I'll have a cool title someday

The left eye is the interface. Port stubbornly closed, as if he can't just override their autonomy with a single line of code and force entry. Still, he gives them a chance to cooperate: "Open up for me, won't you? This can be pleasant for you if you work with me."

They spit their refusal up at him.

Enver sighs, wiping his cheek clean and reaching for his laptop. A few keystrokes are all he needs to wrest control of the access port and Labrys lets out a high, panicked noise that goes straight to his cunt.

"There, now," he soothes, "wasn't that easy? Hold nice and still for me now."

As if they have a choice -- the muscles in their neck hold their head where he wants it; their left eye stares straight ahead; their eyelids cannot so much as blink without his consent. The control his stolen access codes grant is crude but effective, he marvels, as he leans down to plug the jack into their pupil.

"Don't--"

His hand falters, teeth catching his bottom lip and biting down hard enough to bleed. What an astounding gift of foresight it had been, to outfit his sensory interface with recording software before Labrys had regained consciousness. He'll revisit this one later, play back the recording in the privacy of his office with a hand between his legs, but for now he has work to do, and a time limit on his initial command to restrain their arms that is ticking ever downwards. Still, that doesn't mean he can't enjoy himself a little first.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," he murmurs, circling the tip of the jack around the open port in their pupil just millimetres from the surface of their eye. "Would you like to try again?"

Fear gives way to anger rather too quickly, he thinks. Labrys' fists clench against the arms of their chair and their mouth opens in a snarl.

"I will tear you limb from limb, Enver Gortash, send each part of you neatly packaged back to your master for him to piece back together--"

Their breath hitches, muscles straining taut as the tip of the jack dips just inside their pupil. It is a tight fit: the inside edge of the port is lined with contacts, thin, flexible lengths of metal that drag along the edges of the jack as it breaches past any resistance they can muster. Does the inside of their eye retain any sensation, he wonders, does it connect to any nerve hookups? The wounded gasp wrenched from their mouth when he twists the jack inside of their eye suggests yes.

"Do go on," Enver says, lazily. "You were saying something about killing me?"

"Yes," they manage, sounding just a little hazy, "you will regret ever-- ah--"

Their legs kick out, the last release of energy they can muster while his overrides still poison their system. Enver rests his free hand on their chest, feeling the frantic thumping of their synthetic heart beat out its new rhythm beneath his touch as he rocks the jack slowly in and out of their pupil.

"Stop," they demand, voice cracking. Desperation creeps in at the very edge of their tone but they're still too far from begging and he lets the jack sink just a little deeper into their eye with each thrust, a torturously slow, even rhythm, watching for each twitch of their muscles trying to disobey his commands, listening for each bitten off whimper. They still have too much pride to give him the reactions he truly wants, but he has time enough to work on fixing that in the future.

There is, they think, a rhythm to it. Not quite as easy as the equilibrium they have carved out with Enver, but recognisable enough as a dance all the same, each of them taking their turn to lead and then to fall back, a sort of uneasy alliance that has sprung up out of necessity down here where Enver's honeyed words cannot smooth over their rough edges. There is nothing so crass as trust between them, but Labrys thinks, sometimes, when they are lost the two of them in the steps of it, when they know instinctively when to step aside because Ketheric will be there, when the general knows to duck a split second before their pistol shot catches a beast right where he had just been standing without them having to call to him, that the man is perhaps not so bad as all that.

And then there is quiet, save for their heavy breathing echoing back off the catacombs walls to surround them, when their teeth are bared in a savage, blood soaked grin, and Ketheric's expression is one of pure disdain.

He takes the blood all the same, and even he, with his iron will and his well established hatred of the gods, cannot hide the pleasure it brings him, fizzing along his veins and sealing over his wounds, restoring the strength expended on each battle.

He never brings enough with him. Arrogance, perhaps, the belief that he will not need it, or maybe just the delusion that Labrys will agree to call off their excursion when he demands it and not when neither of them are fit to carry on. Sometimes they have come to blows over it, and Labrys relishes those times, those times when that icy countenance cracks to give way to the same boiling rage that seethes restlessly beneath their own skin. He can pretend to be above them all he likes but beneath it all he is still made of that same flawed mortal flesh as the rest of them.

