This got long and shamelessly whumpy but hopefully that's what you were asking for? Not sure yet if I'll put in the sexual assault- will warn if I do.
----
Seivarden woke up not knowing where she was, and as always, it took too long for her to start thinking clearly. Far too long, this time. Drugged, she thought muzzily, and having thought it, found it easier to start cataloguing her limited information. There was what seemed likely to be some kind of black fabric over her eyes. There was gravity pulling on her body, and her head was above her legs, which was pretty important information right off. She thought some more about her legs, and realized they were folded up in an odd position, and slightly numb, but she could feel a hard surface underneath her. Her arms were behind her, and her wrists were bound somehow. It felt like she was still wearing her uniform, though it was clammy with sweat. Her mouth was dry and bad-tasting. She made herself swallow a few times.
Not good, but not desperate, not yet. She was alive and she didn't think she'd been harmed, though she was going to have major issues if she had to stand up. She was on something large enough to have gravity, whether real or artificial. She could hear the soft hiss of an air circulation system, and beyond, the faintly metallic smell of the fabric over her face she thought she tasted recycled air. Possibly not a planet, though it could be some sort of facility.
What was the last thing she remembered?
The ship had been small, too small to make its own gates, too small for an AI, but Amaat Two had been a pilot briefly before she joined the military. It hadn't been a very important trip, but the person they were escorting had a phobia of space travel and needed company, and Mercy of Kalr had wanted to see the closest neighbor system of the Republic for itself, and Seivarden had volunteered because, well, things had been tense onboard and giving Breq some space had seemed like a good idea. Fifteen light years seemed like it would do the trick.
They'd emerged from gate-space and then- nothing. Retroactive amnesia.
Her wrists were bound together, but it seemed she could still move her fingers. She tried awkward versions of some basic gestures. No voice in her ear or words in her vision. Either Ship was gating, Seivarden herself was in gate-space, or her implants had been tampered with. Or she was somewhere far away from Athoek with no communications buoy within range. Although it was possible there was simply lag involved, and she'd get something back at some point. Until then, she had to assume she was on her own.
"Sir?" An urgent whisper, that sounded like it was coming from a few feet away.
Oh, shit. "Four?" she said. Her voice was hoarse, her throat dry. Think positively, she told herself. At least Four was still alive. It would have been too much to hope that the others had gotten away.
"Sir." There were shifting sounds, and then a slight pressure against her knee. Four's foot, maybe. "Sir, Two is here as well, but we've both been bagged, can't see a thing. Ship hasn't been responding. We can't remember what happened."
"Me either," Seivarden said. "Are your hands bound behind your backs?"
"Yes, sir. Pretty damn tight, sir." That was Two's voice. Well, they both sounded fine, if understandably on edge.
"How long have you been awake?"
"Two hours for me, I think, sir," Two said, starting to sound calmer simply from having a superior to report to. “Half an hour for Four. We could hear you breathing, and we thought you were probably- well- you, but we weren’t sure.”
Seivarden pulled her hands to one side, and felt resistance- she was shackled to something. She tried to unfold her legs, and couldn’t. Fuck. “How much can you move?” she asked. “Can you feel walls around us?”
“I’ve been kicking a lot,” Four said. “I think we’re in a pretty small cell.”
“Don’t suppose anyone’s come by to explain the situation?”
“Not yet.”
The fact that they weren’t dead yet meant this was either going to be a hostage situation or an interrogation. The first one was vastly preferable. She supposed it was possible they might be skilfully interrogated under drugs and then have their memories erased and be dumped right back where they’d been taken, but it was more likely they’d be killed once they had no more use. Damn, damn, damn.
She heard the hiss of a door sliding open, right by her ear.
“Oh, good, Lieutenant, you’re awake,” someone said above her, and then they said, to someone else, “Get her up.”
Seivarden didn’t try to pull anything while anonymous hands unshackled her, leaving her wrists still bound to each other. Trying to fight with her hands tied behind her back and a bag over her face would be incredibly stupid, not to mention her legs. A rough hand pushed on her back, encouraging her to stand up, and she tried, but immediately collapsed back down, unable to stop herself from crying out as her legs screamed at her.
“Hurry up,” the strange voice snapped, and hands pulled her to her feet and dragged her along. She heard the whoosh of the door closing again behind her, and then too much sound to quickly make sense of. She couldn’t feel anything from her legs except pain, but she couldn’t have been unconscious too long, surely, so circulation would probably be restored to normal in a few minutes.
