AUTHOR'S NOTE: The following work of fiction contains explicit depictions of sexuality and is unsuitable for minors or for those who prefer not to be exposed to homosexual themes.
Comments are welcome.
I.
He was waiting for me just outside the West Portal, leaning up against the smooth stone arch and, as per usual, flicking ashes from the end of a cigarette. Something was different about him, though, which immediately caught my eye. He was puffing heavily on the cigarette, shifting his weight restlessly, glancing from side to side with the air of both boredom and ill-ease. Mark nervous? Couldn't be.
The boy was barely seventeen, but it was easy to forget. His clear eyes and strikingly handsome face were framed by unruly blonde hair, and a quick, confident smile. I admired him. In the time I had known him, I had even become a little intimidated by the strength of his character and his absolute, rather winning belief in himself. At a young age his amazing determination and deft mind were seen and coveted by the Circle. For years now, he'd been one of the top officers of the Signal Group. He'd been the commander of dozens of operations, and even been entrusted with secrets that officers twice his age could only guess at. Most recently, he'd been handed some of the most delicate and crucial assignments of all -- assassinations. I wasn't sure, but I estimated that the fresh-faced kid casually leaning against that wall had supervised the sanction of at least a dozen people. Sometimes doing the work personally.
Not any of this really moved my admiration, though, as much as the resolute way he had approached his latest task. He was, of course, the natural choice. Stunning good looks, a lean athlete's body, charismatic and likable, obedient and ruthless. One of the "guest" prisoners being held by the Circle had attracted the interest of the intelligence chiefs, and so Mark had been assigned to assist in the fourth-level interrogation of the prisoner. The prisoner had earlier made a demand under the War Entitlements Act, one which the chiefs now saw fit to grant, seeing an opportunity to get their man close. This male prisoner had demanded the comfort of a sexual partner. Mark, accordingly, had been ordered to pose as a prostitute for him.
I knew quite well that Mark's sexual tastes did not run to men, and what his bedmate would demand of him was unimaginable. But, he had smiled that easy, confident smile he had, sure of himself. Only his eyes betrayed a certain distant hollowness, I think, at knowing that he would be forced to perform for his next target in bed. He wasn't just determined, was Mark. He was a grim realist, with no pretension at all. I had shaken my head at the time in disbelief. So young, so strong.
And that is why a freezing snake writhed through my stomach when I noticed that the hand which held his cigarette was shaking. As I approached, I saw in shock that he was sporting a black eye, and that he wouldn't look at me directly. But his voice, at least, was strong and clear as he said, in a low voice so as not be overheard, "Menelaus, I need your help. I'm in serious trouble." And he grinned at me in that confident way again, only somewhat more weakly this time.
Mark and I had know each other for a couple years. We were the same age, but there resemblances faded, and we almost never moved in the same circles. Although we had both been recruited in the Circle's search for talent, he was on an operations career track, while I was just an intern in one of the secure University labs. We had crossed paths when I helped him out on one of his assignments. I guess it's fair to say that we liked and trusted each other, but this was partly just because Mark and I both knew he could read me like a book. For some reason, I made him laugh. Of course, I was in total awe of my friend. He knew me to be, though pretty overweight and geeky, not all that stupid. We didn't mind each other's company.
I considered simply walking away immediately. That would have been anyone's first thought, in that age and climate, and I was no Mark. I was an academic, and a card-carrying coward. Mark was much more influential than I. If he was in trouble...how can I put it? If he were a fish in a frying pan, I was very likely to end up as the kindling for the fire.
I cannot easily explain, therefore, why I did not go away. Instead, I said, "What is it, Mark? My God, you look terrible..."
He smiled again. "Thanks, I'm trying out a new look. Let's walk toward the gardens, okay? Unless we should meet later?"
*Much later, a voice inside me said, but again I surprised myself. "No, no, let's go. What the hell is going on?"
"The usual crap, you might say." He stared pensively at the horizon, lighting another cigarette, while we walked into the botanical pen. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts. Our footsteps followed the narrow path of simple crimson bricks broken up by a thick lawn, while on either side, giants of the garden stood guard and gradually hid us from view. The botanicals were a maze of burning flowers, towering trees, and bizarre plants in a fog of bewildering smells. "What do you know of the Rebellion?"
I glanced at him rapidly. "Why," I asked, as if it were a thing of mild curiosity, "would you ask me something like that?"
"Don't soil your pants, Menny. It's me, remember? I'm just asking if you were exposed to the events in any way."
I quickly decided that the truth was probably the correct tactic, at least for now. Mark could have detected any prevarication. "Well, the chiefs are aware that my father and my brother were part of the ring of traitors at Chancellorsville. But my family wanted to protect me, or else they didn't trust me. I was out of the loop. Fortunately, circumstances made that evident..."
"Your father and brother...dead?"
I nodded. "Shot in the courtyard along with the others."
"Should they have trusted you?" Mark asked in a low voice. We both paused on the path, saying nothing. He sounded serious, but I knew him. There was an impish tone there.
"I'm not fond of dying, if that's what you're asking," I hissed at him impatiently, shooting another hard glance his way.
"Did you know anybody who may have been friends with them at that time, or sympathetic?" He turned to look at me with an intense stare.
I coughed and walked a little more stiffly. "All right, suppose you tell me why you're asking?"
He smiled, amused. "I will, in a moment. But I know that you're not trusted by the chiefs, Menny. I'm not investigating. I need to know for reasons of my own. Only you can help me. I'm asking as a friend."
As a friend? I looked at him, searching his face for mockery. I saw none.
Did he need me as a friend, I wondered? Was his situation as desperate as that?
My nervous mind urged me to edge away. It knew that I was at the decision point of deliverance. But once again, my instinct took over, ignoring the protests of my mind.
"You know what would happen if I said that I knew someone with close ties to the Rebellion..."
Mark took a deep breath, steeling himself, and then interrupted. "Menny, it's not the prisoner who's being broken. It's me. They're trying to break me."
I just stood there, like a fool, staring at him as if he were some kind of exotic fish. "What are you saying?" I said, stunned.
"Just what you heard me say. The Circle sent me on this mission so they could break me. This was all a plan to trap me, get me where they could pry open my head."
"But -- my God, Mark -- *why?"
He took a drag on his cigarette, staring at a group of particularly pretty red flowers nearby. "Fuck if I know." He let out a shuddering breath. "My only hope is to find out."
"You think they may try to kill you next?"
"No!" He laughed in a completely uncharacteristic bitter and caustic way. "I'm afraid they'll fuck me up the brain."
"But, if what you say is true, and you already know it, then surely they've failed?"
