"How did he know? And why?" I trail off as I realize that I'm wasting time trying to answer useless questions that won't do anything to help my situation.

You really don't need to take off your shirt, LB. He said he wasn't going to come back down, but what if he breaks his word and does. Or, what if he sends someone else down. It's not worth the risk.

Yeah, and it's going to be incredibly hard to clean you back like that.

No less hard than it'd be without it.

Okay, what about the shirt? He'll be expecting you to wear it.

I could put it on afterwards, and leave this one out to dry, so, if this happens again, I can always have a cleanish, dry shirt to wear afterwards.

I slowly soak the rag in the saltwater then ring it out, before reaching behind me, and tracing it over my shoulders.

I close my eyes and hiss at the pain as it hits the wounds on my shoulder blades.

I take the rag off, and soak it in saltwater, not wanting to look at how the water turns a slight pinkish color, and the rag is going to be stained with blood before this is over.

I keep it up, ignoring the pain that my body is going through, gritting my teeth in places, and adjusting the angles of my arm to reach others, until, finally, it's done. I feel like passing out and extremely light headed, but I'm done.

You should have kept track of time, LB. Then you would know if it's safe to change or not.

Oh, come on. It only takes a few seconds to change, I'll be fine.

Yeah, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that it's sloppy and a newbie move not to keep track of time. And newbies wouldn't survive this situation, so you need to stop acting and thinking like one.

Before my mind can delve down that rabbit hole, thinking of every way I've messed up on this mission, I gingerly pry my shirt off, hissing as it tries to stick to my skin in places, before placing it down and putting the new one on.

I inspect my old shirt, and get worried about that state that it's in, considering it was my favorite shirt.

Well, ex-favorite shirt. The only thing that can be useful for now is rags. I mean, there's more holes in the back than fabric covering it, the fabric that is there is stained blood-red instead of the sea blue color it should be, and there's grim all over the front of it.

I wonder what state my back is in? I know it's in pain, but it felt like the wounds had scabbed over when I was running the rag down them, which is a good thing. And, if they were infected, I'd be showing some signs, which sure I am, but they're most likely signs of other things and not infection.

Still, it has to be shredded, and it's going to scar. Though, what are a few more physical scars? I already have a body full of them?

At least, if I get any more wounds, I can attempt to use the shirt as bandages for them. I mean, yes, it's dirty, and might get them infected, but it'll be better than nothing. That or chest bindings.

I'm drawn out of my thoughts by his stomping down the stairs, letting me know that he's coming down.

Guess he's really devoted to this gentleman act of his. Warning me that he's coming down so I can cover up in case I'm shirtless. I wonder how long it'll be before he completely abandons it, showing his true colors?

He looks at me inspecting, before smiling, "Perfect."

Then, he does something I don't expect in the least. He unlocks my cell, and opens the door, but doesn't enter, he just looks at me, and says, "Let's go,"

I stare it him for a couple of seconds. He has to be kidding. That or he thinks I'm extremely stupid.

Well, LB, which one will you get hurt worse for? Disobeying a direct order, or attempting to escape? Both will get you hurt pretty bad, but he'd have a harder time lying in the attempt to escape. Not that they're so against me that that's need much proof, if any at all, but I might be able to point out flaws and get a lesser punishment if someone will listen to my case.

That's a big if. But, Rule 11: If you have nothing left to lose, try whatever flimsy reasoning you have to fight back.

I slowly, hesitatingly, move towards the entrance to the cell. As I get close to the place where I'm outside, I get even tenser, wincing at the pain that it's causing my wounds to be stretched like that, and wait for the real side of him to come out.

I cross over, outside of the cell, and there's no cry filling the air. No sudden slap and him yelling at me to get back in the cell or else. No beating about to happen because I attempted to break out. What is this mind game that he's playing with me? He's acting as if he actually cares about me.

