Hazing.
Mal: "Now, you only gotta scare him."
Jayne: "Pain is scary…"
-- Serenity
Back when Ashwin was fifteen, he joined the Tillek guard. Every place has different traditions, but in Tillek, they know how to welcome a new guy. Like this.
OOC: Violence under the cut.
He is woken by two hands coming down on his shoulders. The heels dig in just under his joints, painfully, and as his eyes come open he can see the silhouettes of figures leaning in over him. He opens his mouth, not to make a sound of protest, but rather to fill his lungs; instinct prompts this action. It is a mistake, for a rag is stuffed into his mouth by a waiting and practiced hand, pushed back until he begins to gag. The hands on his shoulders have been joined by two more, pinning his forearms. He does not try to move his legs. His eyes are rolling from side to side now, but there's no panic. He's taking in the shadows around him, waiting.
He's hauled upright abruptly, held in place until he can get his feet underneath him. He's got muscle, after two turns in the shipyards, but he's only fifteen, and compared to these men he's scrawny. This is irrelevant, as there is no effort to fight his way free. There's no protest to be muffled by the cloth in his mouth. He simply allows himself to be manhandled out into the anteroom, past the bodies of those men who sleep on, or pretend to do so.
This is not a good decision on his part, and they are displeased. There is a script that he's failing to follow, with his passivity. What happens next is not good, deviates from the usual course of events. He is supposed to react, to struggle, fight back, try to protest. Instead, he is watching them all in the half darkness, as though studying what they do.
So what happens next is not good. Some of it is standard, some is not. There is an edge this ritual usually lacks. He is flung around the circle, practiced punches driven into his gut to double him over, and force the air from his lungs, thumps delivered to his kidneys, kicks that come dangerously close to breaking ribs.
The way it ends is not in the script either. He's back on his feet by then, nose bleeding, paler even than usual. Frustrated by his failure to protest, struggle, fight back, a grip on his upper arm tightens, swinging him around. They all hear the sound as his head connects with one of the weapons racks. He slides to the ground, silent even now.
It's a sevenday before he's released from the infirmary, still sporting blackened eyes and a row of stitches at his temple. He is treated with a strange sort of respect, although this fades back to normality over time. It is never clear whether this is due to his silence, or the fact that his fellows were left cooling their heels during the sevenday he was down, their marks no good with the girls at their favourite tavern, or the woman who owns it. Captain Harley wasn't too pleased about that.
Jayne: "Pain is scary…"
-- Serenity
Back when Ashwin was fifteen, he joined the Tillek guard. Every place has different traditions, but in Tillek, they know how to welcome a new guy. Like this.
OOC: Violence under the cut.
He is woken by two hands coming down on his shoulders. The heels dig in just under his joints, painfully, and as his eyes come open he can see the silhouettes of figures leaning in over him. He opens his mouth, not to make a sound of protest, but rather to fill his lungs; instinct prompts this action. It is a mistake, for a rag is stuffed into his mouth by a waiting and practiced hand, pushed back until he begins to gag. The hands on his shoulders have been joined by two more, pinning his forearms. He does not try to move his legs. His eyes are rolling from side to side now, but there's no panic. He's taking in the shadows around him, waiting.
He's hauled upright abruptly, held in place until he can get his feet underneath him. He's got muscle, after two turns in the shipyards, but he's only fifteen, and compared to these men he's scrawny. This is irrelevant, as there is no effort to fight his way free. There's no protest to be muffled by the cloth in his mouth. He simply allows himself to be manhandled out into the anteroom, past the bodies of those men who sleep on, or pretend to do so.
This is not a good decision on his part, and they are displeased. There is a script that he's failing to follow, with his passivity. What happens next is not good, deviates from the usual course of events. He is supposed to react, to struggle, fight back, try to protest. Instead, he is watching them all in the half darkness, as though studying what they do.
So what happens next is not good. Some of it is standard, some is not. There is an edge this ritual usually lacks. He is flung around the circle, practiced punches driven into his gut to double him over, and force the air from his lungs, thumps delivered to his kidneys, kicks that come dangerously close to breaking ribs.
The way it ends is not in the script either. He's back on his feet by then, nose bleeding, paler even than usual. Frustrated by his failure to protest, struggle, fight back, a grip on his upper arm tightens, swinging him around. They all hear the sound as his head connects with one of the weapons racks. He slides to the ground, silent even now.
It's a sevenday before he's released from the infirmary, still sporting blackened eyes and a row of stitches at his temple. He is treated with a strange sort of respect, although this fades back to normality over time. It is never clear whether this is due to his silence, or the fact that his fellows were left cooling their heels during the sevenday he was down, their marks no good with the girls at their favourite tavern, or the woman who owns it. Captain Harley wasn't too pleased about that.