Spike woke up several hours later -- and immediately wished that he had stayed asleep.

His damaged legs were a mass of raw, screaming nerves, sending an urgent message of fiery agony to his brain -- which obviously could do absolutely nothing about the situation.

He opened his eyes, looking around in an effort to regain his bearings -- and immediately found that he was lying on the floor on his stomach. A quick attempt at rising revealed that although the chains that had been wrapped around his torso had been removed, his arms were bound behind his back -- and his legs were in no condition to attempt movement, anyway.

The slightest motion was agony.

Giving up on the idea of escape, if only for the moment, Spike looked around the room, trying to get an idea of his surroundings -- and was amazed to see that he was in an elegant, lavishly decorated bedroom, rather than the dank dungeon setting he had expected. It was difficult to make out much of the room’s furnishings from his position on the floor, near a large bed -- but he could not help noticing the general air of wealth and privilege surrounding him.

Not exactly what he would have expected in a typical demon’s lair.

*Then again,* he reminded himself flatly, *I always had better taste than your typical demon, too…not that that means me and this bloke are gonna be getting along -- not likely…*

He knew better than to try to move his legs again, knew that they would require quite a bit more healing before they would be ready to carry him out of here; but he could not help testing the chains at his wrists again.

Unfortunately, he found that they held firm.

He rested for a few moments, and was about to give it another try -- when he heard the sound of a door opening in the next room, followed by the sounds of calm, conversational voices on the other side of the bedroom wall, and steadily approaching the room where he lay.

He made a split second decision and closed his eyes again, going perfectly still, not even breathing, thinking that it might be in his favor if his captors did not know yet that he had regained consciousness.

And at this point, anything he could get in his favor would be a step up from what he had.

“…only for a few short months…surely we can handle anything for a few months…”

“It’s *supposed* to be for a few months. But if *they* get involved, who knows how long it’ll take for Wolfram and Hart to get themselves together?” The second voice Spike recognized as the voice of the general from before, and he sounded weary and discouraged. “This whole thing is the result of incompetence and stupidity. The Senior Partners should never have brought Angel and his people to Wolfram and Hart in the first place.”

*Too bloody right,* Spike thought darkly, feeling a moment’s satisfaction at how thoroughly Wolfram and Hart’s plot had blown up in their evil faces -- though the moment was short-lived, lasting only until the memory of what *he* had lost as well -- what they all had lost -- came back to him.

He swallowed hard, and focused on the voices again, forcing back the tears of grief for his sire and his friends, that would surely have given him away.

“Well,” the second voice pointed out matter-of-factly, “it was a fairly good bet that he would do as they hoped…and he almost did…”

“No. He made them *believe* that he almost did,” the general snapped, and Spike could tell by the sudden increase in the volume of his voice that the pair of them had just entered the bedroom. “And there is a vast difference in those two things.” He paused, before going on in a hard voice, “Yes, it was a good bet -- but it was a *bet* -- and they lost.”

The second voice, a bit higher and with much less authority than the general’s voice, sighed in concession, before adding darkly, “And now it falls to us to do the clean up.”

“This wretched dimension,” the general muttered, and Spike could sense by the weight of his footsteps, and the sound of his voice, that had his eyes been open, he would have just walked within his line of vision. “I’m sick to death of it. Filthy, disgusting humans everywhere -- and everything that goes with them. I’ll be glad when we finally get back home, and I can breathe the fresh warm sulfur again.”

“Agreed,” his companion replied, a slightly wistful note to his voice. “The sooner the better.”

Spike could hear the smile in the general’s voice, and that he was facing him, probably looking down at him, as he remarked with amusement, “At least I’ll have a very interesting souvenir to show off back home.”

Spike felt a sense of indignant fury rising up in him, but wisely pushed it back for the moment, though his mind firmly rebelled against the idea of what the general was saying -- speaking about him as if he were some sort of trophy, an object -- and worse, speaking about taking him to some other dimension as well.

*Not on your infernal existence, wanker,* he mentally directed the words at his captor, while still feigning sleep.

“Yeah,” the other demon added, a disturbingly gleeful note to his voice. “They’ll all be very much impressed with him, I’m sure. Perhaps you might even decide to…”

“*No*.” The general’s voice was suddenly sharp, with a note of warning to it that Spike just knew had the other demon flinching. “You will not broach that subject again.”

“Yes, Master,” the other demon immediately replied, his tone a drastic shift from his mild, conversational manner a few moments before, instantly subservient and humble.

“Perhaps at some point,” the general relented slightly, though his voice was still firm and slightly warning. “At some point in the distant future I may tire of whatever amusement he might provide me -- and at that point -- who knows what may happen. But as of now -- well, he hasn’t even been trained yet. Doesn’t even know what he’s here for…though I’m quite sure he’d like to. Perhaps we ought to go over it again. You know, for his benefit.”

