Fic: Lies in Silence Ch 14
LIES IN SILENCE CHAPTER FOURTEEN
by SlwMtionDaylite
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing. Paramount, et al. own all. I really wish they would let me borrow Spock for a while though.
Rating: MA/NC-17
Genre: Angst, Drama, Erotica, Hurt/Comfort
Characters/Pairing: Spock/Uhura
Word Count (Chapter Fourteen): 3494
Beta: jlneveloff
Warnings: Language, explicit and non-explicit sexual situations, slight dub!con, rape, violence, minor Fem!slash
Summary: Alternate Mirror Universe. He wants to protect me; I want that protection, need it, in fact. But I am willing to betray him if and when the time comes. We are not working together. I know my goals. But what are his?
Author's Notes: Muses can be tricky things. My muse and I agreed on an outline for the remainder of this story several weeks ago. Whilst in the midst of writing this chapter, however, my muse decided to take over and change things from that outline. As a result, I'm a little nervous about this chapter, but at the same time, I could not think of another way to write it, so it stays...and I struggle to rearrange/rewrite that outline to accommodate this chapter.
PREVIOUS CHAPTERS
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Scattered Pieces of a Broken Mess
I didn't know what to say to her. To Gaila. Instead, I sat on the bed, silent, as she sobbed. I don't know how to deal with that. I can't. I have fought for so long to block those emotions out. To not care. And even then, I falter. So often, I have faltered. I’ve faltered with myself. I’ve faltered with Commander Spock. He has seen me emotionally compromised more times than I care. I have cried in his arms. I have felt pleasure in his grasp. I have felt the beginning tendrils of trust for him. And we all know how well that ended; I still bear the horrible bruises from yesterday. And now, Gaila, whom I always trusted to be confident and happy despite the desperate circumstances we’ve endured. Now, she’s broken because of her emotions for Robau. No, emotions are dangerous. You can't trust them to protect you. You can’t trust them to be useful. Things would be easier to deal with if I didn't care, if I didn't feel at all. If only I could pretend to be a Vulcan. If only I could shut off my warring emotions.
But I know that even that won't work. Even they have emotions; I have bore witness to Commander Spock's far too many times to ignore that very knowledge. But how would a Vulcan process the torturous experiences I have endured? Could they, would they explain them away with logic? Is that even possible? Commander Spock certainly thinks so. Or he tries to convince himself of that. I don’t know which it is yet. According to him, I've suffered what I've suffered because men can't control their baser urges, so women must be used to defuse them. I wonder if the Commander realizes how utterly ridiculous that sounds. If he realizes it's just a thin excuse men use to explain why they treat us the way they do, use us up until we no longer represent anything bearing identity.
Used. I hate that word. It's as if women are not people, merely objects. Objects don't matter-they don't have emotions or thoughts-but they can be...useful.
I shudder. The sun has set and the wind blows, chilling the air around me. I wrap my arms around myself, walking quickly down the sidewalk. I need to get to Commander Spock’s apartment before it grows too late. I’m already late. He will be furious, won’t he?
And now Gaila has reached her breaking point. Robau is dangerous. I can no longer deny it. Gaila can no longer deny it. I can see that now. Is he more dangerous than Commander Spock? Probably. Because he hides it behind a veil of concern, of caring. We grow to trust him, feel safe with him. We let our emotional guards down with him. Some grow to love him, like Gaila.
Yes, Robau can be a hundred times worse than Spock.
He still wants you, you know, and if he wants you, he's going to have you. Those were Gaila's parting words to me. I halted when I heard her, absorbing them. They did not relax me. They made me tense. I don't want him. I've never wanted him. Not in that way. Never in that way.
I’ve never wanted anyone that way.
I only fear that I may have grown to need someone that way.
Does that make me sick, twisted? Am I disgusting for needing the Vulcan Commander’s touch? Do I need it? Or am I trying to convince myself that I do? Because it would make this all so much more bearable, wouldn’t it? I certainly need to trust him, if only so that I don’t go completely insane here, trapped in this male-dominating universe. But he broke that trust last night. So, does that mean that I’m crazy for still needing him? Am I weak for it?
I’ve asked myself these questions so many times, but I don’t feel like I’m any closer to an answer. Maybe there isn’t an answer. Maybe I’m supposed to be floundering uselessly, looking for an answer that can’t be found. But I need answers.
