fangs lungs ankles

A few feet away, Klaus lifted the orange cap off his head and scratched at his hair. “Uh, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Mr. Oz looked at him. “What?”

“Y’know. Letting a subhuman carry a gun around.”

Subhuman, huh.

“Oh, please. He knows how to handle it, you heard him.”

“That’s what I’m fuckin’ worried about!” Klaus pulled the cap back on, flattening his hair to his forehead. “What if he decides to use it on us and start an uprising?” 

Port tensed as both sets of eyes landed on him. He hadn’t even thought about it until Klaus brought it up. It didn't sit right with him at all.

“Are you trying to give him ideas?” Mr. Oz laughed. “You’re not gonna try to kill us, are you?”

“Of course not, sir.” Port glanced between the both of them. “I’d get in real trouble for that.”

Mr. Oz laughed again. “See? It’s fine.”

Klaus threw his hands up. “Whatever. You’re the one who better watch his back. I’ve got my own gun.”

“Watch my back for you, maybe,” Mr. Oz said, turning to rummage for something in the backseat of the pickup truck.

Klaus shot Port a toothy smile. “We’re friends, right, Porter?”

Friends seemed generous. They weren’t equals, not even close. But it seemed to be what Klaus wanted to hear. “Yes, sir.”

Klaus patted him roughly on the back. “Alright! We’re gonna be best buds.”

~~~

The sun hadn’t yet risen, but the stars were starting to dim. They’d gotten a real early start today, leaving home around 4 AM to get to the spot before dawn.

“It’s slim pickin’s on public land,” Klaus had explained. “But my cousin owns a ranch out here and he’s given me and Parse permission to hunt for the past few years. I can tell ya we won’t be going home empty-handed.”

The grass brushed by his shins, curving under the weight of last night’s rain. He made his way through the field, carefully stepping around a film of fresh spiderweb beaded with pearly drops of dew. The hems of his jeans were well on their way to soaked already. The tips of his ears were a little cold.

He walked in step behind Mr. Oz, Klaus trailing close behind. It struck him how trusting his master was to turn his back on him when he had a weapon in his hands. He never even cast a glance over his shoulder. 

He could feel Klaus’ eyes on the back of his head, however, as they made for the tree line. “The stand is less than half a mile in,” Klaus said. “Keep your eyes peeled. We could run into game on the way.”

The trees had started dropping their leaves. The rain made them pliable— not too much crunch. Mr. Oz pushed past a low hanging branch and some water sprinkled on his head.

They came across a narrow creek that went as far as the eye could see in either direction. A few sticks floated in the current of the dark water. It stretched slightly too wide to simply step across, but could easily be jumped, Port thought.

“Damn,” Klaus said. “Our bridge fell in.” 

Port realized there were a few planks of wood barely sticking out of the water, slanted against the muddy bank on the opposite side.

“We can put it back up,” Mr. Oz said. “I’ll go first. Pass me the gun before you come over.”

“Yes, sir.” Port watched Mr. Oz take a small running start and bound rather ungracefully across the creek. He landed heavily in the dirt on the other side. Porter carefully transferred the rifle to him, standing right on the edge of the creek with both arms reaching over the running water. Mr. Oz turned to rest the rifle against the trunk of a tree as Port calculated his own jump.

Just as he was shifting his feet, there was a mighty shove against his back. He lost his balance, stepping forward into open air. He toppled over and landed on his knees in the water. His hands scraped the bank on the other side, catching stones and exposed roots.

Mr. Oz whirled around at the splash. “For fuck’s sake, Port.” 

Klaus was snickering behind him. “He just wanted to go for a swim.”

Port avoided looking at either of them. His face turned hot, even though it wasn’t really his fault. He stood, boots sinking into the muddy bottom. The water was shallow and slow-running— it barely went to his knees. But his bottom half was completely soaked, now. He blinked away dirty water that had splashed into his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said quietly to Mr. Oz as he made to climb out. Klaus was still chuckling. What was that about an uprising? he thought wryly. Guess Klaus felt safer now that the gun was out of his hands. Port would take the blame for falling— he wouldn't tell. Most people didn’t take kindly to snitching.

“Hold on,” Mr. Oz said. “You might as well fish out those planks while you’re in there.” 

Port aborted his ascent and obediently waded over to the planks. He lifted them out of the water, placing them across the creek as a makeshift bridge. They were rotting a little. Port wasn’t sure how much he’d trust stepping on them.

He climbed out as Klaus hopped across, shotgun slung on his back. Port was all waterlogged and dripping.

“You’re gonna get trench foot,” Mr. Oz said.

Port didn’t know what exactly ‘trench foot’ was but it was probably true. His socks were squelching with every step. 

“And trench dick,” Klaus added.

Mr. Oz raised his eyebrows. “That, too.”

~~~

It wasn’t too long before Port was able to spy the deer stand peeking through the gaps between the trees. It was a tiny wooden thing on stilts, right by the edge of a clearing. They went up the stairs single file, slats creaking with each heavy boot. Inside the little room was nearly too dark to see. What little natural light there was filtered in through the narrow cut-outs in the walls.

Pushed in the corner were two desk chairs on wheels. The fabric of the seats was dingy and pilling. Klaus went straight to one of them and sat down, resting his shotgun against the wall. 

Thankfully, Mr. Oz had spare pairs of socks and underwear in his backpack. “I always bring extras,” he mused as he pulled them out. “You never know when you might fall in a river. Or shit yourself.”

“It’s a good habit,” Port agreed, ignoring the last bit.

He went back outside to change, stepping through the stilts so he could stand directly under the room and have some sense of privacy. He didn’t like the idea of being watched.

He didn’t want to put his soaking pants back on, so he hung them on the X-shaped support to dry. He felt awkward all half-naked, but he figured it was better than being soggy. He took his jacket off and wrung out the wet part of his shirt as best he could. He shivered, cold and miserable, palms stinging with tiny cuts.

He went back into the deer stand, holding his jacket in front of himself in an attempt at modesty. Klaus spun around in his chair at his entrance. 

“Whoa there!” he exclaimed. “Do you always take your pants off on the first date?”

Port forced a smile. “Only if I’m wet enough.”

Klaus laughed really hard at that, and Mr. Oz pointedly looked away. “You’re gonna scare the damn deer off,” he muttered.

Port retreated into the corner of the room as Klaus got a hold of himself. “Hour after first light is prime time,” he said in Port’s direction. “I prefer the walk-and-stalk method. I get real bored sittin' in this thing.” He crossed his arms, thinking. “Whaddya say we try it out?”

Port blinked. “You and me?”

“Yeah. In an hour or so.”

Hiking alone in the woods with Klaus was not the most appealing idea to him. He looked to Mr. Oz for any indication of what to say.

Mr. Oz shrugged. “Go with him. It’ll be fun. I’m staying here, though.”

Port carefully did not make a face. “Yes, sir.”

Klaus smiled wide. “Great! I’ll get a little hunting buddy today. Not that you’re little, Port.” 

He smiled back politely. “A little too tall, maybe.”

