Subjugation

[Halcyon]

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CHAPTER I - The Courier

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-- October 24th, 19:47 HR [Copernicus]

The attack had gone off suddenly and exactly has it had dozens of times prior. The Subjugator had used Harland's Revenge as bait, taking cruel advantage of their weakened condition to play up a distress angle, and lure in the unsuspecting. To Lex and his boys, this was no different than any run of the mill mark. Even if this mark knew some big names, and cozied up to the last Warlord - It didn't matter to Lex. There was an opportunity for credits, and the state of his ship didn't afford letting those go to waste. As the Rhino crumbled before the Judicator, the escape pod was snatched by the spotty tractor beam of the old cruiser.

Steadily the beam pulled the pod through the debris, rattling against the small metal pieces leftover from the Homerunner's wreckage and into the open front hangar bay of the Subjugator. The interior had evidently seen better days, as had the rest of the ship. The lights were dim, and intermittently flickering from an obvious unsteady supply of power being fed from the ship's reactor. The hull was covered in patchwork repairs and spray painted logos from the occupants.

As the pod entered the bay, the doors closed behind it and concealed the void of Copernicus from view. Sound on the outside was muted, but one could tell there was a lot of foot traffic on the floor of the ship. Two dozen people at least, all rushing to surround the escape pod as it dropped free of the beam and landed with a clank on the floor of the bay. The various goons aimed their weapons at the pod, from pistol caliber to rifle caliber weapons left over from the days of the Insurgency, or obtained in black market deals. There was little consistency among the bandits, yet many wore old military equipment from their service, and most had signs that indicated low rankings at best. Not a single person left above Lieutenant on board.

But that would be the least of Lazurith's worries. These Rogues weren't the usual crew he did deals with.

It wasn't long before a man of average height, in a stained sleeveless shirt wearing a variety of gold and silver chains around his neck, limped forward with a pair of goons. Mason Drake, and a shorter stocky man by the name of Lucas Ogden, who still had a bottle of Liberty Ale in his hands. They were obviously caught off guard by the appearance of the newest prisoner. The name he dropped wasn't someone they did business with on the reg', if ever directly. They all knew he was out of the picture however, and any deals this kid had were moot.

"Crack the door." Lex said. His accent sounded Libertonian, likely from the colonists on Erie. If there were any indication of who was in charge, it was the crowd parting when he approached his prize. Lex waved at his goons as Mason Drake walked up to the pod, and kicked at the door. The thud of his boot echoed to the inside.

It was only a matter of time before they dragged him out.

Kristoff could barely wrap his head around it all. His breath was quickening for every second spent inside the pod, while his brain rocked him back and forth between disassociating with the current situation and coming to terms with the reality at hand. There was no escape this time. No Aspen who would save him. No Raven who would be able to negotiate the situation. He was about to die alone, unaware, caught entirely by surprise. Butchered, just like how Jack Montes, a petty Rogue like all the rest, predicted all those years ago.

This was only supposed to be a routine job. He had survived countless perils before this in the span of only a few years, but every time his skin was in danger, there was always someone behind him, someone he could rely on, someone watching his back at all times. Someone who could save him.

But not today.

Recklessness became his strong suit. A moment of compassion was about to become his undoing.

Cold feelings of dread began to churn and gnaw at his stomach. He could vaguely recognize the signs. Through the iced, fogged up blue window of his pod separating him from the unclear shapes of savages standing behind it, he could make out flickering, dim lights hanging from the ceiling.

It was just like the time in Alcatraz, except these people, these animals... they operated without morals, or purpose. All they wanted was... his body. His body. How could this be? Surely the salvaged reactor from the Homerunner was worth far more than his body. But for what purpose were they after his body? The possibilities were endless, and none of them made him feel at ease in the slightest.

Devils. Monsters.

