This is the second piece I wrote at Lord Bushido's request: 
 
 A trickle of saliva wended its way down her swollen jaw, the tickling sensation was a bizarre contrast to the pain wracking her frame.  Saliva, or blood?  She didn't know, and really didn't care.  Her mind was shrieking in overload, agony blazing from every corner of her body.  From the coarse hemp ropes binding her wrists, chafing them into red bloody welts, to the manacles crushing her ankles, to the pain that exploded behind her eyes every time a heavy fist landed, her world had become all about one thing; surviving the hurt.  She'd been here before, and these guys were amateurs.  That didn't make it hurt any less. 
 
The aftershock from the last blow finally cleared and she was able to take in a bit more of her surroundings.  There wasn't much to take in.  Small, whitewashed concrete block room with a single, dingy lightbulb in a dangling fixture.  It smelled of refuse and urine, probably the basement of an abandoned building that her hosts had chased the transients out of.  The heat was stifling, even without the heavy ropes crushing her bare chest, she'd have a hard time breathing that atmosphere. 
 
Blinking, she fought to clear her vision as a face shoved itself inches away from her own.   
 
"So, sweetheart," a guttural voice snarled, accompanied by clouds of fish and garlic saturated breath.  "Why don't you just tell us who hired you, and we can make all this go away.  Why you protecting the no goodnik that hired you, anyway?  You got paid, you don't owe him nothin'."  
 
Cracked lips peeled back in a grin as she focused on the broken capillaries spread like a roadmap across the ample nose on the visage in front of her.  "That would be a double negative." 
 
*crack!* 
 
Lightning fast a massive fist swung, connecting solidly with her cheek.  If the chair hadn't been bolted to the floor, she would have been knocked over.  Groaning, she slowly shook her head as stars shot across her vision.   Fleetingly, she thought of the earnest young man who had hired her.  He hadn't even been interested in revenge, only in making sure her target never got the chance to do anything like what he'd done to her client's sister to anyone else.  No way was she going to hand him over to these goons.  Hell, she probably wouldn't talk even if she detested her client.  More stubborn than smart.  It became more about not giving the thugs the satisfaction of breaking her, than any type of moral imperative. 
 
Besides, she wasn't done yet.  These jerkoffs had made sure the ropes were tight, sure, but apparently they didn't understand the basic principles of lubrication.  Like how the blood streaming down her wrists was making everything slippery.
 
"We ain't gettin' anywhere with this, Sonny," the other man said.  All she'd gotten from him was a general impression of overall largeness.  "This bitch ain't gonna talk." 
 
"Oh, she'll talk," Sonny snarled, burying fingers in her matted hair and yanking her head back, she grunting in response.  "She'll talk.  Who hired you to hit Mr. Coldwell?  Who?  You cost us a lotta' money, sweetheart, but we know you wasn't the one pullin' the strings!  Who was?  Who hired you?" 
 
Amateurs, she thought to herself.  The Koreans were a lot better at this...of course, I was twelve at the time... 
 
"I told you, she ain't gonna talk!" the other insisted.  Sonny released her with a curse, stepping away from her with a final backhand slap.  
 
"Okay, genius, what are you gonna do that's gonna get her to open her mouth?" 
 
"She's a super-assassin type, right?" 
 
"Yeah, I guess." 
 
"I'm guessing she needs all her fingers and toes in order to do her job." 
 
"No..." she mewled, head drooping.  "Please...no..." 
 
The big one stepped into the weak radiance of the overhead bulb.  Extended before him was a worn pair of yellow handled tinsnips.   
 
"God, no, please, don't do this..." 
 
"Then tell us who, that's all you gotta do," the big man almost crooned, with a nasty smile revealing mossy teeth. 
 
"I--I can't..." 
 
"Then say goodbye to your little piggies, sweetheart," Sonny chimed in, obviously relishing her sudden, palpable fear. 
 
Meaty fingers flicked back the hook, allowing the snips to snap open and he took another step towards her. 
 
Behind her back, one gore covered hand slipped free of the restraints, and she winced as strips of skin were torn off on the rough rope. 
 
"Do it, big guy.  She'll be spillin' her guts before you can say 'zambuca'," Sonny urged.  The other man needed no further prompting and took the final step forward, kneeling and grabbing her right foot. 
 
Her other hand came free, and strained shoulders screamed in protest as both hands shot forward, grabbing the head of the big man in front of her.