Charles awoke with a gasp. Where was he? He couldn't see anything. His skin itched. It buzzed angrily and demanded immediate relief from his fingers. The air smelled like mountain soil, drenched in termite pheromones and a sun-kissed jungle. He felt the humidity—hot, muggy. 

He squirmed on the floor. It was solid, though uneven. The silhouettes of his prison cleared as his eyes adapted to the darkness. The walls were thick bamboo, with a clearance of about an inch from the ground. Light shone in from the opening and reflected on the dirt floor, allowing Charles to see the rest of his new quarters.

The area was a third of his room's—just enough to walk four steps on either side. The wall had an alcove that was sufficiently sized to fit a person. No sheets, blankets, futons, or much else; simply cold bamboo to separate it from the dirt. Charles spotted a small table beside it. There was nothing else in here save for a bucket in the corner. 

This was probably one of the sleeping sheds used by his captors, at least whenever they didn't have captives to detain. Charles grimaced. They had stripped him of all clothing aside from his boxers while he'd been unconscious, exposing him to mosquitoes and other insects. It explained the large, itchy welts that covered his body.

Charles sought out the exits. The shed's gabled roof was thatched with Henrican palm. A thick layer of it, too. Spotting an orb weaver and a colorful argiope taking residence in the recess, he ruled it out as a route of escape. Ascending through it required a good climb, something barred to him when his hands were tied with rope and his feet restricted by a hobble. Even without the restraints, the thatching was too thick to poke a hole through, especially now that Charles no longer had his folding knife. 

The only other exit remaining was a Gibb door, its outline large and distinct enough for Charles to identify it from the rest of the wall. It was wide enough to fit a man and a horse through—or a dragon, he thought. The wooden handle looked inviting enough for the man to come and pull it open, but even he knew it was a trap. 

Charles grumbled. He was certain they brought him somewhere in the Sierra Morena. The fact he was inside a thatched shed, restrained and stripped bare, proved just who won that fight. That he couldn't hear any screaming from outside or any other signs of chaos of pandemonium meant that the NHA had successfully deflected their responsibility over the betrayal. He knew exactly how they'd have done that. Their leaders would have held up the guilty party as the scapegoats, if not offer up the village chief of the settlement. An alternative would've been to murder a few people who wouldn't be missed and point the blame squarely at them. After all, Charles would've done something like that himself. As much as he detested living in this shithole country, there wasn't much use in rejecting the Henrican way of doing things either.

He sat on the bamboo bed and slumped back, staring at the thatching. Just what were they planning with him? The Commies wanted to make a bargaining chip out of him, but the dragons must have sought some form of revenge. That Caudate hinted as much when it told the broker that they were supposed to hold him for a few years first.

Charles shut his eyes, trying not to think what they might do to him. Until now he found it incredulous that they were actually people—that these giant, cold-blooded reptiles weren't mere animals. They were sapient! They had their own language, their own mannerisms, their own identities…

¿Hostia puta, did they even have their own culture?

Charles buried his face on the wall. He couldn't stop thinking of what Graham Logistics had done to the dragons they owned. Red might have been the first to endure them all, but the Company built up its entire training process through their findings, systematized the domestication, and ensured that every reptile they bought from the Russian smugglers would comply to Company policy in a way that puts all their malparido jornalero to shame. 

They placed each reptile in secure cubicles. They blocked out the walls and reinforced them to maximize isolation. They restrained them, with muzzles, chains, hobbles, and weights. They trimmed their claws regularly, to the point it sometimes cut into the quicks. They fed them only just enough scrap meat and dirty water to keep them in working condition.

They taught their handlers to use electrocution, stabbing, and starvation as both a form of discipline and a mode of instruction. Pops made sure that they literally beat commands and signages into their skulls. Taught to fear humans, and the Grahams most of all.