This was it. He knew full well that at any given point, a single mistake he would do could cost him his entire life. He knew the warnings, he experienced what ignoring his lessons had cost him. And one moment - one instant was all it took for him to lose everything. His feelings of safety and stability allowed him to lower his guard. This is what he was warned about, all the countless stories of every other poor sod whose ships become space dust by ruthless cutthroats, all of those stories about not becoming prey by low-lives and marauders - he was about to join them. He was about to be chopped to pieces, and forgotten about. The gravity of the situation dawned on him.

Sometimes, death is senseless like that. There does not have to be some grand purpose behind it. It does not have to be romanticised like some ancient epic. Sometimes, death is purely business.

The steps on the catwalk underneath his pod rocked him awake. Ice began to run through his veins. He could feel his entire body tingled, as if thousands of volts of electricity just jolted him. There was no one who could save him. Not now, not ever. His only chance of escaping was a very careful and deliberate choice of words. But in his heart, he knew that his odds of survival were very, very slim this time.

EXCESSIVE ADRENALINE LEVELS DETECTED - NOREPINEPHRINEDIAL ADMINISTERED
EXCESSIVE CORTISOL LEVELS DETECTED - ENDORPHINATE SOLUTION ADMINISTERED

Words began to flash on his optical HUD. His machinery calculated his odds of survival, and even it knew full well that he was about to end in a situation where he had to face victory or death.

The noise of the crowd was building up like waves headed towards shore, growing in strength and intensity as a group begun to pry at the pod. The creaking of the metal got worse and worse as they kicked and jabbed at the cracks in the door. The metal groaned out in distress as it began to bend to the whims of the assailants outside. Each second that passed as the metal gave way, the audible roar of a crowd outside increased in intensity as the raiders became more eager at the pending reveal of their quarrel.

A crack, as the first lock broke away. The pounding got louder. It was deafening, overstimulating and constant. There was no rhythm to it. No pause.

And then... The pressure lock released. The door swung open as two masked attackers reached down into the pod as Drake stood with his pistol out. They wrestled with the occupant, punching and grabbing at the harness that held them in place to drag them free of their cocoon-esque prison. They were laughing, cheering, boisterous of their victory over someone that hadn't even fought back. There was no kindness to be found here. Two more pirates emerged from the now-roaring crowd and joined in at subduing their victim and dragging him over to Lex, their newly crowned king.

"Ooooohoooo!" Lex clasped his hands together in celebration as he eyed Lazurith with a wry smirk on his smug face.

"Damn, I thought it was you. I heard about this punk-ass cyborg from Lucas." Lex nodded to Lucas, the stocky man in a dirty button-up with a pocket full of boxed cards. He looked like the type of man you'd see at a bar hinging his bets at every table he could find.

Lucas ran his free hand through what remained of his balding brown hair. "Yeah that's the kid that used to screw 'round Barrier Gate. He's even got the friggin' robot mark on his helmet. Look! Hayward told me about this kid." The man pointed to Lazurith as the goons held him up into the light for the kingpins to see.

The crowd had quieted down to a murmur as they let Lex and Lucas talk it out. The two seemed to lean in and whisper to each other, discussing likely the fate of Lazurith.

The guards held the poor young man up by his arms and pointed several pistols into his ribs, as Mason stood behind him with a gun pressed to the back of his helmet. There was no mistaking what would happen if he tried anything, but the silence was enough to give Lazurith a moment to talk.

This was his chance to make a case for himself.

But the thoughts ran through his mind. The possibilities, the ideas, all for naught. They would simply crash together, an inchoate mess of ideas. Mumbling was unfit for this situation.

He was the star of the show now.

Under the dim spotlight, his blue helmet glistened, emitting a weak reflection from the light above. The mark of the Technocracy was in plain sight now. His spindly figure was covered by his standard flight suit, a pricey souvenir from the time he had spent with the Technocracy. It featured a few modifications, such as a utility vest as well as the tool belt strapped with hefty contraptions and instruments to repair electronics with. As far as pricey possessions go, Kris had quite a few on his person.

But they asked for his body. His body. The thought alone was starting to make him sick in the stomach.

As his captors continued to whisper and conspire to each other, he began to speak. The transceiver that would pick up his voice under his helmet would reflect his voice - slightly modulated for it to be loud and clear for those around him.

