suffering soiree

Jonah gulped, but nodded his head, before silently working at his belt buckle and sliding it through the loops on his trousers. It was one of only a few articles of clothing he had left, and he’d hate for Sawyer to bite through it, but he obediently held it up to the prone man’s mouth until Sawyer clamped his jaws around the leather strip. 

Jaxon grinned as he started pouring the alcohol into Sawyer’s bloody back, there was a moment of silence before the screaming started—then Sawyer shrieked like he was being skinned alive. It was just as it had been outside, only even worse in the close confines of the wooden room—the sound of Sawyer’s pain reverberated off the walls and made Jonah cringe and squeeze his eyes shut. 

Sawyer balled up his fists and screamed through gritted teeth into the leather, gnawing on it furiously as Jaxon poured the contents of the bottle all over his lash-ridden back. He thrashed against the table as the liquid mixed with his blood and ran onto the wood below him, some of it dripping onto the floor. 

“You’re gonna clean all that shit up when we’re finished here, slave,” Jaxon said to Jonah, over the torrent of Sawyer’s pained cries.

“Y-yes, Sir,” Jonah squeaked, hoping Jaxon could still hear him. As long as he wasn’t being hurt. It would be okay. He just had to be good. He wasn’t being hurt..

Jaxon shook the final droplets from the now empty bottle and set it on the counter. Sawyer continued to cry into the makeshift gag for several long, agonized moments, before the noises gave way to muffled, pained grunting, and eventually to deep, desperate panting as he tried to recover from the horrendous burning of the alcohol against his open wounds. 

“Help me mop up the blood,” Jaxon ordered, throwing Jonah a towel he had retrieved from the cabinet. “We need the mutt dried off as much as possible if we want the bandages to stick.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jonah said quietly, trying not to look visibly bothered at the way Sawyer still panted and shuddered below them. Jonah squeezed the fabric in his hands in an attempt to ground himself, and the two of them got to work soaking up the remaining alcohol-blood mixture that coated Sawyer’s back. 

Sawyer hissed in pain as Jonah pressed the towel down, though he tried to be light-handed with his efforts. Jaxon, on the other hand, wasn’t even trying to be gentle, seemingly going out of his way to draw pained moans out of the man at his mercy. Jonah winced when he saw Jaxon press particularly hard against Sawyer’s shoulder blade—Jonah was sure the blonde man was trying to cause Sawyer more agony on purpose. 

He supposed that such behavior was befitting of a man like Jaxon, who seemed to relish in it. Jonah couldn’t ignore the way Jaxon’s smile widened whenever he forced Sawyer to cry out against the leather belt—he’d seen the look on Carlisle’s face a hundred thousand times. 

Eventually, Jaxon withdrew, declaring Sawyer’s back as dry as they could get it for now, and Jonah was relieved to be able to stop. Sawyer groaned into the table with what must have been some morose form of relief. Blood still oozed from the lash-wounds—Jonah could see how deep they were now—but it wasn’t the gut-wrenching, cascading red river Jonah had seen earlier when Sawyer had been getting his back split open on Voss’ whip. 

“You can take the belt back now, slave. Worst part is over.”

Jonah obeyed, taking the belt from between Sawyer’s teeth and wiping the drool off on his trousers before sliding it back into place around his waist. He ignored the little divots now indented into the leather from Sawyer’s clenched teeth.

Jaxon produced a jar from one of the cabinets. “Help me spread this stuff on the wounds—keeps it from getting infected.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jonah said again, feeling like a broken record. Jaxon handed him an implement that looked sort of like a butter knife, only it wasn’t sharpened. He watched as Jaxon dipped his implement into the jar and scooped out some of the gelatinous substance inside. Jonah copied the motion when Jaxon held the jar out to him, and together they spread the stuff down Sawyer’s wounded back. 

Sawyer groaned against the wooden surface as the metal tools slid down his lashes, although it had morphed into a duller, more resigned sound now, rather than the shocked screams he’d let out earlier. Jonah hoped this part didn’t hurt him too badly. He was glad to be able to help, if he were honest. Maybe he could help Sawyer hurt a little bit less than if Jaxon was doing all this himself. Jaxon seemed the type to get impatient quickly, and Jonah already knew he was not above worsening the pain for his own amusement.

When they were finished and the jar was back in the cabinet, Jaxon rounded the table to where Sawyer’s head lay. He pressed his hand down against the young man’s head, wrapping his fingers tightly into his dark locks. 

“Now, what do you say, mutt?”

“Hnngg…” Sawyer groaned, and Jaxon sharply twisted the fist in his hair.

“Aaaghh—thank you! Thank you—fuck—Jesus—!” Sawyer barked out. 

“Thank you, what?” Jaxon seethed, yanking harshly at his hair. “Want me to make it hurt worse?”

“N-no!” Sawyer cried. “Godfuckyou—Th-thank you, S-sir.” He gritted out, pressing his face into the wooden table, as though eager to avoid seeing Jaxon’s self-satisfied expression. 

Jaxon released the death-grip in Sawyer’s hair and smugly patted his head, his voice thick with condescention. “Thaat’s it, mutt. See?” He turned to Jonah, his smile wide. “The beast can be tamed, if we just give him enough pain first.”

Jonah didn’t know what to say. He simply nodded, staring forth at the two of them, petrified. This was the treatment he had to look forward to if he ever found himself on the business end of Voss’ whip. Though no doubt he wouldn’t be stupid enough to drag it out the way Sawyer had. Jonah would say ‘Thank you, Sir’ correctly the first time.

Jaxon chuckled at Jonah’s reaction—the shock in his eyes, the way his lips had parted just a little. “Oh don’t worry,” he chided. “Stupid mutt’ll be back to his usual shitty self in the morning. Then we get to start allll over again.” 

Jaxon flashed a wide grin and the hair on Jonah’s neck stood on end. The list of people he needed to be terrified of was growing with each new crewmember he met. 

Jaxon gave Sawyer’s hair another fierce tug. “Up,” he commanded, and Sawyer groaned again before slowly bringing his arms up to push himself up into a sitting position. 

Jonah heard the rattling of chains, although he himself hadn’t moved. When Sawyer swung his legs over the edge of the table, Jonah saw the source of the noise. There was a nearly identical pair of shackles around Sawyer’s ankles. 

Sawyer was no crew member. He was a slave on this ship, just as Jonah was. Jonah felt a pang of empathy in his chest when the dots connected in his mind. The whipping, the accusations of a ‘shitty attitude,’ the way Jaxon seemed to relish in Sawyer’s pain and tried to drag it out as much as possible—Sawyer was every bit as much of a prisoner on this ship as he was. 

