Breaking the Shipwright (The Primeval)

[thegreatbeyonder]

Order's End. Anja Aj'Rou's warship. There was nothing more fearsome than waking up with little recollection of recent events; she remembers being attacked in her garage and dragged onto a ship. The room was surprisingly clean, a sleak white finish that reflected the ceiling lights. If it wasn't obvious since she was taken it is now, she's on a starship.

Lesana's head felt broken as if someone or something has been toying with her thoughts. A large bruise covered the upper-right half of her forehead and it stun when she brushed her fingers along it. Her eyes squinted in sudden pain but more so she began to feel panic when she realized she had been taken, kidnapped by an unknown assailant. Who was this armoured man who captured her? Where did he take her? What was going to happen? These were some of the questions flooding her hazy thoughts. She tried to stand only to now notice that her legs were cuffed together at the ankles but her arms remained free. What manner of custody is this? It made little sense but then again it's not like anything has made sense since. Her breath began to escalate as her lungs begged for more oxygen to fuel her rapidly beating heart. Her veins pulsated, expanding and retracting before slowing down again. She had to remain calm, she had to convince herself that it was all going to be just fine. Would it really be? How could she think about being fine when everything seemed absolutely wrong. Alone, terrified, in a room that looks much like a clinic and surrounded by medical tools.

"Where am I!?", she let out a crackling shout; begging for a voice. At least she felt she'd be more in control of the situation if she could guess who had her. Was it one of the cartels who tried to recruit her months ago? Such an environment is unsuited towards them but it wasn't like she exactly toured a Cartel's headquarters. A few discreet footsteps echoed behind the closed door in front of her. "Somebody!", she spoke desperately in wait for an answer but the steps echoed away, the sound deteriorated by the millisecond until the whirring noise of electronics was all she heard.

It was only a matter of time when her fears would be answered. The question was: Who would come through that door?

[member="Salacious Vile"]

 

[Zickery]

Out of all the punishments he had received, out of all the suffering he has had to endure, all the slights, insults and wounds, one thing still managed to rouse him to a fury that he could not contain. The broken steel remnants of a mug laid on the floor as sole testament to his rage. The damn ceiling fan within his chambers still whined and wailed. It did not halt, it did not cease, and nothing hindered its progress. Its perpetual lamentations grated against his psyche as if it was simple cheese. He had tried many times to rend it to bits, but it was always repaired, and the noise was never silenced. Every time he was told that the ventilation was functioning normally, that there was no sound, that he was imagining things. He did not hear things. That would be an omission of failure, a mark of dishonour. Besides, how could that accursed cacophony be an illusion when they pleaded forgiveness for the lie after he had started tearing off their ears? Despite this, no matter how many engineers he had procured to examine it, none could find the source of his woes. Today the unmelodious symphony was exceptionally awful, bad enough that he almost ripped off another set of ears, this time his own. His mood was worse yet still in comparison, like a storm cloud, thunderous and tumultous.

He was finally liberated from his solitude and isolation, the blessed chirp of his notifier cutting through the agonizing wail. With a touch less like a touch and more like a slam, he pressed a button on the gauntlet adorning his left hand. It creaked under the strain, and he rasped out a single word into the auditory input.

"What?"

He heard a dull crackle, and a brisk, but brief voice replied, idlely informing him of the prisoner's awakening. With a grin, he rose. He was confined to his quarters, like all of her grandness's servants unless he had an explicit duty to perform, and the Gods had seen fit to bless him with a task to execute, a temporary relief from the despicable spartan quarters he spent most of his time within. He glanced past the bed, the meditation mat, and briefly through the porthole into the chaotic morass of Hyperspace beyond, and then he turned, walking towards the door. He quietly palmed the keypad, turning off the lights, and opening the door. As he exited, he left behind his room, empty and silent, and all its switches. Most importantly of all, he left behind a switch entitled simply 'Fan.' The switch was off.

...


After manuevering his ways through the mazelike and twisted hallways of the ship, he finally arrived at the entrance to his workplace. He had an entire medical bay converted into a workroom for his assistants. Beyond the sliding steel doors were the finest instruments of torture and suffering that the most deviant and hateful minds had ever designed, tools to break both mind, body, and spirit. He stepped forwards, the doorway groaning loudly as the doors pulled back, air rushing inwards as he stepped into the decontamination airlock. It was a remnant of the old purpose of the chambers, and he often never needed it. There was, however, always the occasion for when his task was afraid of virulent infections and diseases. It was then that the airlock was needed, and it always served its purpose in times of need. He stretched his pale arms as the dark grey mist spewed downwards, flooding the room, coating every inch of his scarred and tattooed flesh before it was flushed away. He loved the feel of it, how it seeped into his skin and made his wounds hurt. The pain made him feel alive, it reminded him of his purpose in life, the simple task and tenet by which he abided by. To suffer for his masterand his Gods, and to make others suffer in their names. As the gases cleared, sucked away by the vents in the floor, he stepped through another set of wailing doors, and into the room in which his task lay.

