Date: Sat, 26 Jan 2002 23:21:20 -0800 (PST)
From: Qminotaurus <qminotaurus@yahoo.com>
Subject: Prisoner Holland- Part 1: West Portal

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The following work of fiction contains explicit
depictions of sexuality and is unsuitable for minors or for those
who prefer not to be exposed to homosexual themes.

Comments are welcome.

I.

     He was waiting for me just outside the West Portal,  leaning up
against the smooth stone arch and, as per usual, flicking ashes from
the end of a cigarette.  Something was different about him, though,
which immediately caught my eye.  He was puffing heavily on the
cigarette, shifting his weight restlessly, glancing from side to side
with the air of both boredom and ill-ease.  Mark nervous?  Couldn't be.

     The boy was barely seventeen, but it was easy to forget.  His
clear eyes and strikingly handsome face were framed by unruly blonde
hair, and a quick, confident smile.  I admired him. In the time I had
known him, I had even become a little intimidated by the strength of
his character and his absolute, rather winning belief in himself.  At
a young age his amazing determination and deft mind were seen and
coveted by the Circle.  For years now, he'd been one of the top officers
of the Signal Group.  He'd been the commander of dozens of operations,
and even been entrusted with secrets that officers twice his age could
only guess at.  Most recently, he'd been handed some of the most
delicate and crucial assignments of all -- assassinations.  I wasn't
sure, but I estimated that the fresh-faced kid casually leaning against
that wall had supervised the sanction of at least a dozen people.
Sometimes doing the work personally.

     Not any of this really moved my admiration, though, as much as the
resolute way he had approached his latest task.  He was, of course, the
natural choice.  Stunning good looks, a lean athlete's body, charismatic
and likable, obedient and ruthless.  One of the "guest" prisoners being
held by the Circle had attracted the interest of the intelligence chiefs,
and so Mark had been assigned to assist in the fourth-level interrogation
of the prisoner.  The prisoner had earlier made a demand under the War
Entitlements Act, one which the chiefs now saw fit to grant, seeing an
opportunity to get their man close.  This male prisoner had demanded the
comfort of a sexual partner.  Mark, accordingly, had been ordered to pose
as a prostitute for him.

     I knew quite well that Mark's sexual tastes did not run to men,
and what his bedmate would demand of him was unimaginable.  But, he had
smiled that easy, confident smile he had, sure of himself. Only his eyes
betrayed a certain distant hollowness, I think, at knowing that he would
be forced to perform for his next target in bed.  He wasn't just
determined, was Mark.  He was a grim realist, with no pretension at all.
I had shaken my head at the time in disbelief.  So young, so strong.

     And that is why a freezing snake writhed through my stomach when
I noticed that the hand which held his cigarette was shaking.  As I
approached, I saw in shock that he was sporting a black eye, and that he
wouldn't look at me directly.  But his voice, at least, was strong and
clear as he said, in a low voice so as not be overheard, "Menelaus, I
need your help. I'm in serious trouble."  And he grinned at me in that
confident way again, only somewhat more weakly this time.

     Mark and I had know each other for a couple years. We were the
same age, but there resemblances faded, and we almost never moved in
the same circles.  Although we had both been recruited in the Circle's
search for talent, he was on an operations career track, while I was
just an intern in one of the secure University labs.  We had crossed
paths when I helped him out on one of his assignments. I guess it's
fair to say that we liked and trusted each other, but this was partly
just because Mark and I both knew he could read me like a book.  For
some reason, I made him laugh.  Of course, I was in total awe of my
friend.  He knew me to be, though pretty overweight and geeky, not all
that stupid.  We didn't mind each other's company.

     I considered simply walking away immediately.  That would have been
anyone's first thought, in that age and climate, and I was no Mark.  I
was an academic, and a card-carrying coward.  Mark was much more
influential than I.  If he was in trouble...how can I put it?  If he
were a fish in a frying pan, I was very likely to end up as the
kindling for the fire.

     I cannot easily explain, therefore, why I did not go away.
Instead, I said, "What is it, Mark?  My God, you look terrible..."

     He smiled again.  "Thanks, I'm trying out a new look. Let's walk
toward the gardens, okay? Unless we should meet later?"

     **Much later,* a voice inside me said, but again I surprised
myself.  "No, no, let's go.  What the hell is going on?"

      "The usual crap, you might say."  He stared pensively at the
horizon, lighting another cigarette, while we walked into the botanical
pen. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts.  Our footsteps
followed the narrow path of simple crimson bricks broken up by a thick
lawn, while on either side, giants of the garden stood guard and gradually
hid us from view. The botanicals were a maze of burning flowers, towering
trees, and bizarre plants in a fog of bewildering smells. "What do you
know of the Rebellion?"

     I glanced at him rapidly.  "Why," I asked, as if it were a thing of
mild curiosity, "would you ask me something like that?"

      "Don't soil your pants, Menny.  It's me, remember?  I'm just
asking if you were exposed to the events in any way."

     I quickly decided that the truth was probably the correct tactic, at
least for now.  Mark could have detected any prevarication. "Well, the
chiefs are aware that my father and my brother were part of the ring of
traitors at Chancellorsville. But my family wanted to protect me, or else
they didn't trust me.  I was out of the loop. Fortunately,
circumstances made that evident..."

     "Your father and brother...dead?"

     I nodded.  "Shot in the courtyard along with the others."

     "Should they have trusted you?" Mark asked in a low voice.
We both paused on the path, saying nothing. He sounded serious, but I
knew him. There was an impish tone there.

     "I'm not fond of dying, if that's what you're asking," I hissed at
him impatiently, shooting another hard glance his way.

     "Did you know anybody who may have been friends with them at that
time, or sympathetic?"  He turned to look at me with an intense stare.

     I coughed and walked a little more stiffly.  "All right, suppose
you tell me why you're asking?"

     He smiled, amused.  "I will, in a moment. But I know that you're
not trusted by the chiefs, Menny. I'm not investigating. I need to know
for reasons of my own. Only you can help me. I'm asking as a friend."

     As a friend?  I looked at him, searching his face for mockery.
I saw none.

     Did he need me as a friend, I wondered?  Was his situation as
desperate as that?

     My nervous mind urged me to edge away.  It knew that I was at the
decision point of deliverance.  But once again, my instinct took over,
ignoring the protests of my mind.

     "You know what would happen if I said that I knew someone with
close ties to the Rebellion..."

     Mark took a deep breath, steeling himself, and then interrupted.
"Menny, it's not the prisoner who's being broken.  It's me.  They're
trying to break me."

     I just stood there, like a fool, staring at him as if he were some
kind of exotic fish.  "What are you saying?" I said, stunned.

     "Just what you heard me say.  The Circle sent me on this mission
so they could break me.  This was all a plan to trap me, get me where
they could pry open my head."

     "But -- my God, Mark -- **why*?"

     He took a drag on his cigarette, staring at a group of particularly
pretty red flowers nearby.  "Fuck if I know."  He let out a shuddering
breath.  "My only hope is to find out."

     "You think they may try to kill you next?"

