My consciousness returned to me slowly, by degrees, as my faculties steadily returned to me.

I was in a car. I could feel the slight tremor of the engine. The rock and sway as we made turns, navigated bumps and hills in the road.

I could feel the fabric of a bag over my head, smothering my vision with black, tightly woven thread. The bag was held in place by a ziptie, pulled—uncomfortably—tight around my neck.

The radio was on. Someone had it turned to a 90’s hip-hop station.

Eventually the going became less bumpy as we smoothed out into a downward incline. There was one last bump after that, as the car leveled out. Suddenly the 90’s rap took on an echoey quality, as if I could hear it on the outside of the car as well as in.

The car kept moving, turning a couple times. Then it stopped.

The engine cut out. So did the music.

It suddenly felt uncomfortably quiet. Someone on my left was breathing raspily, like he had a sore throat.

One of the doors opened. The car started binging, reminding the driver the keys were still in the ignition. Keys jangled, snicking as they were removed, placed in the driver’s pocket.

“Just take the bag off,” one of the henchmen said. “It’ll make this easier.”

I felt a snap, and the pressure around my neck released. Someone grabbed the bag. Strands of my hair were caught in the fibers, and they yanked painfully as the fabric was pulled across my face, and over my head.

Someone shoved me out of the car.

We were in what appeared to be a massive, well-lit, underground garage. There were easily a hundred vehicles parked, with plenty of room for more. Thick, concrete support pillars were dotted throughout the lot, painted bright yellow.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

I was pushed, escorted by several henchman—I counted six—toward the outer wall. Cars passed us, weaving through the garage, some of them exiting through tunnel openings, heading toward some other part of the...complex? Whatever this was.

There was an elevator in the wall. One of the henchmen pressed the button, and the doors slid open. They pushed/pulled me into the elevator, sandwiching me inside.

Someone pressed one of ten buttons in the console, and the doors slid shut. Then, the elevator began to descend.

It occurred to me that I might never get to go above ground again for the rest of my life. Seemed like a reasonable enough assumption, at that point. No one built a fortress like this unless they were trying to keep people out. As well as keep certain things locked away inside.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

I was beginning to think I was one of those things.

The doors opened to a hallway so long that looking down it gave a feeling of vertigo. I could hear the jumbled echoes of several different tense conversations. It was a lot like what I had imagined that the stock exchange was like. There were phones ringing. The sound of papers being shuffled, flipped through, stacked, and filed.

Some of the voices were english. Some were speaking in a language that sounded eastern-european—vaguely Russian.

I was pushed past door after door of what appeared to be office rooms. Every time I tried to get a good look I felt a hand on the back of my head, shoving me.

We stopped at one of the open doorways. One of the henchmen rapped on the doorframe.

Someone wearing a blue button-down shirt made his way over, at the same time yelling at someone across the room in that foreign language.

He turned toward us. “Yes?”

“We were told to drop a package off,” said the one who’d rapped on the door, “But they didn’t tell us where. I don't want to leave him in the wrong section.”

The one in the blue shirt gave me the briefest of glances. “What are you, new here? Where’s your CL?”

“We were separated. We had to split—”

“I don’t give a shit.” Blue shirt started backing away. “Processing’s been moved to Floor Seven. Get out of here.”

Back to the elevator, descending slowly for several seconds.

The doors opened to a startlingly grungy space. Poorly lit, with lots of dark corners and crevices. Bare, yellow lightbulbs hung in the walkways, some of them blinking feebly, as if at any second they could all go out, allowing the dark tide of shadows to have their way, overwhelming the place.

A cloying, musty stench—and perhaps taste—hung in the air. Somewhere, I could hear slow, steady droplets of water falling.

I was led to a dark room. Someone flipped a switch, and light washed the room, emanating from a bright rectangle in the ceiling that buzzed loudly.

There were three objects in the room. A chair, a stool, and a stand with an old tube TV on it.

The chair had restraining straps for the arms and legs. Similar to an electric chair, without the hat suspended over it.

As they pulled me toward the chair, I pulled back. I almost couldn’t help it. I had made a conscious decision to hand myself over, but part of me wasn’t having it, some primal part.

Eventually, they had me in the chair, and the straps in place.

I heard what almost sounded like flip-flop footsteps, echoing in the hallway outside the room. Most of the henchmen turned and left, passing a newcomer. Some guy who looked like he was in his mid forties. He wore an open bathrobe, revealing nothing but a pair of white underwear underneath. He wore glasses, and carried a clipboard. He had slippers on his feet, which explained the unusual sound of his footsteps. He also had a pen in his mouth, held horizontally between his lips, which he removed as soon as he turned toward me.

“This is the guy?”

There was no answer. I could feel the presence of the two henchmen who’d stayed behind on each side of me.

The guy in the bathrobe sat on the stool, rolling across the floor a little bit. He took turns looking from me to the clipboard, as if somehow confirming what he was reading, or using me visually to compartmentalize it. Occasionally he licked his thumb and turned the page, scrolling with his eyes.

“Oooookay.” He said. He clicked his pen and scratched a few things down. “You can go ahead and prep him.”

He continued to scratch on the clipboard.

I yelped as a needle stabbed into my forearm. I couldn’t help but watch the syringe slowly empty, it’s contents shoved into my bloodstream.

Within seconds, I started to feel woozy. My body felt...heavy.

“Okay.” The guy with the clipboard said, looking up at me. “Let’s begin.”