The fans in here were far less aggravating than the one in his room, these were soothing, relaxing. They brought back faint memories of his childhood, but those were things best left unthought of. He remembered when he was taken to rooms much like these when he had failed his people, and he remembered the first lesson his mentor had drilled into him with knife and ink.

"Forget the life..." He rasped loudly, and then he inhaled, his eye twitching. "...you had before you were taken here." His voice was barely louder than a whisper. He hadn't realized he was talking aloud at first, but as he realized it, he moved his hand to the metal collar around his throat, quietly thumbing the red switch. "Who you used to be is dead. You have been chosen to be remade, to be reforged as a tool. Resist and you will suffer, submit and you will find truth in the embrace of the Gods." His voice grew louder, more forceful, laden with the weight of his will as he held down on the button. What the collar masked was the sound of his rasping and his wheezing, the only external markings of the scars left within his flesh by his conversion. Inwardly, despite his difficulty speaking, he smiled as he reached over and slipped on the pale, plastic gloves. It was an almost exact quotation of what his tutor had first said to him. At first he had hated those words, but over time he had grown to love them.

 

[thegreatbeyonder]

The sudden appearance of another soul almost brought hope to her heart, she was already forgetting friend from foe. She had to think back to the moment she was taken: What happened?

The constant begging of questions kept his mind in a state of turmoil, her thoughts were anarchic and betraying. The unusual appearance of the figure before her sent a frigid shudder down her spine, chilling the skin on her body. It was only now that she realized -- regardless of who they are -- these are not her friends, these are not people who will forgive her easily. Hearing the initial raspy comment locked her muscles in a defensive posture, she was ready to get out of here. She still had her arms, she could fight him. The moment she thought of aggression he spoke again.

"What did he mean I'm dead?", she thought to herself. Her lips softly mimicked the voice in her head, if she did indeed resist she would suffer but how could she not? It was an incomprehensible situation. She had a family, a job, a few acquaintances.... All she had left was herself and the twisted figure who stood before her. Mercy would be nothing more than cruel pessimism disguised in zealous mockery as he mentioned these "Gods."

Her voice failed to carry, she did not say anything but her eyes reflected a soulless gaze of resounding fear.

Finally her breath picked up and exhaled, "Let me go home." It was simple enough. A plea said as carefully as she could, she was too afraid to say anything else. Her eyes glanced around for any opportunity to escape.

 

[Zickery]

"Go home? This.. is your home."

He rasped loudly, harshly cackling as he slammed his gloved hand on the simple bright red button on the wall besides him. There was an audible chime, and from a sliding door besides, two cowled men emerged, their bodies bundled away inside of robes of black cloth, their faces hidden by even darker veils. Salacious Vile would wordlessly gesture towards her, and then whisper two quiet, barely audible words towards the duo. Without any noticable reply, they would stalk towards her, and go to lift her, Vile standing close behind, an ever-present sneer plastered across his flesh. It did not look natural on a face normally accustomed to scowls. As she struggled and fought against their grasp, the two men would carry her across the shining white floor, the bright overhead lights glaring downwards into her eyes. Their march would carry them forwards, and towards the wall, by which a single table laid, alongside a mask with three tubes stretching upwards and into the ceiling above. They would drop her on the cold, unforgiving metal, and they would go to tie tight the restraints around her skin, binding her to its surface. From a distance, she would look not unlike a sacrifice tied down upon an altar. The veiled assistants would slowly manuever the mask in place, despite whatever objections and pleas for mercy she might have, and then they would step back. Salacious Vile would smile, and he would flick another switch. The third tube would flood, and the mask would constrict, flooding her nose and throat with pale water, only to be sucked up another tube as pure oxygen was flushed down another. The process would seem to repeat endlessly, smothering and suffocating her, only to force her to breath once more as the table slowly began to tilt backwards, manipulated by motors and gears in the floor beneath her. The process would be excruciatingly uncomfortable, and their would be no sign of it ceasing soon. The torturer would sit down in a chair as his assistants left the room. With their departure, there would be only two sounds audible in the sterile room filled with implements of horror. Vile's breathing, and Lesana's gasps, each faintly masked by the bubbling and guzzling of water.