So nervous I have become, so concerned about Robau, that I can't even begin to process Pike's involvement. That is, assuming it is Pike that Gaila overheard. There are several captains within Starfleet. It could have been any of them. It could have been the captain of the Farragut for all I know.
But my gut tells me that I'm right. It is Pike. Pike is involved. This new bit of knowledge has sent my head reeling. If he's a part of this mission, why wasn't I informed? Was it to protect me? Or him? Why do I feel fear and disgust at the very sight of him? He doesn't sound like a member of the Resistance. He speaks to Spock about honoring the Empire, Starfleet. Is it just for the Commander's benefit? Or is Pike playing Robau? How tangled is this web of betrayal and secrets? Who’s the spider? Who’s laying the trap, weaving the web? What’s the role I’m supposed to play? Why won’t Robau be straight with me? Am I just a helpless moth trapped within that web with no way out? A sacrifice for the greater good, if I can even figure that out anymore? Do I want out? Should I get out, run like I told Gaila to do? I don't know. I can't know. And I can't ask anyone for help. I certainly can't-I won’t-ask Pike.
I feel guilty, leaving Gaila behind in the whorehouse, her emotions haywire. But Commander Spock is expecting me. As usual. I am already in danger of incurring Robau's wrath and I don't want to anger the Commander further.
I can only hope that Gaila will pull herself together and run. I want her to run away. I need her to run. Someone has to survive this. I don’t want to see her back here. I want her to go somewhere else, far away from Robau. I fear for her safety.
I fear for mine.
My feet pound across the sidewalk. I'm nearing the Wall again. I hate that place. I hate what it represents. I hate that Commander Spock is in charge.
Up ahead, I can hear men working, yelling at one another. I look up from the sidewalk and halt. Special Forces soldiers are taking the bodies down. I have never witnessed this before. I have never seen what occurs when the bodies are removed from the hooks and new ones are added. It's disgusting to watch.
Two men, using ladders and lifts, scale the Wall. Working together, donning gloves, they reach behind the bodies and free them. The men below make no effort to catch the bodies. They just jump backwards and watch them fall to the ground with a sickening thud. The soldiers on the ground kick the bodies out of the way. One man, carrying a tricorder, approaches the bodies. He bends down and scans the corpses.
“Yep. They’re all dead.” His voice bears a Southern accent.
“Of course, they’re all dead, Doc.” A tall dark man approaches the Southern man.
“Not all of them have been, remember?”
I cringe at that image. I don’t even want to contemplate that possibility. So I don’t. I shove that image so far into the back of my mind. I do it for my own sanity.
The doctor stands and kicks the bodies again. “God, they stink.”
A single new one goes up.
I don't stick around to look at it; I can't. I'm late for Commander Spock and I can't stand the bodies anyway.
I drop my gaze and rush past the soldiers, stepping over the desiccated bodies and listening in agony as they make lewd comments regarding me. Of course. Of course, they make comments to me. I look like the woman I am when I go to the whorehouse. It has previously never been that much of a safety issue when I pass the Wall because there is usually no one out to attack me.
God, I was so stupid for thinking that I would be safe. I never should have decided to venture out dressed like this. I should worn my uniform. But it’s too late now. I’ve been seen.
I can only hope they leave me alone. That it doesn’t hurt too much.
I hear them approaching me. And I halt. My heart rate increases and my breathing races. My brain tells me I should run. My fear tells me to freeze, that it'll be over faster if I don't fight it. Because I know what they're going to want. They all want the same thing.
A hand slithers across my waist and pulls me to a man's chest. "Where do you think you're going, sweetheart?" His Southern twang draws the words out. The doctor.
My breath comes out in pants. My throat constricts. My eyes burn. This is something I fear, something I've always feared when I dress this way, when I pass men on the street. It is something I've managed to avoid since beginning here in Starfleet, something I haven't had to deal with since Robau rescued me from the streets. But it's always a reality I face. I fear I shove far into the recesses of my mind.
His free hand forces its way up my skirt, between my legs.
I gasp, frightened, but otherwise remain frozen.