"Uhm... he-hey. Can't we... talk about this?"

The murmur of the crowd lowered as Lex turned his head to the interruption that came out of their prisoner. A chuckle escaped him. Lex wasn't an imposing man by any metric, but he held all the cards here. A dry smile formed as the wrinkles on his face reflected a false sympathy for the plight of his captive.

There couldn't be more than two dozen people present on the open hangar floor, with a handful of light fighters kitted out for interception dotted about. The crowd of Rogues never once lowered their weapons, each on edge and jumpy in their own right.

Lex stepped forward towards Lazurith. His leg was supported by a makeshift prosthetic from the knee down. As he got close, Lex snapped his fingers. Two of the goons pinning Lazurith in place wrestled his helmet off, and carried it over to Lex. The Captain took the piece of gear and flipped it around as he examined it, eyeing the logo of the Technocracy.

"Cyborg, huh?" From the earlier encounter, Lex's tone had become a bit softer. He kneeled down, using Lazurith's helmet to support his knee.

"Yeeeah I don't envy ya', kid. Your kind go for a lot. One way or the other." He said, nodding with his chin to the young man's cybernetic arm. It might not seem clear what their business was, but it sure wasn't going to be pretty if the implications were right. These butchers were after his augments. Black market resale.

"Question is, who is buyin' you?"

Without the helmet, Kristoff's augmented face was revealed. Well kept, somewhat curly, puffy hair ran across his clean, pale and thin visage. He glared at his captors with deep blue eyes, one of which shone with a distinctly artificial glimmer in it.

He could feel the cold weapons pointed against his ribs, even through the vac suit. A sense of immediate danger loomed in the air. Kristoff swallowed nervously, and spoke his response out loud.

"Not as much as the reactor of my ship. If you want my arm, that's... probably going to net you less than a thousand credits. But my ship? Just sell it to some Junker! It's worth way more than my arm!" His attempts at trying to negotiate seemed confident. On the surface.

Lex chuckled and lowered his head, shaking it slightly at the comments that were coming from Lazurith. It was true - that ship was probably more valuable than him, but the reality of the events that happened had yet to set in for the young man.

The Captain brought his fingers together in contemplation. "Yeah, you know that's probably right but uhh - see..." Lex leaned in, lowering his voice. Lex pressed his tongue against the inside of his own cheek in pause. "Some assholes out tryin'a recapture the glory days - Prometheus? Yeah, they came along, killed a couple o' my boys. Even took out the Harland's Revenge. Pretty expensive, yeah? So we don't even know where ya' freighter is anymore. Didn't get to finish the job."

Lex sucked his teeth, shrugging sarcastically. "Sorry."

The Captain rose up to his feet, now looking down at Lazurith with visible contempt. "Someone's gotta pay for that." Lex said in a menacing tone as he kicked Lazurith's helmet like a ball into the open floor of the hangar.

Lex stepped back towards Lucas and nodded to Drake and the others. "Take his gear. Kick the shit outta' him, then lock 'em in the brig." He barked out the order with excitement as he pulled a cigarette free from its resting place behind his ear. Lucas and Lex turned and walked back through the crowd as the cheering amped up once more. The guns pointed at Lazurith soon pulled away, as Drake kicked him in the back and forced him to the ground.

These people weren't interested in money right now. Lazurith was going to be an example. Maybe they thought he was with the people who attacked, though it didn't seem to matter.

The blows started to land from all sides as six men kicked and punched at the poor young man, ripping at his expensive gear and throwing it to the crowd. The cheers were deafening, and the impacts jarring. Drake in particular was quite imposing himself. The muscle of the three figureheads. Drake took the butt of a rifle from one of his goons, and kept repeatedly jabbing it into Lazurith's ribs. They were trying to hurt him. Immobilize him.

Each second that went on felt like a minute of unrelenting pain. A kick soon hit his head. There wasn't much room to defend himself, maybe - just maybe enough time to curl up and protect the important parts of his body.