Mr. Oz sighed forlornly, staring out into the clearing. “I’ve always wanted a hunting buddy. I tried to get my daughter into hunting, y’know, but she wasn’t interested at all. Wouldn’t even touch the gun.” He tugged his knit cap further over his ears. “She was always kind of a pussy.”

Klaus shared a look with Port, grimacing. Yeesh, he mouthed. Port pursed his lips and looked away. Nothing good ever came of his master thinking about his family. 

Mr. Oz was oblivious, busy in his brooding. “I was really excited when I had a son. I thought he would be more like me. I would’ve liked to take him out here, but…” he trailed off, jaw working.

Port was silent. Klaus was silent. Mr. Oz scowled at the both of them. “Whatever. Neither of you would know anything about that.”

Klaus scratched at his beard. “No siree. Kids sound like a pain in the ass to me.”

“Trust me, they are,” he said darkly.

They were silent for some time after that, keeping watch for wildlife. Port grew chiller by the minute now that he wasn’t moving around anymore, not to mention the starkness of his legs.

Movement outside caught his eye. He peered into the trees, leaves catching the early morning light. He didn’t spot it immediately, but as he squinted— there it was. A buck, two antlers spouting from its skull. Its head swiveled, trying to catch a scent.

“Sir,” he whispered. They both turned curiously. “Look.”

Mr. Oz saddled up beside him, quietly pulling his chair over. “Good eye,” he complimented. They watched the deer’s head dip, lipping at something in a bush. Port was entranced the sight. It was a shame they were supposed to kill it.

“Do you want to take it?” Mr. Oz asked.

Port’s brow furrowed. “Shoot it, you mean?”

“Yeah.” 

When was the last time he had looked at something through the scope of a rifle? What was the last thing he had killed? Something twinged behind his eye. He pressed at his temple with a few fingers, trying to soothe the ache. It was a bad idea to try and think about things from so long ago.

“I think you should,” Port decided.

Mr. Oz’s face flashed with disappointment. Port almost took it back, but Mr. Oz was already slowly setting the rifle on the ledge and peering through the scope himself.

It was a bad shot— the deer was at a weird angle. Mr. Oz stayed still, waiting for it to move. Port listened to the back-and-forth of birdsong in the meantime. The birds were all awake by now, whistling at each other. 

The deer took a few delicate steps forward, nibbling at the vegetation. Content in its own happiness, it bared its broad side to the gun.

Port held his breath as Mr. Oz adjusted the rifle, finger teasing at the trigger. Just then, a bright red cardinal flew out from somewhere within the trees and shot by the buck’s head. It startled, flinging its white tail up and leaping back into the bushes. 

Mr. Oz grunted, leaning back. “There’ll be more.”

⭑ next

------

He twitched at the sudden pressure. They trained so many of his instincts out of him, but when roused from sleep, some found their way back. He recoiled as best he could, a soft sound of pained confusion escaping him. But he came to quicker this time, and seemed to realize where he was.

She removed her foot from his head. "Get up."

He stumbled up into a standing position, the effort made harder without the use of his hands. She’d been serious, then. For some reason, when she’d said in the morning, he had not interpreted it as the second he woke up. Maybe he should have. His brain wasn’t even working all the way yet. He tugged idly at the chain, meaning to just wipe at his eyes, but stopped when he realized that would be impossible.

The threat of further kicking hung in the air for a moment, before she fiddled with the padlock and released the chain that kept Delta's cuffs tethered to the bolt in the floor. She looped a finger around the chain-links between his wrists and gave it a sharp tug.

"We've got somewhere to be."

“Where’s that, sir?” he asked, biting back the yawn and following behind her. It might’ve just been better for him to stay quiet at that point, but the question seemed inoffensive enough. He felt oddly cold as she walked him through the metal corridors.

She pulled the chain forward with a grunt. "Upstairs." 

Amira dragged Delta down the hall to the elevators. They ascended to one of the upper decks, a large open control-room like space, with the far wall made entirely of glass, looking out into the starry depths beyond. 

There was some sort of contraption, an apparatus of some kind, erected in the center of the room. It was like a frame, a bit larger than a clothing rack, with bolts at each of its corners. Members of the crew stilled as they entered, filing out to fill the space surrounding the central apparatus. 

His reaction to the sight was intensely negative. It was nice to see the stars again, however briefly. His cell had afforded no view of them — and he missed being able to roam freely. But it was all overshadowed by the room’s centerpiece.

“…Sir?” he addressed Amira nervously, quietly. Not pleased with any metal thing meant to hold him, not pleased with the appearance of other people within the space. He kept his voice low so only she could hear. 

Fear slowed him. The resistance was subtle, but he was definitely dragging his feet. He didn’t like to. He knew it wouldn’t do anything — they could do whatever they wanted to him and he’d have no recourse. But the fear and uncertainty were fully gnawing at him. It was the not knowing that got to him. She could at least give him a warning, some indication of what was about to happen. He’d gone all rigid.

Amira pulled Delta to the center where Marston met her, and together they tethered Delta's hands to the bolts in the top two corners, two more shackles locked around his ankles and held them fast against the bottom two corners. He was pinned like a butterfly inside the metallic frame.

He stopped fighting it just as soon as she moved to shackle him. It was exceptionally obvious that she was going to go through with this. She’d already drawn a crowd. Delta felt he was beginning to understand her better, knew well enough that there was no way she’d be able to back out of this now—even if she wanted to.

Amira said nothing as she chained him in, only responding to his little confused inquiry when she stepped back to take in the sight of him, to make sure all was in place. 

"The problem is clear," she projected her voice, addressing Delta but also the entire room. "You've said it yourself. In fact, you keep saying it over and over again. 'I belong to Empire.'” 

"And I'd thought," she paused, as if for dramatic effect—her voice was different when she addressed the whole room, "that we had settled this. That you understood the terms of your own surrender." 

"But," she paused, letting a half-breath of silence hang in the air alongside her captive. "It seems you are still suffering from that same stubborn delusion. You still don't quite realize your position."

"Well, you're going to learn exactly who you belong to today."

Delta’s assumption was only confirmed by the way her voice changed. She wasn’t even speaking to him anymore. She was just addressing the audience. He’d had enough experience with spectacle to know when a show is being put on—and his role as unwilling participant came as no surprise either.

This felt different though. His stomach dropped a little as he realized he had totally lost his chance to negotiate with her. It had ended as soon as they’d entered the room.

All the effort now was spent on a good performance. He didn’t want to risk her ire by ruining it, did not want to debase himself with any futile attempts to stop it. But just as before, he had no idea what she wanted from him, no idea what was about to happen.

His eyes didn’t quite meet hers. They’d fixed on some odd point on the floor, where he could pretend not to notice the room’s laser focus on him and her. He gave no reply.

Amira was glad he didn't respond. She imagined he'd figured out it was probably the best choice, as any argument would only serve to prove her point. 

Marston walked back over to Amira holding something metal in her hands—a long metal rod with something carved at the end, like some sort of design. 

