than one way to gather information from a subject and not all were as heavy handed as arrest and torture, false comrades were just as effect and far more devastating. Though, if he had this thought they may have also had similar thoughts which would not inspire them to have any trust in him, which, if they were not the enemy, would be precisely the goal of the enemy- to discourage the possibility of unity between their captives. Such complex scenarios were possible, but in the end he doubted he could resist, combat, or escape these people if he did not have some kind of trust in those he was placed with- respect, but suspect.

“Siruhi, you said that this was gentler than your expectations, and you are a native to these lands. You have expectations where all I have are suspicions, tell me, what should we prepare ourselves for? Are these the same people I spoke to earlier, or are these the enemy of the organization?”

[McNernia]

The McNernian dragged himself to the wall, for a little while he had lain with his face on the floor of the truck. He wore socks and sweats and a T-shirt, the word ARMY was written down one leg of his pants in red. Across his shirt front was an airborne badge. McNernian Army had gear like universities, for the purchase by the public. And well soldiers got some of it, the Staff sergeant sprawled on the floor was one. The Hostillian was asking in Nalayan, he had been assigned as a Cornellian Command trooper, that would be 24s responsibility. He though of Geo who had served in New Edom the man was a good solider. "Well I cannot rightly say about the Nalayans. I have been through something similar, except the objective was not to get captured but it was rigged against you so you would.. The name of the game is how long can you last...." This was said once in Arabic and then in english. "And my name is Ian Davis. Siruhi." He looked to the native woman and then back to Alach. "Well my companion, they may be enemies, this may be an act. I actually dont really know how things are done here."

[Kampfenland]

The conversation between his fellow three captives left Fritz confused, the rolling language they were speaking was one of pure alien roots. No words he could pick out were of any use, and he was sure even if he could, that the conversation was far beyond the reaches of a beginner to their language. Still, he felt the one now sitting on the floor eyeing him, sizing him up. Fritz could not be sure as to what purpose, identification of allies, curiosity, or suspicion. The man's culture was unknown to him, and he could in no way determine if that culture was trusting, suspicious, or outright hostile to outsiders. His own culture was one of suspicion, but so few knew the specific reason for that. He had never met an outsider before being sent to Nalaya, and although he had been taught the evils of foreigners, Fritz felt this being challenged at every step. The police were certainly more friendly than the Polizei of his own country, who were not unknown to beat suspects into comas for entertainment and shoot anybody who dared question them, regardless of whether they had been part of the initial arrest or not. Alin did not appear to be a scheming snake in the grass. The clerks at the office he had reported to did not attempt to scam his money or lift his wallet. With all these contradictions bombarding him, he dared not even attempt an assumption to the man sizing him up.

Speaking in his best English, albeit slowly and with a thick German accent, he introduced himself to the group. "My name is Fritz Graebner, Feldwebel of the Five Wehrmacht Occupation Division. I am pleased to make your acquaintances, despite the bad situation we are in." He felt himself very conscious of his English when addressing the group, but he tried his best. English had been taught to him at a young age, as many boys of that age were taught, but after age 13 his English studies had stopped and he hadn't used it much since then.

"I'm sure we will, Siruhi, though who knows for how long this group will be together," Fritz responded to Alin in his more comfortable native tongue of German. He knew that putting people together, building trust, and then isolating them was a very common tactic in training situations, be it by placing them immediately into different groups or by outright holding them from other people. It was a tactic used in his basic training for the Wehrmacht. He had been placed with three other boys to solve problems, work together, train together, and sleep together, for more than two weeks, like all other groups, before the instructors had forced them to separate for the final evaluation. It was disheartening and taught a valuable lesson: Nobody is ever there forever.

[McNernia]

The McNernian looked at this German speaker, the business of speaking German, he knew that too, Nordkrussen had necessitated the men of 24 MSAS to have knowledge of the German language. "Occupation division, what is that? Oh, my name is Ian Davis I am a Staff Sargent in the McNernian Army." One could guess he was intelligence or SF, and well he was SAS.

[Kampfenland]

The question mildly amused Fritz, but he knew that most countries likely didn't have the same level of internal strife as his own, and thus no specific need for that type of division. "It is a repurposed infantry division meant to hold a specific region, which my division had one of the milder areas in the South of my country. Unfortunately, that didn't stop an artillery shell from nearly taking my life." Fritz paused for a moment, attempting to determine what a Staff Sergeant was. He had never heard of that title, and presumed it to be a rank, but he couldn't be sure. He figured that knowing what it was would help him learn a little bit more about his fellow captive. "Tell me though, Ian, what does a Staff Sergeant do in your army?"

[Nalaya]

Before Dawn
Back of the Truck

Alin offered Alach a smile. "Not the worst circumstances I've met someone. You don't have a gun pointed at me," she said with a soft sort of cheer, as if she wasn't terrified. The truth was, she was one of the generation who felt like they had died long ago. All of this was just extra time as her life essentially stopped and left her in a strange limbo. She wasn't certain whether this was the Unkndirnei or the Vshtali doing this, but it breathed life into the certainty she had held since her days in the camps.

They always come back.

As soon as she had been bound and tossed back into the truck, all the years of soft blankets and hospitals and the freedom to live a life that at least approached normal vanished as though a dream, some high-reaching illusion built on sand. It had been beautiful while it lasted, but not real. Never real. The monsters of her nightmares--no, not monsters, human beings like her which made it so much worse--would come back. They always came back.

She cleared her throat a little as she focused on Alach's other question. "We have a saying in Nalaya, Paron. Prepare for the worst. Either you will be right or very pleasantly surprised. Whoever has us now is going to try and break us. Learn what we have been told. After all, if one commits to serving in intelligence, can you expect an enemy to be gentle with you? For now, we have each other. That is a strength. To go this alone is death. I learned that...it isn't important where. I will do my best to aid all three of you and hope you return me that kindness. But until we arrive, there is little we can do."

Alin leaned back and closed her eyes, looking as though she was about ready to take a nap unless someone else had questions. Instead she let herself go back to those bitter memories and the mindset that had kept her alive throughout. It was a horrible, dark, twisted place to go but it would probably be necessary.

---

A Memory of Arax

The floor is cold and wet against the fevered burning of her bruised flesh, the rough concrete burning as it scrapes into the jutting bones of her hips and presses ruthlessly against cracked ribs. They have finally taken her out of the darkness, the solitude, never silent as the horrible songs are played over and over or people slam on the door with their fists and call her things, then walk away laughing. She hears every word, on repeat, endlessly spinning through her empty head.