Jonah gave him a remorseful look, but Sawyer only scowled back at him when he caught his eye, with something loathsome in his expression. It unnerved Jonah, and he quickly flicked his eyes away. He wondered if Sawyer realized that Jonah didn’t want to be here either. 

Jaxon ordered Sawyer to raise his arms above his head, and the young man did it without further fuss. Jonah imagined he had to just want to get this over with at this point. 

Now that he was finally getting a view of Sawyer’s front, Jonah saw several things at once that he found difficult to ignore. He’d already glimpsed the long, jagged scar that ran down the side of Sawyer’s face and through his lips, but his torso was even worse. The man was covered in scars and bruises—a mixture of new and old injuries. 

Worst of all, was what looked to be a brand on the man’s chest, situated right in the center of his left pectoral. It looked to be a figure of a mermaid, her tail curled upwards to encircle her form. Jonah didn’t want to be caught staring, but the design was so delicate—so intricate. Jonah knew it must have hurt like hell, but the brand looked old, it had long since healed completely. He saw more of himself in the man’s body than he would have liked. It unnerved him. 

Jonah suddenly blinked out of his trance when Jaxon snapped his fingers at him impatiently. “Oi! Quit eye-fuckin’ the mutt and help me with this,” he ordered sharply. 

“Yes, Sir!” Jonah squeaked, jumping out of whatever train of thought he’d been lost in while wandering his eyes over Sawyer’s many injuries.

As dutifully as he could manage, Jonah helped Jaxon wind long rolls of white gauze around Sawyer’s torso, before tying the ends off when all the lashes had been covered. 

“God, finally,” Jaxon stepped back and wiped his forehead dramatically, as though he’d just completed a tremendous workout. “You really are the most irritating patient, you know that, mutt?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Sawyer mumbled under his breath, and the moment he uttered the words, Jaxon instantly yanked his hair back and slapped him hard on the side of the face. Sawyer grunted and hissed at the impact, but made no move to stop him—his hands stayed balled into fists at his sides. Sawyer seemed resigned to the fact that saying such a thing would get him hit, and he didn’t seem to care. 

Jonah stared at them with wide eyes. He couldn’t imagine what was going through Sawyer’s head. The guy just didn’t know when to shut up. Didn't he realize he was only making things worse for himself?

“Ugh, I need a fucking drink,” Jaxon groaned. He pointed fiercely at Jonah, making his way for the door, “Don’t go anywhere,” he ordered. “Don’t let him go anywhere.” Jaxon jabbed a finger at Sawyer—the ‘him,’ in question. 

He slid the door open. “In fact, I’ll flay the both of you if you’re not right here when I get back,” he grunted, and slammed the door shut behind him.

And then, Jonah and Sawyer were alone. 

༻✦༺ 

A long, tense silence passed between them. Jonah wrung his hands, and alternated between looking at the floor—at the cabinets—at the sunlight streaming through the porthole—anything but those loathsome dark eyes.

Finally, Sawyer broke the silence.

“You don’t have to be such a fucking kiss-ass, you know,” Sawyer spat, as though Jonah had somehow wronged him personally.

“Wh-what?” he stared at him, incredulous and shaking slightly. 

“All that ‘Yes, Sir,’ ‘No, Sir,’— Ugghh,” Sawyer groaned and dramatically rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t it ever get old to you? Don’t you ever get fucking sick of it?” Sawyer’s voice rose a bit as he ranted at Jonah. “I mean, these freaks don’t give a flying fuck about you, clearly, so why the fuck don’t you just grow a fucking spine and stop sniveling like a fucking child.”

Jonah stared back at him, wide-eyed. To his own embarrassment, he felt moisture kissing at the corners of his eyes. His cheeks suddenly felt too hot, as though he’d spent hours in the sunlight.

“Well—” Jonah gathered himself. “Well I could ask you why you fight back so much. It only ever makes things worse, you know.” Jonah’s tone lacked the sharpened edge that Sawyer’s had—he really didn’t want to make any more enemies here than he already had, but he just didn’t understand a damn thing about what was going on in Sawyer’s head.

“Oh, and what, I should just be some spineless little doormat like you then?” Sawyer retorted. “Is that supposed to be a better option?”

“I mean, they haven’t whipped me.. yet…” Jonah said it quietly, crossing his arms over his bare stomach protectively. He genuinely didn’t mean it to be offensive, merely a statement of fact, but Sawyer scoffed at him nonetheless. 

“Oh, just you wait, kid. They’ll have you strung up in no time, trust me. You don’t even have to deserve it,” Sawyer’s voice was thick with vitriol. “They just do it cuz theyre fucking sick. Because they can. At least I have the sense to realize that if they’re gonna hurt me anyway, I might as well get a few licks in first.”

Jonah paled. He hoped to God himself that what Sawyer had said wasn’t true—he was still clinging to the hope that he could avoid horrendous torture by being obedient, and so far it seemed to be working for him, so who was Sawyer to question that? It made sense to Jonah why they beat Sawyer. He clearly didn’t know his place. Jonah knew. Jonah would be good.

But Jonah knew better than to voice any of that. Injured though he was, Sawyer was still a lot bigger than him, and could probably throttle him in a second and beat him unconscious before Jaxon ever came back. And even if Sawyer got punished for doing it, that didn’t seem to be a factor in motivating any of the man’s actions. The guy was a freaking enigma to Jonah. 

Jonah didn’t respond. This conversation was going nowhere. Instead, he turned around, busying himself cleaning the implements with another bottle of liquor and a clean rag. He might as well be useful and help Jaxon clean up, and he really didn’t want to look at Sawyer. 

He regretted it just a few moments later when he heard Sawyer let out a snicker. 

“I see you’ve been around the block, yourself, haven’t you,” Sawyer said when Jonah turned around to the counter. There was a thick layer of amusement in his tone, though the pain was still stubbornly laced in his voice—the way it rasped, his throat was still hoarse from all that screaming. 

Jonah startled when he realized Sawyer was still talking to him. He’d hoped to stay as invisible as possible right now, to disappear into the task at hand. 

“Wh-what?” he said quietly. 

“Your back,” Sawyer grinned. “Looks like you’ve been through the fucking meat shredder. Whoever had you before liked the whip, didn’t he.” 

Jonah frowned, suddenly feeling sheepish and far too exposed. That heat was spreading through his cheeks again. It wasn’t his fault Carlisle had sliced up his only shirt ages ago. No one on the ship had given him anything to cover his torso with either, so he just walked around, scars and bruises and burns on full display. 

