Disclaimer thingy: Firefly/Serenity are owned by other folks and not by me, though I appreciate being able to write some stuff purely for fun inspired by the Firefly 'Verse.

*********************************************

This three-parter is a prequel for my separate fanfic, Hard Times. As ever, all feedback is appreciated.

*********************************************

The holding cell door unlocked. Leon looked up from where he sat on the bed, his face still. The sight of the federal guards did not stir him to movement. Since he’d seen Jake for the last time, weeks ago back on Beylix, the fear had gone away; a cold heavy stone seemed to have settled deep inside him, numbing him to everything. Even when they’d taken him to the courtroom, where the judge had pronounced his sentence he had hardly listened, hardly heard the words falling into the silence. - You have been found guilty on both counts, of conspiracy and abetting a fugitive from federal law. I hereby sentence you to twenty years in federal custody, in a maximum security facility. This court also recognises that right to appeal is summarily denied. “On your feet, Rachid.” One of the guards advanced and jerked with his thumb. “You’re moving out.” Leon looked up, then slowly began to rise from the bed. The guard caught hold of his shoulder and shoved him out of the cell. They marched him down the corridor, through the building, out to a waiting transport vehicle. The guards pushed Leon inside and climbed in themselves. The journey to the docks passed quickly. After negotiating several security checks, the vehicle stopped and Leon was taken out and led to a waiting prison transport ship. Guards waited at the entry, checking documents. As Leon was brought to a halt they looked him over, then nodded at his escorts. “He for HSF7?” “Yeah. Rachid.” The new guards took charge of Leon, one escorting him onto the ship. On board he was taken to another cell, far smaller than any he’d yet been held in. The guard pointed to the bed. “Bunk there, toilet behind that panel. We’ll be lifting soon so you might as well settle down for the trip.” He eyed Leon. “You give us any trouble, Rachid, and we’ll just trank you for the journey. You may think you’re a big-shot, but to us you’re just another piece of low-life gos-se.” Leon met the big man’s gaze expressionlessly, but his eyes burned with sullen anger. The guard snorted. “Oh, they’ll cut you down to size in prison, boy. Reckon you’re trouble, ‘cos you hung out with that liou-mahng Ryder? Well, they cancelled his ticket last week. Know that?” He waited to see the impact of his words. Leon said nothing, his eyes still fixed on the guard. “Lethal injection. Nice and slow. Shot your buddy full of poison until his heart stopped beating.” Leon still said nothing, sitting motionless on the bed. The guard waited for a long minute, watching him, then snorted again. “Yu bun duh hwoon dahn…” He turned away and left the cell and the door locked behind him. Leon didn’t move for a long time. After a while the ship’s drive engines began to power up and he felt the hum of them through his feet resting on the metal floor. Soon the ship gave a gentle lurch of movement, then a stronger tug as it began to take off. Leon looked up at the ceiling, as if seeing the sky the ship was nosing up into. He was lifting off, moving back out into space. Only this time he couldn’t see out. Couldn’t see the sky, or the stars. But now that didn’t matter, because he wasn’t flying free. Mawu was a deactivated hull in a dockyard somewhere; and he was being taken to a prison; and Jake was dead. He heard Jake’s voice, echoing in his head: - Get the hell out of here. Take off into the ‘Verse and keep going. Leon lay flat on the bunk as the motion of the ship dragged at him. I can’t do it, Jake. I can’t. His throat ached and he set his jaw tight. Jake’s voice came back to him again. - Whatever happens, remember you made me a promise: to survive. To keep on going. You keep that promise, whatever happens. You keep it. Leon put his arm across his face and breathed deep, feeling the vibration of the engines lifting him into space.