Once, so long ago, she thinks she had a name. Now? Animal. Cockroach. Bitch. Arusai. Whore. There is no room there for a person, a soul, a name. She doesn't pray to God because nothing ever happens. When they burned her prayer rope, it felt strangely appropriate because something holy didn't belong in this world. And now?

Everything hurts. She is nothing more than a walking corpse covered in filth, broken and battered with skin stretched tight across her bones. If there is a cruelty known to man, she has been subjected to it here. Except death. Never does that merciful release come. How long has she been here? Forever. Her life before is all smoke and mirrors.

Bony hands, fingers mangled more than her own, gently turn her over. She can feel the femur of the legs under her head as a pillow, but she is looking up at someone she has only seen in glimpses, working and starving and locked away from everyone just like her. A woman without a name, only gray eyes soft like clouds and fair hair that is tangled now and dirty. And now this scarecrow with stormcloud eyes is wiping the dirt and blood off her face with a damp towel, making soft sounds that might as well be heavenly lullabyes.

At her worst, at her most broken, someone cared enough to help her without getting anything in return. She grabbed the woman's mangled hand with the cool washcloth. "Who?" her voice is cracked and dry. She hasn't spoken in...weeks? months? years? Animals don't have voices. "Who are you?"

The woman with the gray eyes just smiles softly. "Anahid."

[McNernia]

The McNernian looked at the German-speaker quietly and nodded. "I too have been through civil strife my country is going through it now, Communists seek to over through a King and Parliament. We don't have occupation divisions, more like divisions engage in occupational duties. Adapt. And a staff sergeant is a rank above Sergeant. Often assigned to an officers staff, I was promoted when I got back from Terpischore, Corporal in the field, some time in barrack and then Special Forces. Promoted Staff Sargent then. Sent here to learn."

[Deadora]

Vatani Territory
Kehrahnii Desert, 5km south of the Dea-Nalayan border
April 29th, 2005

A sliver of moonlight pierced the clouds, illuminating the dusty village, bleaching the sand white, turning sandstone walls to bone. They watched it with hunters eyes from the crests of dunes, just as the hawk watched the sands from her floating perch among the warm winds. All was silent. It was broken with what could have been the dying squeak of the rat killed by the viper. But the impending death this noise heralded was greater than the wildest dreams of the most vicious snake.

With the signal given, the hunt began. Wraithlike figures stalked down the sandy slopes, their fair skin painted black with mud carried in special skins, trekked all this distance from the Dai Dyh, the home grove. They carried bows or crossbows in their hands, their short spears in slings across their backs. Some exchanged the former for the latter as they began to move in among the buildings. Only those warriors that remained concealed out in the dunes were entrusted with rifles, and then only to use them in the direst of events. Ammunition was precious; silence even more so.

This was not her first raid, but it was her first time so deep into Vatani territory. Some of the Black Sand back at camp would talk about the border, about the risks of crossing it. For Sennya the border wasn't real, just a word used by the Nadirii so they wouldn't have to fight the Vatani. No, for her there was just Home, Family, and the Desert and its monsters. Captain of Raids hadn't wanted them to come out this far, she didn't understand the risk of allowing the Nearperson demons to fornicate and proliferate unchecked. They had left anyways, this raid wasn't Sand.

At least, not entirely. Sennya thought, glancing to where her older sister crept forward and to her left. Her gaze rested on the small tattoo on her shoulderblade, a black hourglass. It was the mark of the cartel, inked onto all their initiates, or prospective initiates as it was in her sisters case. She admired the company, how they protected the Dai Dyh, provided for the families, resisted the Nadirii. Sennya . . . had her reservations, but wasn't about to stop her sister from doing what she needed to do to keep their family safe.

When it all went wrong, Sennya would never be sure. She had already drifted into the shadows of her target, a small hut in the center of the cluster she had selected from the dune's peak, spear poised to plunge between the ribs of the sleeping occupant on his rug. Yet the memory of his death spasm had not yet even fled her flesh when the roar of guns tore apart the night. But this was not the crisp, final reports of Kehrahnii marksmen, but the ragged tear of assault fire.

Vatani

D'nark Prison Complex
The Dominion, Nalaya
Present Day

03:27:16

Eyes opened, useless in the pitch black, but the act of doing so pushed the memories from her mind. That night came to her less and less as the years passed, but each time was worse than the last, tearing open the scars and scabs of her psyche, condemning her mind to fester and rot. The anguish of reliving that night didn't even seem personal anymore, more the crueler symptom of the misery she lived in than the trauma responsible for her broken psychology.

Sennya rubbed a rough palm over her bald scalp, criss-crossed with scars, letting the rasp of skin on fine blonde stubble be the only sound in the oppressive silence. As always it halted on the right side, over the scarred over gash that should've been her ear. The ear that now hung 'round the neck of the man who took it. Just the thought raised a pathetic whimper in her throat, would've threatened tears if her body hadn't been dry of them for . . . 14:42:55 22/09/2008 . . . five years. She scrabbled to the wall, pressed her earless side against it, letting the rough cement scratch her phantom itch, and whimpered again. She had just been a girl, was still just a girl. . .

She always took the nearmorning watch. It was when they were safest; when she could afford this. Weak. Pathetic. A sob wanted to force itself out of her throat, but it had been a long time . . . 01:12:46 13/01/2007 . . . since she had last allowed herself that luxury. She longed to clutch for her companion, but forced herself still. Solitude wasn't always a luxury when she was this way, and it alleviated the shame. And Zara needed her sleep, if nothing else.

Oh Zara. Precious Zara. Sennya wouldn't be alive without her, couldn't be alive without her. She had been the only Kehrahnii brought back alive that night. Alone in with the worst criminals of the worst race in the desert, to whom she was blood enemy and beast. Zara was Mak'Ur, Zara was the same. Like her. Outcast and despised, together we've survived. Such was their promise to one another when death or worse threatened to defeat them. It was that promise that gave her strength when she was fragile, or restrained her when she was that other self of black hatred. Sennya would have gladly embraced oblivion long ago if it had not meant condemning Zara to the same.

Screeching metal scraped across concrete, spilling horrid white light into the corridor traversing the cell block, diffusing faintly into the many cells. They revealed a woman, perhaps once beautiful, dressed in rags hardly fit for the meanest of beggars. She still retained the proud features of her people, the straight nose, the proud cheekbones. But eight years had left their mark: she was little more than scars, lean muscle, and skin stretched over a battered skeleton, and a pronounced gauntness had driven into her cheeks. Her eyes, once aflame with all the emerald passion of the Kehrahnii, were dull, flat, devoid of feeling. Wretched by all appearances, but she had survived, and killed to do so.