The “Graham method" was so potent and effective that business magazines called them industry leaders. Innovators. Pioneers of the up-and-coming “dragon trade", they wrote. Even foreigners from Europe and North America flew to Henrico just to visit them and learn a thing or two about taming dragons of their own. 

He was afraid to think of what they wanted to do to him. How long would he suffer under the dragons' care? How would he suffer? Were they going to return him to Pops as damaged goods? With an arm and leg missing? With an eye gouged out? Both eyes? Were they going to work him to the bone the way Graham Logistics did? 

Charles never felt more scared in his entire life.

So scared that he jolted at the moment the Gibb door swung open and basked the entire shed in bright sunlight.

“Aba! Gising na pala ang gago!" a honeyed voice remarked. The Filipino accent was unmistakable. Charles gaped at the man who strutted inside. Chubby, yet intimidating. His round stomach had the wide girth of his arms. Comically the rebel vaunted the PPS-45 that had been fleeced from Charles' belongings, his Bulletblocker vest proving to be a tight fit over his old shirt and his hideous body type. Charles even saw his Coldsteel folding knife securely clipped to the inside of the man's pocket.

For a moment he glimpsed the outside. A rural village with wooden huts, all thatched with Henrican palm. Of course. Unfortunately, Charles' view was immediately blocked by the corpulent Filipino and his Henrican escorts, each sporting AK-47s and the menacing, judgmental glares to match. “Your guns ay napakaganda!" exclaimed the Communist, speaking in a pathetically broken mix of Spanish, English, and his native language. “So fancy. You rich boys really have all the milk!"

“What do you want, Gordito?" Charles retorted, the character Porky Pig coming to mind the longer he watched this fatty laugh in front of him.

Porky scowled at his remark. “Putangina naman 'to," he said, walking up to Charles and swinging the handle of his favorite submachine gun. It struck his head with such force that pain blinded him briefly. With a yelp, Charles fell on the dirt floor, clutching his face. “You're talking to a mid-ranking officer of the New Henricans Army. I've been given full authority over this village. You should be licking my ass, daddy's boy!"

Hell no! He was Charles fucking Graham. Son to one of the largest businessmen in the entire country. Any other person would be happy to kiss his. “Didn't, know, NHA had, Filipinos around," Charles hissed. He refused to give in and talk like a faggot, thinking of all the times Pops had yelled at him. “They smuggle you in from the boondocks?"

Porky kicked him in the gut. Charles felt all the air rushing out as he doubled over. That was more painful than he expected it to be. “I'm born and raised Henrican, cabron, just like you." A slimy glob of spit landed on his back. It was uncomfortable, feeling it slide down his skin. “And what's with that tone, ha? You're not in any position to talk to me that way."

Charles groaned. “Why am I here? ...Boss," he hastily added, if only so Porky wouldn't kick him again. “Aren't I supposed to be with the CPH?"

“Now that's way better," Porky said, nodding in approval. Charles couldn't take his eyes off the way his rotund belly jiggled. “And to answer your question, Boss Charles"—and he said that as derisively as possible—“that arrangement was merely a scheme planned by a rogue element. We've already taken care of everyone involved in the matter. You are really meant to be here in Sierra Morena with us."

Charles shut his eyes for a moment before sitting up, a hand to his belly, rubbing at the spot Porky Pig kicked him at. “What do you want with me?" He asked, nervously eyeing the PPS-45 being fondled in the Commie's hands.

“Do you know why you've been kidnapped to begin with?"

“Isn't it because of my father's election run?"

“Not only that," Porky corrected. “A certain… third party… has desired someone from your family for a long, long time. Excuse lang ang senatorial election."

“'Third party'." Charles grimaced. “You mean the dragons."

Porky grinned. “The dragons rule Sierra Morena, Boss." Again with that patronizing tone. Charles wanted to sucker-punch the asshole for the satisfaction of it, even if it would result in torture. “We have a mutual pact with them just as we have covenants with the CPH. Your abduction falls under this arrangement."