     "No!"  He laughed in a completely uncharacteristic bitter and
caustic way.  "I'm afraid they'll fuck me up the brain."

     "But, if what you say is true, and you already know it, then surely
they've failed?"

     Mark turned to look at me, and his eyes were haunted, plagued by a
nightmare.  I had never seen anything that made me want to run away
screaming like he did at this moment.  "Fuck that train of thought,
Menny," he whispered hoarsely,  "The first time, it...I can't describe
it to you.  I was at its mercy.  I was **fucked over*, on the first
day.  I didn't suspect, even then.  I went back..."

     "Mark..." I began.

     "**Every fucking moment I spend away from that monster is torture!*"
he screamed into my face.  He'd lost his ability to hide his terror.
He was wide-eyed and standing with his feet wide apart, as if about to
break into a run, but unable to decide where to run to.  His face was
white and slick with sweat.  He was shaking like a leaf.

     I grabbed him but he threw me off violently.  I glanced around
nervously.  There was no one nearby, but I couldn't see through some
of the dense copses of trees, and anyone on the thoroughfare could have
heard Mark's scream.  We would be finished -- completely finished --
if we attracted any attention.

     A calm that I didn't feel took over my actions.  I looked in his
eyes and realized that he was at the end of his rope, completely
disoriented and stressed out.  He might have dropped in a dead faint
or gone running into the streets screaming bloody murder. There were
a dwindling number of choices.

     "I know what you mean," I heard myself say in a  perfectly
reasonable and calm voice, hoping that this would contribute to the
disorientation in his brain for a moment.  "But don't you think it would
be a terrible loss?"

     It worked.  Mark stared at me as if I were a madman. In that
moment, desperate, I dived into him.


II.

     It went rather well, I thought. Diving into another individual is
quite dangerous.  It is the equivalent of seizing the controls of a
race car from someone else right in the middle of the final stretch.
Of course, it was helped by the fact that Mark knew I could dive into
him and probably wanted me to do it.  But, all in all, it was fairly
amazing how smoothly the episode went.

     Not that there were no bumps.  Diving is a violent affair.

     We both screamed, but I was able to keep it inward, a cry from
the throne of the soul, rather than a raw emission from the voice
box.  My mind leapt deep into his, crashing through his defenses,
ripping apart some of the structures he had erected to keep himself
sane.  He felt the full agony of that -- there was no choice.  I
wormed my way into his central brain and coiled myself about the part
of his psyche that most needed protection: his impulse for survival.
Even in that desperate moment, I was overwhelmed with admiration for
the strength that welled from his desire to live.

     I'd dived into many people before.  It was one of the talents that
had allowed me to survive blood relation with Rebellion patriots. The
Circle was fascinated and delighted by my powers, even though they
didn't at all trust me. I couldn't dismiss the possibility that they had
intended me to dive into Mark all along -- I'm sure Mark had thought of
the same thing.

     Mark and I had worked together on operations involving my ability
to trespass across the boundaries of an unwilling mind.  We had discussed
the procedure extensively, and he knew its uses and limitations. Diving
couldn't subvert someone's loyalties or much change their outlook. It
could only expose the subject's experiences to me, in such a way that
deception was impossible, and it gave me some measure of physical
control over the subject.

     As I dived, I put one of my hands on his shoulder and the other
on his side, steadying him, and for a short time, perhaps several
minutes, we stood like that, staring at each other.  It would have
seemed quite odd to anyone watching, but we were well hidden from the
thoroughfare and it couldn't be helped.  Unfortunately, time moved
more slowly in the dive-state than in normal life.  I felt even more
rueful about it after the first realization hit me from inside Mark's
mind.

     The boy whose mind I was exploring was gay -- quite strongly
homosexual.  He was also madly controlled by lustful thoughts.  Even
though I am far from physically attractive, I gathered from his memory
that he had viewed me appraisingly when I first approached, calculating
how he might succeed in seducing me.  The thought was so absurd that it
took me by surprise.  This wasn't Mark.  This young man was quite unable
to keep random sexual thoughts from erupting to the surface of his mind.

     And, Mark hadn't been gay. I didn't need any proof of that to know
it with near certainty.  The looks he betrayed to me on getting his
latest assignment -- they spoke volumes.  He had betrayed a bitter
disgust thinly contained, but so subtly, that only someone who knew him
could read the signs.  Although he could have faked it -- with an
amazing job of acting -- that just didn't strike me as probable.
Of course, only individuals know what's in their hearts (if they've
never been dived into), so anything was possible.  But the raw current
of the feelings inside Mark's head suggested to me that he had been gay
only for a short time now.

     The second realization that hit me was the one that Mark mentioned
himself: he wanted desperately to go back to the house where he and the
prisoner were living.  He had been blissfully happy there.  Just the
suggestion of intense contentment was enough to scare me.  There are
no such things in our world, and there could never be.  Mark was right.
His mind was being subverted by someone or something. They'd done a good
job of prying his will open as if it were a nasty, inconvenient old plank
covering the entrance to a building. Mark was hanging on by his
fingernails. If he went back, they'd have him for sure.

     I broke the contact somewhat, just enough so I could be aware of
my surroundings, and I steered Mark toward a clump of bushes.
Underneath, as I'd hoped, was a cozy crawl space carpeted with pine
needles and relatively clean.  I dragged him down into it and settled
him onto his back.

     "Good boy," I told him. It was just a phrase I tended to use with
the subjects I controlled. Because it's patronizing, it was a good way
to test the depth of the dive.  Most people, unless they're out of it,
feel irritated or insulted by the phrase.  If there's no emotional
reaction, I know that I've achieved a very deep dive. Mark showed no
flicker of resentment.

     "Now, let's have the whole story," I said. I put my hands back on
him and settled myself into his memory.


III.

     He'd met with the animal for the first time in an apartment
provided by the Keepers.  At first, it would be only for four hours a
week. They were treating it as a sort of conjugal visit.

     He was a little perplexed at what to wear -- something sexy? What
is sexy to another guy? In the end, he opted for sneakers, an old pair
of blue jeans, and a t-shirt that was somewhat too big for him.  Not
quite arousing, but then he supposed that clothes would be dispensed
with in fairly short order.  He considered getting some sort of
provocative tattoo or body ring, but rejected that idea as well.  He
needed to be convincing in his role.  A clumsy gesture could alert the
target that he was not all he seemed...

     He knew how to use his smile. He was used to being thought of as
good-looking, and he was quite aware that one of his grins could
instantly win him friends. The thought didn't have a trace of vanity
or pride to it, however. It was just a way of getting his targets to
lower their guard and let him close enough to fuck them over.

     They found an actual prostitute for him to practice sex with, to
make sure that all went smoothly with the prisoner. He was glad to
sense that the other boy -- about fifteen or so, with unkempt brown
hair and an impish look to him -- was terribly turned on, despite being
much the detached professional as he was.  His partner taught him a lot
and with a very great attention to detail.  It seemed to him that the
Keepers had gone to some trouble to find the smartest piece of street trash
available.  The kid was truly erudite.  At first, it was hard for Mark to
get an erection, but the boy gave him some pointers on that as well, and
they both successfully came.

