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Erlösung	By : quietladybirman Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1944 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Erlösung

a Weiss Kreuz fanfiction by laila

________
three: collateral damage
The first thing he has is a single sound, soft and repetitive.
Ken opens his eyes on nothing. It is dark, and the darkness lies heavy about him, heavy as earth. Dark and cold and still and maybe he is dreaming, or really has died – yet there is the sound, soft and strange, yet somehow familiar. He can’t place it, he has to strain to hear it: all the same there it is, caught somewhere on the edge of awareness and murmuring softly to him that this is real. It is a nothing, that sound, something that ordinarily he wouldn’t even hear, if he had anything else to anchor him. Here he has nothing but that single steady tick, like clockwork or the regular beat of a metronome, yet it dawdles; it is too muted and too measured to be either.
Water, he realizes after a while. It is the sound of water, as it drips from a leaking tap.
That orientates him. Reality creeps back slow and shamefacedly, as if it knows he will not thank it for its return. It leaves him lying on his side, the floor beneath him unyielding and chill and comfortless, the wall at his back lined with tiles. He is in a kitchen, or a bathroom: he thinks a bathroom. He doesn’t understand. His hair is in his face.
He is cold, and desperately frightened. He is naked, and bound hand and foot.
It is, Ken supposes, an explanation of sorts.
He thinks of General Powell before he thinks of his friends and it appalls him. The night before comes back to him piecemeal, like a jumbled set of stills from a movie he knows he should remember and cannot – Ken lies on a stranger's desk and Aya looks at him in confusion, feeling nothing and amazed that it should be that simple. His shoulder aches; he feels bruised inside; his body feels foreign, like a heavy and ill-fitting coat. Heavy-limbed inertia, the blurred and sluggish quality to his thoughts, dreadful lassitude and a dry and tainted taste in his mouth: it all hints quietly at the possibility of drugging.
The first instinct is to try to shout. To curse Powell, the darkness and the chill or anything at all; to scream wordlessly for someone, anyone to come and help him – anything at all, as long as it isn't nothing.
So he tries to cry out, and finds he cannot. He merely whimpers, the sound trapped deep in the back of the throat.
Which is when Ken realizes that he has been gagged. A piece of thick fabric has been forced into his mouth, pressing down hard against his tongue to hold it trapped, and spilling out from between his parted lips; he feels as if he is going to retch. A tight feeling across his face tells him a layer of heavy tape has been pressed, entirely unnecessarily, over his mouth. (Who does Powell suppose he will call to? There's nobody left.) Ken tries to scream again, and manages only a low and hopeless moan. Tries to draw breath and nearly chokes. For a single hysterical moment he wonders if he is going to suffocate – I'm going to kill him.
(Really. And how do you propose to do that?)
Ken closes his eyes and gazes at the darkness behind his eyelids. Bastard. Bastard. Hail Mary full of grace. Concentrates on breathing through his nose, and tries not to think about where he is or what is happening to him. Don't panic. Whatever you do, Ken, don't panic. Panic can kill.
He doesn't know how long he lies there, wounds aching, limbs heavy, listening to the steady tick of the tap and counting his breaths. He sees Youji lying dead in a tangle of bedsheets; handsome, husky Akira torn apart by bullets; the General bending over him, hands ghosting across his chest and slipping between his thighs, tell me your name—Ken closes his eyes and lets himself weep silently, for his friends, for the family he failed, for his own stupid self.
The drug must still be working on him, for he has drifted back into an uncomfortable doze when he hears a key scraping in a lock, and a door creaking open.
General Powell, the light behind him, stands in the doorway in his shirtsleeves, his hands tucked in the pockets of his pants like a much younger man. He smiles, obscenely casual. Ken tries to turn to him, but – what the fuck have they drugged him with? – his body won’t obey him; he tries to move and can barely raise his head. Only his eyes, narrowed against the unexpected light, move, and he gazes up at Powell from their corners: he hopes he only looks angry. Tries to say something, to curse or threaten, or maybe simply to question – manages only to whimper, soft and plaintive and incoherent. Powell smiles at him, and stoops to pat his cheek. Uncaps a syringe, and smirks as Ken's eyes widen. Fucking bastard—
"You’ll have,” Powell says, “to be patient, I’m afraid.”
And jabs the syringe into Ken's upper thigh, presses down the plunger. Why does he feel like he deserves it?
