“Give us the code!” The deep Kazon voice demanded aggressively.

He didn’t get the answer he wanted.

Pure silence followed.

The heat in the chamber was oppressive, pressing against skin like a physical weight. The air stank of burnt metal, sweat, and the faint, metallic tang of blood. Harsh white light spilt from flickering ceiling strips, casting warped shadows across the rust-bronze bulkheads.

Jonarom sat limply in a heavy duranium restraint chair, his head bowed, sweat dripping from his hairline. His uniform was in tatters, the left sleeve was long gone, the undershirt collar torn open, bruises blooming purple and black down his pale Ardanan skin. His normal floppy, soft and messy brown hair had no life in it. A thin line of blood trailed from his split lip to his chin, drying into a dark smear. The metal cuffs around his wrists had bitten deep enough to leave raw marks. Bellerophon’s young chief science officer appeared almost lifeless. His usual happy, positive demeanour was gone. Jonarom’s familiar infectious smile had been wiped clear.

Across from him, Chambers sat slumped in an identical chair. One eye was swollen nearly shut, the skin around it mottled with dark bruises. His jacket had been torn off him, and his undershirt now hung in ragged strips from his shoulders, revealing a chest marred by blistered burns and angry cuts. A bead of sweat traced a path through the grime on his jaw before falling to the deck plating without a patter. The boyish charm from Bellerophon’s flyboy had fizzled out days ago. Nevertheless, there was something in his spirit that had yet to fall. It was a small amount, but it was enough to keep him going.

For now.

Two Kazon guards loomed between them, thick arms folded across the coloured vests, disruptor rifles at their hips. Their maje paced with deliberate slowness. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with coarse hair that was slightly tied back from his face, revealing sharp eyes and a mouth set in a perpetual sneer. He stopped between the two chairs, the quiet stretch of a predator about to strike.

“Gentlemen, you have the codes for your ship,” The Kazon maje said evenly. “You will give them to me, or you will die a slow, tiresome death. What will it be?”

Neither Jonarom nor Chambers moved.

The maje gestured to one of his guards. A shrill whine rose from the restraints, and then agony ripped through both Starfleet officers. Jonarom’s back arched against the cuffs; Chambers clamped his jaw tight, teeth grinding as he stifled a scream. When the current cut, they sagged forward, lungs burning with each desperate breath. The two of them had been in this position for some time now.

The maje’s voice was almost conversational when he spoke again. “Your friend,” he said to Jonarom in a nearly friendly tone but teasing manner, “has already told me he will speak. Why must you suffer for a man who will trade your life for his?”

Jonarom lifted his almost limp head. Chambers raised his, their gazes locking across the space between them. The faintest smirks tugged at the corners of their mouths. It was a silent exchange, an unspoken oath. The two of them had become fast best friends, friends who knew each other well. They didn’t need to be telepaths to understand what the other one was thinking. They were both thinking the same thing.

They will not break us.

The maje noticed their expressions at each other. His eyes narrowed, and he drew a coiled plasma whip from his belt. He was not having this form of defiance from his prisoners. The weapon ignited with a hiss, its burning orange light casting a hellish glow across the room.
He turned to Chambers first. With a flick of his wrist, the whip cracked against the pilot’s bare chest. Chambers jerked violently, a guttural sound escaping between clenched teeth as the weapon burned into his raw skin.

Without pause, the Kazon leader motioned toward Jonarom. One guard seized the science officer by his flat dark hair, yanking him from his chair. Instantly, Jonarom reacted by groaning out in pain. His knees slammed into the deck before he was shoved across the chamber. A boot crashed into his ribs. It happened once, then twice. Sharp pain flared across his chest. Another guard grabbed him by the bound wrists, hauling him upright and hanging him from a chain bolted to the ceiling. Jonarom’s toes barely brushed the filthy floor.

The maje approached, whip still humming. Jonarom’s barely conscious glare met him head-on, even as his body trembled. One of the guards yanked off the remains of Jonarom’s uniform jacket and his undershirt with a sharp, dirty knife. Without hesitation, the Kazon raised his arm high. The first lash from the plasma whip tore across his bare back. The sound that escaped him was raw. The second followed instantly, the sting merging with the fire of the first.

The maje leaned close, his voice a low growl meant only for Jonarom’s ears, though Chambers, helpless in his chair, heard every word.

“Every man breaks, lieutenant. The only question is who will betray the other first?”

The whip crackled again in the silence that followed.