Work Text:
THUMP
“Murderer.”
SMACK
“Psychopath.”
WHAM
“Eden scum.”
They took turns, the members of the C.O.I., everyone getting a fair shot at hurling fists, swinging kicks, and slinging names at Simon. All of them trying to see how far he could bend, how much they could break before anyone tried to stop them. Meanwhile Simon remained helpless to defend himself, coarse ropes keeping his ankles and knees together and arms behind his back. Begging only seemed to infuriate them further.
CRACK
“Terrorist.”
BAM
“Monster.”
WHACK
“Traitor.”
He’d been plucked out of the small mass of his Brothers that had managed to survive the Filament explosion, bound and dragged into a corner room for his court-approved torment. At first he’d wondered if the others were undergoing the same treatment, but after countless rounds between isolation and relentless beatings, his mind could only focus on keeping his body in as tight a ball as possible.
BANG
“Cultist.”
THUD
“Rotten.”
WHUMP
“Convict.”
Simon huffed on the freezing floor, taking as much respite as he could in a moment of being left alone, focusing on breathing through bruised ribs.
“Alright,” someone announced as the door squeeeeeeeaked open, tone firm but lacking the edge of everyone else’s passionate vitriol. Holding no strength to lift up his own head, Simon watched through a curtain of his hair as three sets of boots matched into the room, two of which stayed back to shut and guard the door. The third person, the speaker, crouched before Simon, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking him upward.
A woman, scowling and powerful-looking, with a prominent scar running over one eye and most of the left side of her face. Looking up into her searing gaze, it was clear that though her voice was measured, her hatred for him burned just as bright as those who’d come before her. “C.O.I. council’s elected to put you under my jurisdiction, so let me make a few things clear. You do what I say, when I say it, you don’t speak unless spoken to, and you don’t start shit. Do all that and maybe you’ll get some rations once in a while. Don’t, and we’ll have to revisit your punishment. Am I clear?”
At the height of his ache, part of Simon had wished for an execution, for one fatal strike to send his consciousness into oblivion. Yet if this woman signified the end to the worst of the violence, then there was no hope of such an easy exit. So, understanding his position, determined to not let his last breath be under an unforgiving boot, Simon stared right back up at the woman and rasped past the blood in his teeth, “Yes, ma’am.”