     The boy wanted to keep going at it. He was clearly overpowered by a
frank and open lust for Mark. His eyes were riveted by the older boy's
lean, muscular torso.  Mark had some sympathy, knowing that the teenager
would die the instant he was no longer needed, but he had no taste for
the eager games that the boy wanted to play. They kissed quietly for a
while, so that Mark could get a feel and a rhythm for necking with another
male, and then Mark abruptly rose from the bed and hit the showers.
Boys were far more aggressive with each other in bed, he thought to
himself.  There was a necessity to maintain a gritty edge, something
just short of violence.

     By the time he returned for his clothes, they'd taken the other
boy away.

     He obsessed about how to be strongly appealing to the prisoner,
considering it carefully for days.  He decided, in the end, to play the
role with a great deal of sweetness.  He wanted the prisoner to see
someone with the appearance of innocence and purity, easily corruptible.
It would be somewhat easier than being aggressive, and less likely to
betray any falsity.

     He was given very little briefing on the prisoner himself -- why
was that? It was deeply suspicious, but such odd decisions were not out
of character.  It might have been a form of punishment or reprimand.
He'd been feeling for some time that his masters were manipulating him,
but for the moment they had betrayed nothing as to why. He wasn't
afraid that the reasons wouldn't be revealed in time. And, for now, he
had no fear that the chiefs secretly wanted to get rid of him.

     For some reason, he didn't consider the possibility they wanted
him broken.

     On the day of their first meeting, he let himself into the apartment
very early, noting the cameras and the deployment of the Keeper security
teams, both visible and invisible.  He wanted to assure himself that
there were no possibilities that would suggest escape to the prisoner.
That might put him in danger, and he couldn't afford to carry any
weapons.  After doing a thorough walk-through of the small, one bedroom
flat, decorated in a cozy, bright, wood motif, he sat down on the sofa to
wait for his lover.  He allowed himself one slight shiver of disgust at
what he was about to do.  Sex with a man. He'd never anticipated this.
No doubt that was why this assignment had been given him. The chiefs
were putting their weapon through its paces, seeing how he would react,
testing his resolve.  Well, he didn't mind letting them see that he
thought this was total bullshit, but that he would comply in every
detail.  They would pay for mocking him. He'd see to it.

     The minutes ticked away slowly, but he didn't allow himself to
pace or fidget where he sat. He simply stared right ahead and practiced
breathing exercises, rising just once to go to the bathroom and check
his hair. He'd left it longish and brushed it back neatly, but it was
already threatening to come forward and fall down over his eyes.

     Just as the electric clock on a small table in the living room
showed the hour, there was a knock at the door and it opened.  Mark,
despite himself, had to conceal a sharp intake of breath.

     The creature entering the room was dressed nondescriptly in
jeans, a dress shirt, and leather jacket.  It walked quite normally
in, and closed the door behind it.  But, nevertheless, it was hard to
see it as a person.  It -- he, Mark corrected himself mentally -- had
the head of a black jaguar, yellow eyes, long whiskers, bisected snout,
although in almost all other ways he appeared human.  His skin was a
very dark brown, matching the soft hue of his fur.  His hands,
long-fingered and strong-looking, ended in rather cruel nails.
They were curled around a cone-shaped paper package.

     The man -- if the word could be used -- was somewhat short, but
his body spoke eloquently of power and strength.  It was easy to see
that he was heavily muscled, and he walked with an energy suggestive
of a coiled spring.

     Mark smiled at him wryly, hiding a temporary feeling of panic.
**Not human.* Was this part of the punishment, too?  Maybe their games
in bed would be even more savage than he anticipated.  Maybe that had
been the point all along.

     Mark rose, stretching out his arms languidly, like an athlete
getting ready for a match.  It was a gesture intended to look a little
coy, and he thought he had hit the tone he wanted.  **Just come and get
me.*  He expected to be moved on immediately, the creature's hands
pulling off his clothing, pushing him up against a wall, feeling up
his muscles, reaching hungrily into his pants.  They only had four
hours, after all.

     But, instead of advancing on him, the creature just stared.
"They said I'd be very pleased," it observed in a calm, cultured
voice. "I never expected that they were understating the case."  He
continued to look appreciatively, making no move.  There was silence
for several seconds.

     "I'm...glad you're pleased," Mark said uncertainly.  He didn't
want to push the issue, but he was caught off guard by the slow pace.
He'd fully expected to be jumped by a merciless, sex-starved madman.
This creature would have been a prisoner for a number of years now.
If sexual satisfaction were that important to it that it requested a
partner, surely it would be desperate to satiate that craving?

     "I asked for a beautiful blonde," the creature went on,
unconcernedly.  He took a step forward, and then stopped, holding out
his paper package.  For some reason, Mark was completely astonished
that it was a bouquet of flowers, roses.  He stepped forward and took
it from the creature's hands.  **What in the name of fuck is one
supposed to do when accepting flowers?* he thought crazily.  This was
all so weird.  He thought he'd prepared himself for the worst when he
planned on allowing the creature to throw him down and get on top of
him within the first few seconds of their acquaintance.  Apparently,
deeper humiliations were possible.  The creature seemed intent on...
**feminizing* him.

     Now that they were closer, the creature could reach out and gently
brush one of his hairs away from his face. "You're very pretty," it said
huskily.  Its deep, yellow eyes, free of white sclera, bored deeply into
his own. "You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.  I wish
I'd fathered you..."

     Mark didn't know of any way to respond to that.  He stared at the
creature, angrily realizing that he was betraying his own helplessness,
but unable to do or say anything.  He started to mumble, just to
extinguish the silence, "Do...do you want to go to the bedroom?"  He
considered briefly whether he should just take off his clothes and try
to get control of the situation that way.

     "Are you hungry?" the creature asked abruptly.

     Another shot from left field.  "No...that is...um, maybe a little,"
Mark stammered, cursing himself for sounding like such an ass.

     "I'll make us some dinner. Then we can talk a bit..."  And without
another word, the creature took off its jacket, hung it on one of the
chairs, and proceeded to the kitchen, in order to make dinner.  "You
should put those in water," the creature observed in passing, busily
hunting through the cupboards for something.

     It took a while for Mark to register this suggestion.  He was too
busy staring at the animal which was now looking for ingredients in the
refrigerator.  After a minute, he heard himself say, "Oh, right."  Had
to put them in water. **Why the fuck is that, Mark?* he asked himself.
**You thinking of keeping the damn flowers? Smelling them, maybe?
Your first fucking corsage, my man?*... He now realized that he
infinitely preferred having a cock rammed unceremoniously up his ass
than to be standing there like a wallflower, unsure of how to accept
the gentlemanly attentions being administered.

     He dazedly located a vase in one of the cupboards (**a vase? What
the fuck is that doing there?*), filled it with water and placed the
roses in it.  By that time, the creature was busily devising a tomato
sauce to go with the spaghetti he had found, humming softly as he worked.

     "My name's Mark," he mentioned, over the kitchen clamor. "What's
your name?"