“And wait— turn around again—“ Sawyer said it like an order, and Jonah obeyed him without even thinking about whether he wanted to. He was just so attuned to obeying that tone that left no room for questioning. His back to Sawyer, Jonah quickly realized he didn’t have to obey the man—they were together on the ship’s lowest rung—but it was too late. Sawyer had started laughing. Jonah whirled back around, his face hot and flushed. 

“By god, and he fuckin’ branded you too?” Sawyer laughed. “An’ I thought the bastards around here were some of the sickest freaks around. Seems they got ‘em on the mainland too!”

Jonah said nothing for a moment, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth and casing his eyes down and to the side. He didn’t wanna look at Sawyer’s smug face. Fuck him. Fuck Carlisle and fuck Sawyer for laughing at him when he was just the fucking same.

“You’re one to talk,” Jonah finally muttered, hoping Sawyer wouldn’t lash out at him and knock him out for talking back. But Sawyer just sighed heavily and looked away. Guess he didn’t have a clever retort to that. 

You and I are the fucking same. 

“You did come from the mainland, didn’t you kid?” Sawyer asked, pivoting the conversation.

Jonah was grateful for the subject change—anything to avoid talking about his many injuries. 

“Not the continent, no,” his voice still sounded so timid. “One of the smaller Islas.” 

“Well, there’s a million of those around here, aren’t there,” Sawyer said flatly. 

Jonah scratched the back of his neck with his fingers. He didn’t want to say which one—he was worried if the crew found out, they might just take him back. But was this really any better than life at Carlisle’s beck and call? He supposed he hadn’t been whipped yet on the ship, though it’d only been a day. As weird as it was to admit, things here had been going slightly better for him so far. 

“Y-yes…” Jonah said, not wanting to provide anymore information. 

Sawyer gave a little huff at the walls Jonah was putting up. “Fine then, don’t tell me. Not that I care anyway.” And Sawyer swung his chained legs back to the side, laying his head down on the table over his folded arms. Jonah supposed the fatigue was probably settling in. Sawyer had been through a lot that day.

“You’ll tell me one of these days, kid. You’ll see,” he said, though Jonah seriously doubted that. 

Jonah was almost grateful when the door opened and Jaxon re-entered, a flask in his hand. He eyed them over with a sharp gaze, then flicked the cap open and took a swig. 

“Slave,” Jaxon commanded, and both of the boys’ eyes snapped up at attention. 

“I meant the pup,” Jaxon clarified. “But I suppose both of you could help with this.” 

Jaxon pointed to the cabinet across the room. “Fresh towels and cleaning rags are in there. Clean up all the liquor and blood. Use the rags, not the nice towels, got that?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Jonah nodded. Sawyer just stared Jaxon down with a death glare. Jaxon continued anyway. “Do the table first, then the floors. Don’t be stupid. When you’re done, dirty rags go in the bucket.” He nodded to said bucket, which sat on the floor up against the cabinet. 

“Yes, Sir,” Jonah said again. The response was truly automatic. It was a long-ingrained habit to respond affirmatively, respectfully, without question, and it was a habit that had been serving him here so far, so he didn’t try to suppress it.

“Ugh, fucking kiss-ass,” Sawyer mumbled under his breath, flicking irritated eyes at Jonah. Jonah shot him an innocent look and gave a tiny shrug of his shoulders. What the hell else was he supposed to say?

Jaxon snapped his fingers impatiently, and the boys got to work, wetting the rags with another bottle of clear alcohol and scrubbing down the table before starting on the floors. 

Jaxon leaned back against the wall, sipping at his flask, watching them work. Jonah could feel the blonde man’s eyes boring into his back as he scrubbed at the blood on the floor.

“That’s a nice brand,” Jaxon commented at one point, and Jonah felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Th-thank you, Sir,” he said meekly. He hated that everyone could see it all the time. The brand on his lower back was displayed out in the open like the beam of a lighthouse, shining bright red on his skin amid years worth of other burns and layered whip scars. He wished they’d give him a fucking shirt.

Jaxon chuckled darkly at Jonah’s response. “Aren’t you just such an obedient little thing..” Jonah froze when he heard Jaxon approach where he knelt, bristled when he felt a hand in his hair. 

Jonah let out a short gasp when he felt his head tugged upwards. He followed the motion—his scalp was still sore from getting manhandled by Crowe. Jaxon rounded Jonah’s form to face him, tilting the boy’s head up so he was forced to look up into those shrewd green eyes. 

“You’d make a lovely pet,” he cooed, running his fingers through Jonah’s sandy locks.

“Thank you.. S-sir..” Jonah felt the blood drain from his face. Sawyer snorted from somewhere next to him, still working a stubborn bit of blood out from the floorboards. 

“Stand up for me,” Jaxon ordered, giving his hair a little tug.

Jonah gulped, and rose on shaking legs. “Get on the table,” Jaxon said, and Jonah obeyed, despite alarm bells blaring in his head, echoing off the walls of his skull.

Sawyer looked up, suddenly interested in what was about to happen.

“You keep cleaning, mutt,” Jaxon snapped, reaching over to shove Sawyer’s head back down. Sawyer grumbled under his breath, but didn’t talk back for once. Perhaps all those fresh wounds were making him aware of just how easy to injure he was. All Jaxon would have to do is stomp down on his back and Sawyer would collapse, howling in pain into the floor.

“I just wanna have a little.. personal time with the puppy..” Jaxon grinned down at Jonah, who lay back on the table obediently, trying to still the tremor in his limbs.

༻✦༺

Next chapter gets wild oh man… I feel so bad for Jonah oh wait no i don’t!! Suffer pretty boy suffer….

LA SIRENA TAGLIST

@spookyboywhump @livelaughwhump @phoenixpromptsandstuff @unforgivenn @befuddled-calico-whump

@bloodthirsty-squirrel @writing-for-gold @thesecretgardenofmymind @unorganisedalienrubbish @thekneelingdoll

Crowe ordered Jonah to sit up on the high table, and although it was awkward without the use of his hands, Jonah managed it, jumping up a little to reach the edge and settling himself atop the wooden surface. 

Jonah heard Graves chuckle from behind him. “Oi, I didn’t really get a good look at you earlier, boy—your old master really did a number on you, didn’t he.”

Crowe was quick to dart behind him, eager to see what Graves was talking about. A moment later, he heard Crowe let out a sharp laugh. Jonah kept his eyes down on the floor as a fierce heat rose to his face.

“Um, y-yes, Sir,” he said quietly. He didn’t want to be a spectacle. He wished they would just ignore the state of him. 

