Lioness’ Legacy IV—Torment

by Valerie J. Long

“I’m just giving you a little sample. You’ll see what your impenitence will earn you.”

  Oops—he didn’t have to take me by the unvoiced word now.

  Instead, he called his henchmen. Together, they carried me to the basement. I quite expected such nice dark cells here, but their equipment was more sophisticated. The anteroom was as charming as a morgue and furnished accordingly.

  They forced me on a high, narrow table, similar to a stretcher, but without upholstery, and tied my arms, my legs, and my neck to it.

  “You will see, after a while it will become very uncomfortable,” Jasper promised. Then he pushed the stretcher toward the wall and opened a hatch at the matching height.

  The stretcher with my body on it fit tightly into the compartment. Then the hatch was closed, it went dark, and I was alone.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  The compartment was padded with noise-cancelling material. In total isolation, doomed to immobility, the victim not only would develop bedsores, suffer from cramps, and slowly and painfully dehydrate, but also gradually lose her sanity.

  I’d prove unusually tough. Not only that I could shut down my body functions and thereby mostly evade the physical strains—I also had the option to talk with my Analogy.

  Moreover, I had some things to think about. I had a few days left to the show, and it seemed as if I’d be mostly left undisturbed until then.

  If my mission should become a success, I’d have to fight next Sunday. As the Syndicate couldn’t be sure whether I’d come alone or had help, they’d have to muster all resources they could spare elsewhere—not taking into account that the cops, Bloods, and Skins, which I had led around by their noses, surely would want to watch my execution first-hand.

  The good thing about it was that all the New Yorkers’ tantalizers would gather, so that it wouldn’t be necessary to find them all over the city. The bad thing was—they all could potentially shoot at me. I, on the other hand, had to rely on close combat if I didn’t manage to procure a ranged weapon.

  Or I had to come up with a better idea.

  A muffled click sounded, then my stretcher shook, and then it slid out of the compartment. Bright light forced me to immediately close my eyes again.

  According to my Analogy, I had spent twenty-three long hours in this isolation torture. My body longed for external sensations, my muscles for free movements—only iron self-discipline, isometric exercises and the support of my nanos had spared me the worse aftereffects.

  They didn’t untie me. Instead, I felt wet fabric on my face, and then a long rush of water followed. It should feel like drowning, it was strictly prohibited, and it didn’t leave any visible traces.

  That procedure was repeated several times. Breathing under the wet cloth was difficult, and it was impossible to inhale deeply. Yes, I felt the upcoming suffocation!

  I also felt the electric shocks, then the beatings they served me—in places where there wouldn’t be bruises or under my feet, where the spectators wouldn’t see the welts while every step on the stage would hurt.

  The wet cloth on my face was replaced by a dry, dark sheet. Still I couldn’t see and couldn’t move, despite the pain, and neither of my torturers spoke a single word in my presence.

  Finally, they stuck a straw into my mouth and let me suck at it for a while. I grabbed the opportunity as well as I could—I had to be strong.

  Then I felt a prick in the crook of my arm—they’d injected me with something?

  I had to admit it.

  The needle stuck, they fumbled with it, and after a short break, my nanos reported the feed of a watery, sugary solution. Ah—a drip to feed me! Good idea, this way they could keep my body alive while my stomach remained empty. Perhaps they even counted on the agony of an intestinal obstruction?

  Crap, Jo, don’t think of such. Isn’t it bad enough?

  It wasn’t. The drip didn’t only contain nutrients. The first hints were—strange. Thereupon, I ordered my nanos to isolate and analyze the substances. The result was spooky—aside from a strong narcotic cocktail, the first dose of which should suffice to make me addicted and cause me a strong, unpleasant cold turkey, the further substances were suitable to cause painful muscle inflammation, sight disorder and—with long-term application—severe mental damage. Put differently, if I didn’t have to die next Sunday anyway, this treatment would make me a mental and physical wreck. Bastards!

