“…why do you run?”

The near-whispered inquiry was directed at nobody in particular as Raz Kalrn looked through the scope of his rifle. Raz had been a coin-toss from these people who operated in horrible conditions who generally got nothing but menial food and water out of it. Raz admitted he had some sympathy, but it wasn’t enough to condemn him to become trapped or on-the-run. Though, even as a member of The Terror he found himself not really more ‘free’ than any of the people they hauled in or the people they told him he had to shoot. Raz didn’t understand why they would risk it all just for a taste—he had heard Doran’s speeches to the others; it made no sense to doom yourself for a day. Perhaps a day of freedom was worth more of an eternity in chains? At least, that was the only thing Raz could particularly think of that made any sense.

He shook his head as he kept his eye on the fence he had a duty to guard.

That’s when he saw a female cat running at full force toward the fence with a group of two. Raz’s heart stopped—they weren’t even adults; they were children. A knot raised in his gut as he flicked the safety off his rifle. Orders would dictate to shoot them ‘non-lethal’ so they could be strung up as an example later by one of the field guards. A sense of restraint and disgust overwhelmed the wolf as his finger hit the trigger for the first time.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Three shots filled the air following his discomfort as a group of guards came barreling in after the suspect escapees—but they only had bodies to bring back. Raz couldn’t bring himself to make them suffer.

What a life.

---

Doran Karek still shuttered with every gunshot he heard. The sound was like knives to the senses and it reminded the fox of a time less than ideal; a time where he had been like them and so eager to risk the end of a bullet just for a taste—a taste for freedom. Doran’s eyes moved to the male rabbit before him that he had singled out and taken aside to talk some sense into him; though it wasn’t just for the rabbit, he had promised Snowdrift that he’d show her what exactly a manager does and what their responsibilities were.

This was one of them.

“Do you hear that?” Doran remarked as he pointed with one hand toward the direction of the gunshots.

The male rabbit before him didn’t say anything as he scowled at Doran.

“Worksite zero-one-two has nothing to cling to… just numbers. That’s part of the insanity of this walled off place that still reeks of old world ruins and derelict tunnels that go straight into nothingness. The numbers, darkness, and hopelessness takes some time to settle in of course. The air of forced isolation is just one of many facets that is trying to drown you so you will react out of despair or tolerate the lack of freedom. The anxiety of knowing the life you once held would never be yours again despite who you were or who could have been is maddening and I see it all of the time. Your memories bleed like an echo and your shadow becomes your only friend when you realize everybody here doesn’t know you and is blankly out for themselves.”

“But I want my freedom!” The rabbit protested, but Doran wasn’t finished.

“Okay, you could try to escape—but how? You’re on the edge of the world between mountains and metal walls. You could succeed and run into the tunnels, but you’ll either starve or get eaten by the twisted creatures that dwell there. So, you run towards the wall right? The Terror has trained marksman on watch twenty-four seven; are you faster than a bullet? Maybe you’re lucky, yeah, and you find yourself on the other side and maybe get away… but for how long? The Terror employs some of the best trackers this side of the Abarlus River—how long can you hide? If you keep moving, how do you keep yourself fed or prepared? What can you really do?”

“…you’re lying.” The rabbit muttered as a sense of fear rose in his voice.

Doran wouldn’t have believed it if a manager had come up to him at the same age either, but it was something that was so very true. The fox had seen it when he was younger and he had been dragged back here to do as they did. But they didn’t kill him, but they killed his friend in front of him and were very blunt to remind him that it was his fault. This rabbit was going to get others killed.

“Listen, I was like you once and full of these aspirations that I’d get out and get back to my life—but my life wasn’t mine to give. I’ve seen people executed on the spot, dragged out from hundreds of days of ‘freedom’ and they never get a second chance—you leave and you get brought back here for a spectacle that puts others in line. When I first saw it I could feel my ambition cracking and eventually it was just a matter of time before I just accepted my fate.”

“No. No.” The rabbit shook his head in denial.