Mark turned to look at me, and his eyes were haunted, plagued by a nightmare. I had never seen anything that made me want to run away screaming like he did at this moment. "Fuck that train of thought, Menny," he whispered hoarsely, "The first time, it...I can't describe it to you. I was at its mercy. I was *fucked over, on the first day. I didn't suspect, even then. I went back..."
"Mark..." I began.
"**Every fucking moment I spend away from that monster is torture!*" he screamed into my face. He'd lost his ability to hide his terror. He was wide-eyed and standing with his feet wide apart, as if about to break into a run, but unable to decide where to run to. His face was white and slick with sweat. He was shaking like a leaf.
I grabbed him but he threw me off violently. I glanced around nervously. There was no one nearby, but I couldn't see through some of the dense copses of trees, and anyone on the thoroughfare could have heard Mark's scream. We would be finished -- completely finished -- if we attracted any attention.
A calm that I didn't feel took over my actions. I looked in his eyes and realized that he was at the end of his rope, completely disoriented and stressed out. He might have dropped in a dead faint or gone running into the streets screaming bloody murder. There were a dwindling number of choices.
"I know what you mean," I heard myself say in a perfectly reasonable and calm voice, hoping that this would contribute to the disorientation in his brain for a moment. "But don't you think it would be a terrible loss?"
It worked. Mark stared at me as if I were a madman. In that moment, desperate, I dived into him.
II.
It went rather well, I thought. Diving into another individual is quite dangerous. It is the equivalent of seizing the controls of a race car from someone else right in the middle of the final stretch. Of course, it was helped by the fact that Mark knew I could dive into him and probably wanted me to do it. But, all in all, it was fairly amazing how smoothly the episode went.
Not that there were no bumps. Diving is a violent affair.
We both screamed, but I was able to keep it inward, a cry from the throne of the soul, rather than a raw emission from the voice box. My mind leapt deep into his, crashing through his defenses, ripping apart some of the structures he had erected to keep himself sane. He felt the full agony of that -- there was no choice. I wormed my way into his central brain and coiled myself about the part of his psyche that most needed protection: his impulse for survival. Even in that desperate moment, I was overwhelmed with admiration for the strength that welled from his desire to live.
I'd dived into many people before. It was one of the talents that had allowed me to survive blood relation with Rebellion patriots. The Circle was fascinated and delighted by my powers, even though they didn't at all trust me. I couldn't dismiss the possibility that they had intended me to dive into Mark all along -- I'm sure Mark had thought of the same thing.
Mark and I had worked together on operations involving my ability to trespass across the boundaries of an unwilling mind. We had discussed the procedure extensively, and he knew its uses and limitations. Diving couldn't subvert someone's loyalties or much change their outlook. It could only expose the subject's experiences to me, in such a way that deception was impossible, and it gave me some measure of physical control over the subject.
As I dived, I put one of my hands on his shoulder and the other on his side, steadying him, and for a short time, perhaps several minutes, we stood like that, staring at each other. It would have seemed quite odd to anyone watching, but we were well hidden from the thoroughfare and it couldn't be helped. Unfortunately, time moved more slowly in the dive-state than in normal life. I felt even more rueful about it after the first realization hit me from inside Mark's mind.
The boy whose mind I was exploring was gay -- quite strongly homosexual. He was also madly controlled by lustful thoughts. Even though I am far from physically attractive, I gathered from his memory that he had viewed me appraisingly when I first approached, calculating how he might succeed in seducing me. The thought was so absurd that it took me by surprise. This wasn't Mark. This young man was quite unable to keep random sexual thoughts from erupting to the surface of his mind.
And, Mark hadn't been gay. I didn't need any proof of that to know it with near certainty. The looks he betrayed to me on getting his latest assignment -- they spoke volumes. He had betrayed a bitter disgust thinly contained, but so subtly, that only someone who knew him could read the signs. Although he could have faked it -- with an amazing job of acting -- that just didn't strike me as probable. Of course, only individuals know what's in their hearts (if they've never been dived into), so anything was possible. But the raw current of the feelings inside Mark's head suggested to me that he had been gay only for a short time now.
The second realization that hit me was the one that Mark mentioned himself: he wanted desperately to go back to the house where he and the prisoner were living. He had been blissfully happy there. Just the suggestion of intense contentment was enough to scare me. There are no such things in our world, and there could never be. Mark was right. His mind was being subverted by someone or something. They'd done a good job of prying his will open as if it were a nasty, inconvenient old plank covering the entrance to a building. Mark was hanging on by his fingernails. If he went back, they'd have him for sure.
I broke the contact somewhat, just enough so I could be aware of my surroundings, and I steered Mark toward a clump of bushes. Underneath, as I'd hoped, was a cozy crawl space carpeted with pine needles and relatively clean. I dragged him down into it and settled him onto his back.
"Good boy," I told him. It was just a phrase I tended to use with the subjects I controlled. Because it's patronizing, it was a good way to test the depth of the dive. Most people, unless they're out of it, feel irritated or insulted by the phrase. If there's no emotional reaction, I know that I've achieved a very deep dive. Mark showed no flicker of resentment.
"Now, let's have the whole story," I said. I put my hands back on him and settled myself into his memory.
III.
He'd met with the animal for the first time in an apartment provided by the Keepers. At first, it would be only for four hours a week. They were treating it as a sort of conjugal visit.
He was a little perplexed at what to wear -- something sexy? What is sexy to another guy? In the end, he opted for sneakers, an old pair of blue jeans, and a t-shirt that was somewhat too big for him. Not quite arousing, but then he supposed that clothes would be dispensed with in fairly short order. He considered getting some sort of provocative tattoo or body ring, but rejected that idea as well. He needed to be convincing in his role. A clumsy gesture could alert the target that he was not all he seemed...
He knew how to use his smile. He was used to being thought of as good-looking, and he was quite aware that one of his grins could instantly win him friends. The thought didn't have a trace of vanity or pride to it, however. It was just a way of getting his targets to lower their guard and let him close enough to fuck them over.
They found an actual prostitute for him to practice sex with, to make sure that all went smoothly with the prisoner. He was glad to sense that the other boy -- about fifteen or so, with unkempt brown hair and an impish look to him -- was terribly turned on, despite being much the detached professional as he was. His partner taught him a lot and with a very great attention to detail. It seemed to him that the Keepers had gone to some trouble to find the smartest piece of street trash available. The kid was truly erudite. At first, it was hard for Mark to get an erection, but the boy gave him some pointers on that as well, and they both successfully came.