  I had to allow a part of the effect to be able to believably simulate. Ugh, I hadn’t imagined it would become so unpleasant.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  “Hello, my little one. Are you ready to talk to me now?”

  Yeees! my subconscious screamed. Yes, I want to talk, to anyone, if only to hear other noises than my breath and my heartbeat!

  No, and fuck yourself, I instead thought defiantly.

  “You will talk,” Jasper promised. “You will beg for your next shot, won’t you?”

  This wasn’t worth a reply. I ignored him and stared at the ceiling. If I’d really been addicted, I’d already plead to him to inject me with his drugs—and to untie me finally.

  “You’re tough,” he admitted. “But your arms and legs should burn already, shouldn’t they?”

  From their steps, I recognized four more men approaching me. Did they like my nude body?

  “You’ve wetted yourself.”

  Naturally. Had he thought that I’d torture myself more by holding my water?

  “As it seems, we must clean you. Go.”

  Each of the men held one arm or one leg and loosened the respective tie. They didn’t expect resistance—nobody could have moved himself after two days in this position.

  Exercise here, nanos there—my limbs hurt. It hurt even more when they inconsiderately pulled me up and placed me on my beaten-up feet. No, I didn’t scream, but the tears shot into my eyes.

  “Yes, that hurts. That’s only the beginning, believe me.”

  They dragged me to the other end of the room, and I stumbled clumsily along, as my arms felt like under fire, too. Oooh damn!

  It’s just pain, Jo. Just pain.

  They were already applying new steel manacles around my wrists. The respective nylon ropes hung from eyes in the ceiling, about two meters apart. Upon a sign by Jasper, two of his men pulled the ropes tight until I could only stand on my toe tips. What now? Whips?

  No. Jasper had been serious about the cleaning—they sprayed me down with ice-cold water. The jet came brutally hard, and for minutes they mercilessly aimed at my most delicate parts.

  It was a relief when the shower ended. But Jasper wasn’t done with me yet. “Whips work especially well on wet skin, you know? You just have to be careful not to cause open welts. I have some special items here that minimize the risk of injuries, but instead burn very prettily. What do you think, should I try them now?”

  This would have been the moment to say No, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “As you like.” He showed me his torture device before he began. I closed my eyes and let it happen.

  It’s just pain, Jo. Just pain.

  “I doubt that you care much, but somehow it’s simply mandatory, isn’t it? Moreover, it pleases my men.”

  With these words, Jasper initiated the series of rapes, for which they bound me to unpleasantly edgy torture racks in different, highly uncomfortable positions.

  It’s just sex, Jo, I prayed my mantra. It’s just sex.

  And as brutal as they tried to be, I was long past the point where a stranger’s cock inside me meant anything to me.

  “She even likes it,” one of Jasper’s men finally noticed. “We never had one so wet and so tight.”

  And if I managed to trigger at least a little subconscious sympathy for their victim in his men this way, so that they’d treat me just a little better, then that was a kind of revenge for Jasper’s abuses, too.

  Nevertheless, I’d have killed each of them without hesitation to get out of here—if I had wanted to do that.

>   Chapter Seventy-Three

  Another day, another torture hour—a few suffocation attempts, the tube, the whips, stick beats to my soles, my poison injection, and always new men to abuse me.

  For a change, they left me hanging from the ceiling overnight instead of stowing me away into my compartment. Then again, they had an almost custom-fit, vertical coffin, in which I could spend my isolation. This way they avoided the bedsores. Instead, my wrists meanwhile showed clear traces of the permanent ties.

  “You know what?” Jasper asked me on Saturday, unnecessarily, as he meanwhile should have understood that I wouldn’t answer. “You’re a star. Everyone will come to see your show. Madison Square Garden is too small. We’ve decided to move the event to Central Park. According to the weather forecast, there won’t be rain, and the temperatures remain close above freezing. That’s nice, isn’t it? Not that you’ll freeze to death before we’re done with you.” He cackled. “A warm coat is out of the question. People want to see your tits and ass while we’re cutting your fingers off.”

