Captured

[Forsaken]

"That will be all for now." He answers, and coasts past amid the accompaniment of silken whispers voiced secretively by what remains of his clothing. As he turns his head to deliver one last line to his ghostly ally, the brilliant crimson streaks that he won in his recent sport with his willful rebel gleam brightly in the soft light. "Ethinae, make your conquest a beautiful one." He holds he gaze for a minute, smiles a slow, sharp smile, and then turns back to the task at hand.

He casts his drowning gaze on Desire. "Well, dear friend, let us hurry and be done with this business of Prometheus'. There is much to look forward to when we return." Another strange smile for the Guardian of rose-tinted gold, this one generously promising a share in his sadistic game of pleasure upon their return. He chuckles richly to himself and walks on with a brisk pace. It was time to visit a far less charming Guardian who seemed to have something worth offering.

[The Imfamous AKA]

"I always do," she murmured, turning away to move through the long, tangled mess of hallways once more. She did so love Rebels. They made the best toys, after all. Forsaken were all well and good, when one could manage to create one that was long-lasting and useful, but, after all, didn't they begin their pitiful little existences as Rebels, as well? Ethinae only hoped that this one had a bit of longevity. Time was never of the essence when interrogating Rebels, and she relished the slow, satisfying process of breaking them.

She made her quiet, careful way through the maze that was the Penitentiary to the cell of her newest toy. Being in--though at the low end--Somriad's innermost circle of cohorts and underlings had its advantages. Though she, without fail, asked for permission to interrogate any of the prisoners, she could open any door in the Penitentiary herself, and wasted no time in entering the room temporarily occupied by the newest Rebel. She closed the door gently, though not silently, behind her, staring at the man with nothing more than a slightly curious look, waiting for him to acknowledge her entrance. Letting them have the slightest prayer of hope, or of superiority, made them much more enjoyable to shatter in the long run.

[Rojo]

Kite looked up.

Standing in front of the door was a tall, thin woman.
Guardian Kite corrected himself. It made it easier not to think of them as people. It seemed as if he was looking at a black-and-white image, the Guardian's hair a white. It wasn't until his eyes scrutinized her more accurately did he see faint lines of blue around her eyes.
Unhuman he thought, narrowing his eyes slightly. The eyes themselves, grey as the walls around him, flitted up and down her figure, sizing her up, weighing chances, considering factors.
But she was, strangely. . .beautiful. In a way they all seemed to be-- godlike, saintly and magnanimous. Despite these cardboard facades, the cold reality was this: the cold, hard cell he was in, all soothing words of safety and protection stripped away to reveal the cruel, disturbing truth.

Kite stood, making sure to keep his back straight, his jaw fixed, his eyes staring back into that mesmerizing gaze from across the room. If you looked hard you could see the monsters behind the pupils, lashing out towards you. The man's eyes flickered at this, but this was the only sign of any effect of the Guardian's prescence in the room. He began to steel his body for the inevitable torture, recalling the many times during training sessions (suddenly which seemed there hadn't been enough of) the order that if you were captured you were not to expect rescue, not to make assumptions and to keep your mouth shut. With this recollection, Kite suddenly realised how alone and afraid he was.

He blinked.

[The Imfamous AKA]

Her strange eyes followed him as he rose, moving to face her. Without shifting from his face, she took in the tiny idiosyncrasies as he moved, the straight back, the locked jaw, the faintest flicker of doubt in his eyes. He was proud, but he was scared. The absolute perfect combination. Her lips curved into the faintest smile, the reassuring look tainted by the barest hint of satisfaction. "Hello," she greeted softly, remaining before the door as she stood, perfectly still, watching him carefully. He was strong, obviously, but he knew his weaknesses. Or, rather, he thought he did. His body was held tensely to fend off the torture she was sure to bring, completely unaware that no matter how much preparation he had put his body through, he would never be able to stand against her particular brand of pain.

"Do you have a name?" she asked, her head tilting faintly to one side. "Or should I just refer to you as 'Rebel' for the duration of your stay?

