JDL | Com Ivanova, 'Ennui' - "The Hanging Tree" PT II

Posted on Thu Apr 16th, 2015 @ 6:04am by Admiral Rochelle Ivanova & Commander Logan Grant, PhD.
Edited on on Sun Apr 19th, 2015 @ 4:58am

2,429 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Ennui

WARNING: The following log contains extremely graphic content of a violent nature and may not be suitable for all readers. Please use discretion before attempting to read this and be aware that the content may not be safe for reading while at work etc.













== Holding Cells ==

Deep under the Imperial Palace were the cold, damp, stone, windowless rooms of Tr’Bak’s personal prison. If it weren’t for the rows of jailing pens and the stench of death and waste, it could have doubled for a wine cellar. Each cell was placed along the perimeter wall giving way to an open, hollow space in the middle. It was empty aside from three, unkempt, dirty, tired, and broken men that were held, stabled separately, side by side.

In the middle of the room, a table – just as dirty as the men – sat in a perfect line with two doors that acted as an entrance and exit on either side of the dismal dungeon. In one of those doorways stood two small distinctly Romulan blooded beings. Children. No more than four years in age. One was male, dark and sharp featured, the other female and every bit as soft and beautiful as the woman whom she shared her trademark fire red hair with.

Through the other doorway, Tr'Bak, still dragging Rochelle by her hair, stomped through. Forcing his way over to the table, he threw her still damp, naked body face down and forced her to yield with his hand in hair bracing against her skull and elegant neck. "My love, you challenged me to do do worse?" He swooned, jerking her head in the direction of the other doorway and then again, roughly, towards the three cells. "After I'm finished with you, you must choose, of the three men, which one gets to live."

Beneath Rochelle's bare feet she could feel stone and what she could only assume was mud press beneath their heat pinked pads. Her gait was awkward, she tripped often, but the height difference and the way the much taller Romulan man held her by the dripping tendrils of hair at the back of her head gave her very little choice. Her modesty no longer mattered. Survival mattered. The thought of her body bearing such a vile creature any form of life, her life, seemed akin to betrayal even if biology didn't get to play such games, and looking upon the supposed products of such a union only seemed to cement the way her soul seemed to distance itself from the reality he'd entombed her in. Even though such hatred, she couldn't help but pity them, feel for them and know she needed to somehow protect them from the madman that made up for the other half of their genetic makeup.

Her eyes locked with theirs for the briefest of moments as she was thrown into the heavy wooden table, its rough surface biting into her tender skin. Her palms braced against it, coiling beneath her belly as he shook her like a rag doll, using her vibrant hair to play her proverbial strings. Next she saw them and her heart threatened to stop in her chest. They were bruised and cut, caked with blood and the Gods only knew what else. Had it truly been her selfishness that kept them alive? Sorrow marred the brilliance of her angry eyes as she let them rest on Landon, Almar, and her father. She'd been brought before God and everyone to be burnt for the Romulan's sick sense of entitlement, his need to feel in control and display his wanton disregard for life. He held fire in the palm of his hand and rather than delight in the way it could dance and warm, he choice to toy with it and kept it burning with the constant threat of being extinguished.

It was cold, so cold, and her body shivered violently as ice water seemed to team through her burning veins. She'd free them. Somehow, someway, she had to -- even if it meant freeing them from the misery that had engulfed them. Rochelle could see it in their eyes... They weren't there. They weren't alive aside from the hurt that seared through their foggy gazes. All of them, once so beautiful and so proud, had been broken because of her. "What is it you want from me, Tr'Bak?" She panted, her ribs aching from their impact against the table, "Love?" The word seethed from between her tightened jaws and gritted teeth. "Respect?"

The mad man scoffed, "Love and respect are two things which you can neither provide nor understand." Tr'Bak motioned to the three men he kept in the holding cells and another motion of his twisted fingers saw to the Centurions moving forward to tie his pet’s arms to the table. As beautiful and tempting as her wriggling, naked, buxom body was, they barely even looked. Touching would have meant being put to death in the most painful and torturous way imaginable. She, the valiant Commodore Ivanova, was his and only his. "You claimed you loved them, yet you played this poor Cardassian like the fool he is," he expressed as he drifted over to Almar's cell, gesturing to the broken man as if he were simply dirt.

"You have no idea what you're talking about." Rochelle's head shook as she was restrained; looking for some sense that Almar may only be playing possum. But as she searched for some spark of life in those beautiful obsidian eyes, she found nothing but hurt. The same hurt that had been there when he was held on his knees in her throne room on Atlantis Prime, and she felt her heart bleed for him.

"Then there's this poor unfortunate soul," he said softly as he took a knee in front of Landon. His hand shot through the bars to capture the dirty Trill’s chin through his filthy beard, turning his head this way and that as if examining a fruit for ripeness, "He hasn't been the same since, Notura." He shook his head.

Landon... Her brave and fierce Landon. She knew he hadn't recovered, he never truly could. No one would from the degree of torture that had come from Tr'Bak's grievous and hateful hands. Rochelle looked upon him, watching the thin, haggard representation of what once had been a heavily muscled and impressive man and knew that he too had finally been bested.

"And at long last we have your father." Tr’Bak’s voice drew out and hung on the human word for paternal figure and his lips twisted into a wry, beady eyed sneer. He was all too prideful to present the once strong Admiral as he now lay in the fetal position on the bottom of a hopeless cell. His cheeks were marred with the fresh stains of tears as they trailed down his ruddy cheeks, "You didn't even know who he was, until Atlantis, and even then you ran out on hi—“

"I went back!" She yelled, looking at what once was the great Alexander Hark. Why hadn't the Klingons come? Why hadn't they rallied to end the Romulans? Five years ago they'd been more powerful than even the Federation, and her father had been their most valuable and binding link. Things didn't make sense. Nothing made sense. Her mind screamed at her to do something, ANYTHING to pull them from this insanity. Things that seemed real became lies and lies became the truth as she struggled sharply against her binds. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" She cried, meeting the tight resistance of the shackles as they bit into her slender wrists.