“Wow! You must have been really disobedient!” exclaimed Crowe between fits of laughter. 

“I—I wasn’t!” Jonah exclaimed fearfully. He didn’t want to make these men think he was bad—that would surely only set him up for a life of punishment here too. He was going to be good. So so so good. He’d do anything to avoid being hurt again.

When his handlers recovered from gawking and laughing at him, Jonah watched as Crowe ran his eyes along the wall, studying the various tools and implements hanging on hooks, and Jonah gulped when Crowe pulled a length of chain from a particular hook. Crowe held the chain up in front of Jonah’s face—jingling it a little and chuckling to himself—and Jonah’s blood ran cold when he saw what the chain actually was. Two heavy metal shackles hung from either end of the chain. Jonah watched in silent horror as Crowe bent down on one knee to wrap one of the metal cuffs around his left ankle. 

Shitshitshit— They were going to—

“Wait—!“ Jonah cried out. He would bargain however he could to avoid being chained again. “Surely that’s not necessary, um, Sir— Y-you don’t need to—“

“Oi, you questioning the first mate's orders?” Crowe challenged, flicking his dark eyes up to Jonah with a dangerous expression.

“N-no!” Jonah squeaked. “N-no, Sir, no,” he was scrambling now. “I just.. I… There’s nowhere for me to run.. Sir.. I, I just thought it wouldn’t be—” 

He winced when he felt the heavy snap of a padlock securing the first shackle in place.

That it wouldn’t be necessary. That he wouldn’t have to live with his ankles in chains again. Jonah had really thought he’d put that all behind him when he’d escaped Carlisle. But now here he was, about to be chained up again. It was just the same, only somehow worse—at least Carlisle only restrained him at certain times—namely when he was hurting him, or when he needed him out of the way… And that was better, right? Surely, Jonah thought, it must be. At least Carlisle only chained one of Jonah’s ankles at night—but now, he was going to have to wear these for… how long, exactly?

He knew he should just keep his fuciking mouth shut right now—he could feel how volatile the energy in the room was, like the air itself was crackling with electricity. But he couldn’t stop himself—he had to know how bad this would be, whether it was truly time to catastrophize or not.

“Um.. Sir? H-how long do I… do I have to wear these for?” he asked timidly, as Crowe hooked the second heavy padlock on the shackle around his right ankle. 

“Oh,” Jonah could hear him smile. “These don’t come off, mate,” Crowe chuckled, looking up at Jonah with a wicked grin as he clamped the final padlock into place. 

Jonah felt tears pricking the corners of his eyelids again at the sheer finality of it. He didn’t see a key anywhere in sight. Hell, there might not even be a key for these shackles at all, if they weren’t even meant to come off. 

Crowe stood up, and Jonah tested the strength of the chain, yanking his feet apart until the chain stopped the motion cold and he felt the unforgiving metal pressing into his skin. He could get his ankles about two feet apart before the chain went taught. 

“It’ll be enough to walk, slowly, and crawl of course,” Crowe snickered. “But we can’t have little slaves like you running all over the damn place, now can we.” 

“N-no, Sir..” Jonah sniffled, trying not to cry again.  

“Good boy,” Crowe grinned, ruffling Jonah’s hair condescendingly, just as the Captain had done minutes earlier. 

Graves chuckled again from behind him. 

“He’s an obedient little thing, ain’t he!” Graves exclaimed.

“He really is… so far anyway,” Crowe leaned in. “Best keep that up, eh, boy? I’m sure you’d hate to find out what would happen if you chose to be difficult.” 

A lump rose in Jonah’s throat. He blinked up pleadingly at Crowe, who towered over him with that sneering, scarred visage. 

“N-never, Sir! Wouldn’t—wouldn’t, d-dream of it, S-Sir,” he hoped he’d said it convincingly. He really did mean it. He did not want to face that whip. Jonah would be happy if he never got whipped again for the rest of his life. He hoped with everything he had that, maybe, if he earned their favor, they might consider letting him leave at the next port. He clung to that hope, however unrealistic, like a lifeline, for the only alternative was a hopeless collapse into despair. 

Crowe gripped Jonah’s chin between his fingers, studying him.

“W-want t-to be good, S-sir,” Jonah stammered, shaking like a leaf as he was scrutinized by his new handler.

After several agonizing seconds, Crowe cracked a smile. 

“Alright little slave, let’s see you make good on that promise,” he said. 

Jonah bit his lip and nodded as best he could with Crowe’s grip on his face. “I-I will, Sir. I pro-promise.” 

He heard Graves cackle behind him again, no doubt thrilled at Jonah’s little performance. 

“Well, isn't he just a treasure,” he heard Graves jeer.

“Indeed,” mused Crowe, stepping back and releasing Jonah’s face at last. “Let’s see how well you handle your first task, eh, boy?”

“Y-yes, Sir,” Jonah said meekly, although it was lost on him how he was meant to perform any tasks at all with his hands still bound behind his back.

As if reading his mind, Crowe stepped aside to shuffle around in a drawer behind him. A moment later, he withdrew his hand, holding a large pair of shears. He gave them an experimental snap in the air, making Jonah flinch automatically. Crowe gave a sharp exhale of amusement at the boy’s reaction. 

“Jumpy little thing, aren’t you,” he teased, leaning forward and beginning to cut away at the ropes that wrapped around Jonah’s torso and bound his wrists behind him.

“I could’ve just untied it, you know,” mumbled Graves. 

“Oh, shut it,” hissed Crowe. 

Jonah tried his best to stay perfectly still despite his shaking, for he didn't want to accidentally get nicked by the huge blades in Crowe’s hand. Once the ropes were pulled off of him, Jonah rubbed at his raw wrists and squeezed his hands to get the circulation back in his fingers. 

He was truly grateful to at least have the use of his hands again, although the ankle chains posed a new issue. He wouldn’t be able to run in these, so they’d effectively stopped him from booking it as soon as the ship docked at the next port. He wouldn’t be able to swim well in them either, and they’d keep him from kicking properly and would no doubt weigh him down in the water—they already weighed him down as it was. He ran through the scenarios, his prospects of escape growing bleaker and bleaker, while Crowe put the shears back in their drawer and rounded back to face Jonah once more. 

“Voss’ got an assignment for you,” he said, suddenly all business. “Let’s see if we can trust you with arm privileges. Those ropes will be back on you so fast if you try anything stupid.”

“So don’t fuckin’ try anything stupid,” echoed Graves’ smug voice from behind him.

“Yes, Sir,” Jonah said automatically, and his mind started running wild with what his task might be. 

