A/N: In answer to a review for Chapter 22 of "Hookup of Epic Proportions" by Tirion. You got me to thinking about the early days of Saruman's breeding program, before the Voice smothered many of the natural instincts of the Uruk-hai. Luckily, a setting was already in place to make this story happen.

Nûrzgrat took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Back in the old days, there weren't many of us. Sharkû wasn't too particular about who got to breed. I... got to. Once."

"Breed?" Brianna said uncertainly. She had a feeling she wasn't going to like what he had to say.

He grunted a humorless laugh. "Where do you think we came from? Sharkû had females from Dunland, Rohan, probably Gondor... I don't know where else. First couple litters of us were made by these big mountain orcs he got from up north or somewhere. You think Morkoth and Ghru are huge, you shoulda seen those bastards."

"They... raped those women, didn't they?"

"Course they did!" he replied. "You think females from those places would ever look at something like us and want to spread their legs? Gah, what a joke." Snorting, he said, "Sharkû didn't keep'em around long. They kept trying to run off with the females. Didn't wanna be kept in cages, either. He didn't have the kind of control over them he had with us."

"Misfire of Global Proportions," Chapter 27

Third Age, 2993

There was no day and no night, only the dancing shadows cast by flickering torches along the damp stone walls. The tunnel was rough-hewn and uneven, winding away into darkness beyond his sight. The stench of sweat and filth hung like an almost visible fog in the moist air; his sharp senses had taken some while to learn how to shut it out. He ticked the passage of time by the meals those filthy little Goblins delivered, reckoning that two meant a day's passing.

If his mind was not gone yet, he had been in this hole for a week by that measure.

The white one with the long beard and the impressive show of power who came to his chieftain with promises of riches and spoils had yet to show his face in the dark tunnels. Nor had the Orc seen any from his clan since arriving. Recalling the moment when he passed through the gates into the valley urged a bitter growl from deep within him.

Send me your best, the white one told them, and they shall be the making of my army. All Sûmatuga had 'made' so far was a growing pile of shit in the back corner of his cell.

You shall make sport of their women, they were promised, and feast on Man-flesh. The latter had not been a lie, at least, but the former...

My army shall lay waste to their country, burn every village, slay every horse that they hold so dear, he'd said. Your children's children shall boast of your warriors' prowess.

It was this lie that rankled Sûmatuga the most. He was not called forth to fight. He had not been given a weapon and shown where his enemies lay. The moment the gates closed, he and his fellows were waylaid by Goblins in the white one's employ. Hundreds of the sniveling little bastards. They carried no blades, but were armed with cudgels, beating the proud Shatûpshaatii warriors to their knees. Then the Orcs were stripped, chained, and dragged into the earth. When all was over, each warrior was locked in a separate cell many yards apart, unable to touch or speak.

Sûmatuga was accustomed to the underground, but not to such isolation. He longed for the comfort of warm bodies pressed together through the night, sharing warmth and kinship. He wished for a familiar face, one of his own kind, not these flat-faced, deformed, pathetic little runts.

He would even accept the sun's light, though it pained him to stand beneath it. Anything but this.

Sûmatuga spent the first few days of his captivity rattling the bars of his cage to no avail. Then he sought to scrape away the rock holding the bars, for they were shot through the stone from above, perhaps through a hole drilled in an upper level. His claws were not strong enough, and were severely damaged by the attempts. His cell was little more than five strides wide and five deep, as rough-hewn and lopsided as though scooped from the rock by a clumsy Orcling. Even if he were able to dislodge a bar without alerting the snaga roaming the tunnels, it would take more than one to make a hole large enough for him to slip out.

Once he had an opportunity for escape, when his keepers brought a hunk of raw flesh for his meal. He managed to slay one and overcome the other, then run down the tunnel in search of a way out. Seemingly from the air, but likely from any of the small rat holes honeycombing the walls, a dozen or more Goblins appeared and beat him until darkness consumed him. He woke ill and sore, and once again in his cell. Then the Pitmaster came.

Caves were nothing new to him, and neither was the bite of the lash. But the Pitmaster, an old Orc of some eastern tribe by his accent, redefined pain for Sûmatuga. Once his back was flayed, which the mountain Orc endured with gritted teeth, the Pitmaster applied a gritty, greyish white substance to the open wounds that tore agonized screams from the Orc's throat and left him trembling for hours after.

Nearly every day, he saw or heard one of his clanmates making a break for it and being paid out for their desperation. Sûmatuga had no wish to be visited by the Pitmaster again for some while.

As days blended into nights with little difference, the Orc began pacing and remembering. He'd lived a long life with a sword in his hand; as a young pup, he remembered leaping down upon the heads of Men and Elves alike in a battle far away. How well he recalled the day, for so many were upon the field, and Bolg's leadership was certain to win a great victory for the Orcs. But even as they had the Dwarves, long hated for the sacking of Gundabad among other insults, on their knees and their allies dismayed, the skies bore Eagles into the fray. Soon the skies shed bloody tears as countless of their numbers were carried hundreds of feet up and dropped like bricks among the warriors, often slaying several with the impact. Bolg himself was brought low by a bear-shaped Man.

At least it was a great battle before the Eagles came and ruined it, he mused.

After that, his folk fled south to the White Mountains, where they knew the followers of Azog, Bolg's sire, had long ago resettled. The remains of his people were haunted and pathetic; too many were slain by the horsemen of Rohan, driven into hiding and scraping to live. The foul sweetmeats nearly supplanted Dwarves in the Orcs' hate-filled eyes. The survivors who fought alongside Bolg roused Azog's followers, and over the course of decades began rebuilding what was lost. Sûmatuga recalled those days fondly, of training whelps, making whelps, watching the clan grow in strength again...