     The creature looked at him, as if this were an indiscreet
question. "I am Felis."  Mark's senses told him this was a lie, but he
couldn't discern if it was casual or strategic.  "Do you like onions?"
the were-panther asked him.

     "Yeah," he responded, "Yeah, sure I do."

     "Then I'll add onions," the creature said with satisfaction.  He
began to chop them up as they spoke.

     The last thing that Mark expected is that he would be waiting
around restlessly for another hour or so, pacing back and forth like a
caged animal. But his partner was patiently building a spaghetti sauce,
from raw materials which Mark had no idea were in the apartment. He
felt as though he were in some sort of dream, or nightmare.  His
"lover" seemed to have no interest in some raw, uninhibited sex at all.
Instead, the panther-thing was...sort of...courting him.

     Their conversation was light and friendly, but very superficial.
The creature asked if he had any girlfriends.  **Girlfriends?* Mark did
a double-take. **What kind of question is that?* He'd slept with a girl
once, in the line of duty, but he'd never had any female lovers -- or
male ones for that matter.  He didn't have the time.  He was an officer,
after all.  Sensing that this may be a probe to discover his true
identity, Mark happily chatted about the several girls and multiple
boys who'd shared his bed in the past. He stopped when he suddenly
realized that the creature knew he was lying. It was a quiet impression,
but firm. He'd been found out.

     "I wouldn't try to lie to me about sex," the creature observed,
noting Mark's sudden silence. "I can easily tell how experienced you
are. In fact, I like you a lot just because you're practically a virgin..."

     **Practically a virgin?* Had he just been insulted?  He blinked at
the creature.  It laughed at him.  He caught a good look at the
creature's sharp canines as it threw back its head in amusement.

     "Don't take it personally. I mean that as a compliment."  It
looked at him appraisingly.  "I see you're fairly smart as well as
physically attractive. I think we're going to get along, Mark. Why
don't you set the table? I'll be done fairly soon."

     With the flair of a professional, Felis deposited the spaghetti
on a plate and added the carefully created sauce.  Although Mark had
set two places, Felis prepared a plate only for him.  "I'm not quite
hungry right now. I just want to watch you eat."   Mark wasn't happy
to hear this.  He felt deeply uncomfortable as it was.

     True to his word, Felis watched him carefully as he worked on his
spaghetti.  It was absolutely delicious, Mark had to admit to himself,
the best sauce he'd ever tasted.  He said as much, and the panther bared
his teeth in what Mark supposed was an attempt at a smile.  "I'm glad
you like it," the creature said.  "Have some more."

     They talked a little bit about wines, a subject that Mark knew well
and which it seemed the panther rather relished. Mark was feeling more
relaxed. Now that he knew that the prisoner didn't believe he was a real
prostitute, he felt more like he could be himself.  And the nightmares
he'd imagined about violent sex struggles had far from materialized.
Time was ticking away, and the panther hadn't shown the slightest
inclination to even grope him.  As they talked, Mark eyed his target
with increasing interest.  What was he really after? This whole scene
had the marks of careful planning.  Was he perhaps being interviewed
for some purpose, on the pretext of providing sexual favors?  More lies,
more deception.  Mark sighed, realizing that he was at the mercy of his
chiefs, unless he could figure out their game.

     It was at the table that he first detected the panther's smell.
At first, he had no idea what it was.  He thought he had caught a whiff
of something deeply organic, almost like the smell of a forest after a
rain shower.  Mold?  But this was a new building, and the smell wasn't
stale and thin like mold, but rather rich and broad.  Something told
him it wasn't plant-like, either.  It had an edge to it, a note that
made him feel the stirrings of disgust, as of something faintly
unclean, although it was not really unpleasant at all.  He rather
liked the smell, in fact.  It faintly reminded him of the smell of new
leather.  As they talked, he wondered in detached puzzlement what it
could possibly be.  Some chemical in the ventilation system?  Couldn't
be...

     It took him half an hour to realize that the scent was stronger
nearer the panther.  And then he recognized it: it was very similar to
the body odor of a furry animal, only much stronger and much less unpleasant.

     The panther looked at him with those deep eyes, noting his
reactions.  "I apologize," it said, "Despite my best efforts, it seems
I can never quite eliminate a certain natural odor that I have.  I hope
it doesn't trouble you..."

     "No!" Mark found himself staring oddly at the creature, feeling as
though the panther had just said something rather disturbing, but not
knowing why.  He wanted to allay its apprehension. "No, no, not at all.
Don't worry. It's not...unpleasant."  Once again, he felt strangely uneasy.

     "No?" The panther looked at him intently, with those deep cat's
eyes.  "I'm pleased to hear it."  There was silence. Mark lowered his
eyes, not wanting to meet the creature's gaze anymore for some reason.

     "I have to leave you now," the panther announced abruptly, ending
the tense silence.  They both rose from the table and the panther lazily
donned its jacket.  Mark was amazed that four hours had already passed,
but the panther was right.  The visit was over.  "I've immensely
enjoyed our time together, Mark. I'd like to come back next week...if
that's all right with you?"

     Mark blinked. **All right with me?* "Sure!  Of course...yeah, I'd
like that," he said, sounding a little taken aback. He kicked himself
silently.  He was constantly missing his cues when he was around this
creature. Trying to recover, he smiled warmly at the panther and
stretched his arms, using that same sly, coy gesture. "You're always
welcome, you know that? Any time..." he finished, casually reaching
out to flick a bit of thread from the creature's arm. He hoped he
wasn't being too subtle. He didn't like this role of being the animal's
date, and was feeling determined to act more like a slut from now on.

     The panther, however, seemed unmoved for the moment.  He thanked
Mark again, and turned to go.  Having opened the door, the panther then
paused on the threshold, and turned. He looked at Mark, reached out and
affectionately patted him on the stomach.

     The effect, to Mark's horror and disbelief, was electric. The
sensation of the panther's hand, masked by the material of his t-shirt,
gently brushing across his abdominals, **felt good.*  A shiver passed
through his spine, and he felt his eyelids droop down ever so slightly.
He felt for a moment like he might collapse.

     The panther turned and walked away, and Mark shut the door behind
him, leaning on it and taking deep breaths.  He felt shaky. That was the
first gesture remotely like an advance that the creature had yet made.
But his disgust at being petted by another male was not what had shocked
him.

     What shocked him was that there was no disgust at all. Not even the
slightest uneasiness. Being touched felt good and right and natural. And
he had liked it. A lot.


IV.

     Mark brooded furiously over the events during the next week. The
chiefs chose not to debrief him except **pro forma*; he sat for an hour
with a second lieutenant who was only about five years older than him
and who gave the impression of having stepped fresh out of the academy.
Clueless. The humiliation of having to explain the whole thing to such
a thick-headed person was hard to endure.  And the lieutenant could give
him no further information on the purpose of probing into the mind of
this particular prisoner.

