by Maia Tanith
He’s also kinda cute, in a nerd-next-door sort of way. A little tubby around the middle perhaps, and his hairline is receding slightly, but he’s sweet.
And he’s stable.
Predictable.
That counts for a lot with me.
I first met him when I started working here three years ago, after I finished my degree. I’ve only been working closely with him for the last three months, but I can already guess what he is going to say half the time.
I like working with him.
He never surprises me.
“Delia,” he says, when he gets close enough to my desk that I can smell his aftershave. It’s rather strong today. It makes me want to sneeze. “I, uh, wanted a quick chat. Is now a good time?”
I nod and sip my tea, indicating an empty seat next to me. Our office has an excess of chairs. Our manager always rabbits on about growth and market share and expanding the team, but all he’s done so far is to buy more chairs. We don’t even have desks to go with them yet.
Greg sits down and the chair squeaks. He blushes slightly. “That, uh, wasn’t me.”
I laugh politely. “Are you wanting to go over the audits for Pushman’s Portaloos?”
Pushman’s Portaloos is one of our biggest clients. They also just had to make a rather large insurance claim after a drunk festival goer decided to blow up a number of their portaloos at a music festival, which showered nearly two hundred festival goers in a mixture of feces and blue sterilizer.
I was asked to complete an audit on their finances. Apparently, their insurance company has a suspicion this was all set up for Pushman’s to make a large claim.
I have my doubts about this. Surely no sane person, even if they were running a company with profits going down the drain, would be willing to blow up several hundred gallons of literal crap onto a crowd at a music festival.
“Well, yes and no,” Greg says, and scoots his chair a bit closer to me. He wipes his brow and I can see a hint of a sweat mark under his armpit.
He leans his arms on my desk which knocks a stack of paper over, then removes them and hurriedly starts stacking the paper while he talks. “I just wanted to say to you, it’s been really great getting close to you in the portaloo project.”
He puts the stacked papers haphazardly back on my desk. “Well, I uh, what I mean is not close to you in the portaloo, although that would be nice too, just not the portaloos that blew up..I mean I wouldn’t want to get close to those at all, even with you. But if I had to pick someone to be close to with a blown up portaloo, it would be you.”
He says this so fast that it takes me a couple seconds to register. “You want to get close to a blown up portaloo?”
Okay, so when I said he never surprises me, consider this the first time.
He lets out a chuckle that sounds rather forced. “No, no. What I mean is-” he clears his throat, then chokes on his saliva and coughs. “Sorry. What I am trying to say is-”
I am still sipping my drink, and, with a mouthful of tea, I make the mistake of breathing in through my nose. His aftershave tickles so strongly that I have an uncontrollable urge to sneeze.
So I do.
“Bless you,” he says, delicately wiping his face.
Oh gosh, I’ve sneezed all over him. I grab a tissue and blow my nose. “Dib I geb you?” I ask. My nose is super blocked all of a sudden. I wish he wouldn’t wear so much aftershave. I’ll come out in hives next.
He shakes his head, but I think he’s lying.
“I missed whab you seb,” I said and blow my nose.
He scoots his chair back a little, not wanting to risk another sneeze. “Willyougogetadrinkwithmeafterworkoneday?”
It takes a couple seconds to realize what I’ve heard.
Greg is practically shaking with nerves now.
It clicks now as to why he is so nervous. “I’d love to.” And I would. I really would. Not the drink, necessarily, but going on a date with Greg? Absolutely!
He lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Really? That is so great. You’ve just made my day. I thought, I’d be too boring for you.” He stands up with a grin. “It’s a date. Is tonight okay? I can pick you up around seven?”
I nod, and then take another sip of my tea. Greg is sweet, and I’ve been hoping for months that he will ask me out, but...
But what? I ask myself sternly.
He’s exactly the type of guy I intend to marry. Stable, dependable, not super handsome but not ugly either, in a solid career where he will climb the ladder to middle management and will likely stay at the same company until he retires. I like the thought of that.
But if we go out on a date, he might want to kiss me.
Now that I think about it, I’m not so sure I actually want him to kiss me.
I’m surprised at my thoughts, and I don’t like surprises.
I don’t like how I react to surprises either.
I need time to process my thoughts.
He claps his hands together once. “Okay, so yes, back to work. Portaloos wait for no one, do they.”
Once he has gone, I blow my nose furiously. I will have to ask him not to wear so much aftershave. If I sneeze onto him again, he might decide he doesn’t find me attractive anymore.
Then he won’t even ask to kiss me.
I turn my concentration back to my spreadsheet, putting the issue of Greg aside for now.
Spreadsheets are my friends. As an accountant, I are in control of everything I touch. There is no room for miscommunication, or surprises, or concealed confusing messages, or word play tricks.
Everything is black and white, and it makes sense.
There are no shades of grey.
If something isn’t either black or white, then you simply have a problem to fix.
This is my life.