The boy wanted to keep going at it. He was clearly overpowered by a frank and open lust for Mark. His eyes were riveted by the older boy's lean, muscular torso. Mark had some sympathy, knowing that the teenager would die the instant he was no longer needed, but he had no taste for the eager games that the boy wanted to play. They kissed quietly for a while, so that Mark could get a feel and a rhythm for necking with another male, and then Mark abruptly rose from the bed and hit the showers. Boys were far more aggressive with each other in bed, he thought to himself. There was a necessity to maintain a gritty edge, something just short of violence.
By the time he returned for his clothes, they'd taken the other boy away.
He obsessed about how to be strongly appealing to the prisoner, considering it carefully for days. He decided, in the end, to play the role with a great deal of sweetness. He wanted the prisoner to see someone with the appearance of innocence and purity, easily corruptible. It would be somewhat easier than being aggressive, and less likely to betray any falsity.
He was given very little briefing on the prisoner himself -- why was that? It was deeply suspicious, but such odd decisions were not out of character. It might have been a form of punishment or reprimand. He'd been feeling for some time that his masters were manipulating him, but for the moment they had betrayed nothing as to why. He wasn't afraid that the reasons wouldn't be revealed in time. And, for now, he had no fear that the chiefs secretly wanted to get rid of him.
For some reason, he didn't consider the possibility they wanted him broken.
On the day of their first meeting, he let himself into the apartment very early, noting the cameras and the deployment of the Keeper security teams, both visible and invisible. He wanted to assure himself that there were no possibilities that would suggest escape to the prisoner. That might put him in danger, and he couldn't afford to carry any weapons. After doing a thorough walk-through of the small, one bedroom flat, decorated in a cozy, bright, wood motif, he sat down on the sofa to wait for his lover. He allowed himself one slight shiver of disgust at what he was about to do. Sex with a man. He'd never anticipated this. No doubt that was why this assignment had been given him. The chiefs were putting their weapon through its paces, seeing how he would react, testing his resolve. Well, he didn't mind letting them see that he thought this was total bullshit, but that he would comply in every detail. They would pay for mocking him. He'd see to it.
The minutes ticked away slowly, but he didn't allow himself to pace or fidget where he sat. He simply stared right ahead and practiced breathing exercises, rising just once to go to the bathroom and check his hair. He'd left it longish and brushed it back neatly, but it was already threatening to come forward and fall down over his eyes.
Just as the electric clock on a small table in the living room showed the hour, there was a knock at the door and it opened. Mark, despite himself, had to conceal a sharp intake of breath.
The creature entering the room was dressed nondescriptly in jeans, a dress shirt, and leather jacket. It walked quite normally in, and closed the door behind it. But, nevertheless, it was hard to see it as a person. It -- he, Mark corrected himself mentally -- had the head of a black jaguar, yellow eyes, long whiskers, bisected snout, although in almost all other ways he appeared human. His skin was a very dark brown, matching the soft hue of his fur. His hands, long-fingered and strong-looking, ended in rather cruel nails. They were curled around a cone-shaped paper package.
The man -- if the word could be used -- was somewhat short, but his body spoke eloquently of power and strength. It was easy to see that he was heavily muscled, and he walked with an energy suggestive of a coiled spring.
Mark smiled at him wryly, hiding a temporary feeling of panic. *Not human. Was this part of the punishment, too? Maybe their games in bed would be even more savage than he anticipated. Maybe that had been the point all along.
Mark rose, stretching out his arms languidly, like an athlete getting ready for a match. It was a gesture intended to look a little coy, and he thought he had hit the tone he wanted. *Just come and get me. He expected to be moved on immediately, the creature's hands pulling off his clothing, pushing him up against a wall, feeling up his muscles, reaching hungrily into his pants. They only had four hours, after all.
But, instead of advancing on him, the creature just stared. "They said I'd be very pleased," it observed in a calm, cultured voice. "I never expected that they were understating the case." He continued to look appreciatively, making no move. There was silence for several seconds.
"I'm...glad you're pleased," Mark said uncertainly. He didn't want to push the issue, but he was caught off guard by the slow pace. He'd fully expected to be jumped by a merciless, sex-starved madman. This creature would have been a prisoner for a number of years now. If sexual satisfaction were that important to it that it requested a partner, surely it would be desperate to satiate that craving?
"I asked for a beautiful blonde," the creature went on, unconcernedly. He took a step forward, and then stopped, holding out his paper package. For some reason, Mark was completely astonished that it was a bouquet of flowers, roses. He stepped forward and took it from the creature's hands. *What in the name of fuck is one supposed to do when accepting flowers? he thought crazily. This was all so weird. He thought he'd prepared himself for the worst when he planned on allowing the creature to throw him down and get on top of him within the first few seconds of their acquaintance. Apparently, deeper humiliations were possible. The creature seemed intent on... *feminizing him.
Now that they were closer, the creature could reach out and gently brush one of his hairs away from his face. "You're very pretty," it said huskily. Its deep, yellow eyes, free of white sclera, bored deeply into his own. "You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. I wish I'd fathered you..."
Mark didn't know of any way to respond to that. He stared at the creature, angrily realizing that he was betraying his own helplessness, but unable to do or say anything. He started to mumble, just to extinguish the silence, "Do...do you want to go to the bedroom?" He considered briefly whether he should just take off his clothes and try to get control of the situation that way.
"Are you hungry?" the creature asked abruptly.
Another shot from left field. "No...that is...um, maybe a little," Mark stammered, cursing himself for sounding like such an ass.
"I'll make us some dinner. Then we can talk a bit..." And without another word, the creature took off its jacket, hung it on one of the chairs, and proceeded to the kitchen, in order to make dinner. "You should put those in water," the creature observed in passing, busily hunting through the cupboards for something.
It took a while for Mark to register this suggestion. He was too busy staring at the animal which was now looking for ingredients in the refrigerator. After a minute, he heard himself say, "Oh, right." Had to put them in water. Why the fuck is that, Mark? he asked himself. **You thinking of keeping the damn flowers? Smelling them, maybe? Your first fucking corsage, my man?... He now realized that he infinitely preferred having a cock rammed unceremoniously up his ass than to be standing there like a wallflower, unsure of how to accept the gentlemanly attentions being administered.
He dazedly located a vase in one of the cupboards (**a vase? What the fuck is that doing there?*), filled it with water and placed the roses in it. By that time, the creature was busily devising a tomato sauce to go with the spaghetti he had found, humming softly as he worked.
"My name's Mark," he mentioned, over the kitchen clamor. "What's your name?"
The creature looked at him, as if this were an indiscreet question. "I am Felis." Mark's senses told him this was a lie, but he couldn't discern if it was casual or strategic. "Do you like onions?" the were-panther asked him.
"Yeah," he responded, "Yeah, sure I do."