He recognized the brand for what it was and was fully unable to stop himself from panic. His wrists turned idly in the restraints. There was clearly no hope of actually escaping them, but his own nervousness prevented him from staying still.

Amira held it in her hand and approached Delta closer, holding it up for him to see. It was a bird, carved out of metal, with its wings spread high, like a halo over its head. 

"You probably won't recognize this. It's an Eastern Xolluvian Thunderbird, known for its call that could sound for miles through the densest forests.” A hint of something almost reverent laced her tone when she said this, although it disappeared just as quickly. "They aren't around anymore, though. Would you care to guess why?"

He did look at her now—because she was close, because she wanted him to. The look in his eyes had turned pleading—it would have even if he wasn’t trying to.

“Sir,” he said, completely ignoring the question. “I know who I belong to. This isn’t necessary. Please.”

His voice was level and low. In fact, his lips had barely moved. He was deliberate in this — no one else would hear the answer he had given. It wasn’t for their benefit. He was trying to speak to her now. Not the Captain, not whoever she was pretending to be in the moment. Amira.

Her eyes snapped to his when he spoke, piercing like arrows as though trying to see through him—did he mean he belonged to her? Or Empire? She'd heard him say he belonged to Empire more times than she could count—but if he'd meant her— 

In the end, she knew it didn't matter. The stage had been set. The actors to their positions. The scene would proceed as directed. 

She lowered her tone to match his own, a hint of bite mixed with a tinge of regret. "You don't decide what's necessary."

This was actually happening. Delta withered a bit from the rebuke, though truthfully he’d already seen it coming.

He still twisted a bit in the restraints, cursing the anticipation. He’d been biting his lip, but stopped, too nervous he might pierce through it when the time came.

She took a step back, raising the carved metallic bird once more. "This creature, like so many others,” She was addressing the room again. “—fell to the destruction of your Empire. The way they gutted the lands—as they did our people—it drove many species and civilizations to extinction. The planet doesn't look green from orbit these days. The Thunderbird got snuffed out with the rest of its ecosystem.” 

To his credit, he did listen, though he again suspected this was more for the benefit of the audience than any message intended for him. He understood political theater. He recognized this was important to her.

“We wear its image on our flags, our backs, to remember this creature and all the rest taken from us by Empire. And now, it will mark you as well. I want you to remember every life you've taken, every civilization you've helped destroy. Every world you've snuffed out for the sake of your beloved Prince. I want you never to forget, for as long as this marks your chest, that you are my property now."

The speech had turned abruptly personal. He felt a little bit as if she’d just raked her nails across his heart. It had scraped and disrupted the secret he’d kept so tight in his chest.

Every life you’ve taken, every civilization you’ve helped destroy.

“I’m sorry,” Delta said automatically, the only thing he’d said at all today that might be halfway audible to the room. He’d apologized to her so often, over everything, that to say it and mean it felt like an almost alien experience. The wound felt raw. Something deeper and colder than shame pooled within it.

He remembered he used to fantasize about what he might deserve. It had been far worse than this.

Amira blinked at him, eyebrows twitching up just a touch when he said it—he almost sounded sincere—but he was desperate, she was sure, to say anything to end this. No, in the end, if he was learning his lesson now, it was only because she was finally showing him she was serious. To back down now would teach him the opposite—that he could bowl her over with a bat of his eyelashes. Never.

She handed the metal bird off to Marston, who held it still while two other crew members pointed large bright lasers at the metal until it began to glow. 

It grew from a deep red to a bright orange, and the laser guns powered down before Marston passed the metal baton back to Amira. 

“…Can I have something to bite?” he asked, by way of concession. His voice was still low, but not with the same hushed urgency. He’d watched carefully as the metal had changed colors. He knew it would not be the same burns he was used to. He knew just from looking at it that it’d be worse.

She heard Delta's question and considered it. "Fine," she said, deciding the burn itself would be enough and he didn't need to bite his own tongue out in the process. That would cause more problems than it would fix. 

She nodded to Marston, who reached down and unclipped a leather strap around her thigh—one of several that held her various weapons and gadgetry. She held the leather to Delta's lips.

He muttered his thanks from around the leather strap. He really hadn’t expected her to agree to that. He was pretty sure she was committed to making this as unbearable as possible—every other action she’d taken in the past twenty four hours seemed to suggest as much.

Delta wasn’t sure whether to look or not when the iron struck—and he hadn’t made up his mind about it when it abruptly made contact with his chest.

He thrashed. It was the only time in years he could remember actually trying to escape his restraints. It came on no conscious level—just base instinct, some animal consciousness in pure desperation to get away. The scream was muffled by the strap, then half choked off by his own will—he was still trying to take it in silence, though he had so clearly failed at that.

Amira heard the sizzle before she heard the scream. And then it came, muffled by the leather but still bright with pain, with panic, with the desperation of a trapped creature, cornered and helpless, finally getting what it deserved. 

She watched the way he twitched, bright and seizing—the way he still writhed when she pulled it away, before withering in the chains like a wilting flower. 

It burned hotter and lasted forever, more than he would have ever expected necessary for the image to take. He was in sheer panic as the iron seared into him—and remained in sheer panic for several moments after it was finally pulled away.

Amira passed the metal behind her and stepped closer, speaking only to him. 

"I want you to tell me who you belong to, Delta."

Delta blinked. She’d asked a bit too soon. He needed the time to come back to himself. The look in his eyes was still dazed and wild. But she reached him, somehow. He had to speak around pained breaths. When he spoke, it was like he did not fully understand where the words were coming from.

“Um,” he winced, like even speaking pained him, like there was nothing for him in this moment but pain. “You? I-? You, sir. I belong to you. Um.”

His own breathing distracted him. He seemed like he was having trouble with it.

It wasn't as eloquent as she'd hoped, but all things considered—

"Correct. But you can do better than that. Let's hear it again now, louder this time. Tell us who you belong to, Delta."

There was a soft whine, mostly unrelated to her order.

“I belong to you, sir,” he repeated without hesitation. His eyes were fully squeezed shut; he was only barely conscious of what she was saying to him. It seemed like he was capable of entertaining two fully separate experiences simultaneously. He could tell her what she wanted to hear. Most of his thoughts were still occupied by the burning by the make it fucking stop please. But the iron had been pulled away. They weren’t hurting him anymore. But the burn was still there, still running clean through him, and would be. Forever? He couldn’t think straight. His thoughts were still knee-jerk and animalistic. Dazed. It hurt.

“Good,” she said. “If you make any attempt to mar the scarring or the healing process I will do it again on your other side of your chest. Am I clear?”

He couldn’t stand the tone she was still taking with him, like she was still mad, like even this had not been enough. It confirmed something he already knew, something he’d turned over in his head over and over again when he’d first learned what murder meant. That no amount of repentance would ever be enough. That he will never be forgiven. All his thoughts were still clouded with pain, so much that he felt he was dreaming.

It was harder for him to decipher her words than the effect, but when he did manage, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had no desire to do that, nor even the knowledge of how to. The threat was all that registered. 

“Yes, sir,” he agreed, quieter. He wanted it to be over. He hoped that was what she was building to.