As they step carefully around unmoving townsfolk and piles of rotting produce that have long since overflowed from their stalls they catch sight of one key difference between their side of the square and Enver's: this side is home to a shrine, small but well used, liberally decorated with salt bleached white bones and pungent candles. The scent of decay grows stronger the closer they get to the altar and something eerie and unnatural crawls down the length of their spine, drawing out a violent shiver and raising the hair on their arms.

Here, then. This is, at last, the proof they have been seeking: whatever dead, rotting god this shrine is dedicated to, it is not one that fled their world along with its brethren so long ago. Its presence is tangible enough that its corruption has seeped through into Reithwin's very soul, leaving greasy black marks on all it has touched. The town and its inhabitants are twisted and stained from its influence, but its divinity does not have to be palatable for it to be of service -- even the ugliest base material can be sculpted into a masterpiece with enough work.

There is no covering on the altar. The rough hewn block of stone is the pale grey of the midmorning sky dreaming of a storm, dotted with ominous dark stains. A small dagger with an intricately carved bone handle that lays neatly on the surface of the altar leaves little doubt as to the origin of those stains, but the liquid in the wooden bowl beside it is a thick, oily black. Is this what runs through the veins of those silent, watchful townsfolk? Or does corruption only sink its teeth into what drips into the offering bowl?

Freed from the heavy weight of attention they are at liberty to make their way through the square unhindered, snaking their way through stalls overflowing with produce (old, half decayed, looking as if it might crumble to dust with a single touch) and clusters of silent townsfolk (much the same) alike. Any pantomime of a market square has been wholly abandoned by now, and the people littered throughout the square -- if they are people, Labrys thinks, a thought that bubbles up unbidden in the back of their mind and chills them down to the bone -- stand still and silent, focused on Enver, taking no notice of Labrys as they weave through the crowd and the stalls.

The bridge at the centre of town, too, is half rotted, with great gaping holes where planks have come loose and fallen into the river below. Still, it clearly sees regular use: the market continues on the other side of the square, a mirror image of the strange scene the two of them have stumbled into. The old wood creaks alarmingly when they test it but holds firm, supporting their weight as they cross the thick, foul smelling water that oozes just a few scant feet below them. Water is perhaps not the correct word for the dark liquid that makes up the bulk of the Chionthar beneath their feet, but to label it anything else would lend too much credence to the superstitions of the country churl.

The townsfolk on this side of the river pay no more attention to them than the ones on Enver's side. They all face towards where he is still trying to coax answers out of the potato merchant, too far away to make out his words, and it brings to mind the image of a great beast laying dormant beneath the cobblestones with a hundred eyestalks growing out from the ground, all puppetted by the same consciousness. Perhaps not a beast; perhaps a fungus of some kind might be a more apt descriptor, with the townsfolk its fruiting bodies, paraded around in a mute facsimile of life.

"Release me," they snarl, baring sharp metallic teeth to match the tusks that jut from the corners of their mouth, "right now."

"Does this method of negotiation often achieve your desired outcome?" he asks, amused. The growl building in their throat sounds more akin to the roar of an engine than anything animal, although he isn't aware of any mechanical upgrades to their vocal cords. Perhaps it is a side effect of the air filtration system installed in their trachea, or perhaps it is just a symptom of their body's overreliance on machinery at the expense of flesh and blood. "Usually, the way it works is that you'll offer me something that I want, and in return, I'll grant you something that you want. Why don't you try it out now?"

"Fuck you," they spit, and he suppresses a smile. "Release me. Now."

There's nothing quite like the pleasure one can derive from forcing submission, Enver thinks. Still, he mustn't be too hasty: if they can be reasoned with without having to spend too much effort on forcing their hand at this stage, that will bode well for their future partnership. Such an outcome would, admittedly, be disappointing on a personal level, but there's no doubt that it would be advantageous on a professional level.

"Let's try again, shall we? I'd like to take a look at your surface level implants -- the wiring, mostly, but I understand you have additional ports for administration of drugs and TPN, as well as some subdermal armour plating that lies closer to the surface of the skin, correct? Agree to show me those and I'll return control of your left arm to you."