Crowe ordered Jonah off of the table, and he was gripped by the arms again by both men and steered out of the room, back down the dark wooden hallway.

༻✦༺

Jonah was marched down another corridor into another lantern-lit room, though this room had a porthole which allowed beams of sunlight to stream through. 

This room looked similar, with a wide wooden table in the center, and various cabinets, counters, and drawers against two of the walls. 

Jonah barely noticed the presence of the man who rummaged around in the cabinets, for all of his attention was caught instantly by what—or who—lay face down on the table. Jonah gasped when he saw those bright red bloody lashes up close, running all down the man’s back, from the hem of his trousers all the way up to his mop of black hair. Sawyer.

Crowe and Graves seemed to ignore Sawyer’s presence entirely, and the man didn’t even look up from his spot on the table when Graves spoke. 

“Aye, Jaxon,” he greeted the blonde man at the cabinets with that signature gruff tone, but there was a friendliness to his voice when he addressed him. “Voss sent this little rat to help you. Keep a close eye on him, though he’s been behaving alright for us so far.”

The man turned. He had an almost too-handsome face, a head of tousled blonde hair, and a dimple on one side of his face when he greeted the men with a sneering grin. He raked his green eyes up and down Jonah’s shirtless form, and Jonah felt a shudder crawl up his spine at the way the man was looking at him.

“Boy,” Graves nudged Jonah with his elbow. “This ‘ere’s Jaxon. He’s got one hell of a job cut out for him today, as you can see.”

“Well, hello pretty thing,” mused Jaxon, and Jonah could see now that his sneer might just be a permanent feature of his face. 

With a thrill in his eye, Jaxon rounded the table and reached right for Jonah when he was close enough. Jonah shuddered as Jaxon slid his hands down Jonah’s face and neck. Jonah bit his lip, clenched his fists, and tried not to react, but the man set him on edge. Jaxon seemed to take great pleasure in touching Jonah all over, running his hands down Jonah’s chest and bare torso. He pinched at one of his nipples and Jonah let out a small gasp—he hadn’t been expecting that.

“My, my…” Jaxon sounded beyond amused. “You’re that little stowaway they found this morning, aren’t you.” Jonah gulped.

“Actually, it was us who found him,” remarked Crowe, hell-bent on getting his credit where it was due. 

“Well, seems you gentlemen have struck gold!” Jaxon exclaimed. “He’s an awfully beautiful thing, ain’t he?”

“Aye,” Crowe agreed. “Quite the addition he’ll make to our ship, provided he can behave better than the fucking mutt over here.” He shot a look of disdain down at Sawyer, who still hadn’t looked up—who until that point, had been content to let the men talk over him at each other. 

“Oh, fuck off,” came Sawyer’s muffled voice. He kept his head down still, but wasn’t going to let the insult go unchallenged.

Crowe smiled wide, taking a step closer to where Sawyer lay. 

“Oh my, you are really not in a position to be talking back, mutt,” Crowe sneered, pressing a hand roughly down onto Sawyer’s bloody back. Sawyer groaned sharply in pain and bit his lip hard to avoid crying out, though Crowe smiled, seemingly getting what he wanted anyway. He dug his nails in and Sawyer whined, forcing a cruel laugh out of Crowe as he twisted his fingers in the bloody mess.

“Would it kill you not to make it worse, mate?” Jaxon sighed. “I’ve already got my fucking work cut out for me as it is.” 

“Serves him right for running his fucking mouth,” Crowe shrugged, wiping his bloody hand off on a hankerchief.

“Whatever,” Jaxon mumbled, displeased but clearly not willing to start a fight over it. Everyone knew Sawyer deserved what he got, after all. “Just leave the little puppy with me and I’ll take good care of him.” 

Jonah flushed when he realized he was the little puppy in question. Would it kill them to use his name? He had given it freely for a reason. Though, Carlisle never seemed to call him by name either, only by a series of degrading nicknames. The parallels between this situation and his last were making Jonah nauseous.

“Enjoy his company, then,” Graves grinned, growing smug at the way Jaxon continued to eye Jonah the way a coyote eyes its prey. 

“And do try and teach him a thing or two, if you can,” Crowe added. “It’d be nice if he learned to be useful. Would please Voss and all that. You know how he gets..” 

“Aye.. Aye...” Jaxon said, waving them away, never taking his eyes off of Jonah. 

The two handlers left the room without any further fuss, and Jonah paled when the door slid shut and he was left alone in the room with Jaxon and Sawyer.

༻✦༺ 

NEXT IS UP!!

Next chapter is already written! I’ll probably post it tomorrow :>

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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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“Go to hell!” he heard the bloody man—Sawyer—shout, though Jonah could hear the pain in his voice. He couldn’t believe the nerve of this man, to be mouthing off and cursing his torturer in his position. Jonah knew from personal experience that he would’ve been begging for mercy long before this point, had it been him at the business end of the tall man’s whip. 

Another lash, even harsher than the ones before, and it finally drew a long pained scream from the restrained man. 

“There we go,” the whip-wielding man sneered. “‘Bout time I get some pretty noises outta you for my efforts.”

“Fu—fuck y-you,” Sawyer’s voice was wavering now, catching on his every sharp, pained inhale.

“Still as shameless as ever aren’t you, mutt,” the wielder hissed, “All these years and we still haven’t managed to beat that shitty attitude out of you, ‘ave we?” 

Sawyer said nothing, only panting in his restraints, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath in the brief respite before the lashes started up again. 

“Whip him harder!” someone in the crowd called, to the furious cheers of the onlookers. 

“Mutt fuckin’ deserves it!” Another yelled. Then the crowd descended into mad shouts and jeers, swirling together in a symphony of thrilled, angry voices as the weilder brought the whip down on Sawyer’s back again and again. The crowd’s cheers served as an orchestral backdrop against the thunder-claps of the whip and the screams of the one at its mercy.

Jonah looked to his sides, terrified. He locked eyes with Crowe, who gave him a fierce grin.

“Stop!” Jonah cried, “What did he— What did he even do?”

“Oh, you should learn quickly that that stupid mutt can never keep his damn mouth shut,” Crowe said casually, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. Jonah had thought Carlisle to be the cruelest man he’d ever met, but it was clear he was in just as much danger here, on the ship he thought would be his mercy. 

Jonah wanted to cry out to them, to scream at them to fucking stop hurting the poor man, but his voice failed him, fear took over and froze him in place. He cursed the way fear always seemed to grip him in ice until he couldn’t move at all, but the self-preserving part of Jonah knew that to call out for mercy on the man’s behalf would only cause the whip to be turned on himself instead. So he stood there, Graves and Crowe’s grip tight on either of his biceps, and watched with horrified tears streaking down his cheeks. He felt awful for the man, Sawyer, but knew he didn’t want to face the same fate. Maybe if he was good, if he obeyed and didn’t talk out of turn, he wouldn’t face the brunt of that tall man’s whip. 