Charles did not reply. 

“If all things play out well, you'll see your father again in a few years. Whether that happens, well, nasa iyo na yan." Porky started chuckling.

That last phrase was ominous. After so many years listening to Margaret Ann's foreign babbling, even Charles knew what that literally meant. Nasa iyo na yan. In other words, "your fate all depends on you".

Charles felt chills travel down his spine when he saw the knowing grins on Porky and each of his guards. That did not bode well. "W-what do you mean?" He quivered. "I-I'm a high-profile victim! Are, a-aren't I more valuable a-alive?"

"That's true! You are more valuable alive"—Porky shrugged his shoulders.—"to the NHA, that is."

"...Y-you're really handing me over to the dragons."

Porky snorted. "Handing you over? Pare ko, you're way past that now."

Charles scowled at these useless responses. He was just about to snap out of irritation, consequences be damned, when large, booming footfalls behind the Communists drowned his voice.

A deafening snarl had the unseen men guarding outside squealing. Scores of flip-flops slapped dirt as onlookers and guards alike hurried away to avoid what was surely a dragon. More growls thundered into the shed, and together they formed a barely discernible sentence in Spanish. "I hear Graham pup awake."

Porky sneered. "Aha, speaking of the King of Rome!" Slinging the stolen PPS-45 on his shoulder, the Commie stepped aside to welcome a large crocodilian dragon. Charles shuddered. It was bigger than the two dragons he had previously encountered today.

Like every other dragon he'd seen back at Graham Logistics, it walked on digitigrade paws. Dark green scales speckled with black spots topped its body, forming unbreakable plates on its back and something akin to chainmail on its sides. It walked towards them with a slow gait, unwittingly emphasizing Its lush color, its toned body, and the smooth cream-like hue of its underbelly scutes. All belied its healthy lifestyle in the wilds of Sierra Morena. 

"May I introduce," Porky said. "the representative of the 'third party'." No matter how smooth the tubby spoke, he couldn't conceal his primal fear at being so close to the powerful beast. His eyes shifted about, breath hitching as the reptile took deep, investigative breaths. 

Porky kept talking, if only to hold himself together. "The science frikis in Universidad del Henrico would call it a 'black-spotted barbtail', while it's a Techerta to the rest of the country." 

Charles flinched when the reptile growled in response to his words, irritated. To his credit, notwithstanding his quivering legs, the fat Commie maintained his proud posture. "But up here, among us, we know it by its true name. This is Carlbelyn, and—

The Techerta rounded on Porky, growling his terrible Spanish. "You misspoke name again, Forger." The tubby froze and let out an appropriately piggish squeal.

It did not care for Porky's terror and proceeded to correct his mistake. It repeated its name in the way the dragon pronounced it in its native, bestial language. To Charles, they were simply snarls with subtle intonations, yet even he could tell that it was phonetically closest to "Carbelyn". Perhaps the dragons' language was too guttural for human biology?

Porky squealed again. "A-a-apologies, Boss Carl!" He quickly bowed. "Your name is just too hard to speak!"

Carlbelyn did not even deign to reply back. It huffed in contempt before training its reptilian gaze on Charles Graham, who fully understood Porky's terror when all its attention focused on him. The businessman scrambled away from the dragon, only to stumble and fall on the bamboo alcove behind him.

Charles was thankful that Porky was too busy catching his breath to taunt him. Watching Carlbelyn's muzzle hover close to his brown skin, he heard it sniffing repeatedly, and deeply. The dragon went as far as flicking its tongue in the air like a snake, its breath reeking of blood and death. 

Charles blanched. Could it smell his entire life on him? Could it taste all the other dragons that lived in the Graham Logistics compound? Noticing how its mouth could form slight facial expressions, like a dog, Charles tried to read the dragon's snout out of desperation. Yet, he was unsuccessful, belatedly realizing he knew absolutely nothing about dragonkind.