When her guards stopped moving she was dropped to the ground, collapsing down onto her knees. This only lasted a few seconds before she was picked up again and shoved down onto a chair. Her palms were laid flat on the chair’s arms and straps were tightened on her limbs. She considered fighting then, just from panic, but managed to control the impulse.
She took a few breaths, and tried to compose herself. Tried her best to move from panic-mode into her best Arrogant Vendaai Bitch mode.
The bag was pulled from her head.
She was in a circular room, about ten meters in diameter. There was a desk, curved to match the walls. Apart from that there were no furnishings. Floor, walls, and ceiling were all a gray metal. The room was lit by strips running along the top and bottom of the wall. Sitting on the desk was a person in a dark gray suit. She waited until Seivarden met her eyes, and then she smiled.
“Hello,” she said, in Radchaai. Not the same voice as before. That one must be behind Seivarden.
Seivarden inclined her head one degree. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” she said, slow and calm as she could. “Where’s Annet Gamon?”
“The foreigner?” The person tilted her head. “We didn’t need her.”
Anger and misery and guilt, but Seivarden had no time to feel that, she had to focus. Foreigner. This person was Radchaai, or pretending to be for some reason.
“But you need me.”
“In a way.” The person tapped the side of her head. “I’m quite familiar with the kind of implants you’ve got there. I’ve modified them. You won’t receive any data, but you’re transmitting just fine. Well, not your location, of course. That wouldn't be very wise of us.”
Her heart pounded. “If there’s something you want Mercy of Kalr to see,” Seivarden said, “you could have just sent us a video. We check our mail pretty frequently.”
“Oh,” the person in gray said, “but this is so much more visceral.” She jumped off the desk, stepping towards Seivarden. Her hands were covered in black gloves. She placed one finger lightly on Seivarden’s jaw, and pressed, turning Seivarden’s head so she had to stare into steel-gray eyes.
The other voice from before, the one that had said “Get her up,” said something sharp in a foreign language. The one in the gray suit sighed.
“These people have no patience,” she said, confidingly.
This wasn’t going to be an interrogation. It was going to be worse.
She’d found ways to come to terms with death. They taught you to numb yourself to it, in military training, and then there’d been that moment of clarity, falling off the bridge, that she regularly brought back to mind. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid of dying.
And her soldiers-
Motion. The person from behind moving in front. She was wearing black. She was pale and grim-faced. When she spoke, it was in slow, severely-accented Radchaai.
“Does the word Evgenna mean anything to you, Radchaai?”
Seivarden stared at Black-Clothes’ nose, hoping she seemed coldly unimpressed. “I’m afraid not,” she said.
The foreigner’s ungloved hands shook. Anger. “It is the name of our world, Radchaai. I would list our grievances against you but you do not even know our names.”
“Actually, until recently I was in stasis for a thousand years,” she said, “so I’m pretty sure I wasn’t involved in whatever Anaander Mianaai did to you-”
“Shut up,” the foreigner said, and hit her. She felt her head crack to the side. What hurt worse was the suspicion that she couldn’t really try to avoid responsibility for whatever had gotten her here. Maybe she hadn’t personally done anything to this planet she’d never heard of but she’d certainly done plenty to several others.
Amaat Four and Two hadn’t, though. But she had a feeling trying to plead their case would only make things worse for them.
So she waited, ears ringing, to find out where this was going.
“Punishment of one would hardly be enough,” the one in black, clearly the leader, said, and Seivarden’s stomach dropped and she opened her mouth to plead anyway. But the leader continued. “So this will not be punishment, but a message. A first message, to demonstrate our seriousness. So that our second message will be heard.”
“Why us?” Seivarden asked. “The Republic hasn’t done anything to you.”
“Maybe not,” gray-suit said, “but you’re still Radchaai, so no one back home will object to our methods. And unfortunately, I don’t think this kind of thing would be particularly effective on Anaander Mianaai.”
Black-suit glared at her. “You are not paid to talk,” she said.
Gray-suit sighed. She leaned over the desk and pulled out a narrow case. “The best part is we don’t even have to set up a transmission ourselves,” she said. “I’ve even heard that your military general receives your feeds directly. This should be fun for her.”
Things clarified with sudden crystal sharpness, and narrowed. Only one thing was now important.
“Ship,” she said, “don’t show her. Please, don’t show her.” The woman in gray tsked and made a gesture but Seivarden didn’t stop whispering “please I’m begging you don’t let her watch-”
The guards behind her shoved a gag into her mouth.
