Author's Note: A very dark section ahead, includes disturbing situations. I really wanted to do something different from the typical captor/captive confrontation scene and I'm very curious to know what people think of the results. Scroll-over titles added for those who want to see Chinese translations and notes to Shakespeare references.

Shakespeare References: Macbeth Act III Scene 4; Sonnet 53; Macbeth Act V Scene 1

Zoe was now well and truly pissed. Where the hell were they, these mysterious enemies? She needed something to fight, something to direct her energy against. Were they just going to leave her here with only a table of sharp, pointy objects and an empty chair for company? Those damn torture instruments practically felt like old friends, it'd been so many hours.

So when the door swung open, she was actually relieved. "About gorram time," she muttered. A man came in, limping and leaning on a crutch. Something about him was familiar, something to do with the war. But it was a vague feeling. There were so many things about the war that she'd tried to forget. This man must have been one of those things.

"Corporal Alleyne," the man announced. Not a question, Zoe noted. So he knew her, at any rate. As he advanced, it appeared to Zoe that he approached with some reluctance. Each step seemed painful, but nevertheless she judged he was coming forward slower than necessary. What the hell? She's tied down and he's afraid of her? Not being able to move much beyond her head, Zoe could only glare at him. She tried to ball up her fists, but her fingers refused to cooperate on the grounds that they'd run out of circulation quite some time ago.

Okay, so this was the enemy. A well-built man, early-40s maybe, dressed in civvies, but with ash brown hair cropped short in military fashion. Must have had perfect posture once, but the limp made that impossible to maintain now. Some scars visible, but not necessarily a cruel face. As he came closer, she saw that he wasn't looking at her body, except in the most general sense. No, didn't seem to be lusting at all. Seemed to be kind of… nonplussed.

He stopped abruptly next to the long table (Zoe, in her boredom, had named it "Fluffy"), the disappointment in his face now unmistakable. He'd obviously rehearsed something else, probably a phrase he thought was clever and intimidating. But somehow she'd flustered him, because he only managed to stammer out, "You...you don't remember me! How is that possible? Your face was very nearly the last living thing I ever saw."

Zoe watched him closely, analyzing every gesture, parsing every word and noting the tone in his voice, looking for a weakness, an opening, something she could use to her advantage. He was clearly upset she didn't recognize him, so best try to keep that going. He must be Alliance.

"You're not that sagua grunt from my unit on Trophy? The one who couldn't figure out which end of the bazooka was front, and I had to drag your sorry ass off the line so you didn't get your buddies killed?"

Yep, that was the button to push alright! His face darkened and his nostrils flared indignantly. He practically hopped those last few steps to the gurney, and put his face so close she could feel his breath, see the strain in his eyes.

"No, Corporal," he snapped out crisply, "I was not one of your cow-sucking Browncoats." He jerked upright, collecting himself. Then he looked back down at her, thoughtful.

His hand came up suddenly, and Zoe reflexively flinched. Hold it together, girl! You are a rock, you are a statue.

But instead of hitting her, he ran the back of his knuckles lightly along her jaw line. Under other circumstances, Zoe would have called it a caress. He bent over her again, and his whole expression became pensive, even imploring. Green-brown eyes so close, too close, drilled into her, through her, beseeching her recollection. At last, he said softly, "You honestly don't know me? I called you the Angel of Death."

And suddenly she did remember him. She remembered all of them. Before she could will it otherwise, her face grew slightly pale, her eyes widened, and the defiant smirk she'd painted on was washed away. And, gorammit, he saw all that! So much for having an advantage.

"Ah, better." Callum smiled faintly, apparently relieved.

He seemed to gather confidence from the fact that she now knew him. He began tracing his fingers lightly around the outline of her face, starting at the forehead and moving down one cheek to her chin, and then repeating on the other side. As he did so, he murmured, "What is your substance, whereof are you made / That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one hath, every one, one shade / And you, but one, can every shadow lend."

I am a stone, I am granite. "Just so you know, I've been trained to withstand bad poetry."