There was no other way around it. He had to probe. Verbally. Charles swallowed the lump in his throat and spoke, "W-what will you do with me?"

Carbelyn rumbled. "You, cause of many dragons suffering in this land. Many Forgers, follow your lead. Harm, my kind. Now…" It began licking its chops. It looked… hungry. Predatory. Charles couldn't stop himself from squeaking. “Now… we do same to you. All you ever do on dragon, we do you."

Carbelyn approached Charles, who grated, inching back for as far as the bamboo walls allowed him. His eyes dilated, watching it bare its teeth. Scales moved as its flesh parted, mouth dripping with noxious saliva. "Wait! Wait-wait-wait-wait! Why are you even taking it out on me? Fuck, I didn't know you were actually people! I—

"¡Conchatumadre!" Porky groaned. "Like it would've made any difference to you rich assholes. Now shut up and take it like a real man!"

Coming from a faggot who looked like he'd squeal like a boar the second those fangs were on his face? Charles scowled and presented his middle finger. "Get fucked by a fish, Porky!"

"Putang inang gago!" Porky reacted in his native language. But Carlbelyn moved before he could, lunging at Charles and sinking its teeth deep into his shoulder. He shrieked, the agony crippling him. Carl pulled back and threw the businessman to the floor, its fangs drawing more blood as they raked across his skin.

Charles groaned. His head throbbed. He couldn't see straight. He heard Carbelyn speak. "Bring fire tool in."

"Right away, Boss Carl." Porky's voice was as subservient as ever towards the apex predator. A shrill whistle followed. Another man walked in, brandishing a meter-long rod in his hands.

Charles gazed at the item—gazed at its tip. A heart-shaped prong with cursive lettering in the middle. His eyes were drawn to the fact it glowed a bright and portentous orange. Instantly realizing what they planned, he struggled to get up. "Hostia puta, n-no. No!"

The dragon in the shed released a menacing growl. Charles only had a split second to see Carbelyn pouncing on him, smashing its horns into his back before pinning him to the floor with its paw. Charles instinctively fought back, but there was nothing he could do against an immovable object.

"Quémalo," the Techerta snarled. Burn.

Seconds later, intolerable, sweltering heat radiated near Charles' buttcheeks. It grew hotter and hotter until the prong sizzled into his bare skin and turned his vision white. 

Charles screamed. He screamed until he ran out of breath, then he screamed again. Unable to escape, he writhed helplessly beneath the dragon's paw. He scratched at the dirt floor. He scratched at the walls. He kicked and flailed his legs in the air, cursing in gibberish during the infinitely long moment the rebel pressed the blazing iron deep to his flesh.

The blackened skin was still bubbling agonizingly when Charles realized they were finished. He gasped in horror. They had just branded him. Branded him, like a farmer would their livestock.

Deep, booming snarls pulsed out of Carbelyn's maw. It was laughter. Sadistic and ruthless. "Now you burned, pup! Like my people in big Forger city."

Charles was still a whimpering mess when Porky coughed. "Boss Carl," said the rebel officer. "There is still one last thing we need before we leave Charles in your custody."

A pause, then a feral grunt.

"Which side?"

"Right."

"¿...dreka? ¿Diresha? I, no understand."

"Right. Right hand!" A soft, wriggling noise filled the silence.

Carbelyn muttered. "Ah. Okay."

Charles' whimpers became sobs when he felt something cool and moist enshroud his left hand. He didn't have to look to know Carl had taken it into his muzzle. He could feel the row of teeth around his fingers. 

Charles shook his head. "No," he pleaded, his soul drained of fight. "Please, no. Jesus Christ, h-have mercy…"

"Shut up!" Porky kicked him in the butt. Still mad from his insult earlier, the Commie put in all he had into that kick. The boot tore his raw skin open and reignited the agony from the branding.

Charles howled, unable to speak or think. He was so dazed that he had almost missed Porky telling Carl to leave all but one finger intact. 

