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The pounding fuzz of your headache makes thinking hard. You know you should be afraid. Your mind works on that as a priority.

“The fuck is he?”

“Thief? Or an, er, assassin or somethin?”

“Speak up arsehole!”

“Had this on im”

You see your black painted blade cut the flickering lantern light along its reflective edge. It’s held by the scarred man, along with the lantern itself, and he inspects it more than he inspects you. “Good make. Killers blade.” He stands at the back of the group, completely naked. He’s not the only one.

The bald man, Nic you think you heard him called, is just above you, holding one of your arms and is equally naked, while the giant you saw before stands on the other side, his manhood diminishing and expression thoroughly confused. The woman he was with is by your legs, holding both tightly, her face red, her hair a mess, and her expression far more frustrated than confused. You test her grip with a slight tug. It’s like iron. Unlike the men, she still wears her long shirt at least, sticking to her with sweat in places, but the tanned pair of thick muscled thighs and collection of damp wiry hairs coming out of the shirts base still keep her a far distance from decent though. The old man holds your other arm and had long since returned to flaccidity, while your attacker, the toneless man with the damp bush of wild hair, hovers around your midsection. Between him and the woman, the group of six is wearing enough for a single poorly dressed person.

You try to work out how to escape. Hopefully the path doesn’t include the empty stock and a wooden bit.

“Not gonna talk? Ay?” The bald man looks down at you and reaches his free hand to your face, grabbing your mouth through your black facecloth. “Uh? Not gonna tell us what the fuck your doin here?”

You suppose you’re not. If you can hold out, maybe they’ll get the Captain or throw you in a cell or, or... Gods you hope they don’t **** you! If you don’t talk, maybe they’ll keep thinking you’re a man. His hand forcefully shakes your face. The man with the wild hair is looking around.

“Are there any others?”

The bald man passes on the message, gripping and shaking your head. “Are there any more of you about!?” His question is met with only a silent stare, and while it’s from your choice, his hand comes down and pulls the face cloth with it to free your mouth.

“Wait. Holy shit! He’s, I mean, she’s a woman!” A sickeningly gleeful expression creeps onto his face. The fact that it’s framed on one side by the trickle of blood seeping from the missing flesh of his ear only makes it more disturbing.

“Makes sense.” The big man says solemnly. “I thought a heard a woman’s scream, was wondering where it came from.”

With a familiar toneless voice, your captor responds, nodding at the bald man. “That was him, gettin nicked”

The bald man looks back angrily, hand frozen holding down your face cloth.

“No! That was her who-“

Lacking any other means of attack, you decide, perhaps unwisely, that this is the perfect time to bite his hovering hand and wipe that lingering expression of lustful anticipation off his face. You bite down hard.

“WAAAAHHH!”

He pulls his hand free with a suitably high pitched girly scream. “You fuckin bitch!” He pins the wrist he was holding with his knee so he can nurse his bitten hand with his other. The others in the group work to control their smiles, except the big man, who seems brave enough to let his shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. The bald man sees it all. “Oh you’re gonna regret that.” The quiet menace in his voice is far worse than the leering expression he wore before. It’s somehow far more... hungry. “You’re gonna fucking regret that. I’m gonna fuck up you every way I can.” Your heart rate redoubles its already heavy beat, driving the last vestiges of your headache out of your awareness. Biting was definitely a mistake. “Let’s drag this bitch to the stock. I want to teach er a lesson.”

He re-grabs your arm, pulling it towards the stocks and your new neighbours.

“No!”

You say it at the same time as both the woman, Vanessa, and the man who looks so much like her. They even sound alike. You wonder for a moment if you somehow spoke with three voices you were so in sync.

The bald man doesn’t know who to look at when his dragging is stopped by the others. He settles on the man who dragged him into all this. “What?” It’s the old man who answers.

“We can’t do nothing to er. Captains orders” The bald man looks confused.

“Captain don’t know shit about this!” You’re equally as confused, but significantly happier about it. The line of stocks stands behind the bald man, its two occupants looking on with broken interest, the empty third watching you with its waiting holes. You give a silent prayer to the gods that you’re not going to fill it. The man with the disfigured face answers in a monotone voice, reciting something told to him.

“If any assassins or whatever are caught, then we got to go right to the captain. No crewman is allowed to **** or fuck or do nothing sept hold em and rough em up if they try anything.” You could kiss Captain Washkin right now! “Gives the Captain a clean slate to break em an whatnot.” Maybe kiss is an exaggeration.

