For the night.

She barely remembered being brought back to the stockade. The pain in her head was so fierce she couldn't see, and she stumbled repeatedly into cots and over gear as she was dragged by her leash back to the pen. Her hands were untied and the rope removed from her neck, and she managed to make it three or four steps before collapsing in a heap.

When she came to, she was lying on the concrete again, the cold surface chilling her back and legs. Her head was again pillowed on a soft body, and she could feel someone's warm head lying on top of her thigh. She was ravenously hungry, and for once, her head felt normal. As she turned it slightly the pain flared up again, but it was less than before, and she could manage it fairly easily. The body underneath her shifted too.

"You okay, Sarah?" It was Mara's voice. Her hand ran across Sarah's forehead. Her aching head cooled a little. Bits of grit ground into her bare back, but she didn't move to dislodge them. The stings helped distract her from the dulling pain in her head. She grunted to Mara. The hand stroked her forehead again. "We're all doing okay; you're in the worst shape." Sarah cracked her eyes open. Down the length of her nude body she could see Marcus' pretty blonde head pillowed on her own thigh. The soldier's face was turned towards her commander and her breath tickled the outside of Sarah's leg, raising goosebumps on her skin. Had she been anywhere else, she might have been turned on by it, but here, it was just another distraction, a reminder that Jen didn't have a cot and Sarah didn't have clothes because they were prisoners, sexual slaves of their captors.

The squad was scattered across the ground in a strange criss-cross of arms, legs, heads, and breasts, stretched over and around each other to make sure everyone was as comfortable and warm as possible. Silva was hunched up in a fetal position; Sarah decided to check on her soon. She must have had a rough night. The rest looked a bit worn, but stable. Most were sleeping, or trying to. Renn Thomas and Marcia Moran were talking quietly. They knew better than to do anything else. Though Sarah discouraged couples in her unit, both women preferred their own sex, and both were between partners right now. Only the watchful eyes of guards kept them apart. The bastards were even worse to anyone they thought were butch. Sarah hoped they would take care of that themselves. She wouldn't order them not to while they were in captivity. Now she was not just their commander but more importantly, their friend.

Minutes turned to hours and Sarah dozed off again, the pain in her head lessening. When she woke, light was beginning to pour through the dingy windows. The other women were stirring around her, and the pain in her head was now just a dull ache and a severely bruised temple. She was still ravenous, and sure enough, a large cauldron of stew was brought to the center of the stockade and left there with a half dozen bowls and spoons. The three dozen or so women shared them as they eagerly swallowed the stew. Some of the guards laughed and jeered at them as they ate greedily, and Sarah knew that flour and broth were not the only things that had been added to thicken the stew. She felt disgusted, but kept eating.

The day passed slowly, only the passage of shadows and the changing shift of the guards marking the time. Time seemed to speed up as the light dimmed on what Sarah now knew was the western side of the compound. All too soon another pot of stew was served, and guards began to pull women out of the stockade. Sarah remembered what the waiting had been like before. Every time a guard came in, she hoped it wasn't for her. Even so, she shuddered when O'Leanne, Sangley, and Thomas were dragged to their feet and marched away.