"You're going up the steps first. No way am I going up steps ahead of the Ice Queen," Miguel says and I slightly shake my head. Even whenever I'm beaten to the point that it hurts to move, he takes me as a big enough threat that he's making me go first so that I can't have any opportunity to hurt him. I'm not sure whether I should be mad that he's being cautious and making it hard for me to escape, or happy that he's treating me like an equal. Well, an equal captive but still, the respect is the same. Meaning it's still there; that's more than I get from most of my co-workers.

I gently move towards the stairs, and the Spaniard follows. At first, I'm slow and careful. There's no railing, so there's no way for me to keep stable.

After the first ten steps however, he gets fed up with that. "Hurry up, we have a schedule to keep and you're only hurting yourself by going so slow. Also get away from the wall and stop leaning on it so heavily; your wounds, while they must still be hurting, should have crusted over yesterday at the latest and you should be fine now." He bits out, and I want to yell at him how he obviously doesn't know anything about injuries. In my younger years, I might have, considering I didn't care about my well-being that much. Now, however, I know it only leads to more pain and a harder time escaping, and when I don't know for sure how long I'll live, I want to avoid that.

Wait a second. He said that he wanted me to look good for today's events. The only thing I would need to look good for is my execution.

Vey is mir, he's making my walk to my death.

While thinking, I do move faster, as he wanted, gritting my teeth in pain from the wounds and my thoughts. By the time I finally get to the top, I want to lay down to get them to stop throbbing or something. That and I feel really weak and tired, more than what I normally do when this sort of thing happens.

I do actually close my eyes for a couple of seconds while I'm waiting for him to climb the final few steps. It feels nice, and I reluctantly open them when he starts giving me directions on where to go from here.

I follow them, making sure to stick to the wall so that if I meet anyone, they won't have to be the ones to move. I have a feeling that wouldn't go over well, at least for me.

He has me open the door, and I wince and shy back at the sudden brightness. I thought that I would be ready from the gradual light that appeared when we climbed the stairs. I was wrong.

"Hurry up, it's not that bad," He says, frustration and impatience lacing his voice.

I close my eyes and bite my lower lip, trying to keep down the sharp retort. He wouldn't appreciate it, needless to say.

With my eyes squeezed closed as tight as I can get them I walk out of the hall, into the blaring bright sun. Both the light and the heat assault me, far different from my dimly lit, freezing cold cell.

Thankfully, the Spaniard grabs my arm and takes the lead. He's gentle, not dragging me everywhere and letting me walk, but the grip is still iron strong.

"Today, you're going to earn your keep and help out around the boat," He mutters to me before calling out to someone that I'm here.

"I thought that's what I was doing with information," I mumble, hoping he doesn't overhear me. Luck isn't on my side.

"It is, but since you're being sparse with that and we're down a person, we decided that you could help. I thought you would like it better than being stuck in the cell all day," He says, and I try to spot the lie in his words. I must be getting rusty, since I can't seem to spot one.

The Spaniard goes on talking, something about the work expected of me, but I tune him out. Bad move, rookie move, I know, but I had something far more interesting that needed my attention, and what he was saying kind of took the side-burner, until it completely went out.

The more interesting thing; the woman Miguel told we were here had returned with a mop and heavy bucket, which I'm assuming had water in it, but she gives them to Dirk instead of taking them over to us.

Why in the world would she... oh gosh. He's walking over here. And we all know how fond of me he is... I'm doomed.

"Dirk, your who Captainess wants to supervise her?" The Spaniard asks, not bothering to hide his suspicion, when he finally notices Dirk standing by him.

"Yes, Miguel. Eva doesn't want to risk her hurting someone. Also, she called an emergency meeting, so I'm going to explain to her what she needs to do, what happens if she doesn't, send her along to do the work, and then run up to the meeting. You might as well go, I have this all handled," Dirk says, with a fake smile at the end. A smile that the cat gave the canary right before he ate it.

Miguel gives a tight lipped smile. In a very disdained tone, he said, "I'm sure I can stay."