Sennya's head snapped up to stare at the bars of their cell with all the intensity of a terrified animal. Nearmorning didn't end until 05:00:00; was one of the guards coming to torture them? They were not above such things. She could hear footsteps, recognized one set as belonging to a guard by the way he scuffed the left heel. But they were too quiet, as if Scuffstep was scared, treading on egg shells. In fact, the silence of the cell block had grown more darker, filled with intent. Sennya cowered; was there another pair of footsteps leading the guard's?

A thought flashed like arsenic through her struggling mind: Are they to take Zara away from me? Claws of panic seized her throat at the idea. She knew her cellmates stories, her history. Time spent with the black handed Unkndirnei. This preternatural terror called them to her memory. Were they returning for their own?

I'll kill them if they try. This thought brought with it a silent snarl of bared teeth. She'd kill them, seize their faces and batter them against the stone and metal. They couldn't take her! Not before her fingers found their throats. She'd kill them! Choking and ripping. She'd kill them! Kill the-

"Zara," she croaked, her voice a dry rasp. She used it so rarely these days. "Wake up."

[Nalaya]

D'nark Prison Complex
The Dominion, Nalaya
Present Day

Zarayne T'sarran dal Lledrith had once been a woman not to be trifled with, a warrior without peer drawing her bloodline from the greatest of the Yathrin. That history was still inked across her broken, battered face turned gaunt by years of privation and hunger. The bruises and gashes were still healing, some of them swollen and foul from an infection that had set in with the filth that clung to her body. The only time she was ever clean was when she was hosed down with freezing water as punishment. This was the first night she had been allowed to sleep in so long, without them banging on the door or blaring sounds through the hallway. The cell that she and Sennya shared was separate from the others and barren with no amenities. No bed, no blankets when the desert chill set in. When it got cold she just wound her body, all bones and sinew as she struggled to keep her muscle, around Sennya.

Her feet were both broken, leaving her incapable of walking until the guards forced her to anyway, because the strange limping dance it left her in as she tried to avoid pain, tried to avoid weeping, amused them. What's wrong, Mak'ur? Shouldn't you dance like your mother? She smiled through the pain of waking, that horrible memory cheered by the fact that Sennya had lunged forward despite her restraints and managed to score the man across the face with her nails so well she tore one of his eyes apart.

"What is it?" she hissed in the darkness of the cell. There were no windows, no merciful touch of the outside air she had treasured in her youth. Her lower leg was swollen and stiff, even though she'd torn open the abcess with her filed teeth and pointed nails to let it drain. Without antibiotics, she was dying. The fever had set in, leaving her alternatively writhing in unbearable fire or curled in trembling chill. But she was a warrior.

More than that, she was Khlarar. Detholusin. She did not break. And she would never, never let them take Sennya away. It did not take her honed senses long to sense the source of Sennya's distress, even through the delirium of fever. Iron muscle, no trace of fat left from malnutrition and forced excercise, moved with a frightening ease as she levered her body up. "You take one side of the door," she forced out, her own voice as shredded and neglected as Sennya's own. When she pointed, she pointed to the safer side, where the door opened inward. If one had a gun or was looking for an easy victim, Zara would be their target. Her days were numbered anyway even if she hadn't had the heart to confess that to Sennya. She knew what it meant when a wound started to go septic.

And then she heard the voice, crisp and clear as the mountain wind. "You hid this from us?" someone said, their tone one of absolute venom. It was not the voice of a Vatani, possessed of a different, rolling and soft accent. She could hear the guard stammering out something, perhaps an apology, but it was too late. There was a slam against the prison door and a shrill, bubbling cry. The cracking and crunching of bones, the smell of blood. Someone was beating Scuffstep to death right against the door, in full view of the others. This was someone with power. This was someone who was no stranger to violence and brutality. But more than that, this was someone she knew.

It was the Arrajin Khlarar, Sára Khederian. She knew that voice anywhere. She had called out for it during the night, the name attached dearer than that of a sibling's.

"You, get this open," the same venom voice ordered, as cold and crisp as midwinter. "And one of you drag away this piece of filth. It's blood is getting on my boots."

Zara forgot about protecting herself completely. She crossed the distance in a hobble of agony, throwing her arms around Sennya and holding the girl tight to her chest despite the lumps of ribs that had healed together crookedly, head resting against that shorn scalp with its familiar, twisted scars. Her own body was shaking, trembling with silent sobs, even though no tears would ever come. "We are safe," she whispered over and over like a mantra. "We are safe now. I know that woman."

[Deadora]

The footsteps were drawing nearer, and something was definitely wrong. Scuffstep was usually a taunting, jeering menace, but his approach was absolutely timid. And that other set was too careful, too predatory, to belong to one of these blundering, cruel Vatani. A new entity, a new danger. And then . . . SLAM. . . the sounds of someone being shoved against the door, a feeble attempt at begging to be replaced by the burbling, wordless wet noise of someone choking on their own blood. Such an instant and total display of violence, it was almost enough to draw another whimper out of Sennya.

But that part of her, weakness, was fast receding, swallowed up by the dark, brooding anger that was her norm. She looked to Zara when she spoke, eyes narrowed in concern when she saw where that thin finger pointed. Putting her as far from harm as possible, even with her injured leg. Zara never talked about it, but it was plain enough to see. It was why she insisted on giving Zara more food, for taking longer watches so she could get some sleep. Sennya needed to take care of her until she got better. They were much alike in this way, trying to protect each other, refusing to un-shoulder their share of the burden while trying to take on as much of each other's as they could. It was something beyond symbiosis, beyond kith or kinship.

There was a time. . . 16:13:22 16/09/2006. . . when she might have argued, insisted on Zara taking the position behind the door. But they'd moved beyond that, learned the need for instant trust. Lips drawn back in a silent snarl, Sennya got into position and prepared to use the door as a weapon the moment someone tried to come through.

Tumblers turned as the other guard hurried to obey the Killing Voice. Muscles tense, Sennya prepared to launch herself at their newest danger. But before she could so much as twitch a finger, she was assaulted from an entirely different direction. Sennya had just enough time to think: Zara. . .?, before she was pulled to the floor, wrapped in the thin, bony embrace she had come to know so well, her only comfort for eight years.