The sick fuck hasn't even taken him out the office. Powell has merely tidied him away, stowed him neatly in a side room: a mildly amusing side project to be dealt with later, provided he isn't too busy. Probably getting off on this, on knowing Ken is near him, unable to so much as cry out, while he goes about his business. No doubt he will be smirking to himself, wondering idly what the day's crop of visitors would think if they knew he had a bound and naked boy in his bathroom, a boy who, a few hours previous, he raped on the desk he now sits behind, smiling and smiling and pretending to listen. Knowing that Ken hates him, and is powerless to do anything about it…
Knowing he is helpless. Ken's eyes slip closed, and he lets the drug take him.
He doesn’t know how long he loses. Hours, he thinks, not that it matters. The next thing Ken knows is voices, talking over him in English, and footsteps, and hands upon his body. He can no longer hear the tick of the tap.
Hands. Soldiers, three of them, strong and casually cruel and none of them all that much older than he is. He doesn’t think they’re the ones from last night. Ken opens his eyes when they touch him, and can see nothing but the bathroom ceiling, the light spilling through the open door and Powell, a shadow on the edge of sight: he tries to pull away from their hands. The flat, bored look in their eyes says that he doesn’t exist. Ken doesn’t know if he’s glad or not.
He is wrapped in a blanket made of rough gray wool and stamped with the Roman letters US; the fabric is coarse and scratchy against his bare skin. The drug heavy upon him, Ken lets his eyes fall closed and lets it happen, lets them believe him safe and submissive: he lets them move away before he tries, more through instinct than any real expectation of success, to struggle free. He manages to fight free of the sheet and is pulling hopelessly at his cuffed wrists as one of them, blank-eyed and sturdy and blonde, turns back to him. The young man curses; he is on Ken in seconds, holding him down while his companions roll him tightly up in the blanket again.
(It is a crazy kind of comfort that Omi will never have to know that this is what his team has come to, already: the boy hasn’t yet been dead a day. Stay alive, Siberian. Just stay alive—)
And that isn’t up to him, either.
This time, the soldiers tape the blanket securely about Ken before they turn their backs on him, leaving him swathed in fabric from his neck to his calves. They fetch in a large wooden packing case, foursquare and solidly constructed, and force him into it, his head bowed and his thighs pressed up tight against his chest, then fasten the lid on him. The locks fasten with a soft, final click.
Ken wants to scream, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even try.
Powell merely watches, without curiosity.
Cramp in his limbs, a dull ache about his neck and shoulders: a heavy collar of dragging pain. They have moved him, this much Ken is sure of. He was aware of being lifted, and carried; of being jostled and jarred, then carelessly cast aside. That was – he doesn’t know how long ago it was. It could have been a matter of minutes; it could have been an hour or more. He is aware, somehow, that it is dark outside, dark and cold: the heat and the closeness and the sensation of sweat pearling up across his back hardly seems to matter. The cold is there, on the edge of his awareness. Even if escape were anything but an impossibility, he wouldn’t get far like this.
He can hear himself breathing, too fast and too shallow, and can tell just by the ragged edge to it that he is close to panic. The air about him is, already, heated and stale, thrice-used. He breathes in sips, shallow and unsatisfying and barely slaking his sudden thirst for air.
He thinks of coffins and of folk tales, of playful virgins on their wedding-nights, trapped by mischance in caskets or in closets and left there to rot. He tells himself, and even the thought feels hysterical, not to be so stupid. You’re not a child, Ken, and this isn’t any kind of fairy story. The resemblance between you and those girls stops at the box—
Jesus fuck. He’s in a box.
How can it still sound so stupid? He’s tied up and naked and locked in a box and it’s almost fucking funny. He must have been in worse situations, though he can't seem to think of any. You absolutely sure, Hidaka, that you’re not dead?
But dying would have been easy, and Ken never has been one to do things the easy way. He knows he shouldn’t have fought; must have known it even at the time, but he fought anyway. Should, he knows, have let Aya kill him. Or, later, should have let the soldiers do it, should have refused to surrender and pushed them to it, taken a couple of the bastards with him – he knows he couldn’t have done that. He simply hadn’t had the strength. Or earlier: Youji, in the tunnels beneath the hospital, but Youji had let him go. He hadn’t thought, at the time, to wonder why.
