In her short time on campus, Anna's managed to build quite a litany of offenses to school rules. Most mornings there's at least one new violation taped to her door, and every time, she's managed to to slip away before the hall monitors find her. It started off minor: little dress code violations, the occassional truancy, but as she gets more comfortable, she gets cockier. The piercings infuriate her teachers to know end and the list has rapidly expanded: rude outbursts to professors, inappropriate and lewd conduct with her peers (in classrooms no less!), and as she increasingly tries to avoid being sent to detention, flagrant and chronic truancy. If she knew this place a little better, she might be worried she's been able to get away with it. The hall monitors are heartless little sharks, as relentless as repo men, and on commands of higher ups, they've just let Anna's record build, until her list of citations is enough to fill a tome.

When the monitor finally comes for her, she's stepping out of the communal shower, still damp and bare-foot, curves wrapped in a dark towel. The monitor smirks at her from the doorway, pretty perky blonde in immaculate uniform: stepford cuckoo. Eyes wander Anna's body hungrily. Anna turns, brow lifted. "The fuck are you staring at?" and in answer, the monitor merely offers her a laundry list of grievances. "Come with me please." The 'please' is certainly mocking, grabbing Anna by the ear and dragging her out even as she blusters about at least having an opportunity to get dressed, pink blush as the girl drags her through the crowded halls, poor Anna bare but for the towel, laughter and leers following her as the monitor navigates her through the labyrinth of the campus, proceeding into more ancient and less known corridors, clean-lit hallways giving way to narrow, claustrophobic stone passages, down steep, slippery steps, until they hit a dead-end door, massive and oak and towering to the ceiling. She continues to hold poor, pitiful Anna by the ear while her free knuckle raps on the heavy door.

It had been hours earlier that Plague was led into the depths of the basement by one of the school's lesser administrators. A beauracrat hired to keep things in the school running smoothly and to tend to any special circumstances that might crop up during the school's existence. This included indulging a number of the understandable demands of the school's investors and donors, an important demographic for the continued function of any private institution.

"It... it's right down here your... I mean... er... Sir," She flushed, looking harried as she walked in front of the imposing scarecrow-like figure that followed her down the utilitarian hallway, "Might I again thank you on the school's behalf for your generous contribution?"

Plague laughed softly, listening to her heels click on the cold concrete, "That's quite alright..." he walked at a slow, unhurried pace behind her, his steps supplemented with the soft fall of an elegantly carved ebony cane. They stopped before the door deep in the bowels of the school's underbelly. She turned to him, nervous sweat running down her cheek, hair sticking haphazardly out of what would normally be a strict bun.

"I can take it from here, you may go..." he brushed past her, opening the door.

"Th-thank you, Sir!" she quickly left him to this dark work, determined to ask the Headmaster for an appointment that would allow her to avoid the island's less desirable denizens.

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The room seemed rather bare when Anna entered. The walls were a pale concrete to match the floor. A chair sat in the middle of the room, carved of a dark oak and stained practically black. There was a stainless steel table flush with the wall, underneath an what appeared to be an empty wall-mounted tool rack. A steel cabinet stood next to the table, locked, and a door led out in the room's back corner.

Plague stood at the table, a large and heavy black leather duffel bag resting on the table, his back to the entering girl.

"Sit." he said simply when she was thrown unceremoniously in.

She stumbles forward as she's unceremoniously shoved through and as the enormous door slams shut, she just about jumps out of her skin. Still-damp hair dangles in her eyes, and like everything else in the school, the towels are about two sizes two small. Round, pert breasts seem in constant threat of bursting free of the top end, while the delicious curve of her rear peeks scandalously from beneath the fringe of the towel. Fingers fidget with the bottom of the towel as she takes a couple of hesitant steps forward. Big, wide eyes wander the interior of the room. It certainly isn't the principal's office, more like something out of a Poe story. The towel is smoothed underneath her as she sinks to a seat, climbing further up her hip.

She gulps dryly, free hand rubbing absently at her sore ear. "This hardly seems appropriate..." she offers, mildly, as she tries to choke the fear out of her voice.

"Appropriate...? Oh my dear, we've gone far past anything in the realm of appropriate. If appropriate was even in the local vernacular anymore we wouldn't be seeing one another..." he laughs, a self-indulgent, hateful sound as he turns.

The room had been built to his specifications. Not that he really had anything against the various torture devices the school supplied in their various basement rooms, but he really preferred the use of his own. That, and there was the issue of the small nodules positioned in the corners of the room by the ceiling. Those were designed by a good friend, made to capture the released emotional and empathic energy, soak it up like a sponge and allow him to feed later.