“That’s bullshit! Your captain may stop you lot, but I’m damn sure gonna see it done.” He looks at you again and you can’t help but notice that his manhood, still wet with stolen pleasure, has half risen to see you. His hungry eyes snap to his hairy friend when he starts talking.

“Your captains under our captain’s banner, so he obeys the rules, which means you obey the rules. We’re not going to fuck her!”

The two look at each other.

The bald man looks away first.

You hear him mutter something that sounds like “...Blacky all over again...”

The others don’t look at him, but you can see from his posture that he feels their gazes all the same, hunching up and isolated. He radiates a petulant upset shame. The big man’s unwavering smile, the only one aimed squarely at the cowed man probably doesn’t help his mood either.

You, on the other hand, feel pretty good. You’re still captured and in some major trouble because of it, but the immediate concern starts to fade. A woman like Captain Washkin didn’t get into her position by being an idiot. If she’s smart and open to talking then you have a chance. She might send you right back down here to entertain these savages, but you’ll take an ‘if’ over the certainty that the bald man’s eyes and words promise you. The edge of your mouth even twitches in what could be the treasonous attempt of a smile. No one sees save the bald man. His snubbed frown deepens sharply as a result.

The toneless man directs a request to Vanessa, “Better search her.” She rolls her eyes before sitting on your ankles and patting up your legs. She feels out the vial of poison and fishes it out of your pocket and the strap around your leg, and as she feels up the inside and outside of your other thigh, the bald man overcomes his melancholy enough to help out, reaching out to grab your chest. His eyes twinkle down with glee at your obvious discomfort as he palms you and grabs you. The fact that you’re on your back and that your chest has little to boast about anyway leaves him with little to ‘search’, but he gives it a lengthy try regardless. You put effort into not letting him see the distress you feel, into not giving him the satisfaction. Let him feel out your ribs and beating heart, you think, so long as he takes nothing else. He abandons you when Vanessa’s search reaches the same places. Hers if a far more rough and short exploration of your skinny form and includes searching around your back and sides.

Vanessa gives her male double the all clear.

“Right, you lot dump her in a cell,” the scarred man points at the forest of bars, maintaining the disinterest in you that had come on discovering you’re a woman, “I’ll let the Captain know.” He dumps the lantern and walks to the stairs, while the man with the mop of hair, who had been left thoroughly in control of the situation, turns to Vanessa.

“Help me search. See if there’s more.” She looks at him with pleading impatience, evidently eager to get back to whatever she was in the middle of, or more likely, whatever was in the middle of her, but he chooses not to see it. Her big companion takes over the restraint of your legs and soon only the three around you remained. You offer no resistance when they pick you up, the threat of getting ‘roughed up’ fresh in your mind as they move towards one of the open cells lining the far wall.

“Wait, I’ve got a better idea. Let’s dump her in the **** cell.”

You look at the bald man, his suggestion dripping with ulterior motive.

“Why?” You want to echo the old man’s question, **** to know what plan is being hatched. His answer is frustrated, as though it should be obvious.

“Cuz apparently, weee can’t straighten her out an teach her what women are for! I want to see this bitch fucked, want to hear her beg, and if I can’t do it then I can at least watch the poor bastards in there take a few turns.”

You’re shocked. No! This can’t-

“We can’t-“

“Yes! WE can’t. But where in the rules does it say they can’t?”

The big one shifts the weight of your legs, getting a better grip. He looks around, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of his missing lover. The old man seems equally distracted by his own, albeit unwilling, lover doubled up in the stocks. The thick voice of the big man decides.

“Fine, fine. Fuckin whatever, let’s get on with this. I’m takin most of the weight over here.”

You kick him, or try too. The fact that he’s holding both your legs throws him off balance a little bit, but his size ensures the other two are pulled forward first. Everyone’s grip tightens and you decide to save your strength for the fight ahead.

They carry you past the stocks and their sad occupants. Through the open arch door and into the part of the cells you couldn’t see before. The room is bigger than you thought; almost as big as the main room. It has several much smaller rooms coming off the side but the main feature is the walls of iron bars. Unlike the ones in the room previously, these are far more professionally set. The black tarred mettle work wouldn’t look out of place in a city prison and runs twin lengths of the room making two large cages. The contents of those cages stir in the half light.