[Rojo]

Kite stood still, though his skin had taken on a horrid itchy feeling, as if thousands of tiny spiders were crawling over his skin. He could see in her eyes the way she took in more detail in a single glance than he could in conversation with someone for several hours. It made him feel. . .insignificant. Already it seemed that paranoia and dread were working their fickle fingers into the dark corners of the Rebel's mind.
When his 'guest' as he darkly thought of her spoke, her words seemed soft, as if the words were in confidence, or in fear of waking up some sleeper.

She greeted him and he stopped himself a cynical snort. The illusion of civillity was such a Guardian thing to do-- something they seemed to favour, to keep the thinly-disguised idea of politeness in the air, as if you were speaking to a light acquaintance at a dinner party. These loathsome thoughts, laced with the humour that seemed to keep Kite going kept his mind off the black oblivion that was the realization of his own hopeless predicament.
"Evening. Or is it morning- I'm not sure down here," he said in his most mock-polite voice, going along with the pitiful charade of ettiquete "you can call me 'Rebel' if you like. Or Robin," he invented a name on the spot, trying to avoid anything that could give anything away about him or the Rebellion. He gave a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You're the one in charge."

[The Imfamous AKA]

"Well, Rebel Robin," she replied, the particular emphasis on his name a hint to the knowledge that the name was false. If they gave a name when she requested it, it was almost always false. "I suppose you are right. I am 'in charge,' what little that seems to matter to you." She turned taking a step away from the door, moving off to the side as she examined the cell with the faintest distaste. "And what little being 'in charge' of a few cells in here means at all, of course." Her eyes, cold fire, fixed back on him once more.

"This doesn't have to be difficult," she said carefully, the obligatory words leaving her lips as they always did, with the sure knowledge that they would be rebuked or ignored. "It could be very simple, really. I don't think the price of your life, safety, and sanity is too high."

[Rojo]

Although he didn't notice himself doing it, Kite flexed his hands, clenching and unclenching them twice. He had an urge to reach for his cigarettes but he doubted that he'd find anything there. His eyes followed the Guardian as she stepped away from the door, making herself ever so slightly closer to him due to the cell's dimensions. Her presence was unsettling to say the least. It felt to Kite that she seemed to emanate an eerie coolness. Not cold, or freezing, but the air in the cell seemed. . .there was no other word he could think of, sterile. It was strange and Kite couldn't put it down to Guardian tricks or his own nerves. He could feel his fingers itching to reach for the pouch in which he kept the dirtied, pig-eared dogends.
He listened carefully to her words and every word seemed to be annunciated so clearly, crisply like it was a well-learned speech. Perhaps she offered these words, these. . .offers of an easy way out to all who passed (the meaning of the word 'passed' within these walls was tangible, Kite thought dryly) through these empty halls.

Whereas he had been following his soon-to-be-torturer (for there was no two ways about it now, it seemed) with only his eyes, now Kite turned his head to face her, his eyes like blank slates, no monsters hidden behind them, no rouguish gleam nor hint of defiance. Mocking would come later, in those eyes, if he could still speak-- or worse, move.
"You don't like the easy way though, do you," It wasn't a question "and if I were to offer up whatever it is you plan to pry from these reluctant lips of mine on a platter, it would make no difference to you," He considered adding an insult to this but forwent it, staring in steely silence for her answer.

[The Imfamous AKA]

Though there was no warmth in her, none at all, it almost seemed like her smile had grown to hold some at his words. "I would not be here if I preferred the easy way," she replied lightly, holding her hands out, as though she had been shown a human shrug, but had not yet mastered the technique. "But since you're so understanding, we can completely ignore the necessary pleasantries, and begin."

Her hands, still held out, flicked inwards. The stone chains that sprung from the walls, formed by the power of her magic and employed by her will, were fairly standard among Guardians that spent time within the Styxx. Manacles and restraints that one controlled were much more reliable than the simple metal ones that would have been necessary otherwise. But these ones lashed out, following the path of her hands to strike against his wrist. The cold stone hit harder than her words had, before closing sharply around the human's arms. A twitched of her fingers caused them to retract into the walls, pulling his limbs sharply out until they jerked at the sockets of his shoulders.