I should fight him. I should push him away, punch him in the face, and run. And maybe, if this was some other universe, if I hadn't endured the life I did before coming here, if I wasn’t so...weak, I would have. I would have broken his nose. I would have knocked him unconscious.
Maybe I would have killed him.
The other men circle us. Four of them. They ogle my body, laugh at my falling tears.
The doctor whose arms entrap me propels me into the shadows and to the Wall, slamming my chest, my face against it, scraping my cheek against the rough concrete surface.
I don't scream, because I know no one will help me. And it can make it worse. It can excite them, drive them to be rougher, to attempt and draw out more screams. No, silence is better.
My studies in xenolinguistics, in Professor Veleen’s class, have taught me that one should respect the customs of the society, the culture in which one finds oneself, even if one does not always agree.
This is the way of this society. My broken society. I am a woman; I am no one’s wife. Therefore these men are fully within their rights to do this. This is how it’s been for centuries.
I can only hope Commander Spock is understanding when I'm late.
The doctor grasps my arms, pulling them behind me. He laughs. "Looks like someone's already had fun with you, doll." He tightens his hands around my bruised wrists and I can't hold back a cry. He leans into me, pressing me against the Wall and breathing harshly into my ear. "Think you could do a favor for me and my friends here?" He doesn't wait for an answer, but his free hand pushes my skirt up around my waist and tugs at my underwear, tearing them from my hips.
No amount of change will stop this behavior. The Empire will fall, can fall, if the Resistance is successful, but the men will not change. Not for generations. It is ridiculous to hope for anything else.
My eyes slam shut and I fight to vanish from my mind, to separate myself from reality. But it’s so difficult. My mind is transported back to the alleys, the dingy rooms, the Admiral’s prison. Where the men took everything from me and laughed when I begged to leave something of myself intact.
The doctor’s hand brushes across my ass and I crash into those alleys once more.
The man, whose face I don’t remember, gripped my hips painfully and thrust into me. I said nothing; I did not cry out. I did nothing when he rested his arm on the back of my neck, pressing my face painfully into the rough brick wall, and his thrusts became harder and harder. He panted into my ear, asking if it was good for me, too. I wanted to scream. No! No, it was not good for me. I felt the delicate flesh between my legs giving in and tearing under his cruel thrusts. I didn’t fight it, because I couldn’t. He came inside of me, grunting into my ear. He pulled out of me and called to his friends. Before I could breath, another man gripped me and thrust his prick into me. Two more came after him. When they were finished, they left me in that alley in a pool of my tears and blood and their semen, leaking out of me and down my legs.
The sound of a zipper being released draws me back to the here and now. How I wish it didn’t. But where in my mind could I go? When have I been happy? When have I been safe? How I wish my memories were cheery. A place to escape, not another place to be pulled into the undertow.
The doctor rubs his dick on my ass, stimulating himself.
I brace for the pain of his penetration, squeezing my eyes shut.
But it doesn't come.
I hear a solid footfall followed frantic shuffling of less sure feet and a zipper being closed.
"May I inquire as to what it is you are doing?"
Commander Spock.
My eyes fly open but otherwise I don't move. I'm still in the grasps of this stranger, whose face I have not yet seen clearly.
"We're just having a little fun, Commander," the doctor’s voice drawls.
I wonder if the Commander recognizes me. If he knows it is me whom the man has pinned to the Wall. If he cares.
"I believe that you have orders to be carried out. This is not the time for frivolous activity. Nor the place."
I'm released, the man drawing away from me. But I don't turn around. I don't want to see him. I don't want to know what he looks like. I want my only image of him to be the distant sight of him. I want to forget he happened.
"Of course, sir." The doctor and his companions retreat and I fight to restrain my sob of relief.
Commander Spock places his hand on my shoulder and I jump. I was not expecting him to touch me in public. I turn slowly.
His eyes widen slightly, telling me that he was not aware that it was me that at those men's mercy. "Nyota?" His voice is a whisper, kept low to prevent those men from overhearing.
I drop my gaze. I can't look at him. Instead, I look at his uniform. There’s blood on it. Again. Blue, this time. It almost blends with the blue of his uniform, except that it is brighter. I wonder if he knows there’s blood on his uniform. How does he walk the streets wearing blood-stained clothing? How does he live with himself?
"Come with me."
I nod and follow him, leaving those men behind.