     **They're playing with me,* he thought to himself grimly. **And not
bothering to hide it. What's their game?*

     His hackles were raised about the way he'd felt himself respond to
the prisoner. He'd never remotely had any homosexual urgings, and yet
magazines showing men's underwear were somehow attracting his eye of
late. Sensing a trap, he sat himself down and considered rebellion.
Refuse to go on. Simply tell them that he'd not cooperate with their
unprofessional uses of him...and then he decided that was no good. It
would be playing into their hands.  They delighted in someone's
rebellion, he had realized long ago. It made things easier for them.
The only thing that would work was to outmaneuver them, or else to
escape. And he had no means of escape, not yet.

     Accordingly, he was again in the apartment when the panther showed
the next time. "Hold out your wrist," it said eagerly. Somehow, he was
finally sure that it wanted to fuck him. He put out his left wrist as
ordered.

     The panther fastened a wristwatch on it, with a bright metal band.
Looking at it, Mark realized in shock that it was a Patek Philippe.
Probably worth several thousand dollars. "Surprise," the panther said
in satisfaction.

     "But..." He was interrupted, however, by the panther's rapid
clasping of a gold chain around his neck, a distinctly boyish style of
thick links. "Do you like them?" the panther asked easily.

     "Of course! They're beautiful. But why...?"

     "Because **you're* beautiful," the creature answered slyly, and
playfully stroked a finger up Mark's back, making him shiver. Mark
sighed in a strangled way. He didn't know how much more of this
princess treatment he could take.

     But the princess treatment did have its moments, he was forced to
admit to himself. The creature made him dinner again (once again
refusing to eat), this time a grilled salmon that was absolutely
heavenly.  Once that was done, the panther put a movie on the DVD
player that the apartment came equipped with.  It was a meaningless
action film with a dose of romance, and the panther spent the
time letting Mark use him as a pillow.  Once again no pressure, no
advances, just companionship and a good time. Mark found himself rather
enjoying the whole thing, attention from a companion without demands.
After the four hours were gone, they hugged for the first time and went
their separate ways.

     He was becoming the panther's boyfriend, and he couldn't determine
how he felt about it. The gifts never stopped. Sometimes it was jewelry,
but very often it was just a stuffed animal, a silly-looking cat or
rabbit or elephant, a box of chocolates, a bouquet of flowers.  Simple,
affectionate gifts.  After a few weeks, he had three bracelets, two
neck chains (one gold, one silver), a ring, a watch, an ankle bracelet,
and a small roomful of stuffed animals.  He knew that the panther
surely couldn't think he needed these things to be attracted to him.
The panther just wanted to give him things, and he ruefully admitted to
himself that he didn't find that behavior terribly repulsive. He was
able to smile warmly and with feeling at the panther now; not the smile
of sluttish prostitute but of a friend. He was strangely turned on by
the attentions.

     They had dinner together, mostly, (which meant that the panther
watched him eat) and then they sat down to a movie. Usually, it was an
action or romance pic, often both combined, and the panther insisted
that he sit down on its lap, the requisite bowl of popcorn lying on
Mark's thighs. Mark rather enjoyed the panther's earthy smell now.  He
buried his nose in the panther's neck from time to time and took a deep
breath. It felt good, Mark admitted reluctantly to himself, sitting on
the throne of heavy muscle, to have a boyfriend.

     But, he was still dismayed by this pace, and he'd tried to force
the issue on their third date, only to be turned down flat.  He was
once again feeling miffed at being made into a girl. So he waited for
the panther wearing only his Speedos, determined that they'd get it on
this time. The panther walked in, took one look at him, and then
immediately opened a window.  After a few uneventful minutes, it
marveled at the draft in the room and forcibly put him into a shirt
and pants so he wouldn't catch cold. Foiled again. This animal just
wasn't interested in having his ass, and so Mark gave up and let him
have his way. They'd just have dates together.

     And the dates began to get fun. They'd just uncork a couple of
beers, relax, and lay into a good discussion about sports. Mark gave
up trying to inject sexual innuendo into these talks, and discovered
that the panther was a rather informed and entertaining conversant on
the fortunes of the Premier League. Next, the panther brought over a
home video game console on one of the visits, and they both filled a
very short four hours playing race car games, while consuming a fifth
of vodka and orange juice.  On another occasion, they just sat around
playing a perfectly inane trivia board game for hours.

     Once again, refreshment, this time a steady stream of
scotch-and-cokes, had some hand in the good humor of the
afternoon. On a sudden inspiration, Mark even tried the age-old trick
of looking like he was helplessly smashed. He pulled off his shirt,
lay back on the floor, languidly stretched and posed in a suggestive
way, and showered innuendo mixed with happy brainlessness into the
conversation, in a performance deserving of at least an Oscar
nomination. He'd never put so much hard work into saying, "Just fuck
me, will ya?"

     His audience was studiously unimpressed. It seemed that
the cat was either really not interested or could hold his liquor
better than most. This was starting to seem like a comedy.

     Mark almost convinced himself to be more direct with the big cat.
Felis was always very polite, but had a sense of humor and seemed to
harbor a genuine warmth toward Mark. It seemed possible to simply ask
him why he didn't take advantage of what was being offered.  The
information could have been key to understanding why the chiefs had
thrown Mark in with this creature.  But, in the end, Mark decided
against betraying his interest in the question. Let the cat think
that he didn't really care one way or the other, for now, and watch
its behavior.

     There were nagging suggestions, however, the Felis himself was
not neutral on the issue. The first was the brief tummy-rub on their
first date. Then, later, Felis invited Mark to smell him, push his nose
against Felis's skin. He did it, as instructed, feeling quite
comfortable with the playful context of the suggestion, and discovered
that he liked the smell. But still, it was faintly sexual, and even
though Felis refused to let it get any more serious than that, Mark
caught the definite impression of tension in the black cat. Then, Mark
had the strange impression that when he accepted Felis's invitation to
sit on the panther's lap, Felis spent the entire time of the film they
were watching trying to keep himself under control.  Felis betrayed
little gaffes which indicated he wasn't watching the movie at all.  He
felt tense, as Mark rested on him, uneasy. If Mark tried to be
affectionate, Felis tended to be cold. On one occasion, the panther
brushed him off, roughly.

     "What was **that* about?" Mark challenged him, not out of real
offense, but to get information.

     The panther was instantly remorseful. He put out an arm to
massage Mark's neck and shoulders. "Nothing. Forget it. I'm very sorry.
Let's just watch the film."  But Mark could tell that even after they'd
settled down again and were staring at the screen, neither of them were
paying the slightest attention to the events therein. He didn't think
that the panther or himself could even outline the plot.

     It was with rather great and disturbing surprise that sex
happened to them.

     They were on the love seat in the living room, watching another
action film. Mark was feeling rather relaxed. His "boyfriend" had just
prepared a potful of Spanish paella, at great trouble and complication,
but the result was rather delicious. He didn't want the panther to know
that he'd had paella several times before, and so he could judge that
it was excellently well prepared. He just smiled through mouthfuls of
the stuff, hoping Felis would get the idea that he thought the panther
was a genius. Felis seemed hypnotized by Mark's pleasure.

     "You're absolutely stunning, you know that?" Felis whispered to
him.