(Because it was Youji. They weren’t really going to kill each other—)
Aya, he remembers, was the one who murdered Omi. (And you – Kenken – you could do nothing to stop him.) If Aya, not he, had been the one left to live, would he have felt sorry?
Powell isn’t interested in him. Not as him.
Not that it makes any difference why he’s here. He is here, and there’s an end to it. What’s going to happen to me?
Heavy footsteps, brash Hollywood voices, three of them – Ken doesn’t know how long he’s been waiting, can’t tell if it’s the three from before and oh Jesus, Jesus Christ where’s this going to end? He wonders what they’re saying; deep down, he knows that it will have nothing to do with him. Someone curses; the crate seems to shudder about him, and his head strikes the side of the crate hard enough to leave him dazed and blinking. A sudden giddy, weightless feeling – Ken tries to shout and manages nothing more than a low and hopeless moan – and he is being lifted, carried, jerked and jounced with every step his captors take. And nothing for him to do but wait, and pray to God that he’s not about to be buried alive.
Ken is thrust from the packing crate as unceremoniously as he was forced into it. The crate is carried indoors and down a steep flight of stairs, a long corridor; too soon the men carrying him stop short. He can hear them complaining to one another as one of them hunts for something in his pockets, hear, beneath their brassy nonsense voices, a key scraping in a stiff, recalcitrant lock. Then a sudden jolt as the men start moving again: the door slams behind them. He wonders where they are, and what lies behind the locked door – patience is a virtue, Kenken, no doubt you’ll find out soon enough. No doubt you won’t like it one bit.
The lid is torn from the crate, catches snapping open as light floods over him: confused, curious in spite if himself, Ken tries to raise his head. Dim though the light is, it dazzles him, leaving him squinting – and then the soldiers upend the crate and tip him out onto the floor. He lands heavily, catching his head on the floor; his injured shoulder takes the worst of it. The scream sticks in his throat.
Clearly, Ken catches himself thinking, the case wasn’t labeled fragile. He almost laughs.
It’s not like the soldiers care. He’s still struggling to catch his breath when one of them bends to him, snatches for a handful of his hair; Ken swears viciously behind his gag and tries to twist away, but his limbs are stiff and the blanket taped about his body catches at him, and he understands that all he is doing is tiring himself out. The soldier grabs him all the same, drags him bodily across the room and drops him atop an old quilt spread out in one corner, and all Ken can do is curse him and even that doesn’t come out right. Pathetic.
The soldier rolls him onto his back and crouches over him, pins him to the quilt with a knee on his thighs. Oh, the fucking bastard! Powell won’t like that, the thinks, and wonders why he thought it. Breathe, Ken tells himself. Just breathe—
He wishes they’d speak Japanese.
The other two advance on Ken, bend over him: there are fingers ghosting across the skin of his feet, hands fumbling with the belt that binds his legs and tugging it free: briefly, he considers trying to kick but pain and the drugs hold him immobile. (It’s not what you think it is.) Metal clinks on metal, and something stiff and heavy is strapped about his left ankle. A padlock snaps closed.
Then the soldiers get up, and walk away, closing the door quietly behind them. No, he simply doesn’t exist for them and Ken isn’t sure if that makes things better or far, far worse. It has, he knows, to mean something that the light has been left on: certainly it wouldn’t be for his benefit.
He tries to push himself upright, to grasp for orientation (and as if it matters where you are, Ken!) but his injuries snatch at him when he tries to lift his head, clawing and dragging him back; agony flares behind his eyes in heated, angry scarlet, and he gasps into his gag. Ken feels something hot and damp and heavy seeping into the blankets he has been swathed in, and understands that his shoulder is bleeding again. He is glad of it. He hopes it scars, it’s the least that Aya deserves. So he lies still and silent, bound and gagged and neatly packaged – signed, sealed and delivered, and nothing to do but wait for someone (his owner?) to come and unwrap him, and press him into service. He feels like a parcel.
“I must apologize,” Powell says into the silence, “for the substandard accommodation.”
But it doesn’t surprise Ken to hear him speak. He has known, somehow, that Powell was there all along—promise me, Ken wants to say, that you’ll never open a goddamn hotel. Youji would have done that, played along with an interrogator’s verbal games, but it hurts to think of Youji, and it’s wrong to think of him here.