Greg avoids me for the rest of the afternoon. I’m thankful, as this gives my allergies a chance to recede.
At five minutes to five he sends me an email. Look forward to seeing you tonight. :o)
I’ve always disliked those smiley faces, with the little ‘o’ for the nose. It’s like a clown. I don’t care for clowns, with their creepy, painted-on smiles and big feet.
After sending him a non-clown smiley face back, I carefully save my work, shut down my computer, then drive strictly to the speed limit all the way back to my studio apartment.
I park neatly between the lines in my allotted space and head towards the elevator.
That’s the last thing I remember.
And the last time I see my home.
Azr
A few days ago I thought I was on my way to a new life. A new life as a rich man, an ex-freebooter, with a ship full of money. Wearing finery fit for an emperor.
With the beautiful Lila by my side. Preferably naked.
I certainly didn’t think that today I’d be strapped to a chair, beaten to within an inch of my life, and interrogated until I pass out.
The passing out part has happened so often now that I don’t even know what day it is. Or how long I’ve been here.
My head is fuzzy, and everything hurts.
Everything.
And I need to pee.
Badly.
“I need a leak,” I croak to the guards.
They ignore me and continue chattering to themselves in one corner with their backs to me. They are probably busy heating up red-hot pincers or swapping ideas on the best way to punch someone in the kidneys so they pee blood for a week.
I finally resign myself to the fact that I’ll have to pee on myself to relieve the pain of my near-to-bursting bladder.
I try to hold it in, but eventually I can’t hold on any longer.
I breathe a sigh of relief as the first dribble of pee runs down my legs.
No blood. Good, my kidneys are still intact.
Soon enough, there is a large yellow puddle spreading out under the chair to which I am tied, and the acrid smell of piss fills the air.
If the inju
ries they’d inflicted on me weren’t enough, I’ve just officially lost the last shreds of my dignity.
So, here I am. Still a freebooter. Just one who has been caught, and who is currently sitting tied to a chair and sitting in a puddle of piss.
An unsuccessful freebooter.
People call us pirates.
I’ve never been caught before. It really isn’t pleasant. I don’t recommend it to anyone who occasionally dips their toes into the other side of the law.
These people interrogating me might have the law behind them, but they certainly have fewer morals than I do.
Different morals, at the very least.
For a start, they enjoy inflicting pain. My broken ribs and black eyes can attest to that.
Women. Pah!
I’d been an idiot to trust the first pretty face I’d seen in a while.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.
If I wasn’t so heartbroken, I’d—actually, I don’t know what I’d do. At the moment the pain in my heart is far worse than the beatings I’ve been subjected to over the past few days.
“Still alive there, pirate?” It’s one of the guards. His voice is hoarse and gravely.
My eyes are closed, and I don’t bother opening them to see which one is addressing me. It really doesn’t matter to me. They are both the same.
“Still alive. Never felt better actually.” At least I still have a tongue that works. They haven’t cut it out.
Yet.
“He’s got a smart mouth on him for sure.”
The guard is fumbling with the straps that hold me to the chair. I crack open one eye. It’s so swollen I can barely see out of it.
Just then, the straps across my chest give way. Taken by surprise, I topple over on to the floor.
My legs are still tied to the chair, which lands on top of me with a vicious thunk. I’m hurting all over so badly that one more bruise barely registers.
The guard unties the straps around my legs.
I lie on the floor in agony, trying not to scream as my blood rushes back into my extremities with painful intensity. Every square inch of me hurts. Down to my toenails.
One of the guards kicks me. “He won’t be cracking jokes in a week or two, when we send him to the pits.”
The pits? I’ve been wondering when they would bring that up.
They send pirates to the pits now. That’s what Lila my betrayer had promised me just before we parted.
I hoped it wasn’t true.
But the way my luck has been going lately, I’m not surprised that it is.
“Get up, pirate.” This is accompanied by another kick.
“I’m quite comfortable on the floor, thanks,” I manage to reply. To tell the truth, I can’t get up. My legs just aren’t accepting the commands of my brain.
Another kick.
Then another.
Nope, I still can’t get up.
Eventually they realize that I’m not just being stubborn. They grab an arm each and start to drag me. My useless legs trail after me on the rough floor.
By the time we have reached the door, my legs are scratched and bloody. I hope the guards aren’t going to take me far or my legs will be scraped raw.
I guess I should be grateful that they aren’t dragging me by the legs, leaving my head to bounce along the floor.
Nope, I can’t summon up any gratitude. If I could stand, I’d still try to kick one of them.
They’re evidently disappointed in me. After days of torture they’ve realized that I have little value.
No, scratch that. No value.
So lacking in worth that they are sending me off to the pits to the die.
I suppose they’d expected I’d sing like a bird in order to stop the torture. Pity I don’t have much to sing about.
Turns out Lila was hoping to nail an entire network of freebooters. When I’d tried to steal a delivery of government-owned weapons to sell and make my fortune, she’d thought I was part of a much bigger ring.