Dry sobs? Safety? Now Sennya was torn, but she could not do nothing with Murder standing so apparent at their door. As tenderly as she could, for always her desire was Zara's safety, she turned to shield Zara with her own body. Beyond that, nothing, except to stare into the blinding light spilling through the now opened door, ready to meet death face to face before she relinquished her embrace.

[Nalaya]

D'nark Prison Complex
The Dominion, Nalaya
Present Day

When Sennya's eyes adjusted to the light, she found herself looking into jade colored eyes that for once had lost their distance. Now faint lines of concern added softness to the normally unapproachable visage of the Arrajin Khlarar, in her black BDUs with the red armband and sash of the Unkndirnei--her concession to appearing as she actually was rather than moving in disguise. She'd known better than to come in her dress uniform. There was blood spattered across her face and the front of her shirt.

Scuffstep was a miserable, choking, dying wreck on the floor. She'd hit him squarely in the trachea with her zhanik', the Unkndirnei name for the hand's length pieces of all-thread or rebar that she carried, utterly crushing his windpipe and tearing a carotid artery with a piece of his own bone that had chipped off with the strike. For such small, easily concealable weapons, they were absolutely vicious. But the death she had granted him was not quick.

Other Vatani guards could be seen, all of them with their hands ziptied or taped behind their backs. The Arrajin Khlarar had not come alone--there were about fifteen other agents of various disciplines, most Inkvizitors or Khlarars, and a medical team requisitioned from the Ajakts'yuk'un. Khederian looked from Sennya to the wreck of Zara she was supporting. Never in her entire life had she seen Zarayne so weak, so close to death. "Zara? Zara, can you hear me?" Sára said gently, reaching out to touch a gaunt cheek. She didn't even try to remove her comrade from the Kehrahnii girl--she knew that protective look and didn't want to have to harm that one too.

"I'm alive," Zara croaked out. "She comes with me."

The Arrajin Khlarar's jaw muscles flexed slightly as she pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blood off her hand. "She is not our responsibility," Khederian said, trying to keep her professional veneer. She did feel something when she looked into Sennya's eyes--she could see herself and so many others who had come to the Unkndirnei in that look.

"K'uyr, khndrum," Zara said. She had to untangle herself from Sennya and fell to her knees since her broken feet wouldn't bear her weight any more, holding her hands up in supplication. "Together. She comes with me or I stay."

Khederian ran a thumb thoughtfully over her lips, silent for a long moment as she stared at the wretched skeleton that was Sennya. A Deadoran in the Unkndirnei? Unheard of, dangerous, and yet...oddly appealing. There was a fire in those eyes that told her she had a future Khlarar standing in front of her at the very least. "She is your responsibility when you recover, Zarayne," Sára said finally, giving Sennya the faintest hint of a smile. "Welcome, little sister." Then she stepped out of the way for the medics.

It was like something out of a dream. Warm blankets, soft hands, soothing voices. Zara allowed herself to finally slacken, to finally let the pain and everything overwhelm her now that someone was here to catch her. But she wouldn't let go of Sennya who needed just as much medical attention, whether curling her bony fingers around a scrap of tattered sleeve or winding them with Sennya's own. They had made it this far together. She wasn't going to leave her sister in suffering alone.

Khederian was still within their earshot as she stood with the other Khlarar and Inkvizitors, her arms crossed as she looked at the medical officers. "It was abandoned when we got here. The guards had left," she said with a subtle force, a hint of threat in her voice.

"There are laws, Arrajin Khlarar! You can't simply exact vengeance whenever it suits you," one of them was arguing. "You think I like this? They have to go to trial."

"Where they would be sentenced to death. Consider this an...expedited arrangment," Khederian said, something dark in her jade eyes. "They had already left when you arrived on the scene, Leytenant. Is that clear?"

The battle of will was won in silence, just the posture of the Arrajin Khlarar making it clear what consequences dissent would have. The medical Leytenant lowered his eyes finally. "Ayo, Tiruhi," he said uneasily. "But I won't be present."

"You have patients to see to. I suggest you do that," Sára said. The last thing that Zara and Sennya could hear as they were carried out on stretchers was the soft command of the Arrajin Khlarar, echoing from the depths of a history steeped in blood. "Every bruise, every word, every drop of blood. Pay it back tenfold."

---

24 Hours Later
Apastaran Military Hospital
Yeraskh, Nalaya

Zara had been given a direct IV of the nuclear option of antibiotics, so she was looking much, much better. A healthy color had returned to her face and the fever had started to subside with the health of some serious drugs. Both she and Sennya had been helped to shower in warm water and dressed in clean scrubs, every wound carefully treated and bandaged. They weren't fit to eat yet, but they had nutrients coming in through a femoral line as well as bowls of broth sitting in front of them. The bones in her feet had been set and both of them were healing with the help of a healthy dose of pain killers. Thankfully not opiates, so they were as clear headed as they could be in a completely different world.

"So we have an option," a thick bodied, middle aged man with a Nava'ai accent and skin tone said, looking over the files that had been accumulated on both of them. "Neither of you ladies are ready for life outside of an institution yet, but Sennya here has already passed through something easily beyond Selection. The Arrajin Khlarar already has her marked."

"What happens?" Zara asked softly, looking over with concern at the Deadoran.

"We transfer you both to the complex where Selection is. It will be much gentler for you two, a way to ease you out of what happened at D'nark," the man said, adjusting the reading glasses perched on his nose. "You may also be instrumental examples for the...less local recruits. Both of you know what it takes to survive. Granted, you'll have to have intensive medical oversight while you're there, good nutrition, and a measured exercise routine. I'm certain you may even be able to resume full training in a month or two if you follow all of the instructions of the medical staff."

The look of relief on Zara's battered face was sublime. She knew what they were saying was true. After so long in prison, they needed structure. They needed a chance to slowly have the poison drawn out of them. Sennya needed a chance to rest. But they were telling her that she could return to her vocation, and that was better than she had ever had any right to even dream.

The man turned and looked at Sennya. "And you, Siruhi? Are you willing to join the Unkndirnei? It means leaving your allegiance to the Deadoran government behind completely. It means having a new home, a new beginning, a chance to punish people like those who tormented you. But there is no turning back. When you pass Selection and you take the oath, it is for life." When he finished speaking, he held out a red armband. There was a patch resting on it, the symbol of a Khlarar--an asp wound around a dagger that stood upright, balanced on a needle.

[Deadora]

D'nark Prison Complex
The Dominion, Nalaya

There was a moment, when her pupils contracted and green eyes met green eyes, and an understanding of something very simple passed to Sennya. She was going to die. They had come for their own, to take her away, and the Kehrahnii would do everything in her power to keep that from happening. And it would not be enough. Yet there was an understanding given to this Murder as well: she would not die so easy as the scum draining away at her feet.