His chieftains, he now realized, were so consumed with the need for vengeance against the horsemen that they were prepared to believe any promise of the white one if it brought them closer to their goal.

It seemed that thoughts of the treacherous white one heralded his arrival, for several snaga scurried to his cell and stuck spears through the bars to urge Sûmatuga away from the door. Behind them, the white one cast cold eyes upon the mountain Orc, seeming to see him and not see him at the same time. It was a most unsettling look. He almost didn't notice the sweetmeat held by one of the Goblins.

"Step back," the white one commanded in a calm, cold voice. Snorting, Sûmatuga reluctantly obeyed. He found he had little choice in the matter, and that annoyed him. The door of his cell was opened, and the Goblin pushed the sweetmeat inside, then slammed the door closed again.

Sûmatuga glared at the yellow-haired female and curled his lip. So now the other promise was being fulfilled. The female trembled and wept, unsurprisingly. There were few of its kind, called sweetmeats by his clan for obvious reasons, that didn't. What's more, it was delivered unclothed, as though to spare him unnecessary effort.

All other of the white one's promises had been lies, or at least distorted truths. There must be a trick in this as well.

"What is this?" he snarled at the white one, pointing a clawed finger at the female. Without waiting for an answer, he advanced to the bars and held them, pale-knuckled with fury. "Why am I caged? How am I to fight down here? Where is my clan? What've you done with them?"

The white one merely gestured to a Goblin, who resignedly thrust his spear through the bars. Only Sûmatuga's honed reflexes, not yet dulled from idleness, saved him from a grievous belly wound. Roaring, he lunged at the Goblin, nearly catching hold of its ragged tunic as it leaped back out of reach.

"Save your energy, Orc," the white one said softly, his voice sending icicles down Sûmatuga's spine. "That is a female of the race of Men. I had hoped you would recognize it."

"I know what the fuck it is," he growled. "You said we would make sport of them. This ain't sport! I run down my own!"

"There will be no more running for you or your... clanmates," the white one sneered. "You will not slay this female, and she is not to be eaten. Disobedience, as the Pitmaster has no doubt demonstrated, is not tolerated. You were conscripted to raise my army, and so you shall."

"I can do nothing in this hole!" Sûmatuga bellowed, seething. The white one was just out of reach; if he would come closer, the Orc might get a hold of him...

"You will do all that I require of you," the white one replied. "Alas that you do not seem as intelligent as I had hoped. Nevertheless, you possess sufficient other qualities that you are likely not a complete waste of my time." Sighing heavily, for he clearly assumed he wouldn't have to elaborate, the white one explained, "You will breed with this female, Orc. She will bear your young. That will be the making of my army, not you. I require your seed only." Gesturing toward the twitching figure huddled in the corner, he added, "Proceed."

Sûmatuga stared at the white one in shock. It wasn't the idea of rutting the female that repelled him; he'd frequently taken sweetmeat females and found the activity almost as satisfying as mating. What appalled him was the intention of producing Orclings tainted with Man's blood by such an act.

"You're joking," he snarled in disbelief. The white one raised an eyebrow.

"I never 'joke,'" he replied smoothly. "As you can no doubt see, she has been used by another. What came of it was... unsatisfactory. It is my wish that your attempt will be more... useful."

The Orc glanced at the sweetmeat. Its yellow hair hung in unkempt strings about its face. Its shoulders and what he could see of its body were covered in scars undoubtedly made by claws and teeth. Curling his lip, he rounded on the white one in a fury.

"I'll not be handing my whelps over," Sûmatuga snarled, "and I ain't makin' none with that bit of shit! I am Shatûpshaatii, and we don't come cheap!"

"And yet your leaders eagerly handed over their best," the white one smirked, "for nothing but spoken promises."

"That is because when Shatûpshaatii give our word, it is honored!" Sûmatuga roared, rattling the bars. "An Orc does not lie!"

The white one gazed at him impassively, unimpressed. "I am no Orc, fool."

Bellowing a war cry, Sûmatuga reached through the bars, slamming his shoulder against them as he stretched as far as he could. He nearly got a hold of the white one; the Orc's claws hooked on the fabric of his robes. Instantly, the Goblins that had stood idly by watching the exchange leaped into action, grabbing his arm and holding it in place.

"You will learn, eventually," the white one said, curling his lip and brushing off his robe where the claws struck, "that there are worse things than... breeding. You will learn that to defy my will is to beg punishment. To strike my person... well, that is not done." Glancing at the Goblins holding Sûmatuga's arm, the white one said, "Break it."

The Goblins shifted their position, then began slamming the Orc's arm against the bars. Sûmatuga struggled to free himself, but the effort became steadily more difficult as the pain mounted exponentially with every strike. Orc bones were thick and strong; it took the Goblins twenty minutes of determined effort to snap his upper arm above the elbow. When the crack echoed in the dank tunnel, heard even above the Orc's furious roars and pained cries, they released him. Sûmatuga staggered back and sank to his knees, holding his injured arm. Tears welled in his eyes as he trembled.

"Now I suppose breeding will be delayed," the white one sighed. "I trust you will get to it once you are mended. Woman," he snapped, and for a moment the female froze and darted a haunted look at the white one. "I suggest you tend his injury. He might show you... mercy." Chuckling as though he had just told his first joke, the white one directed a nod to one of his Goblins.

The snaga tossed a few sticks and a rolled strip of cloth into the cell, then the white one and his servants departed. Sûmatuga couldn't rise. He could barely draw enough air in the midst of the quick, shallow breaths that alone kept the unseemly wailing at bay. He had endured many blows by sword and spear, hammer and axe, over the hundred years since his birth. Somehow, having his arm methodically broken against a cell door was worse than any.