That time dwindled away rapidly, as the sound of the crowd faded from overstimulation, leaving only a deafening whine as his senses were overwhelmed by the beating. After a minute, there was a pause, as two guards propped Lazurith up on his knees. Now bloodied, bruised, and likely with some broken ribs, Drake raised the rifle up and swung it for Lazurith's head.

Were Lazurith to look up, he'd see only the end of the gun swinging for him.

Then, darkness.

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-- October 24th, 20:57 HR [Galileo]

Roughly one hour later...

The guards dragged the unconscious Lazurith through the halls, and there weren't gentle about the trip. They didn't avoid bumps, or stairs, nor did they treat him with an ounce of respect. The pair of thugs that were carrying him were following Drake towards the lower levels below the hangar levels, down to the secure brig on board for detainees. The internals of the ship reflected much of what was already seen elsewhere, with the patchwork repairs and poorly painted symbols all over. The lights flickered as they went, with some sections not even lit at all. To compensate for the darkness, Drake carried a flashlight so he wouldn't trip.

It took about six minutes for them to fully reach the brig, down several levels. There might've been eight cells, but one couldn't tell as none of the doors had ports to see in. They were heavy, mag-locked cells with no windows, and a bench for a bed. Much of this section was dim, and stains adorned the walls and floors from prisoners who had occupied the place last. If there was anyone else, they were quiet now. The Rogue thugs dragged Lazurith to the end of the hall, and tossed his limp body into the left cell. The door closed with a clunk and hiss, as the locks sealed into place.

Lazurith was alone.

There was no food in sight, and only an old and uncleaned toilet leaking onto the floor. The water dripped through the grated floor into a section of wiring that ran underneath the cell, but there was nowhere to go beyond that. The cables ran through small tunnels one could barely fit their fingers through, even if they could uproot the steel grated floor. The room stunk of mildew and the light wasn't functioning. The surroundings were dark, with barely any light coming through a microscopic port in the floor, and another vent above the cell door that was too small to fit a human head through. It was there for airflow, but it also granted a bit of light and sound from outside.

The footsteps of his guards walked away, chattering amongst themselves and laughing as they passed what pieces of gear they had claimed between each other. They had left him in nothing but his bare bones clothes.

Lazurith was alone. He was also alive, for whatever that was worth.

What a strangely calming and dull sensation. In his situation, it was only a fade to black. A prelude, for another cruel scene in this play. The searing pain began to set in immediately. The fractures. The countless scrapes, bruises and wounds he had received in the savage beatdown.

Animals. Less than animals.

The physical agony started off as a mild rainstorm, only for it to devolve into a burning monsoon. He could not lift himself from the floor. His energy was scarce, and he found his face being stuck to the grated floor, feeling not only like a prisoner in a cell, but a prisoner in his own body.

The dawning realization that he had gotten in trouble yet again settled in. He soon made his peace: there was no way out, but through. He had to clench his teeth and pull himself together; he had been in tougher spots than this. But God, every single atom of his being hurt so much. Breathing hurt. Blinking hurt. Being stuck to the ground hurt. His head hurt. Being alone hurt.

After moaning and groaning in the darkness, Kris managed to hoist himself into a sitting position, away from the humid stench of mould coming from the grates below.

He was starting to regret missing out on his scheduled maintenance. His ocular display was glitched, malfunctioning. The reported information was correct, but every time he would blink, the information displayed in his cornea would flicker in and out of existence.

Through trial and error, he was able to get a somewhat reasonable diagnosis of his current predicament: broken bones, few lacerations, and even a missing tooth, apparently. He hadn't received a good thrashing like that in a long while.

After a few interminable minutes, Kristoff managed to get his augmentations to function. He had enabled his LINKUP MODE setting, which caused his eye to glow a little more in the darkness, casting a dim azure glow in the cell around him.

He hoisted himself up to his feet, but soon found himself unbalanced, looking for something to hold onto. He bled out. His HUD report said so. He had to recover his strength sooner rather than later.