But then Zara, oh darling Zara, was saving her life once again, planting her broken body between Sennya and Sennya's Death. Life became somewhat of a blur after that exchange, a parade of warmth and softness and strong, gentle hands carrying them away from all the misery which had been poisoning them for so long. But the only thing Sennya was really aware of, the only thing that truly mattered, was the unfaltering grip of Zara's thin fingers twined with hers.

Apastaran Military Hospital
Yeraskh, Nalaya


08:12:37

Clean. Bandaged. Fed. Words that had no meaning for so long, that she had almost forgotten, were now forcing their way into her mind, and stranger still into her perspective of herself. The sensations were odd, almost unwelcome. But to see Zara so vibrant, freed from the clutches of pain and sickness, inspired something radiant in Sennya, a glowing feeling the name for which had long ago. . . 04:12:17 03/04/2009. . . slipped past the foggy fringes of memory.

Then it occurred to her.

We're free. It was a thought she'd never entertained, a hope never nurtured since . . . 07:23:44 30/04/2005. . . the day she'd been thrown to D'nark's depths. Even then, when she'd been fit, healthy, and whole, she had known to abandon it, for it was a torturer more accomplished than anything devised by the hands of women and men. Never had she spoken to Zara of a future beyond the heavy walls, or imagined how they might travel beyond them or what they would do once outside. A grin, a true, face splitting smile the kind of which she'd only had when she was a child, curved apart her chapped lips. Possibilities whirled through her mind, even as her right hand reached up to scratch an itch behind her ear.

Screaming. Screaming her voice hoarse until her throat was bloody. Her breasts thrust up into the air, spine arched, revealing ribs from which what little fat already there was fast melting. Fiercely struggling, but they stood on her wrists, had tied stones to her ankles. Screaming. Vision, upside down. A man approached, leering animal. In his hand a shard of beaten tin, gleaming dully. Horrid smile on his face. Fingers in her hair, fists twisting head this way and that way. His arm hacked, taking golden locks, skin and scalp. Blood poured from her head, pooled with the tears. And she wept, and wept, and screamed while she wept. Savage fingers twist her ear, pulling it away. Then the hacking resumed, and blackness pulsed around her tear-blurred vision. Still screaming, but further away. Clear as crystal to her left, but from beneath water on her right. Thick, cloying heat pooled in her head.

Alone. Pathetic. Shivering wretch under desert sun, huddles against cracked bricks. An animal to animals. But a hand, gentle hand, touched her skin, invites eyes from damp cradle of her arms. New face, gaunt and thin, but gentle. Soothing words, protecting embrace.

Zarayne.

Freshly trimmed nails met scar tissue. Gone. The warmth, the joy, vanished as if it had never been, sucked away by the ever present roiling black cloud. Sennya dug her nails into the scars of her earless side, shooting burning lances through her brain. She could almost see them behind her eyelids. Pain. Pain is what real. What she had just been feeling was a lie, an illusion, and just because she had been liberated from D'nark did not mean the suffering would end, that the pain would stop. The only thing that had changed was that she was no longer helpless to fight back.

Sennya looked to Zara. Nothing had changed there. Always her saviour, always her Cellmate. There was no other way to live, not without Zara.

And so finally, the still young Kehrahnii woman, scarred and brutalized, the dark ghosts of a darker past dancing behind her eyes, looked to the man and spoke in a voice honed to harshness by its disuse: "My allegiance has never belonged to the Nadirii or their government; they are as vipers. My loyalty is with Zarayne. My home is Zarayne." She got to her feet, wobbling more than a little, unused to standing straight. Without hesitation she reached forward, took the armband from the man's grasp, and slid it up and around her thin right bicep. Then she moved to stand closer to Zara. Close is where she belonged.

[Nalaya]

0600 Hours, Voskratsutsi Bak
[Location Redacted], Nalaya

For Ian, Alach, Fritz, and Alin, the day was finally beginning as their bumpy and uncomfortable ride in the cold back of the truck ground to a slow halt and the back door was rolled up. No one waited for them to stand up and move out. They were grabbed and drug out by cruel, gloved hands to see a line of men and women in uniform waiting for them, all of them in body armor and carrying weapons. Most had sidearms only, but up in the towers surrounded the courtyard were figures with longarms probably capable of shooting them dead with one squeeze of a trigger if they even twitched wrong.

The ground was hard and cold, cracked pavement with prickly grass forcing its way between the crevices. They were in a prison complex of some kind, being watched by unfeeling eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. All of the guards wore a dark charcoal gray field uniform in military style, but none of them wore nametags or emblems of a service. Their boots were buffed to a perfect gloss. Words weren't spoken at the prisoners, they were shouted--and they were not alone. About thirty people were shouted at into moving in a docile crowd, dissenting or slow or snarky members struck in the large muscle groups with the vicious asp batons wielded by the guards.

Everything was stripped away. Personal belongings, jewelry, watches, and finally their clothing. Regardless of gender, everyone was together stripped naked and hosed down with cold water and chemicals to theoretically delouse them. It seemed more a point of humiliation, a few guards laughing or smirking at embarrassed people. The clothes handed out to each and every prisoner consisted of a shirt stenciled with a large and bold black number and a pair of threadbare pants. None of the clothing fit anyone, either too loose or too tight in one way or another, but no trading was allowed. Then each of them were photographed in their new clothes and fingerprinted, added to a growing pile of dossiers.

Ian became 8327. Alach became 0641. Fritz became 2958. Alin became 1725. They were all ushered roughly into a line with the other prisoners, surrounded by guards with tall and lean figure of the Warden standing at the front, his expression unreadable with those damn mirrored sunglasses. "Good morning, everyone," he said pleasantly. There was an audible silence as angry and humiliated young men and women stared back, but that didn't seem to bother him. "I am your Warden. When I say good morning, you will say good morning back."

"And if we don't?" someone challenged, a stocky young Nava'ai man with the numbers 2283 stenciled on his shirt. The answer came swiftly when one of the guards stepped up and caught him right in the solar plexus with a beautiful hammer fist that dropped him to his knees, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water. He almost vomited from the force of the agonizing spasm inflicted.

"Good morning, everyone," the Warden said cheerfully.

This time, everyone else in the crowd immediately responded. "Good morning, Paron Warden." It would be the gentlest of all the mornings to come, and certainly an instructive one.