“I'm sure you’ll get used to it,” Powell says – Ken doesn’t start, or turn to him. He simply lies still and gazes up at the ceiling, and listens to Powell listening to himself talk. “Yes,” the General is saying, “I am going to be keeping you alive for a while. You’re quite amusing. And while I can’t say the same for your charming go-between – she, I believe, may be able to tell me something about your little gang I don’t already know – you, at least, will probably find I am quite an easy man to satisfy. You can rest assured that I have no interest in breaking you.”
For you, Kenken, have nothing to trade.
Finally, Ken turns his head; Powell swims into view, smirking to himself. He looks out of step with his Spartan surroundings, and too neat and too alert for the hour. (But what time is it? Late is all Ken knows: it has to be, if Powell is here and nobody is missing him.) Maybe he takes naps, or drugs.
Powell walks slowly over to him, sits beside him – he sighs low and contented, as if sinking into an armchair. He smiles down at Ken, everyone’s favorite grandfather again, and runs his fingers slow and ticklish down the plane of one of the boy’s cheeks: Ken closes his eyes, and shudders, and turns from him, and Powell strikes him sharp and sudden across the face. Ken yelps into the gag, more shocked than pained and more indignant than either. No, Powell says, don’t move. I’ll touch you however and whenever I want, boy, and don’t imagine resisting will help: he doesn’t say that, but he doesn’t have to.
“I won’t be removing your gag, I’m afraid,” Powell says, shaking his head regretfully. “I don’t feel I can trust you not to attempt anything foolish, and I think I rather like you with your mouth closed.”
He strips Ken bare, tearing the blankets from him as if he were a present.
Ken lies stiff as a doll as Powell runs his hands over him, mute and flushed and furious, and desperately humiliated, and nothing he can do about it. (What happens barely matters: it’s his helplessness in the face of it that will drive him mad. So much for Siberian.) Don’t react, he tells himself, whatever he does don’t react—his composure shatters when Powell yanks his legs apart, thrusts two fingers roughly inside him – Jesus fuck it hurts and what did you think you were here for, child? – and Ken cries out, sharp and sudden. Surges into abrupt and angry life, twisting and writhing beneath him, and Powell simply sighs and shakes his head. Thrusts the muzzle of his gun hard beneath Ken's chin and isn’t this a silly thing to die for, boy?
Ken freezes. He’s not going to shoot you, not after all this, not after he said—do you want to take the chance you’re wrong? Even here, even now, he wants to live. He still wants that! Powell flips him onto his front, presses the gun against his nape.
“Unfortunately for you,” he says mildly, “today has been somewhat trying.”
It’s all the warning Ken gets.
It hurts this time.
Dragging the boy to his knees Powell unbuckles his pants, rubbing himself gently against Ken: the man holds himself there for a few long seconds and Ken – don’t react, you idiot! It’s what he wants – gasps soft and fractured, his eyes going wide. For a few seconds, Ken has nothing but Powell pressed lightly against him and his own hideous anticipation, the dawning realization of what is about to happen to him, and how entirely powerless he is to save himself. Oh jesus not this, please not this, tell me he’s – mary mother of god he’s going to rape me again and there’s nothing I can—
Nothing to do but take it. Powell forces himself inside Ken, sudden and agonizing, and watches impassively as the boy screams into his gag.
(Oh God. Oh – God.) White behind his eyes and Ken feels like he’s breaking. It hurts. Christ, it hurts! (I’m going to die. Oh, God, I am going to die—) Thoughts sticking like a broken record and he’s choking on the gag, he’s being torn apart.
Powell fucks him hard and fast and brutal, and without enjoyment: bestial sex, sex like blinking, or scratching an itch. The buttons of the man’s suit dig painfully into his back, Powell‘s teeth scrape against the curve of his bare shoulder, nails drag against flesh. Ken screams all the way through, long, drawn-out shrieks bred of nothing but exquisite pain, caught and stifled by his gag. There’s blood before the end, and when Powell climaxes with a curse and thrusts him from him, Ken collapses onto his front, his eyes wide and agonized and utterly empty, and cries like a child.
At least it was over quickly. At least, this time, all he felt was pain.
Ken weeps, and he shivers, and Powell bends to draw the tangled blankets he lies upon over him, smoothing his hair and murmuring to him in English, nursery-rhyme nonsense Ken can barely hear and understands not at all, though he picks up the meaning well enough and he despises Powell for it. You did this, you bastard. You did this to me, how dare you tell me not to hurt—it’s absurd and it’s terrible but, somehow, this is the worst of it.