The dragon's tongue pushed out each of his fingers until the pinky was the only thing remaining. A satisfied grunt from the tubby had Charles realizing what was about to happen. He suddenly remembered something Uncle Paul once told him in passing—which finger to give up if he ever found himself in a situation that called for it.

A situation like now.

"N-not my little finger." Desperately, Charles shook his head. He'd be practically crippled! "Anything but that. I beg you..."

Porky spat on Charles when he heard him say those words. "How many times have you turned a blind eye to those who begged you, cabròn? When they needed your help? You, a daddy's boy with billions in the bank? Huh? Huh?"

Charles' eyes widened in realization. He wanted to scream out how this was different, how this involved life and death, how this was completely and utterly inhumane. Instead, he yanked his hand out of Carbelyn's muzzle, yet as soon as tried, the Techerta shut its maw and entrapped his little finger. "No. No! NO!"

"Do it, Boss Carl!"

Charles had only a split second to realize—to accept what they were about to inflict on him before searing agony struck. The world fell away. Reality itself seemed to melt as electricity ripped through his brain. A fierce throbbing ignited his right hand, turning his vision into a kaleidoscope of shadows and rendering the ambient noise as a jarring cacophony. It mixed and swirled and curled, striking him with the urge to retch. The businessman did not even realize how violently he was writhing on the dirt until someone he couldn't see poured water on his pulsing extremities and it began to burn.

"Fuck!" He sobbed. "Fuuuuuck!" He couldn't blink the tears away. Squinting, he saw Carbelyn spit out his severed finger on the ground. "My, m-my little finger! I shit on God! You goddamned rojos—

"Pambihirang maricòn! You should be more grateful you still have your hand!" Scowling, Porky snatched the blazing rod from the other rojo. After barking a command to pick up the finger and toss it in ice, he rolled Charles over belly up. "Ito, isa pa!" Then he stabbed the captive businessman on the stomach. "Lecheng bata!"

Charles howled. He could hear—he could feel his skin slurping—squelching as the glowing prong boiled the flesh away. Fresh and hot, the torturous pain nearly overshadowed the mind-numbing throbbing radiating from his hand and ass, and the palpitating heartbeats that thundered his body. It was so overwhelming that he heard nothing—that he saw nothing.

He thrashed, reaching for the unheated handle. Carbelyn reacted quickly, the massive Techerta cupping Charles' face with a muddy forepaw and shoving him to the ground. Blinded, nauseated, with rancid swampland nestling deep in his nostrils, the shock that finally came was practically a mercy. What started as cold, clammy feeling in his core crept outward and spread until dark and unfeeling ice was all he knew. 

The world turned black. Carbelyn's growl was the last thing he heard. "This," it grumbled, "only beginning."

.

.

.

.

.

.

Charles Graham awoke with a start, all alone. Any hopes that what he'd been through was an ephemeral nightmare were dashed by the excruciating spasms of his flesh. He moaned, the dolor keeping him in paralysis. He could still feel his heart beating.

Thankful that light still shone in from the gap beneath the walls, Charles dared to inspect Porky and Carbelyn's gruesome work at last. In the process, he had heaved a series of weighted breaths. Several times he had averted his eyes before he could fully recognize what he was looking at. In the end, he swallowed the shaking lump in his throat and forced himself to look where his body ached the most.

Nobody had bothered with the teeth-shaped wounds Carbelyn left on his shoulder. Meanwhile, his right hand was covered in dirty, makeshift bandages, made from torn fabric. Blood had soaked through and left a visibly darker stain in the dirt. He didn't undo them out of fear of reopening the stump or causing the agony to thrum once more. Charles mourned the loss of his little finger, for he was now a cripple.

His feelings of loss burrowed deeper into his chest when he raised his head as high as his injuries allowed—and it wasn't a lot of room; barely an inch above the floor—and saw the mark of shame.

