" 'Crack' "

[Vex Xiang 0]

" 'Crack' "

 

 

    Donalek S. Maturin was spread out like an X, stretched out in midair. His wrists and ankles were bound. Thin wires bolted to the ceiling and floor were tightly coiled around his appendages, cutting deep into the skin. His wrists were the worst, which held up the weight of his body. Blood trickled down his arms, becoming indistinguishable against the mud and sweat. His head flopped around on its pivot, his chin bumping against his chest. His hair was matted, frayed, dirty and caked in red.

 

    And he stunk. But no one in the room cared what Dox looked like, or smelled like. Three of them, Jem'Haddar soldiers, stood at the doorway to the tiny, dimly lit room. The only light was from a hot spotlight that shone down on Dox's body, masking the soldiers in wash of gray. They looked like shadows. The one other person in the room, a Vorta, paced around Dox, knife in hand. It was a tiny knife. No one could expect it to do any serious damage. It was the kind of knife that would make such small, tiny cuts on a body that only a drop would emerge, but the stinging pain would linger.

 

    The Vorta were typically smug and in control. But this Vorta looked no better off than Dox, except that he could walk. He was bruised, hurting, walking with a limp. But he was healthy and well fed.

 

    "We know you came from the camp," his voice slithered off his tongue, hissing like a snake. With a flick he cut Dox once more. By now the cuts produced very little reaction in the human soldier. A twitch, a groan. It did little more than to serve to bring him back to conciousness as a stream of drool fell from his mouth.

 

    "What camp did you come from? What were you looking for?" the Vorta brought his face to Dox's. His hot, stinking breath washed over him.

 

    Dox wouldn't give him an answer. What had he been looking for? Food.

 

    The two main camps in the respective infantries of the Federation and Dominion forces on this planet's surface had been starved for supplies. Above, in space, the war raged on, and neither side could get supplies or support to their troops. They had both essentially been given up for dead. They were now engaged in a private little war, where the outcome didn't matter to Starfleet or to the Dominion. Their only concern was to survive, to wait out the war, and to see which side won...which side would eventually come back to this planet to save one side and exterminate the other.

 

    For months they had been there, helpless, alone. Their food had run out long before the Dominion's supply of it had. So the humans were forced to make frequent raids, amidst the constant fighting, and steal food to bring back for the other officers to eat.

 

    Unfortunately, Dox had been caught in the process.

 

    "Go to..." Dox spat at the Vorta. It was a dry, empty spit that only sprayed a light mist. And the Vorta laughed.

 

    With a nod to one of the soldiers in the darkness, they came forth. The leather whip came down onto Dox's back with a loud 'crack'.

 

    'Crack.' 'Crack.'

 

    "What's wrong, human?" the Vorta grinned, "are you crying? Humans...so weak."

 

    But Dox's tears came almost as a relief. They dripped into his mouth and wetted it.

 

    'Crack.'

 

    He felt ashamed as his body began convulsing, sobbing uncontrollably while the Vorta just stood there and stared at him with pleasure.

 

    'Crack.'

 

    "Why do you subject yourself to this...tell me what I want to know," the Vorta's voice was calm, like he was talking to a child, "you really don't think you'll ever leave this planet alive, do you?"

 

 

    "What?" Dox asked defensively as he turned around after slipping on a fresh tunic in the sickbay locker room. One of the nurses was also there, and had been staring at his back since he took off his dirty shirt (caked with smoke and dirt from his away team trip to the Jupiter Station).

 

    She looked away quickly. "Nothing."