Hormone regulators, failed. Should've stocked up on those.
Blood sugar dispensation, check. That's good.
Masterdeck lithium coolers, well, looks like those are out again. The beatdown they gave me must've torn down a few chips off the circuit board.
Augmentation integrity, that's out of whack, too.
Myofibroblast regulators...

His machinery could help him in this situation. The few substances stored inside his machinery were meant exactly for situations like these, and making use of them right now would've been a perfect call.

"Mrgh... great. Just great..."

The azure glow that danced around the room wherever he would turn his head eventually focused on the leaking toilet in the room. The implications of what could happen to him soon settled in. He was either going to die alone, or die under a surgeon's table.

He frantically began to search his person. They had to have left anything on him. ANYTHING.

"Nnrgh... g-great... no PDA... no multitool. No mag-boots, either."

This is it. He was trapped inside a metallic box with no way out. This happened before. Hemlocke and his red eye cast over him. His petty threats of torture for interfering in the feud between him and Raven lingered in his mind. Aspen's arrival, and how she brokered his escape from confinement.

But what these butchers were going to do to him was about to be so much worse.

His mood began to dwindle, as he moved himself on the bench with great effort, bringing his knees close to his chest in a fetal position, grunting over the sore spots all over his body. Resignation began to suggest grim thoughts into his mind.

"...suicide is always an option... if only I could bring myself to do it."

---

-- October 24th, 23:13 HR [Galileo]

The minutes soon turned to hours as the silence from outside the cell was rarely broken. Apart from the occasional clank of something falling far away, or the creaking of the vessel as it moved through space - it seemed as though the monotonous dredge of time would continue to march onward without interruption. The cell stank like mold. There was no way being in here for long periods of time was good for anybody's health, though it wasn't likely he'd be stuck here for very long.

The cold steel box's only ambience was the occasional droplet hitting the metal floor, and joining the liquid as it steadily trickled away out of sight. This place was a mess.

This whole situation was a mess.

Kristoff was fast asleep by this point. Curled up in a ball, coughing out some blood occasionally, he continued to rest his tired eyes by using his human arm as a pillow rest.

Needless to say, he wasn't having the best day of his life. At least he wasn't conscious to experience it.

Another fifteen minutes of silence went by, until...

Humming? Singing?

Someone was coming. Their steps were remarkably light, and weirdly rhythmic in each impact that echoed from outside the cell. It was a man, enjoying himself on his way up the corridor, humming an up tune jazz-style beat as he danced along to the orchestra in his head. The bottle of Liberty Ale still clenched in his hand, and the stench of thick tobacco wafted through the vent above the door. A familiar scent from the events of the hangar floor.

Lucas was outside. The small little man in the suit with the balding hair. "Da-dum-doo... Do-dee-dee-dum-dee-do..." He mumbled as he shuffled along, closing in on the cell.

The steps stopped and pivoted outside the door as rubber squeaked across the metal.

"I gotta tell ya-" his words interrupted only by the hiccup that escaped him. "Yoush are in a tight place, pal'. Don't 'spose you think those ah, whatchacallsit.... Techno-hooie big wig guys would pay beaucoup bucks for your scrawny ass?" The scoundrel asked, slurring his words as he spoke. The alcohol was almost as strong as the stench of cigars that permeated the damp air.

Rocked awake, Kristoff opened his eyes, flashing a thin azure glow on Lucas's features. With what sounded like intense struggling, he hoisted himself in a sitting position, grunting in pain, holding his shoulders while glaring at him with a hunched, defeated stance.

"Jared wants hi-his money, kid. All bets are hingin' on you havin'... SOME kinda value to those robo-guys." Whatever the purpose served of his question, perhaps it was cruel torture, or perhaps there was a chance. Lucas was being half-honest - if there was a ransom, Kris might get out, but who would pay?

Time was running short. Other steps were echoing down the halls of the cruiser on approach to the brig.

"...I don't suppose you can just... I dunno. Tell me how much Jared wants first?" His slender human hand moved towards his metallic elbow, fingering it nervously.

