He’d heard about Mal and the late Wash’s run-in with Niska. How he’d tortured them, then, when Zoe had bought her husband back, how he’d really gone to work on Mal. But it had always been a distant thing, a story, even when one day he’d noticed the scar still visible in places around Mal’s ear. It was only a story .

He wished it still was.

What was it about screaming? All the books he’d read had made it clear a man doesn’t scream, he bites it back, holds it inside, no matter what the bad guy does to him. How totally and utterly ridiculous that seemed now.

His scream echoed back to him as the electricity coursed through his body again. As it stopped, he slumped in the restraints.

How had they done this? How had Mal and Wash survived? They had to have been so much stronger than this, so much more of a man than he was.

He hovered on the verge of unconsciousness.

No matter what he said, what he did, he was a coward, and this just proved it. Barely damaged him, and already he couldn’t take it.

“Course you can.” A voice at the edge of his hearing. “And it ain’t about being a coward.”

Hank struggled to open his eyes, but he couldn’t see anyone. Niska was talking quietly to his man, apparently discussing what tool to try out on him next. They were taking no notice of the new person in the room. “Who …” He tried to speak but his throat wouldn’t work properly.

“This is torture, not a tea party.” A man came round into his vision.

Hank blinked hard, trying to clear the sweat and blood from the cut that kept re-opening above his eye. The newcomer was blond, an odd unfinished look to his face, and wearing a Hawaiian shirt that should have been illegal. “Not a …” Suddenly he knew who it was, and realised that he must have gone insane.

Wash patted him on the shoulder, and he didn‘t even feel it.

“You take it. Can’t do nothing less. And you don’t die, or Zoe’ll never forgive you.” Mal’s old pilot looked him up and down, then shrugged.

“Forgive … me?” Hank ground