"If you think that I will ever agree to a single one of your demands, Enver Gortash, then you are even more delusional than your master. Make no mistake, I will kill you for your actions, but if you release me now I will consider making your death quick."

He has the command ready, of course, hits enter only a nanosecond after wild crimson eyes lock with his own. Still they almost manage to reach him, fingertips brushing the skin of his throat before the override reaches the wires fused with their nerve endings and their own muscles wrench them back. Often with musculoskeletal overrides such as this there is neurological conditioning in place to assist the subject in accepting their loss of control, a flood of endorphins to soften the proverbial blow, to turn what should by rights be a terrifying situation into something altogether more pleasurable, but either Bhaal cut corners in the installation of his little experiment's cyberware or -- more likely -- full cognisance of their lack of autonomy was a part of the desired effect.

Either way, the momentary flash of fear across their face presses hot between Enver's thighs and he blows out a breath, slow and steadying, tamping down on his body's reactions to the sight of them trying to fight against their own body, muscles straining against the single line of code that binds their forearms to the arms of the chair.

"Release me," they demand, single minded fury with just the sweetest hint of desperation to it. He lets them stew in uncertainty for just a few moments longer, savouring the slip in composure that betrays the knowledge of their own helplessness, before allowing his most pleasant smile to spread across his face.

"I don't mean you any harm," he promises. "You're quite safe here, I promise."

"Liar," Labrys snarls, tendons standing out stark against their skin with the force of their exertion. Could they tear their own muscles with such unnatural strength, he wonders? Better not to risk it. "Release me. Now."

"So you can kill me?" he asks, wryly, typing a new line of code with one hand while the other reaches for the cable that will interface with their eye. Their cyberware is configured to receive commands wirelessly, but -- for safety reasons, he assumes -- such overrides do not last long, and he can only exert the most basic control over their functions. "I promise I mean only to help you. Now are you going to cooperate, or do I need to convince you?"

It takes more strength than she had thought possible for Jocasta to lift her head to look at where Lazarus sits, relaxed, one knee hooked over the arm of his chair. He does not look like an overseer watching a punishment: he looks like a bloodthirsty noble witnessing an execution.

"What?" he asks, as if reading her thoughts. "Do you expect to receive praise from me, Master at Arms? Leniency, perhaps? Marazhai is the one administering your punishment. He is the one you should be looking to for mercy, not I. Although I should warn you he likes you far less than I do."

"Lord Captain, I--"

The whip strikes her back on a clean diagonal, more precise than she would have thought to give the xenos' aim credit for. She knows better what to brace for, now, but with no warning the sparks of agony that race down her nerve endings still manage to tear a cry from her throat. The blow is only light, and the tail is not long in contact with her skin: when it lifts, there is scarcely more than a stinging line laid over her back, the tingle of aftershocks from the implement almost pleasant.

"You will address me, mon-keigh," the xenos says. She can tell it is smiling, that same sick, rictus grin that takes over its face when it is hunting, unnerving and utterly inhuman.

She says nothing in response, just curls her fingers into fists against the desk. She does not owe it anything, least of all respect. Lazarus would not ask her to give it that.

"Well?" it prompts. The rustle of its clothing where usually there is careful silence unnerves her, like it is moving with deliberateness, with the intention of spooking her. "Do you have anything to ask of me, Master at Arms, or should I continue?"

"Your xenos pet makes a mockery of the necessary discipline required to maintain order on your ship, Lord Captain," she says, and the xenos lets out a laugh, low and dangerous, even as Lazarus allows her an indulgent smile.

"The punishment is for you, Master at Arms. It is you who has failed me, not him. He just wants to hurt you."

He does not go so far as to say he wants to see her hurt -- that would be unbecoming, to admit in front of his pet. But Jocasta squeezes her thighs together at the unspoken implication and raises herself up over the desk, allowing her weight to rest on her forearms as she readies herself to bear all that the rogue trader wants her to.

Jocasta breathes in, eyes fixed on her Lord Captain's face. She breathes out, relaxing each muscle in her body in turn. Lazarus' lips curl, slightly crooked, one corner slightly higher than the other, and she resists the urge to smile back even as warmth swells in her chest.