The short man shrugged nonchalantly and spit onto the floor with an audible splat. The footsteps were getting louder and louder as the two spoke.

"I could a-"

Lucas was interrupted as Drake stepped into the doorway and pushed the small man to the side. "Piss off, Luke. Lex told you to check the engine room and see if the drive is overheating." Drake threatened Lucas, bringing his hands up and cracking his knuckles. Two more Rogues flanked his left and right. A woman about Kris's size, and a man of average height with a shaved head. They were staring at Kristoff with a menacing glare, and malice in their souls.

Drake turned to Kris and pointed a big, meaty finger his way. "Give him the shot, and take him to the chop shop." He ordered as the two goons stepped into the cell. The woman pulled a syringe out of a small pouch she had on a bandolier. A sedative, and not the pleasant kind. The other drew a pistol, and tapped it against the wall to make sure the prisoner knew he would fire if he tried anything.

Though maybe death was a preferable alternative for what was coming. The 'chop shop' wouldn't exactly inspire confidence in anybody. Lucas by this point had shrugged in defeat and carried on his drunken way, looking to forget all he had just seen. The goons weren't leaving much room for struggle, and Drake himself blocked the door with crossed arms. Of all the pirates on board, he was the largest, and still wore his Insurgent colors with tagged on gang signs.

'The Renegades' was crudely sewn into his shirt and over the old Commonwealth Star, which had been painted upside down - a sign of a nation in distress.

"A'ight, arm out kid and there won't be no problems." The woman said. Her voice was coarse, as if she smoked three packs a day or had her vocal chords passed through a woodchipper. The tattoos on her face made her out to be one of the few members who came from outside of the Insurgency here.

"N-no. I beg you. Please-- please, I just want t-to go home. Please." Tears began to form in his eyes, as he yanked his arm away in fear.

"I'll do anything - just don't kill me."

If there was any shred of morality or compassion left in these rotted souls, this was the leap of fate he needed to take.

But in his heart, he already knew the answer. He knew what was coming.

He had to do something.

The woman laughed as though his emotions were a sign of crocodile tears. There was no sympathy to be had here. Drake stepped forward and passed between the two. He towered above them, and snapped open a baton with a flick of his forearm. The steel rod opened and locked into place. Without much warning, Drake swung for Lazurith's knee, hitting him in the side with the intention of bringing him down to the ground.

"Carolyn, do it." He ordered once more, raising his arm to swing again but stopping moments before impact. An intimidation strategy.

The woman stepped forward and took the opportunity to jab Lazurith quite painfully in the neck. Drake gripped his hair and yanked it to hold him in place. He shouted; "Shut up." As Lazurith groaned back. As the substance was injected, it was clear that whatever it was had been long past its expiry date. The wooziness would settle in immediately, as lines on the wall seemed to shrink and grow and inexplicable rates. The lights soon turned to rays of varying colors, and time seemed to slow.

His muscles would soon go limp, as would his tongue.

This wasn't death. Far from it. A haze of chems from expired anesthetics mixed with sedatives from a long-understocked medical bay.

Like sinking into a pool of goo, too viscous to escape.

The trio moved to grab his arms and legs before he hit the floor, hoisting the poor prisoner up and carrying him through the halls. The sedative didn't knock him out, or put him under. No. He was still conscious. Unable to resist. Unable to move. The sensation that locked his muscles was indescribable. They felt tight, but were so loose one couldn't support the weight of their own head.

All he could see now was the lights on the ceiling as they dragged him away. The scent in the air shifted from mildew and mold to dust and clutter.

Then... Dirty plastic curtains separated them from an area that reeked of blood and rot.

Med-bay.

---

-- October 24th, 23:23 HR [Galileo]

The world kept spinning around. Keeping his thoughts together was unfortunately very much possible, as he was relatively conscious.

His soft features looked paler than before, his once porcelain visage now turned into a sickly white. It wasn't just the ill medicaments that were flowing in his bloodstream, but it was the plethora of antibodies, both innate and artificial, fighting for their lives, molecule by molecule, in a dire attempt to keep him from dying to a stab infection. Or worse.

