Mal had no way of knowing it, but he'd been unconscious for nearly 16 hours when he slowly became aware of his existence again. It wasn't so much his existence he was aware of as the hurt that invaded every fiber of his body. He tried to open his eyes to assess his surroundings, but it would appear he lacked the strength to do even that. He tensed involuntarily at the sound of voices nearby and immediately regretted it.

"You reckon they'd - we'd - actually kill him? No trial, no hearing, bang?" asked one voice casually. "More'n likely," came the bored reply. "That boy's a massive PR balltwist for the brass. Bad enough if it comes out we can't keep one little inmate from taking over an entire unit, let alone that we broke him to bits on the spot. Public doesn't take too kindly to the notion of their own government torturing POWs." There was a long pause. The first man said softly "I kinda hope we do it soon, for that poor bastard's sake."

There was a derisive snort. "Don't waste your time worrying over him. Could've been you he killed out there. Man deserves to suffer for what he did. Trying to barbecue your own side doesn't speak to kindly to anyone's nature, neither."

"Yeah, you're right. You gotta be pretty messed up to do a thing like that."

Oh God no. Mal marshaled all of his strength to raise himself up to speak. The two guards glanced into the cell to see their prisoner's head move slightly and his body move a fraction as he gave a low groan. Mal's eyes locked with the younger guard's. "No...didn't..." his face contorted with pain and once again he lay motionless on the floor.

"Still," the man continued after a moment of silence, "I...I heard a rumor. Seems some of the prisoners are saying it wasn't him that started the fire. Saying it was our guys."

"Possible, I suppose. Aidan always was the gangster type. That's the case, it's never gonna leave these walls."

Mal lay on the cement floor in utter misery. He'd seen a lot of suffering in his day, never quite comprehending how it felt to be unable to escape this unrelenting pain no matter how hard you tried. He felt cold and sick, and completely alone. He had no idea how long he laid there trying to will himself to die. Neither was he conscious of the high, almost inaudible whimpers of pain escaping his lips.

Mal's keepers had spoken of promotions, of gossip, of the outcome of tournaments for what seemed like hours when footsteps intruded. "Ready to go home, boys?"

"Never, I love this place. Please let me pull another shift. Please?" the younger guard joked. Laughter. "How's the man of the hour?" "Still alive, last I checked."

One of the new voices took on a harder, more somber tone. "Not for long. Hear he's scheduled to die of his injuries not more'n a few hours from now."

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"We're here for, um, Reynolds, is it? You boys can take off, he won't be needing your services any more."

"Yes, sir!"

Mal heard his guardians walk away as the door of his cell beeped open. Someone was kneeling beside him, and he heard cases being opened. He tensed, causing new waves of pain through his helpless body as he tried to bite back tears. Please make this quick, he thought as his heart pounded in fear. I don't want to die. I don't want to live through one more second of this, but I don't want to die. Mal didn't want to die alone in handcuffs, his last memories of pain and cruelty and indifference.

"Want me to load him?"

"Hold up a sec," another voice said. Mal bit his lip as he felt the dull sting of a needle pierce the muscle of his arm, and almost instantly the painful world faded away.

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