  I was short of casting a curse at him. Damn, damn, damn, what had I let myself get into? For some thousand sensation-hungry bastards wanking off at the sight of my torture?

  Should I tear myself free and drill my fingers through his eye sockets into his brain? I just felt like it. Oh, that thought did me well! I had to grin, even if control over the corners of my mouth slipped and some slobber ran down my chin.

  He flinched back, appearing almost terrified. Did I look so bad? Fine, and I added a maniacal rolling of my eyes.

  “I believe we’d better lock you away now. You had enough for today. Tomorrow, you must be strong.”

  Yes, indeed.

  Strong and tough. It would become a long day.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  I had known they’d treat me badly, and it went even worse.

  Of course, they presented me naked, like a piece of cattle, at only three degrees Celsius. I was terribly cold, despite all provisions.

  They dragged me to the stage on my damaged feet, tied me between the two massive wooden poles, tore my arms up and out until they almost jumped out of their joints and the first drips of blood ran out under the sharp manacles at my wrists, and then they started to treat me with whips and birches.

  One man in the first row flinched with every clapping noise of the whip on my skin. The woman next to him made a face when the birch hit, when I cried out more and more throatily, but she couldn’t look away, either.

  This was all still pure show, it looked cruel and hurt incredibly, but these strikes alone wouldn’t kill me. After all, it was just pain.

  Jasper made a personal appearance to explain to the crowd what came next—the Slow Slicing death, a laborious method to mutilate the delinquent without letting her bleed to death first.

  I registered his speech with a strange distance, as if it wasn’t about my body, as if the crowd wouldn’t call for my blood, as if I were spectator and not main actress.

  Instead, I let my gaze wander across the audience.

  The Fool stands amid the foremost part of the crowd. He’s watching me questioningly. He’s looking for a sign on my face that it’s not too late, that I’m not broken yet. He’s looking for a sign of hope—for my sake. Because he’s determined.

  I can’t give him that sign. The cameras are capturing my face close-up, so what he can see, everyone can see, friend or foe. Moreover, I feel lousy. The treatment during my arrest, the drugs, the torture, so far have left their traces.

  His isn’t the only familiar face. There’s Dad. Farther behind, Herb is standing, my short-term employer, and next to him some of his men. Greg and Mo, the students from Queens. Trevor on the press emporium. The unknown woman I freed together with Mandy.

  Mick is there, together with a large group of his Bones. Overall, I see many black people.

  “Let us begin,” Jasper cheers. “We will do justice to this Velvet, who thought to take on the rightful rulers of this city, who didn’t even stop at killing policemen, according to our jointly pronounced sentence. See this rack?”

  There’s a crunching behind me. Now the large metal rack is moved forward, to which I must be tied before the amputations can begin, as I soon won’t be able to stand on my own legs. In addition to the ties, little metal spikes serve to support my body. No, I’m not at all interested in making closer acquaintance with this rack!

  If it shall happen, it has to happen soon. I don’t want to die yet!

  Again, I try to find some people in the crowd to whom I might mean a thing. I meet countless worried faces on my search—worries alone won’t help me. Help me! my gaze pleads.

  “Help me!” someone croaks with a raw voice.

  Is that me?

  Jasper turns around in surprise. Oh yes, I still can speak!

  “Stop it!” someone in the audience yells. More protesting calls follow—like a wave of sudden realization, resentment rolls across the audience’s ranks.

  “That’s going too far!” I hear. “Let her go!”

  Some rows are starting. Marshals of Bloods and Skins go down, cops are pressed.

  A shot sounds. Angry calls answer the uniformed men’s attempts to draw their guns. Behind the stage, micro fusion reactors are brought to performance level.

  Jasper makes a few steps back, out of my field of vision. The rack is now right behind me, and I feel its spikes tickle my back and ass. Inside, I cheer—it’s working! The people are already fighting.