And the sting of the syringe, the pull of the drug. Powell stands, fussing with his clothing, raking a casual hand through his disordered hair as he moves to the door. He hesitates with one hand resting on the handle, turning back to regard Ken over one shoulder: Ken, unmoving, lost in despair and desperate hatred, sees nothing, but he can feel Powell’s gaze heavy upon him. He can tell that the man is smiling.
“Just remember,” Powell says, “I'm not doing this to break you.”
And snaps off the lights, and shuts the door on him.

____
Ken wakes to hands on his shoulders, and the faces of Powell’s men, alien and closed-off as ever and all they are is – people, and barely men at all. Boys, really. Corn-fed kids from the heartland with blameless farm-boy faces, all freckles and cowlicks, hair like wheat and cheeks like apples and even they, blank-faced drones, have their human forms. Some reluctant, some sadistic, still others simply heedless: one, only one, a slight young man with cropped black hair and eyes of pale blue, makes Powell seem almost preferable. They don’t talk around him, though they used to. General’s orders, Ken guesses.
The soldiers, Ken knows, are none of them that different from him back when he was alive. They, like him, only obey. They feed him, they tend his wounds, they wash him – they fuck him, sometimes, while Powell watches, something Ken suspects is as much a punishment for the men as it is for him. All done to order. You don’t ask your hand why it acts.
It hardly seems to matter what they might want him for, this time. Whatever it is, Ken is sure that he will hate it. They shake him awake; a hand cracks across his jaw when he tries to close his eyes again and he murmurs something semi-coherent, something stifled by his gag – the cloth and tape long since gave way to a more permanent arrangement, leather and plastic, buckles and straps. Ken is almost getting used to being unable to speak.
Used, almost, to the cuffs that bind his hands behind him, to the rattle of chain when he turns over or shifts his weight. Even the nagging, chafing collar that Powell, on the third night, pulled tight about his throat is becoming only familiar.
They strip the blankets from him, unfasten the chain from the cuff at his ankle; the (oh god) it is the courtyard, then. It is only instinct that has Ken try to struggle – and they strike him, they hold him down, and it happens anyway. Hands seize his upper arms, grasping hard enough to hurt, and Ken is dragged unceremoniously to his feet. His head slumps forward, his tangled, sweaty bangs hanging in his eyes; the cellar fades to gray before his eyes, the floor yaws beneath him like the deck of a ship in a storm and if the soldiers were to let go of him even for a second, he would fall. It’s the drugs, it’s the blood loss and the lack of food; it’s because he no longer cares.
One of them, stocky and blonde, steps forward. Forcing Ken's head back, stubby fingers twisting painfully in his hair, he ties a length of rope to the ring at Ken’s collar, gives it two brisk tugs which leave the boy coughing. The coarse, heavy fabric of his issued clothing feels rough and strange where it brushes against Ken's skin. If it weren’t for the gag, he would bite.
It’s only now he remembers he is naked; it’s only now he feels a sudden pang of desperate humiliation. Ken blushes.
It doesn’t matter when he’s by himself. It doesn’t even matter with Powell, not really. Now?
The courtyard, then. Don’t do this, he wants to say – and, ready or not, they drag him from the room. Ken pulls against them, dragging back against the hands that hold him: it feels, almost, like rebellion. A rifle butt to the back drives him forward. He stumbles as they reach the stairway, feels the soldiers heft his weight, half-carrying him up the stairs and out, out into the night, crisp and pretty as a Christmas card, the sky clogged with fat flakes of snow. The door slams behind him, and he feels his insides give a sudden sickening twist. Feels like he’s falling.
Now, collared and bound and gagged, trapped behind the wire, he stands in the courtyard in fresh-fallen snow, surrounded by soldiers in greatcoats and heavy boots – even the hands about his arms are gloved. Stark naked, shivering uncontrollably, Ken doesn’t want to die but he wishes, quite fervently, that he were dead.
They lead Ken to the cyclone fence, force him to his knees. The same barrel-chested blonde ties the other end of the rope at his collar to the fence, and steps away. Ken raises his head, blinks blearily out through the mesh at the world beyond it – thinks once again of Aya. (Thinks, I'm sorry.) Our laws, Aya said, have no meaning there… Even if anyone saw, what could they do? How close they are to Japan, and how impossibly far away. He wishes he’d told Aya he cared.