“Oh,” Graves leaned in, pointing to the wielder. “That there’s Voss, our fine ship’s first mate. Bit of a right terror he is, an’ awfully good with that whip, though don’t tell him I said that..” Graves paused a moment, “Just.. uh, try not to get on his bad side, eh?” 

Jonah gazed in terror at Voss, who wielded the whip with such confidence, such ease, he could give Carlisle himself a run for his money. He watched the man pause his relentless onslaught for a moment to work the soreness out of his shoulder, rolling it in circles in the joint. Voss must have been working up a sweat, for he slipped his leather coat off to reveal a simple low-cut burgundy tunic below it, the fabric was unbuttoned most of the way to expose his chest and the top half of his torso. Jonah could see the tattooed tentacles of a kraken winding up his chest and neck, he saw them spreading down his arms where the sleeves had been rolled up. 

Working the tension from his shoulder, Voss took up the whip again, and lashed Sawyer over and over, who only continued to curse him out between blood-curdling screams. 

“Fuck— Fuck you— Y-you f-fucking bastard—AAAHH!”

Eventually, the cursing stopped, and Sawyer only cried out at the fire of each hit, groaning in pain in the seconds between them.

Sawyer was clearly in too much pain to speak, and Jonah’s vision was getting blurry with the amount of tears welling up behind his eyelids. At some point, Voss gave one furious crack of the whip and Sawyer collapsed, limp in his bindings, hanging from his wrists.

He’d passed out. 

Voss signed, wiping the blood from the whip with a handkerchief from his pocket. 

“Well, seems that’s all the fun we’re going to get out of him for now, men,” Voss called, to the disappointed groans and boos of the crowd. The first mate’s voice sent chills up Jonah’s spine—it was sharp and menacing, though there was a slight breathlessness to it, as he’d no doubt just had a decent workout shredding up Sawyer’s back. 

“Cut him loose, boys,” Voss ordered, and two men rushed forward to untie the ropes at Sawyer’s wrists. Without the bindings to hold him up, Sawyer crumpled to the floor, and the men hauled him up and dragged him off to the side. 

“As you were, gentleman!” Voss called, and the crew gave a chorus of “Aye!” before the men rushed in all directions back to their stations. 

Now, with the central entertainment over and done with, the men started to take notice of Jonah, casting him hungry looks and eyeing him up. 

“Oi, Graves, Crowe,” Voss called, crossing the deck to where they stood, holding a tied up Jonah. 

“What’s this pretty thing you’ve caught me?” Voss sneered as he approached Jonah, who flinched and tried to crane his head away, only for Voss to reach out and grab his jaw in a firm grip once he was close enough to reach him.

“We found this little rat stowing away in a barrel in the hold!” Graves said triumphantly. 

“I see..” said Voss, his voice a low hiss when he leaned down ever closer to Jonah until they were face to face. Jonah stared up at him with wide, terrified eyes, shaking in the first mate’s grasp. 

“And what, pray tell, were ya’ doin’ scuttling around down there?”

Jonah swallowed, willing his tongue to move, but it felt so heavy in his mouth it was hard to speak at all.

“P-passage, S-sir,” he stammered, his heart pounding like a drum in his ears. “J-just wanted p-passage, Sir.”

Jonah winced when Voss gave a low, amused laugh, just as smug, if not all the more sinister than Graves and Crowe had mere minutes earlier. 

“Ohh, you poor, stupid thing,” Voss grinned like a serpent. “Ain’t you lucky you stumbled upon our little vessel.” Little was hardly the operative word, the ship felt huge to Jonah. “I’m afraid you’ll not be goin’ anywhere now. Not without my say so.”

Jonah gulped, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He feared his voice would crack into tears if he tried. 

“What’s your name, pretty thing?” Voss asked, forcing Jonah’s chin up, tilting his face from side to side and studying him. It made the hairs on the back of Jonah’s neck stand on end, as if this could be any more terrifying.

“Um.. J-Jonah,” he squeaked. He’d do anything to keep this man happy, it was Carlisle all over again. Voss was fucking terrifying.

“Well, dear Jonah,” Voss’ voice sank into a sickly mocking tone when he addressed the boy by his name. “Let’s have you come meet the Captain then, shall we?”

Jonah said nothing at first, but when Voss’ fingers gave his jaw a harsh squeeze, he forced out the “Yes, Sir,” he was supposed to say. 

“Good boy,” Voss smiled, patting Jonah’s face condescendingly before he released him.  

Obedient. Just be obedient, and they won’t torture you. Just be good, Just obey. Jonah repeated the mantra in his head as he was dragged over to the other side of the ship, presumably near the captain’s quarters. 

Voss ducked inside the chamber, and a few moments later he exited again, this time being followed by a beautiful, important looking man. The man had a large black tricorn cap atop his long silken hair—brown with streaks of warm honey and tied loosely behind him with a cream-colored ribbon. His boots were freshly shined, and he had an excessive amount of gold jewelry hanging from his neck, his ears, around his wrists. He looked like he was absolutely dripping in treasure. 

“Now, boy,” Voss ordered sharply, and Jonah snapped out of his trance from staring at the captain to blink back into reality. “This here’s your new master, Captain Sebástian Vale. Show some respect.” 

The moment he uttered those words, Jonah was shoved down to his knees, and Crowe pressed his boot between Jonah’s shoulder blades until his face hit the floor for a second time that day. Crowe’s boot rested heavily on his back, forcing Jonah down in the deep bow as the Captain eyed him over.

Captain Vale approached closer, until his boots were directly in front of Jonah’s head. Jonah shook horribly, terrified of what this Captain would do. 

“Well, hello there,” the Captain cooed, as if Jonah were a little bird he’d trapped in a cage. “My first mate here says the men found you stowing away on my ship?” 

Crowe stepped off of his back only to yank Jonah’s head up by his hair just enough so he could crane his neck to look up at the Captain. 

“Answer him!” Crowe ordered, with a fierce kick to his ribs. 

“Y-yes, Sir!” Came Jonah’s panicked response.

“Aww, not quite, little pet,” the Captain clicked his tongue down at Jonah, who cringed back when he realized he’d already done something wrong. 

“It’s Master to you, slave.” 