Only once his arms were pulled taut, holding him in the center of the room, did she advance. "Now, then, Rebel Robin," she began, the cold glint of her eyes finally showing the faintest hint of emotion. She would enjoy this immensely. "Because you're so astute, having guessed my game nearly before it began, I shall let you choose." Her ice-pale fingers rose, tapping her chin thoughtfully, her carefully filed nails standing out, even paler against her white skin. "Would you prefer blood, or blisters to begin?"

[Rojo]

The words seemed like an oral transformation-- gone were the pleasantries and niceties. Here was the monster Kite sought. He allowed himself the small smirk he had been resisting for a while, his arms and legs jarring as they flashed in pain before resting to a dull ache, the pain in his wrists more prominent as the stone chains restrained him.
Kite turned his head from one side to the other, looking at the chains which seemingly came out of the solid wall.
"Very dramatic. . ." he murmured under his breath, trying to shake them to see what interesting noise they made, only to find the tension was so high he couldn't move them. He slowly and deliberately allowed his head to move back to look at his now-imprisoner, seeing the cold fire in her eyes, feeling the sterile air tighten slightly.

'Rebel Robin' looked at her, noting how she seemed contemplative, leaving the question open to him despite the fact that in the end, Kite had no control here.
The eerie openess of her suggestions unnerved him: "blood" or "blisters." Blood could mean a variety of things and a wave of images appeared: the Guardian drawing a knife from those silken robes, or perhaps tracing one of those nastily long and sharp fingernails down the side of his face, a trickle of blood slowly following its pale mistress as the nail came to a stop at his chin. . .
And blisters. . .heat, friction. Fire, perhaps?
Best not to dwell on that.
He looked up from his thoughts at her, trying to discern her expression without success. He gave another smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Suprise me."

[The Imfamous AKA]

At his words, her lips split, her smile curling like a cat with a bowl of warm milk before it, savoring the anticipation. "I do so love surprising people," she murmured, her eyes skimming him as she made up her mind. They finally settled, her pale eyes locked onto his, as her hands began to move again. This time, both moved upwards, the slightest jerk causing a drastic reaction from the chains at her command. It was as though they shifted through the rock, stretching and then shortening as they moved from the walls up to the ceiling, halting sharply directly above him, stretching his arms above his head. But they continued to shorten, pulling until he was off his feet, hanging from the ceiling by his wrists.

The pull was painful enough, his entire weight resting on two small parts of his body. If he stretched them, his fingertips might have been able to brush the cold stone ceiling, he was so close. His feet dangled off the ground, with far too much space between for him to have a prayer of touching it. "Now then," she began, her eyes still locked on his. "You'll dance, and then you'll talk," she said simply, with a snap of her fingers.

The heat came first, an overbearing warmth beneath his feet. But it wasn't long until the burning flames flicked against him from beneath, quickly making ash of the hems of his clothing as it rose. Soon, his feet were completely encased in the flames, his skin bubbling with the blisters she promised, and then, as the flames continued to relentlessly rise, the pain and heat moved up his legs, his tormentor just watching carefully before the burning man.

[Rojo]

A grimace stretched itself thinly over Kite's face as the chains moved, tugging his body around without any compulsion from his brain. It wasn't a nice feeling. The flash of pain returned, more intense as his arms were forced to hold his entire body weight up against his own will. It felt like his arms were about to pulled forceably from his torso, which at this point seemed like a relief. He tried not to think too much about the pain, focusing instead on his captor and her words.

Then he felt the heat.

