Nawashi

by Gray Miller

  Now he began to be a bit scared. He could hear Needle Man tapping the side of the hypo, and realized that he was about to be injected with something that would, he suspected, remove even the quickly diminishing choices now available.

  He groped for some memory of some counter, some pretty move from his aikido classes to get out of the arm lock. Nothing came to mind; his joint was bent further up than he’d ever believed it could be, and his vein in the hollow of his elbow was a plump target for Needle Man’s two finger tap-tap, preparing to inject.

  There was nothing. So he just moved. In the only direction available to him: up.

  Brian’s knee came up sharply to his chest, and he got the toe of his shoe up onto the edge of the table with just enough grip to let him push up fast enough and high enough to relieve the tension in his arm. Suddenly Armlock Man’s grip became another anchor point, and Brian used it to continue his motion up and forward, piking his body in a forward somersault, his legs folding over on either side of the missionary’s head, using the hand as a brace to keep him from falling to the floor as he desperately tucked his head and plunged forward.. It was a simple move that Brian had done many times in contact improv dance, but always carefully, making sure that his partner was ready to take his weight.

  Now he didn’t care. He slammed his legs down as hard as he could, knowing that the man’s body would cushion his as they fell to the floor.

  Except that they didn’t. The man didn’t move. It was like slamming his legs down on a thick pipe. For a ridiculous moment, Brian hung there upside down, looking up at an inverted and puzzled expression on the other missionary’s face. Craning his neck, he looked up and saw Armlock Man looking down at him with an ironic smile, and his hand was released as the hard-eyed man raised his fists, preparatory to to smashing them into Brian’s groin.

  Brian swung his arms behind the man’s knees and poked his stiff fingers into the back of the man’s knee joints, at the same time kipping his body out just a bit with an arch of the back.

  Armlock man folded back like he’d been hit with a wrecking ball. The added push from Brian accelerated his fall and his head hit the ground with an audible crunch. Brian used the momentum to roll up to his feet, not allowing himself to think about the sticky liquid now pooling around his boots. He turned just in time to see Needle Man lunging at him with the hypo, no longer smiling, but his face in a savage grimace of rage.

  Lunges Brian did remember from his aikido class, and without thinking he stepped out of the line of the thrust and towards Needle Man, one hand sweeping down to grab the wrist while the other went to the shoulder, black cloth of the suit feeling slick under his hand.

  He wasn’t trying to grab it, though, and simply put enough pressure to add to the missionary’s forward momentum, swinging his hips in a tenkan swirl that brought the man’s torso around in a spiral that ended abruptly with his head slamming into the counter under the startled gaze of the barista.

  She looked up at at Brian from the two black-suited men lying on the floor. “Dude. I think you fucking killed him.”

  Brian turned to look where she pointed, and saw that there was a stain on the floor under the head of Armlock man, a growing dark liquid that spread viscously along the floor. “Fuck… ” Brian said, softly. He was just starting to become cognizant again, and most of coming back to rational thought seemed to involve the idea that he was really in a world of shit.

  “Nah. Just drained him for a bit.” Both Brian and the barista turned at the voice from the door, where Sullivan was leaning against the jamb. “I’m surprised, bucko, I had you written off as another dead fucking idiot.”

  Brian found himself furious. “Didn’t much feel like sticking around to find out, though, did you? Fucking coward… ”

  Sullivan gave him a coldly appraising stare. “Obviously I only had the first part wrong. You’re still a fucking idiot. I tried to get you out of here and you thought it was a ploy to get my lips into your package, you arrogant sumbitch. And I will not sacrifice myself, no, for a guy who isn’t all that cute to begin with.” He looked down at where Needle Man was beginning to stir, and pushed off from the door jamb. Walking over, he very carefully put the heel of his boot against the side of the man’s chin. Just as the man’s eyes snapped open, he snapped his foot down, hard, and there was another crunching sound as the man’s vertebrae were twisted apart.