     "I bet you say that to all the guys," Mark said with a smile.
That was a more light-hearted response than he'd normally allow
himself. He flashed a smile at the panther, and, almost physically,
felt the panther fall madly in love with him.

     He didn't know how he knew, but his instinct told him, **Ah, now
you're in charge.*  How wrong he was. How competely mistaken.

     They let the moment pass and found themselves in their usual
roles a half an hour later, with a bowl of popcorn seated on top of
Mark, who was seated on top of the panther, so they could both reach
in and help themselves.

     Somewhere during the film, Mark felt a strange pressure under
him. It didn't occur to him immediately that the panther's penis had
engorged.

     It started when the panther calmly licked his neck. Because he'd
learned that the creature didn't like him acting in an sexually
suggestive way, Mark ignored this. Probably an aberration.

     But the time had come, as Mark learned soon enough. Deliberately,
as if performing a delicate surgery, the panther's hand came to hover
over Mark's crotch, and the fingers took hold of the little metal tab
which was connected to the zipper on Mark's fly. Mark's breath caught.
It was happening.

     The zipper was patiently pulled down, each pop of a stitch being
released lovingly sounded.  When the last one was finished, the hand
of the panther went into Mark's clothing, and emerged holding his
penis, which was not quite stiff yet, but on the verge of completing
that task.

     They both stared at it, panting heavily. The film flashing in
front of them had become a distant memory, a joke. Mark was in
disbelief. For the very first time, his cock lay naked and stiff in
another man's hand. That other man owned him. The fingers had not even
rubbed the baby soft skin, and he felt how deeply subjugated he was.

     "You like that?" the panther asked him absently, not expecting an
answer. Strangely, it added, "I'm sorry."

     Mark did like it. His breathing began to race, his mind unable to
wrap itself around the sacred mystery that was unfolding at his crotch.
Involuntarily, his hips thrust forward, but the panther contained his
struggles expertly. "Just relax, " the panther urged him. "It will
take me a while to use this."  Its tongue lolled affectionately
against his neck.

     And the panther then proceeded to use his penis, as patiently and
slowly as it said it would. Every time Mark thought that the pleasure
had reached a climax, every time he felt the juices stirring in his
pelvis were ready to emerge, the panther forced him to calm down, and
achieved a sharper prick of ecstasy in his loins. Some time during
this the panther shouted, **"Do you like this?"* and he screamed in
response.

     The Keepers broke in. The time was over, and the panther was
still working on Mark's penis. They ripped the two apart, Mark
screaming in anger and frustration, the panther loudly ordering him,
**"Don't touch yourself! Don't touch yourself!"* The panther was
dragged out of the room by the Keepers and Mark was left to himself,
weeping openly, kneeling on the carpet, lost in the single, lambent
desire to finish the job. But the panther's words held him back,
somehow. "No," Mark said, getting hold of himself. No touching. He
didn't trust himself to tuck his organ back in his pants, so he
collapsed on the carpet to sleep. No touching. The piece of sausage
between his legs was the panther's property.


V.

     Absorbing Mark's mind, I had had some of his experience of
homosexuality. So, when emerging from this scene, I was uncomfortably
aware of having a rather strongly attractive and unconscious young man
at my mercy. I couldn't help shuddering as my hand brushed against his
stomach.  He looked so...touchingly cute, asleep like that.  I had to
remind myself he hadn't seemed cute at all to the people he'd killed.

     Mark stirred and threw his arm about my waist instinctively.
Probably thought I was his panther. I got a hold of myself, letting the
passionate feelings dissipate, but I couldn't resist stroking his hair.

     "Mark, that's what they had in store for you," I whispered, stunned
and intrigued. "But why? What was the point? Why break **you* of all
people?"

     The boy buried his nose in my neck, sniffing and kissing.

     "We've got to keep going," I told him grimly.


     Mark, of course, was no fool.  The episode was the result of a drug,
or hormone therapy, or something.  The way he'd cleanly and wildly lost
any control of his own emotions and thoughts told him that.  Also, he'd
been trained to fight addictions.  But this was no normal addiction.
He didn't just feel the stirrings of fire in his blood, that told him
that he wanted to be back in the panther's company again, the
ever-present yearning that he sometimes convinced himself had gone away
but never did.  It was an unexpected and stomach-twisting feeling that
he had left himself, his true self, back at that apartment.  He could
fight the mere desire for pleasure, but he couldn't fight that.  He
never even considered staying away from that place.

     So, he went back to the apartment, the next week, as per normal.

     He didn't know what his aim was. He thought, vaguely, that he
had to understand how they were drugging him. But that was a merely
secondary preoccupation, as he walked the steps toward the apartment
door. His mind was choked by the smell of the panther. It drowned out
his thoughts. He lit cigarette after cigarette, as though to calm
himself down, but the truth was that he needed to be doing something
with his hands to hide the fact that his mind was washed out and
churning with crimson thoughts.

     The Keepers had specifically forbidden any smoking in the
apartment, but he kept chain-smoking right on through the door and
to the couch, where he absently flicked the ashes onto the surface
of one of the room's end tables without so much as an ash tray. He
lifted his feet up onto the couch with him and puffed away heavily,
and that was how the panther found him.

     They stared at each other for a few moments. It was rather
bewildering for Mark. The panther's expression was inscrutable,
impassive, and so felt to Mark as though it were oddly accusatory.

     The panther closed the door behind him. Mark crushed out his
cigarette, got up, and started to take off his button-down shirt.

     Mark didn't even see the panther leap across the room in a single,
violent bound.  He just heard the rush of wind, not understanding, and
felt his wrists wrenched away from his shirt and lifted high into the
air. Mark found himself dangling by his wrists, maybe a half-foot off
the ground, staring directly into the face of an enraged wild jaguar,
baring its teeth. Felis was lifting him bodily, holding his wrists up
and out, crucifixion style.

     "**No one* takes your clothes off but I," snarled Felis. "Say it!"

     "I don't -- "

     The next sound Felis made turned Mark's blood to ice. It was a pure
animal growl, and it scared the hell out of Mark, for the first time.

     But not the last.

     "No one," Mark repeated slowly, "no one takes my clothes off...
but you." For some reason, Mark felt an electric, warm sensation at the
sound of his own voice, deep in the pit of his gut. He held still and
looked into the panther's eyes, although his shoulders and arms were
beginning to hurt rather badly and it was very hard to breathe in this
position.

     Seeing something Mark's eyes that satisfied him, Felis tossed Mark
unceremoniously onto the couch. The panther picked up the pack of
cigarettes and absently ripped them to shreds. "I'd better not catch
you with these again," he told Mark in an off-hand way. He then reached
out and roughly grabbed Mark's left wrist. Mark braced himself, not
knowing what was coming. But Felis merely unclasped and took off Mark's
wristwatch.

     "A lesson," he said, staring very hard at Mark. "Don't cross me."

     The expensive Patek Philippe fell to the ground, where, with
amazing force, the panther crushed out the crystal with the heel of his
boot, and ground his foot back and forth until the hands were ruined
and some of the watch's mechanism was showing.