* * * * *

Disembarking from the transport ship at the prison facility was swiftly and efficiently carried out. A group of about a dozen prisoners were processed one by one through the security registration: checking name and identity against photographic and retinal scan Cortex records; recording offences and sentences; a thorough and ungentle medical exam. Standing naked in the medical bay Leon waited without protest for whatever had to be done, wanting only to get to wherever he had to go next. His hair had been clipped short and he’d showered in lukewarm water smelling strongly of disinfectant: now a young doctor was fiddling with something on a metal tray, speaking in a low and irritable voice to a nearby guard. After a moment the doctor turned around and spoke brusquely to Leon. “Sit down.” Leon looked at a nearby medical chair, then was pushed down on to it by the guard. “Do what the doc tells you,” said the guard tersely. He was wearing a different uniform, dark blue, not Alliance: a logo of two clasped hands was printed in yellow on his breast pocket, with the name HOLDFAST. “Lie still.” The doctor was leaning over with a liquid-filled syringe. Leon’s eyes tracked to it and he involuntarily tried to get up again, catching a breath. At once the guard leaned over and pinned him, whilst the doctor cursed. “Keep still - Damnit, Kinley, get those restraints on him!” Thick black velcro straps were pulled around his wrists and chest, across his legs, and secured. Leon lay still but stared up at the doctor. The medic leaned over again with the syringe. “This is just a local anaesthetic. Now don’t be stupid: keep still or this will hurt.” He swabbed at Leon’s upper arm and pushed hypo against it. Leon caught his breath as a burning sting started to fade at once to an icy coldness. “Good.” The doctor laid the hypo down, then moved to one side: returned holding a scalpel. Leon felt sweat prickle on his skin. The doctor lifted his other hand, where he held a tiny dark object in a pair of forceps. “Securichip. This contains all your data, plus a transmitting device.” As he brought the little computer chip closer, Leon could see its dark, shiny surface, covered with scores of fine needle-like metallic bristles. “I’m implanting it into the muscle of your arm, where it will stay for the duration of your sentence. Through it your movements can be monitored by prison staff at any time.” He lifted the scalpel. “It will quickly settle into your muscle tissue, which will regrow around the incision I’m making. You’ll soon cease to notice that it’s there. And I should warn you not to attempt to remove it or tamper with it, or try to damage it in any way. The chip is designed to fracture into fragments if interfered with, releasing toxins into your bloodstream.” He smiled thinly. “So unless you want to make yourself extremely unwell, I would advise that you don’t try anything of the sort.” Leon said nothing as the doctor cut into his arm, looking out into the room as the chip was placed inside him. Some far away part of him was crying out No don’t do this to me take it out! But the part of him that was the Leon in this room, strapped into the chair, lying under the knife and staring at nothing, the doctor’s sour breath in his face, kept still and silent. Leon felt the tingling as the local anaesthetic started to wear off, heard the rasp of the velcro straps as he was released from the chair, a small dressing covering the closed incision on his arm. He followed the guard out of the infirmary into a side room, where a dull green prison uniform was given to him. He dressed and was taken through a door into a corridor, following another guard in the same HOLDFAST uniform whilst the first guard, Kinley, came behind. A barred door opened and he stepped through into the prison. A smell filled his lungs, of men living together, sweat and stale air. Sounds came to him as well, voices raised in argument, rumbling in discussion, somewhere a harsh laugh rose above the background noise and was answered by a shouted curse. He walked with the guards past a workshop, where men bent over bins of waste materials, sorting them by hand as a sour smell hung in the air. One or two prisoners looked up incuriously as Leon was taken past, then returned to their work. The guards stopped by another doorway: this time damp, warm air brought the smell of grease and stale food. “You’ll start here in the kitchens, Rachid,” Kinley said. “Officer Warren will give you your instructions.” A tall, red-haired prison officer stepped up to them and looked Leon up and down. “This is the new arrival, is it?” “Rachid, Leon. Conspiracy and aiding a war criminal to escape,” answered Kinley. Warren raised