"Property of San Silvestre Farms," read the heart-shaped scab. The name of the company was stylicized and drew attention to anyone who laid their eyes on it. Its symbol, a hacienda prominently featuring a barn, a farmhouse, a water tower, and an old-fashioned windmill, bulged conspicuously on the very center of the ugly wound. Every person in Henrico knew the signature hacienda of the country's largest farming corporation like every American in the United States knew the twin arches of McDonald's.

The scar would never go away for the rest of his life. Even if he had somehow survived this ordeal and returned to the bosom of modern civilization, the humiliation would follow him and taint him just as bad as his disability. 

Charles lost himself in his thoughts, dreading what torment the Communists and their draconic allies (or partners?) would inflict on him in the near future. How much of him would be left when they were through? Would he even survive it?

Then he heard voices from outside. Human voices.

"Kuya, you have susi ng kubol?" It was a young boy. About ten years old. 

An older boy replied in a mix of Spanish and English. "¡Chico, you need to learn Spanish! I can barely understand you."

"Pero Kuya, you know I not good sa Spanish. We no have study things or time." The previous boy whined.

"I'll teach you a little when we're done here."

The Gibb door swung open, causing the other boy to squeal. "Ahh! No susi pala!"

"What's a susi?" The older boy asked. "Eh, never mind. You can answer me later."

The door was suddenly kicked open, startling Charles. He turned his head slowly to the entrance, and saw two children walking in. Both wore flip-flops like the few men he'd seen here, and both wore tattered clothing, barely passable as rags. His eyes were drawn to the two handguns swelling their waistbands. 

Child soldiers. 

He shouldn't have been surprised that the Communists would enlist their own children in their endless conflict against the Federative Republic. Where else would they get new blood from? Interest in joining the CPH-NHA dwindled to all-time lows after the Henrican public ousted President Noah Marius in the early 70s through violent revolt. 

The rebellion ended fifteen years of iron rule and inspired other countries to fight for democracy and all the opportunities it promised. Even Henrico's sibling on the other side of the Pacific, the Philippines, was undergoing a period of instability. Much of its citizens were fighting back against Ferdinand Marcos, their current president and yet another bloody dictator, while the rest of them either hung their heads low or emigrated to other nations.

A Filipino favorite was the United States of America, for those who had extended relatives to get them through its strict immigration controls.

And for those who couldn't enter the U.S. or any of the G7, the Federative Republic of Henrico was their best option.

Unfortunately, prosperity wouldn't always be the outcome. The children walking into his makeshift prison exemplified this. They approached Charles without fear miring their steps. The older kid, the Henrican judging by his Hispanic looks, carried a wooden tray with what appeared to be his food for the day—some poorly-made creamed corn in a bowl fashioned from a coconut husk and a couple pieces of grilled meat that appeared to have been sitting around the dining hall for half a day at least.

He glowered at Charles Graham, the scion of one of Henrico's most powerful families. "Not what you're used to, Boss?" The kid taunted him. He set the tray down on the dirt. There were no utensils. "We eat this kind of slop everyday. No fork and knife here, so you'll just have to use your hands."

The younger kid—the Filipino—bent over Charles. "Ha! Kung kaya niya! Little finger, gone." He turned to his companion. "Is it true, Kuya? Cannot fisting or agre if no little finger?"

"It's grabbing, Chico," the older said, properly enunciating agarre. "And yes, it's true. My father lost his little finger to the AFH years ago. He can barely write, or carry anything with his hand."

"Sana I there! Friend told me dragon bit it off." Chico poked at Charles' bloodied stump. He winced, causing the child to erupt in gleeful—sadistic laughter. 

Kuya sneered. "See that brand on his belly? He's ours now. We can do whatever we want with him."

It prompted Chico to slap the raw wound. Charles yelped as his recovering nerves flared up. "Fuck!"

"Shut up, maricòn!" Kuya kicked his head. His eyes remained cold as Charles instinctively coiled. "I wish we can let you starve or do more to you. But, we have a deal with the dragons."