“You’re to make no attempt to pull away. To resist us. And the attitude is something I should never have to mention again. Am I understood.”

Delta gave a morose nod, and at the snap of her fingers, Amira summoned two crew members to dismantle Delta from the apparatus. He was positioned on his knees, forehead pressed into the ground, his wrists cuffed behind him this time. His ankles were still chained to the sides of the frame, making the position awkward and putting unnecessary pressure on his hips. The horror of his fate settled in when he felt his cuffed wrists being drawn up above his back and attached to a chain that dangled from the top of the apparatus. The position forced his shoulders to strain painfully, trapping him in the forced bow.

It didn’t take him long at all to slip into total misery. It wasn’t hard. He was in pain and given no distraction for it. The position was meant to humiliate him. It succeeded. 

Delta knew nobody viewed him as a person. This kind of treatment should not have registered as a surprise. But it did. It was fucking painful. He was at least granted the option of pretending sometimes, that he did not exist solely for other people, that he was not just an object that constantly needed to be put in its place. It was able to recede into background noise most of the time.

Here, that reality was painful and unavoidable. He wasn’t even allowed to move. They’d done it to hurt him, because they thought he deserved it. They’d done it to remind him of his place, to make the difference between himself and real people so stark that it could never be doubted. He understood. He understood that, so could they please just fucking stop.

He was crying. It started without him meaning to, and persisted beyond his ability to control it. He pressed his forehead tighter to the ground, just trying to brace against it, to have something that could ground him. 

It was hard not to despair when his compliance had not been enough, when every second he stayed here represented a second in which he was not forgiven, in which they were still mad at him, even though he was so fucking sorry. It was hard not to despair that this was what he’d been born to, molded into against his will. He’d never asked for this. He never wanted to be this. 

He brushed up against his own nerve with that thought—and was unable to fully silence the sob that it brought up. Fuck, he was losing it. He took deep breaths to steady himself, to not get completely hysterical. He wanted to.

He wondered if Paris was even looking for him.

༻✧༺

Amira’s voice echoed off the walls of the deck where everyone had gathered, pausing every now and then to let her squad leaders give their reports. 

She was ignoring him. He was meant to stay there for a reason. He was meant to learn his place and have it reinforced until it needed no further reminder. She was sick of having the same argument with him, night after night. About insolence, about attitude, about loyalty. About Empire. Her loathing for everything that had happened—everything they’d done—everything he had done—led her tone, sturdy and unquestioning, through that morning’s all-hands meeting.

It went on as usual until something unexpected happened. Someone spoke out—Maddox—a lower level engineer with glasses, his braided hair pulled back into a ponytail—he’d raised his hand, as though anything about what he was about to say was anything close to polite.

“Sir, Sir?—He’s, he’s crying… Sir.” Maddox lowered his hand, eyeing the ground, as though expecting a scolding. Amira studied him. She turned her gaze to Delta, trembling in his position with his forehead pressed firmly to the ground.

They’d said Delta’s name a few times throughout the meeting — not addressing him, not even acknowledging his presence in the room — just the passing mention of his powers. His utility. His heart had stopped spiking after the first few mentions of it. By then, he’d almost tuned it out.

For this reason, he almost didn’t notice when they were actually talking about him. 

He’s crying.

Shame and fear flooded him in equal measure, with another short burst of energy about how unfair it was. He hadn’t even been making noise. He’d done everything to quiet the sobs. He couldn’t help the shaking, but he knew he’d likely be doing that even if he wasn’t crying. The position put too much strain on him to avoid it.

He forced himself to stop just as soon as it was acknowledged, quieting entirely, nearly holding his breath. He half-expected to be kicked for it. He almost expected Amira to press his head to the ground with her boots again, like she wanted to destroy the most valuable part of him.

“He looks adequately humbled, does he not?” Amira addressed the engineer with narrowed eyes, while her projected tone held the rest of the crowd—the whole room. 

Her response came just as callous and did nothing to calm or disabuse him. She’d wanted this. Something in Delta ached.

“He’s—I’m just saying, Sir, he’s… been through a lot, today, Sir.” 

It was only when Maddox spoke again that Delta could understand what was actually happening. Some human response to the crying—sympathy he was never meant to elicit—it surprised him. That much was rarely extended to real people in Empire, let alone to him. 

Amira was buried for a moment, pupils dilating to tiny, shaking points. How dare he. How dare this nobody—this ignorant foot soldier— But she steadied herself. Caught her rising breath. 

She had realized something much bigger was happening now. She was losing control of the room. 

If it was one man dissenting, it could be more. Not that she’d ever relent to one person’s will, especially one so lowly ranked—no— No. This was going to take tact. Not a complete shut down, but a middle ground. She couldn’t relent entirely. Plus, Delta deserved it. After everything was said and done, he would always deserve it. 

“I assure you, that the next ten minutes will not mean his death. I have one final announcement…”

He still didn’t get his hopes up. All his hope was cautious, but he had already braced himself for hours of this. He tried to be quiet for the remainder of it.

༻✧༺

The next ten minutes dragged into the next fifteen, into the next twenty, as Amira discussed various battle plans and training strategies for the psychic, bowing and shaking at her feet.

He accepted pretty quickly that it'd been a false promise, likely only meant to dismiss the concern. Delta counted up to the ten minute mark, and realizing she was nowhere near done speaking, stopped counting. He'd stopped crying, too, for the time being. Though he hadn't been directly punished for it, the shock of it being acknowledged had scared him badly enough to not want to do it again. 

It was hard to relax into the position. That was the point, of course. He understood how these things worked. It was getting more painful each second, the pressure at his shoulders compounding so severely he feared they might pop out of the sockets. He knew that he would've begged, if he thought it would do any good. 

Amira thought Delta looked properly cowed, kneeling there, cowering like he'd be safer if he just kept his head down. 

Despite her satisfaction at her prisoner’s position, Amira resented that his plea for pity was somewhat working. On her crew members, anyway. Well, on that one, at least. And a few others, from what she could tell from the few concerned expressions passed around the room. Her ranks loathed Empire, unquestionably so, but the sentiment that radiated from her team right now was uncommonly unsettling—it made Amira question things a bit. Back up a step, perhaps. 

At twenty minutes, Amira's topics were getting checked off her list one by one, and her worries with them—save for that pretty blue diamond kneeling in the center of the room.

Burned. Branded with her insignia. 

She needed to finish this, properly, before anything blew over. 

"Good," she said, to no one in particular, when the latest officer had finished his statement. 

"I'm finished with this for today, you all know your assignments. We make way for the Serraphial Cluster. The NeuWong system isn't far from there, and our next contact is close. New guns. New mechs, if we play our cards right. I expect everyone to their positions immediately following commissary hour. Dismissed."

She mumbled orders to Jackie and Jimenez, who stood obediently behind her. "Escort him back."

Delta wasn't expecting it when she finally agreed to let him down. He almost didn't hear it. He collapsed entirely when his wrists were unshackled from the chain overhead, arms having gone completely numb with the effort. Luckily, he didn't have far to fall.