an eyebrow. “Conspiracy? Then you’ll be with us for a while, Rachid, I take it.” Leon said nothing, and Kinley gripped his shoulder and neck in a tight pinch and twisted. “Answer Officer Warren, you little piece of gos-se!” Leon let out a sharp breath, wincing at the grip. Warren came closer. “It’s a simple question, Rachid. When I say you’ll be with us for a while, how many years will that be?” Kinley tightened his grip and Leon gasped. “Twenty – years - ” “Sir!” hissed Kinley at his ear. “Twenty years, sir.” “Twenty years?” Warren smiled complacently. “That’s a long time, Rachid.” He leaned full into Leon’s face and his voice suddenly dropped. “A very long time. We’ll get to know each other well, you and I. I’ll get to know all your little ways… And you’ll get to know mine.” He looked into Leon’s eyes for a long moment – then stepped back. His voice returned to a normal level. “Sad to say, you haven’t made a good first impression on me, Rachid. And first impressions are everything. But you’ve got plenty of time to put that right in.” He smiled again, and tapped his belt. “Now you’ve met me, I’ll show you where you work and what your duties are. Oh, and one more thing.” He laid a hand on the short baton attached to his belt. “See this, Rachid?” Leon’s eyes lowered to the black baton. It was a little longer than a man’s forearm, with two metal contacts at one end. “A shock baton. Every prison officer carries one. We’re use them to maintain order.” He tapped the handle with his forefinger. “Packs a hundred-thousand volt shock. Enough to knock a man down.” He held Leon’s gaze. “I like a trouble-free shift, Rachid. And I never expect to have to tell a man what to do more than once.” He waited a moment, then turned away. “You’ll be working over here.” Leon moved after him. As Warren led the young prisoner through the knots of working men, a mutter of comment followed them. Warren stopped by a rack of large unwashed metal pans. “Okay, Rachid. I want these cleaned and stacked away neatly. Water’s scarce on this facility so you’ll make do with what’s in this sink. I’ll check on your work later. If it’s not good enough, you’ll do it again.” He turned away and moved off to another part of the kitchen. Leon turned to the sink with its few inches of scummy warm water and lifted down a heavy pan from the rack. It was crusted with some kind of food remains, dried to a hard brown residue. Leon took a wire scouring pad from the water and began to scrub at it. “Hey… Hey.” A voice hissed at him from nearby. He looked to one side: a bulky man was looking at him from his work at another sink, several yards away. The man grinned when Leon looked across. His black hair was shaved close, like Leon’s, and his sleeves were rolled high, revealing arms knotted with muscles. “New boy, huh? Rachid?” Leon said nothing, but after a moment nodded. The man grinned again. “Name’s Mitchell.” He jerked his head after where Warren had gone. “You want to watch out for that tah mah duh hwoon dahn. Get on the wrong side of him, he can make your life a misery.” Leon nodded again, still not eager to speak. Mitchell glanced around to check that the coast was clear, then lifted up a stack of catering pans and moved across with them to Leon’s sink, dumping them down. He lowered his voice. “First time in, huh?” “Yes.” Leon kept washing his own pan, but shot Mitchell a cautious glance. The powerfully-muscled man moved closer. “How long you got?” “Twenty years.” “Jesus!” Mitchell laughed as he bent over the sink. “What’d you do, kill the chief exec of Blue Sun Corporation?” Leon just shrugged. Despite the man’s apparent friendliness, he felt on edge. Mitchell moved closer still, until his elbow was touching the youth. “Best not to say, right. Everyone keeps a lid on their past in here. Except to say they’re innocent, of course.” His voice dropped a little. “There’s some bad tzang-huo in here, Rachid. Chiang-bao, chou hwoon dahn… New young guy like you, could get into trouble easy. You want to watch out. Make friends with the right people.” Leon heard an edge in the man’s voice now. “I could be your friend. Watch your back for you.” Mitchell was speaking under his breath now, close to Leon’s face. “I’ll watch your back, and in return… You can be my friend.” His body shifted, turning slightly, pressing closer. Leon felt the heat of the other man’s breath on his face: facing forwards, staring at the sink, his hands gripped the pan in the lukewarm water. His felt his stomach tighten as Mitchell shifted against him. “Okay, Rachid?” The big man pressed in close, one muscled arm braced on the sink edge. “Tsai boo shr!” Leon’s hands clenched on the pan as he swung it up out of the sink round in an