Preservation, by Kiara Sayre; for the Abandonment challenge
Title: Preservation
Author: Kiara Sayre
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Hoo boy. Season two spoilers, severe violence, torture, self-inflicted violence, generally very unhappy stuff
Summary: He can't keep up his false hopes for much longer.
Author's Note: Continuing in my trend of incredibly depressing Season Two stories, I give you Preservation. Beta by zippitgood
He lays in his corner of the dirty, cramped cell, trying to ignore the flaring pains of yesterday’s wounds even as the dust settles in them, threatening infection. His number will be called soon, he’s fairly sure, because it always is, every damn day. He wishes briefly, feebly, that he had some water to wash the shallow cuts with, or a bath…it feels like he hasn’t had a bath in years, in if his smell is any judge, he hasn’t.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been here; he can’t mark the passage of time in his tiny cell, and it’s one of the things that’s really driving him crazy, more than the cuts or the bruises or the promise of water or food or release.
But it feels like too damn long.
His eyes close despite his best efforts, and he wonders if today will be the day they break him.
It’s only a few minutes later when he hears, at the edge of his consciousness, his name being called, but he can’t answer-he feels weak, feverish, his hands are shaking and even his thoughts are rambling; maybe one of his cuts got infected-it wouldn’t be the first time.
A hand slaps him roughly, and he forces his eyes open, through sheer force of will.
“Number 7342-9166, you were called,” the Genii guard says, his voice almost gravelly.
He stares listlessly at the guard for a moment, before he musters up the strength to answer. “I can’t-” His voice gives out, and he has to close his eyes in both humiliation and weakness for a moment before he can continue. “I can’t stand up.”
The guard narrows his eyes, and nods one of his friends over; together they pick him up and drag him to the holding cell, where they toss him into a chair and tie his hands behind his back, even though it’s incredibly obvious that he can’t fight back.
The interrogator, Laril, chooses that moment to step out of the shadows of the room, which is really quite similar to his cell.
“How are you feeling today?” Laril asks, a slight smile on his face as he looks over his victim’s battered form.
He can’t bring himself to answer.
“Perhaps your wounds are weakening you,” Laril muses aloud. He motions to one of the guards, who immediately carries a pitcher to the center of the room, standing a bit too close for comfort.
All thoughts of personal comfort, however, flee from his mind when the guard pours the contents of the pitcher on his blood-stained arm and the stinging starts. He cries out in pain, and Laril chuckles.
“It’s just a disinfectant,” Laril says gaily. “You seem feverish, and we don’t want you dying just yet. I would’ve thought you would heal faster than this since your change, Lieutenant.”
Aiden raises his eyes to meet Laril’s, and forces the words out between his harsh breathing; “I thought you’d be doing more tests and less torture.”
“We have other, less important subjects for our tests,” Laril answers, reaching out with two fingers and harshly touching the disfigured portion of Aiden’s face, scraping his fingers across skin as though trying to wipe something away. “You, however. You can help yourself. Just tell us what we want to know.” Laril kneels, so his eyes are level with his prisoner’s. “Just tell us the codes to transmit to Atlantis. We know you know them.”
“They’ve changed them by now,” Aiden answers. “I’ve told you.”
“I know you’re lying,” Laril says simply. “Just give us the codes-the real codes, mind you-and we’ll let you go.”
Aiden looks Laril straight in the eye and tells him to do something quite rude but, under the circumstances, quite appropriate.
Laril laughs.
“You’ll change your mind eventually, Lieutenant. They aren’t coming for you, you know. It’s been almost a year already; they don’t even know you’re here, and if they did, who would want you? You’re tainted, impure-you aren’t even human.”
He continues talking, discussing Aiden’s shortcomings and numerous mistakes as he crosses the holding cell and selects a knife from his collection. “Where should I cut today, Lieutenant? Have your thigh wounds healed yet?”
Aiden doesn’t respond. In all honesty, he’s known for quite some time that the Atlanteans aren’t going to come after him; he also knows that he doesn’t want to betray them. He’s been stuck in this limbo for several sessions now-about twenty, if he’s keeping track correctly-but it’s getting to the point where he has to make a decision, one way or the other.
He remembers something he heard once, history class maybe-‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter’. It’s never been more fitting; he abandons all hope now, knowing full well it isn’t about him, or Atlantis, or even the Genii, but about the preservation of life, and at this point, he’ll do anything in his power to do just that.
So when Laril swings the knife down into his thigh, Aiden makes sure to shift his leg just enough so it hits the artery.
As he feels the blood flow and the world grow dim, he hopes vaguely that his condition is fragile enough that he won’t wake up again.