Spike could almost hear the confused frown on the face of the other demon, as his own apprehension began to rise at those strange words. “But -- he’s still asleep…”

“No,” the general interrupted calmly, his voice suddenly softer. “He’s really not. Are you, Spike?”

Spike kept up the ruse a few moments longer, not sure how he had been found out -- and therefore, not quite convinced that he actually *had* been found out. He supposed it was possible that the general was merely attempting to test whether or not he was secretly conscious, but really had no idea.

“If you’re still unconscious, then I suppose you’d sleep right on -- no matter what I do to those troublesome legs of yours, eh?”

The general’s voice was still mild, almost conversational, but Spike felt what was probably the edge of his boot suddenly brush against the side of his tattered jeans, which had not yet been removed from his damaged legs.

He had no desire for them to become any more damaged than they already were.

“Right,” he muttered, opening his eyes and rolling them at the same time. “So you caught me out. I’m awake. So what’s next, then? Interrogation? A round of torture, perhaps? Stereotypical villainous gloating about your soddin’ diabolical plan? Excuse me, but I think going back to sleep would be a lot less bloody boring.”

He looked up to the face of his captor, surprised again by his very human appearance. Though Spike’s own vampire senses were screaming out *Demon!* whenever the general was nearby, any physical traits that would have given away his lack of humanity were apparently in places covered by the strange, dark uniform he wore. His hair was dark, cut in a conservative, professional sort of style that was perhaps more befitting his office, and his hands, his face, seemed perfectly normal and human.

Except, Spike realized suddenly with a little chill of apprehension -- for his eyes.

At first glance they seemed mostly human, if very dark, until one looked closer, and saw that the irises of his eyes were only slightly lighter than the blackness of his pupils. And the longer Spike looked at them, the more those eyes seemed to be fathomless depths of darkness, mysterious and malevolent, and beginning to inspire the seeds of panic, with just that single look.

He found that he had to look away, though he rolled his eyes again as he did it, not wishing to let on to the demon how intimidated he really felt at the moment.

The general’s face formed a smirk of reluctant amusement, as he waited a moment before shaking his head slightly and replying, “See -- that’s why I thought it’d be so interesting to take you with me, Spike. So -- bold. Outspoken. Over-confident.”

When he leaned down, Spike tensed, but did not flinch, as he gripped Spike’s hair and yanked him painfully up from his lying down position, to his knees.

Speaking softly, calmly, smiling close to his face, the general finished, “It will be such a pleasure to break you.”

“Yeah,” Spike sneered with a sarcastic huff, boldly meeting the general’s eyes, “if you’ve got a couple lifetimes. ‘Cause it sure as bloody hell ain’t happening in this one!”

The demon laughed softly, still apparently more amused than angered by Spike’s defiance. Still holding Spike’s gaze, but speaking to his underling, he said quietly, “It appears it’s time for me to explain his current situation to my new slave. Leave us, Serak.”

The other demon, whom Spike could now see was of the same sort as the general, if perhaps a bit smaller, nodded in a respectful way that made the gesture almost a bow, taking one backward step toward the door before turning around and leaving the room, discreetly closing the door behind him.

“Well, Spike -- I suppose it’s time I introduced myself.”

“Suit yourself. I do like to *know* who I’m killing, so that information might come in right handy real soon,” Spike shot back, narrowed eyes full of smoldering fury locking onto the demon’s again for just a few moments -- long enough to make his point, without allowing that strange quivering sensation to begin in his stomach, that strange fear that those eyes seemed to somehow inspire all on their own.

“Not as soon as you might like,” the general remarked mildly with a smile, standing up straight again, leaving Spike kneeling on the floor. “Not ever, in fact. You will quickly find, Spike, that your place -- your power -- is not quite what it once was. Things have changed. You haven’t got your little human friends to back you up here -- they’re all dead. At the moment, you haven’t even got the use of your own hands. I don’t know what you expect to accomplish, but at the moment -- you really have nothing, Spike. Nothing but what I choose to give you.”

Anger slowly rose in Spike with the general’s little speech, his calloused, flippant reference to the deaths of his friends, his pompous, self-assured tone as he spoke of Spike’s current helplessness.

He hadn’t even realized he had shifted to his game face, but it *did* help his point along as he snarled softly, “I’ve still got a few things at my disposal, mate.”

The general did not flinch, his smile widening slightly, the malice in his eyes deepening, as he replied without hesitation, “That too, is subject to change whenever I wish it, Spike.”

Spike’s golden eyes widened with shock, as he understood the implications of that subtle threat, and once again his face shifted again without his conscious effort, almost as if in a subconscious defense of his threatened fangs.