“You know, for what it’s worth, I’m with you on this. If the captain hadn’t given the order I’d be balls deep her by know.” The giant mutters as he leads the group to one side of the cells.

“What about Vanessa?” The old man’s question doesn’t distract you from the shapes coming out of the dark.

“She’s marriage material. If I’ve got to destroy some cunt, or split a shitter wide open, then I’m takin a whore, or a bitch like this. Just don’t tell her I said that or I’ll kill you both. She wouldn’t understand.”

Despite your apprehension being stoked to roaring levels, you make a mental note to tell Vanessa as soon as possible.

“You know, we three could-”

“No.” The bald man is interrupted again, and again it’s by more than one person. You don’t join in this time but still spare him a withering look. “If the Captain found out you’d be sowin yer dick back on in no time.”

The big guy looks at the old man and nods at a nearby table, and the old man passes your arm to the bald man, giving him control of both. He smiles down at you with an air of lurid madness. His wide chest and taught looking arms make for a far stronger restraint than the previous withered holder. The old man goes to the table and grabs a set of keys.

“I had nothing to do with this. You better remember that.” He takes them over to the nearby cell door and rattles the lock. “You tell the captain, or anyone, that I helped and I’ll make sure no-one forgets you scream like a girl.” The door of black metal bars opens with a clank. “Back ya bastards or it’s the whip again. Sept for you blond boy. Heh. You act up again and we’ll ave another singin lesson.”

You see them now; men wasted by captivity. Many of them still look strong, though obviously less than what they were. Some others look terribly weak. A wall of dirty bearded faces look at you.

The old man blows a kiss at a young prisoner, barely old enough to grow the few wisps of hair he has, and his is one of the few faces that looks only at the ground. The scene suddenly tilts and flips as you’re thrown full body into the cell, and you give a yelp as dirt caked flagstones smack your palms and rattle your knees. The door slamming shut is like distant ominous thunder to your ears, rumbling in the dark.

You look back. The old man and the wall of muscle are walking away, eager to return to more stimulating activity, and you watch as they disinterestedly drop the keys back onto the table as they pass. The bald man remains, holding the bars and looking down at you.

“Best part is...” He whispers, “...soon as one o them has had a round, ain no-one gonna tell his jizz from mine. Only, your holes might be a lot wider after me. An when am done the rest get a go. You’re gonna be one sorry bitch before that whore captain ever sees your face.”

He actually licks his lips, whether consciously or with pure anticipation you can’t tell. You note with a gulp that his anticipation had finished making itself know in other ways, pointing vaguely over your shoulder as though telling you to watch out. The shuffling behind you grows and you turn to face it. Men; filthy hairy men with sack clothing and sunken eyes standing about you like a tidal wave ready to crash. Some seem nervous, some seem resigned. Others look angry at your presence and some look intrigued. You face the group unarmed and outnumbered, the only woman among them. You promised to come back for them. You didn’t think so soon. They look almost hurt by your failure.

“I’m sorry...” It’s all you can think to say; sorry for failing them, sorry for getting caught, for being thrown in here, for what comes next... One of them steps forward.

“So am I...”

It’s Bafford. Guard Bafford, the man you spoke to before. The man you shared an oath with. You can tell from the voice and the way he stands; straight backed and in control. He reaches out for you, his hand stopping just before your fallen form, waiting.

And you grab it. Despite his wasted looks, he hauls you to your feet with ease. You give him a nervous smile. Despite a great bruise across the side of his face and the obvious sadness in his eyes, he smiles back. It lasts for only a short moment.

“Go on. Fuck her.” The bald man’s words are light, and full of equal parts permission and encouragement. They demand the worst of crimes, yet his tone sounds like he’s telling a dog to ‘Go on and play’, fully expecting it to do so.

“No.” You didn’t realise you were holding your breath until he said that. The would-be conductor looks taken aback, face shocked and bemused, like someone is disputing the colour of the sky.

“What?” He even smiles, as though this is a joke being played on him.

“Sorry, but its men on this side of the bars. Real men. Not scum who can only take a woman by ****.”