Jackie's arm shot downwards as soon as she released the chain that held his cuffed wrists aloft and Delta went down—her hand caught his shoulder, hoisting him back up the second the burned flesh on his chest was about to hit the ground. 

Amira had said not to fuck up the scarring. Surely, releasing him straight onto the fresh burn was a bad start to that. With a relieved breath, she maneuvered him around with Jimenez' help. Delta moved like a limp puppet on strings, lifted only by the forces that held him afloat—no resistance to gravity if left to his own. 

The sensation was not new, but it never stopped feeling odd. What was disappointing was that release did not even register as relief. It was just a different kind of pain. It would feel better, eventually. He knew it would recede some in the following minutes.

His disappointment was intensified by the fact they'd left his wrists restrained behind him, so the full range of motion would still not be afforded to him. He thought he understood why. They didn't want him to touch the burn. It wasn't like he was all that inclined to do that in the first place, even if he hadn't been threatened.

He had to lean on them slightly just to walk upright, his legs also numbed from disuse. He said nothing. He did cast one final look at Amira, just to see if she was even looking, if she'd even speak to him again after this.

Delta was dragged down back to the lower levels of the ship, back to the room that held his cell, that held his chains. But something changed this time. 

It was clear he’d peaked past exhaustion, both mentally and physically. Though he gave them no struggle, he also gave them zero help. He all but collapsed in the handlers’ grip. He knew it was kind of a rude thing to do, to make someone bear all his weight like that, but it wasn’t like there was much of it to begin with. He wasn’t capable of holding his own anymore.

Jackie, the handler to his right, handed Delta entirely over to Jimenez, the tall handler to his left, until Delta was held back by the man at his biceps while he watched Jackie cross the room towards a small storage closet. She wrenched a small, dense parcel from the shelving unit inside, which, upon unwrapping it from its outer canvass, appeared to be a foldable camping cot. 

He watched through half-lidded eyes as the cot was unfolded, too tired to think much about it. 

Jackie adjusted the cot to take up the meager floor space in the back of the cell, before gesturing to Jimenez to deposit Delta atop it. Delta was kind of uncomfortable being maneuvered onto it—but the medical scene was at least familiar. He knew how to be a good patient. It was somewhat gentle, better than a full on throw. It still hurt when he moved. Any dramatic motion made him almost blackout with pain. They’d tried. They had the burn to worry about.

"The burn," Jimenez muttered to Jackie when Delta was settled on the cot. 

"Yeah, so? Get your ass in the cabinets and find something. It's gotta heal correctly," Jackie hissed, voice low, as though Delta were a sleeping child not to be disturbed. 

She stood over him, watching him, waiting for any reaction, while Jimenez stomped off to rummage through the medical supplies in the adjacent cabinets. 

"Burn salve?" His voice carried across the room despite his posture, crouched down, his head still buried in a lower cabinet. 

"Should do it!" Jackie called back, suddenly abandoning any commitment to whispered silence. 

"Gauze," Jackie called after a few seconds, and Jimenez rummaged for a few more seconds before he called out, "Got it," and approached the cell once more.

Delta looked back, but the stare was impassive. Even now, there was a kind of distance forming between them. It did not feel as though he was really seeing her. 

They’re broke, he thought again, bitterly. But he corrected himself quickly. He was pretty sure they had better medical treatment available, some sterile room. They must have. It just wasn’t being afforded to him at the moment. The thought made him mildly nervous. That the people he belonged to would risk everything to keep him healthy was a constant he had never had to fear would be taken away.

Luckily, there were the bare essentials in the room—a sink, Jackie washed her hands, put on gloves, and began to apply the salve to his chest carefully. 

Delta’s eyes snapped shut again at the contact. Though the motion was careful and the salve was meant to soothe, the wound was still raw and burning. The only thing that kept him from crying out was some well-trained reflex to be quiet. He stopped breathing instead.

They made him sit up for the bandages, unlocking the cuffs around his wrists so they could wrap the gauze in a long ribbon around his torso. Delta let himself be manipulated, having now been thoroughly dissuaded from the idea of putting up any resistance at all. The layers wound around his chest like a constricting blanket, soft yet pressing against the fresh burn. 

He didn’t thank them. It was not out of impoliteness, just habit. His old medics didn’t like it when he spoke.

They laid him down afterwards. "There. He'll be fine like this," came Jackie's voice.

“His hands,” Jimenez commented. “Shouldn’t he be… you know, restrained?”

“We can do the one,” Jackie responded, lifting the closest of Delta’s wrists and snapping it into one of the cuffs that sat chained into the bolt in the floor. 

“Keep him from rolling over,” Jackie confirmed, knowing Delta had enough leeway to shift around a bit but not enough to ruin the burn. 

Without much more than another word, they left the cell and locked it, closing the heavy sliding door behind them.

༻✧༺

Next chapter is already written! Coming soon!

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He twitched at the sudden pressure. They trained so many of his instincts out of him, but when roused from sleep, some found their way back. He recoiled as best he could, a soft sound of pained confusion escaping him. But he came to quicker this time, and seemed to realize where he was.

She removed her foot from his head. "Get up."

He stumbled up into a standing position, the effort made harder without the use of his hands. She’d been serious, then. For some reason, when she’d said in the morning, he had not interpreted it as the second he woke up. Maybe he should have. His brain wasn’t even working all the way yet. He tugged idly at the chain, meaning to just wipe at his eyes, but stopped when he realized that would be impossible.

The threat of further kicking hung in the air for a moment, before she fiddled with the padlock and released the chain that kept Delta's cuffs tethered to the bolt in the floor. She looped a finger around the chain-links between his wrists and gave it a sharp tug.

"We've got somewhere to be."

“Where’s that, sir?” he asked, biting back the yawn and following behind her. It might’ve just been better for him to stay quiet at that point, but the question seemed inoffensive enough. He felt oddly cold as she walked him through the metal corridors.

She pulled the chain forward with a grunt. "Upstairs." 

Amira dragged Delta down the hall to the elevators. They ascended to one of the upper decks, a large open control-room like space, with the far wall made entirely of glass, looking out into the starry depths beyond. 

There was some sort of contraption, an apparatus of some kind, erected in the center of the room. It was like a frame, a bit larger than a clothing rack, with bolts at each of its corners. Members of the crew stilled as they entered, filing out to fill the space surrounding the central apparatus. 

His reaction to the sight was intensely negative. It was nice to see the stars again, however briefly. His cell had afforded no view of them — and he missed being able to roam freely. But it was all overshadowed by the room’s centerpiece.

“…Sir?” he addressed Amira nervously, quietly. Not pleased with any metal thing meant to hold him, not pleased with the appearance of other people within the space. He kept his voice low so only she could hear. 

Fear slowed him. The resistance was subtle, but he was definitely dragging his feet. He didn’t like to. He knew it wouldn’t do anything — they could do whatever they wanted to him and he’d have no recourse. But the fear and uncertainty were fully gnawing at him. It was the not knowing that got to him. She could at least give him a warning, some indication of what was about to happen. He’d gone all rigid.