“Now, if you’re quite finished for the moment,” the general went on softly, pacing slowly in front of where Spike knelt. “I’ll go on with the introduction, as I said.” He stopped directly in front of Spike, and though he was not looking up, the vampire could feel his dark, piercing gaze on his face. “My name is Siron, and I am commander of the army called in to this plane to defend Wolfram and Hart.”

Spike snorted derisively. “Seems they called you a bit too late.”

A brutal kick from Siron’s powerful leg into his stomach silenced Spike’s commentary, doubling him over in pain, coughing and gasping for breath, as the demon general crouched down in front of him again, pulling him back upright by his arm, and smiling calmly as he waited for him to recover.

When he was sure that he could hear him again, he explained patiently, “I was talking. Something you are not to do without permission -- not anymore.”

Spike’s eyes widened in indignation, and his tone was alarmed and angry as he replied, “Now you just bloody well listen, here, mate -- Siren, or Syrian, or whatever your bloody name is -- you’re just the latest in a long line of blokes who’ve learned it’s not that easy to shut me up…”

A punch, directly in the same spot as the kick and landed, and just as forceful, silenced him again, as the general’s free hand fisted in Spike’s hair, jerking his body backward into a painful arc, as the vampire choked and gasped again, trying to catch his unneeded breath.

“I know it won’t be easy,” the general conceded calmly with a nod. “But I also know I can and will accomplish it -- no matter how long it takes, or how badly I have to hurt you to do it.” He released him suddenly, allowing his body to double over again, breathing hard, struggling to recover from the painful blow, and stood up straight in front of him.

“And by the way,” he added with a smirk. “It’s ‘Siron’…but let’s make it a bit simpler for you and leave it at ‘Master’ to you.”

Spike’s voice was raspy, hoarse with pain and breathless -- but his words were still firm, defiant, and clearly pronounced when he replied.

“Not on your bloody life.”

“No, Spike,” Siron agreed, a deceptive patience to his voice, as he casually pressed one foot into Spike’s back, between his shoulder blades, pushing him forcefully back down onto his face on the floor. “On yours.”

And with those words, he leaned over to pick something up from his bed, but before Spike could raise his head, his foot was back on his neck, pressing his face down into the plush carpet -- the moment before something terribly hard and heavy came down across his ankles, hard enough that Spike both felt and heard his damaged bones cracking at the impact.

And Siron left it there, pinning his useless legs to the floor, smiling grimly at Spike’s desperate, agonized attempts to pull out from the excruciating pressure that sent searing pain shooting up his legs and throughout his entire body. But whatever it was that the demon had laid across Spike’s legs was far too heavy for those weakened legs to move.

Spike bit back a strangled cry of pain, struggling not to give his captor the satisfaction of knowing how badly he had hurt him -- but Siron noticed his attempts, and seemed to take pleasure in them.

Crouching down near his head, the general remarked almost pleasantly, “Perhaps I’d better gag you. I’m not sure how long you’ll be able to keep yourself from screaming, Spike. And we’re not the only ones living here, you know. We must be courteous of our neighbors, mustn’t we?”

Before Spike could even process the words through his pain, let alone begin to respond, Siron had wrenched his clenched jaw open, and shoved what felt like a soft washcloth inside his mouth. A moment later, he had tied a thin leather strap painfully tight across his mouth, holding the cloth in despite Spike’s instinctive efforts to spit it out.

“Shhh,” the general said softly in response to the muffled, panicked cries that both rose and died in Spike’s throat, as one iron hand gripped the back of his neck and held him down, even as he struggled to rise. “You’re not going to get away, Spike. You’re not strong enough right now. And you never will be again. I’ll be seeing to that.”

The vampire suddenly went still, when he felt the light brush of Siron’s other hand, along the side of his thigh, and then stopping, resting over one clenched, trembling buttock through his tattered, bloodied jeans.

“Yeah,” the demon sneered in a lecherous voice, giving Spike’s rear a light slap, grinning when he saw the vampire’s stunned reaction. “I’ll be seeing to *that*, too.” He paused, before adding in a more serious tone, “You’re mine now, Spike. A slave. A toy. That’s all. And the sooner you get used to that idea, the easier things will go on you.”

As he stood, removing his invasive hands from Spike’s body, he added in a dark tone of menace, “And trust me -- they’re going to go hard enough no matter *how* cooperative you are -- so there’s no sense making things any worse on yourself, is there, Spike?”

Through the haze of relentless pain, Spike heard his slow, even footsteps heading toward the door. At it, Siron stopped, speaking quietly over his shoulder, “I’ll be back later. Hopefully when I return -- you’ll be in a more reasonable mood.”

And he left, closing the door firmly behind him -- shutting Spike in with his own pain and despair.