  But the Syndicate is prepared. All three armor suits are ready, moreover, they’ve equipped a special police squad with plasma rifles. The New Yorkers won’t stand a chance against them. “It will be a massacre. They will all die—and then you, too,” Jasper whispers to me. “You don’t have to hope for your little conspiracy.”

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  My fingers bend inward, the nano claws aiming at the steel manacles around my wrists, from which I’m hanging. But I can’t reach them!

  The spikes on the rack are sharp and pointy—they’re deeply penetrating my skin. It burns like fire! I hardly notice the fine barbs along the edges, meant to keep the delinquent tight when she’s writhing in pain. I have to get rid of the ties! Ouch! The spikes are becoming unpleasant—in my ass, under my shoulder blades, above my shoulder blades, at my thighs, everywhere they’re penetrating deeper and deeper into my flesh, and I can’t do anything about it while I’m hanging here.

  Only one finger then. It must work, somehow. Another bit, another bit, and if I have to disjoint my hand now—ah! The claw scratches the metal. Another bit, now the manacle gives in, cut—free!

  One arm is free, and I reach over, have to turn my body, tear my flesh off the spikes, and do another cut. My body slightly drops forward, on my feet—aaooh! I feel nausea—the pain threatens to make me faint. Damn, that hurts!

  Block pain signals.

  I will bitterly pay for this later. But better broken than dead.

  The nanos seep out of my skin, close my wounds, and wrap me in my black suit. A focused thought—behind the stage, three little suns light up and make the armor suits melt away.

  Fighting trance!

  Jasper stares at me. “How?”

  He’s not important. I serve him a claw strike, and then focus on priority targets—the cleaning teams in their black coats who just level their plasma rifles—rifles they might already have carried when I was in the Freedom Tower’s armory. Working rifles.

  One of them goes down—amidst a group of Bones, he felt safe, but the Harlem gangsters are not on his side. Numerous cops must learn that, too, when knives pierce their uniforms.

  I only have seconds left, then the plasma rifles will fire and turn the tables. No!

  I reach out my arms and aim. Will it work? In the isolation chamber, I wasn’t able to test the tiny organic blowtubes under my skin. Nor do I know whether the new glands work as planned.

  A mental impulse sends out the first tiny bone darts, which prick the
Black Coats’ unprotected necks. It works! Next target, shoot, train—and now get away from here!

  The men I’ve hit are going down, while I jump down from the stage into the forces deployed there and draw my claws across their backs. Now I’m covered—if the Syndicate shooters are willing to spare their own people. If not—I don’t spare them. Aim, shoot. The effective range isn’t large, so I must get to the back, to the other side of the crowd!

  On my way, I leave dying people behind.

  The venom on my claws is as deadly as that on my bone darts—Achrotzyber’s Wyvern substance, the most effective toxin on this planet.

  Whatever my nanos can analyze and neutralize, they can synthesize as well. I’ve had five days to prepare, and this is the result.

  The next minutes, I feel growing fear—fear of myself.

  Regarding the nano equipment, regarding the fighting trance, I’m a Golden One, and now, in combat, I realize what that means.

  To spot a shooter aiming at me means to kill him—my senses already record the next targets while my body still works on the list of the previous ones, while my claws and my dart tubes deal out hundredfold death.

  There’s no point in picking up police pistols for shooting—I’m faster this way. I’m terribly effective and frighteningly merciless, but I have no choice. Around me, people die—on both sides, and that must come to an end!

  As suddenly as it started, it’s over.

  The Syndicate’s plasma rifles have failed as planned, leaving scorched shooters and additional confusion behind. In exchange, the resistance was well organized, was able to deploy its own armed groups in all essential spots. The Syndicate’s men had to recognize that they couldn’t win—most of them surrendered.

  Rather incidentally, my Analogy has recorded the changing situation, only providing me with the immediate, operationally necessary information.