The warden smiled. "Now, for as long as you are here, there are some certain rules for you all to follow. And if you follow them, there's no reason we can't have a pleasant and brief little interaction here. Repeat after me..."

1. Prisoners must remain silent during rest periods, after lights out, during meals and whenever they are outside the prison yards.
2. Prisoners must eat at meal times, and only at meal times.
3. Prisoners must participate in all prison activities.
4. Prisoners must keep the cell clean at all times. Beds must be made and personal effects must be neat and orderly; floor must be spotless.
5. Prisoners must not move, tamper with, deface or damage walls, ceiling, windows, doors, or any prison property.
6. Prisoners may never operate cell lighting.
7. Prisoners must address each other by number only.
8. Prisoners must always address the guards as "Siruhi or Paron Guard," and the warden as "Paron Warden"
10. Prisoners will be allowed 5 minutes in the lavatory. No prisoner will be allowed to return to the lavatory within 1 hour after a scheduled lavatory period.
11. All prisoners in a cell will stand whenever the Warden, the Prison Superintendent or any other visitors arrive on the premises. Prisoners will await an order to be seated and resume activities.
12. Prisoners must obey all orders issued by guards at all times. A guard's order supersedes any written order. The Warden's order supersedes both the guards' order and the written rules. Orders of the Superintendent of Prisoners are supreme.
13. Prisoners must report all rule violations to the guards.
14. Failure to obey any of the above rules may result in punishment.

Every single prisoner in the courtyard had to repeat the rules back over and over and over, verbatim. The guards started at the beginning and worked their way on down the line. Any time someone stumbled over a word, everyone had to repeat it in unison. They went through the line at least a half dozen times. It was the official end of their freedom: dripping wet and reeking of chemical disinfectant dressed in rags and standing on the stones barefoot, mindlessly repeating back the rules that would become their code to live by.

What some of them knew that other, more innocent prisoners didn't, was that this was only the beginning.

---

From within their new home at Voskratsutsi Bak, a white painted institutional style cell with beds so much softer than the hard ground and warm, clean sheets that smelled like fabric softener, Zara and Sennya could both hear every word of this through the window that didn't close, only barred and left open to the air. In the day, it would let a heat in, but at night would come a terrible chill at their elevation. Extra blankets had been brought in for both of them, their body fat so dangerously low that they couldn't afford the chill. And even then, they would probably end up sharing a bunk and shivering together to keep warm enough. Both of them were still hooked up to IVs, but the guards--not wearing their reflective glasses or their armor--had pulled the two cots together so they could be close and pushed them against one wall to form a double bed. Being close seemed to calm both of them down.

"You'll be something to see," Zara breathed with a smile, running her fingers over the Khlarar patch that Sennya had been given and allowed to keep. They had so few personal possessions that confiscating things would have been pointless. "You have the fire of a Khlarar already."

They were still wearing hospital scrubs rather than the uniforms of the other prisoners, but the routine of the shouting and the reciting of the rules was strangely calming to Zara. It was more ordered and militaristic than the Vatani, safer but still with all the rigidity of an institution. On the far wall was a grate that connected them to the cell next door, but it was unoccupied at the moment. Perhaps they would even have new people to talk to, not that Zara felt she needed somone else.

She laid down on the bed with a sigh of something between exhaustion and contentment, Mak'ur tattoos standing out boldly against skin bleached from deprivation of sunlight now that all the dirt had been washed away. She felt human again now that she was clean and had even been able to run a brush through her hair. After what they had been through already, she felt they were prepared enough.

[Kampfenland]

The ride to their final destination was long, perhaps not in absolute terms, but for Fritz, it seemed an eternity of silence. He reflected on everything he had ever done, every moment of schooling, every love he had known, every second of battle. Reflecting on the fear, the powerlessness, the love, the joy, the anger, and every path he had taken that lead to here. The rule he followed led him to this place, this final destination where he knew not what he was going to experience, but that it would permanently change his life. This place may even end his life, should it come to that, and it was a cautious sense of curiosity, of excitement, that made the trip ever the longer. In a foreign land speaking a foreign tongue he knew little of, barely enough to survive and not nearly enough to thrive, his thoughts ever present on his home, and the sickness that he may never see it again. It was a painful and sudden transition, and to be bound, literally, to this new country was a shock in and of itself.

When the door rolled up, Fritz knew it was the end of everything he had known. The shouting, violent orders that were conflicting and jumbled, too unclear to understand thoroughly, and the men that grabbed them, forcing them with malevolence out of the truck. Bound by his wrists, Fritz fell to his knees when he exited, the pain of hitting fresh gravel shooting straight up his leg, and the slight warm sensation of a small dribble of blood, followed very shortly by being brutally hoisted by his arms to his feet and thrust into line with some thirty odd other people. He wasn't sure if most of them were like him, drawn from many nations, or if the majority were of Nalayan descent, from some ethnic groups or others. He guessed the latter, and this was reinforced by the orders being followed quickly, though the jumbled nature of the shouting left Fritz needing time to process, and he was quite worried that his slowness to grasp what was being shouted at the group would leave him singled out for extremely harsh treatment. He found himself following what the crowd was doing more than listening to directives, basing it on the assumption that they would lead him into correct situation much faster than his own ears would. His limited grasp on the language made it virtually impossible to comprehend, and his paranoia grew with each passing second.

It was then that he finally got a thorough look at the men that were forcefully directing them. Surrounded by men in black clothing, some paramilitary uniform he assumed, but all armed, and some appeared that they would be all too pleased to shoot one of his fellow captives, or himself, clean between the eyes if only for a good laugh. These were not men to be toyed with, and he knew this. Within minutes, the worst of it began. The men in black clothes went down the line screaming, and people began frantically removing their clothes. Fritz was completely unaware of what was going on until he recognized a word followed closely by a hard slap to his head. "Strip." The color from Fritz's face drained almost immediately, but he was not keen on receiving further attention from the men in black clothes. He began tearing off his clothes as quickly as he possibly could, and eventually stood there, like every man and woman in the group, stark naked with their clothes at their feet. Then came the spray. The smell of lye and bleach made him nearly vomit, and the water was freezing cold, hitting with the force of a hammer. Several people were pushed back slightly, and the jeering remarks of the guards were infuriating. They were deriving an almost sadistic pleasure from the humiliation. He quietly spat a few choice remarks under his breath in German, hoping that the sound of the hoses would drown it out from even the nearest person to him. This was less humiliating to him than it was angering, but there was nothing he could do. With snipers posted and every man armed, even the slightest movement in an aggressive manner could get him drenched in his own blood on not the freezing chemical water.