He faced her, looking like some burn-victim from a nightmare in his bandages, trench coat, and fedora, his single eye rounding on her.

"So what have you done to deserve the pleasure of my company, Miss...?" he waited for her to supply a name.

Eyes go wide as he turns, teeth curled over her bottom lip, tongue trailing the ring peeking through it. Her eyes lower, focusing on squirming the towel to allow the barest trace of modesty. Breasts bulge against the tight constraint of the towel as her breath races. Slender arms tremble. "Miss Hinase... I didn't do it, Sir. It was the one-armed man." she responds to his question. Snottily. Eyes keep darting up, furtively, trying to make sense of the mess of dungeon-like contraptions, corners of her lips twitching downward, fresh and damp and still smelling like lavender soap. She feels so helpless like this.

"What about you, Darkman? What did you to get the scars?"

"Miss... Hinase... I was looking for a first name... and why don't I believe you...?" he spoke very slowly, but it was not a measured speech. This wasn't the voice pattern of a stutterer trying desperately to slow the speed of his trecherous mouth, rather it was that of someone used to moving at their own pace and damning anyone who said otherwise.

"Who said I'm scarred? You infer much from my admittedly odd appearance..." he criticized as he turned back to the table.

His hands traced lovingly over the leather duffel, those long, spindly fingers snatching the zipper and pulling it down quickly. He reached inside, pulling out what appeared to be another case of some sort with two canvas handles.

Its true purpose was revealed when he hung one of the handles on the tool board. The case unfolded with a thunderous clatter, covering the wall in an assortment of meticulously cared for tools, a wall of chrome and leather, each device looking much more horrid than the last.

"Tell me, Miss Hinase, do you know why soldiers name their weapons? Why so archaic a practice has been encouraged in even modern military organizations?"

"Anna...." expression sinking, darkly. Her hands fold and unfold in her lap, defeated. Thumbs wrestle with each other, eyes lowered down to her lap, darting up just briefly at the man before her. That is, until he opens the box, then she can't take them off, gold like some sort of exotic animal, enraptured. She gulps on fear.

"I'd imagine they name their guns because they're testosterone driven lunatics with violence fetishes... Sir..." White teeth bared. She squirms uncomfortably in her seat.

"Anna... I daresay I don't believe that either, but we shall see, shan't we? At any rate, you may call me Plague," he laughed as he turned around, extricating a device from near the bottom of the collection. It looked like a screwdriver but the shaft was a little too slender and the chrome was flecked with black burns. Like an icepick with a wide, leather handle.

"No, Anna, naming one's weapon is a practice intended to engender an emotional bond between the warrior and the tool. It is assumed that soldiers who name their weapons care for them more, tend more carefully to cleaning and maintaining them because they feel an emotional connection," as he turned he flicked a lighter from his pocket, flaring it to life and running it over the thin metal.

"I don't have names for any of my tools. But I can promise you that the connection you will forge with them before tonight is over will be intimate..." he smiled indulgently as he touched the metal to his palm. There was a hiss, a curl of smoke and the smell of burning bandages and the rotten stench of scorched flesh.

"Perfect. Now off with that troublesome towel and cross your arms behind your back or our fun will start prematurely..." he laughed again, waving the orange-hot spike before him.

"Sounds like testosterone-laden lunacy to me...." She's trying her best to keep her voice from cracking, but barely succeeding, waver in her town, just shy of a whimper. She's spent a good portion of her life in the company of sadists, she's got a good radar for it, and this, well, this is like an ambulance siren implanted directly in her head. Big, yellow eyes are damp as she squirms uncomfortably in her seat, staring, mouth agape as he turns the tool over in his hand, and then strokes the lighter. slowly. over it.

Oh God!

She springs to her feet, whole body on display as she spins around, skimpy little towel fluttering around her. Fingers grasp desperately on the door, nails digging through the wood, searching for a knob, a handle anything, finding nothing. Christ. How'd that girl get this damn thing open?? She sinks to her knees, round ass high in the air as she grasps desperately on the bottom, pulling, trying her damnedest to get the heavy door open. Why won't it open??

"Oh, no, no, no, 'Anna,' this doesn't bode well..." he rested the pick on the table as he walked calmly over to the struggling girl, "I was hoping we would be able to be friends this evening. You should trust me, in this situation you want me on your side."

He laughed, cajoling her as he grabbed her by the hair, his fingers twisting like thin steel bars, showing a strength belying his emaciated build as he dragged her bodily back to the chair.

"You're very lucky this is considered corporal punishment and not an interrogation. Odds are you'll only be down here for a night or so and you just may walk out. My interrogations can last anywhere from three nights to weeks and, sadly, the subjects rarely survive those..." he tutted, sounding actually quite sympathetic as he sat her physically in the chair, wrenching her arms behind her.