  “What… why did you… ”

  “You didn’t hear me, did you? Takes a helluva lot more than this to kill these things. But I gotta admit, you did slow them down some. What the hell kind of martial art was that?” As he talked, Sullivan pulled Brian towards the door, and this time he did not resist, until they got to the door. Suddenly he looked around the room, and realized that in spite of the fact that two men—or whatever—had been apparently killed in the room, no one was reacting. In fact, the guy with the laptop was back to typing, the barista was reading her book… as if they couldn’t even see the two men in the dark suits—

  The dark suits that were moving. Slowly, but unmistakably, the limbs were beginning to rearrange themselves, to push up against the floor.

  Brian decided to save the questions for later, and let Sullivan hustle him out the door.

  III

  “Are you a sinner, Brian?”

  They were sitting at the kitchen table of Sullivan’s house, a suburban ticky-tacky special indistinguishable from the hundreds of starter homes in the subdivision around them. Brian had seen. The inside was decorated in the in the prairie style, neat flat planes of dark wood with occasional personal touches, like the crumpled magazine next to the couch or the dvd casually tossed on the floor next to the television.

  Brian had looked closer as they walked in, though, and realized a few subtle touches hinted at the proclivities of the owner. The candles on the end table were clear tallow, melted crenellations indicating their utility beyond decoration. The arms of the chairs had holes bore in them, which just happened to be the right size to attach restraints, and the hanging plants were hanging on very large industrial-looking hooks,

  Sullivan had laughed as he watched Brian assess the room. “yeah, yeah, I know, it’s only subtle if you’re vanilla.” He had taken him to the kitchen, where a large and very sturdy table now held two Sierra Pale Ales on woven straw coasters, and the two of them had simply sat quietly for a while, letting the banality of the backyard calm the absurd violence of their morning.

  The question that had finally broken that silence didn’t seem out of place, and Brian gave it some serious consideration. “Sinner? Honestly? No, I don’t think so. Not by my own moral standards.”

  “And what are they?”

  “Stolen. From a sci-fi author named Heinlein.” Brian watched the other man for the eye-rolling reaction he often got when he mentioned the writer, but Sullivan just grunted and took another drink of beer. “Not entirely, of course. But I liked his definition: the only sin lies in hurting someone else unnecessarily.” He grinned for a moment. “I think he added something like ‘hurting yourself unnecessarily isn’t a sin, it’s just stupid’, but as moral codes go, I figure I could do worse.”

  Sullivan nodded. “You’ve got that right. Much worse. And most people do. It’s a brilliantly rigged game. First you convince people that sex is bad. Since everybody can’t help but want it, everybody feels guilty. Then after scaring the bejeezus out of them with hell, or AIDS, or the imminent threat of weapons of marital destruction, offer them a way out, salvation, if they only sign up with the status quo.” He grimaced. “Fuckers. Information age was the worst thing that ever happened to us as a species. Gave them the ability to control and censor what almost everyone sees or, more to the point, believes, and there’s not much we can do.” Sighing, he fiddled with his beer glass. “Except what we do. Fight a holding action, guerrilla warfare, try to keep the flame alive, all that happy horseshit.”

  Brian got a feeling of deep weariness from the man’s voice. “Can we back up here a bit? Pl
ease? I’m still not sure what’s going on, really. I mean, after those… whatever, terminissionaries, I guess, tried to grab me, I can tell something’s going on, and I know I need your help. I mean… ” He realized he was rambling, and decided to follow the advice of his favorite Spaniard. “No. It is too much. Let me sum up.” He was gratified to see a half smile appear on the man’s face. Never fails, everybody loves the Princess Bride, he thought. “I know something’s going on. I know that I don’t know what that something is, really, and most of all, I know that what I don’t know is probably going to get me killed.” He paused again. “And possibly not only me. First and most important question: are these people going to go after my family?”

  Sullivan looked startled. “You have a family? You look too young to… ” his voice trailed off as Brian waved a hand dismissively.

  “I started early. Forget about it. Fact is, I have two daughters, one who lives with me and my wife—“ he ignored Sullivan’s raised eyebrow—“and one who lives with my ex.”