Amira pulled Delta to the center where Marston met her, and together they tethered Delta's hands to the bolts in the top two corners, two more shackles locked around his ankles and held them fast against the bottom two corners. He was pinned like a butterfly inside the metallic frame.

He stopped fighting it just as soon as she moved to shackle him. It was exceptionally obvious that she was going to go through with this. She’d already drawn a crowd. Delta felt he was beginning to understand her better, knew well enough that there was no way she’d be able to back out of this now—even if she wanted to.

Amira said nothing as she chained him in, only responding to his little confused inquiry when she stepped back to take in the sight of him, to make sure all was in place. 

"The problem is clear," she projected her voice, addressing Delta but also the entire room. "You've said it yourself. In fact, you keep saying it over and over again. 'I belong to Empire.'” 

"And I'd thought," she paused, as if for dramatic effect—her voice was different when she addressed the whole room, "that we had settled this. That you understood the terms of your own surrender." 

"But," she paused, letting a half-breath of silence hang in the air alongside her captive. "It seems you are still suffering from that same stubborn delusion. You still don't quite realize your position."

"Well, you're going to learn exactly who you belong to today."

Delta’s assumption was only confirmed by the way her voice changed. She wasn’t even speaking to him anymore. She was just addressing the audience. He’d had enough experience with spectacle to know when a show is being put on—and his role as unwilling participant came as no surprise either.

This felt different though. His stomach dropped a little as he realized he had totally lost his chance to negotiate with her. It had ended as soon as they’d entered the room.

All the effort now was spent on a good performance. He didn’t want to risk her ire by ruining it, did not want to debase himself with any futile attempts to stop it. But just as before, he had no idea what she wanted from him, no idea what was about to happen.

His eyes didn’t quite meet hers. They’d fixed on some odd point on the floor, where he could pretend not to notice the room’s laser focus on him and her. He gave no reply.

Amira was glad he didn't respond. She imagined he'd figured out it was probably the best choice, as any argument would only serve to prove her point. 

Marston walked back over to Amira holding something metal in her hands—a long metal rod with something carved at the end, like some sort of design. 

He recognized the brand for what it was and was fully unable to stop himself from panic. His wrists turned idly in the restraints. There was clearly no hope of actually escaping them, but his own nervousness prevented him from staying still.

Amira held it in her hand and approached Delta closer, holding it up for him to see. It was a bird, carved out of metal, with its wings spread high, like a halo over its head. 

"You probably won't recognize this. It's an Eastern Xolluvian Thunderbird, known for its call that could sound for miles through the densest forests.” A hint of something almost reverent laced her tone when she said this, although it disappeared just as quickly. "They aren't around anymore, though. Would you care to guess why?"

He did look at her now—because she was close, because she wanted him to. The look in his eyes had turned pleading—it would have even if he wasn’t trying to.

“Sir,” he said, completely ignoring the question. “I know who I belong to. This isn’t necessary. Please.”

His voice was level and low. In fact, his lips had barely moved. He was deliberate in this — no one else would hear the answer he had given. It wasn’t for their benefit. He was trying to speak to her now. Not the Captain, not whoever she was pretending to be in the moment. Amira.

Her eyes snapped to his when he spoke, piercing like arrows as though trying to see through him—did he mean he belonged to her? Or Empire? She'd heard him say he belonged to Empire more times than she could count—but if he'd meant her— 

In the end, she knew it didn't matter. The stage had been set. The actors to their positions. The scene would proceed as directed. 

She lowered her tone to match his own, a hint of bite mixed with a tinge of regret. "You don't decide what's necessary."

This was actually happening. Delta withered a bit from the rebuke, though truthfully he’d already seen it coming.

He still twisted a bit in the restraints, cursing the anticipation. He’d been biting his lip, but stopped, too nervous he might pierce through it when the time came.

She took a step back, raising the carved metallic bird once more. "This creature, like so many others,” She was addressing the room again. “—fell to the destruction of your Empire. The way they gutted the lands—as they did our people—it drove many species and civilizations to extinction. The planet doesn't look green from orbit these days. The Thunderbird got snuffed out with the rest of its ecosystem.” 

To his credit, he did listen, though he again suspected this was more for the benefit of the audience than any message intended for him. He understood political theater. He recognized this was important to her.

“We wear its image on our flags, our backs, to remember this creature and all the rest taken from us by Empire. And now, it will mark you as well. I want you to remember every life you've taken, every civilization you've helped destroy. Every world you've snuffed out for the sake of your beloved Prince. I want you never to forget, for as long as this marks your chest, that you are my property now."

The speech had turned abruptly personal. He felt a little bit as if she’d just raked her nails across his heart. It had scraped and disrupted the secret he’d kept so tight in his chest.

Every life you’ve taken, every civilization you’ve helped destroy.

“I’m sorry,” Delta said automatically, the only thing he’d said at all today that might be halfway audible to the room. He’d apologized to her so often, over everything, that to say it and mean it felt like an almost alien experience. The wound felt raw. Something deeper and colder than shame pooled within it.

He remembered he used to fantasize about what he might deserve. It had been far worse than this.

Amira blinked at him, eyebrows twitching up just a touch when he said it—he almost sounded sincere—but he was desperate, she was sure, to say anything to end this. No, in the end, if he was learning his lesson now, it was only because she was finally showing him she was serious. To back down now would teach him the opposite—that he could bowl her over with a bat of his eyelashes. Never.

She handed the metal bird off to Marston, who held it still while two other crew members pointed large bright lasers at the metal until it began to glow. 

It grew from a deep red to a bright orange, and the laser guns powered down before Marston passed the metal baton back to Amira. 

“…Can I have something to bite?” he asked, by way of concession. His voice was still low, but not with the same hushed urgency. He’d watched carefully as the metal had changed colors. He knew it would not be the same burns he was used to. He knew just from looking at it that it’d be worse.

She heard Delta's question and considered it. "Fine," she said, deciding the burn itself would be enough and he didn't need to bite his own tongue out in the process. That would cause more problems than it would fix. 

She nodded to Marston, who reached down and unclipped a leather strap around her thigh—one of several that held her various weapons and gadgetry. She held the leather to Delta's lips.

He muttered his thanks from around the leather strap. He really hadn’t expected her to agree to that. He was pretty sure she was committed to making this as unbearable as possible—every other action she’d taken in the past twenty four hours seemed to suggest as much.

Delta wasn’t sure whether to look or not when the iron struck—and he hadn’t made up his mind about it when it abruptly made contact with his chest.

He thrashed. It was the only time in years he could remember actually trying to escape his restraints. It came on no conscious level—just base instinct, some animal consciousness in pure desperation to get away. The scream was muffled by the strap, then half choked off by his own will—he was still trying to take it in silence, though he had so clearly failed at that.

Amira heard the sizzle before she heard the scream. And then it came, muffled by the leather but still bright with pain, with panic, with the desperation of a trapped creature, cornered and helpless, finally getting what it deserved. 