"Now hold these wrists in place while I get some proper bonds and I might overlook that foolish little transgression. There's really no way out of this room without my consent anyway..." he released her, leaving her arms behind the back of the chair as he walked over to the cabinet.

She squirms and writhes in his grip, rear dragging roughly across the cold stone floor. Fingers dig into his wrists, his tendons strong like cables, unable to tear his fingers free as he pulls her along like a doll, lifted, slung jarringly into the chair. It rocks beneath her, towel flashing up, glimpse of tight snatch, glimmer of metal between her thighs, flash of spare, dark hair. Eyes are squeezed shut, wet tears trickling down her cheeks as he jerks her arms behind her, breasts jutting forward.

"Please don't do this...." she murmurs, pitifully, near sobs. But she doesn't dare draw her hands back. One eye creaks open, darting from the collection of sadistic tools on the table to his form, retreating to the cabinet.

"Now..." he practically crooned, crossing back with a set of heavy leather cuffs in his hands, linked by several iron chains that barely allowed any range of movement, "That's more along the lines of what I was expecting."

He slid them around her wrists, buckling them tightly and locking her wrists behind the chair, "I'm afraid however, that your escape from this evening unscathed is not an option, never was," he laughed.

A slow trip back to the cabinet and he returned with two more sets of cuffs, kneeling down to buckle each of her legs solidly to the legs of the chair, keeping them lightly spread.

"Now, I was thinking we'll have a little, very simple demonstration of chaos mechanics in a complex system while you enlighten me as to your name and why you've been sent here," he spoke as he removed a thick black cylinder from his bag. The lighter revealed it as what appeared to be a votive candle, "Sound like fun?"

Golden eyes follow him closely, terrified, jumping in her seat as he leans in to clamp the handcuffs into place, and then manacle her legs to the chair, towel wiggled up hips as her legs are spread, ankles locked around the chair's legs, shoulders pulled roughly against the back of the chair. She breathes quickly through her nose, doing her best to hold back her sniffles and sob, silently cursing herself. Silly, weak girl.

"Wuh-wuh-what are you going to do to me?" Eyes lock on the candle, spine straightening as she nod suddenly and obediently, sniveling pitifully. Suddenly, she is quite aware of what he has in mind. "My name is Anna Lenox..." Staring upward, for some sign of recognition or compassion.

He turned back with the flickering candle, hooking a finger into the top of her towel and pulling it away with a flourish, bowing like a magician that had just removed the tablecloth from a particularly heavily stacked dinner table, "I'm going to punish you, my dear. Now, this is a little early for tears, I haven't even done anything yet," he laughed as his eye roamed over her exposed body, gears turning in his mind, bringing forth fruitful and dangerous ideas.

He hovered over her thigh with the lit candle, "Very good Anna, we'll see if I believe you when I ask the same question in a few hours..." a dry, rasping laugh left his throat, "And as for why you were sent down here to me...?" he left room for the answer, fixing her with that cold gaze.

A droplet of wax spilled from the tip of the candle onto the top of her thigh with a splash. Plague hadn't a clue as to where it would drip, perhaps down the outside of her leg, perhaps down the inside, perhaps it would roll down to her knee. It was how chaos theory came into play in his little demonstration, minute changes in the airflow over the droplet as it fell along with those of her flesh in reaction to it changed the scenario's outcome.

Since he couldn't predict, he merely watched and waited for her to answer.

Her tits spring free at the twist of the towel, round and firm, topped pertly by tiny, deliciously pink nipples, small rings bouncing against her areolas as her whole body jiggles forward. The cuffs pull her round ass back against the seat of the chair, shoulders pulled back as her chest is pulled forward, all softly girlish, milky white skin, patterns of black tattoo following the smooth curve from chest to hips, the slender curve of her shoulders, forced dramatically sharp by the angle of the cuffs. Her bound ankles draw her legs open, cheeks of her butt spread against the cold, hard surface of the chair, just a glimpse of tight, slick sex, a glimmer of metal from her clitoral hood, spare, slick trail of pubic hair pointing down to pink, agap slit.

As he taunts, her tactics shift, eyes sinking to slits, dark brows lowered, naturally quite pretty without the heavy, goth makeup, like a doll lovingly crafted in porcelain. She manages to refrain a yelp as the first splash of wax hits her thigh, jerking back instinctively as well as the bonds will allow, whole body bouncing, the intuitive response just drawing the wax around her thigh, scalding along the inside to make a neat line of black, molten wax. Then another, and another, delicious splashes of color against pinkening skin. Still, she steels herself, fingers wrapping around the back edge of the chair for support, just staring, sullenly forward.