Someone has to preserve Atlantis.
Author: Kiara Sayre
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Hoo boy. Season two spoilers, severe violence, torture, self-inflicted violence, generally very unhappy stuff
Summary: He can't keep up his false hopes for much longer.
Author's Note: Continuing in my trend of incredibly depressing Season Two stories, I give you Preservation. Beta by zippitgood
He lays in his corner of the dirty, cramped cell, trying to ignore the flaring pains of yesterday’s wounds even as the dust settles in them, threatening infection. His number will be called soon, he’s fairly sure, because it always is, every damn day. He wishes briefly, feebly, that he had some water to wash the shallow cuts with, or a bath…it feels like he hasn’t had a bath in years, in if his smell is any judge, he hasn’t.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been here; he can’t mark the passage of time in his tiny cell, and it’s one of the things that’s really driving him crazy, more than the cuts or the bruises or the promise of water or food or release.
But it feels like too damn long.
His eyes close despite his best efforts, and he wonders if today will be the day they break him.
It’s only a few minutes later when he hears, at the edge of his consciousness, his name being called, but he can’t answer-he feels weak, feverish, his hands are shaking and even his thoughts are rambling; maybe one of his cuts got infected-it wouldn’t be the first time.
A hand slaps him roughly, and he forces his eyes open, through sheer force of will.
“Number 7342-9166, you were called,” the Genii guard says, his voice almost gravelly.
He stares listlessly at the guard for a moment, before he musters up the strength to answer. “I can’t-” His voice gives out, and he has to close his eyes in both humiliation and weakness for a moment before he can continue. “I can’t stand up.”
The guard narrows his eyes, and nods one of his friends over; together they pick him up and drag him to the holding cell, where they toss him into a chair and tie his hands behind his back, even though it’s incredibly obvious that he can’t fight back.
The interrogator, Laril, chooses that moment to step out of the shadows of the room, which is really quite similar to his cell.
“How are you feeling today?” Laril asks, a slight smile on his face as he looks over his victim’s battered form.
He can’t bring himself to answer.
“Perhaps your wounds are weakening you,” Laril muses aloud. He motions to one of the guards, who immediately carries a pitcher to the center of the room, standing a bit too close for comfort.
All thoughts of personal comfort, however, flee from his mind when the guard pours the contents of the pitcher on his blood-stained arm and the stinging starts. He cries out in pain, and Laril chuckles.
“It’s just a disinfectant,” Laril says gaily. “You seem feverish, and we don’t want you dying just yet. I would’ve thought you would heal faster than this since your change, Lieutenant.”
Aiden raises his eyes to meet Laril’s, and forces the words out between his harsh breathing; “I thought you’d be doing more tests and less torture.”
“We have other, less important subjects for our tests,” Laril answers, reaching out with two fingers and harshly touching the disfigured portion of Aiden’s face, scraping his fingers across skin as though trying to wipe something away. “You, however. You can help yourself. Just tell us what we want to know.” Laril kneels, so his eyes are level with his prisoner’s. “Just tell us the codes to transmit to Atlantis. We know you know them.”
“They’ve changed them by now,” Aiden answers. “I’ve told you.”
“I know you’re lying,” Laril says simply. “Just give us the codes-the real codes, mind you-and we’ll let you go.”
Aiden looks Laril straight in the eye and tells him to do something quite rude but, under the circumstances, quite appropriate.
Laril laughs.
“You’ll change your mind eventually, Lieutenant. They aren’t coming for you, you know. It’s been almost a year already; they don’t even know you’re here, and if they did, who would want you? You’re tainted, impure-you aren’t even human.”
He continues talking, discussing Aiden’s shortcomings and numerous mistakes as he crosses the holding cell and selects a knife from his collection. “Where should I cut today, Lieutenant? Have your thigh wounds healed yet?”
Aiden doesn’t respond. In all honesty, he’s known for quite some time that the Atlanteans aren’t going to come after him; he also knows that he doesn’t want to betray them. He’s been stuck in this limbo for several sessions now-about twenty, if he’s keeping track correctly-but it’s getting to the point where he has to make a decision, one way or the other.
He remembers something he heard once, history class maybe-‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter’. It’s never been more fitting; he abandons all hope now, knowing full well it isn’t about him, or Atlantis, or even the Genii, but about the preservation of life, and at this point, he’ll do anything in his power to do just that.
So when Laril swings the knife down into his thigh, Aiden makes sure to shift his leg just enough so it hits the artery.
As he feels the blood flow and the world grow dim, he hopes vaguely that his condition is fragile enough that he won’t wake up again.
Someone has to preserve Atlantis.