Fletcher had a gag in his mouth and blindfold over his eyes as he was led through cold, stone corridors. His feet were freezing since they took his shoes and socks. And his shirt, leaving him only in his pants with his dog tags hanging down on his bare chest. His hands were tied to a pole that went behind his head, forcing them up and out of the way. He didn’t know exactly what was going to happen next, but he had a sinking feeling that it was going to suck far beyond anything else he’d experienced up to this point in his life.

  Deities, why hadn’t it been him who ran the suicide bomb mission instead of Hugo? Then he could have died a hero and avoided ever facing his mother after something as weak as getting captured and failing to hold back during the interrogation.

  “Ah, General Anders. I do hope you're comfortable. It was the best we could do on short notice for such an esteemed guest,” Kirred called out from ahead. “But I have a surprise for you.”

  Fletcher was pulled to a stop by his captors, and the blindfold was removed, allowing him to take in the large room he now stood in. Kirred was just a few yards ahead, and then another dozen feet ahead of that was a stone chair where his mother sat, bound hand and foot. She too had a gag in her mouth, but the murderous look in her eyes as she stared at Fletcher warned that he was going to be very big trouble—assuming they both made it out of this.

  Off to the side Major Simpson was tied up and gagged as well, alongside Sergeant Johnston. But as for the rest of Hazel’s team, Fletcher saw no sign of them. He hoped that the lack of dead bodies meant the others escaped, but that might be a foolish hope given this didn’t look like the original site of the attack.

  But how had his mother been captured? And so quickly after the others left Vesi? None of this made sense.

  Fletcher was shoved forward another step.

  “A little family reunion. Truly, I’m honored to have not one, but two Anders family members as my guests.” Kirred smirked. “I had planned to use your favorite subordinate as a casualty, but we both know that you would never give in over something as commonplace as a soldier. Dying is part of the job, as we both know.”

  Fletcher was caught between relief and fear. Maybe they would just kill him after all. It wasn’t that he necessarily wanted to die, but dying was better than a lot of other things that might happen to him, especially a conversion facility which was where a Hexed Human like him was bound to end up if he wasn’t killed first.

  “But Lady Fortune smiles upon me this day. I don’t think you would ever be bothered watching a soldier—no matter how loyal—suffer for your cause. But I have a feeling that your own flesh and blood might prove different.” Kirred gestured to Fletcher. “Let us see how well you hold out when it’s your son screaming.”

  Fletcher felt his face pale. Oh. Not dying. Not yet, at least. Torture, which was worse. A whole lot worse. Deities, his life was just one never-ending spiral, wasn’t it?

  Hazel was still glaring at him. Because obviously this was all his fault in her mind.

  Kirred turned to Fletcher and pressed one over-sized hand against his cheek. “I do regret that you must suffer so. I understand that you were once a good man, and Ssiioowwll regards you highly, but I need you to know that every bit of pain you experience is your mother’s fault. She has the power to end this whenever she chooses. The amount you suffer is at her bidding, so when you beg, direct it to her, the cause of your suffering.”

  Fletcher attempted to twist his wrists out of the ropes binding them to the wooden rod behind his head, but it was of no use. There was no getting out of this, no matter how badly he wanted out.

  He took a breath through his nose as Crater removed the gag. He decided to set a goal for himself. No begging. He couldn’t be that weak, not in front of his mother. No begging and no crying. And no screaming. He’d endure this like a man. He was tough. He could do this, and surely it wouldn’t last forever. He would pass out eventually from the pain, as dismal of a thought as that was.

  Ssiioowwll approached him with a syringe, which did not bode well for how this was going to start. She avoided looking into his eyes as she pressed it into his neck, shooting all of the liquid into his system.

  Fletcher winced, but the expected pain didn’t come. If anything, he felt more alert and more aware. The cutting feeling from the bindings was far more distinct than it had been before. What on earth did they give him?

  “Last chance, Hazel. Tell me what I want to know,” Kirred said, facing away from Fletcher.

  She stared forward.

  “Very well.” Kirred motioned back to Fletcher.

  Fletcher hardly had time to react as the nearby [Golem] swung a metal rod at his legs. The rod connected with his shins, and an audible crack sounded as both broke immediately.

  Gasping, Fletcher collapsed downwards as fiery pain spawned on his lower legs.

  The two Unhumans next to him grabbed the stick to which his hands were bound, stopping his fall so he was instead forced to kneel on the broken bones, otherwise sitting up straight.

  Fletcher groaned, bit his lower lip, and wished once again that he’d managed to die before this moment of his life occurred.

  “Keep going,” Kirred said in an almost bored voice.

  The Unhuman to his right put a foot on his right leg and pressed down, causing Fletcher to gasp. Then the Unhuman to his left did the same to the other leg, using more force in a stomping motion as she settled her foot on top of his broken leg.