How white the snow looks; it looks as if it should be warm. It lies.
Somewhere, he hears water, hissing from a spigot and plashing to the concrete and Ken feels as if he has been caught in a twisted take on a snow globe. The flakes drift lazily around him, the fallen snow he kneels upon insinuates itself about his feet and legs, his thighs – and cold, so cold it burns his skin. Ken closes his eyes, and braces himself.
Don’t do this, he wants to say. Please: he hates the fact he wants to plead. Please, please, don’t do this to me—
The cold makes him gasp.
(You’re a mess, Ken, Powell had said that first time, running one hand across his hip and down the length of his bare thigh – blood dried across his body and caked in his hair, skin a patchwork of bruising and sour with stale sweat, Powell’s semen spattering his thighs, he had felt every inch of it. We’ve got to do something about that… take him away, and clean him off. It was midwinter, the middle of the night; Powell’s men dragged Ken into the courtyard, and tied him to the fence, and turned a hose on him – all the while the General watched, detached and dispassionate, as if watching children play some rough game. As if he were contemplating intervening. It had nothing whatever to do with him.)
The hose plays across his head, his chest, dragging slowly down the length of his body until it is trained between Ken’s legs, making him gasp and try to cover himself, to shrink away from the water. It’s so cold it burns him, brings tears to his eyes. So cold he can barely breathe.
Footsteps; the soft, slightly jarring squeak and scrunch of boots on new snow. The blonde steps beside him, crouching, placing a cake of yellow soap down in the snow, and wetting a washcloth in the stream of the hose.
Please don’t—it’s not even worth thinking it. The soap smells foul and strong and abruptly chemical, as always. As always, they scrub too hard: he tells himself that, this time, he won’t make a sound, but the blonde is beside him and the washcloth is at his face, the man’s stubby fingers pressing hard against his bruised cheeks, his jaw, the back of his neck, rubbing quick and brutal as a nursemaid seeking a small revenge on a too-fractious charge. Ken whimpers into the gag: it’s as close as he’ll get to admitting how much he is hurting.
So he cringes, he tries to pull away, fight free – anything. Anything at all, as long as he’s not just sitting there enduring—two swift, stinging blows to the face and Ken stills. Lets them wash him down. The soap stings his eyes, droplets of water crawl down the length of his spine. He hasn’t felt so lost, or so utterly helpless, since he was a child.
And, as they drag him back to his feet and lead him, soaked and shivering, back through the snow-veiled courtyard and down into the tiny basement room that has become his cell, Ken tells himself that the cold is making his eyes smart.

____
Later, much later – how much later Ken cannot tell. Hours. Days, maybe. He’s still cold.
Powell has been. Sat and talked at him in English, and casually raped him, and left again – Ken had gazed blankly at the ceiling over his pinstriped shoulder, and waited for it to be over. It hurt and he hated it but it no longer seemed to matter very much. Powell kissed his brow as he jabbed the needle into his arm.
The drugs aren’t working so well any more. They don’t make him sleep; he just drifts.
Waiting. He waits for his solitude to be broken; he waits for his tormenters to tire of him, and to leave him alone again. Ken is waiting to die. He wonders if he is going crazy, and how he is supposed to be able to tell. This is what he has come to. Just boredom and isolation, and terror, and hard to tell which is worse when the unbearable loneliness is relieved only by the periodic visits of his torturers.
It can't, Ken thinks, last forever.
(This is correct. One way or another this situation will end, there will be an afterwards. It's only a matter of when, and of how. This may be all he has left to him, but it will end someday and life will go on. It makes no difference whose life it is, except to its owner. Just because it's personal doesn't mean it matters.)
Ken wonders when this all started. Days ago, that is all he is certain of, but how many he can't tell. He can't even begin to guess. There's no pattern to anything that happens to him, or maybe there is and he, between the fever-dreams and whatever junk they’ve been dosing him with, the hours spent trapped somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, is simply too dazed and pained and weary of it all to see it. Or maybe he simply hasn't been here long enough. But Ken can't remember how long he has been here, and he can't see how it matters anyway. It's not like he has anywhere else to be. There is nobody to miss him.
He just can't remember, that's all.
He can't even remember how many times he has been raped.
to be continued
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