He was losing this tug of war - at an alarmingly fast rate, actually. There had to be something he could do.

But when the stench hit - the awful stench of blood and death - he felt sick. A knee-jerk reaction: bile emerged from his gut, and spewed from his mouth. He felt the ground become a bottomless pit, as the yellow contents of his stomach fell onto his shirt and on the floor.

Streaks of tears were forming in his eyes. Despair and terror gnawed at him. He knew what would happen next.

A skinny man with a gaunt face in a dirty white surgical apron awaited them by a gurney in the middle of the dirtiest medical bay one could imagine. The tools were scattered about. Unused ones thrown to the floor with reckless abandon. Rust, dust and other contaminants beyond the veil, and blood stains that caked the floor.

The Chop Shop was true to its word. An operation of frightening intention and sinister outcomes. The various chopped up cybernetics, augments and prosthetics piled in bins nearby spoke for themselves.

The trio of Rogues dropped Lazurith onto the gurney, and quickly strapped him into place. The light from above dangled on a cable the Doctor had likely installed himself, in lieu of a functional one currently in the bay. The wires were frayed, and nothing was holding it securely in place as it swung slightly from side to side. Nevertheless, it was blinding as ever.

"Wha' do we got here?" He asked, speaking rapidly and clasping his hands together. To the prisoner, it'd sound like listening through water.

"Technocrat augs. Big time money for folk. Think the weird Navy guys at the Wyoming will want 'em with their usual order?" Carolyn asked the doctor.

It was pretty clear what they were doing. Why they'd get such a good deal for one person here. They were selling people - whole or otherwise, to the nearby compromised residents of the area. Infectees. Agents of the Nomads. They didn't know any better. To the crew, it was a job like any other.

A fate truly worse than death. Whether he was targeted or not wouldn't matter, should they realize who they might get their hands on.

"Ehh... Yeah I suppose. These cyborg guys are rare catches." The doctor pulled some latex gloves on, letting the elasticity of the wristbands snap back into place. "Now get outta here, you're gonna cramp my style." He shooed the others off with a dramatic wave.

Drake nodded to the other two and left the room.

The doctor turned to his counter of tools and blades, turning on a small music player he had set aside. He turned the volume up to a deafening level and began playing old, classical music from Sol. Vivaldi. The skinny man then grabbed a nearby inhaler and took a large puff of Slog.

"Ahhh..." He can be heard exhaling. "Steady hands, easy plans, time to cut off some hands~" He joked to himself, though he was looking to Lazurith as he lay strapped there in the gurney. He picked up a handheld metal saw, and walked over to the boy's cybernetic arm as he hummed along to the tunes of a long bygone time in human history.

The doc' set his tool aside, quickly grabbing some scissors to cut the cloth of Lazurith's shirt free from his shoulder. He didn't even bother to administer localized anesthesia, but it was clear what was coming next.

Grabbing the saw once more, he flipped on the switch and revved the blade in the air to the beat of the percussion of the music. With his free hand, the doctor pulled his mask up and lowered a face shield to protect his eyes. He leaned over into Lazurith's eyesight, blocking out the light. "This is gonna suck bigtime for you." He warned as the saw speed was dialed up to maximum.

Any second now, would be the worst part of this ordeal. Kristoff's rationality was far gone by this point. He began to breathe quickly, faster, rapidly, as if he was running a marathon.

His eyes widened in terror. That's all the movement his tranquilized body would allow him to do.

He had no tongue to scream with. No voice to plead with. Not anymore.

The doctor leaned in to examine the joint of his cybernetic arm with a hum. He lined up his saw - right on the connector joint that fed the augmented hardware into Lazurith's shoulder socket. As he pressed the sawblade to its target, he then drew a line with a black marker as a guide for himself. He pulled the saw away. It was torture, as if he was dragging it on purposefully. Maybe it was the Slog fogging up his brain.