"Then I'll add onions," the creature said with satisfaction. He began to chop them up as they spoke.
The last thing that Mark expected is that he would be waiting around restlessly for another hour or so, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. But his partner was patiently building a spaghetti sauce, from raw materials which Mark had no idea were in the apartment. He felt as though he were in some sort of dream, or nightmare. His "lover" seemed to have no interest in some raw, uninhibited sex at all. Instead, the panther-thing was...sort of...courting him.
Their conversation was light and friendly, but very superficial. The creature asked if he had any girlfriends. *Girlfriends? Mark did a double-take. *What kind of question is that? He'd slept with a girl once, in the line of duty, but he'd never had any female lovers -- or male ones for that matter. He didn't have the time. He was an officer, after all. Sensing that this may be a probe to discover his true identity, Mark happily chatted about the several girls and multiple boys who'd shared his bed in the past. He stopped when he suddenly realized that the creature knew he was lying. It was a quiet impression, but firm. He'd been found out.
"I wouldn't try to lie to me about sex," the creature observed, noting Mark's sudden silence. "I can easily tell how experienced you are. In fact, I like you a lot just because you're practically a virgin..."
*Practically a virgin? Had he just been insulted? He blinked at the creature. It laughed at him. He caught a good look at the creature's sharp canines as it threw back its head in amusement.
"Don't take it personally. I mean that as a compliment." It looked at him appraisingly. "I see you're fairly smart as well as physically attractive. I think we're going to get along, Mark. Why don't you set the table? I'll be done fairly soon."
With the flair of a professional, Felis deposited the spaghetti on a plate and added the carefully created sauce. Although Mark had set two places, Felis prepared a plate only for him. "I'm not quite hungry right now. I just want to watch you eat." Mark wasn't happy to hear this. He felt deeply uncomfortable as it was.
True to his word, Felis watched him carefully as he worked on his spaghetti. It was absolutely delicious, Mark had to admit to himself, the best sauce he'd ever tasted. He said as much, and the panther bared his teeth in what Mark supposed was an attempt at a smile. "I'm glad you like it," the creature said. "Have some more."
They talked a little bit about wines, a subject that Mark knew well and which it seemed the panther rather relished. Mark was feeling more relaxed. Now that he knew that the prisoner didn't believe he was a real prostitute, he felt more like he could be himself. And the nightmares he'd imagined about violent sex struggles had far from materialized. Time was ticking away, and the panther hadn't shown the slightest inclination to even grope him. As they talked, Mark eyed his target with increasing interest. What was he really after? This whole scene had the marks of careful planning. Was he perhaps being interviewed for some purpose, on the pretext of providing sexual favors? More lies, more deception. Mark sighed, realizing that he was at the mercy of his chiefs, unless he could figure out their game.
It was at the table that he first detected the panther's smell. At first, he had no idea what it was. He thought he had caught a whiff of something deeply organic, almost like the smell of a forest after a rain shower. Mold? But this was a new building, and the smell wasn't stale and thin like mold, but rather rich and broad. Something told him it wasn't plant-like, either. It had an edge to it, a note that made him feel the stirrings of disgust, as of something faintly unclean, although it was not really unpleasant at all. He rather liked the smell, in fact. It faintly reminded him of the smell of new leather. As they talked, he wondered in detached puzzlement what it could possibly be. Some chemical in the ventilation system? Couldn't be...
It took him half an hour to realize that the scent was stronger nearer the panther. And then he recognized it: it was very similar to the body odor of a furry animal, only much stronger and much less unpleasant.
The panther looked at him with those deep eyes, noting his reactions. "I apologize," it said, "Despite my best efforts, it seems I can never quite eliminate a certain natural odor that I have. I hope it doesn't trouble you..."
"No!" Mark found himself staring oddly at the creature, feeling as though the panther had just said something rather disturbing, but not knowing why. He wanted to allay its apprehension. "No, no, not at all. Don't worry. It's not...unpleasant." Once again, he felt strangely uneasy.
"No?" The panther looked at him intently, with those deep cat's eyes. "I'm pleased to hear it." There was silence. Mark lowered his eyes, not wanting to meet the creature's gaze anymore for some reason.
"I have to leave you now," the panther announced abruptly, ending the tense silence. They both rose from the table and the panther lazily donned its jacket. Mark was amazed that four hours had already passed, but the panther was right. The visit was over. "I've immensely enjoyed our time together, Mark. I'd like to come back next week...if that's all right with you?"
Mark blinked. *All right with me? "Sure! Of course...yeah, I'd like that," he said, sounding a little taken aback. He kicked himself silently. He was constantly missing his cues when he was around this creature. Trying to recover, he smiled warmly at the panther and stretched his arms, using that same sly, coy gesture. "You're always welcome, you know that? Any time..." he finished, casually reaching out to flick a bit of thread from the creature's arm. He hoped he wasn't being too subtle. He didn't like this role of being the animal's date, and was feeling determined to act more like a slut from now on.
The panther, however, seemed unmoved for the moment. He thanked Mark again, and turned to go. Having opened the door, the panther then paused on the threshold, and turned. He looked at Mark, reached out and affectionately patted him on the stomach.
The effect, to Mark's horror and disbelief, was electric. The sensation of the panther's hand, masked by the material of his t-shirt, gently brushing across his abdominals, *felt good. A shiver passed through his spine, and he felt his eyelids droop down ever so slightly. He felt for a moment like he might collapse.
The panther turned and walked away, and Mark shut the door behind him, leaning on it and taking deep breaths. He felt shaky. That was the first gesture remotely like an advance that the creature had yet made. But his disgust at being petted by another male was not what had shocked him.
What shocked him was that there was no disgust at all. Not even the slightest uneasiness. Being touched felt good and right and natural. And he had liked it. A lot.
IV.
Mark brooded furiously over the events during the next week. The chiefs chose not to debrief him except *pro forma; he sat for an hour with a second lieutenant who was only about five years older than him and who gave the impression of having stepped fresh out of the academy. Clueless. The humiliation of having to explain the whole thing to such a thick-headed person was hard to endure. And the lieutenant could give him no further information on the purpose of probing into the mind of this particular prisoner.
*They're playing with me, he thought to himself grimly. *And not bothering to hide it. What's their game?
His hackles were raised about the way he'd felt himself respond to the prisoner. He'd never remotely had any homosexual urgings, and yet magazines showing men's underwear were somehow attracting his eye of late. Sensing a trap, he sat himself down and considered rebellion. Refuse to go on. Simply tell them that he'd not cooperate with their unprofessional uses of him...and then he decided that was no good. It would be playing into their hands. They delighted in someone's rebellion, he had realized long ago. It made things easier for them. The only thing that would work was to outmaneuver them, or else to escape. And he had no means of escape, not yet.