She wished he'd stop touching her like that. Her skin recoiled from his caress (there was no other word for it), but at the same time, she'd been lying naked in that cold room for some hours, and her surface parts couldn't help missing the warmth when his hand moved on. Why didn't he just beat her, or use the knives. Or even rape her. That, at least, would be straightforward. That she knew how to cope with. But this, this …what? Perverse seduction?

"That's Shakespeare," Callum said patiently, his expression mild. "Maybe the greatest poet the 'verse has ever seen." Zoe's glare intensified when his hand brushed softly along her collar bone, but she refused to flatter him with pointless writhing when it was impossible to get away. "I'm a big fan, for the poetry more than the plots. I find myself thinking on 'Macbeth' a lot these days. 'Out, damned spot! Out, I say!' That's your line. 'Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.'

His fingers trailed slowly down and up the length of her arm and across her upper chest, and Zoe, trying hard not to be unnerved by the…whatever it was he thought he was doing, was thankful her limbs were mostly numb from being so many hours immobile in the tight restraints. He leaned even closer, bringing his lips to her ear. "You remember it, don't you," he whispered, his voice sweet and hopeful, "the smell of blood and rotting flesh? In the Valley?"

"Does that line work on other women? 'Cause frankly, it ain't doing a thing for me."

Callum smiled again. "Ever the brave soldier, eh? Sergeant Reynolds would be mighty proud. But you're right. Enough pillow talk. Time for the bloody business." He drew a syringe from his pocket and, forcing her head to one side, carefully injected something into her neck. "This will prevent clotting."

Zoe cast her mind for something, anything to delay 'the bloody business'. "Where are the others, Callum?" she demanded sharply, making one futile attempt to wrench her arms free.

"Oh," he replied carelessly, "the pilot is probably half Reaver cloth, half Reaver dinner by now. Never saw such pitiful begging from a grown man before. The girl," Callum paused to lay down the syringe and select a scalpel from Fluffy's tray. "My men enjoyed her for a time. But she cried and carried on so, the more squeamish ones felt sorry for her, so I let them put her down. Bullet to the brain, I think, although my orders weren't specific. That was all some hours ago."

"But don't you worry," he continued as he shifted her elbow into position. Zoe braced herself for the cut, and winced only slightly when the scalpel dug deep along the vein. Callum hobbled over to the other side of the gurney and made a similar incision in her other arm. "I can't deny my men have enjoyed the view from the door. But no one is going to spoil you like that."

"Then why am I fucking naked, you mother-humping hwoon dahn!" She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, been determined to deny him the satisfaction. But she could feel the panic rising up, almost as another being, and looking on, horrified despite her best efforts, as blood started pooling on the floor. Must calm down, must stay in control. Keep the anger cold, cold like stone.

Callum looked surprised. "Maybe because you are beautiful, Corporal Alleyne. Even on the battlefield, dressed in Browncoat rags and covered in mud, you were beautiful. The Angel of Death, dark and terrible, but an angel nonetheless. Some say Death is like a lover." He reached over to stroke her hair, but this time Zoe spat in his face. "I've always liked that notion," Callum continued, his voice still soft and dreamy, as he wiped his face with his sleeve. He limped away and settled into the chair in front of her. "Or maybe because we come into this world naked, and it seemed fitting that you should go out the same way. Or maybe I just wanted to take everything from you -- clothes, comrades, dignity -- before taking your life. Or all of the above."

Zoe felt sick, nauseous. Her arms, the floor.... "Mal." She took a breath and shook her head to clear it. "Will come for me. And there's no corner of Hell dark enough." She blinked hard to focus her eyes. "To hide you from him."

"I'm counting on that. The good sergeant will find us, but just a little too late."

"Why…all this?" Zoe wiggled her hands and her ninja toes feebly. She was starting to have trouble concentrating. Blood flowing out of her, blood from the stone. "Why not just kill me?"

Callum rose up, suddenly enraged. She had just pushed the wrong button, and if he had been closer, Zoe was sure this time he would have struck her savagely. His voice, until now gentle and smooth, even pleasant, became harsh and clipped again. "How lucky you are, Corporal, to have forgotten everything so well," he sneered. "Revenge by symmetry, dong ma? This is how you would have made me die."

End Chapter 4.