Third time's the charm. The doc' raised the saw up, pinning the button to spin its blade and brought it in steady contact with the target he designated for himself. The screech of the metal was loud, dwarfed in decibel only by the blaring music he had playing to tune out the noise of his cruel deeds. The pain was excruciating, even through the drugged out state Lazurith was in. His arm. They were taking his arm. They weren't being gentle or cautious about it, and most augments out of the Technocracy when removed can cause serious damage if not taken care of immediately.

But these people - these rabid animals didn't know any better about the difference.

Or they just didn't care.

The Doctor continued to cut away at the cybernetic limb, but by this point, Lazurith would've lost consciousness from the overload to his nervous system.

The nightmare kept dragging on.

---

-- October 25th, 07:00 HR [Copernicus]

The next day...

Lazurith was dropped back off in his cell, in worse shape than ever. His arm was gone, cut off and crudely wrapped up with a towel to stop any type of damage to the socket. Though the harm was already done. The alarms from the removal were constant, and the pain was droning consistently. This was a new kind of hell. One that seemed far from over and with no end in sight that wasn't into his own grave.

He would find himself in the bench-like bunk, left to regain consciousness on his own. The sedative had long since left his system, leaving only a cluster headache in its wake.

The cacophony of the metal screeching, the music, the torture, the sparks, the agony. It all came back to him immediately. As if no time at all had passed for the boy.

He would wake up with a melting headache. Slowly coming to terms with reality.

Still in the room with the leaking toilet, just like before.

Still trapped by marauding monsters, just like before.

But this time, something was missing.

His arm. The entire arm.

He was chopped apart, like he was some steel pipe cut into a smaller size for a metallurgy pet project.

BIOMON STATUS: CRITICAL
COGNITIVE INTERFACE: OFFLINE
LINK STATUS: OFFLINE
TERMINAL NODE: X9 MAINFRAME (STATUS: OFFLINE)
VERIFICATION IN PROGRESS: INOPERATIVE
MAINFRAME INITIATION PARAMETERS ATTR: 0X0A4F8000

Lines upon lines of warnings and botched hardware messages were amassing on his optical display, as he painfully clutched his head with his hand from his lying position. His hair was getting greasy and uncomfortable between his fingers. His body was still aching, presenting sore spots and bruises all over his naked torso. And he was covered in cold sweating. His body clearly didn't like whatever he was drugged with. And what of the filth they had injected him with? He could feel his neck feel tingly and slightly swollen, likely due to the aggressive syringe stab he had received. Maybe countless germs were already in his bloodstream by this point. He must've had hours left at this point.

He became their amusement toy. A pricey toy that can be ripped apart for money, and kicked in the shins just for the heck of it.

He could feel his dignity being stripped from him for each second he would spend in that cell. The longer he would spend thinking about it, the more the implications of what they would do to him sunk at the bottom of his gut, exhausting him, reeling him.

That cell was no prison. That cell was a refrigerator. And they would come for him, eventually. To take his spine next, perhaps. Or maybe the rest of the contraptions and coolant pipes jammed inside his torso, merged with his viscera?

They would come for him, surely. Eventually.

He felt a lump in his throat.

Maybe this is how it ends, after all.

Surviving countless ordeals, making friends and enemies, rejecting Nomadic control and regaining true freedom, only to end like this. Every decision, every choice he made led to this moment. Perhaps his life was doomed to end this way from the very start.

I should have stayed with Brandon.

If he were here, he'd...

He sighed, and turned and tossed in the darkness, hoping to lose consciousness yet again.

But the lump in his throat was almost burning, searing. While his augmentations could sustain his sense of hunger and dispense some powdered vitamins and nutrients on a molecular level whilst undergoing duress and extreme physical conditions, he needed water. He desperately needed water. But the only water he could drink from was from a leaking toilet.

Without hesitation, he crawled towards the urinal, using his elbow to drag himself. Without his arm, he jarringly found himself to be a little lighter than before.

But only when he reached it did he realize just how low he had sunk as a human being.

He reconsidered, lying on the grated floor, whimpering in the darkness.

This small little cage was his world now.

---