"Oh no, this won't take long at all. Besides, Eva wanted to talk to you about something before the meeting," Dirk says, his eyes flickering to the left as he says the last bit.

Miguel hesitates, but goes ahead and leaves. Good, maybe Dirk will get in trouble for his lies. It would be a nice little revenge if he at least gets chastised for lying.

Though if he doesn't Miguel might feel mad and take it out on you. After all, the captain is his wife, so she might be more lenient with him. This could make Miguel angry, and we all know what happens when captors are crazy and they have a target they won't get in trouble for hurting.

I feel a sharp stinging, and then crumple down to the ground.

"Hopefully in this position you can listen better and not space out. After what happened last time, I thought you wouldn't want to cross me," Dirk lowly growls, with a little smile on his face as he remembers what happened last time. My wounds hurt more as I remember.

Dirk starts out in a bored tone that quickly grows harsh, "Now, you are going up to the poop deck near Ashton, and you are going to clean the whole deck. You had better be done by the time we're out of the meeting, or I'll tell Miguel to withhold supper.

"As is, he's planning on being soft and letting you have some more food, something about replacing calories you lost so that you can stay strong, why he wants you like that is beyond me. I'd prefer you weak, like you already are," He let's put a small laugh at the end, before yanking me up.

"All right, here's the bucket," He gives it to me, making sure to place it in my bad hand, and I nearly crumple from the sudden unexpected weight. "And here's the mop. I'd suggest you get to it," He says, and gives my back a shove, making sure he gets his hand directly on the wounds.

I stumble, and try not to end up on my knees again. I'm sure if they're not already bleeding, falling and sliding would make them. Well, that and landing on my wrist would be bad, as swollen as it has been. I have no doubt that it's sprained, and this will be painful from the wounds on my back and my stupid wrist.

I close my eyes, and straighten up, even though my back is killing me when I do. I also switch the objects around, to put less strain on that wrist. Once upon a time I might have done it to show I wasn't broken, but now I'm doing it because I know it'll be easier to carry the bucket and I won't risk opening a wound, or rather as many wounds, this way. Well, having them think I'm broken since they're all leering at me might play a small part in it, but they don't need to know that.

After all, half-truths are my speciality, or leaving out something, or letting people draw their own conclusions even if they'rethey're incorrect because of said half-truth of excluding knowledge.

I glare at the steps, thinking that there shouldn't be so many. No deck needs to be ten stairs, with an average of a half a meter apart, higher than the main deck. I mean, that's like five meters, completely outlandish. Whoever invented this should be killed, if they're not already.

I finally get up on deck, and nearly drop the bucket, completely drained of all energy. I let out a deep sigh, knowing that if I'm tired already, I'm going to want to die by the end of this. And not getting supper to replace calories is only going to make tomorrow even worse.

I move the bucket to the back corner, dip the mop in water, ring it out, and get to work. Up and down, back and forth, I slowly mop the deck small section by small section.

I move the bucket with me, and take the opportunity to roll my neck as I love it, trying to work out some stiffness in it, probably from sleeping the way I have the past... three nights I think.

Before I even have a tenth of the deck done, sweat is running all over me, and I'm practically running on fumes. I just want to close my eyes, and sleep. Sadly, I can't do either, and have to keep on working.

With about a ninth done, I start getting a headache, and the more work I do, the worse it gets. Lingering effects from the ones I've had on and off since who knows when most likely. I usually get them in stressful situations, and if this isn't stressful, I don't know what is.

I don't know at what time I realize some of my wounds had opened, but I know it's after the headache, since I blame it on the headache. All I know is that I am hunching down to see if I could finish the rest of the pass in one stroke, and could feel blood oozing out of my skin.

Lovely, I'm ruining his shirt. He'll be delighted about that. That's something else he can just find wrong and punish you for when the shoe stops. Which, at the rate you're going, will be tonight. I mean, you haven't even done half of the deck in an hour, pathetic. Pathetic and worthless, considering you're so weak right now.