arc, smashing it into Mitchell’s face. Taken by surprise the big man staggered backwards with cry, one hand flying up to his mouth. Leon twisted round at the sink, still holding the pan. “Kao - ” moaned Mitchell, lowering his hand from his face. Blood was streaming down from his nose. He looked at Leon and fury filled his eyes. “You little biaou-tze duh ur-tze!” He lunged forward and Leon dodged, swinging the pan again to hit him on the side of the head. Mitchell lurched and swiped out, his fist striking the metal pan and sending it flying. Then he was on Leon with no more preamble and the two went down onto the floor. Leon felt Mitchell’s fists driving in at his body with the same faraway feeling he’d had when the doctor was cutting into his arm. His own fists struck back, his whole body transformed into a writhing, kicking, fighting entity that was riding a wild dark feeling inside him; using the darkness to let go, to lash out and not feel the blows hitting his own ribs. Mitchell was a strong man and the small far-away part of Leon that was getting smaller and further away all the time knew that he couldn’t win the fight, that Mitchell was going to hurt him. But the Leon here and now didn’t care; that didn’t matter, all that mattered was swinging his fists and driving them hard into flesh, against bone, hitting back. A punch hit his face and he rolled sideways then came up again, blood filling his mouth, already lunging out to strike. There was noise all around them but Mitchell’s bloody face danced in his vision and they were struggling together, rolling on the floor but still punching. The darkness inside gave him the strength he needed to drive in a lucky blow that knocked Mitchell sideways, the big man clutching his throat and choking. He punched again and again, bruising his knuckles against Mitchell’s ribs, carried in the darkness like surfing a wave of cold water – then something touched the back of his neck and a fiery jolt sent him sprawling sideways. He found the floor cold against his face and stirred, choking: Mitchell had gone, he had somehow got away. He pushed at the floor with his hands, clumsily getting up to find the big man, and a foot stepped close beside him. He lifted his head – then the touch came again at the side of his neck and cracked through his body with fire, seizing his muscles so that the air was pushed from his lungs with a choked cry. Everything burned around him for long moments; then the burning pulse died and he was lying on his back on the floor, shaking, staring up. A figure moved above him, leaning over. Warren looked down, his head blocking out the light. In his hand he held his shock baton, which he kept ready. “All right, Rachid. Try that again and you’ll regret it.” Leon said nothing, catching his breath, feeling himself still shaking against the cold floor. He tasted blood in his mouth and suddenly it turned his stomach; he spat clumsily, onto the floor. Warren’s face took on a look of disgust. “I thought you looked like trouble…” he said in a low voice. “Get up!” Unsteadily Leon got to his feet, starting to feel where Mitchell’s fists had landed. His side burned as he straightened up and he staggered, letting out a breath. Warren’s mouth curled downwards, then he reached out and gave him a hard shove. “You’re going downside, Rachid. Move!” And he nodded sideways towards where Mitchell stood, also in the custody of another prison officer. “And you, Mitchell. I don’t feel like seeing your big ugly face any more today.” Mitchell lowered a bloody hand from his head. “Little bastard… broke my goddamn nose!” He spoke thickly, his eyes glaring across at Leon. Warren jerked his head at the other prison officer. “Take him by the infirmary on the way.” He turned back to Leon and shoved him forwards. “I said move, Rachid! Get walking!” As Leon stepped past Mitchell, the big man fixed him with a white-hot gaze. He hissed low as Leon came close, “Big mistake, Rachid. You’re dead now.” Leon turned his face away: Warren pushed him hard from behind and he stumbled forwards. They made their way through the prison’s passages, descending stairs to the lower levels. Warren hauled him to a halt outside a barred gate, where another officer came to open up. He glanced at Leon. “Trouble?” “Nothing I can’t handle.” Warren shoved Leon through. “New boy here thinks he can play tough on his first day. Needs to learn the rules. You got one free?” “Sure, number eight. Been pretty quiet lately.” “Got one more coming down shortly, after they’ve run him past the doc. Mitchell.” “Mitchell, huh? Been a while since someone tugged his chain. We can accommodate him too, no problem.” The officer looked at Leon. “He do it? Must be more