6.9  ·  Cruelty

“Guess you’d better pull off that leather jacket,” Thames said, gesturing with the revolver.

Are you really going through with this?

Alia gave him an intense look, before she shimmied the jacket down her shoulders, exposing her babydoll t-shirt. Immediately, the January night’s chill sent a shiver down her spine.

She looked out into the night, roughly where Thames had been glancing. “Wouldn’t you rather do this yourself?”

She let a mirthful smile creep onto her face as she added: “…Z-Dog?”

Thames sniggered, fiddling with the belt in his jeans. “You know in cartoons when someone gets so angry their face goes beet red and they start blowing steam out their ears? That’s Zoey right now. Ooh, she’s a salty cracker.”

He pulled the belt out, and eyed the buckle. “Feel like I’m a Daddy from the Reagan era.”

He leaned towards her with an impish look. “Or maybe just an average Friday night with the crew, am I right?” He straightened, giving the belt a test swing.

“Bend over, naughty girl. And lose the top, would you?”

A belt buckle, I can handle. But I’m sure this is nothing but a warm-up if Zoey gets her way.

As she pulled off her t-shirt, she clenched her jaw, waiting for the first strike.

Crack.

Alia kept her face blank as he whipped the belt against her exposed skin. She wasn’t going to give Zoey the satisfaction.

How much punishment does he expect me to take?

After several more lashings, he took her hair in his fist, and pulled her ear to his lips.

“Why aren’t you fighting back?” he whispered fiercely, before dramatically running his tongue up the side of her face, and throwing her back to the dusty ground.

Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you wanted me to do?

Slowly, she brought her cheek off the dirt, and glanced back at Thames with narrow eyes, trying to identify the breadcrumbs he’d left for her.

Crack.

He held the gun loosely in his left hand. Noticeably loosely.

Crack.

In his jeans pocket, something glinted in the moonlight – a cell phone was slightly poking out.

Crack.

Thames groaned, and began winding the belt around his hand. He was standing with one leg crossed over the other, foot on its side.

“Z-Dog, she’s not even reacting to this. What’s the point? She’s not a t-bone; we don’t need to tenderise the piggy before we spit-roast her.” He paused for a moment. “Wait, I messed up that metaphor, didn’t I?”

He’s giving me an opening.

Alia thrust her leg back, striking the ankle that was bearing all of his weight. He stumbled back and fell, allowing the gun to fly out of his hand.

“Ugh! Hey!” he moaned, flailing in a melodramatic display, as Alia scrambled to her feet, scooping up the gun in the process.

She trained it on him, noting the hint of a smile on his face that the near-full moon saw fit to illuminate. He raised his hands.

“Uh, you got me,” he said, rising slowly to his feet and letting out a nervous chuckle as his eyes looked towards Zoey. “Oopsie.”

Alia raised an eyebrow. “Give me that cell phone in your pocket there, and turn around.”

He followed her direction, facing away from her. “Okay, I’ll go quietly.”

Alia smirked. “Why don’t I make us even?”

“What do you m–”

She slammed the grip of the gun into the back of his head, and he fell to the ground.

“Just skipping the fuss, right?”

Alia dialled a number into the phone, and as she waited for a connection, she looked around into the emptiness.

“Hey, Zoey? Tell Lothos I said ‘hi,’ would you?”

“Hello?” came a voice on the phone. “Rembrandt? We’ve been looking every–”

“John, it’s me.”

“Alia? Are you okay? Why are you on Rembrandt’s cell?”

Alia sighed. “Why do you think?”

*          *          *

The creak of the window in the iron door caused Rembrandt to stir. He looked blearily upward at the face looking through the small opening.

Just leave me the hell alone.

The redhead woman known as Zoey was glaring at him, notably less smug than usual. He couldn’t tell whether that was a good or a bad sign.

“How’s your head?” she asked, her voice flat.

“What do you m–” he began to sit up, and noted that the back of his head was throbbing. “Ow… what the devil?”

“You can thank Alia for that.”

Every day since he’d found himself here in the ‘Holding Chamber,’ Zoey had been telling him all about the dastardly things this Thames guy had been getting up to while wearing his face. But since someone named Alia had come into the picture, she was almost all Zoey had talked about. The two of them must have had some history.

“How can she make my head hurt?” he asked, rubbing the sore spot, but it didn’t seem like there was any actual injury there.

Zoey smirked at him.

“Psycho-synergy, my dear.” She raised her eyebrows. “And here I thought you and your friends knew all about the leaping process.”