"Hey, Kuya, it okay if I do this?" The other child kicked over the bowl of corn. 

The older preteen barked out a laugh. "Totally! Sir Camacho won't even mind this!" He hawked noisily for a few seconds before spitting a massive wad of phlegm on the spilled soup. "Is that to your liking, Boss? Do you want another glob?"

Charles quaked. Christ damn these children. He trembled from anger. He'd already suffered indignity under Porky and Carbelyn. Did the rojos' kids have to do this too? "Get fucked by a fish."

Kuya kicked him in the belly this time, right where Porky branded him. "¡Que te jodan!"

"¡Ay caray!" Charles squirmed. The burn was still raw. It still fluttered, throbbing, sending ripples of pain as bad as his severed finger. He couldn't talk—couldn't hear the older boy yelling at him.

But, with squinted eyes, he could see what Chico did. He had taken his flaccid penis in his hands. He showed it off to him, a grown man, with a naughty leer on his face. Charles could do nothing but watch the child literally piss a golden stream on his food. His eyes watched every yellow drop splash on the entire tray.

"Papa is like tae at Graham," the kid said. "He was a pahinante, dati. He lived in the barong-barong around the compound. We go to Henrico, escape Marcos—have better lives—but everything is same! Papa stay in Magallanes, never go home, palagi no money, palagi nagtra-work!"

Charles didn't care about his sob story. Everyone in Henrico had struggles of their own. So what if they were underpaid and overworked? So what if the government was so corrupt none of the social services properly worked? That was how things were here. What did they expect, moving from one shithole to another?

Rage filled him. Nobody would dare do something so vulgar to him back in the Metro. All the emotion this damn kid put into his speech flew through Charles' head, as the man was too busy glaring at him, staring at the arc his piss stream made as it went from the flaccid cock to what was presumably his food for the entire day. "¡Pinche rojos, I don't fucking care—blwb!"

Charles spluttered. He twisted his head away, coughing out warm, foul-tasting fluid. "Son of a bitch!" He peed on him! He glowered at the preteen, the mischievous glee plastered on his face. He had never wanted to beat a child to death until today.

Chico giggled at him, at the way his wastewater bathed his tray. Charles wanted to punch that cheerful smile away—and he definitely would have if every move he made had his body all but screaming. He wouldn't have cared if this bullshit was sanctioned by that fatass running the place. 

"I don't like your eyes," Kuya blurted. Charles only had a split second to watch the older boy raise his foot and stomp on his bandaged hand. He let out an unholy shrill, unable to stop himself from crying. It hurt so much that it paralyzed him, that he immediately forgot his fury and writhed on the dirt. All the while Chico continued to titter and snicker, even as his cock stopped spouting its disgusting liquid. Children were truly cruel things.

"Thinking of tattling on the adults like some faggot, Boss? Beh! You better eat all that slop, 'cause that's all you're getting!" Kuya stuck out his tongue. He kicked the wound on Charles' butt. 

"Yeah, Boss!" Chico's mocking penetrated his screaming nerves. "Eat it all!" The child brought out his gun and, instead of aiming the weapon at Charles, he started beating him in the head by the hilt. "Eat it! Eat it! Eat it!"

He struck him with every urge. He thwacked him with each command to take the dirtied food and savor it—piss, phlegm, and all. Charles, uselessly clutching his head, rolled back and forth, again, and again, and again, until he couldn't take it anymore. 

"Okay!" Charles gave in. "Okay, I'll eat it. I'll eat it!" He was sobbing, tearing up as he leaned over the tray, nearly delirious, unable to fully open one of his eyes. He swept up an inch-long piece of meat into his left hand along with a bit of creamed corn and the bodily fluids mixed into it. He took it into his mouth.

"Puta! Susmaryosep, kinain talaga!" The young kid cheered with a face transfixed with shock and awe. His laughter never ended. He waved the gun around, beckoning Charles for a repeat performance. "Again," He urged in Spanish. "Again!"