  “I’m not too worried about my wife—she’s in New York City for the weekend, visiting a lover—but right now both of my daughters are with my ex, it’s her weekend, and I’m worried about a sudden visit from Men in Black Suits.”

  Sullivan nodded. “Ok, that’s a fair approximation. But they rarely go after infants, so—“

  “They’re thirteen and fifteen.” Brian was annoyed now at that shocked expression that kept coming over his host’s face. His voice got harsh. “Look, here it is: I got my girlfriend pregnant when I was 18. I joined the Marines, we got married, had another kid, I got out of the Marines, we got divorced. So I’m 36 now with a couple of teenage kids, my wife and I have a polyamorous marriage, and so on weekends I go out to play. And this weekend I seem to have picked the wrong woman to play with, and now I have a hairy guy telling me that my life as I know it is over because the missionaries are now trying to stick me with needles and some sort of vast right-wing conspiracy is after my vital fluids.” He paused for breath and lowered his voice to a calm level. “Is that about it? Did I miss anything? Because I need to know if my kids are going to be in danger.”

  Sullivan was openly grinning now, obviously enjoying the rant. “You know, you’re cute when you’re angry.” He chortled at Brian’s disgusted sigh. “Relax. Yeah, you pretty much got it. Right-wing is kind of limiting, though. And life isn’t over; it’s just that you have to become a responsible adult, instead of being that immature person you’ve been since, when was it? Eighteen?” Brian nodded, and Sullivan continued.

  “OK. Well, then consider yourself lucky, because you’ve had eighteen years of frivolous youth. And you say you’re polyamorous?” Brian nodded, and Sullivan looked thoughtful. “That word means a lot of things to a lot of people. Mind telling me what that means to you and your wife,” he paused expectantly.

  “Bec. Short for Rebecca. Never Becky.” Brian looked down at his beer and realized that he had, as usual, peeled most of the label off absent-mindedly. “It means that we are committed to each other, but not exclusively; we allow for the possibility of romantic relationships outside of our marriage.” He paused again, gathering his thoughts, and went on. “We’re not swingers, per se. We don’t go out trying to have sex with other people. Lots of our play never actually has any sexual contact, but it tends to be in a sexual context, if that makes sense.” He smiled a little. “But occasionally we meet someone who things just click with, and then, well, it’s great to be able to act on that without worrying about cheating, or jealousy, or the end of our marriage or anything like that.” He looked up suddenly, eyes narrowing. “You still haven’t told me if my daughters are safe.”

  Sullivan nodded, thoughtful. “I know. That’s because I’m still not sure.” Brian was out of his chair and heading towards the door. “Wait, you idiot! Remember what happened the last time you stormed off?”

  Brian paused with his hand at the doorknob. His shoulders slumped as he tried to get his emotions under control, and he realized, suddenly, that he was exhausted. The energy boost that Sullivan’s healing had given him early that morning had worn off, and the constant adrenaline flow since then was starting to take its toll.

  Which may have saved his life, since he was relaxed when the door blew off its hinges directly into him, throwing him back and onto the floor. He lay on the floor, unable to breathe, looking up at the door which had fallen on top of him. The strange thudding of heavy feet running across the door vibrated against his cheek, more felt than heard as the ringing in his ears blended with the strange resonance of the door. Sullivan’s shout of alarm was tinny and distant, as was the sharp firecracker snap of gunfire.

  He wanted to get up. He wanted to push the door off. He wanted to rush to help Sullivan. He wanted to protect his daughters.

  He wanted to breathe again.

  Instead, his world grayed out into darkness.

  Sometimes waking is a long slow and pleasant drift from the secure black womb of sleep into the seeping glow of color as the world begins to occupy the conscious mind.

  This time, however, it was the searing jump and scream as Brian became aware of the needles of pain shooting into his testes. He was brutally awake, eyes flashing wide as his body convulsed, and they rolled wildly before focusing on the man in front of him, holding a silver pom pom with a wire coming off of the end.