Every word wipes that fool smile away, bit by bit, until it’s just a memory. The others converge on all side. A dozen and a half men staring down one. You see that some of them do look at you hungrily, but thankfully those are in the minority, bullied into righteousness by better men. And you see the old man you heard, unmistakable, though far stronger looking than he sounded. And the first man who whispered for your attention is also there, almost skeletal, with shaking lips and gaunt features, yet standing all the same. You could kiss Bafford, or, well, you could hug him. Another look at their filth ridden forms convinces you that hearty handshakes all-round might be for the best.

The bald man looks on in wide eyed disbelief. “Ab-a...What? You... I’ll...” Behind him you start to see other forms through the other bars, on the other side of the room, where another wall of black metal keeps an equally dishevelled, though more feminine, set of figures back, even as they creep forward to view the act of defiance.

Guard Bafford steps forward, talking lightly. “What, call your friends back? They won’t help you. They’re busy.”

The lesser man manages to hold his ground, probably thanks to the bars between them. He looks over at you, at the group, weighing the odds of coming in to claim you on his own. You consider using your feminine wiles (a rusty tool indeed, if it ever existed) to tip the odds in your favour and get him to open the door alone. You’re too slow though; by the time your mind even considers such a foreign idea, you can tell he’s talked himself out of it. Instead, he simply looks at Bafford with silent hate filled eyes, and Bafford mocks back freely, quietly, perhaps with the same intent you had.

“You want to punish one scraggly prisoner? Go on, get your friends. Only they don’t have the time to help, and you don’t have the balls to do it alone. You want to **** this one? They won’t help you; ‘Captain orders’. And we won’t do it for you.”

You can hear the bald man’s teeth grinding from here.

“You’re actually going...I mean...a woman lands in your cell and you’re not going to do shit about it? Any of you?” He stares at them. They all stare back, save for a few. The ones who don’t; their gazes are drawn to the floor like they carry lead weights. The blond boy, younger than you, is among them. “All too tired from fuckin each other?” Spittle fly’s as his words get bitterer and more filled with hate. It showers over Bafford. He doesn’t move. This isn’t the first time he’s been spat on.

“You’re the ****, not us.” He rests his wrists on the bars almost casually.

The bald man steps back.

He seems to consider the scene for a moment, looking at the group and around the room, putting his sick mind to work. After a few seconds of consideration, he responds.

“I suppose your right.”

He strides over to the table and scoops up the keys, and you ready for a fight, planning to jump him when he opens the doors, but he doesn’t come for you. Instead he heads to the other cell in the room. The woman’s cell.

They scatter back into the darker parts at his approach, like flighty birds. Bafford was right; there’s about two dozen women in there, each more sorry looking than the last. The men in your cell shift, uneasy. Fists are clenched. It’s rare that pirates capture complete strangers. If they board a ship then they capture shipmates, friends and colleagues, and if they raid the land then they capture families. The lock clicks and the door swings open, but no resistance comes; there is no charge or insults or even screams. They each try to look as unnoticeable as they can, backing away to the walls and bars around them, repulsed by him.

“You.” He points at a woman hidden by shadow.

“No, please...” Her voice is shaking, ****. He drags her out by her long blond hair.

She stumbles into the light. It’s not possible for a human to look exactly like a deer -too many differences in their makeup- but she makes a good go of it. She’s tall; as tall as the bald man if not slightly more. Yet she’s so slender that he must be twice her weight. Her eyes are big and wide and she has the impression of prey, looking in all directions, helpless and paralysed with fear. She grips the front of her tattered dress, which looks horribly familiar to you. Under the recent grime there’s a stain of dried blood, seeped to the surface from underneath, where it had been used as an impromptu rag to wipe her upper thighs and above. She lost her maidenhood in that dress. Your guess is it wasn’t on her wedding night. Her lips shake and her eyes water as they search the cage of men.

They find there mark. The blond boy.

Before you can work out what lies in their look, the lock clicks, the keys sail to the table, and his hands are on her.

“You’re a tall thing. Tall and skinny.” Her face scrunches to near sobbing as his hand feels her breast. The other gathers her skirt, slowly drawing it up into a bundle and revealing her long legs tug by tug.

“Let go of her!”

Your cry is matched by the boys own “Let her go!”

The bald man seizes on it. “Ha! And we have a winner! Knew one of you would give a fuck! So here’s the deal...” He looks at you, right in the eyes, as he explains. “...Someone fucks that bitch...” The skirt lifts far past the knees, revealing a dried brown smear on her inner thigh that matches the stain on her dress. “...an I don’t fuck this bitch.”