Accordingly, he was again in the apartment when the panther showed the next time. "Hold out your wrist," it said eagerly. Somehow, he was finally sure that it wanted to fuck him. He put out his left wrist as ordered.
The panther fastened a wristwatch on it, with a bright metal band. Looking at it, Mark realized in shock that it was a Patek Philippe. Probably worth several thousand dollars. "Surprise," the panther said in satisfaction.
"But..." He was interrupted, however, by the panther's rapid clasping of a gold chain around his neck, a distinctly boyish style of thick links. "Do you like them?" the panther asked easily.
"Of course! They're beautiful. But why...?"
"Because *you're beautiful," the creature answered slyly, and playfully stroked a finger up Mark's back, making him shiver. Mark sighed in a strangled way. He didn't know how much more of this princess treatment he could take.
But the princess treatment did have its moments, he was forced to admit to himself. The creature made him dinner again (once again refusing to eat), this time a grilled salmon that was absolutely heavenly. Once that was done, the panther put a movie on the DVD player that the apartment came equipped with. It was a meaningless action film with a dose of romance, and the panther spent the time letting Mark use him as a pillow. Once again no pressure, no advances, just companionship and a good time. Mark found himself rather enjoying the whole thing, attention from a companion without demands. After the four hours were gone, they hugged for the first time and went their separate ways.
He was becoming the panther's boyfriend, and he couldn't determine how he felt about it. The gifts never stopped. Sometimes it was jewelry, but very often it was just a stuffed animal, a silly-looking cat or rabbit or elephant, a box of chocolates, a bouquet of flowers. Simple, affectionate gifts. After a few weeks, he had three bracelets, two neck chains (one gold, one silver), a ring, a watch, an ankle bracelet, and a small roomful of stuffed animals. He knew that the panther surely couldn't think he needed these things to be attracted to him. The panther just wanted to give him things, and he ruefully admitted to himself that he didn't find that behavior terribly repulsive. He was able to smile warmly and with feeling at the panther now; not the smile of sluttish prostitute but of a friend. He was strangely turned on by the attentions.
They had dinner together, mostly, (which meant that the panther watched him eat) and then they sat down to a movie. Usually, it was an action or romance pic, often both combined, and the panther insisted that he sit down on its lap, the requisite bowl of popcorn lying on Mark's thighs. Mark rather enjoyed the panther's earthy smell now. He buried his nose in the panther's neck from time to time and took a deep breath. It felt good, Mark admitted reluctantly to himself, sitting on the throne of heavy muscle, to have a boyfriend.
But, he was still dismayed by this pace, and he'd tried to force the issue on their third date, only to be turned down flat. He was once again feeling miffed at being made into a girl. So he waited for the panther wearing only his Speedos, determined that they'd get it on this time. The panther walked in, took one look at him, and then immediately opened a window. After a few uneventful minutes, it marveled at the draft in the room and forcibly put him into a shirt and pants so he wouldn't catch cold. Foiled again. This animal just wasn't interested in having his ass, and so Mark gave up and let him have his way. They'd just have dates together.
And the dates began to get fun. They'd just uncork a couple of beers, relax, and lay into a good discussion about sports. Mark gave up trying to inject sexual innuendo into these talks, and discovered that the panther was a rather informed and entertaining conversant on the fortunes of the Premier League. Next, the panther brought over a home video game console on one of the visits, and they both filled a very short four hours playing race car games, while consuming a fifth of vodka and orange juice. On another occasion, they just sat around playing a perfectly inane trivia board game for hours.
Once again, refreshment, this time a steady stream of scotch-and-cokes, had some hand in the good humor of the afternoon. On a sudden inspiration, Mark even tried the age-old trick of looking like he was helplessly smashed. He pulled off his shirt, lay back on the floor, languidly stretched and posed in a suggestive way, and showered innuendo mixed with happy brainlessness into the conversation, in a performance deserving of at least an Oscar nomination. He'd never put so much hard work into saying, "Just fuck me, will ya?"
His audience was studiously unimpressed. It seemed that the cat was either really not interested or could hold his liquor better than most. This was starting to seem like a comedy.
Mark almost convinced himself to be more direct with the big cat. Felis was always very polite, but had a sense of humor and seemed to harbor a genuine warmth toward Mark. It seemed possible to simply ask him why he didn't take advantage of what was being offered. The information could have been key to understanding why the chiefs had thrown Mark in with this creature. But, in the end, Mark decided against betraying his interest in the question. Let the cat think that he didn't really care one way or the other, for now, and watch its behavior.
There were nagging suggestions, however, the Felis himself was not neutral on the issue. The first was the brief tummy-rub on their first date. Then, later, Felis invited Mark to smell him, push his nose against Felis's skin. He did it, as instructed, feeling quite comfortable with the playful context of the suggestion, and discovered that he liked the smell. But still, it was faintly sexual, and even though Felis refused to let it get any more serious than that, Mark caught the definite impression of tension in the black cat. Then, Mark had the strange impression that when he accepted Felis's invitation to sit on the panther's lap, Felis spent the entire time of the film they were watching trying to keep himself under control. Felis betrayed little gaffes which indicated he wasn't watching the movie at all. He felt tense, as Mark rested on him, uneasy. If Mark tried to be affectionate, Felis tended to be cold. On one occasion, the panther brushed him off, roughly.
"What was *that about?" Mark challenged him, not out of real offense, but to get information.
The panther was instantly remorseful. He put out an arm to massage Mark's neck and shoulders. "Nothing. Forget it. I'm very sorry. Let's just watch the film." But Mark could tell that even after they'd settled down again and were staring at the screen, neither of them were paying the slightest attention to the events therein. He didn't think that the panther or himself could even outline the plot.
It was with rather great and disturbing surprise that sex happened to them.
They were on the love seat in the living room, watching another action film. Mark was feeling rather relaxed. His "boyfriend" had just prepared a potful of Spanish paella, at great trouble and complication, but the result was rather delicious. He didn't want the panther to know that he'd had paella several times before, and so he could judge that it was excellently well prepared. He just smiled through mouthfuls of the stuff, hoping Felis would get the idea that he thought the panther was a genius. Felis seemed hypnotized by Mark's pleasure.
"You're absolutely stunning, you know that?" Felis whispered to him.
"I bet you say that to all the guys," Mark said with a smile. That was a more light-hearted response than he'd normally allow himself. He flashed a smile at the panther, and, almost physically, felt the panther fall madly in love with him.