Charles swallowed the slop, unable to stop himself from feeling the glutinous sludge descend his throat and tasting a bitter, acrid tang that didn't belong there. He retched—almost vomited—but at Chico's insistence, he went for a second mouthful. Then a third…

A fourth…

Kuya sneered at the sight. "Did you know, Boss, that you're special? We don't treat you like the others." He gestured to the open door. A glance revealed there weren't actually any guards standing outside. He couldn't even see the rest of the village. It was literally a clearing. "Sir Camacho had dad and the other grown-ups build this shed just for you. They placed it very far from the other houses. If you walk—if you dare to walk out of here, we'd see you but you'd be too far to stop for anyone but the best hunters in our village. Do you want to know why?"

Charles kept eating. Even as he choked on the disgusting mush, he maintained an even pace. He didn't want to know why. If there was a reason why they made escape look easy, he didn't want to ask. Carbelyn's snout kept flashing in his mind. He couldn't stop remembering the way his pinky finger just slipped out of that merciless, cavernous maw. 

Another laugh. "Haha! Chico, look! He'd rather eat shit now!" Kuya grabbed Charles by his injured hand and squeezed the bandages. The man screeched, the anguish unceasing until his eyes locked with the older boy's.

"Let me tell you, Boss." He spat out the title with much derision. "The fucking dragons demanded it." His tone was even harsher when he mentioned them. "They wanted you out here in the open with your door facing the forest, away from the other sheds. Sir Camacho obeyed them without question. Do you know what that means?"

Kuya's face twisted into a sadistic grin. Charles felt dread seep into his bones. "What we just did will be nothing compared to what those cold-blooded lizards will do! I don't think we will treat you any differently during the day, but who knows what'll happen after dark? All the gueyes have their own guesses, but they all say they wouldn't want to be here at night..."

“Kuya, let's go. I'm naiinip here. Tara na." Chico requested, his voice taking on that pleading tone common to nearly every prepubescent child.

“All right, Chico. Let's get out of here. Let your Tete teach you more Henrican Spanish." Kuya went over to the younger boy and nudged him away from Charles. Chico cheerfully skipped towards the Gibb door, his buoyancy doing nothing to alleviate Charles' rising dread. 

Their eyes fell back on the grown man once they were at the door. Kuya's gaze lingered on the food tray before he let out a ridiculing snort. “Finish your food, Boss Charles! I promise, you'll need every little bit you can eat."

“Yeah! Tama! Enjoy that shit!" Chico jeered. His laughter could be heard echoing in from outside, even after the two kids shut the door and left their captive to stew in the darkness alone and in agony.

Charles Graham felt his heart sinking deep into misery as the searing humiliation and the relentless pain burning his entire being finally forced him to accept reality. He gazed down at the pee-soaked, spat-on food sitting beneath him. Even the water had a foul smell to it, as though it'd been scooped up from whatever the NHA used to feed livestock or to pool water for their outhouses. 

Charles cupped the soft batter and stared at it. It looked awful. His vision reacclimated to the darkness, he could clearly see that phlegm and urine had thoroughly mixed into the mashed corn. Knowing that he'd already eaten more than half of it at gunpoint—that it was all the Communists would give him until tomorrow—did not prevent Charles from feeling nauseous. He gagged, almost throwing up. 

He stopped himself—forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat just as he willed his enfeebled body to slurp up the tainted glop and ignore its horrendous taste. He would survive this, he told himself. He had to endure whatever Porky and Carl had in store for him. They said they would hold him here for years. Even so, Charles hoped for an immediate rescue. Pops wouldn't leave him alone here. He wouldn't. He just wouldn't!

...Would he?

His composure shattered in the very second that doubt slipped into his thoughts. Charles sobbed profusely. He wept, blubbering convulsively until he returned to the deadened slumber.