Your voice shakes with a low growl. “You coward!” If you had stayed the course and struck like a professional, this worm would be lying dead in the dark corridor where all this went wrong. Instead he nurses a cut ear and a bitten hand. You still see the teeth marks you left, right before your eyes catch the flash of dirty blond hair that draw his hand inward. The skirt falls around it. She starts crying in earnest, doubling over at his invasive touch.

The other men are silent. You look from face to face and see the signs of defeat and resignation, warring with anger and bitter helplessness. The blond boy looks from her face to yours, eyes wide and ****.

“Please! Stop! Take someone else!” He rushes to the bars. They clang as he grabs them. “Erma! No!” She cry’s and covers her face, unable to watch those who watch her. The bald man just smiles at him as he works his fingers. You see behind them, in the far cage, a woman; an older version of the girl before you, looking on with a silent, distraught expression.

“I’m not going to be able to hold back much longer!” He takes his hand from her bosom long enough to yank the dress top down, horribly stretching the once decent material and revealing her left breast to their caged audience. It’s a small, sad looking thing, unfit for a babe’s single meal and topped with a pink nipple smaller even than your own. Its hangs lower than yours and is seen for only a brief moment before his hand swallows it, mauling and twisting towards his own delights. He kisses her thin neck and across her bony clavicle like a tender lover. His other wrist moves back and forth, as though he is punching her beneath her skirt.

It lasts for a few agonising seconds. Through them, he looks each man in the eyes, a kiss planted on her for each of them. He finishes with you. His pulls out from under her, flashing her long thin legs as the move blows her skirt wide. His hand goes from nethers to shoulder, resting on the length of planted kisses before pushing her down. She continues to cry, knobbly knees resting on stone as he continues to push, forward, until she’s on all fours. You look on, clenched fist and gritted teeth echoed in those around you, yet for you it’s worse; you know that this is your fault. He kneels down behind her and casually throws her skirt up past her waist. You see the split of her pale rump as it turns to bony back; even her rear looks pitiful, with hips no wider than a mans and lacking all the padding most men appreciate. She yelps as he smacks it. His nakedness leaves him very ready, and you hold your breath when he grabs that readiness and points it at her. The girl drags in an unsteady gasp when he comes up against her. Both you and her stop breathing as he holds his position.

“Last chance.” He sings with a smile, rubbing himself up and down her neither lips. “Either you fuck her or I’m gonna split this bean poll right down the middle.”

This can’t be happening. You move forward as he does; a step to his inch.

“Ah!” she cry’s, turning to the sudden stillness reserved for pray at the moment of terrible realisation.

This can’t be happening. Why is this happening! The blond boy cry’s out as he runs for you, tears streaking his eyes, and three sets of arms pull him back from you, dragging him into the cells dark corner. You look back at the girl, her watery eyes as wide as the moon outside. “No...Please.” Her words are whispers.

You turn to Bafford and the men around you. You can’t just let this happen. Can’t just stand by and be the cause without doing anything. “You-“

Bafford cuts you off. “No! He’ll just do it anyway.” He doesn’t break eye contact with the man without. You know his words make sense. You weren’t sure what you were going to offer.

“No?” He holds her hips and thrusts forward hard. “Ugh! On your heads be it.”

The woman’s eyes are wide, her mouth opening and closing. You watch as her eyes close and her face crumples. With no other action left to her, she cries, hard. Wails of distress fill the room, like that of a child; made of uncomprehending sadness, the helpless need to be rescued, the unthinking want for the badness to go away. After a few thrusts back and forth, the bald man sighs and leans forward, clamping his hand over her mouth. Her gangly arms give in, sending her sprawling on the floor. Her hips follow, and soon the man lies completely on top of her, pumping his hips in-between her splayed and shaking legs. Her distress is muffled, yet the echoes of her cries continue. They come from the woman in the far cell and, after a moment, the blond haired boy in the corner.

You watch as her head is pulled back. She pulls at the hand over her mouth without any effect as she scrapes and slides back and forth along the hard ground. He leans in close, whispering loudly enough into her ear to be horse with effort, making sure all can hear. He looks you in the eyes as he speaks.

“You see that bitch? This is all her fault. Hers and theirs. None of this would be happening if they done as they should. They could stop it at any time...Mmmmm!...But I guess they just want to see you get fucked!”