He didn't know how he knew, but his instinct told him, *Ah, now you're in charge. How wrong he was. How competely mistaken.
They let the moment pass and found themselves in their usual roles a half an hour later, with a bowl of popcorn seated on top of Mark, who was seated on top of the panther, so they could both reach in and help themselves.
Somewhere during the film, Mark felt a strange pressure under him. It didn't occur to him immediately that the panther's penis had engorged.
It started when the panther calmly licked his neck. Because he'd learned that the creature didn't like him acting in an sexually suggestive way, Mark ignored this. Probably an aberration.
But the time had come, as Mark learned soon enough. Deliberately, as if performing a delicate surgery, the panther's hand came to hover over Mark's crotch, and the fingers took hold of the little metal tab which was connected to the zipper on Mark's fly. Mark's breath caught. It was happening.
The zipper was patiently pulled down, each pop of a stitch being released lovingly sounded. When the last one was finished, the hand of the panther went into Mark's clothing, and emerged holding his penis, which was not quite stiff yet, but on the verge of completing that task.
They both stared at it, panting heavily. The film flashing in front of them had become a distant memory, a joke. Mark was in disbelief. For the very first time, his cock lay naked and stiff in another man's hand. That other man owned him. The fingers had not even rubbed the baby soft skin, and he felt how deeply subjugated he was.
"You like that?" the panther asked him absently, not expecting an answer. Strangely, it added, "I'm sorry."
Mark did like it. His breathing began to race, his mind unable to wrap itself around the sacred mystery that was unfolding at his crotch. Involuntarily, his hips thrust forward, but the panther contained his struggles expertly. "Just relax, " the panther urged him. "It will take me a while to use this." Its tongue lolled affectionately against his neck.
And the panther then proceeded to use his penis, as patiently and slowly as it said it would. Every time Mark thought that the pleasure had reached a climax, every time he felt the juices stirring in his pelvis were ready to emerge, the panther forced him to calm down, and achieved a sharper prick of ecstasy in his loins. Some time during this the panther shouted, *"Do you like this?" and he screamed in response.
The Keepers broke in. The time was over, and the panther was still working on Mark's penis. They ripped the two apart, Mark screaming in anger and frustration, the panther loudly ordering him, *"Don't touch yourself! Don't touch yourself!" The panther was dragged out of the room by the Keepers and Mark was left to himself, weeping openly, kneeling on the carpet, lost in the single, lambent desire to finish the job. But the panther's words held him back, somehow. "No," Mark said, getting hold of himself. No touching. He didn't trust himself to tuck his organ back in his pants, so he collapsed on the carpet to sleep. No touching. The piece of sausage between his legs was the panther's property.
V.
Absorbing Mark's mind, I had had some of his experience of homosexuality. So, when emerging from this scene, I was uncomfortably aware of having a rather strongly attractive and unconscious young man at my mercy. I couldn't help shuddering as my hand brushed against his stomach. He looked so...touchingly cute, asleep like that. I had to remind myself he hadn't seemed cute at all to the people he'd killed.
Mark stirred and threw his arm about my waist instinctively. Probably thought I was his panther. I got a hold of myself, letting the passionate feelings dissipate, but I couldn't resist stroking his hair.
"Mark, that's what they had in store for you," I whispered, stunned and intrigued. "But why? What was the point? Why break *you of all people?"
The boy buried his nose in my neck, sniffing and kissing.
"We've got to keep going," I told him grimly.
Mark, of course, was no fool. The episode was the result of a drug, or hormone therapy, or something. The way he'd cleanly and wildly lost any control of his own emotions and thoughts told him that. Also, he'd been trained to fight addictions. But this was no normal addiction. He didn't just feel the stirrings of fire in his blood, that told him that he wanted to be back in the panther's company again, the ever-present yearning that he sometimes convinced himself had gone away but never did. It was an unexpected and stomach-twisting feeling that he had left himself, his true self, back at that apartment. He could fight the mere desire for pleasure, but he couldn't fight that. He never even considered staying away from that place.
So, he went back to the apartment, the next week, as per normal.
He didn't know what his aim was. He thought, vaguely, that he had to understand how they were drugging him. But that was a merely secondary preoccupation, as he walked the steps toward the apartment door. His mind was choked by the smell of the panther. It drowned out his thoughts. He lit cigarette after cigarette, as though to calm himself down, but the truth was that he needed to be doing something with his hands to hide the fact that his mind was washed out and churning with crimson thoughts.
The Keepers had specifically forbidden any smoking in the apartment, but he kept chain-smoking right on through the door and to the couch, where he absently flicked the ashes onto the surface of one of the room's end tables without so much as an ash tray. He lifted his feet up onto the couch with him and puffed away heavily, and that was how the panther found him.
They stared at each other for a few moments. It was rather bewildering for Mark. The panther's expression was inscrutable, impassive, and so felt to Mark as though it were oddly accusatory.
The panther closed the door behind him. Mark crushed out his cigarette, got up, and started to take off his button-down shirt.
Mark didn't even see the panther leap across the room in a single, violent bound. He just heard the rush of wind, not understanding, and felt his wrists wrenched away from his shirt and lifted high into the air. Mark found himself dangling by his wrists, maybe a half-foot off the ground, staring directly into the face of an enraged wild jaguar, baring its teeth. Felis was lifting him bodily, holding his wrists up and out, crucifixion style.
"*No one takes your clothes off but I," snarled Felis. "Say it!"
"I don't -- "
The next sound Felis made turned Mark's blood to ice. It was a pure animal growl, and it scared the hell out of Mark, for the first time.
But not the last.
"No one," Mark repeated slowly, "no one takes my clothes off... but you." For some reason, Mark felt an electric, warm sensation at the sound of his own voice, deep in the pit of his gut. He held still and looked into the panther's eyes, although his shoulders and arms were beginning to hurt rather badly and it was very hard to breathe in this position.
Seeing something Mark's eyes that satisfied him, Felis tossed Mark unceremoniously onto the couch. The panther picked up the pack of cigarettes and absently ripped them to shreds. "I'd better not catch you with these again," he told Mark in an off-hand way. He then reached out and roughly grabbed Mark's left wrist. Mark braced himself, not knowing what was coming. But Felis merely unclasped and took off Mark's wristwatch.
"A lesson," he said, staring very hard at Mark. "Don't cross me."
The expensive Patek Philippe fell to the ground, where, with amazing force, the panther crushed out the crystal with the heel of his boot, and ground his foot back and forth until the hands were ruined and some of the watch's mechanism was showing.