Blisters it is then he thought heavily, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as his brain realised the full extent of what was about to happen. The heat slowly increased, making Kite perspire, his feet feeling wet and uncomfortable inside his woolen socks. The itching feeling on his skin intensified and he tried to move his arms instinctively, causing the pain in his arms to intensify.
Every muscle in his legs were screaming at him to move now as he could feel the leather in his boots start to melt, but he would not dance, not give this. . .this monstrosity the satisfaction.
The hot bubbling leather dripped onto the stone floor, hissing slightly. Kite bit down on his tongue hard as the boots poured over his feet, parts of them catching alight as the heat caught on to the chemicals used to make the shoes. He held back the scream of pain building behind his clenched teeth, his feet twitching and shaking uncontrollably like a hang man's jig, but he refused to twist his legs away from the burning flames that even now grew higher.
White hot pain seared into his bare skin as the rest of his footwear fell away, smouldering or bubbling on the floor beneath him. His twitching and jerking became more pronounced, his skin cracking and bleeding even. A moan escaped from him though his mouth was closed and the veins stuck out on his neck and arms, muscles contracting in spastic reactions.
Then his skin began to melt.
His lips parted and a low, bellowing roar came bellowing forth, like a wounded animal or like the sound of metal when it creaks, only intensified. The smell of burnt flesh filled the room, making Kite want to vomit. His feet were in such pain it felt like someone had dipped them in boiling water. . .minus the water. Now he jerked and flicked his legs from side to side, more of an animated shuffle than a dance. Every movement now seemed to cause him pain, either in his arms or his feet.

The flames didn't stop.

They continued up his legs, the white hot jaws of the fire clawing up his legs, each individual leg hair causing a pinprick of pain as they burned, every nerve in his legs had the feeling as if someone were prying them out with a pair of red hot tongs.Kite screwed up his eyes as they began to water, a dark smoke filling the air as the components of his trousers burned down. His feet felt raw- it seemed to him like the fire had torn away his skin to reveal a new, pink layer beneath and had seared that to a point. But the pain in his feet did not pale compared to the pain in his legs, it served as an example of the excruciating agony that his legs were about to endure.

He forced his eyes open, sweat pouring down his face, what left there was of his clothes sticking to his flesh uncomfortably, though discomfort was hardly a priorty of that moment. The smell of human flesh, plastics and chemicals was intoxicating now, filling his lungs. He looked at her through a haze- his eyes were watering even more -and his eyes held malice, but now behind them you could see the finality, the knowledge that there would be no rescue, no crash as the door broke down and armed Rebels burst in to his rescue. This was it. But he'd be damned if he'd betray them now.

[The Imfamous AKA]

Her smile showed the satisfaction he tried so very hard not to give her, her eyes still watching his, even when they closed, but more particularly when they opened, glaring down at her from where he hung with such hatred. But she appeared unaffected by the smoke and fumes circling around the room as the fire consumed him. But why would she be?

But her gaze turned contemplative as she tried to decide how long to let his agony continue. He was a strong one, so it might be best to give him a taste of desolation as he realized his predicament. The weaker ones--what few there were, since the Rebellion generally didn't send out weak members to do their dirty work--would usually break, beg for mercy, their lips splitting to spill the words that she needed to hear. But it was just as much of a mental battle as a physical one with the stronger-willed of the Rebels who were placed into her "care." Besides, letting his legs burn away to blackened stumps could be a bit much for his first taste.

So it stopped.

Completely.

There was no warning, no wave of her hand to force the flames to die from his skin. Or, rather, his trousers, which were, once more, completely in tact. The leather of his boots was still in place on his feet, which were unharmed. Not even the scent of scorched skin or smoke remained to taint the air. The only hint of the agony he had just endured was the sheen of perspiration on his face and the phantom pain that still wracked his body, although all external stimuli had been removed. The human body just couldn't take the sudden removal of such an onslaught.

Not even the smile on his tormentor's face moved, still gently tapping her chin, waiting for him to realize exactly what she had begun, and would continue, to do to him.

[Rojo]

Suddenly it stopped.

There was no crackle of the flames, no hiss of the bubbling leather, no acrid smell of burning leather and skin. All that Kite could hear was the beating of his own heart, amplified a thousand times as the blood rushed through his ears, the feeling as a drop of sweat rolled down his cheek and dropped off his chin, falling to the cold, hard stone floor.
The next thing that happened can only be explained as his brain not accepting such a possibility. HIs legs and feet were still in head-splitting agony, his arms still ached, feeling like his blood had been replaced with acid (Maybe that's next the words surfaced through the haze of confusion in his head) but his boots were there, as were his trousers.
He moved his leg slightly, grimacing at a phantom pain caused by nothing as he felt his skin brush up against the rough fabric of his trousers.
It didn't make sense.
Moments ago he had been on the verge of oblivion it seemed, the thick smell of his own flesh burning in the air and now he was fine, hanging as he had been a minute ago, his person intact physically, it seemed.