“Look down at your hands—that feeling inside your wrists from the labor and the stress? The scratching and pounding inside you; the feeling you feel in your bones? It’s a sign of who you are and who I am—we’re not what we were before we came here and you have to just run with that and do your job. It’s worse than any brand or collar—because everybody looks at you and they know what you are.”

“Who are we but… but... worms then?”

“Slaves to our fate—we are nothing but hollow stone to be picked until we’re done. Remember that next time you try to incite a riot or try to get all of us killed over a fruitless ambition.”

“Yes… Manager Karek. I understand.”

“Good.”

As the rabbit walked off—a bit broken, but hopefully defeated in his attempt to raise escapist fantasies, Doran turned to face Snowdrift with a slight frown but not one of sadness but fatigue. “That in part is what we as managers do, Snow—we walk a road to make sure morale is good enough and escape attempts are low.”

“It’s going to be an uphill battle.”

In the distance I hear the shots. I play their rhythm over and over in my head until I’m absolutely certain about their number. Three. Just three. That’s not so bad. I wonder if I knew them. I hope not but I don’t think so.

Around me the rest of my Survey crew waits in line to receive our morning ration of water. As usual, their complaints about the liquid echo through my ears. They complain that the water’s lukewarm, that there’s dirt at the bottom of the cup, that it tastes like metal. Everyone but me voices their disapproval. A few years ago someone made the mistake of soliciting my opinion on the matter.

“It’s clear.”

No one seemed to like the answer, but I didn’t have a better one. Where I grew up, I thought water was permanently tinted grey. It wasn’t until I was six and living within the Terror that I learned that water could look otherwise. When I questioned my mother about this newest discovery, her only reply was that this new water wasn’t polluted or filled with chemicals. And then she gave me a look, the one that let me know I shouldn’t ask any more questions about our “other life”.

When it’s my turn, I graciously take the worn earthen cup of water and wait until most of the silt has settled to the bottom. I am thankful for the water on my parched lips. My soft brown eyes close as I savor the sensation and even though I know I shouldn’t, I hum a little under my breath. I try to find happiness in the little things, otherwise there would be no happines. I try to think of the water as more a reward to my existence than a right. My mother’s voice continues to ring in my head, so strong it’s as if she’s never left.

“Nothing in life is given freely. Not the water we drink nor the food we eat. Not the bed we sleep in or the ground we walk upon or the clean air we breathe. It’s only when people forget these things are not free that they become unhappy.”

“But we steal from the ruins,” replies my younger voice, “Isn’t that free?”

“Only fool would think that comes without a price. Are you a fool little Ellie?”

“No,” I say and pause, trying to think of something that comes without a price, “What about freedom?”

My mother laughs. It’s hard and bitter to my adult ears. “Especially not freedom. So often we pay the highest price for that.”
The rhythm of the gunshots plays over and over again in my head. And I realize my cup is empty. Maybe it has been for a while.

The albino skunk watched the rabbit walk off dejectedly. She felt bad for him, but...what Doran said was true. No one here had any power to change their fate, and thinking they did was suicide. She nodded, "Convince them to keep their heads low, and choose the pragmatic option instead of the foolhardy one. I...think I understand." Other slaves were afraid of her as it was. She didn't like that fact, but maybe their superstitions would make this job easier.

***********

Elsewhere...

As the three gunshots rang out, a purple hedgehog abruptly halted, dropping into a defensive curl, petrified. Suddenly, a boot connected with her side, not hard enough to actually injure her, but enough to cause discomfort.

"Hey! Get up, lazy slave! I don't recall saying you were done with training for the day!"

Serenity said nothing, but raised a shaky hand and pointed in the direction of the gunshots.

"Don't give me that. For once, they're not shooting at you. Now get UP! You wanted this training, didn't you?" Her guard/trainer physically lifted her back into a standing position. "Ow! Watch those quills, girl!"

Somewhat recovered from the fright, Serenity again found her voice, "Yeah, well...you probably ran into them on purpose, just to spite me. You expect me to just ignore the demon firestick noise? Give me a break!"

"Watch your mouth girl!"

