#restraint device

She raced up the stairs with Jones following as best he could. Past bedrooms, a guest bathroom, and to a padlocked door at the end of the hallway. Emma fumbled with a set of keys, explaining,

"I think Killian is heading for wherever the monster controls the security cameras from. He's going to enact the plan today."

She opened the padlock and yanked the door open. Inside was a table laden with multiple laptops and two desktop computers, all of which seemed to be connected together via masses of coiled cables. As Emma frenzied among the mess, Jones asked,

"What's all this?"

"Borrowed some equipment. From friends… and possibly from Evidence at the station." She seemed relieved when Jones didn't comment. "I hacked into all the security cameras around town, or those connected to the internet, at least. I figured that's what the Master does, and it would probably be more effective to change the feed than to, like, hold a screen in front of the camera or something."

"Hold… a screen…?" The detective's confusion was clear, but Emma was too focused to explain. Deciding to trust in her expertise, most likely gained online during one of her many sleepless night recently, Jones watched for a moment as she continued booting up each computer. Then, impressed and a tiny bit disbelieving, he asked,

"What can I do to help?"

3 weeks, 4 days ago…

His third day a slave, Killian thought he was getting off easy. That is, as far as 'no additional injuries on top of those earned during his first 48 hours' easy. Maybe the two beatings the day before--one for neglecting to attach the provided chain to his collar overnight and the second as part of a 'Session' with the Master--had bought him a day's respite. It was nearing evening, and no one had appeared in the stall entrance to disturb his attempts at rest. A blessing, to be sure; every single inch of him hurt in some way or another, and Killian was not certain he would survive further violence.

As soon as that grim thought crossed his mind, a slave escort appeared. The withered man had no buckets in hand, which could only mean one thing. Killian stifled anxious qualms and began his mantra. Hope kidnapped, Hope tortured, Hope dead. That Killian was desperate. That Killian could obey the summons, could face more torture for the sake of a chance at gleaning any information on his little girl.

That Killian struggled to his feet, joints creaking audibly, dozens of knotted threads pulling tight within his flesh. The slave was impassive as he unlocked Killian's chain and then exited the stall, obviously expecting the pirate to follow. Killian pictured Hope's blood as he forced aching limbs into a mechanical, unsteady gait. Each step awakened a new anguish, in a different place each time. Despite his best efforts, dread soon had his pulse racing beneath swollen, bruised, and torn skin, doubling the throb, intensifying the quaking. What would it be this time? How long before he would scream?

He somehow made it to the church. And there the reluctance became almost a physical barrier blocking his entrance, and he only overcame it with sheer courage, virtually throwing himself inside.

Killian had not anticipated seeing Z standing within, beside the Master, near the altar. His foreboding quadrupled, and it was almost enough to send him lurching back the way he'd come in search of two more minutes of safety. Her presence could in no way signify anything good.

The charade. Cling to the charade.

"Master, please…" He cleared his throat, staggered closer, swimming through pools of red-shifted stained glass patterns on the floor. "My daughter… we had a deal."

Wearing an indulgent smile, the Master curled a tentacle, waving Killian onward. "Good evening, Tripod."

COME TO YOUR MASTER.

Killian stumbled on an uneven paving stone. "At least tell me if she's okay."

"Let's see how well you please me tonight."

Killian stopped at the foot of the stairs, out of the Master's reach. He cast a glance at Z, who was standing still, eyes fixed on the tilted surface of the broken altar. Killian caught a glimpse of metal, a flash of candlelight off of something sharp. He shuddered in apprehension.

"H… how can I be of service, Master?"

"Come join us." The Master indicated a spot on the floor at the altar's edge, between itself and the taciturn Z. Killian drew a calming, painful breath and then hauled himself up, one step at a time, wincing as the exertion aggravated barely contained injuries. He couldn't help cringing away from the Master's welcoming tentacle, which found him anyway, wrapping itself around his left forearm. The creature's clawed hand patted Killian's shoulder.

"I feel your fear, Tripod, and savor it. I will be honest with you: it is justified. I anticipate an unprecedented opportunity for you to serve me tonight."

Jaw tense, Killian avoided looking at Z's collection of implements on the altar. The Master noticed, and it chuckled.

"I have invited Z to dinner. I hope you don't mind."

"Whatever pleases my Master," Killian managed, his voice barely above a whisper. The Master ruffled its claws through his hair.

"Good little Tripod."

Tenderly, it guided him closer to the altar, until he stood leaning against it. The slanted surface came up to his breastbone, radiating cold from metallic decorations. The top was polished wood, and he could make out the dents and dings of age, as well as crusted dribbles of candle wax. His thighs pressed against a protruding design of intricate copper, sending a shiver up his spine. The restraining tentacle lifted his arm; he tried not to resist despite the sudden stab of panic.

"Yes," hissed the Master in his ear. "That's it."

It stretched Killian's arm forward and then allowed it to rest on the tabletop, making a slight adjustment to the angle so that, if Killian had still possessed a hand, his pinkie would have been contacting the surface, with the thumb above. He felt the crab-like pincer take position behind his elbow, adding to the restraint already provided by the tentacle. The Master clattered forward and pressed its thorax against his back. Its wrinkle-free waistcoat itched as it pinned him in place.