You might as well be signing your own death warrant with how you're acting. I mean, you're practically advertising that you're weak and defenseless, so can you really blame them? Anyone with a brain wound is doing the same thing as them, and they certainly have brains.

I mean, they've came up with a new way of interrogating and treating prisoners. One that you don't know, can't analyze, and certainly can't tell what the right thing to do is. They're leaving you guessing, leaving you stupid and soon, dead.

And because you're an idiot who can't heed simply advice, someone's dying words' advice, no one will grieve fit you. They'll rejoice instead, happy that you're fine, and who can blame them. You're an awful person who should have died a long time one ago.

Whoa, LB, save the self-pitying thoughts for tonight. Then you'll have a resin for self-pity, right now you need to be using that energy to get this deck done. That or think of a way to escape before they kill you, though there's little you can do until they make landfall; you know that from Amory.

After those dark thoughts, I try my best to turn my brain off. After all, dark thoughts belong in dark places in the dead of night, when you're bleeding out from the beating you just got. Not in the glorious sunlight, when it's burning your skin and slowly cooking you alive.

Around the time I have half the deck done, my eyes are nearly permanently half-closed. It's too much effort to keep them open. Along with that, the mop is the only thing keeping me from collapsing. I'm just too weak, too pathetic. My wrist is throbbing so much that I'm only using one hand to mop, which isn't working too well for me, but I don't see how I can do anything else.

And, just my luck, I ran out of time. "Don't you think she should be working right now, with only half the deck done, instead of taking a break?" Dirk's slimy voice reaches my ears, and I can only find it in myself to slightly look up.

"Lay off Bosch, she's obviously not doing well. I mean look at her, she looks like Francis leaning on her could knock her down," Miguel fires back waving his hand around for them to se me.

What a sight I must be. Sweat pouring down, pale skin, half closed eyes, visibly leaning heavily on a mop as if it's the only thing that's keeping me up, breathing heaving as if what little exercise I've gotten has left me completely exhausted; it's practically impossible to believe that in the Ice Queen. That a week ago I was the most powerful person in the world, pulling the strings and controlling everyone. It's laughable even.

"I'm just saying, if she was my captive, she wouldn't be getting any food or breaks until she finished her assignment. As a director, she should be able to understand that view," Bosch bites back, and Miguel just gives a tight lipped smile. Probably mad that he said it out loud and it'll look like he needs Dirk's help deciding what to do with me.

"Well luckily for all of us, you aren't her interrogator, I am. And I'll treat her how I see fit, and it isn't a concern if you.

"Now, LB, will you please put the mop down and come with me back to your cell; I think we can both agree you've had quite enough of this today, and can finish it up tomorrow," Miguel says, and I try not to flinch at the change in tone. With Dirk, he's ice cold, but with me he tries to turn his voice warmer. He must be extremely devoted to this new interrogation tactic, at least around people. I'm still not holding my breath that this will hold up when we get down in the brig.

I reluctantly drop the mop, and try not to collapse then and there.

Alright LB, one foot in front of the other. It's easy; you do it every day, and so do a million other people. Just one foot in front of the other. I think, coaxing myself to walk.

Before I know it, though probably far too long for their likings, I get to Miguel's side.

He grabs my arm, though this time it's less of a leading me around thing, and more of a you can lean on me thing. At least, that's how I take it as he is now the only thing keeping me from collapsing.

"Come on, let's get you somewhere safe," He mummers quietly, more to himself than anything.

He leads, well more like drags but I want to save some dignity, me away, down the steps that practically fall down and twist my arm in a very uncomfortable position, across the deck, all the way back down to the brig.

"Here, I'll be back later with some food. You're practically asleep on your feet, so get some sleep. I'll make sure to wake you up when I bring the food," Miguel says, slightly nervously, and I can barely nod before falling asleep, making sure to cradle my hurt arm in an effort to protect it. 

Forgien phrases

Yiddish

Vey is mir: Whoa is me/ Oh no.