  Fletcher jerked forward, barely catching himself from crying out as the pain increased tenfold. He heard movement behind him and then his bare feet went from freezing to burning, quite literally. More than that, there was something in them.

  He couldn’t see what they put through his flesh, but it was hot. Very, very hot, hotter probably than fire. He kept his would-be screams back, focused on his goal of not giving in. A rancid smell reached his nose of burnt flesh. His flesh.

  With that, Fletcher threw up, but given he hadn’t eaten all day, it was mostly water and dry heaves. The burning lessened, but the aching in his feet never stopped. Sweat dripped from his brow into his eyes as Fletcher tried to pull himself back together.

  Kirred caught his chin and forced him to look up and face his mother’s cold eyes.

  “You can stop this, Hazel. You can spare him,” the [Ogre] said.

  She kept on staring without a flicker of emotion.

  Kirred sighed and stepped away as Crater bent down close to Fletcher.

  “This is for Seesh’a,” the [Jinn] hissed, holding up a flat piece of metal. The end was a red-white color, like it’d just come off the fire.

  Fletcher took a breath as the [Jinn] pressed the fiery metal into the skin on his stomach. More burning, and more of that same acrid smell, though this time he kept himself from throwing up.

  The [Jinn] removed the metal, giving him the chance to breathe. A chance that was cut short as Crater once more pressed the hot item against his skin. At the same time, pressure was added to the burned wounds on his feet, and the [Jinn] ramped things up more by digging his fingers into the already burned section of Fletcher’s skin.

  Pain of all forms flooded Fletcher’s mind, far beyond the limit of what he was sure he could withstand. Forget about passing out from the pain, he was sure that this amount of suffering might actually kill him. He caught himself before he could call out, barely keeping himself from begging or crying or any of the very reasonable responses to torture.

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  Don’t give in. Don’t give in. Don’t— Fletcher’s internal reminders were cut off as agony increased yet again, but this time, it all blurred together in such a way he couldn’t discern how he was being hurt, only that he was in incredible pain.

  It was too much. He couldn’t stand it, but his mind was as awake as ever despite being full of physical affliction. There had to be some release, but he promised himself he wouldn’t beg, no matter how badly he needed to. And he couldn’t cry, not in front of his mother. And screaming… Okay, yeah, that was fine. At least it was something.

  Before he even finished giving himself permission for it, Fletcher was screaming. The guttural kind that caused his throat to burn, but it was the one release he allowed himself from the unfathomable pain. It shouldn’t be Humanly possible to endure this much, but somehow there he was, enduring it.

  Crater and the others laughed, finding more ways to increase the torment, which in turn increased Fletcher’s screams.

  Through squinty eyes that filled with tears despite his best efforts, Fletcher saw his mother, staring at him without a flicker of compassion. She didn’t care. Why would she? She didn’t even like him, much less love him. Kirred played his cards all wrong, which sucked for Fletcher, but in the end that was probably the best for the Mixed since it meant his mother would never give up secrets for his sake.

  Something new and unexpected interrupted Fletcher’s screaming and the pain diminished ever so slightly.

  Gunshots.

  The [Jinn] face planted to the ground in a puddle of his own blood. Kirred was shouting, but Fletcher couldn’t make it out due to the ringing in his ears and his inability to properly breathe. Those holding him up either got shot or ran, leaving him to remain upright with his own strength.

  Only he didn’t have any strength, so he too collapsed forward, falling onto Crater’s body as he heaved for air that wouldn’t come, his throat raw from his cries. He was left in massive amounts of agony from the lingering injuries, but at least the worst of the torture was over. For now. But even then, he still didn’t get the peace he wanted, and his mind remained very much awake to his dismay. He heard people talking and moving about, but it was all muffled and his one focus was on not throwing up again.

  “Fletcher Sebastian Anders!” Hazel shouted. “What in deities’ names do you think you’re doing here?”

  He lifted his head just enough to see her walking towards him from the chair she’d recently been tied to. Behind her came Simpson, Johnston, and Teller. Wait a second, Teller hadn’t been part of the group of prisoners.

  Someone lifted him up using the wooden rod his arms were tied to, and he glanced to each side to see Captain Naeku and Sergeant Ibara. Oh, so they came back to rescue the others. That worked out in his favor.

  “Jeez, kid. You really took one for the team,” Ibara said.

  “Just think, Simpson. This could have been you,” Naeku added.

  “Yeah. I got lucky this time, which sucks for the kid.” Simpson shook his head. “What are you doing here, Fletcher? Shouldn’t you be on a plane to Cape Town?”

  Fletcher winced, trying to muster the energy to speak against the incessant pain. “Uh, yeah. Long story.”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that,” Hazel growled.

  “That conversation might need to wait, General. Assuming you wanted to stick to your timetable,” Teller said, glancing at her watch.

  “Yeah. The introduction of the kid already delayed our entrance, and he’s in rough shape so we need to patch him up quickly to get back on schedule,” Ibara confirmed.