Mark looked down at it, and then up at Felis's staring face. He felt hot and cold all of a sudden, his stomach started to turn queasy. He was totally bewildered by the feelings in his gut. That stupid watch had meant nothing to him, it was just a prop in the game he was playing to fulfill a mission. That was all. Mark realized with a start that he was trying to convince himself of that. His shoulders drooped and he was feeling...smaller. *This is shame, he told himself. *I can't remember feeling this before. He shivered.
"Are you going to behave?" the panther asked.
For some reason, just then, trying to formulate a penitent answer to the big cat's question, Mark felt some of his old consciousness break through the drugged submissiveness that he was being controlled by. *Behave? For a fleeting moment, the question struck him as a little bizarre.
"What the *hell are you talking about?" Mark said, calmly but at the same time shaking like a leaf. "Who the fuck are you? Why am I a prisoner here? Who's --"
For a moment, Mark was sure the big cat was going bash Mark's face with a right hook. Instead, his "boyfriend" grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. Felis was apparently out of his mind with rage again.
"I'm going to teach you how to make that spaghetti sauce," the panther remarked, swinging the rather muscular boy by the collar of his shirt, as though he weighed nothing. "Then we'll talk. We'll talk, and we'll talk, and we'll talk..."
Felis fairly threw him at the stove, and Mark was only just able to stop his own momentum without bruising himself.
For a moment, Mark felt good, hot anger flooding back into him. "Wait, let me guess," he spat at Felis in a scathing, mocking voice, "Why, oh, why do I make you hurt me like this?"
He braced himself for the blow, the crushing punch that he was sure was about to connect with his face or skull. When it came, Mark thought, he'd go all limp and start to collapse. He'd look like he was going to fall to the floor. Felis would never see the knife that Mark had grabbed and sequestered under his shirt upon having been thrown against the stove. The panther would be watching his own entrails hit the floor before he had any idea that Mark was anything but a silly little boyfriend who was misbehaving. *They won't mock me, he grinned to himself, half-crazed with rage. The chiefs...they would learn not to push him.
But once again the panther didn't act on cue, and instead took the fight directly back to Mark's flesh. The panther's arms slipped around Mark's waist, so quickly and so gently that he didn't even have time to think of resisting. Felis's heavy frame pushed itself hard against Mark's shoulders and his hot breath came down in torrents against Mark's bare neck. The big black cat then simply put heavy pressure on Mark's body, pinning him against the stove, crushing his waist with his two arms, and leaning hard on him from behind, while letting Mark feel his heavy, deep breaths.
They were like that for several silent seconds. Then Mark made a choked, strained noise in his throat. A forced gasp of enjoyment.
The panther rummaged between them for Mark's wrist. He peeled off the arm that held the hidden knife, held it out straight, away from their bodies. He snorted into Mark's hair and kept the boy's wrist out there, knife still clutched in his hand, and waited.
The panther waited and waited on him. Thirty seconds went by, a minute. Mark writhed some under the pleasant feel of force and weight on his back and waist, but savagely held out against what the panther wanted. He heard himself, as if far away, whine like an animal.
It was too much. His hand went limp, and the knife clattered to the floor. Felis kicked it far away from them.
Mark started to tremble uncontrollably in fear, feeling the panther's warm embrace tighten. Those warm arms would start to rip him cleanly in half, he was sure. Any minute now. But the panther was purring deeply, and, to Mark's surprise, began to sing a soft lullaby in some strange language into Mark's ear. The boy found himself relaxing involuntarily, the soft, sad notes of the song causing some deep part of him to respond. They both retreated from the intensity of the previous moments, standing there motionless.
Felis rubbed Mark's stomach. "You'll be punished for this, don't worry," he breathed gently into Mark's ear, sending a chill of fear down the boy's spine. "But not right now. Right now, I teach you how to cook."
It was, Mark thought at the time, as surreal a statement as perhaps could have been uttered, given the events of the last few minutes. He himself was no longer entirely sure that he believed any of this was actually happening. He desperately wanted a cigarette. God, did he need a cigarette. But even more surreal and frightening than saying it was the fact that the panther actually began to follow through with his plan.
The panther stalked about the kitchen, with his chest pressed to Mark's back. Forcing Mark to move with him, he threw the boy from side to side unceremoniously. For the most part, he held fiercely onto Mark's wrists and instructed him menacingly on what to pick up or put down and where.
Mark complied, unable to suppress a smirk of bitter humor. He felt like he was back in kindergarten, being shoved around by adults trying to get him to play nicely, and bizarrely, he couldn't get control of the situation back again. He'd killed grown men with his bare hands -- didn't that count for something? The cat pushed and he submitted, push and submission, push and submission -- he was losing his mind. He had to find a way to fight. This was an attempt to break him down, break him completely, and he'd fallen into it. He had to find a way to keep his inner resistance alive.
The cat stopped moving so violently, and Mark noticed. What he didn't notice, until more than a second later, was that it was because he himself was following the cat's motions more pliantly, trying to anticipate the next movement, trying to submit to it. His body was sensing, on an animal level, the energy of the cat's body, and surrendering to it, moving with it, like a dance. He found that even his feet suddenly gained a sixth sense, planting and moving at just the right times to keep his balance without upsetting the cat's movements. Instinctively, he raised his head upward, closing his eyes, brushing his cheek against the cat's snout. The cat stopped moving, holding him still, in order to slowly run his tongue over the tip of Mark's ear. The boy's body shivered, and he felt his entire being let go of itself, breathing in deeply the heavy smell of two bodies sweating, leaning into the warm hardness of the cat's body, tasting and enjoying the warm fear of not knowing whether his mate would continue to punish him. His mate. He used the word in his mind for the first time. Not boyfriend anymore. This being had the right to chastise him, and also the obligation to hold him in its arms...
"I want you," the cat whispered. "More than anything in this entire world. I love you..." Slowly, he turned Mark around and seated him up on the kitchen counter. Mark was panting heavily, sweating profusely, and unable to tear his eyes away from the cat's. He felt by turns utterly sick and deeply excited. The cat stroked Mark's side.
"None of my clan," the cat said, as though with difficulty, "None of my own people have seen a being like you in a thousand years. I want you so much, little boy. I need you like I need air to breathe..."
"But why?" Mark whispered. He knew he'd been cracked open then. The note of pleading in his voice was for real, and the cameras and microphones would certainly know that for sure. *Yes, you fucked me, Mark told the chiefs mentally. *Yes, bastards. I'm fucked over. Hope you're enjoying this... "Please, I've got to know. Who are you? Why me?"
The cat gently began unbuttoning his shirt. The boy shuddered and gasped in excitement. "Take my clothes off," Mark begged in a whisper, unable to contain himself. "You're the only one who can."