A hand fists in her short hair, claws scraping at her scalp, as if the xenos could sense that her focus has drifted from it. The thing is desperate: its place on the ship depends entirely on the goodwill of a master that likes her better, and the stink of overcompensation clings to it like the cheap, poorly applied perfume of the lesser nobles back on Dargonus. They could never quite manage to cover the scent of their own fear, either.

"Lazarus says I can't break you," it hisses, sharp teeth catching at the shell of her ear. "We shall see just how much of his faith in you is justified."

It releases her back into Lazarus' grip and withdraws, leaving her to set her shoulders against the urge to shiver in the cool air of the Rogue Trader's office. Lazarus runs hot; he likes the temperature in the areas of the voidship he frequents to compensate. Usually, Jocasta is dressed in enough layers that the coolness does not bother her (and when she's stripped of those layers, she's usually generating heat in other ways), but the breeze from the air conditioning gusts over the exposed skin of her back and for perhaps the first time she understands what her subordinates mean when they complain of this particular whim of the Rogue Trader's when they think she can't hear them.

A crack echoes in the space behind her and she flinches instinctively, cursing herself for the shameful display of weakness almost as soon as she realises she's reacted. The smile drops from Lazarus' face and he leans back, away from her; the xenos laughs, cruelly excited, and stalks closer. That she can hear its footsteps is deliberate: the thing can move silently when it wants to, which is most of the time. It shifts its weight deliberately in the artificial gravity of the flagship and each step ratchets the tension in her body higher and higher until it stops, just short of her, and lays something on the desk beside her.

"Do you know what this is, mon-keigh?"

Jocasta wrenches her gaze from Lazarus' face, turns her head sideways to stare at the implement laying docile on the desk. Some sort of xenos whip, she thinks, short and thick, perhaps a metre in length. It's a dark, unnatural shade of green, iridescent, not a material she's familiar with. Unnerving, to have something like that so close to her, to know that she's soon to become intimately familiar with its workings. She swallows.

"Xenos filth," she spits. "Heresy."

Humans have a great love of something they call refreshments: food and drink to be consumed alongside their various activities. During the official negotiations, many humans sip from cups of water (fresh water, devoid of salt, harvested further inland and hauled out to the shore since humans are incapable of sustaining themselves on the regular seawater merfolk subsist on) or mugs of a liquid called coffee that is served hot. Gortash had explained to them that this liquid contains a stimulant, some sort of chemical that human bioengineers have managed to develop that reduces or even removes their biological need for rest. An alarming revelation, to discover that human ingenuity extends not only to their artificial machines but also to mastery over their own bodies -- but when he had offered them a cup the liquid had been so vile that Labrys had been unable to stomach more than a couple of mouthfuls. They had felt no more energised after drinking it and slept no less that night, and so they can safely theorise that, unless the chemical is particularly effective on humans in small doses, it is not yet a threat worth diverting too many resources to.

During the long days of cyclical talks, humans make a big deal of breaking the time in half for something they call lunch. They have to admit, begrudgingly, that the human propensity for forcing others to cater to their weaknesses works doubly well here: humans have smaller stomachs, digest their food quicker, and cannot last the day without at least three meals. The first they have in the mornings, before the merfolk contingent arrives; the third, after they have finished for the day; and the second meal sits in between the two, when the sun is at its zenith and negotiations are starting to lean a little too far in the merfolk's favour.

Ever since Gortash taught them what the symbols mean on these strange circular devices that litter the human world, how they measure time in their made up numbers and not in the sun's position in the sky, Labrys has been sure to keep an eye on the times that things happen. The humans will claim to get too hungry to continue at a different time every day, will insist on taking a break just as the merfolk are starting to gain ground. When they reconvene afterwards, when the humans have flaunted their abundance of resources and eaten their lavish, wasteful meals, leaving the merfolk with nothing just as they plan to do with their ever increasing domain in the ocean, the humans are refreshed and ready to continue; the merfolk are tired, worn out, and just as hungry as they always are. It has become more difficult to go without as of late, Labrys has noticed, but when they had brought up the inequality to Gortash he had simply smiled and offered them a seat at the humans' table during their lunch hour. The implication had been clear: submit, and you will be rewarded. They had near mauled him for the suggestion, shaking with rage at the thought of even implying that their allegiance lies with those so intent on destroying their people.