All the blood drained from Jonah’s face when he realized the full reality of his position. They weren’t just going to ransom him or try to rob him, they were taking him captive—permanently. He had effectively gone from one cruel master to another in less than the span of 24 hours. Tears spilled down his face as Crowe tugged his hair again, a wordless demand for him to fucking answer already.

“Y-yes, Master,” Jonah’s breath caught in his throat as a sob threatened to work its way up. 

“And??” Crowe shook Jonah’s head roughly back and forth. 

“I—I’m s-sorry, Master,” Jonah cried, his voice breaking as he looked down at the captain’s freshly shined shoes. 

“Well, aren’t you a pretty one,” Sebástian Vale reached out to swipe away a tear on Jonah’s cheek. “It’s rare we get one that’s pretty when it cries,” he smiled down at Jonah. 

“Fucking pathetic…” Voss scoffed from behind him. It was evident the first mate wasn’t quite so enamored with Jonah’s little terrified performance as Captain Vale seemed to be. 

“Yes, quite pathetic, isn’t he?” The smile never left the Captain’s face. “I think this one will do nicely here. I’ve been needing a new cabin boy ever since the…. Well, never mind.  You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about it, sweetheart,” the Captain pinched Jonah’s cheek and he bit back a wince. 

“Good work, gentleman,” Voss said, strict and businesslike. 

“There’s just something I’d like to see,” Captain Vale said, voice alight with amusement. “I want to see the little thing kiss my boot.” 

“Do it, if you know what’s good for you, mutt,” growled Voss, his arms crossed and all his weight leaned on one hip. 

Jonah bit his lip to hold back the sob that wanted out so badly, and thought of Sawyer, and the whip that now dangled in a coil from Voss’ waist. 

Slowly, when Crowe released his hair, Jonah lowered himself to the Captain’s shoes. Fresh tears fell and splashed against the smooth leather before Jonah’s face even reached it, but once he was close enough, Jonah pressed his lips to the Captain’s shoe, shuddering in place as he tried not to sob against them. 

“Aww, very good, little boy,” the Captain sounded beyond pleased, smug and delighted at his new slave boy’s obedience. 

Jonah stayed down, completely still save for the tremor in his shoulders. He didn’t want to move without permission, the fear froze him in place. He didn’t want to know what might happen if he angered the Captain so quickly.

It seemed to be the right call.

“Up,” ordered the Captain, and Jonah rose once more to blink up at him, his eyes red and wet as more tears streamed down his cheeks. 

“We’re going to train you so well, dear boy. You’ll be pleasing my every need in no time,” the Captain said it like it was an encouraging promise, but the words stabbed Jonah’s chest with icy dread. He couldn’t get out of this. There was nothing surrounding them but miles and miles of water. 

“Now, I trust these boys here to help you get… acquainted. I’m pleased you already seem to understand your place here. Were you a slave before this?”

Jonah sniffled. “Y-yes, Master.” Now he really did feel like he was back with Carlisle again, sniveling and dutifully agreeing, saying ‘Yes, Master,’ over and over to the man who ran his life, who decided whether he ate or slept or lived or died.

“Good boy,” the Captain gave Jonah’s hair a ruffle with his hand. “In that case, I’ll let my men get you oriented here.”

Sebástian Vale towered over his crying slave, and flashed him a wide, beaming smile. 

“Welcome aboard La Sirena de Sangre.”

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NEXT PART IS UP!!!

Two chapters in one day??? Honestly this story is just falling out of my brain this is so much fun to write

TAGLIST (just ask to be added!)

However, it wasn’t even a day after he’d been brought to Carlisle in exchange for a hefty sum that he realized he’d be far worse off here. At least his father only hit him when he was drunk and angry. Carlisle seemed to do it for the sheer fun of it—for some kind of a sick thrill. He loved to chain Jonah up in his blacksmithing workshop and beat him with whatever tool struck his fancy that day—a whip, long metal rods, pronged sharp tools. Sometimes he’d stick the metal in the furnace and press it flush against Jonah’s exposed skin. Jonah’s only tunic had been cut off of him that first day, and he was never given anything to wear as a replacement—Carlisle always said he liked to see the marks.

His title may have been ‘apprentice,’ but Jonah knew what he was to the man—a slave. He’d been exchanged for money, for crying out loud. He wasn’t paid a dime for the years he’d worked in Carlisle’s blacksmithing workshop—hell, he served the man hand and foot, from dawn until dusk, but never got so much as a word of thanks. Carlisle always seemed much more preoccupied in abusing Jonah and trying out various cruel and unusual punishments than he ever did actually training the boy in his craft. 

So Jonah dreamed of freedom, even though he spent most of his nights chained by the ankle in the workshop, sleeping on a pile of hay. 

One evening, when he’d been permitted to accompany Carlisle to a supply run at the market, he spotted it, just out on the horizon of the sea. A ship—unlike any of the ships of the local merchants and foreign magistrates. Its flag was a deep, bloody red, with a grinning skull across the face of it. He could just make out the insignia as he stared out at the sea. The ship was approaching. 

That night, he knew it was his chance, when Carlisle passed out drunk off too much rum and forgot to lock the chain to Jonah’s ankle before retiring himself. This had happened before, on occasion, but everyone in town knew Jonah belonged to the blacksmith and would drag him back to his master the moment they discovered him, so there was never anywhere for him to go, unless he wanted to walk off barefoot into the jungle and get bitten by a snake or die of starvation. 

But tonight was different. The moon had risen high in the sky. Surely, the ship would have docked by now. Jonah snuck out of the workshop and slipped out onto the dark streets. His heart leapt as he approached the shore and saw it. Large and majestic now,  the ship towered high above the waves. Its masts rose up into the star-lit sky. Its decks were quiet—no doubt the crew had all gone ashore to… sample the local cuisine, as it were. 

Jonah took his chance, his heart racing in his chest. He leaped from the old wooden dock and caught a rope that dangled from the ship’s side. He summoned every ounce of strength he had left to climb up and hauled himself over the ship’s railing and landed on the wooden upper deck. He spotted a guardsman on the opposite side, an oil lamp flickering in his hand. The man hadn’t seen Jonah, thank god. Jonah scanned the floor of the ship until he spotted the gap in the floorboards that led belowdecks. Slowly, he crept through the darkness and descended the ladder. 

He wove through a maze of dark passageways below, looking for a place to hide. The cargo hold was the obvious choice. He crept past a snoring sailor in a hammock, the man’s slumbering body swaying with the rocking of the waves. At last, Jonah reached a larger room full of barrels, trunks, and crates. The crates were all nailed shut, so he tiptoed to a set of barrels, looking for one empty enough that he could slip inside. 

