<USS Avalon> Re: "Introducing Cailin Danaan, Part One"

In the past...
                 

                 She was thrown roughly forward, causing her to stumble and 
then fall hard to the stone floor. That was, of course, the point. She made no 
protest, even though she knew her shoulder would surely bruise where it had 
met the ground;  the mark would simply join the legion of others that had come 
before it. Her "escort" laughed, then slammed the cell door shut behind him.
                 Rolling onto her back, she stared into the dark at the 
ceiling. Wondering... when? When would it stop? When would she finally be left 
alone? When would they stop using her as if she were an object and not a 
sentient 
being? Then again, she mused, not for the first time, that perhaps it was best 
that the treatment continue. As long as they were content to use her body to 
satisfy their prurient sexual fantasies, she would continue to stay alive. 
Though for what, she didn't know anymore. There was no way out. No means of 
escape. No help--no one was coming for her. And why should they?
                 Everyone thought she was dead.
                 At least, that's what she told herself. After all, they must 
think her dead if she'd been there for more than a year, being beaten and 
raped at her captors' leisure. Made to curl her naked body into a ball in the 
corner of a cell with stone walls, a stone floor,  no window, no bed--just to 
keep warm. The only semblance of an amenity was a hole in the floor in which to 
relieve herself. She was fed rarely, and only allowed to bathe just prior to 
being used for whatever purpose she had been chosen for on that particular 
occasion. 
                 When she had first been taken captive, when her ship had 
been destroyed and probably all of her crewmates slaughtered and/or sold into 
slavery as she had been (she had no idea what had happened to everyone else), 
she 
had been purchased by the Fleet Marshall of the Cardassian Second Order, the 
highest ranked man in that fleet. He had said, at the time, that she was such 
a lovely creature it was a shame to let her go to waste as another man's 
property. She, in turn, had spit in his face and declared she was not property 
at 
all. 
                 And was rewarded with the most severe backhand she'd ever 
received.
                 Then was rewarded further with a beating. Oh, it was true 
that she had fought back, and quite ferociously. The Fleet Marshall had 
certainly received more than a split lip--she had heard whispers that the first 
time 
they'd traded blows, she'd fractured both cheekbones and his jaw.  It brought 
her little comfort now when she remembered that he had also been more than a 
hundred pounds heavier than she, and she no match for his enormous size. She 
had 
been bested within minutes. Her uniform pulled at and torn until her 
genetalia were exposed, and then in his lusty fervor he had forced himself into 
her, 
again and again. 
                 It went on that way for months: she would be brought before 
him, he would demand she perform lewd sexual acts, she would refuse, and they 
would fight. She was always bested, but not before giving him the fight of her 
life. In the end, though, the result was always the same. She would be 
violently beaten and raped, and then thrown back into her cell like she was 
nothing 
more than a bag of bones. Which, to them, was all she was.
                 After a while the marshall had grown weary of her, and he 
passed her on to one of his captains. The gul had only kept her a few weeks 
before passing her to someone else, until finally she had been put into what 
they 
had called the "pens." It was, she learned, where all the sex slaves were 
kept, and all were treated the same--poorly. She remembered thinking that the 
stories she'd heard about "comfort women" the Cardassians had used on any 
number 
of their occupied worlds were far from the real experience. Then it occurred to 
her that if she had simply cooperated, she might have received much better 
treatment. Bu there was no way she could have willingly done the things that 
she 
had been forced to do, and in the end she decided that no matter what she had 
done, her situation would have been no different.
                 Escape, she had learned early on, was impossible. The cells 
of the pens were primitive, sure, what with being made of stone. But the ones 
who kept her there were far from ignorant. Even with out a tool of any kind, a 
prisoner might be desperate enough to tear their hands apart trying to dig 
through the stone. Which she would have done herself, had there not been a 
camera in the center of the ceiling, watching her night and day.
                 Then, though she had never thought it possible of herself...
                 ...she gave up hope.

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