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Steppa click-step, click steppa-step.

It echoed in sharp staccato along the hall of cells. It was regular. Punctual. A gait unlike the prowling youma.

Steppa click-step, click steppa-step.

Then there was xylophone drag of the foot of the implement, alloy-metal music along the bars. Some other prisoner sobbed, panicking to the back of their cell. The cadence of arrival continued. Stopping, the neat shiff of boots pivoting.

There was a rhythmic rap of the dragon's body on the wall next to would-be Astarte's cell door. Tapp-tappa-tap-tap. Shave and-a haircut

Give them a routine and they learn to fear it and need it both. Rely on it. Something, anything to rely on in the madness.

"How dirty are your wings today, Angelcakes? I'm come to make them shine."

"What medicine else can cure the fits
Of lovers when they lose their wits?
Love is a girl by poets styled
Then spare the rod and spoil the child." The general recited as she entered, cane clicking with the pointed end of each line. "You'll be spared when you're obedient, pet. I will give you warm blankets and a feather bed. Hours to sleep all together- no sudden water murdering your rest. "

The General stood in the center of the room, used to the movements of the blind- how they clung to walls as a point of reference. All the world was the noisome dark of the Pit and the Pendulum. She let silence rule for painful minutes that drew into long uncertainty.

Then came a sudden double-rap of the cane against the cold cement floor.
Two Bits.
Shift to kneeling, Straggletag.

"Then I guess we'll be visiting until four? Very good, luv." There was the sound of cloth, shift of boot, then something new-

something small, delicate, metal put down on stone. The faintest of 'clink', as the General had removed a teaspoon from an inner keeping of her jacket. Its dished end was large enough for a single lump of sugar and exquisitely scalloped. It was set on the dingy floor, shine of its polish was lost to sightless eyes, but the mind would remember the look of silver service and the sound of it on bone china similar to cement when someone over-zealously stirred.

"How doth the little busy Bee improve each shining Hour? Come, my Mischief-angel. Recite. "

Build your cell, your responsiveness and obedience. The first two pieces are free, but not every time, Skinner, oh no. Variable Ratio Rewards, work best.

Just as well the pet couldn't see the mirthless smile or hear the lungless glee that curled just the very corners of the General's lips into iron screws.
I'm going to have to pull that frame off the surveillance and frame it. Perfect. Horror. Perfect. In this moment, Prettyone you are exquisite.

The mind was still working, revealed itself point positive through the enforced haze of the detention regimen- bizarre twists in social behavioral acceptances in just three to four weeks for most. Angel was doing remarkably well without too many signs of concentration loss, fixation, memory loss, managing ennui and managing the rabid hunger of the being for sensory stimuli. Much longer than three or four weeks so far- the senshi were getting more inured to hardship, if nothing else.

It may be time for the chamber soon. A few hours is equal to weeks or months of regular cell block. But if she's too mad, we won't be able to keep her on task without extensive pet reinforcement to a single person. Decisions decisions. All for the lure of space tomes.

"Continue, luv. You've choked on your C's when you're aiming for T." The can shifted in grip for the ready. The back end of even so small a spoon could be a very dull, very slow weapon to want to jam into one's self or into a captor. She would brook neither from her charge if the strain caused a lash out. At this point, there was probably an equal chance of either in hope for a 'release', in addition to the hopes for obedience and instilled pattern to overtake the individual response.

"Recite."

Cane lifted, striking out for the too-slender wrist that held the implement with a whistle of air across the chaos infused rattan. "Little Bee, labours hard to store it well, but forgets she's not who says what should or shouldn't be stored. What information is or isn't remembered. If Mischief still finds idle for your mouth and hands, I'll take them away from you. "

"Barbary. Swaddle her but for the offending hand." The Youma crawled down from shoulders to obey.

She still gropes around, rather than capitulate and stay still. There's still too much moxie in there. The personality not broken. She might last a count of weeks still. Better measures must be taken to wipe the slate clean to the start.

There was another brief shuff of cloth. The General produced a roll of tape from waistcoat. Intoned to Barbary as she crouched and then sat straddled-weight on top of the Youma-bundled woman to hold her still. "Good job, pet."

"Angelcakes, you're too much a person and not an angel. You're not remembering I want you to use your wings." Do you know the things that so closely identify men as men in their own minds? Their hands. Their bipedal walk. Their speech. Some days of these taken away should help break you down.

Schörl snatched up the boney hand and force the fingers closed with her own- how stark it felt to play with civilians and their limits. The tape wrapped round and round like spider silk to hobble the appendage to a timpani mallet. One down. One hand, two feet to go.

"What you don't use properly, I will take away. When you don't listen and obey, then you lose your ability to speak. Here, Barbary." She pushed the arm into the folds and waited for the youma to ripple constrict out the next.

Bridle, gag, or pull her teeth? Tongue gag. I want to keep as much of her bodily intact as possible. It does us less good to have her completely crippled and unable to transform or use the book, unchanged and untainted or missing of information by corruption, for our purposes. Obedience. She will learn obedience.

The General paused at the mewled capitulation, leaving all sensation still and some to a neutrality for at least a minute-become-eternity of what was hopefully worry whether it had been enough or if the stripping of features would continue. Finally, Schörl moved again-stroking firm hands along the dirtied, boney legs in light massage, then doing the same to the feet. Massage was its own torture in a way. It hurt a little, but felt glorious in how it released muscles and encouraged blood flow. She did every toe in turn, the balls and heels of each foot. Turned the ankle gently here and there and then pushed thumbs in long strokes along calves. Cooed, pleasant compliments accompanied the treatment, "Good girl. Pretty one. "

"You will not reclaim your hands. You will not try to free them from my control. They are mine. You have lost them. " It was a simple command, but one necessary to utter to make it perfectly clear there was going to be no chewing at the tape, peeing on it, or trying to loosen it in any way fathomable to the damaged mind.


"Good girls get brought to tea. "

"But you weren't a good girl today. Water and some biscuits for now. I made them especially for you. They've crimped sides, and flaked sugar on top. They're french-styled vanilla, with flecks in the cream surface. I think you'll like them." The details, visual details, were deliberately related. Another reminder of what was taken away, and yet also a reinforcement in the implantation of good girls were treated with help and good things- they were helped and returned things lost to them by the magnanimous Officers. It was a specific game from soviet manuals.

General Schörl stood, pulling out a folded piece of waxed paper, unfolded it- an origami bowl taking shape. Then a 4 oz. floppy flask came out and poured in the promised liquid- spring water. The flask returned to inner pocket, and the last parcel brought out, a wax paper with two cookie-biscuits, the sort for tea, set beside the water. "Barbary."

The Youma released her and slunk away into obscurity.

"You'll have to be gentle in how you find your treat- you don't want to break the bowl and spill the water. " You'll have to eat like a beast, with no hands or fingers now. Good.

"I'll leave you to it, luv." The training required the brief time limits to maximize the isolation. Even hated company became cherished in solitary confinement. Or...perceived solitary. Schörl motioned with her chin to Barbary, and the Youma climbed the wall to cling-

Angel would be watched for compliance.
She would be kept safe from herself.