The clothes he was given didn't fit, but it appeared that this was true for everyone. His shirt was too loose, his pants were too tight, and he was sure the shoes were meant for someone who had eight inches of height on him. It was a confusing mix and match, and he was fairly certain it was intentional. Any way to get into his head, no matter how trivial, they would exploit. It was the little things that really broke people. They all added up given enough time, and who knows how long they would be here? Months? Years? Fritz attempted not to concern himself with that, but the look of this place, this prison, made him realize he was going to dread every second of it. Not the torture he knew was coming, but the confinement, the control. In the Wehrmacht, he didn't have much control, but he did have control over his own life. Here? A finite sentence at best. It was something he was not likely to overcome. The fingerprinting and photographing process reinforced this, with the occasional captive being struck for the slightest infraction. Fritz was beginning to decipher the various dialects and how to interpret the shouting. Even if he didn't know the exacts of what they were speaking, he was quickly determining which syllables meant what. At least the commands were simple, and fairly uniform.

By the time he was done with the process, the entirety of the group had been set into a crisp single file line, and at the front stood a man. Tall, and commanded authority. He reminded Fritz of some of his officers in the Wehrmacht, and was likely just as cruel, only this time it wasn't directed at rebels, it was directed at him. He did not like the thought, and he hastily ushered it from his mind. As the man spoke, his words were crisp and clear, once they had gotten past the initial lack of understanding. Fritz could make out just enough to understand most of the rules, and repeated them back to this Paron Warden as he had been instructed. This part wasn't so bad, it reminded him of his past life. He spoke them back loudly and enthusiastically, even through his extremely thick accent. This might be the last time he would get to yell at one of his captors, and he took full advantage of his booming voice to accomplish this. He almost enjoyed it, even as he repeated them, eventually getting into the flow of it. He could do this all day, even if his sinuses were still stuffed from the chemicals. This was his last taste of freedom, and he began to savor every second of it.

[McNernia]

The McNernian had zoned out, into a sort of trance, this would be a different sort of selection, he was not inclined to resist, the business of being grabbed and hauled out of the truck. With a massive headache he was hauled out, the business of this place, the people looked like solders, there were snipers. Already the MSAS instincts were kicking in trying to find a way to escape. This is Goddamn Nalaya, they have dangerous war criminals or whatever in this place maybe The voices in his head. Violence, Murder, Drinking, Rationality. And etc, they all...were in his head.

The hard and cold ground, the place was not maintained very well, this was prison, a military prison. The MSAS troopers eyes watched everything has he was hustled forwards towards the inner gates of the prison, the other people were Nalayans, he looked around for the others, of course they were here, then again they were not relevant, this was like SAS selection. Team work would be a thing for consideration. Davis's knees were smashed, no, just they were injured. The guards reminded him of the Military Police in HMAFP Davistown. Where really bad people go. And they were well turned out.Lovely reception committee The McNerniand did as he was told, he was used to his.

He did not have much on him to begin with, the clothes on his back and not much else. He had some tattoos but well that could not be removed easily, a skull with wings and a commando knife and wings, he had gotten it instead of Who Dares Wins and the flaming SAS sword. He was used to being hosed down like this, he seemed to be dead on his feet, becoming quite quiet in the face of this. The business of the guards laughing, that had been done during MSAS Selection. The McNernian got clothes that were a bit too lose in the shirt department and baggy pants. He did not really care, he was quiet and straight faced as he looked at the camera. He obeyed the security people and committed only his number to memory. He may forget his name and the English Language in all of this. So much for the better.

8327, that is all I am, the eight-thousandth, three hundredth and twenty seventh person here. He stood at attention facing the Warden on the parade ground, he was silent. He did not expect the greeting, then well the punch to the gut, it was two people down, the Mcnernian promptly spoke when his was told to. "Good Morning Paron Warden" He resisted the urge to salute. This was not expected in this place evidently, it was different, this was the selection prison. Not military. He repeated the rules in the proper language like a parrot. His memory was good but he had a few words lacking, the exercise was filed away somewhere for debrief by the Army Attache at the embassy. He knew it would only get worse.

[Hostillia]

0600 Hours, Voskratsutsi Bak
[Location Redacted], Nalaya

One could not easily go through life without observing and learning, if you couldn’t adapt, adjust in accordance with what is going on around you and evolve into a being more prepared to combat the challenges of life, then you were certain to perish at the hands of the cruel world which we have little choice but to call home. If any, the people of the Desert were aware that mankind, for all its tools and speech was ultimately ignorant of the natural order of life, and it was so that they had managed to survive all these thousands of years as a result of one thing- a submissive willingness to learn from the world around them. Who knew better how to survive, and even thrive, in the desert sands? Man, born into the world naked and stupid of all things, or the creatures that had lived in the sands since time’s genesis- who entered the world adapted to their environment and prepared to compete for survival. The beast of course. This same logic could be applied in many situations, if you found yourself in Tian Tang, the Land of Han, if you wish to survive then you must adapt and evolve until you know the ways of the Han- just as they should adapt and evolve to live amongst the people in the various nations they occupied. The Han refused to bend, preferring the stone to bamboo and for this they were hated, resisted, and killed- it was best to be like water, conforming to whatever environment it find itself in, it was no coincidence that water was also the symbol of life. And so, seeing that the only Nalayan within the group had elected to spend this time in meditation or prayer, it was difficult to tell which, Alach had resolved to do the same and so he crossed his legs and closed his eyes and breathed, in and out, and in and out. Calming the violent storms that his circumstances had forced upon his soul, and restoring peace to his chi.

They had come to a stop, this was a point at which he could resist, but he had already considered this, he would have no idea what was waiting for him beyond the doors and if their arrests had been any slight indication then he could be most certain that he would not manage to put up much resistance before they put him down. If the McNernian was dead, then perhaps his own life would be worth more value, giving him more leeway, but this was not something to be acted upon in the immediate future. The door opened and Alach turned to examine his new captors but was given no chance to as he was grabbed violently and quickly by a figure he had less than a glimpse at before being dragged out, he did not resist but he did little to assist either and, more to his own fault than that of his grappler, he found himself thrown on his back onto the cold ground. His cuffed hands still of little use, Alach used his abdominal muscles to throw himself back onto his feet and prepared to assume a fighting stance, only to be violently acquainted with a boot in the back, knocking him down before receiving a second to his stomach, from the ground he was given his first moment to take a look around and it was hardly a fair fight.