FILL PART 1 Re: Seivarden/Breq (+ others) hurt/comfort CAPTURE/TORTURE CW
----
Seivarden woke up not knowing where she was, and as always, it took too long for her to start thinking clearly. Far too long, this time. Drugged, she thought muzzily, and having thought it, found it easier to start cataloguing her limited information. There was what seemed likely to be some kind of black fabric over her eyes. There was gravity pulling on her body, and her head was above her legs, which was pretty important information right off. She thought some more about her legs, and realized they were folded up in an odd position, and slightly numb, but she could feel a hard surface underneath her. Her arms were behind her, and her wrists were bound somehow. It felt like she was still wearing her uniform, though it was clammy with sweat. Her mouth was dry and bad-tasting. She made herself swallow a few times.
Not good, but not desperate, not yet. She was alive and she didn't think she'd been harmed, though she was going to have major issues if she had to stand up. She was on something large enough to have gravity, whether real or artificial. She could hear the soft hiss of an air circulation system, and beyond, the faintly metallic smell of the fabric over her face she thought she tasted recycled air. Possibly not a planet, though it could be some sort of facility.
What was the last thing she remembered?
The ship had been small, too small to make its own gates, too small for an AI, but Amaat Two had been a pilot briefly before she joined the military. It hadn't been a very important trip, but the person they were escorting had a phobia of space travel and needed company, and Mercy of Kalr had wanted to see the closest neighbor system of the Republic for itself, and Seivarden had volunteered because, well, things had been tense onboard and giving Breq some space had seemed like a good idea. Fifteen light years seemed like it would do the trick.
They'd emerged from gate-space and then- nothing. Retroactive amnesia.
Her wrists were bound together, but it seemed she could still move her fingers. She tried awkward versions of some basic gestures. No voice in her ear or words in her vision. Either Ship was gating, Seivarden herself was in gate-space, or her implants had been tampered with. Or she was somewhere far away from Athoek with no communications buoy within range. Although it was possible there was simply lag involved, and she'd get something back at some point. Until then, she had to assume she was on her own.
"Sir?" An urgent whisper, that sounded like it was coming from a few feet away.
Oh, shit. "Four?" she said. Her voice was hoarse, her throat dry. Think positively, she told herself. At least Four was still alive. It would have been too much to hope that the others had gotten away.
"Sir." There were shifting sounds, and then a slight pressure against her knee. Four's foot, maybe. "Sir, Two is here as well, but we've both been bagged, can't see a thing. Ship hasn't been responding. We can't remember what happened."
"Me either," Seivarden said. "Are your hands bound behind your backs?"
"Yes, sir. Pretty damn tight, sir." That was Two's voice. Well, they both sounded fine, if understandably on edge.
"How long have you been awake?"
"Two hours for me, I think, sir," Two said, starting to sound calmer simply from having a superior to report to. “Half an hour for Four. We could hear you breathing, and we thought you were probably- well- you, but we weren’t sure.”
Seivarden pulled her hands to one side, and felt resistance- she was shackled to something. She tried to unfold her legs, and couldn’t. Fuck. “How much can you move?” she asked. “Can you feel walls around us?”
“I’ve been kicking a lot,” Four said. “I think we’re in a pretty small cell.”
“Don’t suppose anyone’s come by to explain the situation?”
“Not yet.”
The fact that they weren’t dead yet meant this was either going to be a hostage situation or an interrogation. The first one was vastly preferable. She supposed it was possible they might be skilfully interrogated under drugs and then have their memories erased and be dumped right back where they’d been taken, but it was more likely they’d be killed once they had no more use. Damn, damn, damn.
She heard the hiss of a door sliding open, right by her ear.
“Oh, good, Lieutenant, you’re awake,” someone said above her, and then they said, to someone else, “Get her up.”
Seivarden didn’t try to pull anything while anonymous hands unshackled her, leaving her wrists still bound to each other. Trying to fight with her hands tied behind her back and a bag over her face would be incredibly stupid, not to mention her legs. A rough hand pushed on her back, encouraging her to stand up, and she tried, but immediately collapsed back down, unable to stop herself from crying out as her legs screamed at her.
“Hurry up,” the strange voice snapped, and hands pulled her to her feet and dragged her along. She heard the whoosh of the door closing again behind her, and then too much sound to quickly make sense of. She couldn’t feel anything from her legs except pain, but she couldn’t have been unconscious too long, surely, so circulation would probably be restored to normal in a few minutes.
