The first kick came hard and well-aimed, cracking something in Asuma's chest. He grunted, but didn't have the air to yell. The second kick caught him lower, in the unguarded curve of his side where there was no shielding bone. Then they just hammered him. He rode it out; he'd been trained. He'd been beaten before. He'd been in a war. A circle of blood-hungry Lightning-thumpers wasn't the worst thing that'd ever happened to him.

It was a little harder to hang onto that thought when they dislocated his shoulder.

Ichiba had quieted. The hoarse-voiced woman -- Shiga, she’d said her name was -- was groaning something, but it drowned in a scream when the orderlies lit the cell bars up again.

Darkness had begun to crowd the corners of Asuma’s vision before the red-head called a halt. They hauled him up, dragging a strangled cry from him when they wrenched on his arm, and threw him back into his cell. The red-head followed, crouching down next to him. Asuma tried to breathe and choked on blood.

The red-head fisted a hand in his hair, yanking him onto his side, and smashed his face into the floor, breaking his nose with precision.

“Reckon Kaminari would thank me for that,” he murmured in Asuma’s ear. He patted the back of Asuma’s neck. “Now keep quiet, or I’ll let Yotan drag you out and fuck you until you cry.”

He stood before Asuma could gather his wits or a response, and strode out of the cell. The gated door clanged shut.

“Someone get the girl a blanket. Obuyon, take Totsu to get his jaw fixed.” The man’s voice lifted, echoing through the silent cell block. “If I hear one musical note from any of you, I’ll cut off your right hands. All of you. Now keep it the hell down.”

The outer door slammed behind him as he left.

Another nasty little laugh went through the remaining knot of men. Katsuko’s cell door was opened and a soft thump sounded before the door closed again. Footsteps filed out. The outer door slammed again.

“Asuma?” Ichiba whispered. He sounded thick and half-muzzled, as if he had his hands over his mouth. As if he’d been crying again.

Slowly, Asuma tried to push himself up. He made it to one elbow. Katsuko was a boneless, shadowed shape in the wavering dark, a thin blanket tossed carelessly across her bare legs. He spat blood, inhaled agony, and forced himself to get over to the grating. Whatever they’d broken in his chest shifted slightly, making his vision grey. His dislocated arm wouldn’t work at all.

He couldn’t get his functioning arm through the bars enough to reach Katsuko.

“Asuma?” said Ichiba again.

“Sssorry, kid,” Asuma managed, slurred and half-drowned in the red pouring from his nose. He let his head drop down onto the dirt-packed, reed-strewn floor. At least now he couldn’t smell the rot.

Katsuko still wasn’t moving. He passed out against the bars, unable to tell if she was breathing.