dangerous than he looks.” “Well, he’s about to find out he’s not the only dangerous thing in here.” Warren pushed Leon down the corridor towards the solitary cells. At a door stencilled with the number eight he triggered its lock and shoved Leon in so hard the youth sprawled onto hands and knees on the floor. Warren stepped in after him and shut the door. “Strip, you son-of-a-bitch.” Leon pulled himself up against the far wall, keeping his eyes on Warren, wiping at the blood on his chin. “I said strip. Take your goddamn clothes off right now.” Leon set his back against the wall, swallowing. “If you make me do it for you, you sorry little hwoon dahn, you will regret it. STRIP!” Leon’s gaze slid down to where Warren’s hand was moving down to the shock baton on his belt. His stomach tightened. Slowly he lifted his hands to his jacket top and began to pull it off over his head. As the clothing obscured his sight he thought he heard Warren move closer, so he tugged the jacket off rapidly, dropping it down off his shoulders and arms. Warren stood in front of him, hand still resting on the baton. “And the rest,” he ordered. Leon let his jacket fall to the floor and unbuttoned his trousers; paused for a moment, glancing up at Warren. The officer met his eyes with a cold expression. “C’mon, Rachid, drop your drawers. Whatever you’ve got hidden in your pants, I’ve seen it before.” Leon pulled his trousers off and dropped them with the jacket on the floor. He found himself standing unsteady against the wall, his arms held across his body, eyes on Warren. The prison officer kicked the clothes towards the door. “You’ll get them back when you get out.” He turned back to Leon; let out a derogatory snort. “Feeling a little exposed?” He stepped closer, smiling a thin smile. “Better get used to being naked in company, Rachid. Modesty’s in short supply in prison.” He nodded generally at the cell. “And in here, solitary, well… We don’t leave you with anything you might do some harm with.” He kicked at the discarded green uniform on the floor again. “Once upon a time prisoners used to hang ‘emselves using their clothes. Wouldn’t do to have that happen.” He let out a sigh. “Doesn’t look good in the annual reports.” He shook his head, then fixed Leon with a hard look. “And you know what else doesn’t look good in reports? Trouble in my watch.” He rested his hand on his shock baton. “Fight breaking out between inmates, disorderly conduct. I won’t have it, Rachid. Makes me look bad. And I don’t plan to have you make me look bad. I’ve worked too damn hard to let some little liaou mahng like you mess up my discipline record. So here’s how it goes.” He drew the baton from his belt and held it up. “You made trouble today, on my watch. I’m going to have to explain that to my senior officer. But I don’t plan to have to do that ever again, because of you. And to make sure of that, you’re going to have a lesson right here and right now on what it means to piss me off.” Leon pressed back against the wall, his eyes dropping from Warren’s face to the end of the baton. As the officer came forward he tried to dodge the baton, lunging sideways – but the tip landed on his side and at once there was a crackling discharge and he fell to the floor, muscles jerking. For a long moment he was washed in fire, breath shuddering from his throat, unable to move. Then the baton lifted away and he lay on his side along the angle between floor and wall. The floor scraped under Warren’s footstep and Leon involuntarily looked up, to see the black metal-tipped end of the baton coming down. This time it touched his chest and Warren held it there, pinning him against the wall as his back arched and he cried out, shaken by the current until his lungs were empty and on fire. The burning stopped. Leon lay shaking on the cold floor, sweat pooling beneath him, breath coming in shaking gulps. He forced his eyes open and looked up at Warren. “…N…No…” As the officer lifted the baton again, he cried, “No!” but the end of his cry was cut off as he was shaken again by the crack and burn of the electric shock. The punishment went on for a long time. Warren seemed not to tire, not to care what he was doing: his expression as he closed in with the shock baton was one of a man doing a tedious but necessary job. As Leon first cried out for respite, then just cried out, Warren made no sign that he even heard. Coldly and efficiently he administered the shocks, pressing the metal baton tip hard against Leon’s skin, following him when he tried to crawl away, holding the contact against skin until red burns were left behind. At last Warren stepped away. Leon lay curled into a ball on one corner, shuddering from the last assault. His face was wet with sweat and tears, covered by his folded arms. His body ached and burned; when he breathed it came shallow and ragged, in hiccupping gasps. He heard Warren move and reflexively his body braced itself, trembling against the wall. The officer stood over him. “Hope you learned your lesson, Rachid. I don’t want to have to give it to you again.” With that, he triggered the door open, picked up Leon’s clothes, and was gone, shutting the door behind him. As the door locked the light in the cell went out. Leon lay in darkness, breathing unsteadily on the floor. He was cold. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to uncurl himself. The aching of his muscles held him still, the stinging burns on his ribs, his back, his legs. One hand rested knuckles down on the floor, the hard shiny coolness firm beneath him. He started to push himself up: his arms shook, and his breath sobbed in his throat. He kept moving, drew himself up into a sitting position with his back against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees. He rested his face on his arms and felt the wetness there, the tears and sweat smearing on his skin. His stomach hurt, a twisting gnawing pain. He tightened his hands, gripping his elbows; struggled to breathe deeper. A shudder ran through him and he squeezed his eyes shut, tensed every muscle, held on to himself as hard as he could. Keep strong. Keep strong. Jake’s words ran round and round in his head. Survive. He let out a thin sound, then choked himself off; pressed his face hard into his arms. Everything was darkness. He couldn’t see how to keep going any more. Jake. O god o god take me with you don’t leave me here.

* * * * *

After an unknown time in the dark Leon finally slept, beaten down by all that had happened. At last the light came back on in his cell; as it flickered on it jerked him into sudden wakefulness, staring up at the ceiling. The sound of the cell door lock made him twist onto his side and struggle up against the wall, unsteady with aching muscles. Warren stood in the doorway, cool eyes resting on him. “Ready to rejoin society?” he asked laconically. He threw Leon’s prison uniform in onto the floor. “Get dressed.” Leon picked the clothes up and quickly put them on. Warren jerked his head. “All right. Get out.” As Leon passed through the doorway, Warren stopped him for a moment, bracing his arm across the opening. “But remember, Rachid: you give us any trouble again, this is where you’re coming. And you’ll get a lesson again if you haven’t learned it this time. Dong luh ma?” Leon met his eyes, but said nothing. Warren’s mouth crooked up at the corner in a sneering smile – then he shoved the young prisoner forwards out into the corridor. After his time in solitary, Leon was put back to work in the canteen section again, under Warren’s gaze. Most of the other prisoners kept their distance after his fight with Mitchell, and Leon made no efforts to talk. As he woke each day in his narrow bunk in the cell he shared with three other men, he stared up at the ceiling until the dreams that had filled his head during the night were pushed away, wiped out. When he was asleep the times before returned; he was talking with Jake in Mawu’s cockpit, or walking with him in a dusty street… another part of himself staying alive in the dreams. But once he woke that Leon was no longer there: the real Leon, the Leon that had to get through the next day in prison, stared up at the ceiling and let everything else fall away. Being younger than most of the other inmates made it harder to keep a distance. Mitchell wasn’t the only man who saw the silent youth as a potential soft touch. Despite the fact that word of his fight had got around, there were prisoners who watched him for too long; got too close in the narrow prison hallways; spoke soft obscenities under their breath against the back of his neck in the queue for meals. Leon blanked every approach with a look of cold distance, reinforced when necessary with an elbow jabbed back into the ribs or by swiftly moving away. Warren’s lesson in the solitary cell stayed clear in his memory and he tried to spot situations coming, to avoid being caught where a confrontation might happen. But as the days wore away they wore him down: he grew tired from being constantly on edge, too tired to always keep up his guard. And Warren’s unforgiving surveillance never missed even the smallest wrong move he made. Each time the cold-eyed officer caught him out in some petty infringement of prison rules, he took a jolt from the shock baton. Red welts marked his skin, mirroring the burn scars hidden under his clothes from his ordeal in solitary. Leon took the punishment