Psycho-huh? Only psycho round here is you.

Zoey’s face turned stormy. “Thames was sloppy. Alia got the better of him, and that pain in your head is a result of her beating.”

“Good for her,” Rembrandt said with a smile. “Hope she hurts him some more.”

“The marvellous thing about psycho-synergy, Mister Brown, is that it works both ways,” Zoey said smoothly, the corners of her mouth turning upward. “So you’d better hope that Thames gets himself out of this mess, or I’ll have you put on the rack and punish the both of you at once.”

With a grin, she shut the opening in the door, leaving Remy alone again. He leaned back against the cold wall.

Why am I always the one getting locked up and tortured? First the ’maggs, now this? Ain’t I got enough trauma by now?

*          *          *

“Hey, guards? I think there’s something wrong with this barrier!”

Sam stood before the force field that stood between him and freedom, as Al traced a finger through it, resulting in unusual-looking disruptions.

After a moment, a Kromagg soldier emerged from a corner, and looked, puzzled, at the electric ripples.

“If this is a standard electro-carbonic hybrid shield,” Sam said, hoping this grunt was not well-versed enough in the technology to see through his bluff, “then I think these patterns suggest a potentially catastrophic failure of the nobellium generator. If you don’t want a global short of the circuit breakers on this floor that may result in a radiation leak, I’d suggest you fix it. But that’s just the opinion of the guy who invented transdimensional wormholes on his own, so take it or leave it.”

As the soldier scurried away to find a superior, Al burst into laughter.

“What kinda nonsense was that, Sam?”

Sam grinned. “I’m sure it sounded… authoritative.”

Sam turned to Tim, who was hovering behind him.

“Get ready.”

*          *          *

“Wake up, you pathetic human.”

Sherri’s dazed feeling slowly subsided, and her eyes focused on Kasyr, as the pain of her beating made itself known to her again.

“Th-thanks,” she murmured. “I needed that nap.”

As she spoke, she spat out blood that had been pooling in her mouth. It was possible she’d also spat out a tooth, but she didn’t want to think about that.

“Sherri, I’m still here,” John whispered into her ear. “Hang on, I promise help is coming.”

She understood why he was being so vague. The mind-readers couldn’t get any details. Frankly, she didn’t know who could possibly be coming to help her. But, she trusted John more than anyone. She knew he wouldn’t lie to her.

“You know,” said the Kromagg woman, “a human eyeball is no different to a Kromagg eyeball. They taste the same. Or so I’ve heard.”

She stared intensely at Sherri’s eyes. “They’re a delicacy because they’re a status symbol. To have a stock of pickled eyes is to show your dominance. To serve them at a banquet is the height of opulence.”

She licked her lips. “I wonder what yours would go for on the black market?”

“That’s pretty gross, not gonna lie,” said Sherri, screwing up her face. “But if you take them, at least I won’t have to look at your ugly face, so that’s a silver lining.”

Kasyr smirked. “Then perhaps I’ll just take the one.”

She moved out of Sherri’s line of sight.

“Uh, Sherri…” John said, panic rising in his voice. “I don’t think she’s bluffing.”

“Can’t help but notice you’re the only Kromagg woman around here,” Sherri said, hoping to buy time.

“Yes, funny story, that.” She appeared back in Sherri’s field of view, holding up a wicked looking tool, with an obvious purpose. “Humans on our home world did something to us when they sent us away. Since then, every Kromagg who gives birth dies in the process, and usually the babies, too. But they are forced to carry babies to term, anyway, for the survival of the Dynasty. And they willingly do so.”

“They never forced you?”

“I don’t have the capacity to give birth,” she said, eyeing the tool, which had four arms coming off it, and a concave dish at the centre. “So I support my species in other ways.”

“Who can take a sunrise…” John’s voice warbled, as he jammed on the keytar.

Kasyr slammed her hand on Sherri’s forehead, forcing it still, and pulled her left eyelid open with her thumb.

“Sprinkle it in dew…”

Sherri winced as the tool was thrust towards her.

“Come on, look over here, you horrible witch!” John shouted, slamming a hand on the keys. “Ugh! I’m sorry, Sherri…”

“Keep singing!” Sherri cried, as the spider’s leg-like appendages entered her eye socket.

John bit his lip, and continued his song. “Cover it in chocolate and a miracle or two…”

Sherri drew a sharp breath.

“The candyman… the candyman can.”

With a horrible popping sound and a flood of intense pain, the deed was done.