At last, he found one barrel at the end with a loose lid. This was his. He carefully lifted the lid and climbed inside, curling himself up before resetting the lid atop the barrel. So long as nobody came and nailed it down, he would be safe here until the ship docked once more. Then, he’d finally be free, on some new Isla, in some new town where he could start over. Get a real job, rent a room of his own—the visions of a new life invigorated Jonah as he curled up in the confines of the barrel. He was really doing it—this was really happening. He could barely contain his excitement. He was finally on his way to a new land. 

༻✦༺ 

At some point, Jonah must have fallen asleep, for he startled awake at the sound of muffled voices wafting through the corridors of the lower levels. His eyes snapped open, only to see absolutely nothing. He tried to stretch his limbs out, then panicked for a moment when he found he couldn’t, before he remembered where he was, and tried to calm his nerves. 

It’s okay, he told himself. Nobody is coming to check the cargo. He focused on his breath—in, and out. In… and out. 

Soon, however, he heard footsteps growing louder as they approached the cargo hold.

“Surely one of these has the rum,” said a gruff voice. 

Jonah froze, holding his breath. 

“I’m telling you, we drank it all,” came another, “Best pick up some more at the next port.” 

“Agh,” groaned the first, “You’re so full of shite.” 

Jonah, to his horror, heard the sound of wood against wood, mere feet away from where he sat. 

“Oh yes, pop them all open, why don’t you,” the smoother voice said sarcastically.

“I fuckin’ will!” grunted the gruff one.

Jonah felt tears of panic in his eyes. This couldn’t be happening—please don’t check this one please don’t check this one please don—

The orange light of a lantern flooded Jonah’s vision, and he squinted hard against it as the lid of the barrel was thrown open. He froze, panic like ice in his chest, and gazed up into the light at the two shocked faces above him.

Their shock quickly turned, as two crooked smiles overcame their faces.

“Well well well…” said the gruff voice, a man with a scraggly beard and a bandana around his head. “What ‘ave we got here?”

“Seems we’ve found ourselves a little stowaway,” smiled the smooth-voiced one, a taller man with a scar on his cheek and a gold earring. 

“Don’t suppose you know this one, do ya Graves?”

“Can’t say I do,” said the gruff one—Graves—eyeing Jonah like he was a freshly grilled steak. “Though he sure is a pretty little thing, ain’t he?”

“Please—I’m sorry, just, just let me leave, I’ll—I’ll get off as soon as we’re at the next port—please!” Jonah pleaded, tears rapidly welling up in his eyes. “Just don’t tell anyone I’m here!”

Jonah paled when the two men laughed and laughed, before strong, rough hands reached in to haul him out of the barrel. The two men dragged Jonah out and threw him onto the floor. Jonah hastily turned to face them in a kneeling position. 

“Please!” He cried. “Please I beg of you, just don’t tell anyone—I mean no harm!” At least, for all his time with Carlisle, he’d had plenty of practice at begging for mercy.

“Aww, you hear that Crowe?” Graves chided. “He says he don’t mean no harm.” 

“Oh, I’m sure he don’t,” Crowe laughed, knocking Jonah over easily with a single sharp kick to his side.

Crowe stepped his foot down onto the side of Jonah’s face, leaning down to press the boy’s cheekbone hard into the wooden floorboards. 

“We’re just gonna have to see if the captain believes you.” 

Crowe kept his boot pressed down firmly on the side of Jonah’s head to hold him down. Jonah groaned in pain against the floor, convinced his head would split clean open if Crowe put even an ounce more weight on it. 

“Grab something to tie him up, would ya Graves?” 

“Already on it, mate,” came Graves’ rough voice, now a few feet away. Jonah couldn’t see what he was doing, but he heard his heavy footsteps approach once more and struggled weakly on the floor, still pinned down beneath Crowe’s savage boot. 

“Aye, that’ll do, won’t it,” Crowe clapped Graves on the back as the man bent down to wrestle Jonah’s arms behind his back. Jonah tried to writhe against the man, but Crowe was quick to lift his foot for a moment before stomping down hard on the side of Jonah’s head, sending white stars popping through his vision and making the whole room swim. Jonah cried out and went limp for just long enough for Graves to tie the boy’s hands roughly behind him with thick, coarse rope. Crowe stepped off of Jonah’s head only to lean down and wrench a fist into his hair, hauling the boy back up onto his knees. 

Graves, seemingly reading Crowe’s mind, wound the rest of the rope around Jonah’s torso, pinning his arms tightly against his back. Jonah tried to thrash against Crowe’s hold, but he only succeeded in making his own scalp burn as he twisted against the hand that held him. 

Crowe stepped around to Jonah's front to deliver a sharp slap across the side of his face. His head tried to snap to the side with the force of it, but he was still held in place with Crowe’s other hand in his hair, so Jonah’s face absorbed the full impact. Jonah gasped and hissed in pain, a fierce heat radiating through the side of his face. 

“You’re a fiesty little one, aren’t ya?” Crowe’s crooked smile loomed down over Jonah as he said it, the amusement thick in his voice. 

“Ple—ease..” Jonah’s voice cracked as he held back a sob. This was the worst possible way this escape could have gone. He just prayed whoever this captain was, he would take mercy on Jonah. He tried not to think of how slim the likelihood of that really was.

When Graves had secured the ropes around Jonah’s arms and torso, Crowe hauled Jonah to his feet by the grip in his hair. Jonah stumbled up to follow the motion, his head still spinning with the force of getting kicked into the floor—the impact of Crowe’s boot against his head. 

“Ohh the captain’s gonna love this,” Graves grinned wide, rubbing his grubby hands together as he stepped back. 

“I’d say he might even reward us for finding the little rat, wouldn’t you say?” Crowe smiled back at Graves, his eyes narrowed to delighted slits.

“Aye..” Graves hummed, his voice a low rumble in his throat. 

“Let’s go, pretty boy. Move.” Crowe snapped, beginning to drag Jonah out of the cargo hold and down the wooden corridor. Jonah tried to resist at first, keeping his feet stubbornly planted, but a fierce yank on his hair was all it took to have him hissing in pain again and obediently following Crowe through the passageway towards the upper decks, Graves trailing behind them. 

Jonah let the tears fall silently, praying that this wouldn’t turn out as badly as he feared it would. He saw sunlight stream down from the gap in the ceiling as they neared the staircase, a loud mix of voices sounded from above. As he was marched up the stairs to the upper deck, Jonah pleaded in his mind to anything that was out there that this captain of theirs would be merciful. 

༻✦༺ 

PART 2 is up!!

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