     Mark looked down at it, and then up at Felis's staring face. He
felt hot and cold all of a sudden, his stomach started to turn queasy.
He was totally bewildered by the feelings in his gut. That stupid
watch had meant nothing to him, it was just a prop in the game he
was playing to fulfill a mission. That was all. Mark realized with a
start that he was trying to convince himself of that. His shoulders
drooped and he was feeling...smaller. **This is shame,* he told himself.
**I can't remember feeling this before.* He shivered.

     "Are you going to behave?" the panther asked.

     For some reason, just then, trying to formulate a penitent answer
to the big cat's question, Mark felt some of his old consciousness
break through the drugged submissiveness that he was being controlled
by. **Behave?* For a fleeting moment, the question struck him as a
little bizarre.

     "What the **hell* are you talking about?" Mark said, calmly but
at the same time shaking like a leaf. "Who the fuck are you? Why am I
a prisoner here? Who's --"

     For a moment, Mark was sure the big cat was going bash Mark's face
with a right hook. Instead, his "boyfriend" grabbed him and hauled him
to his feet. Felis was apparently out of his mind with rage again.

     "I'm going to teach you how to make that spaghetti sauce," the
panther remarked, swinging the rather muscular boy by the collar of
his shirt, as though he weighed nothing. "Then we'll talk. We'll talk,
and we'll talk, and we'll talk..."

     Felis fairly threw him at the stove, and Mark was only just able to
stop his own momentum without bruising himself.

     For a moment, Mark felt good, hot anger flooding back into him.
"Wait, let me guess," he spat at Felis in a scathing, mocking
voice, "Why, oh, why do I make you hurt me like this?"

     He braced himself for the blow, the crushing punch that he was
sure was about to connect with his face or skull. When it came, Mark
thought, he'd go all limp and start to collapse. He'd look like he was
going to fall to the floor. Felis would never see the knife that Mark
had grabbed and sequestered under his shirt upon having been thrown
against the stove. The panther would be watching his own entrails
hit the floor before he had any idea that Mark was anything but a
silly little boyfriend who was misbehaving. **They won't mock me,* he
grinned to himself, half-crazed with rage. The chiefs...they would
learn not to push him.

     But once again the panther didn't act on cue, and instead took the
fight directly back to Mark's flesh. The panther's arms slipped around
Mark's waist, so quickly and so gently that he didn't even have time
to think of resisting. Felis's heavy frame pushed itself hard against
Mark's shoulders and his hot breath came down in torrents against Mark's
bare neck. The big black cat then simply put heavy pressure on Mark's
body, pinning him against the stove, crushing his waist with his two
arms, and leaning hard on him from behind, while letting Mark feel his
heavy, deep breaths.

     They were like that for several silent seconds. Then Mark made a
choked, strained noise in his throat. A forced gasp of enjoyment.

     The panther rummaged between them for Mark's wrist. He peeled off
the arm that held the hidden knife, held it out straight, away from
their bodies. He snorted into Mark's hair and kept the boy's wrist
out there, knife still clutched in his hand, and waited.

     The panther waited and waited on him. Thirty seconds went by,
a minute. Mark writhed some under the pleasant feel of force and weight
on his back and waist, but savagely held out against what the panther
wanted. He heard himself, as if far away, whine like an animal.

     It was too much. His hand went limp, and the knife clattered to
the floor. Felis kicked it far away from them.

     Mark started to tremble uncontrollably in fear, feeling the
panther's warm embrace tighten. Those warm arms would start to rip
him cleanly in half, he was sure. Any minute now. But the panther
was purring deeply, and, to Mark's surprise, began to sing a soft
lullaby in some strange language into Mark's ear. The boy found
himself relaxing involuntarily, the soft, sad notes of the song
causing some deep part of him to respond. They both retreated from
the intensity of the previous moments, standing there motionless.

     Felis rubbed Mark's stomach. "You'll be punished for this, don't
worry," he breathed gently into Mark's ear, sending a chill of fear
down the boy's spine. "But not right now. Right now, I teach you
how to cook."

     It was, Mark thought at the time, as surreal a statement as
perhaps could have been uttered, given the events of the last few
minutes. He himself was no longer entirely sure that he believed any
of this was actually happening. He desperately wanted a cigarette. God,
did he need a cigarette. But even more surreal and frightening than
saying it was the fact that the panther actually began to follow
through with his plan.

     The panther stalked about the kitchen, with his chest pressed to
Mark's back. Forcing Mark to move with him, he threw the boy from side to
side unceremoniously. For the most part, he held fiercely onto Mark's
wrists and instructed him menacingly on what to pick up or put down and
where.

     Mark complied, unable to suppress a smirk of bitter humor. He felt
like he was back in kindergarten, being shoved around by adults trying
to get him to play nicely, and bizarrely, he couldn't get control of
the situation back again. He'd killed grown men with his bare hands --
didn't that count for something? The cat pushed and he submitted, push
and submission, push and submission -- he was losing his mind. He had
to find a way to fight. This was an attempt to break him down, break
him completely, and he'd fallen into it. He had to find a way to keep
his inner resistance alive.

     The cat stopped moving so violently, and Mark noticed. What he
didn't notice, until more than a second later, was that it was because
he himself was following the cat's motions more pliantly, trying to
anticipate the next movement, trying to submit to it. His body was
sensing, on an animal level, the energy of the cat's body, and
surrendering to it, moving with it, like a dance. He found that even
his feet suddenly gained a sixth sense, planting and moving at just the
right times to keep his balance without upsetting the cat's movements.
Instinctively, he raised his head upward, closing his eyes, brushing his
cheek against the cat's snout. The cat stopped moving, holding him still,
in order to slowly run his tongue over the tip of Mark's ear. The boy's
body shivered, and he felt his entire being let go of itself, breathing
in deeply the heavy smell of two bodies sweating, leaning into the
warm hardness of the cat's body, tasting and enjoying the warm fear of
not knowing whether his mate would continue to punish him. His mate.
He used the word in his mind for the first time. Not boyfriend anymore.
This being had the right to chastise him, and also the obligation to
hold him in its arms...

     "I want you," the cat whispered. "More than anything in this
entire world. I love you..." Slowly, he turned Mark around and seated
him up on the kitchen counter. Mark was panting heavily, sweating
profusely, and unable to tear his eyes away from the cat's. He felt
by turns utterly sick and deeply excited. The cat stroked Mark's side.

     "None of my clan," the cat said, as though with difficulty,
"None of my own people have seen a being like you in a thousand years.
I want you so much, little boy. I need you like I need air to breathe..."

     "But why?" Mark whispered. He knew he'd been cracked open then.
The note of pleading in his voice was for real, and the cameras and
microphones would certainly know that for sure. **Yes, you fucked me,*
Mark told the chiefs mentally. **Yes, bastards. I'm fucked over. Hope
you're enjoying this...* "Please, I've got to know. Who are you? Why me?"

     The cat gently began unbuttoning his shirt. The boy shuddered and
gasped in excitement. "Take my clothes off," Mark begged in a whisper,
unable to contain himself. "You're the only one who can."

