A couple hours later, as the sun began to dip to the dusty horizon, the purple hedgehog found herself once again following her "trainer" stumblingly back to the the specialty cells, exhausted. She loved to run, but this training was punishing. She collapsed into the cell, attacking the meager rations of hard tack, potato mush, and dirty water that were waiting for her. She didn't even notice the guard closing and locking the barred door behind her until it was too late for the crazed mad-dash for freedom she had momentarily craved.

"You did better this time than last time, but you need to stop flinching at every gunshot you hear. As long as you know your place and don't try to escape, they won't be aiming at you."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a filthy slave and have no chance at a better future so I should just accept it. Go tell your rhetoric to somebody who cares."

"...And we really must do something about that sass. Next time you sass me, your rations will be reduced by half. And if you continue, it will happen again. The third time, you will get no food for three days." 

"...You wouldn't..."

"If that doesn't stop you, I will talk to my supervisor about potentially getting your tongue removed."

Serenity's eyes went wide with horror. "Y-You're bluffing..."

"AM I, though?"

"B-but I'm a high-value!"

"That doesn't matter. Even high-value racer-slaves don't need to be able to speak, you know." He trailed off ominously. "Have a good night." He said with a sneer. "And actually try to get some sleep this time. You train again in the morning." With that, he left the purple hedgehog to fume in her cell alone.

Serenity plucked one of her quills and added it to the little pile that was growing under her shabby mattress.

*************

In the medical tent, the albino skunk was tending to a slave with a broken leg that had started to heal incorrectly and needed to be re-broken. 

"Aaah! Get away from me! I'm not ready to die!"

"I'm not going to kill you. But your leg needs to be re-set, or you will be lame the rest of your life, and the Terror doesn't have much use for permanently lame slaves. Stop squirming. This is going to hurt a bit." Bracing herself, she took a firm grip on both sides of the incorrectly-knit bone and gave a sudden jerk.

"AHHHHHH! Owowow! You said you weren't going to kill me!" her patient protested in an accusing tone.

"Quit complaining. I didn't really kill you, did I? I'm sorry, but that's the only way to get your leg to a state where it can be properly set." With that, she grabbed some wooden splints and, bracing them along either side of the new break, started wrapping them tightly in gauze. "I'll tell the guards you need to be in a light-duty, seated job until this heals properly. You should really have come to me BEFORE it started healing wrong."

"Go willingly to the Terror's pet Deathbringer? Yeah right! I'm only here 'cuz one of the guards saw me limping."

The 'Deathbringer' comment stung, but she tried not to let it show. "Must have been one of the rare merciful guards then. You're lucky they didn't use you as target practice. Like I said, a lame slave is a dead slave."