She watched the way he twitched, bright and seizing—the way he still writhed when she pulled it away, before withering in the chains like a wilting flower. 

It burned hotter and lasted forever, more than he would have ever expected necessary for the image to take. He was in sheer panic as the iron seared into him—and remained in sheer panic for several moments after it was finally pulled away.

Amira passed the metal behind her and stepped closer, speaking only to him. 

"I want you to tell me who you belong to, Delta."

Delta blinked. She’d asked a bit too soon. He needed the time to come back to himself. The look in his eyes was still dazed and wild. But she reached him, somehow. He had to speak around pained breaths. When he spoke, it was like he did not fully understand where the words were coming from.

“Um,” he winced, like even speaking pained him, like there was nothing for him in this moment but pain. “You? I-? You, sir. I belong to you. Um.”

His own breathing distracted him. He seemed like he was having trouble with it.

It wasn't as eloquent as she'd hoped, but all things considered—

"Correct. But you can do better than that. Let's hear it again now, louder this time. Tell us who you belong to, Delta."

There was a soft whine, mostly unrelated to her order.

“I belong to you, sir,” he repeated without hesitation. His eyes were fully squeezed shut; he was only barely conscious of what she was saying to him. It seemed like he was capable of entertaining two fully separate experiences simultaneously. He could tell her what she wanted to hear. Most of his thoughts were still occupied by the burning by the make it fucking stop please. But the iron had been pulled away. They weren’t hurting him anymore. But the burn was still there, still running clean through him, and would be. Forever? He couldn’t think straight. His thoughts were still knee-jerk and animalistic. Dazed. It hurt.

“Good,” she said. “If you make any attempt to mar the scarring or the healing process I will do it again on your other side of your chest. Am I clear?”

He couldn’t stand the tone she was still taking with him, like she was still mad, like even this had not been enough. It confirmed something he already knew, something he’d turned over in his head over and over again when he’d first learned what murder meant. That no amount of repentance would ever be enough. That he will never be forgiven. All his thoughts were still clouded with pain, so much that he felt he was dreaming.

It was harder for him to decipher her words than the effect, but when he did manage, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had no desire to do that, nor even the knowledge of how to. The threat was all that registered. 

“Yes, sir,” he agreed, quieter. He wanted it to be over. He hoped that was what she was building to.

“You’re to make no attempt to pull away. To resist us. And the attitude is something I should never have to mention again. Am I understood.”

Delta gave a morose nod, and at the snap of her fingers, Amira summoned two crew members to dismantle Delta from the apparatus. He was positioned on his knees, forehead pressed into the ground, his wrists cuffed behind him this time. His ankles were still chained to the sides of the frame, making the position awkward and putting unnecessary pressure on his hips. The horror of his fate settled in when he felt his cuffed wrists being drawn up above his back and attached to a chain that dangled from the top of the apparatus. The position forced his shoulders to strain painfully, trapping him in the forced bow.

It didn’t take him long at all to slip into total misery. It wasn’t hard. He was in pain and given no distraction for it. The position was meant to humiliate him. It succeeded. 

Delta knew nobody viewed him as a person. This kind of treatment should not have registered as a surprise. But it did. It was fucking painful. He was at least granted the option of pretending sometimes, that he did not exist solely for other people, that he was not just an object that constantly needed to be put in its place. It was able to recede into background noise most of the time.

Here, that reality was painful and unavoidable. He wasn’t even allowed to move. They’d done it to hurt him, because they thought he deserved it. They’d done it to remind him of his place, to make the difference between himself and real people so stark that it could never be doubted. He understood. He understood that, so could they please just fucking stop.

He was crying. It started without him meaning to, and persisted beyond his ability to control it. He pressed his forehead tighter to the ground, just trying to brace against it, to have something that could ground him. 

It was hard not to despair when his compliance had not been enough, when every second he stayed here represented a second in which he was not forgiven, in which they were still mad at him, even though he was so fucking sorry. It was hard not to despair that this was what he’d been born to, molded into against his will. He’d never asked for this. He never wanted to be this. 

He brushed up against his own nerve with that thought—and was unable to fully silence the sob that it brought up. Fuck, he was losing it. He took deep breaths to steady himself, to not get completely hysterical. He wanted to.

He wondered if Paris was even looking for him.

༻✧༺

Amira’s voice echoed off the walls of the deck where everyone had gathered, pausing every now and then to let her squad leaders give their reports. 

She was ignoring him. He was meant to stay there for a reason. He was meant to learn his place and have it reinforced until it needed no further reminder. She was sick of having the same argument with him, night after night. About insolence, about attitude, about loyalty. About Empire. Her loathing for everything that had happened—everything they’d done—everything he had done—led her tone, sturdy and unquestioning, through that morning’s all-hands meeting.

It went on as usual until something unexpected happened. Someone spoke out—Maddox—a lower level engineer with glasses, his braided hair pulled back into a ponytail—he’d raised his hand, as though anything about what he was about to say was anything close to polite.

“Sir, Sir?—He’s, he’s crying… Sir.” Maddox lowered his hand, eyeing the ground, as though expecting a scolding. Amira studied him. She turned her gaze to Delta, trembling in his position with his forehead pressed firmly to the ground.

They’d said Delta’s name a few times throughout the meeting — not addressing him, not even acknowledging his presence in the room — just the passing mention of his powers. His utility. His heart had stopped spiking after the first few mentions of it. By then, he’d almost tuned it out.

For this reason, he almost didn’t notice when they were actually talking about him. 

He’s crying.

Shame and fear flooded him in equal measure, with another short burst of energy about how unfair it was. He hadn’t even been making noise. He’d done everything to quiet the sobs. He couldn’t help the shaking, but he knew he’d likely be doing that even if he wasn’t crying. The position put too much strain on him to avoid it.

He forced himself to stop just as soon as it was acknowledged, quieting entirely, nearly holding his breath. He half-expected to be kicked for it. He almost expected Amira to press his head to the ground with her boots again, like she wanted to destroy the most valuable part of him.

“He looks adequately humbled, does he not?” Amira addressed the engineer with narrowed eyes, while her projected tone held the rest of the crowd—the whole room. 

Her response came just as callous and did nothing to calm or disabuse him. She’d wanted this. Something in Delta ached.

“He’s—I’m just saying, Sir, he’s… been through a lot, today, Sir.” 

It was only when Maddox spoke again that Delta could understand what was actually happening. Some human response to the crying—sympathy he was never meant to elicit—it surprised him. That much was rarely extended to real people in Empire, let alone to him. 

Amira was buried for a moment, pupils dilating to tiny, shaking points. How dare he. How dare this nobody—this ignorant foot soldier— But she steadied herself. Caught her rising breath. 

She had realized something much bigger was happening now. She was losing control of the room. 

If it was one man dissenting, it could be more. Not that she’d ever relent to one person’s will, especially one so lowly ranked—no— No. This was going to take tact. Not a complete shut down, but a middle ground. She couldn’t relent entirely. Plus, Delta deserved it. After everything was said and done, he would always deserve it. 