and kept his gaze lowered, not giving Warren the smallest excuse to find fault with him. But Warren didn’t need an excuse. The one problem that wasn’t there every day was Mitchell. The big man appeared back in the canteen soon after Leon got back to work, his nose crooked and surrounded by deep purple bruising, but he didn’t even give Leon a look. Weeks passed and nothing changed, and Leon began to stop keeping a special eye on him. Mitchell was just another face in a grey background, another body to keep a distance from. It was just after lunchtime: a busy time for those prisoners who worked the kitchen shift. Leon worked head down at one of the scummy sinks, scouring pans and trays in the greasy water until the skin on his hands grew wrinkled. He didn’t care about working hard: the time passed by and it took enough of his attention away that he didn’t think about where he was. At last he came to the end of the pile of metalware. He stacked the last pan with the others he’d washed in a carrying basket, then wiped his slippery hands dry on his trousers. He glanced around but the aisle stretched away with no other prisoner or prison officer in sight, although the din of kitchenware being moved, stacked and cleaned elsewhere made a steady background din. Taking hold of the handles at either side of the basket, Leon lifted it from the drainer with a slight grunt of effort and hauled the heavy basket against his chest to carry it. Slowly he headed down the aisle to the back of the kitchen section, to where the dishes and cooking utensils were stored. The basket was heavy in his water-softened hands and he paused after a moment to grip the handles more securely, hitching the weight tighter against his body to make it easier to carry. Then he stepped forwards again. He passed the end of a counter, coming closer to the shadowy recesses of the storage area. He was nearly there when a hand gripped his left shoulder from behind – then a blow hit him low down in his back. The impact drove a gasp out of his lungs. For a moment the blow was all he felt; then sharp white-hot pain spiked into his back so suddenly it locked off his throat. His hands clenched on the basket: the pain spread out into his side, burning into him so he began to collapse, falling forwards to his knees to the floor. He leaned over the basket, voiceless, mouth open but choked by the stabbing fire. He tried to take a breath in and the pain cut into his back, slicing in so deep his eyes pressed shut and he felt cold sweat come all over his body. Tyen-ah - No - He forced his eyes open; one of his hands, shaking as it moved, groped behind him towards the hurt, blindly seeking. His fingers touched wet cloth, then something cold and thin and hard. As his fingertips clumsily pushed against this object agony burst from it and arrowed into his back, making him shudder and gasp. His head bowed down, sweat and tears slick on his skin. A cold tingling started to grow in his arms: they felt heavy and weak. He opened his eyes and stared at the basket of kitchenware before him. It seemed to sway: the darkness of the space he was kneeling in was growing darker. His head jerkily lifted up and he took a ragged breath; caught it, eyes flickering shut again, then tried to breathe in once more. It was as if shards of broken glass were being driven into him. He made himself open his eyes, look at the fading light. Made himself try to make a sound before the darkness and the cold took him down. An inarticulate cry came out of him, tailing off to a shaking breath. As the air moved out, the pain pushed in. He folded forwards onto the basket, his face pressing onto the cold metal. The wetness was spreading, soaking down his back to his waist now, a warm clamminess spreading down from the spike of fire that held him motionless. He tried to cry out again, to push himself up, but his fingers wouldn’t even clench on the basket any more. There was a thudding of footsteps nearby, then close to; voices behind him. “What the hell - ” “Ah, Jesus - ” Ungentle hands touched him, jarring him and sending a deeper wave of agony out from the fire in his back. “Call the goddamn medics!” It was Warren’s voice, raised to an angry shout. “Tell them we got a stabbing down here, and they need to get here quick!” The hands gripped his shoulder. “Hwai-luh… Figures it’d be you, Rachid. Tah mah duh hwoon dahn…” As the hands tried to turn him over Leon felt the world start to pull away. The pain was worse but he was getting so cold now he couldn’t feel it, it was sliding off into the dark and he was going there too. All he could hear now was his own shaking breath, echoing in his ears; then even that faded and he fell down into the dark.