It was maddening. If it wasn't for the ghostly feeling of pain in his lower half and the fact he was drenched in sweat he might not have believed anything had happened at all. His torturer. . .she seemed not to have reacted to the heat, smell or smoke. Had it been an illusion, a trick of the mind? To her, had he hung there, jerking and moaning in pain by himself? The thought of being made this Guardian's fool filled him with black, liquid anger, seeping down from his head and through his body, dribbling through him like tar. He glared at her.

"Amusing trick," he managed through clenched teeth, feeling dizzy from trying to wrap his brain around concepts the human mind is not equipped for, the horrible feeling in his legs a reminder of his episode.

[The Imfamous AKA]

"Trick?" she asked, coming closer. She paced in a circular, predatory manner, moving from one side to the other as she approached him. "I suppose, if you'd prefer, you could call it that. It may be accurate. After all," she continued, coming to stand before him, her head tilted up to look at him, her infuriating smile still in place. "There was no fire. There was nothing beneath you except air and stone.

"But your mind thought it was real," she murmured, before turning away once more. This time, as she spoke, her steps were almost distracted, as though she had gone through this explanation a dozen times or more, and was anxious for it to be over with so she could continue. "After all, the mind is both a fragile and hearty thing. While some of us, the Amplus Magister, most notably, have discovered the secret to breaking in and stealing thoughts and memories with little effort and only the most basic, though time-consuming, application of pain, the mind can be trained to protect against such attacks. Such training is commonly employed amongst the Rebellion, these days. In fact, you've probably had some," she added, glancing back up at him.

She didn't wait for a response before continuing her explanation, turning away to pace once more. "There are things that the mind seems to have no defense, natural or trainable, against. One of the most basic functions of the mind is sensory perception. To explain it simply, if you control someone's senses, you control their perception." She smiled at her little pun, coming to a halt before him once more.

"I can make you feel pain, see things that don't exist, hear things that aren't there, even smell and taste are mine to control. I may not even be talking to you right now, in fact. I could still be leaning against that wall," she gestured behind her, before continuing. "just standing there, following your eyes as they think they're following me.

"That's the beauty of this form of torture," she murmured, smiling beatifically up at him. "You can die a thousand deaths, only to be brought back to experience a thousand more, and your body is still mine to play with. It's only a matter of time until your mind falls apart beneath the pressure. And I will stand here, watching, as you torture yourself to the breaking point. Now..." She tilted her head again. "Do you understand?"

[Rojo]

The strung-up Rebel watched (and listened) as the Guardian took steps around the room, explaining her little spiel. At first, Kite was expecting more torture, or perhaps her to mock him. Then she finished and the full weight of what she had said hit him in the chest.
Perception was a lie.
What an interesting concept. She could control all five of the senses. For all he knew she could control thoughts as well and these thoughts themselves were mere fabrications, leading him deeper and deeper through a fractal of rabbit holes. Oh, the black humour of it. Everything from now on would be thrown into question (moreso than a cynic such as Kite already threw) from his own surroundings, to external factors. For example, a 'rescue party' could appear, leading Kite from the cell and almost to freedom, only to have his hopes crushed before him.
As for the training, Kite remembered something, a lecture deep-seated somewhere floating around the seabed of his memory about shielding your mind from such things, but he could not recall and specific rules, tips or words about the subject. What a fickle mistress Memory was.

"That's. . ." he paused for thought, his eyes flickering momentarily to the ceiling "that's brilliant," He had to give her credit despite the animosity between them "it throws everything I see, hear, smell, touch or taste into question, giving you the ability to give me false hope, crush my hope altogether and slowly whittle down my resolve at the same time." His eyes focused on the door now, his attention seemingly elsewhere as he made a mental note of something while also fighting off the growing blackness in the back of his head that was the fact that nothing was certain. He looked back at her, smiling again, only this time it reached his eyes, giving them an expectant, almost hungry glint.

"Or driving me mad."