He takes me to his apartment.
Yes, I know what he wants.
And I’ll give it to him without question.
The door slides closed behind me, lock engaging. I reach for the back of my dress, my fingers grasping the zipper. I know what he wants, so I need to do it. I’m on auto-drive.
I have not escaped the horrors of my life. I am still living the life of a prisoner, the life I’ve vowed to escape. Yes, I enjoy the pleasure he wrings out of my body, but underneath it all, I’m still his to use.
That’s why he’s brought me here. That’s why he always wants me here. To relieve his sexual frustrations so that he may function in society, in his duty.
He grabs my shoulders-to stop me?-but I jerk out of his touch.
“Nyota.”
I shake my head and unzip the dress. It falls to the ground, pooling around my feet. This is the way it’s supposed to be. I’m standing in front of him, wearing nothing but my heels and my bruises.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t do anything. He just watches, his head tilted to the side. Like I’m some kind of experiment. Like I’m a specimen under his microscope. I’m intriguing to him. What does that mean? Am I intriguing now?
I approach him, wrapping my fingers around the sash at his waist. I untie it and pull it from his body. I don’t see where I throw it, and I don’t care. I reach for the buttons the blue uniform top.
He grabs my hands. “Nyota.” His voice is persistent, the cadence gentle.
I shiver and unbutton his top and push it over his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground behind him. I drop my hands to the waistband of his pants.
He pulls away from me. “No.”
I shake my head again and look at him. He’s blurry through a haze of tears I didn’t even realize was falling. Why am I crying? I press my naked body against his chest. Leaning up, I brush my lips against his. “Isn’t this what you want? Don’t you want to fuck me?”
He opens his mouth but then closes it. He reaches out to me with a single outstretched hand but then drops it. He’s hesitating. I don’t know why.
He steps backward.
I step toward him and latch onto his waistband again. It needs to come off. The wetness blurs my eyes and I reach up and angrily swipe at my eyes before dropping my hands back on his pants. I unbutton and unzip them. I shove them and his underwear down his legs.
He’s flaccid. That won’t do. I wrap my hand around his cock and pump up and down.
Commander Spock grabs my hand, intertwining his fingers though mine, and pulls my hand away from his cock. “No, Nyota. Not tonight.”
I look at him and he holds my gaze, his face a careful mask of calmness, serenity, while his eyes rage. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” My voice wobbles.
He says nothing. He just stares at me. His free hand brushes my cheek and I wince, his fingers aggravating the scrape the doctor gave me.
My body shakes. In repressed anger? Arousal? Fear? I don’t know. He doesn’t say anything. Why isn’t he saying anything?
“Please,” I whisper. My voice cracks. I feel like I’m cracking. What am I begging for? Why isn’t he giving it to me?
“No, Nyota.”
“Please.” I want to forget. I want to forget my past. I want to forget those men. Forget Gaila, Robau, him. I want to forget everything. It’s so twisted; it’s so messed up. I shouldn’t be asking him for this. I shouldn’t be asking him for anything. I should want to run away from him. But I have nowhere else to go. I can’t go to Robau. He’s too dangerous. I can’t return to the streets. They’re dangerous, too.
Is the mission, Robau’s mission worth all this pain? Is it worth my sanity? Would it even change anything? For the society to change, there needs to be compassion. I haven’t seen any. Everywhere I turn, the men are vicious, the women are too scared for themselves to protect others. Even Robau has harmed the woman who loves him.
My breathing hitches in my chest. “Please.” I collapse against him and he wraps his arms tightly around my body. I sob into his chest, before I even realize it. Clinging to him as though he is my lifeline, my road to freedom. But he’s not. He can’t be. He’s just another jailor for me. I am his prisoner.
My sobs are harsh, wracking my body painfully. I have cried with him before, but nothing like this. I feel like I’m dying. I sag against him. I don’t want to stand anymore.
He lowers us to the floor, his arms wrapped tightly around me, a hand around my naked waist, another entangling itself in my hair. He brushes his lips across my forehead and presses his face against my cheek. There is nothing awkward in his touch. Not this time, not like my first night in this place. He clings to me as much as I cling to him. It’s as if he’s trying to hold me together, keep me shattering into a million pieces.
I crawl into his lap, burying myself into his arms. He tightens his grip.