Tr'Bak stood once more, dusting off the filth of his captors from his hands, "You ask what I want from you? Honestly? Nothing. Just having you here, in this Romulan palace on your once proud Federation Capital, is all I really want. It's all I really need, actually." The psychotic Romulan smirked as he unfurled one robed arm, the black fabric hanging in the stale air, and grabbed a whip from the wall. Wrapping his fingers around it one by one in slow succession, he watched the heaving beauty he owned as she struggled against her binds until the braided leather hilt withered in his merciless grasp. Holding the stock tightly he let the thong drop to the floor, relishing in the sound it made as it kissed the soiled floor. "I respect you, Rochelle. You're strong and vibrant, and it pains me to have to do this."

"Do your worst, you son of a bitch." She spat, tearing her eyes and face away from where he stood. She knew what was to come next and knew she was in effect powerless to stop it. Instead she brought her gaze back to the three men she loved so deeply and began the task of stealing her mind away by the hand to somewhere far different, far better… For all of them.

With a brisk flick of his forearm, and a grunt for added effort, Tr’Bak sent the lash whistling through the humid atmosphere. It cracked like thunder, violently parting the once flawless flesh of Rochelle's bare mid-back, revealing crimson as the cracker sliced across her porcelain skin. "However, you will learn your place." He soothed to her as if she were an insolent child.

The sharp explosion of leather meeting supple skin sounded through the dungeon and tore her back away from the soft memories she tried to hide away to, but she refused to cry. She winced, grimaced, and tensed, but Rochelle refused to cry. She wouldn't give him the sick satisfaction of knowing he'd hurt her. Her fingers curled against the splintering wood as she felt the first vermilion rivulet run along the small of her back as evidence to the excruciating cruelty she’d been dealt, but a greater part of her soul spoke volumes to her, hissing of her deserving such pain. Not because she'd spoken back or attacked Tr'Bak, but because she'd failed at preserving and protecting the Vindicator… Failed to save her loved ones. Failed to love them enough to do for them what they had for her so many countless times. Landon flinched at the sound of the strike. Almar recoiled, visibly shaking, and her father simply looked away, breaking gaze with his daughter as she absorbed the shock of her first lashing. "I know my place." Rochelle growled. "I've always known my place." This… This was repentance for the greatest of her sins; allowing them to be kept alive to simply satisfy her need for them instead of allowing them to find the peace and serenity that came hand in hand with death.

Tr’Bak repeated his practiced action six more times. Lift, thrust, rescind, bask in the way her body shivered and instinctively bucked against the pain. Six times was all it took before he grew bored and looked to the faces of his children. “Vrith, Persephone, this is how we deal with insolence. Do we understand?”

"Yes, Father," both children droned in unison.

"Centurion, please take them back to their room," Tr'Bak ordered.

"Father, what about Mother? Will she be alright," young Persephone inquired, her precious face clouded with a shade of concern yet unseen on her brother’s. He watched on with almost the same sick satisfaction of his father and scowled, rolling his eyes at his sister’s pointless questioning.

"She will be just fine, my dearest," Tr'Bak reassured, "Now run along." He added, shooing them as he set the whip back in its proper cradle. With that they scurried off up the stairs, laughing as children do while in the throes of play. "Now, my darling," their father said as he made his way behind the fated table. The cruelty of his emerald eyes glistened as he took in the sight of his handiwork. It was a shame, really, to have damaged such perfection, though he took solace in the fact that a regenerator would erase everything but the memories he’d imparted. His fingers, impossibly long and toned from years of hard work, played along the small of her back, drawing a path of hot sanguine as her blood followed them in their path over the firm round globe of her left buttock and along the creamy, toned perfection of her pale inner thigh. “Whatever are we going to do with you?”

The unseen watcher stepped from behind Almar’s trembling form, peering with wide eyed wonder at the spectacle in front of them. Q had only ever seen the feeble engaged in this level of vile atrocity. It made for a whole new experience the being was almost sorry, if ever the omnipotent could feel sorrow, they’d ever created such a game. This game, they reminded themselves, was life. This was just one more facet of understanding the humanoid mind even if it made them prickle with… Was that fear? Excitement?

At first the Phoenix refused him an answer. Her voice would betray her if she spoke, giving more than a hint of pain she truly felt and testifying to the shock that was slowly, but certainly, winding its way along her nervous system. In truth, she refused to give him a reward, any reward, for scratching at her dignity and pride…

But then fate and her burning psyche took a turn as they somersaulted along for the ride through the thick layers of tragedy and Hell being pressed upon, and through her – choosing to betray her fragile emotions further. Rochelle, held fast and reeling from the severity of the beating she’d been given, and the intimate touch he laved upon her, began to cry. Hot, angry tears spilled from the lower lids of her eyes unbidden. She hated them, as much as she hated him, but they’d run along her reddened cheeks whether she allowed them to or not – much the same way he’d continue to touch her. The sobs that scorched her bruised throat rose not for her pain, or for her predicament, but for the men who watched. There was anguish there now, true anguish. It stepped in alongside her hatred, with its buddies; Apprehension, Grief, and Sorrow. Sorrow for the men she loved and nurtured through careful years of dedication. “Free them, Tr’Bak…” She choked, “You've won, now grant them peace.”

--- continued in pt III ---

Commodore Rochelle Ivanova
Commanding Officer
USS VINDICTAOR, NCC 78213-E

&

"Ennui" aka Q
APB Spaceman

 

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