Killian could not even make a fist in reaction to his tension; the fresh brand still boiled with any movement of his thumb. His fingers twitched anyway as the Master's second tentacle snaked around that arm as well.

"Z and I have devised a gift for you," purred the Master. "To accommodate your deformity. It will require some precision, though… so do try and hold still, for your own good."

Wheezing rapid breaths, feeling the heat of adrenaline in his limbs, Killian could only watch as Z shuffled closer and balanced her tools within reach. She stood off to his right, at the narrow end of the altar.

"Z, let him see the device."

The silent woman held up a metal shape, something like a half-circle made of slender rods about the thickness of a ballpoint pen, maybe slightly more. There were, in fact, two separate pieces: a straight one, which tapered down to a wicked point, and then a long curve, of which one end was joined to the thicker end of the straight piece. The attachment point was two interlocking rings, so that the curve could twist and rotate all the way around the central line. The other, tapered end had a small hole drilled through it, and Killian surmised that there was some way to attach the currently free-floating curve's edge as well to make a continuous frame of metal. What he could not--or, perhaps, dared not--fathom was its purpose.

No spray bottle of disinfectant here. This time, it was straight iodine, poured from a beaker directly onto his outstretched wrist. The brown liquid streamed down the tilted tabletop like bloodstains, hearkening back to the altar's original purpose. Z drenched a cloth in the iodine and began to scrub roughly at the apex of Killian's captive wrist, then its base. And some instinctive part of him grasped the intent, even if his reasoning was slow to catch on. He lurched backward into the solid presence behind, an incomprehensible, pleading whine sounding from his throat. The Master tightened its grip, though it was in no danger of losing it.

Z continued her abrasive disinfection even as Killian struggled. Both sides of his scarred wrist now sported a bright and ominous yellow.

"Relax now, Tripod. You're being given a tremendous opportunity to serve me with your screams. You should not fight it."

He couldn't do this. Whatever had possessed him to think this scheme was in any way achievable? He took it all back. He had to escape, to save his own skin like the cowardly pirate he'd always been… He… he had to…

"Please… no…"

It was already too late. There was no escape. He was trapped in place, his Master's bulk crushing him against the table, both arms in a vise grip while tears of dread stained his face. The best he could hope for now was a quick death, because he certainly would not survive further mutilation of his… oh, gods, was that a hammer?

Another terrible thought struck as Z lay his arm back into position. Something that had inexplicably escaped his awareness during these past two days of torture: Emma was listening. She would hear the whole thing.

"I'm sorry… Swan…" The last word was cut off by an involuntary sob. The spike's tip pressed against his flesh, sharp and cold. Killian could only breathe in short, frantic little gasps, still thrashing in his Master's grip, but tiring rapidly. The hammer hovered, went through the motions without actually touching its target. A practice swing. Killian was trembling so badly that the precariously balanced set of tools rattled on the altar's surface.

Then it crashed down for real. Driving metal through skin and muscle into bone. Killian's first startled yelp was more of shock than true pain, as it took a second for his brain to catch up. Into the erupting fireball, the hammer fell again.

It was the Dark One, taking his hand with his own blade.

It was the clumsy efforts of Smee and the crew, trying to stop the bleeding and save his wretched life.

It was the dying stump, ballooned and pulsing with infection.

It was the first time he'd donned the hook over the raw flesh, the first time he'd bumped it against some obstruction, the first time he'd fallen on it.

The first time he'd killed with it.

Already, he had screamed himself hoarse, the Master moaning in ecstasy behind him, but the blows continued like lightning bolts, illuminating phantoms so bright that surely he must have a hand there after all.

Off target, the hammer slipped and smashed into blueberry flesh, and the stake jolted sideways with a crunch, and Killian felt himself falling until he was caught by the collar and splashed with water while the hammer lay dormant, and he couldn't even make sense of words he knew he should recognize because his only focus could be the searing cold metal driven halfway through his wrist.

The hammer resumed its grisly task while Killian's cries grew feebler. He drifted in a haze of anguish, half-fainting, shocks of pain sizzling up his arm. His dead weight sagged against the exultant Master behind him as the whole church seemed to spin on an axis.

Killian didn't feel a difference when the spike broke through the skin on the pinkie side of his wrist. The only clue was a minor change in sound: the metal had entered the wood of the altar. One more blow, one more wooden thunk, and Z lay the hammer aside.

And then she yanked upward on his tormented arm, and Killian gave voice to one more noiseless cry as the impaling device shifted inside him before squeaking free of the altar.

His eyes were closed and nothing could make him open them to see the ghastly damage. Even when Z began manipulating the attached ring, pulling brutally and drawing more tears of pain, he kept them squeezed shut. His hand, too, remained balled into an unyielding fist despite negligible protests from his branded palm.

This was it. This was his life now. He would never again feel happiness. Contentment. A moment free of pain. Forevermore, his existence would consist of blazing agony.

There was an audible snap as the free corner of the ring found its bloodstained attachment point. The straight post shifted again, Killian whimpered once and dove headfirst into black oblivion.