To begin, the people grabbing them were just as heavily armored as the police officers who had overseen their arrest. There were a lot of them, armed at the waist with firearms, and then above him he could make out the rifles, he had seen such weapons used with horrifying efficiency in Shangmai, though he was not prepared to concede these people being more capable in the arts of battle than he, they were undeniably more lethal, and so he shrugged off the thoughts of physical resistance, what would be the point? He knew nothing of these people, but he had his suspicions that they would avoid killing him but there were fates worse than death that one could suffer fates infinitely worse than a warm embrace with darkness and oblivion. Instead he offered his hands out meekly do be unbound, and in doing so surrendered his last weapon short of his fists and feet- he made a mental note to keep on the lookout for things that could become blades, he would need them, for the guards or fellow inmates one, he was confident of that much.

Alach allowed himself a moment longer to examine the facility, and it was very clear that it was a prison, but, not the prison he would have expected. There were faint signs of an ancient spirit here, grass reemerging from the cracks in the pavement. The soldiers walking around the grounds wore beating sticks and bore no names or insignia of a specific force- they hid their eyes behind glasses. They hid their eyes behind glasses. This was not a prison and he was not a prisoner, he thought quietly to himself, his breathing still a little shallow from the kicks, this was a memory, but it was not his own memory, a Nalayan memory. The guards were hardly inviting, but rather angry, shouting menaces of memory, not bothering to speak anything, which for a nonnative speaker made the entire process all the more complicated. But the majority of people here seemed to be obeying. There was no point in reasoning with a pair of sun glasses and a baton, they were little more than responsive figures, lashing out at incompliance and insolence, not a proper specimen to examine. He found himself moving along with a group while he thought these things, and soon they were shouting another order, nudity? They wanted them to strip, he concluded realizing that people around him were beginning to disrobe, he cast his eyes upon the ground to ensure that none of the women believed him watching them, and there was no reason for him to do them that disservice. He abandoned his intricate traditional garments, removing the mask and tasting the cool air against his face for the first time in this foreign place.

Then they turned the hoses on them, and Ancestors that water was cold, but worse still it was impure, with a stench rising from it. He had not been expecting that, in fact, he’d never seen such a scene and so he was caught entirely off guard, and after the first dose some of the half-water found its way into his mouth, causing him to gag and cough as he attempted to spit the taste from his mouth. However, his commotion earned him the attention of the guards who turned the hose onto him specifically for a moment. He had never known that water could do harm, but its collision with his flesh was no less furious than a physical slap against his entire body.

“May I be the most clean,” he said quietly to himself when they had finished with their hoses, he stood in line still looking around, counting prisoners and guards as well as watch towers nearby, retaining as many numbers as his mind could hold and twice as many details, information was his only weapon here. He accepted his clothes without great incident and put them on, the shirt was far too baggy and the pants far too tight, but he naturally preferred baggy to tight and he assumed he would lose enough weight quickly enough that it would be of little bother. Despite the fact that they were soaked to the bone, everyone seemed to be putting their clothes on and so he did likewise, feeling the cheer of the early morning in this place- like a Desert this place had the capacity to be very warm in the day and very cool in the night. Offering a photograph, and a finger, he received a new designation, zero six four one, 0641. These people were little more than Han in different toned flesh, dehumanize those you capture, take their names from them and take anything they could identify with- the Consortium, the Han, this was a means that everyone was familiar with, but it was only permitted to prevail if the victim renounced themselves- that was there goal, and it was a pleasure he would not easily allow them.

Ian became 8327. Alach became 0641. Fritz became 2958. Alin became 1725. They were all ushered roughly into a line with the other prisoners, surrounded by guards with tall and lean figure of the Warden standing at the front, his expression unreadable with those damn mirrored sunglasses. "Good morning, everyone," he said pleasantly. There was an audible silence as angry and humiliated young men and women stared back, but that didn't seem to bother him. "I am your Warden. When I say good morning, you will say good morning back."

He found himself pushed and coerced into a line some distance between him and the people he had come here with, and before him was none other than the commander of this group of soldiers, the overseer of this experience, he seemed to style himself Warden, too cowardly to use her name it seemed, and preferred merely to be called by his name. He seemed fond of niceties greetings and demanded that everyone repeat his salutation to him, the man beside him refused and found himself grasping on the ground, instinctively he went to offer his assistance to the brave young man, but it was made clear that was not going to be accepted.

“Good morning, everyone,” the Warden called once again, bright despite the situation.

“Good morning, Paron Warden,” he responded along with the rest of the prisoners, another antic, have them speak together, live together, discard their individuality and replace it with a new communal and obedient mind. A clever tactic indeed, and a potent one if left unchecked. He stood and repeated the rules, there was no reason to defy them here, these rules would be forced upon them and ignorance of them was not immunity to them, and so it was wise to remember them. However, in his eyes he made no effort to conceal his calm, his calculating thoughts spun in his mind. There were still questions to be asked and it seemed no one was prepared to ask them and none were willing to offer answers without being first prompted. How much leeway did they have here? It was something that had to be defined, if no one sought the boundary, if the border remained forever obscure, they would live in fear of it and never approach it. Somehow he doubted they expected the submission of a eunuch, if that was their goal they would have requested a Han, but at the same time he could conclude they did not want someone who would resist to the point of stupidity, else they would have received a Horseman.

And so he stood waiting patiently and thinking, keeping the rules locked firmly in his mind. He would not forget them, even if he did not agree with them. And so whenever the guard came to face him he made it a point to enunciate and speak clearly while repeating the same words over and over in his own language silently in his mind. Only a fool would refuse to realize the chains in which he found himself, and Alach did not consider himself a fool. In fact, it seemed as though everyone else in the group he had arrived with was prepared to bow in submission, even the drunkard he had stayed with. There seemed to be a silence hanging over the crowd once they had completed their feat of memorization. Rule Fourteen: Failure to Obey Any of the Above Rules May Result in Punishment. May, it was not a certainty based on the very vernacular of the rule, and what of things not expressly forbidden? There was only one way to know for certain, and none else seemed prepare to do anything more than walk in the defined lockstep of the rest of the prison populace. But it was good to know limits, even if there were some risks, after all, though it was wise to watch the desert creatures to learn how to survive it was also wise to act where they did not, or else mankind would be nothing more than another beast.

And so… he stepped forward, out of line, one step towards the Warden, no aggression in his form, no hatred or wrath, but complete serenity.
“Paron Warden,” he said calmly and politely. “I am Prisoner 0641, we have been stripped of our names. But what is yours?”