  “Good. You’re awake. We can begin.” The man was chubby in a sallow kind of way, his body seeming to have given up any effort at health long ago. His skin was sweating under the white shirt he wore, top button undone and red tie loosened so that it flopped over the gold tie bar at the top of his swollen belly. He gave another flick of the pom pom at Brian’s genitals, and again the needle-like darts ripped into him, causing him to buck and pull against the ropes that held up his wrists.

  Ropes?

  He couldn’t help himself, he looked up out of curiousity, just to see what it was they’d used to tie him up. The ropes were wrapped around his wrists three times and then cinched tightly in the middle, the rope tails then travelling up into a darkness above that was intensifed by the single bulb light shining over his head. At first he was absurdly critical of whoever tied the knot (that’s way too tight! That’ll cut off the circulation, could cause nerve damage, could–). The train of thought abruptly derailed as he realized these were his wrists in the ropes. And even worse, the reason it was taking him a while to realize it was because he could no longer feel his hands.

  This is not good. Brian arched his back again as the strands of the electric pompoms from hell brushed up against his genitals again, the needles of agony combining into a more steady ache that seemed to push up directly from his crotch into his stomach.

  “Mr. Stanford. I trust I have your attention now.”

  In spite of the sweat covering his body and face, Brian’s mouth was dry, and he had to moisten his tongue by licking his upper lip before he could reply. “Definitely. Complete. Total. What can I do for you?”

  “That, Mr. Stanford, remains to be seen. Our first concern is with what you have done already. With a… Rebecca Horst, I believe? And John Sullivan?” The man’s lip twisted in disgust. “Wicked, perverse things. You are in a great deal of trouble, Mr. Stanford.”

  Yeah, I kind of noticed. “Look, I just, um, followed her home from the bar, you know, trying to get some, any guy would—“ His attempt at good-ol-boy camaraderie broke into a yelling screech of pain as the man simply jabbed the metal pompom directly into his genitals, the thick flexible strands draping over the base of his penis and falling over either side of his testes. The pain was not subtle or random; Brian could feel the actual modulation of the current as it shot into his body, adding involuntary twitches to his efforts to twist away from the current.

  The man held it there, watching dispassionately as Brian twisted and moaned, then finally lowered it, the metal brushing Brian’s spasming inner thighs as it passed. “Now. As I said, you are in trouble. And before you deal with the r
est of your pitiful life as a Stroker, you will tell me where Horst and Sullivan are.”

  “Where… ” Brian’s thoughts were having trouble rising above the pain in his midsection, but he registered what the question meant. Sullivan isn’t dead. Having been saved once, already, by the man, he felt the first stirrings of a faint hope beginning to rise. Got to stall, he thought. Though the man in front of him did not seem the type to allow for any delay in his pursuit of answers. Like a shock of icy snow injected over his mind, he realized that stalling was not, in fact, necessary. There was no effort required at all to dodge the sweaty little man’s questions.

  “I don’t know,” Brian said, his voice resigned with the knowledge that he was going to be unhappy about this for quite a while. He licked his lips again, and tried to put sincerity in his hoarse voice. “I went home with—Horst, you called her? She told me she was Vish, or some Indian name. Honestly, sir,” that’s it, show respect, butter him up, maybe he’ll turn the electricity down to eleven, “I went home with her, and she wanted to play some kind of kinky games, and I thought, well, why not, and then she pulled out this knife, and it just… got… all… weird. I didn’t know it would lead to, well, any of” he jerked his head up at the ropes around his hands, “this kind of stuff.” He watched the man’s face closely, trying to read in it some indication of whether he was being believed, or at least tolerated.

  The pompom rose again. This time, though, it was simply passed to the other hand as the sallow man rubbed his jaw, staring past Brian as if considering whether to have a steak medium well or charred. After a tense few moments of deliberation, he turned away and put the pompom back on the table. “I’m surprised you’re so cooperative, Mr. Stanford. Your kind rarely are. The perverse are, after all, by their nature, rebellious. Rebellious against what is natural and right.” Brian had begun to relax a bit, his shoulders aching but the upright draw actually helping him to stretch out some of the muscles in his back that had knotted up in his convulsive attempts at escape.