Mark could hear nothing but his own labored breathing, see nothing but the cat's fingers slipping the buttons from their holes, one by one, smell nothing but the powerfully sexual scent of the panther's body.
When it was finished, Mark tried to move toward the cat, but it deliberately pushed him back, forcing him to lean back, making him practically lie down on the counter. The shirt came open, revealing the boy's athletic body. Felis stared for a moment, mesmerized. And then the cat bent down and started to lick.
For Mark, it was like the most perfect bodily pleasure imaginable, better than any physical pleasure he'd ever dreamed of. Sex didn't compare to it. He felt like it would have been impossible for the cat to touch him more intimately. He kept on gasping in desperation, wondering how much more he could endure. He tried to touch the panther's head, but it grabbed his wrists and pinned his arms. The tongue went up and down, now rolling across the ridges of his abs, now tracing the curves of his pectorals, now pushing against his rib cage, now flicking in his navel. When it gently touched one of his nipples, he nearly screamed. One of his knees rocked from side to side, like a wrestler helplessly enduring torture, but unable to escape his opponent's control.
When the cat finally stopped, Mark was comatose. He looked up at his mate with half-closed eyes, dripping in sweat, still panting, and looking quite haggard. He didn't think he could move. He was utterly spent. *God, I'm hungry, he thought in a fog. *And I need a cigarette like no bastard ever should. To his mate, he whispered, "Let's go to bed..." He reached out and touched the cat's arm, weakly. *How come we never get to use the damn bed? he distantly wondered.
But the cat, instead, took one of his wrists, the one which had so recently sported a Patek Philippe, and clasped something down on it. Mark immediately recognized what it was. The cat licked him once on the forehead, and then quickly moved away. Mark heard the door slam behind him.
Mark closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply. Well, there was no doubt now about the situation, he thought with amused relief. It was all kind of funny really. He had been asked to assist with the breaking of an important prisoner. Now it was clear who the important prisoner really was, and who was the expert on the sexual breaking of wills. It would be interesting to see where this was all going from here. What questions would they ask? Which ones do they think he'd refuse to answer? Maybe it was a show trial. He felt a flicker of admiration at the audacity of that idea. They just needed him to read a statement, and with the cat behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder, he'd read anything they wanted.
Mark started to cry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done that before. The tears just came, rolling down his cheeks, coming even before he realized they were on the way. He thought it was odd, but it didn't bother him. It was only when the sobs started that he felt a cold anger at himself. He couldn't get control. His hand covered his face, and he surrendered to the weeping.
He was surprised to discover that he was crying mainly for remorse, for all his terrible crimes in the service of his masters, and because he loved the cat with his whole being, and he knew that neither of them had a future. It was a fitting punishment for his murders, his treachery, the death of thousands in the Rebellion. Suffering for himself, he could have endured. But knowing that he and the one he cared about would be separated, and the cat would die alone somewhere, perhaps under torture, that was real, deep agony. And true justice.
He tried to get up. It was an ingrained habit that compelled him. He couldn't keep lying down. It took him several tries, and for a moment he was scared that he'd be unable to. His only thought was to clean off all the slimy sweat, the tears. He staggered into the bathroom, looking curiously at himself in the mirror. The young man staring back was unrecognizable. He looked older, somehow, and yet slighter than Mark himself. And he was a horrifying mess. Mark thought the image in the mirror was of someone suffering from a terminal disease of some sort, dark circles under his eyes, hollow cheeks, hair looking like it was about to fall out.
He smelled his wrists, regretful that he'd have to wash off the sultry, exciting smell of his mate's body. Just as he was about to undo his pants, he remembered. "No," he said aloud, taking a deep breath. "He told me I wasn't supposed to take off my own clothes." So he stepped into the shower with everything on, including his shirt and sneakers, and turned on a strong jet of hot water.
In there, relaxing and feeling somewhat stronger, he examined the bracelet the cat had put on his left wrist. He'd seen them, of course, many times before. Even put them on other people himself. They were made of stainless steel, carried a radio transmitter, and couldn't be removed without a key, or a blowtorch. They were meant to act more as an official warning than anything else, a reminder. Certain individuals under detention, even some members of the Rebellion, he understood, were allowed to have some freedom of movement instead of, or before, they were sent to prison. The reasons were complex, but the bracelet served to remind the detainee that he or she was not free, that the person must not attempt to escape the strictly delimited boundaries which he or she was allowed, that to do so would bring about a swift death. Mark had never known of anyone who was allowed such freedom for long; it was usually a matter of watching their movements for anything that might betray associates. They were invariably returned to prison, sometimes tortured, and then either executed or locked up for the rest of their lives.
"So, what do you want me to show you?" Mark mused, staring at the bracelet.
It bore an etched inscription: "MARK ALBERT HOLLAND, PRISONER #1937503BX"
"FUCK!" I swore under my breath. "You fucking bastard! When were you going to mention that part?" I quickly grabbed his wrist. Sure enough. There it was, gleaming in the half-light. And for all I knew, a squad of Signal Group heavies was bearing down on us.
I put my head in my hands. "Fuck, Mark, what did you do? Why did you do this to me? I had NO fucking thing to do with the Rebellion, you sick fuck! That was the only good turn my bastard father and his other son ever did for me!" I was rocking back and forth, totally stunned. "I'm going to kill you. I have to kill you," I told him. "Oh, you bastard!"
I watched his face, mesmerized. He just looked so innocent. It was so hard to imagine someone being so cold. "I could rip out your mind you know," I snarled at him, heat rising in my gut. "I could fill you so full of nightmares that you'd wake up screaming every night for the rest of your miserable life. I should do that, Mark. That's what I SHOULD DO!" I reared back and punched him hard in the face. He stirred, but didn't regain consciousness.
The words made me feel good, but Mark, had he been conscious, and I were both perfectly aware that I had no intention of doing any such thing. I was railing in frustration at my own weakness. I felt defeated. I didn't have the stomach for the kinds of atrocities Mark was used to.
I wonder now, very often, if that's perhaps why Dad and Agamemnon never trusted me.
"Time to think." What was Mark's plan? If it was to have me arrested, that could have been done several times over already. Where were the Signal Group police? They could find Mark easily, wherever he was. My instinct was to run like hell, and keep running, but is that maybe what they wanted me to do? Too many possibilities. My head began to hurt. This place was no longer safe, but neither was anywhere else. The key lay in Mark's brain.
"If you've betrayed me, I swear I'll kill you," I told him coolly. I believe, even now, that I meant that. I was actually serious. "I want to know what you've been planning, Prisoner Holland. And you will tell me. Yes, I think you'll tell me everything..." I touched him, and dived back into his brain.
End of Part I