The guard gave a warning yank on the chain around her neck, and she shut up...for the time being anyway. Oh what she wouldn't give to punch this guy in his smug face!

"Ok, now where were we..."

"I believe you were about to let me start running..."

"Haha...nice try. Since you stopped, we have to work all the way back up from the walk. Once more...start around the ring...at a walk."

Serenity glared at her surroundings as she did what she was told...the circular, fenced, track...the pole in the center to which a long chain was attached, running to her metal collar...her "trainer" on the other side of the fence. She glanced fearfully to the high, metal walls - with their "demon firestick"-toting guards - imprisoning her and the other slaves, and then up, up...above them, to a lonely bird soaring in the sky. How she wished she was like that bird...free to fly beyond these walls.

"You guys will PAY when my father, brother, and...fiance...find out what you've done to me..." she mumbled under her breath. The threat was a futile one, of coarse. What fool would come here intentionally, when all those guards had those demonic weapons, even if to rescue a loved one? Especially when there was an entire estate to be run. Not even HER father would drop everything to rescue his wayward only daughter...Besides, everyone back at home probably all thought she was dead...Although...she might as well be, in a place like this. Her thoughts trailed off darkly.

Whilst the purple hedgehog girl railed against her captors under her breath, the sudden shooting elicited less of a response in other parts of the camp. In fact, in a particular cell in the 'specialty cellblock' it garnered no response at all. That was due mainly to the unusual condition of the occupant. The raiders who had been at this particular camp longer- or more regularly- called her "Old Hellion", a nickname bestowed in jest and mockery. She was an unusual find indeed: Her ears were long and pointed and amazingly acute. Dark, leathery wings were folded close against her back. Her fur- where it was visible- had a tortoise-shell pattern to it, mostly in blacks and browns, but with some russet-reds and oranges to it as well, with even a few hints of yellow here and there, all with a slight metallic lustre and iridescence to it. The hair of her head, black like much of her fur, came down to just between her shoulder-blades. Her clothing was faded, but of hard-wearing and durable quality. Her build was slim- though with more than a suggestion of leanness to it- perhaps like the build of a dancer or athlete. Even within the confines of the cell she retained an aura of the exotic, but this quality was offset by the fact that she was also completely inert; neither moving nor speaking and with little to indicate that she was still even breathing.

She sat where she had sat for a long time now, the dust slowly gathering around her, though whether she had been placed in the meditative cross-legged position or had assumed it herself was a matter lost to memory. As if to emphasise the inert nature of this silent inmate a profusion of growths, not unlike leaves but more reminiscent of a pangolin's scales, appeared to have spread throughout the fur. Perhaps she should have sold for a very high price not long after her capture, for no one who looked on her would doubt that she was a "ghost" creature. But soon after her capture she had become strangely inert and lifeless. When it became apparent that no measure of force not resulting in permanent damage would rouse her- and fearful of permanently damaging a prize catch- the raiders had simply put her in the cell she now occupied, perhaps hoping for signs of life to return- or waiting for her to die completely. Here she remained, eyes closed. Unspeaking, unmoving, not even eating. But there were yet indicators of life. The strange growths that covered her served to keep her vital functions active. And the movements of eyes behind sealed eyelids showed that she dreamed.

The dreams were varied, often full of images drawn from memory. Sometimes she dreamed of strange and twisted ruins. Sometimes of tribes stranger than any ruins ever could be, in vast and ever-varying lands of great beauty and peril. Sometimes the dreams were of wild, primeval-looking, untouched mountains in far-flung places. But of all the dreams the dreamer dreamed, two were more frequent than the rest. One of these was the dream of ancient days. Though the ancient world had died its catastrophic death long before her birth, the dreamer often vividly dreamed of that time. In those dreams she would wander the great streets of the shining cities, with every corner every avenue and alleyway familiar to her as her own skin. She would gaze in wonder at the glittering towers that reared into the sky, farther than the eye could see, and sent dazzling sunlight bouncing from their flanks. She would see the mechanical marvels that were available and stare in wonderment at the vast, winged ships that sailed the skies. At other times she would dream of the terrors of that vanished era,and the horrors wrought by its people, that had reduced it to nothing but ash and memory. The second of her recurring dreams was of the day of her capture, of how her own lack of familiarity with the weapons of the raiders had cost her her freedom. And of how the sliver, the tiny fragment of metal implanted in her flesh had triggered the unexpected reaction that led to her present inert condition. And now, she spent all her time in a limbo of dreams, not completely asleep but not awake either, simply...dormant. Waiting. Waiting for the strange function of the metal sliver to be disrupted. Waiting for the deliberate aid or chance occurrence that would allow her to reclaim control of herself. Waiting for the day when she would rise from slumber into the waking world again. Waiting for the time when she would regain her freedom.

