#cigarette lighter

Jorah straddled Morja’s hips. “Jesus Christ, all your training out the fucking window with a little application of pain,” he spat, and pressed the lighter over Morja’s spine at the base of his neck. 

Morja gasped against the dirt. “I’m s-sorry, anó–” He whimpered and jerked as the lighter burned him again. 

“Fucking… hold still,” Jorah ordered, and twisted Morja’s left arm up his back.

Morja’s left shoulder exploded in pain. The old injury ripped through him like the bullet was finding purchase all over again. 

It had been his mistake. 

His failure. 

He did not realize he had screamed until he felt Jorah go perfectly still over him. 

“Now, what the fuck was that, asset?” Jorah seethed. 

Morja sobbed weakly. “I d-did not mean–”

His arm twisted harder, and the scream was torn from him before he could clamp his teeth down on it. His shoulder was going to tear from his socket. It felt like the torn-and-healed flesh and sinew and bone was tearing open all over again. 

“What happened here?” Jorah murmured, and Morja felt a calloused finger trace the scar that ran across his left shoulder, across his shoulder blade. “This definitely wasn’t from a whip, huh? This looks like it was from… negligence.” 

Morja’s body was tense as a bowstring beneath Jorah. He could feel the heat of the cigarette lighter in Jorah’s hand, hovering over the scar. Dust puffed up from the ground below him with each ragged breath. He pressed his lips together and lowered his face until it rested against the ground. 

Negligence.

“It was,” he rasped. “F-from negligence.” He could not take a full breath. His shoulder would wrench itself apart. Between the pain in his shoulder and his leg, his mind was going to shake apart. 

Jorah’s iron grip tightened further on his wrist. Morja’s right arm was dragged up his back, too, from how far his left arm was twisted. More sweat bloomed on his forehead. 

“No wonder you got caught,” Jorah mused, the words beating down on him alongside the sun. “You’re not in peak condition. Haven’t been for months, looks like. Or years. You really are just a malfunctioning piece of equipment. You’re not worth the cost of your own upkeep, are you?” 

The lighter pressed over the scar on his shoulder. His throat went raw from the strain of holding back his scream. 

Jorah scoffed and dropped the lighter to the ground beside Morja’s head. “Fucker isn’t even hot anymore,” he sneered. With one hand, he twisted Morja’s shoulder further. With the other, he seized Morja’s hair and ground his face into the dirt. 

“Did. You. Conspire. With. Gray. Uriah. Prior. To. Your. Mission.”

He twisted again. Something in Morja’s shoulder gave way. Cold sweat poured down his spine, and he sobbed into the dirt.

Jorah sighed. “I need to heat this up again. Christ, you’re pathetic.” As abruptly as he had twisted Morja’s arm, he released it and got to his feet. 

Morja wailed his relief. He strained his arms as far as he could with them still locked behind him, shuddering with shock. He did not lift his head. Something in his shoulder felt loose and hot. He could not move, for fear of jostling his leg again. 

Useless.

He heard the scrape as Jorah approached again, felt the cold press of the tire iron against his torn and throbbing shoulder. 

“Last chance, asset,” came the cold voice above him.

“I-I did,” he sobbed, before he could stop himself. He collapsed into sobs. “No, anóteros, no, I… I did not mean–”

Another sigh. The tire iron pressed against the back of his skull, forcing his face into the dust. “Another story change. Got it. Whatever. Last question for you: what is the best way to neutralize Isaac Moore before I go in and finish the mission that you failed?”

Continued here