How much time had passed Shrapnel couldn’t say, but when he awoke, the pain in his body reduced to a numb throbbing thanks to the stimpacks, he managed to force himself up into a halfway crouching position to realise it was dark around him. He could hear the slavers from a distance, laughing, drinking, sitting at their fucking fires while he was lying in the bitingly cold air without a thread to cover himself. He couldn’t remember ever having been that cold.

He heard a few shuffles and a cough nearby and when he slowly turned his head, he saw a few other men, huddled together in the far corner of the pen. More slaves, but they at least were clothed. He didn’t expect anything from them, but after a few moments, one of the slaves stood up slowly and cautiously walked over to him. He dropped what in the darkness seemed to be a blanket.

“Here.” His voice was low and hoarse. “We thought we had nothing, but you’ve got even less.”
Shrapnel picked up the blanket, it wasn’t big, and it was so threadbare it was hardly more than a rag, but it was better than nothing and could at least provide him with a little shred of dignity again, so he slung it around his hips. “Thanks.” He licked his cracked lips. “Do you have any water?”
“No.” In the darkness, the shake of his head was hardly perceptible. “They feed and water us once a day, and that’s in the morning. Sorry.”
“Thanks anyway”, Shrapnel muttered. The other slave then withdrew himself again into the safety and comparative warmth of his companions. It was clear to him that he wasn’t welcome there, but at least he wasn’t completely naked anymore. He more crawled than walked over to the nearest wall and rolled himself as tightly together as he could, but it did little to ease his discomfort. On top of it all, his skin began to itch and his fingers started to tremble. He needed another hit of jet before he would go cold, but that was as likely as a rain of sausages right now. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the itch when he heard footsteps slowly coming up to the fence.

“Hey.”
It was a low whisper, aimed to remain unheard by anyone but him, obviously. Shrapnel ignored that, too.
“Shrap.”
Who of those fucking slavers knew his name? He slowly sat up and made out a silhouette in the darkness, illuminated from behind by the slaver’s fires. Tall, broad shouldered, very short hair, and the tell-tale pinpoint glow of a cigarette in his mouth.
“Fuck off.”
“Listen.”
“Fuck off. Wasn’t the show enough? Just fuck off.”
“Listen. Do you think I enjoyed that?”
Shrapnel sat up at this, and the burning fury in his gut lit up again. “You sure as fuck didn’t see any need to stop them.”
“And what could I have done?” The voice was still low, but Shrapnel could hear the trembling of anger. “Nothing I could’ve said would have changed Jones’ mind. If I had so much as moved a finger for you, Jones would’ve had me turned into mince or put a collar on me too, and a fucking load of good that would’ve done you.”

Even in his fury, Shrapnel had to admit he was probably right. He had only been a single man, after all, against a load of the others. “Yeah...” The fury dimmed into anger again. “And now?”
“Keep your head down.” Flak bent down and seemed to have found something in his boot, but it might have been he just needed an excuse to still linger at the fence. “They will try and break you, and believe me, they can. Jenkins and Forty have reduced stronger men than you to a miserable heap. Don’t let them.”
“And how...” The itch as getting worse, as was the thirst. “You got any water, man?”
“No.” Flak pulled at his boot. “Don’t meet their eyes. Pretend you’re broken already. Swallow what they say to you. Do what they say. They only wait for you to show a trace of defiance, and then they’ll hurt you.”
“Can’t be worse than how they hurt me already.”