Again they said nothing. They said nothing as he turned and ran for the door. Said nothing as he stumbled into the dark. Said nothing as he scraped his knuckles on one of the pillars.

He could hear them behind him, following in their slow, measured way, and he pressed on, making sad desperate noises, not caring how he looked or who heard.

He saw his own shadow thrown against the wall, and looming over it, too large, the shadow of a Bringer. He had time to notice its strangeness and be afraid. The shape isn’t right. There are too many limbs.

And then it was on him, tearing the clothes from his body, hands clamping on his wrists, forearms, thighs and ankles; and he was lifted off the floor. He felt movement, swift and oddly smooth, then more hands, and then he was on the slab and bound faster than he could scream. When he did scream, they caught his jaw and held it open. With his head, body, arms and legs strapped down, the only thing he could choose to move was his eyes.

Satyendra couldn’t decide whether it was better to keep them open or closed.

He caught a glimpse of a wire mesh being held by one of the Bringers and knew they were going to do something to him with it.

He closed his eyes.

The taste of metal on his tongue made him open them again. He was surrounded by the Bringers, who were gesturing, going through some kind of ritual. With the mesh in his mouth, his jaws were wedged open. Bile began to stir and he willed himself not to throw up. The lead Bringer took out a needle and gestured with it in each of the seven directions: up, down, left, right, across each shoulder, and once at a diagonal past the right leg. There was a strange humming sound coming from the Bringer’s midriff, and he could see something pumping there, like an extra heart beneath the robes.

He closed his eyes.

The humming became more pronounced, and as it got closer, he opened them again, just in time to see the needle, tipped with golden ink, descending towards his face.

It burned. Not terribly, but incessantly. His hands clenched by his sides as the tip danced in and out of his skin. He wanted to scratch his face or pour water on it. He wanted to call out.

It did not matter what he wanted.