Word Count: 704

She wondered how far her screams carried.

The officers soon tired of the beatings. Of course they would. They gained no answers from them. Ganymede offered up nothing of value. She named her sphere to the monstrous Captain, spoke of purification to a Lieutenant, cursed and spat in those moments when she was able to fight back. The more they questioned her, the more recalcitrant she became, until it seemed they had no choice by to try alternative methods.

They dragged her from her cage, pulled her down unfamiliar hallways, slapped her when she struggled and made threats against Valhalla when she nearly broke free. They took her to another room, this one dimly lit by the flames that crackled from the hearth.

From the depths of the fire, one of her captors took a metal rod in hand and brandished it before Ganymede's face.

“You show so much pride in yourself, we thought you might appreciate a more lasting reminder than the mark upon your forehead,” she said.

Ganymede stared at the metal rod. The hot, glowing orange end had been twisted and fashioned into a shape she knew only too well. She saw it whenever she looked into the mirrors on her home-world, for it graced her forehead every time she transformed.

An open heart joined with jagged light.

“On your knees,” her captor demanded.

Ganymede did not go willingly. Inevitably, she was forced to kneel by a pair of firm hands pressing upon her shoulders. She struggled, but a heavy-handed slap to the face and a few moments of quickly drained energy soon had her submitting against her will. She landed hard on her knees, slumping against the floor as she gasped and wheezed for breath, fighting to remain conscious.

The officer with the rod circled behind her and pushed long, unwashed strands of hair from Ganymede's shoulder, caressing the pale skin her fingers found there with a sort of sick tenderness. She crooned quietly when Ganymede made to shift away, ordered another officer to circle around and hold Ganymede still. This one sank down in front of her and took her by the arms. Ganymede was too weak to remove herself from his grasp.

“Right here will do nicely, I think,” the female officer said.

The twisted end of the rod was pressed to the area of flesh and muscle between Ganymede's neck and shoulder. Ganymede heard the sizzle of heat, smelled the pungent aroma of burning flesh, and screamed as pain the likes of which she'd not felt before ripped through her. It was as if her flesh were being carved open, and molten flames poured within.

Once, she'd had the opportunity to experience what her own magic felt like. She knew how lust and desire burned, how it swept through one's veins and sent one's blood boiling. This was at once similar and different. The heat was the same, but it was more concentrated, pressed into a single area where once it had been allowed to spread.

When it seemed Ganymede would struggle away, strong hands held her arms fast. She could do nothing but endure.

The female officer removed the rod only once she was satisfied with her work. Carelessly, she threw the rode aside when she was done; it landed somewhere by the hearth with a loud clang.

“Take her away,” she commanded.

Ganymede was pulled back onto her feet and dragged from the room. So weak was she that two officers had to support her by the arms, her feet dragging uselessly along the floor. They took her back through the hallways from which she could heard other voices screaming, and carried her back to her room.

Mercilessly, without even an ounce of pity, they threw her back into her cage and locked it. Then they switched the lights off and lumbered out, shutting and locking the door behind them.

Ganymede curled up on the floor of her cage and wept.

She had not yet stopped screaming, though at some point it changed from the screams of shock and pain to screams of heated anger, which burned through her as fiercely as her magic would one day burn through her enemies.