  “We’ll multitask. Bare minimum, Sergeant. I’ll question him. Find that gag,” Hazel declared.

  Fletcher glanced at her in surprise. How was he going to have a conversation with her if he was gagged? That question was answered once he lowered onto his back with the cloth in his mouth and his mother kneeling next to him.

  She held his jaw in a not-so-gentle manner, especially considering he just got tortured on her behalf. “Look at me, and listen closely.”

  He stared at her and gave a shallow nod.

  “[Read Thoughts],” she murmured.

  Fletcher was distinctly aware of someone else in his brain, and he did not like it, but with his hands tied up and a gag in his mouth, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  Ibara, Naeku, and Johnston all knelt down by him too, digging into a medical kit for supplies. Fletcher tried to watch what they were doing, but his mother pulled his face back to look at her.

  “Let them work. I need answers,” she said, her tone cold. “Who else from Vesi Station is around?”

  “Hopefully no one,” he thought to her.

  “What does that mean? I need clear answers, Fletcher.” Her voice was firm and unrelenting.

  “George wasn’t on the plane. I went back for him. I’m pretty sure he made it back, but I got captured so I don’t freaking know for sure,” he bit at her.

  “Attitude,” Hazel warned. “What all did you tell Kirred?”

  “That wasn’t my fault. They used—”

  Fletcher’s thought was cut off by an intense wave of pain as his right leg bones snapped back into place.

  “Ibara!” Hazel exclaimed.

  “Sorry. I have to set the bones,” the man replied. “Let me get the other one really fast, and then we’ll be through the worst of it.”

  Fletcher groaned and squirmed in a futile attempt to get away, his entire body tensing up as a set of hands hovered above his other leg.

  “Whoa, whoa. Relax, Fletcher,” Ibara soothed him.

  He shook his head. Relaxing wasn’t exactly an option when he knew he was about to experience massive amounts of pain. Deities, why couldn’t they give painkillers or at least something to knock him out?

  “They gave you a drug known as wial’os. It’s specifically designed for torture. It forcibly keeps the victim awake for hours, regardless of any outside factors such overwhelming pain or even sedatives. Painkillers won’t work as long as it's in your system,” his mother explained. “Now, Ibara, do it so I can finish with him.”

  Oh, right. His mom was currently connected to his mind so she could read all his thoughts. That was awkward. He needed to make sure he didn’t think of anything embarrassing. But of course, thinking of that caused embarrassing memories to surface. Luckily, Fletcher’s dignity was saved by Ibara’s hands on his unset broken leg, the movement drawing him back to the impending pain.

  “Okay, no. You have to relax for this. Relax,” Ibara said. “I’ll give you a countdown from three, alright?”

  Fletcher took a deep breath and nodded, doing his best to untense his muscles.

  “Three.”

  Raw pain filled his body and mind as Ibara set the leg, apparently forgetting the last two numbers in the sequence.

  “Focus, Fletcher,” his mother said, guiding his face to look back at her. “What did you tell Kirred?”

  Breathing heavily through his nose as more jolts of pain occurred across his body from the others patching him up, Fletcher walked his mom through his brief conversation with the Unhuman commander.

  “The good news is you know nothing important so you couldn’t give anything important away I suppose,” his mother sighed. She grabbed his jaw again with a tight hold. “You have made my life very complicated, and I am not happy. You’re single job now is to avoid causing any more problems. Do you understand?”

  “This is not my fault,” he told her, his teeth digging into the gag.

  “That’s not what I asked you.”

  “Yes, General.”

  Hazel took a frustrated breath and then released him. “Is he ready?”

  “Yeah. The nice thing about burns is that they’re already cauterized. We can do a more thorough check when we get to camp,” Sergeant Ibara said.

  “Good. Move out. We’ve wasted enough time.” Hazel stood up.

  The others did as well, except for Naeku who grabbed Fletcher’s bound arms and lifted him up to put him over his shoulder.

  That hurt a ton given the burns across his stomach, even with the bandages for padding. But Fletcher was still gagged, and he no longer felt his mom in his mind, meaning he couldn’t even complain to her about it. Not that she would care. She didn’t even care that he got tortured ten minutes ago.

  As they left the room behind, Fletcher turned his head up just enough to see the carnage left behind the rescue. Ssiioowwll was among the bodies. His heart sank. Even his decision to face death rather than kill her wasn’t enough to save her in the end. Fletcher was a failure when it came to protecting the people he cared about. Maybe this was a fate he deserved after all. Despite all his efforts, Fletcher was a killer, a killer who couldn’t even save others. So much blood stained his hands, and for nothing more than political gains of people in power. His life was a waste, and he couldn’t help but wonder if things wouldn’t have been better for everyone if that assassination attempt back in Bren’it’p had been successful.

  Pain cut off the rest of his musing as Naeku started up a jog through the corridors, each step sending jolts of throbbing into Fletcher’s body. Yeah. He really wished he was dead instead, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

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