 

[thegreatbeyonder]

After being strapped down to the table, she was already more afraid than ever. The glaring bright lights irritated her fragile human eyes, the cold metal she rested on provided a most uncomfortable surface but even then it was less than an afterthought. The terror ahead would cloud courage, would desecrate confidence and even now her identity was being challenged. With the mask in place her frightful pleas were drowned out by the sudden flow of water. It was sudden and confusing, at first she couldn't even comprehend the ongoing event. She didn't feel uncomfortable in the first seconds, her mind was blank. Only after did panic set in; her senses grew numb as her lungs closed to prevent drowning. Just before she had enough the water subsided to give way to air, it cycled so quickly but in the moment it felt prolonged. As the table tilted back the blood began coursing to her head.

Even if she couldn't see her toes must've been turning purple as a buzzing sensation tingled at their tips. Even this was an afterthought much like the cold and unforgiving metal surface, the only thing she could think about was escaping this dreaded mask. The imposing figure stood by and watched, even with the sound of flowing water and coursing oxygen, his breathing seemed to be all she could hear. It reminded her that she was at his mercy. She tried to clench her fist and break the binds but no amount of strength was enough. Helplessness was even worse to her than solitude.

 

[Zickery]

He stood and waited. It was not a pretty sight, the autoboarder. It did not have any of the beauty that breaking a man usually accompanied, no, it was crude, harsh, and automatic. It did not leave that special touch that the work of an artisan such as he usually carried, nor did it have the potency that some of his more effective methods did. There was, however, one explicit property in that unbulky and unwieldly contraption of tanks and tubes that he was simply unable to dispute. Its effectiveness was unmatched for most races. With an hour of use, some of the strongest and most durable of men became clay to his hands as simple tubes pumped away water and washed away whatever last bastions of resistance were left within their psyches. As useful and timesaving as tools like this were, it did not make him feel comfortable. The art of torture, to him, was not something that should be phased out to machines like a worker being replaced with an assembly line. It was not a profession, instead, rather, it was much like sculpting and painting, except the work he was crafting was not entirely original. He derived better, purer forms of the individuals brought to him, each a shrine to his Gods.

His slow, languid chain of thought was interrupted as a single light flashed on a nearby panel, and he glanced back towards the woman strapped into the autoboarder. Idlely he debated how much longer he should leave her in. It would have pleased him to see how long he could have them endure the machine's cycling, but he had been given very explicit instructions as to her handling and caretaking. Regretfully, he skulked over to the same red button he had hit earlier, and he gentlely pressed it. The distant light on the display console besides Lesana flickered off, and the last vestiges of water was sucked upwards through the tube. Only an hour had passed, and he strode over, prying back the mask and tubes splayed across her face. He smiled, leaning forwards and gazing into her eyes, before rasping out a single sentence.

"And by..." He coughed loudly, interrupting his voice, and he rasped in another breath before continuing to speak in his slow, snake-like whisper. "...whose grace do you emerge? Think carefully before you an-" Another fit of coughing overcame him, his spittle splattering across her and the metal table. He wiped his mouth, and he continued once more, "-swer. Answer. I mean answer."

[member="Lesana Grexavis"]

 

[thegreatbeyonder]

Had it been a day? Or simply a few hours? Maybe less... It was impossible to tell by this point; she was weakened to the point where her own measure of time had disappeared. All that spun in her mind was his words earlier, "The Gods.", was the only thing she could think about it. She wasn't completely broken but by all accounts she had wished no more pain, more than she had wished it to not begin. There was a change in her nature, her intentions. It wasn't a matter of fear anymore... She didn't fear the pain, she feared her life. She thought she would die on that table but the machine stayed itself. Surely it wasn't his grace, she thought. He may have disengaged it but it's not he who keeps her alive. He's merely an enforcer.

These thoughts kept echoing back to the original words. "The Gods." She thought to herself those same words again and again. By this point only a few seconds have passed as water slid down her face, disguising her tears amongst it.

Almost as if finally coming to reality her body let out a harsh and sudden cough, and amongst its end she cried out in a painful voice.

"By the grace of the Gods."

 

[Zickery]

"And in suffering you find enlightenment."

Salacious Vile smiled, and with the graceful skill of a piano player, his fingers danced across the nearby keypad, numerous lights flashing, beeping, the sound vaguely reminiscent of age old incantations to pagan gods. There was a harsh, but quiet tone in the distance, and the same door as earlier slid open. The same assistants as earlier approached, gesturing to each other as they manuevered closer. They would unbind her, and hold her aloft. Wherever they took her next, Salacious did not care. His only task was to prepare her for reeducation, not to do it himself. He regretted that he could not take the clay he had acquired and shape it into a beautiful sculpture of what should be, but he simply did not have the time. He had other, far more important works to attend to. With a lofty sigh of regret, he would wave the servants away, signaling them to escort her to another section of the facility.