A couple hours later, as the sun began to dip to the dusty horizon, the purple hedgehog found herself once again following her "trainer" stumblingly back to the the specialty cells, exhausted. She loved to run, but this training was punishing. She collapsed into the cell, attacking the meager rations of hard tack, potato mush, and dirty water that were waiting for her. She didn't even notice the guard closing and locking the barred door behind her until it was too late for the crazed mad-dash for freedom she had momentarily craved.

"You did better this time than last time, but you need to stop flinching at every gunshot you hear. As long as you know your place and don't try to escape, they won't be aiming at you."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a filthy slave and have no chance at a better future so I should just accept it. Go tell your rhetoric to somebody who cares."

"...And we really must do something about that sass. Next time you sass me, your rations will be reduced by half. And if you continue, it will happen again. The third time, you will get no food for three days."

"...You wouldn't..."

"If that doesn't stop you, I will talk to my supervisor about potentially getting your tongue removed."

Serenity's eyes went wide with horror. "Y-You're bluffing..."

"AM I, though?"

"B-but I'm a high-value!"

"That doesn't matter. Even high-value racer-slaves don't need to be able to speak, you know." He trailed off ominously. "Have a good night." He said with a sneer. "And actually try to get some sleep this time. You train again in the morning." With that, he left the purple hedgehog to fume in her cell alone.

Serenity plucked one of her quills and added it to the little pile that was growing under her shabby mattress.

*************

In the medical tent, the albino skunk was tending to a slave with a broken leg that had started to heal incorrectly and needed to be re-broken.

"Aaah! Get away from me! I'm not ready to die!"

"I'm not going to kill you. But your leg needs to be re-set, or you will be lame the rest of your life, and the Terror doesn't have much use for permanently lame slaves. Stop squirming. This is going to hurt a bit." Bracing herself, she took a firm grip on both sides of the incorrectly-knit bone and gave a sudden jerk.

"AHHHHHH! Owowow! You said you weren't going to kill me!" her patient protested in an accusing tone.

"Quit complaining. I didn't really kill you, did I? I'm sorry, but that's the only way to get your leg to a state where it can be properly set." With that, she grabbed some wooden splints and, bracing them along either side of the new break, started wrapping them tightly in gauze. "I'll tell the guards you need to be in a light-duty, seated job until this heals properly. You should really have come to me BEFORE it started healing wrong."

"Go willingly to the Terror's pet Deathbringer? Yeah right! I'm only here 'cuz one of the guards saw me limping."

The 'Deathbringer' comment stung, but she tried not to let it show. "Must have been one of the rare merciful guards then. You're lucky they didn't use you as target practice. Like I said, a lame slave is a dead slave."

Several Days Later

It had been days since the barrel of the gun rang out in worksite zero-one-two, and the guards for the most part had been rallying together a sort of “deadpool” until the next death came calling. Some of them assumed it would be in twenty-four hours and others a full cycle of days. Doran Karek didn’t make any guesses or assumptions even with his own bitter cynicism that plagued his character he did feel some pity for everybody who was thrown into this situation. Nobody deserved to have their life turned into a game, though there was nothing he could say or do about it that would remove their little entertaining distraction. As he walked by the post of one of the standing “lieutenant” slavers he caught the glimpse of a conversation which caught some degree of interesting from Doran.