     Mark could hear nothing but his own labored breathing, see nothing
but the cat's fingers slipping the buttons from their holes, one by one,
smell nothing but the powerfully sexual scent of the panther's body.

     When it was finished, Mark tried to move toward the cat, but it
deliberately pushed him back, forcing him to lean back, making him
practically lie down on the counter. The shirt came open, revealing the
boy's athletic body. Felis stared for a moment, mesmerized. And then
the cat bent down and started to lick.

     For Mark, it was like the most perfect bodily pleasure
imaginable, better than any physical pleasure he'd ever dreamed of.
Sex didn't compare to it. He felt like it would have been impossible for
the cat to touch him more intimately. He kept on gasping in desperation,
wondering how much more he could endure. He tried to touch the panther's
head, but it grabbed his wrists and pinned his arms. The tongue went up
and down, now rolling across the ridges of his abs, now tracing the
curves of his pectorals, now pushing against his rib cage, now flicking
in his navel. When it gently touched one of his nipples, he nearly
screamed. One of his knees rocked from side to side, like a wrestler
helplessly enduring torture, but unable to escape his opponent's control.

     When the cat finally stopped, Mark was comatose. He looked up at
his mate with half-closed eyes, dripping in sweat, still panting, and
looking quite haggard. He didn't think he could move. He was utterly
spent. **God, I'm hungry,* he thought in a fog. **And I need a cigarette
like no bastard ever should.* To his mate, he whispered, "Let's go to
bed..." He reached out and touched the cat's arm, weakly. **How come
we never get to use the damn bed?* he distantly wondered.

     But the cat, instead, took one of his wrists, the one which had
so recently sported a Patek Philippe, and clasped something down on it.
Mark immediately recognized what it was. The cat licked him once on the
forehead, and then quickly moved away. Mark heard the door slam behind
him.

     Mark closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply. Well, there was
no doubt now about the situation, he thought with amused relief. It was
all kind of funny really. He had been asked to assist with the breaking
of an important prisoner. Now it was clear who the important prisoner
really was, and who was the expert on the sexual breaking of wills. It
would be interesting to see where this was all going from here. What
questions would they ask? Which ones do they think he'd refuse to
answer? Maybe it was a show trial. He felt a flicker of admiration at
the audacity of that idea. They just needed him to read a statement,
and with the cat behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder, he'd
read anything they wanted.

     Mark started to cry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done
that before. The tears just came, rolling down his cheeks, coming
even before he realized they were on the way. He thought it was odd,
but it didn't bother him. It was only when the sobs started that he
felt a cold anger at himself. He couldn't get control. His hand
covered his face, and he surrendered to the weeping.

     He was surprised to discover that he was crying mainly for
remorse, for all his terrible crimes in the service of his masters,
and because he loved the cat with his whole being, and he knew that
neither of them had a future. It was a fitting punishment for his murders,
his treachery, the death of thousands in the Rebellion. Suffering for
himself, he could have endured. But knowing that he and the one he cared
about would be separated, and the cat would die alone somewhere,
perhaps under torture, that was real, deep agony. And true justice.

     He tried to get up. It was an ingrained habit that compelled him.
He couldn't keep lying down. It took him several tries, and for a
moment he was scared that he'd be unable to. His only thought was to
clean off all the slimy sweat, the tears. He staggered into the
bathroom, looking curiously at himself in the mirror. The young man
staring back was unrecognizable. He looked older, somehow, and yet
slighter than Mark himself. And he was a horrifying mess. Mark thought
the image in the mirror was of someone suffering from a terminal
disease of some sort, dark circles under his eyes, hollow cheeks, hair
looking like it was about to fall out.

     He smelled his wrists, regretful that he'd have to wash off the
sultry, exciting smell of his mate's body. Just as he was about to
undo his pants, he remembered. "No," he said aloud, taking a deep breath.
"He told me I wasn't supposed to take off my own clothes." So he
stepped into the shower with everything on, including his shirt and
sneakers, and turned on a strong jet of hot water.

    In there, relaxing and feeling somewhat stronger, he examined the
bracelet the cat had put on his left wrist. He'd seen them, of course,
many times before. Even put them on other people himself. They were
made of stainless steel, carried a radio transmitter, and couldn't be
removed without a key, or a blowtorch. They were meant to act more as
an official warning than anything else, a reminder. Certain individuals
under detention, even some members of the Rebellion, he understood,
were allowed to have some freedom of movement instead of, or before,
they were sent to prison. The reasons were complex, but the bracelet
served to remind the detainee that he or she was not free, that the
person must not attempt to escape the strictly delimited boundaries which
he or she was allowed, that to do so would bring about a swift death.
Mark had never known of anyone who was allowed such freedom for long;
it was usually a matter of watching their movements for anything that
might betray associates. They were invariably returned to prison,
sometimes tortured, and then either executed or locked up for the rest
of their lives.

     "So, what do you want me to show you?" Mark mused, staring at the
bracelet.

     It bore an etched inscription: "MARK ALBERT HOLLAND, PRISONER
#1937503BX"



     "FUCK!" I swore under my breath. "You fucking bastard! When were
you going to mention that part?" I quickly grabbed his wrist. Sure
enough. There it was, gleaming in the half-light. And for all I knew,
a squad of Signal Group heavies was bearing down on us.

     I put my head in my hands. "Fuck, Mark, what did you do? Why did
you do this to me? I had NO fucking thing to do with the Rebellion, you
sick fuck! That was the only good turn my bastard father and his other
son ever did for me!" I was rocking back and forth, totally stunned. "I'm
going to kill you. I have to kill you," I told him. "Oh, you bastard!"

     I watched his face, mesmerized. He just looked so innocent. It was
so hard to imagine someone being so cold. "I could rip out your mind you
know," I snarled at him, heat rising in my gut. "I could fill you so full
of nightmares that you'd wake up screaming every night for the rest of
your miserable life. I should do that, Mark. That's what I SHOULD DO!" I
reared back and punched him hard in the face. He stirred, but didn't
regain consciousness.

     The words made me feel good, but Mark, had he been conscious, and
I were both perfectly aware that I had no intention of doing any such
thing. I was railing in frustration at my own weakness. I felt defeated.
I didn't have the stomach for the kinds of atrocities Mark was used to.

     I wonder now, very often, if that's perhaps why Dad and
Agamemnon never trusted me.

     "Time to think." What was Mark's plan? If it was to have me arrested,
that could have been done several times over already. Where were the
Signal Group police? They could find Mark easily, wherever he was. My
instinct was to run like hell, and keep running, but is that maybe what
they wanted me to do? Too many possibilities. My head began to hurt. This
place was no longer safe, but neither was anywhere else. The key lay in
Mark's brain.

     "If you've betrayed me, I swear I'll kill you," I told him coolly.
I believe, even now, that I meant that. I was actually serious. "I want
to know what you've been planning, Prisoner Holland. And you will tell me.
Yes, I think you'll tell me everything..." I touched him, and dived back
into his brain.

End of Part I