//------------------------------// // Chapter 2 // Story: The Butterfly Cult // by Proper Noun //------------------------------// The smell is overpowering, and I barely hold back my desperate need to gag. That's the first thing I'm aware of. The second is an avalanche of pain against every inch of my skull. Last time my head hurt this badly, I was still living with my mom, and I moved out six years ago. I groan, and something rustles near me. Must have scared off a rat or something. Wait. Rats don't hit people in the head (speaking of which, ow ow ow ow ow). There must be someone else here, and it's too late to play unconscious. Okay. Figure out what to do now, panic later. I open my eyes. Wherever I am is completely dark. That awful grape-y compost smell, though, tells me I can't have gone far. Clutching my head, I groan again, then consider my options. One: Run and call for help. However, not only do I have no idea whether whoever hit me is ready to intercept me on the way out, but in the total darkness, I have no idea which way to go. On top of that, I didn't like the looks of the neighborhood as I came in; it's very likely no one would care. Finally, even if I could find help, I have no idea who hit me, and I'd sound like a total conspiracy nutcase who probably just fell and hit his head. Option One is a no-go. Two: Call Greg. I already know better, though. From all my reading and movies, it's never a good idea to call your safety backup if you're already in trouble. You just get held hostage and either you're made to tell him you're fine, or the attacker takes the phone to creep him out. That's why my safety plan came to be as it is: The sign of trouble is not calling. I'm actually kind of proud of it. Not only does it do what it needs to do, but it does so without alerting anyone that the plan is in effect until it's too late for them. Three: See where this goes. I don't have any good options for immediate escape, but I have a terrific plan (if I say so myself). With that confidence, I can simply go through whatever is happening and look for answers on the way - Option Three it is. With any luck, I'll be able to find my boyfriend, or at least another lead on him, while the police break down the door and arrest the bad guys. Okay, it probably won't go exactly like that, but it's a plan. Time to go to work. "Hello?" I ask the darkness. It continues to drip and buzz at me, and I cough a couple of times to clear the odd falsetto from my tone. Sitting up, I raise my voice a bit. "Hello!" Stupid throat - that falsetto is persistent. I cough again, then shift some weight to my left hand so I can feel my neck with the right; maybe I suddenly have a tumor, or something. Almost as soon as I raise it, my hand stops. I'm sitting with my hands. Something is wrong with this picture. It would help if I could see the picture, but I can make do. To start, I sit up, and this time I mean really sit up. The way I was sitting before reminds me of some kind of dog. Almost immediately, I lose my balance and fall back down, landing hard on my hands with a very audible clop. I sit still a moment, trying to process. Next step, I suppose, is repetition. I slap the floor with my right hand. Clop. Left hand. Clop. That is not the sound hands make. That is a sound I think every child has mimicked with coconut shells. “Well, shit,” I mumble, and try putting a hand to my face. It jerks to an abrupt stop halfway there, my wrists yanking in unison. Or yanking each other. A moment of inquisitive poking reveals they're cuffed together with some kind of strap, probably leather. It also suggests things about my fingers that I don't want to consider. Okay, this is really bad. The fact I was hit on the head, and now I seem to be at least partially tied up, increases the likelihood I've been kidnapped by... a lot, and it was already pretty high. It also means it's doubtful I still have my phone or anything else useful, and that I'm probably being watched. Keeping Option Three in mind, I decide to find out by whom. “Hello,” I say again. That falsetto is starting to bother me. Why won't my voice work properly? “My name's Adrian. Who's there?” Flies buzz, and there's a hiss that reminds me of – oh shit, don't be a snake don't be a snake don't be a snake – “You do not ask questions,” a somewhat masculine voice rasps from somewhere to my right. Its tone is devoid of inflection. “You obey and are not harmed.” I swallow hard, resisting the urge to bolt by reminding myself that I have no idea which direction to run. I gather my limbs under me and try to lower my voice back to its customary range. “Okay. Just let me know when you're ready to let me go.” The answer to that is silence again, broken only by a strange chittering buzz. “...hello?” “You are funny,” the voice rasps again. His voice doesn't sound amused, though. “Stand.” I decide not to test his patience any further, and obey, or try. While I do get my legs up, I lose my balance and fall forward onto my hands once more. The feeling reminds me distinctly of all those play sessions where I ended up on my hands and knees (the memory brings a fire to my cheeks), except that my feet are firmly under me and my legs are straight, which makes the same amount of sense as hands that go 'clop.' I don't like the picture this is painting. I realize I missed whatever my concealed captor just said, and mumble an apology. “Walk forward,” he repeats, his emotionless voice lacking the irritation I would have expected. Maybe I'm talking to a robot of some kind? But a robot that is capable of kidnapping people and having an interactive dialogue would be prohibitively expensive. Regardless, I try one last time to get up on my legs before resigning myself to a crawl that feels disturbingly natural. “Stop. Hold still.” I wait. There's complete silence once more, besides the flies and, after a moment of intense listening, I pick up the sound of dripping water. Then, there is a cold and gentle touch around my neck, which I try to feel with one hand, but the cuffs remind me of their presence. “What is – ” “Follow.” What feels more and more like a metal noose tugs my head forward, and I quickly move the rest of my body with it. 'Get strangled' is not high on my list of priorities, though it seems 'strangle Adrian' is relatively high on my captor's from how quickly I'm being led. The quick 'clip clop' of my crawling jog, somewhat restrained by the cuffs, is also increasingly difficult to ignore. Who would even have that kind of power, anyway? Magic is fiction. Lots of strange stuff has been happening, but the only people I can think of who could – wait, I'm not seriously considering – “Ghllk!” I choke as the noose drags me along by my neck, and I struggle to catch up. I must have slowed when I drifted into thought, and pick up the pace to a quick trot – no, a jog that happens to be on all fours – so it doesn't happen again. “Stop and wait,” I'm ordered abruptly, and can't halt myself quickly enough to avoid another brief choke before backing up. Then it's flies and water again. Still trapped in the noose and cuffs, there's not much I can do but what I'm told. I wait, and avoid thinking. I don't like the conclusions I'd have to draw if I start.