I sob.
There’s nothing else I can do.
by SlwMtionDaylite
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing. Paramount, et al. own all. I really wish they would let me borrow Spock for a while though.
Rating: MA/NC-17
Genre: Angst, Drama, Erotica, Hurt/Comfort
Characters/Pairing: Spock/Uhura
Word Count (Chapter Fourteen): 3494
Beta: jlneveloff
Warnings: Language, explicit and non-explicit sexual situations, slight dub!con, rape, violence, minor Fem!slash
Summary: Alternate Mirror Universe. He wants to protect me; I want that protection, need it, in fact. But I am willing to betray him if and when the time comes. We are not working together. I know my goals. But what are his?
Author's Notes: Muses can be tricky things. My muse and I agreed on an outline for the remainder of this story several weeks ago. Whilst in the midst of writing this chapter, however, my muse decided to take over and change things from that outline. As a result, I'm a little nervous about this chapter, but at the same time, I could not think of another way to write it, so it stays...and I struggle to rearrange/rewrite that outline to accommodate this chapter.
PREVIOUS CHAPTERS
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Scattered Pieces of a Broken Mess
I didn't know what to say to her. To Gaila. Instead, I sat on the bed, silent, as she sobbed. I don't know how to deal with that. I can't. I have fought for so long to block those emotions out. To not care. And even then, I falter. So often, I have faltered. I’ve faltered with myself. I’ve faltered with Commander Spock. He has seen me emotionally compromised more times than I care. I have cried in his arms. I have felt pleasure in his grasp. I have felt the beginning tendrils of trust for him. And we all know how well that ended; I still bear the horrible bruises from yesterday. And now, Gaila, whom I always trusted to be confident and happy despite the desperate circumstances we’ve endured. Now, she’s broken because of her emotions for Robau. No, emotions are dangerous. You can't trust them to protect you. You can’t trust them to be useful. Things would be easier to deal with if I didn't care, if I didn't feel at all. If only I could pretend to be a Vulcan. If only I could shut off my warring emotions.
But I know that even that won't work. Even they have emotions; I have bore witness to Commander Spock's far too many times to ignore that very knowledge. But how would a Vulcan process the torturous experiences I have endured? Could they, would they explain them away with logic? Is that even possible? Commander Spock certainly thinks so. Or he tries to convince himself of that. I don’t know which it is yet. According to him, I've suffered what I've suffered because men can't control their baser urges, so women must be used to defuse them. I wonder if the Commander realizes how utterly ridiculous that sounds. If he realizes it's just a thin excuse men use to explain why they treat us the way they do, use us up until we no longer represent anything bearing identity.
Used. I hate that word. It's as if women are not people, merely objects. Objects don't matter-they don't have emotions or thoughts-but they can be...useful.
I shudder. The sun has set and the wind blows, chilling the air around me. I wrap my arms around myself, walking quickly down the sidewalk. I need to get to Commander Spock’s apartment before it grows too late. I’m already late. He will be furious, won’t he?
And now Gaila has reached her breaking point. Robau is dangerous. I can no longer deny it. Gaila can no longer deny it. I can see that now. Is he more dangerous than Commander Spock? Probably. Because he hides it behind a veil of concern, of caring. We grow to trust him, feel safe with him. We let our emotional guards down with him. Some grow to love him, like Gaila.
Yes, Robau can be a hundred times worse than Spock.
He still wants you, you know, and if he wants you, he's going to have you. Those were Gaila's parting words to me. I halted when I heard her, absorbing them. They did not relax me. They made me tense. I don't want him. I've never wanted him. Not in that way. Never in that way.
I’ve never wanted anyone that way.
I only fear that I may have grown to need someone that way.
Does that make me sick, twisted? Am I disgusting for needing the Vulcan Commander’s touch? Do I need it? Or am I trying to convince myself that I do? Because it would make this all so much more bearable, wouldn’t it? I certainly need to trust him, if only so that I don’t go completely insane here, trapped in this male-dominating universe. But he broke that trust last night. So, does that mean that I’m crazy for still needing him? Am I weak for it?
I’ve asked myself these questions so many times, but I don’t feel like I’m any closer to an answer. Maybe there isn’t an answer. Maybe I’m supposed to be floundering uselessly, looking for an answer that can’t be found. But I need answers.