All she got in the end was me.
One lone freebooter wasn’t going to help her career along much, not when she and her team put so much effort and time into trapping me.
She must be right pissed off at me.
Not as angry as I am at her, though.
I’d planned to steal for both of us, to give us all the funds we’d need to go and shack up on a pleasure planet and live happily ever after in relative wealth.
And all I got in the end was a trampled-on heart and a multitude of bruises.
And a visit to the pits.
The Xillian Games is their official name. The games where criminals and troublemakers are sent to fight each other to the death in exchange for freedom for the winner. There are a dozen or so larger arenas scattered across the larger cities. In the smaller cities and rural areas, makeshift arenas are set up for locals to watch their local pickpockets be punished.
All in all, it’s not pleasant.
Not even for the spectators.
I’d gone to a game once, at one of the larger pits. It was brutal.
I’d made up some excuse and left partway through it. As soon as I was out of the arena, I’d gone off and puked in a quiet corner. I’ve avoided even the mention of them ever since.
Even if I do survive the pits, chances are I won’t still have the same bone structure. I’ve always had quite a good-looking face, according to my various lady friends. It’s going to be a shame when I lose that, too.
What’s another loss at this point, though?
I might just walk into the pits and not even bother fighting. At this rate, I won’t be able to anyway, they’ll have to drag me out on a stretcher.
The thought brings me some comfort. The crowds will be disappointed in the lack of entertainment. They’ll fight and throw things and make a mess, and all in all it will be annoying for the guards to clean up.
Ah, my final legacy will be that I made the crowd unhappy at the games.
I’d always hoped I’d go out in a bit more style than that.
Delia
I wake up on the cold metal floor of what feels like a truck. On the floor next to me are a number of women who look like they are around my age. They all look as groggy and discombobulated as I feel.
And it must be a truck, because we are jostled and bumped and there is a loud screeching noise in the background that makes my ears ring.
But it’s the biggest truck I’ve ever seen.
Logic tells me there isn’t another way to transport kidnapped women. We can’t be in a house because we’re moving. It doesn’t feel like a boat. And it’s not like we could be on a plane or anything—how would they have gotten a dozen unconscious women through security?
So I am in the back of a truck. With human traffickers. They must be taking us to the border, maybe sell us to drug lords. Oh god.
My heart is pounding so hard and blood has rushed to my face. The room swims around me. I’m absolutely, bone-crushingly terrified, beyond any feeling I’ve ever had in my life.
This is worse than the time I made a mistake in the City Council’s excel spreadsheet of tax audits. Way worse.
It can’t get any worse than this.
I want to be anywhere else, even if it means following through on that date with Greg and having him kiss me. Safe, predictable Greg. Would he ever find out what has happened? Would he come to save me?
No, I don’t think he’s that type of guy. He’d call the cops and wait for them to save me instead, all while carrying on with his eight to five job and his occasional morning cycle. That would be the far more practical approach.
Then I hear a voice speaking. I look up to see the face of a monster. He’s like a hyena, walking on two legs. And talking. I think it must be a mask, but his mouth is moving.
His face is real.
I scream and feel the warmth of urine trickle down my leg. The fact that I’ve peed my pants for the first time since second grade barely even registers. Not when I’m face to face w
ith a creature out of my nightmares.
I don’t understand what they are saying, but the other girls are undressing so I copy them, my hands shaking so badly I can hardly move.
One of the hyena men has a whip. He lashes it at the girls who don’t take off their clothes, enforcing their obedience.
Then I’m naked and shaking, and we are moving in a tight knit group.
This doesn’t feel real. I watch my naked self walking along with the monsters leading us like a pack of sheep to slaughter. I feel removed from my body, like my brain has gone into complete denial about this moment, and my body is on autopilot.
We are chained and walked through to another room. This truck has rooms?
I see the monsters talking from far away, but I don’t hear their words.
Everything around me looks like its underwater, like I’m swimming. I try to bring myself back, to come out of this cocoon of terror my mind is buried in, but I can’t.
Then we are thrown into a cell and a bucket hits me in the head, knocking my consciousness back into my body with a jolt.
It was aimed at me, I assume, for peeing myself.
A pile of porridge is put in front of us. The girls eat hesitantly at first, and then with more enthusiasm as their hunger bites.
I don’t feel hungry yet. My brain is still trying to process where I am.
One of the girls puts some into my hand to encourage me to eat. “I’m Hannah,” she whispers.
“Faye,” another girl adds.
They are both incredibly pretty. It seems like a strange thing to notice at this time.
I’m only human though. Us girls notice these things.
Hannah is holding her arm, where the whip has caught her and left a nasty cut.
“I’m Delia,” I say back.
The words give me strength. It’s a fact that I can cling on to. Facts keep me sane, keep me ordered.
I’m Delia, and I might not know where the hell I am, but I know who I am. I can figure the rest out as we go.