When her guards stopped moving she was dropped to the ground, collapsing down onto her knees. This only lasted a few seconds before she was picked up again and shoved down onto a chair. Her palms were laid flat on the chair’s arms and straps were tightened on her limbs. She considered fighting then, just from panic, but managed to control the impulse.
She took a few breaths, and tried to compose herself. Tried her best to move from panic-mode into her best Arrogant Vendaai Bitch mode.
The bag was pulled from her head.
She was in a circular room, about ten meters in diameter. There was a desk, curved to match the walls. Apart from that there were no furnishings. Floor, walls, and ceiling were all a gray metal. The room was lit by strips running along the top and bottom of the wall. Sitting on the desk was a person in a dark gray suit. She waited until Seivarden met her eyes, and then she smiled.
“Hello,” she said, in Radchaai. Not the same voice as before. That one must be behind Seivarden.
Seivarden inclined her head one degree. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” she said, slow and calm as she could. “Where’s Annet Gamon?”
“The foreigner?” The person tilted her head. “We didn’t need her.”
Anger and misery and guilt, but Seivarden had no time to feel that, she had to focus. Foreigner. This person was Radchaai, or pretending to be for some reason.
“But you need me.”
“In a way.” The person tapped the side of her head. “I’m quite familiar with the kind of implants you’ve got there. I’ve modified them. You won’t receive any data, but you’re transmitting just fine. Well, not your location, of course. That wouldn't be very wise of us.”
Her heart pounded. “If there’s something you want Mercy of Kalr to see,” Seivarden said, “you could have just sent us a video. We check our mail pretty frequently.”
“Oh,” the person in gray said, “but this is so much more visceral.” She jumped off the desk, stepping towards Seivarden. Her hands were covered in black gloves. She placed one finger lightly on Seivarden’s jaw, and pressed, turning Seivarden’s head so she had to stare into steel-gray eyes.
The other voice from before, the one that had said “Get her up,” said something sharp in a foreign language. The one in the gray suit sighed.
“These people have no patience,” she said, confidingly.
This wasn’t going to be an interrogation. It was going to be worse.
She’d found ways to come to terms with death. They taught you to numb yourself to it, in military training, and then there’d been that moment of clarity, falling off the bridge, that she regularly brought back to mind. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid of dying.
And her soldiers-
Motion. The person from behind moving in front. She was wearing black. She was pale and grim-faced. When she spoke, it was in slow, severely-accented Radchaai.
“Does the word Evgenna mean anything to you, Radchaai?”
Seivarden stared at Black-Clothes’ nose, hoping she seemed coldly unimpressed. “I’m afraid not,” she said.
The foreigner’s ungloved hands shook. Anger. “It is the name of our world, Radchaai. I would list our grievances against you but you do not even know our names.”
“Actually, until recently I was in stasis for a thousand years,” she said, “so I’m pretty sure I wasn’t involved in whatever Anaander Mianaai did to you-”
“Shut up,” the foreigner said, and hit her. She felt her head crack to the side. What hurt worse was the suspicion that she couldn’t really try to avoid responsibility for whatever had gotten her here. Maybe she hadn’t personally done anything to this planet she’d never heard of but she’d certainly done plenty to several others.
Amaat Four and Two hadn’t, though. But she had a feeling trying to plead their case would only make things worse for them.
So she waited, ears ringing, to find out where this was going.
“Punishment of one would hardly be enough,” the one in black, clearly the leader, said, and Seivarden’s stomach dropped and she opened her mouth to plead anyway. But the leader continued. “So this will not be punishment, but a message. A first message, to demonstrate our seriousness. So that our second message will be heard.”
“Why us?” Seivarden asked. “The Republic hasn’t done anything to you.”
“Maybe not,” gray-suit said, “but you’re still Radchaai, so no one back home will object to our methods. And unfortunately, I don’t think this kind of thing would be particularly effective on Anaander Mianaai.”
Black-suit glared at her. “You are not paid to talk,” she said.
Gray-suit sighed. She leaned over the desk and pulled out a narrow case. “The best part is we don’t even have to set up a transmission ourselves,” she said. “I’ve even heard that your military general receives your feeds directly. This should be fun for her.”
Things clarified with sudden crystal sharpness, and narrowed. Only one thing was now important.
“Ship,” she said, “don’t show her. Please, don’t show her.” The woman in gray tsked and made a gesture but Seivarden didn’t stop whispering “please I’m begging you don’t let her watch-”
The guards behind her shoved a gag into her mouth.