So nervous I have become, so concerned about Robau, that I can't even begin to process Pike's involvement. That is, assuming it is Pike that Gaila overheard. There are several captains within Starfleet. It could have been any of them. It could have been the captain of the Farragut for all I know.
But my gut tells me that I'm right. It is Pike. Pike is involved. This new bit of knowledge has sent my head reeling. If he's a part of this mission, why wasn't I informed? Was it to protect me? Or him? Why do I feel fear and disgust at the very sight of him? He doesn't sound like a member of the Resistance. He speaks to Spock about honoring the Empire, Starfleet. Is it just for the Commander's benefit? Or is Pike playing Robau? How tangled is this web of betrayal and secrets? Who’s the spider? Who’s laying the trap, weaving the web? What’s the role I’m supposed to play? Why won’t Robau be straight with me? Am I just a helpless moth trapped within that web with no way out? A sacrifice for the greater good, if I can even figure that out anymore? Do I want out? Should I get out, run like I told Gaila to do? I don't know. I can't know. And I can't ask anyone for help. I certainly can't-I won’t-ask Pike.
I feel guilty, leaving Gaila behind in the whorehouse, her emotions haywire. But Commander Spock is expecting me. As usual. I am already in danger of incurring Robau's wrath and I don't want to anger the Commander further.
I can only hope that Gaila will pull herself together and run. I want her to run away. I need her to run. Someone has to survive this. I don’t want to see her back here. I want her to go somewhere else, far away from Robau. I fear for her safety.
I fear for mine.
My feet pound across the sidewalk. I'm nearing the Wall again. I hate that place. I hate what it represents. I hate that Commander Spock is in charge.
Up ahead, I can hear men working, yelling at one another. I look up from the sidewalk and halt. Special Forces soldiers are taking the bodies down. I have never witnessed this before. I have never seen what occurs when the bodies are removed from the hooks and new ones are added. It's disgusting to watch.
Two men, using ladders and lifts, scale the Wall. Working together, donning gloves, they reach behind the bodies and free them. The men below make no effort to catch the bodies. They just jump backwards and watch them fall to the ground with a sickening thud. The soldiers on the ground kick the bodies out of the way. One man, carrying a tricorder, approaches the bodies. He bends down and scans the corpses.
“Yep. They’re all dead.” His voice bears a Southern accent.
“Of course, they’re all dead, Doc.” A tall dark man approaches the Southern man.
“Not all of them have been, remember?”
I cringe at that image. I don’t even want to contemplate that possibility. So I don’t. I shove that image so far into the back of my mind. I do it for my own sanity.
The doctor stands and kicks the bodies again. “God, they stink.”
A single new one goes up.
I don't stick around to look at it; I can't. I'm late for Commander Spock and I can't stand the bodies anyway.
I drop my gaze and rush past the soldiers, stepping over the desiccated bodies and listening in agony as they make lewd comments regarding me. Of course. Of course, they make comments to me. I look like the woman I am when I go to the whorehouse. It has previously never been that much of a safety issue when I pass the Wall because there is usually no one out to attack me.
God, I was so stupid for thinking that I would be safe. I never should have decided to venture out dressed like this. I should worn my uniform. But it’s too late now. I’ve been seen.
I can only hope they leave me alone. That it doesn’t hurt too much.
I hear them approaching me. And I halt. My heart rate increases and my breathing races. My brain tells me I should run. My fear tells me to freeze, that it'll be over faster if I don't fight it. Because I know what they're going to want. They all want the same thing.
A hand slithers across my waist and pulls me to a man's chest. "Where do you think you're going, sweetheart?" His Southern twang draws the words out. The doctor.
My breath comes out in pants. My throat constricts. My eyes burn. This is something I fear, something I've always feared when I dress this way, when I pass men on the street. It is something I've managed to avoid since beginning here in Starfleet, something I haven't had to deal with since Robau rescued me from the streets. But it's always a reality I face. I fear I shove far into the recesses of my mind.
His free hand forces its way up my skirt, between my legs.
I gasp, frightened, but otherwise remain frozen.
I should fight him. I should push him away, punch him in the face, and run. And maybe, if this was some other universe, if I hadn't endured the life I did before coming here, if I wasn’t so...weak, I would have. I would have broken his nose. I would have knocked him unconscious.
