Things could always be worse, Eliot reminded himself. Like pants, he still had them on. Didn’t have them on first thing this morning when he’d woken up in a strangers home, had them now. His life had objectively gotten better in the pants department. That was just common sense, and no one could take that from him. Well, the people who captured him could, but hadn’t. So far. His life was better in the pants department, and no one had taken them from him, so far, Eliot amended.
Also, he’d woken up with his shirt an absolute mess, but his undershirt was still fine. Since he’d tossed the outer, his average shirt quality had jumped up. That was just math, and anyone who argued against math looked like an idiot. Was his undershirt a little worse for ware after his experience in the woods? Absolutely, but that brought up another point.
Also also, and this was a pretty big one, Eliot hadn’t died scared and alone in the woods. He’d survived that twisted labyrinth of gnarled trees and tangled underbrush. Knotted branches that reached out like skeletal fingers, closing in on him with every step. Grasping at his clothes, hair, his very soul. If the old man’s map hadn’t pointed them out, or Eliot hadn’t figured out the trick of the rocks, Eliot shuddered. The point was, in almost every case and by any metric, not dying was better than dying. That was just science. Probably. Eliot wasn’t entirely certain what science was, any time it was explained to him he felt like it was just less certain math.
While some things had gotten better, others hadn’t changed at all. Eliot had woken up with no idea where he was, how he had gotten there, and feeling like he was dying. Woke up that way, was still that way. But the way he looked at it, if things hadn’t changed, that meant his situation hadn’t gotten worse, and well, that was a good thing right? That was just politics.
If he were being totally honest though, there was room for improvement. The young man shifted against the absurd number of ropes crisscrossing his body, arms pinned to his sides and his legs together. There’d been holiday roasts with more freedom of movement than he had. If he weren’t on the verge of a panic attack and at their mercy, Eliot would have been impressed how the ropes tightened against him the more he struggled. As it was he felt they didn’t make sense, the math of them didn’t add up, the whole thing was very unscientific, and there should be laws against such rope techniques. Or against kidnapping people. Probably the second one already existed, now that he thought about it.
He decided to be productive, figure out more about the situation he was in. He was propped up against a sturdy wooden support beam, the rough-hewn surface digging into his back through his sweat-soaked shirt, well his undershirt. He was also tied up, blindfolded, gagged, and deafened.
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In short, things looked bad. But Eliot knew one of life’s real lessons, how there were layers of ‘bad’. He needed to figure out which one he was in. Was he in ‘organ harvesting’ bad territory, or the more palatable ‘you saw something you shouldn’t have, don’t talk about it or else’ territory. By Gold Rodgers mustache, if he was being especially hopeful, he might even be in ‘We’re so sorry, we thought you were someone else, is that anything we can do to apologize for this?’ type of situation. It was never that last one, but hope wasn’t illegal, so he was holding to it.
Determined, Eliot tilted his head to the side, for some reason thinking that would help him listen in on his captors through the earplugs. It did help a little, but his head was still a little fuzzy from when he’d been knocked unconscious. Or maybe it was dehydration from being out in the woods all day. Or the hangover from the night before. He could feel a trickle of blood running down his temple. Probably the hit to the head he decided.
He couldn’t hear much of anything. The muffled sound of wood on wood, or maybe dirt? Probably a table with some chairs. What sounded like maybe people talking. He mostly heard his own heartbeat in his ears.
It went on like that for a while, Eliot wasn’t sure how long, probably not as long as it felt, time had a way of stretching when you were in pain, uncomfortably tied up, wood digging into your back and ropes into your skin, your head hurt and the last two days had absolutely kicked your ass before a mob of people had. It was probably an hour tops, if he had to guess, before something changed. His second guess was an eternity.
Eliot felt the change more than heard or saw it, a tone shift in the muffled voices, vibrations in the dirt as someone was getting close. He fought back the urge to lunge at or away from whatever was coming. Briefly thought about using his power, but that woman had somehow noticed last time, and if the slap in the face hadn’t been enough to deter him, the change in how he was treated after did.
Whoever was getting closer got near enough that Eliot could feel the warmth of them. He braced for a hit, and couldn’t help but flinch as they pulled the stuffing out of his ears. His world had sound again, not just the muffled imitation of it. Eliot didn’t know what to expect next as he sat there, getting used to hearing again. It certainly wasn’t what was said.
Riles, and he could tell it was here from the voice, got right to the point. “We need your help.”
Eliot nodded after a pause, and felt the gag loosen enough for him to talk.
“Funny you mention it,” he worked the words out, his mouth dry and jaws swore from the gag, “I could use some help myself. Maybe we could work something out.”
Eliot thought things were looking up when Riles unwrapped the blindfold. Then he saw her face, the set of her lips in a grim line. It wasn’t a comforting smile. It was the type where someone was getting what they wanted, but knew it was at the cost of another and still had the decency to feel a bit bad about it.
“We need you to take us through the woods.”
They stared at each other for a long second.
“Please gag and blindfold me again.”