“Sir, she’s stirring, she’s coming awake.”

“After as long as they’ve been quiet?” The higher ranked slaver mused as his expression conveyed a sense of wonder. Who they could be talking about was something Doran wondered as he stopped to listen in as his eyes looked over the slave yards that were in plain view.

“Correct.”

“Never thought I’d see the myth being able to speak, this is… interesting, take me to the special chambers in the detainment cells.” There was a sense of excitement in the higher ranked slaver’s voice as the two moved away from the post without even getting a temporary replacement—though that wasn’t the strange part. The strange part were words like ‘myth’ and ‘special’ which made Doran come to the conclusion that they spoke of the Old Hellion; a slave dating back to long before Doran was a slave (let alone a manager), who had survived without all subsistence as they found themselves in a comatose state. He wondered what that could mean for everything since there were so many rumors about Hellion ranging from origin and significance. After all, she was the only slave to not be buried in such a weak condition. But the fact she was still breathing after several decades brought a sense of wonder and curiosity in even him. But he had no place in the cells—he managed those who hadn’t broken the rules.

Still though… it was very interesting.

Doran shook his head, he had heard that the purple-furred one was stirring emotional problems again—and he decided to go see what it was about this time…

The Previous Night:
The storm had caught the slave-camp by surprise. Not that storms were unheard of, even in the desert, but this one had been unusual in that it had hit during the night. Without the heat of the day to evapourate the rain or clouds, a downpour ensued, drenching everything and everyone who wasn't sheltered somewhere. Peals of thunder had sounded ominously overhead, leading the more superstitious amongst slaves and slavers to whisper that someone must have angered the Old Gods to bring their wrath so unexpectedly upon the camp. Lightning flashed and blazed at unexpected intervals, lighting up the pitch-dark night sky as bright as noonday when it did. All across the camp, slave and slavers sought protection from the onslaught of nature, in whatever shelter they could find. In fact, only one individual in the entire camp had no reaction at all to the ferocity of the storm.

The Ghost-Creature nicknamed Old Hellion remained inert in her cell, indifferent to the turmoil outside, as she had been indifferent to all the world for the past seveal decades. Only the world behind her sealed eyelids, the world of her dreams, stirred any reaction from her. For not the first time, her endless dreams turned to the dream of the day of her capture. Outside the storm roared as, inwardly, she remembered the weapons of the slavers roaring, and felt the shock of the wounds those weapons left. As the deluge of rain rattled on the roof, she remembered the rattling of chains and the creaking of wheels as the slaver convoy moved towards its destination. Her dream memories moved steadily and relentlessly forwards, as she remembered the arrival at the slave camp and her battle with the slavers, as they tried to move her to a cell.

Five at once had approached the cage, thinking their size and build, coupled with her wounds, might cow her into obedience.They had been mistaken. On the long jourrney to the camp, her wounds had healed completely and she was more than ready to visit her displeasure upon her captors. She had an edge they knew nothing about. In her distant home, she had been trained in hand-to hand combat and wilderness survival but, more importantly, she had learned a discipline that had kept many Heralds before her alive and well in a dangerous and often hostile world. It was called Kya Arae Thal; meaning simply 'One Against Many' and was a discipline that specifically required the odds to be against the practitioner. Anything less than five opponents and the practice was useless; the greater the number, the more effectively it could be used. When her captors had opened the cage door, she had been ruthless. Of the five that had advanced on her, four never got up again, and the fifth one had screamed for help before limping away with a broken leg.