Maybe I would have killed him.
The other men circle us. Four of them. They ogle my body, laugh at my falling tears.
The doctor whose arms entrap me propels me into the shadows and to the Wall, slamming my chest, my face against it, scraping my cheek against the rough concrete surface.
I don't scream, because I know no one will help me. And it can make it worse. It can excite them, drive them to be rougher, to attempt and draw out more screams. No, silence is better.
My studies in xenolinguistics, in Professor Veleen’s class, have taught me that one should respect the customs of the society, the culture in which one finds oneself, even if one does not always agree.
This is the way of this society. My broken society. I am a woman; I am no one’s wife. Therefore these men are fully within their rights to do this. This is how it’s been for centuries.
I can only hope Commander Spock is understanding when I'm late.
The doctor grasps my arms, pulling them behind me. He laughs. "Looks like someone's already had fun with you, doll." He tightens his hands around my bruised wrists and I can't hold back a cry. He leans into me, pressing me against the Wall and breathing harshly into my ear. "Think you could do a favor for me and my friends here?" He doesn't wait for an answer, but his free hand pushes my skirt up around my waist and tugs at my underwear, tearing them from my hips.
No amount of change will stop this behavior. The Empire will fall, can fall, if the Resistance is successful, but the men will not change. Not for generations. It is ridiculous to hope for anything else.
My eyes slam shut and I fight to vanish from my mind, to separate myself from reality. But it’s so difficult. My mind is transported back to the alleys, the dingy rooms, the Admiral’s prison. Where the men took everything from me and laughed when I begged to leave something of myself intact.
The doctor’s hand brushes across my ass and I crash into those alleys once more.
The man, whose face I don’t remember, gripped my hips painfully and thrust into me. I said nothing; I did not cry out. I did nothing when he rested his arm on the back of my neck, pressing my face painfully into the rough brick wall, and his thrusts became harder and harder. He panted into my ear, asking if it was good for me, too. I wanted to scream. No! No, it was not good for me. I felt the delicate flesh between my legs giving in and tearing under his cruel thrusts. I didn’t fight it, because I couldn’t. He came inside of me, grunting into my ear. He pulled out of me and called to his friends. Before I could breath, another man gripped me and thrust his prick into me. Two more came after him. When they were finished, they left me in that alley in a pool of my tears and blood and their semen, leaking out of me and down my legs.
The sound of a zipper being released draws me back to the here and now. How I wish it didn’t. But where in my mind could I go? When have I been happy? When have I been safe? How I wish my memories were cheery. A place to escape, not another place to be pulled into the undertow.
The doctor rubs his dick on my ass, stimulating himself.
I brace for the pain of his penetration, squeezing my eyes shut.
But it doesn't come.
I hear a solid footfall followed frantic shuffling of less sure feet and a zipper being closed.
"May I inquire as to what it is you are doing?"
Commander Spock.
My eyes fly open but otherwise I don't move. I'm still in the grasps of this stranger, whose face I have not yet seen clearly.
"We're just having a little fun, Commander," the doctor’s voice drawls.
I wonder if the Commander recognizes me. If he knows it is me whom the man has pinned to the Wall. If he cares.
"I believe that you have orders to be carried out. This is not the time for frivolous activity. Nor the place."
I'm released, the man drawing away from me. But I don't turn around. I don't want to see him. I don't want to know what he looks like. I want my only image of him to be the distant sight of him. I want to forget he happened.
"Of course, sir." The doctor and his companions retreat and I fight to restrain my sob of relief.
Commander Spock places his hand on my shoulder and I jump. I was not expecting him to touch me in public. I turn slowly.
His eyes widen slightly, telling me that he was not aware that it was me that at those men's mercy. "Nyota?" His voice is a whisper, kept low to prevent those men from overhearing.
I drop my gaze. I can't look at him. Instead, I look at his uniform. There’s blood on it. Again. Blue, this time. It almost blends with the blue of his uniform, except that it is brighter. I wonder if he knows there’s blood on his uniform. How does he walk the streets wearing blood-stained clothing? How does he live with himself?
"Come with me."
I nod and follow him, leaving those men behind.
He takes me to his apartment.
Yes, I know what he wants.