“I assure you, that the next ten minutes will not mean his death. I have one final announcement…”

He still didn’t get his hopes up. All his hope was cautious, but he had already braced himself for hours of this. He tried to be quiet for the remainder of it.

༻✧༺

The next ten minutes dragged into the next fifteen, into the next twenty, as Amira discussed various battle plans and training strategies for the psychic, bowing and shaking at her feet.

He accepted pretty quickly that it'd been a false promise, likely only meant to dismiss the concern. Delta counted up to the ten minute mark, and realizing she was nowhere near done speaking, stopped counting. He'd stopped crying, too, for the time being. Though he hadn't been directly punished for it, the shock of it being acknowledged had scared him badly enough to not want to do it again. 

It was hard to relax into the position. That was the point, of course. He understood how these things worked. It was getting more painful each second, the pressure at his shoulders compounding so severely he feared they might pop out of the sockets. He knew that he would've begged, if he thought it would do any good. 

Amira thought Delta looked properly cowed, kneeling there, cowering like he'd be safer if he just kept his head down. 

Despite her satisfaction at her prisoner’s position, Amira resented that his plea for pity was somewhat working. On her crew members, anyway. Well, on that one, at least. And a few others, from what she could tell from the few concerned expressions passed around the room. Her ranks loathed Empire, unquestionably so, but the sentiment that radiated from her team right now was uncommonly unsettling—it made Amira question things a bit. Back up a step, perhaps. 

At twenty minutes, Amira's topics were getting checked off her list one by one, and her worries with them—save for that pretty blue diamond kneeling in the center of the room.

Burned. Branded with her insignia. 

She needed to finish this, properly, before anything blew over. 

"Good," she said, to no one in particular, when the latest officer had finished his statement. 

"I'm finished with this for today, you all know your assignments. We make way for the Serraphial Cluster. The NeuWong system isn't far from there, and our next contact is close. New guns. New mechs, if we play our cards right. I expect everyone to their positions immediately following commissary hour. Dismissed."

She mumbled orders to Jackie and Jimenez, who stood obediently behind her. "Escort him back."

Delta wasn't expecting it when she finally agreed to let him down. He almost didn't hear it. He collapsed entirely when his wrists were unshackled from the chain overhead, arms having gone completely numb with the effort. Luckily, he didn't have far to fall.

Jackie's arm shot downwards as soon as she released the chain that held his cuffed wrists aloft and Delta went down—her hand caught his shoulder, hoisting him back up the second the burned flesh on his chest was about to hit the ground. 

Amira had said not to fuck up the scarring. Surely, releasing him straight onto the fresh burn was a bad start to that. With a relieved breath, she maneuvered him around with Jimenez' help. Delta moved like a limp puppet on strings, lifted only by the forces that held him afloat—no resistance to gravity if left to his own. 

The sensation was not new, but it never stopped feeling odd. What was disappointing was that release did not even register as relief. It was just a different kind of pain. It would feel better, eventually. He knew it would recede some in the following minutes.

His disappointment was intensified by the fact they'd left his wrists restrained behind him, so the full range of motion would still not be afforded to him. He thought he understood why. They didn't want him to touch the burn. It wasn't like he was all that inclined to do that in the first place, even if he hadn't been threatened.

He had to lean on them slightly just to walk upright, his legs also numbed from disuse. He said nothing. He did cast one final look at Amira, just to see if she was even looking, if she'd even speak to him again after this.

Delta was dragged down back to the lower levels of the ship, back to the room that held his cell, that held his chains. But something changed this time. 

It was clear he’d peaked past exhaustion, both mentally and physically. Though he gave them no struggle, he also gave them zero help. He all but collapsed in the handlers’ grip. He knew it was kind of a rude thing to do, to make someone bear all his weight like that, but it wasn’t like there was much of it to begin with. He wasn’t capable of holding his own anymore.

Jackie, the handler to his right, handed Delta entirely over to Jimenez, the tall handler to his left, until Delta was held back by the man at his biceps while he watched Jackie cross the room towards a small storage closet. She wrenched a small, dense parcel from the shelving unit inside, which, upon unwrapping it from its outer canvass, appeared to be a foldable camping cot. 

He watched through half-lidded eyes as the cot was unfolded, too tired to think much about it. 

Jackie adjusted the cot to take up the meager floor space in the back of the cell, before gesturing to Jimenez to deposit Delta atop it. Delta was kind of uncomfortable being maneuvered onto it—but the medical scene was at least familiar. He knew how to be a good patient. It was somewhat gentle, better than a full on throw. It still hurt when he moved. Any dramatic motion made him almost blackout with pain. They’d tried. They had the burn to worry about.

"The burn," Jimenez muttered to Jackie when Delta was settled on the cot. 

"Yeah, so? Get your ass in the cabinets and find something. It's gotta heal correctly," Jackie hissed, voice low, as though Delta were a sleeping child not to be disturbed. 

She stood over him, watching him, waiting for any reaction, while Jimenez stomped off to rummage through the medical supplies in the adjacent cabinets. 

"Burn salve?" His voice carried across the room despite his posture, crouched down, his head still buried in a lower cabinet. 

"Should do it!" Jackie called back, suddenly abandoning any commitment to whispered silence. 

"Gauze," Jackie called after a few seconds, and Jimenez rummaged for a few more seconds before he called out, "Got it," and approached the cell once more.

Delta looked back, but the stare was impassive. Even now, there was a kind of distance forming between them. It did not feel as though he was really seeing her. 

They’re broke, he thought again, bitterly. But he corrected himself quickly. He was pretty sure they had better medical treatment available, some sterile room. They must have. It just wasn’t being afforded to him at the moment. The thought made him mildly nervous. That the people he belonged to would risk everything to keep him healthy was a constant he had never had to fear would be taken away.

Luckily, there were the bare essentials in the room—a sink, Jackie washed her hands, put on gloves, and began to apply the salve to his chest carefully. 

Delta’s eyes snapped shut again at the contact. Though the motion was careful and the salve was meant to soothe, the wound was still raw and burning. The only thing that kept him from crying out was some well-trained reflex to be quiet. He stopped breathing instead.

They made him sit up for the bandages, unlocking the cuffs around his wrists so they could wrap the gauze in a long ribbon around his torso. Delta let himself be manipulated, having now been thoroughly dissuaded from the idea of putting up any resistance at all. The layers wound around his chest like a constricting blanket, soft yet pressing against the fresh burn. 

He didn’t thank them. It was not out of impoliteness, just habit. His old medics didn’t like it when he spoke.

They laid him down afterwards. "There. He'll be fine like this," came Jackie's voice.

“His hands,” Jimenez commented. “Shouldn’t he be… you know, restrained?”

“We can do the one,” Jackie responded, lifting the closest of Delta’s wrists and snapping it into one of the cuffs that sat chained into the bolt in the floor. 

“Keep him from rolling over,” Jackie confirmed, knowing Delta had enough leeway to shift around a bit but not enough to ruin the burn. 

Without much more than another word, they left the cell and locked it, closing the heavy sliding door behind them.

༻✧༺

Next chapter is already written! Coming soon!

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