Outside lightning flashed with a sharp crack as it struck close by. Inside the dreamer re-lived the combat. More and larger opponents had come running, this time eight in number. She had grinned and let them come. One had drawn a sword as they surrounded her, aiming a thrust at her side. She had stepped inside the thrust, taking firm hold of the extended arm, and driving the blade into the opponent attempting to sieze her from behind, burying it to half-length in his gut. She then broke the arm for good measure. Another attempted to lash out with a kick from the side. She pivoted smoothly on her toes, redirecting the kick instead of dodging or blocking, so that the foot connected with the slaver trying to grab her from the other side, whilst she took advantage of the opening that left, to drive a fierce jab into the throat of the kicker. He gurgled and collpased, eyes wide, before she delivered a kick of her own to the side of his head, rendering him senseless. She felt a sudden flash of pain to her right hand. One of the slavers had drawn a knife and had slashed at her with it. As he attempted to slash again, she deflected the blow, delivering several fast, sharp jabs to gut, throat, groin and solar-plexus. As he staggered under the barrage of blows, she twisted the knife free of his grasp, sliding it between the ribs of another opponent, before twisting the blade and then snapping it off near the hilt. The remaining two slavers had hesitated, evidently weighing up which was the softer option: running away from one slave with an attitude problem, or facing their overheads for the consequences of desertion of post and duty. She raised the hand with the broken knife in it and beckoned them. The knife was suddenly jarred from her hand, a sliver or splinter of it breaking off into the superficial wound it had left. She looked to see the knife's original owner, on his knees from pain, but still apparently with a little fight in him. She responded with a kick to his gut and then another to his temple, before wheeling back to face the remaining two as they decided to rush her together.

Outside another sharp crack sounded as lightning struck closer to the specialty cells. Inside the dreamer heard the sharp crack of breaking bone, as she disabled another slaver, leaving one opponent. From the periphery of her vision she saw more running towards the scene. Let them come, she would deal with them the same as the others. The final slaver had aimed a mid-range kick at her. She moved to deflect it, throwing up her wounded hand. In the dream, everything seemed to slow as she saw, too late, the steel the toe-caps of the slaver's boots were shod with. As the boot grazed her hand, a spark jumped between the steel of the toe-cap and the splinter in her hand. Her world had gone white, and then black as she crumpled senseless to the ground from the sudden burst of electricity, entering the limbo she was to remain in for all the decades subsequent.

Outside the cells, the storm roared with the fury of an angry god- as some inhabitants of the camp whispered and believed it was. Another bolt of lightning struck down with tremendous force, striking the roof of the specialty cells and sending streamers of white light and electricity coruscating along it. Inside, showers of sparks burst along metal surfaces, dancing and crackling between cell doors. Whether by chance, or the design of some unknown Higher Power, a spark leapt from the door of Old Hellion's cell, striking the steel splinter still stuck in her flesh after all the decades of her hibernation. As it did so, she released a sigh, like a long-held breath, a shudder passing through her entire being, as though every muscle had momentarily spasmed. Though this was the first time Old Hellion had visibly reacted to anything in decades, the significance went beyond what could be seen on the surface. Whatever that spark, that electricity her people were so sensitive to, had done all those decades ago, the second spark had undone. The part of her mind that had long kept vigil for just such an opportunity immediately took advantage of it, reasserting the dominance of her mind and will over her body. It would take time- maybe two hours, maybe ten, maybe more. But the dream was ended; and now her rise to the waking world would begin...

The Present time
By the time the higher-ranked slaver and his informant approached the specialty cells, a number of changes had taken place in the long-dormant inmate. The strange profusions that had been scattered through her fur had vanished. The limbs and body, long inert, had begun to twitch and flex at progressively more regular intervals. The long ears had begun to swivel purposefully, as though the owner now listened to her surroundings. The movement of the eyes behind the lids had ceased, indicating an end to her dreaming. And as the lieutenant and his companion approached the cell door, she drew in an especially deep breath and opened her eyes. The eyes, now open, were revealed to be an especially vivid purple, a violet almost matching the pelt of a certain other high-value slave. At first they were blank and unfocused. Then she blinked and shook her head, as though to clear it of her long slumber. When she stopped a clear, lucid intelligence could be seen in them as she took stock of her surroundings. It had to be the slave camp still. From the dust in her cell, and gathered on her clothes, she'd been here a long time. She reached up to run a hand through her hair, her expression conveying mild surprise at the length of it. A long time indeed. How long was the question though. She focused her eyes on the figures at the doorway. Perhaps they might have something to say that would tell her? She brought her hands back from her hair, before rising from her long-held stance, coming smoothly to her feet. If they had anything to say,she would leave it to them to take the initiative and say it. No matter how long it had been, she still had nothing to say to slavers.