And I’ll give it to him without question.
The door slides closed behind me, lock engaging. I reach for the back of my dress, my fingers grasping the zipper. I know what he wants, so I need to do it. I’m on auto-drive.
I have not escaped the horrors of my life. I am still living the life of a prisoner, the life I’ve vowed to escape. Yes, I enjoy the pleasure he wrings out of my body, but underneath it all, I’m still his to use.
That’s why he’s brought me here. That’s why he always wants me here. To relieve his sexual frustrations so that he may function in society, in his duty.
He grabs my shoulders-to stop me?-but I jerk out of his touch.
“Nyota.”
I shake my head and unzip the dress. It falls to the ground, pooling around my feet. This is the way it’s supposed to be. I’m standing in front of him, wearing nothing but my heels and my bruises.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t do anything. He just watches, his head tilted to the side. Like I’m some kind of experiment. Like I’m a specimen under his microscope. I’m intriguing to him. What does that mean? Am I intriguing now?
I approach him, wrapping my fingers around the sash at his waist. I untie it and pull it from his body. I don’t see where I throw it, and I don’t care. I reach for the buttons the blue uniform top.
He grabs my hands. “Nyota.” His voice is persistent, the cadence gentle.
I shiver and unbutton his top and push it over his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground behind him. I drop my hands to the waistband of his pants.
He pulls away from me. “No.”
I shake my head again and look at him. He’s blurry through a haze of tears I didn’t even realize was falling. Why am I crying? I press my naked body against his chest. Leaning up, I brush my lips against his. “Isn’t this what you want? Don’t you want to fuck me?”
He opens his mouth but then closes it. He reaches out to me with a single outstretched hand but then drops it. He’s hesitating. I don’t know why.
He steps backward.
I step toward him and latch onto his waistband again. It needs to come off. The wetness blurs my eyes and I reach up and angrily swipe at my eyes before dropping my hands back on his pants. I unbutton and unzip them. I shove them and his underwear down his legs.
He’s flaccid. That won’t do. I wrap my hand around his cock and pump up and down.
Commander Spock grabs my hand, intertwining his fingers though mine, and pulls my hand away from his cock. “No, Nyota. Not tonight.”
I look at him and he holds my gaze, his face a careful mask of calmness, serenity, while his eyes rage. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” My voice wobbles.
He says nothing. He just stares at me. His free hand brushes my cheek and I wince, his fingers aggravating the scrape the doctor gave me.
My body shakes. In repressed anger? Arousal? Fear? I don’t know. He doesn’t say anything. Why isn’t he saying anything?
“Please,” I whisper. My voice cracks. I feel like I’m cracking. What am I begging for? Why isn’t he giving it to me?
“No, Nyota.”
“Please.” I want to forget. I want to forget my past. I want to forget those men. Forget Gaila, Robau, him. I want to forget everything. It’s so twisted; it’s so messed up. I shouldn’t be asking him for this. I shouldn’t be asking him for anything. I should want to run away from him. But I have nowhere else to go. I can’t go to Robau. He’s too dangerous. I can’t return to the streets. They’re dangerous, too.
Is the mission, Robau’s mission worth all this pain? Is it worth my sanity? Would it even change anything? For the society to change, there needs to be compassion. I haven’t seen any. Everywhere I turn, the men are vicious, the women are too scared for themselves to protect others. Even Robau has harmed the woman who loves him.
My breathing hitches in my chest. “Please.” I collapse against him and he wraps his arms tightly around my body. I sob into his chest, before I even realize it. Clinging to him as though he is my lifeline, my road to freedom. But he’s not. He can’t be. He’s just another jailor for me. I am his prisoner.
My sobs are harsh, wracking my body painfully. I have cried with him before, but nothing like this. I feel like I’m dying. I sag against him. I don’t want to stand anymore.
He lowers us to the floor, his arms wrapped tightly around me, a hand around my naked waist, another entangling itself in my hair. He brushes his lips across my forehead and presses his face against my cheek. There is nothing awkward in his touch. Not this time, not like my first night in this place. He clings to me as much as I cling to him. It’s as if he’s trying to hold me together, keep me shattering into a million pieces.
I crawl into his lap, burying myself into his arms. He tightens his grip.
I sob.
There’s nothing else I can do.