* * * * *

“…Keep him on the IV until he’s stabilised. Could’ve been worse.” “What about meds?” “He’ll need some analgesia for a while. Keep it to a minimum. Half these cons are in for drug-related offences; we don’t want to add to that.” The world was still dark around Leon, but sounds were coming back. He was warm now instead of cold: warm and heavy and somehow very tired. The voices around him were waking him up, but he didn’t want to leave the place he’d just been. “I think he just moved. Looks like he might be coming out of the anaesthetic.” “About time.” The voice suddenly became louder and closer. “Rachid? Open your eyes.” He didn’t want to: didn’t want to respond to the commanding tone. A hand touched him and gave him a short, firm shake. “Open your eyes, Rachid. Come on, now; wake up.” The shake sent movement throughout his body, swiftly bringing awareness back every part of him. And with the awareness came a sharpening pain low down in his back, catching at his right side. He took an involuntary breath in and his eyes wavered open into very bright light. “That’s better.” A man’s face, that of the doctor, leaned across the light, looking down. “You hear me, Rachid?” Leon tried to make a reply and couldn’t: his throat and mouth were dry, making him choke. “Pass me that water, Donovan.” The doctor leaned away and then back: the rim of a cup touched Leon’s lips and then water flooded his mouth. “Take a sip. Slowly.” He managed to swallow a mouthful, then choked again. “I said slowly, Rachid.” The doctor took the cup away. “Okay now?” Leon pulled a shallow breath in against the burning pain in his back, and whispered, “Hur…tss…” The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I expect so. Knife in the back generally does.” He turned his head and spoke to the unseen second person. “Give him a shot of Mederol. We’ll try him on 10 mikes.” Leon held still as the second man came into his field of view, carrying a hypo. Now Leon could feel the bed beneath his back, the sheet stretched over his body. There was something bound around his waist and lower chest, a slightly tight pressure there. A sharp sting in his arm made him blink, but it was the growing pain in his back that dominated everything. It seemed to be getting worse by the second and this scared him. He wasn’t sure how much worse it was going to get. “Rachid?” The doctor spoke loudly, demanding his attention. “You’re coming out of the anaesthetic. You’ll feel pretty groggy for a while until it wears off. The shot the medic just gave you should deal with the pain. But you’re going to need to lie still for a while. You’ve been in surgery three hours. You lost a lot of blood. And your right kidney was badly damaged, so we had to remove it.” Leon stared dully up at the doctor, hearing the words but not really taking them in. “…Kidney?..” he muttered, waiting for the pain to go away as the doctor had promised. “…Did I…have…an accident?..” The doctor smiled grimly. “You could call it that. You’ve obviously got on someone’s wrong side, Rachid. Somebody stuck you with a knife, while you were working in the kitchen. Don’t you remember?” “…No…” It was a lie. He could remember, now. He could remember the blow on his back, falling to the floor as the stabbing pain seemed to cut into his spine. He looked up at the doctor and said, “I don’t…remember anything…” The doctor observed him a moment with cool eyes, then shrugged. “Mm-hmm. Funny how often I hear that. Every time I sew one of you degenerates up, in fact.” He stood up, but stayed near the bed. “You’ll be in the infirmary here for a little while, Rachid. But when you’re back on the halls, try to stay out of trouble. Whoever stuck that knife in you was playing for keeps. I’d kiss and make up, if I were you. You’ve got a long stay in here ahead of you.” With that he moved away. Leon lay very still on the bed. The shot he’d been given was starting to work now: the pain was still there, but it was losing its penetrating edge. Another minute passed, and it began to fade a little. He shut his eyes and let himself take a deeper breath. Stay out of trouble. Seems like someone out there in the ‘Verse must have other plans for me. He felt his face twist into a mirthless grin, which wavered as he fought down a sudden rising misery. Don’t. Tzao-gao. Not gonna give in. It hurts too much for that. Guay. He lay stiffly on the bed, every muscle taught as he brought himself back under control. Just breathe in and out, nice and slow. Don’t think about what that chou doc said. Lie still and breathe and don’t think. One moment at a time. One hour at a time. One day at a time. Just don’t think too far ahead.