A deep ache in Mal’s shoulders and arms ruthlessly pulled him out of his drugged sleep. Blinking through the disorienting residual haze, he lifted his head. A jolt of excruciating pain raced from his neck down his spine at the movement. While more than unwelcome, it at least had the effect of clearing his vision.

‘Go se,’ he thought, ‘this don’t bode well’ He found himself suspended from a beam running the length of the room, hanging naked by irons at his wrists placed a shoulders-width apart. His ankles were similarly cuffed. Experimenting gingerly, he discovered that if he stretched his legs and feet as far as possible, he could just barely reach the floor. Resting on the tips of his toes, he tried to ease the ache throbbing between his shoulder blades. The room was dark, but cracks in the walls and ceiling allowed a feeble early morning light in. Unfortunately, they also allowed a chilling breeze to blow across his exposed flesh.

Whoever had him, he thought uneasily, had less than no interest in seeing to his comfort. The room gave no clue as to its owner, and Mal was more than a little anxious to see the person or persons responsible for his current predicament.

Time passed slowly, and Mal measured it by the progression of the light across the floor over which he hung. The early morning breeze gave way to the stillness of midmorning, and still Mal had no indication of life anywhere nearby. Alternating between resting his weight on his toes and hanging from his wrists, he waited.

Finally, at what Mal estimated to be about noon, the door swung open, and two men walked in silently. Looking to be at least Jayne’s size, they stood staring at him expressionlessly. Realizing they were simply muscle for some as yet unknown enemy, Mal stared back, trying not to look at all intimidated in his vulnerable position.

The door opened again, revealing a face with which Mal was all too familiar. “Hey, Ath,” he said, as casually as if they were meeting over tea and cakes.

Atherton Wing looked no less angry than he had when Mal had last seen him. Carefully setting down a large box on a table by the door, he approached Mal. The scar on his left cheek was a vivid white line against the tan of his skin. “Captain Reynolds,” he said icily, “I cannot tell you how long I’ve waited to see you again. We have so much catching up to do.” He smile was thin and snide.

“Well, if it’s another sword fight you’re looking for,” Mal said, pointedly staring at Wing’s scar, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m over that phase.”

“On the contrary, Captain,” Wing answered, his voice menacing. “I’m not looking for a sword fight. I have other activities in mind. Something new for my amusement.” He pushed Mal’s bare chest with the palm of his hand, causing Mal to swing slightly and pain to ripple through his arms and shoulders. Turning back to the box on the table, Wing began to withdraw objects almost lovingly. “I don’t know if Inara ever told you,” he said conversationally, “but I’m a collector of sorts. I’ve always been interested in weaponry and also in instruments of torture. It is a constant amazement to me the methods men have devised to cause pain and suffering to other men.”

Mal’s mouth went suddenly dry as he recognized several of the devices Wing was carefully arranging on the table. “Yeah, it’s a real puzzlement,” he said, his voice deceptively calm.

Holding up one such instrument to catch the light, Wing continued, “For instance, this little device. Its history is rather interesting. It’s been in use for centuries now. It’s called, oddly enough, a ‘brass knuckle’, though I believe this particular one is made of steel instead. Very efficient for causing deep tissue damage, I’m told. But we’ll see.” So saying, he handed it to one of his men. “Of course, being a swordsman myself, I’m partial to the cutting tools. There’s nothing quite so elegant in its simplicity as a well-balanced flaying knife.” He held it up for Mal’s inspection. “Of course, we’ll have to wait on this one for at least a couple of days, I think. Perhaps it can be our coup de grace, so to speak.”

Mal’s face remained impassive, but his pulse beat rapidly under his skin. He had not even the slightest illusion that Wing wouldn’t do exactly as he said. It was obvious the hundan was psychotic. Inara sure knew how to pick ‘em, he thought bitterly.

Wing’s next comment intruded on his thoughts. “The evolution of torture is also an interesting study,” he went on. “For instance, this little beauty.” He pulled out what looked like an ordinary metal rod. “Once upon a time, for this to be of use, we would have to lay it in a very hot fire and wait for several minutes. Now, we can achieve the same result much more quickly by pressing this little button.” Within seconds the lower third of the rod glowed violent red. Mal could feel the heat from it from where he hung. “Ah, the benefits of modern technology,” Wing said. He handed the rod to the second man, whispering detailed instructions in his ear.

The man nodded and stepped forward. “Wait,” Wing commanded. Turning back to Mal, he smiled. “I need to set up my recording equipment. I’m really not quite sure how long you’ll be able to last, so I want to be certain to capture every precious moment for later enjoyment.” He reached up on the wall and flicked a light on. Pushing a button beside the light panel, he activated the recording device. Fiddling for a moment to adjust the angle of the lens, he finally stepped back, satisfied. “Have you anything to say before we begin, Captain?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” Mal replied flatly.

Wing folded his arms across his chest and leaned casually against the table with one hip. Nodding at his men, he said simply, “Begin.”

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Though outwardly calm, Zoe Washburne was as close to frantic as she ever got. As near as she could figure, Mal had been missing for almost a day now, and Serenity’s crew had found no trace of where he could be. More disquieting than that was the fact that his gun lay on the desk of his bunk, which meant that, wherever he was, he was unarmed. And for the past several hours, River had been in fits, alternating sobbing and screaming, and effectively fraying Zoe’s last nerve.

Now, however, the girl sat silent, staring off into the distance, rocking back and forth. “Hurts,” she whimpered suddenly.

“What hurts, mei mei?” Simon asked for the thousandth time.

River surprised him with an answer. “Captain Daddy,” she whispered, tears shining on her cheeks.

Zoe knelt beside her on the floor. “You can feel him, little one?” she asked, her voice a hollow rasp.

River nodded, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“Can you tell where he is?” Inara asked. The hope in her voice was palpable in the sudden quiet.

River tilted her head, trying to focus through the maelstrom of emotion coming from the crew. “Building,” she said after several agonizing minutes. “Old, run down. Isolated, so no one will hear the screaming.” She shuddered, trying to hold on to the slender thread of Mal’s thoughts in her head. The crew stared at her silently, willing her to find the answer they sought. “Swordsman,” she said finally.

“What the di yu does that mean?” Jayne asked, his clam damaged by her creepifying manner.

River shook her head in frustration. “Don’t know,” she wailed, jumping up and sprinting from the room before anyone could stop her.

A cold dread clamped around Inara’s heart. “Atherton,” she said with sudden certainty. “She means Atherton.”

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To be continued. Feedback would be greatly appreciated!