His other hand stays on her hips, holding them in place as his muscled abdomen sends ripples up her meagre cheeks. You don’t want to watch, but you can’t help but watch. A slithering snake of sickness starts to writhe in your belly. He wants her to be you. He looks up at you, smiling at the sight of your face and black clad body. What’s Captain Washkin going to do with you? Is this it? Screaming through a hand as a man takes you as he wills? You couldn’t handle such an existence. You would-

“Bet you think your something special right? Got to prove you’re a man? Just cus you screamed like a girl?”

The man stops his movement for a moment, his smile dropping at Baffords words. He says nothing, only resumes his attack, moving harder and deeper, each of the thrusts bringing another, separate yelp from the girl.

“Yer a gods dammed failure boy.” The gruff old man chips in. He sounds like one of the drill instructors you’ve seen the citizen guards train with. “Pathetic. I’ve seen eunuchs with more balls than you. You’re not even a man. I’ve had shit on my boots that have more soul than you...”

The others start to talk, throwing their own insults one by one.

“A little piss weak bender. She’s ten times more a man than you!”

“Why shave yer head baldy? Is it so your boyfriend mistakes yer head for yer arse?”

“Ee really did scream like a girl, did-ja ear? Was it when you got that ear nick? Cut mi-self worse shavin.”

You feel ashamed. Here you are, staring, thinking about yourself when someone needs you. You drop to the floor and press yourself against the bars.

“Look at me, er...” You try to remember her name, shouted by the boy. “Erma! Erma, I want you to look at me.” She does. The look in her wide eyes breaks your heart: a look of absolute despair stared out over a thousand leagues and the grip of rough knuckles. Her brow is crunched and raised in the middle at the feeling of hard invasion that moves her back and forth, and her tugging at the hand on her face has lessened, becoming almost token as her mind closes off. The violation in her gaze is so vivid that you can almost feel it yourself, slamming in and out, eroding your will to go on. Her eyes drift close, the light behind them fading. “Erma! You’re going to look at me!” You scrabble for the words, not knowing what you’re saying. “This is just a moment in time, a-a-a moment that you are stronger than. You’ve, you’ve survived this before and you’re going to survive it again. You’re stronger than he is Erma. Strong enough to stay strong, even when you don’t want to be. We’ll get through this.” You reach out through the bars, reaching for her. She sees you. Some flickering **** light in the deep enveloping dark of her mind sees you. She’s a distance away, you can’t reach. Your eyes connect with hers, sharing her sadness and your strength: a lifeline to the fading part of her that wants to give up. “Take my hand Erma. We’ll get through this together.” Her eyes flick to your hand. She takes it.

You hold on, like you’re keeping her from being swept away by a storm; not the genital Hoth breezes that lash rain against the unwary, but the Coronac gales that pickup barns and uproot trees. You hold against the buffeting he gives her; help her ignore the grunts and wheezes overhead; keep her eyes and mind on you and away from the horror between her legs, all while insults fly like bolts on a battle field.

“Trying to impress her? I heard women like needle point!”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Oh, looks like pin dick doesn’t like having his girlhood questioned. What’s the matter? Can’t get it up? Doubt she’d notice either way.”

As your efforts strengthen her, you start to notice their efforts weaken him. He attacks more uncertainly and has to realign himself more than once. He stops to try and pull her arm away. She grabs you with the other. He pulls out and moves up, attempting to enter her rear. Despite a few winces he gets from her, he evidently fails to penetrate. He roars his frustration and stands up.

It’s the wrong move.

Seeing him limp and upset, the others burst into a hail of laughter and pointing. Further insults are thrown. One prisoner even drops his trousers as part of a remark about his size. You see that he is indeed bigger, though why men must compare so childishly you’ll never know. It evidently has the desired effect. The bald man, red faced and raging, screams as he walks out, flipping the large table on the way, while the girl, despite all the terrible things that have just happened, looks at you and smiles. It’s only a twitching of her otherwise downturned lips, but in the face of it all, you couldn’t ask for a greater sign of hope. You squeeze her hand. She squeezes back, pulling her skirt down with her other.