It had all started with a slap across the face for some disagreement in the training ring. "Be glad the boss says no perminent marks, or I would have had my claws out, girl!"

One thing led to another, and soon Serenity somehow found her trainer's paw clenched between her teeth.

With a hiss, he shoved her roughly and yanked it away. "No food or water for five days!" That had been the verdict her trainer/guard had given, as with his uninjured hand he transfered the purple hedgehog's chain to a lesser guard before gripping his bleeding hand and rushing off to get it seen to. As an afterthought he added, "I'll make you PAY for that later!"

That had been four days ago. Serenity was now wishing she had not had the temerity to actually bite him, as her stomach complained loudly of emptyness. Her muscles were weak, and her lips parched as she sat in the darkness of her cell. Sure, it had gotten her out of practice for a few days, but...instead she was stuck in here. She was surprised they hadn't locked her in solitary for that. Yet.

The storm last night had taken her by surprise. At first, she had trembled, the pervasive superstition of angry Old Gods working it's 'magic.' But then...the sound of rain on the roof...She had strained her hand to reach through the small barred window in an effort to collect some of the water running off the roof outside. She had gotten the tiniest handful of runoff, but it was worth it. Glorious, wet, clean -well...cleaner than she usually got around here anyway- rainwater. She slurped it up gratefully, then also licked the excess off her arms, then strained her hands out for more, drinking greedily. She didn't know when she'd get another chance. She didn't sleep at all that night, until after the storm had passed and the runoff had stopped coming...only then did she allow herself to nod off, an arm still protruding from the window...

She woke to a guard slapping her arm and shoving her back in. "Git back in dere, slave! Whatcha think yer doin' Thar's no escape thataway! Hahaha! Thar's no escape ANY way fer you...'cept gettin sold! Harharhar!"

"Yeah well...come in here and say that to my FACE you coward! I'll send you packing like I did my trainer!" It was an empty threat however.

"Oh yeh? We'll see 'bout dat when he comes back wit'cher punishment, girl!"

"Hah! You guys can't touch me! I'm high-value, remember?"

"Don' start, girl! We don't HAVE to touch you...we got somtin better'n dat...jus' you wait an' see!"

*********

Several hours later, her guard/trainer was back, his hand freshly bandaged.

"What, one bite not good enough for you, hmm? You back for more?"

"Don't get smart with me, slave! I'm here for your punishment."

"I thought you already gave me that. Five days of thirst and starving?"

"Oh that was just the start. Boss won't let me cut off yer tongue, but I got something better...just for YOU! You see this?" He gave a yank on a chain in his good hand. It was then that she saw the other slave on the end of it.

"What..."

"Just watch..." He brought out his whip. "This is what happens when priceless high-values get rebelious. 'Innocent' yard-workers get to take the beating FOR them!" He grinned sinisterly, as Serenity's face fell in horrified realization.

She had to look away as the other slave was forced to take the punishment that she should have been getting. Hearing his screams was worse than getting the lashes herself. "...Please...stop. Beat me instead. I'm the one at fault, not him. He's innocent!" She managed between the tears.

"Yes. That's the beauty of it. Now...when you misbehave, he or another slave will take the beatings for you. So if you wish to spare others pain...you'll stop this nonsense right now, kapeesh?"

Serenity nodded.

"IIIIII caaaaan't HEAAAR yoooooou!"

"...Yessir."

"Yes, WHAT?"

The purple hedgehog grimmaced as the other slave grunted again from the pain of another lash. After a pause, she sighed and hung her head in defeat. "Yes, Master."

"...That's better. Try to remember that." Turning to the other slave, he ordered, "Now scram, you! Back to the yard!" The other slave hastily retreated. Her trainer sauntered out behind him, leaving her in her cell for the rest of the day.

Serenity felt sick.