The topless man with the wild mop of brown hair looks around the corner to see what’s going on. He sees a group of men behind bars, congratulating each other with mirthless smiles. You suppose they have had little in the way of victories and you can’t blame them for finding hope in this one, no matter how Pyrrhic. He sees a woman, a prisoner, lying on the floor, holding your hand with her skirt pulled up to around her knees. He sees the upturned table, the lantern, the keys, you. What he makes of it all doesn’t show on his face, which remains as still and lifeless as you know his voice to be. He scoops up the keys and walks over to the woman, pulling her up by the back of her dress until she stands. You want to tell him to let her go, that she’s been through enough, but you know that would only make things worse. The others sense that as well and stifle any **** joviality they had before. They watch as he leads her to the cell, opens the door and shoves her in. You watch as she embraces her mother.

“She’ll recover...if we get out of here.”

You turn at Bafford’s quiet whisper. You don’t know what to say.

“Thank you for...” Saving the girl? Not taking up your unthinking offer? Not attacking you in the first place? “Thank you.”

He nods with understanding, a scowl forming. “Yes, well, I should have banged on the boxes when they came for you, or distracted them when they were looking or something. Instead we all just listened.”

What a strange thing to say. You both know whose fault this all is.

The old man walks over. “Looks like prayers didn’t work lass.” His voice is as gruff as ever and his tone suggests the blame is shared. “’Gods want action, else what are they lookin down for’ as my old mam use to say.”

Bafford grunts his approval, thinking with thumb and finger on either side of his nose, and a thought occurs to you.

“They’re going to take me to see Captain Washkin or she’s coming here. She’s going to interrogate me I think, to figure out who I am and what I’m doing here. It’s not much of a chance to do anything, but it’s better than giving up.” You can’t help but feel a twinge of unease at the prospect of meeting her. You had hoped when you did it would be in more favourable circumstance.

Bafford sighs, “It’ll be upstairs I’m guessing. She doesn’t do interviews down here. Just punishments.”

That’s it then; if she takes you away, to somewhere you can be alone, you can say whatever you need to join her side or be set free. You may even be able to get the upper hand if she’s sloppy. Now if you could only figure out what to say.

“Do you know anything about her that would help?” you ask the two men. Others lean in and gather round as well, seeking to maintain their shared defiance; you tell yourself that’s the reason, even for the one pressing himself against you unnecessarily.

Bafford catches on first, looking worried as he answers your question. “Only from reputation. Don’t lie; apparently she’s damn good at seeing through them.”

The old man speaks as well. “Don’t try and take her on in an outright fight. She didn’t get to be captain with just what’s between her legs. Try an surprise her.”

The man beside you adds “You got to stab the heart with silver, to kill a wendigo. ‘member that.”

Another counters him. “She’s just a woman ya fool. Stab her in the head, stab her in the heart, just stab her till the bitch stops moving.”

BANG!

“Aey! Back the lot of you.” You all turn at the toneless voice to see the man before, his hand ready to bang on the bars again. He looks at the group, **** suspicion in his eyes. Perhaps you shouldn’t have all huddled together and started whispering so conspiratorially. You all drift apart, some sharing meaning full glances, which don’t help. “You. Come here. You’re going in one of the other cells.” He makes no move to open the door. Instead he stands with rope in hand, directing you to a set of bars he can reach through. Evidently, you’re to make the short journey bound.

With no other options and a few last glances at the men, you walk to the bars and proffer your wrists out in front of you.

“Turn around.”

It was worth a try. You turn around and put your wrists together behind your back. He takes a few minutes to wrapt the rope around and tie it tight before he opens the doors and leads you out. You catch sight of Erma as you leave the room, looking at you with her big sad eyes. You hope you survive whatever’s coming next as well as she has.

The man leads you roughly by the bound arm, taking you back to the main room and into one of the small cells that line the wall opposite. He opens the door of the end cell, nearest the still occupied stocks, their occupants themselves occupied again by the old man and the bald man, who had re-found his erection and was making use of it with hunched shoulders. He looks at you with very narrow eyes, filled with hated, and the message within them is clear: you say nothing. You won’t, so long as it suits you.

“How goes it?” The old man asks.

“Search is on.” Your guide responds. “Washkin’s got us searching the whole damn island.” A shove and a stagger sends you tumbling into the cell and the door clangs shut behind.

“Aww, that’s too bad. I’d help but...” He slaps the rump of the man he’s in, but the real message is in his eyes as they flash between you and the bald man. So, you have a guardian **** on your side. How nice.

The other man walks away with a “Humf”, going to the stairs and up into the mansion above. His departure leaves you with nothing but time, the sight of ****, and challenge of not watching it when it’s the only thing to see.