I am so tired of waiting,
Aren't you,
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind?
Let us take a knife
And cut the world in two-
And see what worms are eating
At the rind.
Langston Hughes
Read the Permissions Before you Agree
I popped into existence on the floor of a stone castle. Gray stone walls, tumbled down in spots. Lush, flowery vegetation poured in through the gaps, accompanied by shafts of sunlight. Bees bumped and buzzed.
A breeze ruffled my hair, all up and down my body. I found cardboard boxes filled with clothing: boy and girl underthings, tan cargo shorts, white t-shirt, boxer briefs and cheap running shoes.
Now dressed in my cultist uniform, I looked out one of the windows. A turquoise shallow sea stretched to the horizon. Distant islands like stone cupcakes: gray cliffs on the sides, fluffy emerald jungle at the tops. White puffs of cloud against a heartbreaking blue sky. It felt like eleven in the morning, my favorite time to surf.
I'd been walking to class, holding my phone. I'd felt the ridges of the case in my fingertips. I'd checked "Agree to Terms." It had been the Isekai App, and I'd thought it was a game. Installation had promised a free chicken sandwich and a cute anime girlfriend. I didn't see a chicken sandwich nearby. Not even a coupon for one. And no girlfriends, anime or otherwise.
What a ripoff.
But the place was nice. Was this a vacation? I'd never been on a vacation.
The chamber was a long hall. The doorway at the end spilled sunlight and flowers over the stone floor. There was a little path cut through the plants. And the door filled with the silhouette of a middle-aged man.
What an unpleasant fellow. Tall white dude in a white lab coat that topped office casual. A long head with an insincere gray smile wrapping around his head like a bandanna made of teeth. Cold blue eyes. Hair styled by a genocidal barber. Rumpled, tired despite the smile.
Apparently my abductor.
While I looked around the chamber, he produced a tablet computer that looked quite inexpensive and absurdly out-of-date. A stylus was attached by one of those beaded chains you see in banks that keep you from stealing the pens.
The man dropped his smile, which was a relief, and checked the screen. The act of lowering his head caused that double chin to crease up like crinkle-cut fries.
Tap, went the stylus against the screen. Tap tap. "Owen Walsh, age 21 at time of recording. West coast USA. Tendency to violent outbursts, no respect for–"
He ducked the box of clothing I'd thrown at his head. It burst against the wall behind him, showering the floor with sensible girly undergarments. He frowned, started tapping at his tablet again with that stylus. "Just a sec," he muttered.
There wasn't any dust to throw in his eyes, but there were gaps in the stone walls, and there were bricks on the floor. I scooped one up, raised it over my head. Charged him, fully intending to put it through the top of his skull.
He raised an eyebrow and the side of his mouth pulled back in an annoyed manner. Tap-tap, went the stylus.
My limbs flopped into rubbery, abrupt uselessness. Knees hit the stone floor, sending a double jolt of pain as they scraped and slid. The side of my face smacked into the paving. And that brick I'd been winding up to murder him with spun from my fingers. It didn't land on my head, which would have been rather ironic, but it scraped along the floor to stop at the man's feet.
"I always forget with you," he said. "You haven't been abducted; you've been copied. Nobody's coming for you. The sooner you get that out of your head the better, all right?"
It had the feel of a rehearsed speech. Keep your hands inside the vehicle. No outside food. Terms and conditions may apply.
I couldn't move. I could see the sky outside one of the windows. The lush jungle outside, the vines pouring in. Bees, oblivious and unhelpful. I couldn't move. I could blink. I could move my eyeballs and breathe. And I was panting, trying to stave off panic. I couldn't move.
"Owen, you and I have had this discussion before. You're going to be able to move only when I say, and you're going to get up and you're not going to attack me. I can do this to you whenever I like."
I didn't remember meeting this man. I'd met a lot of people I didn't like; most people were ones I didn't like. But I'd remember someone who could paralyze me after abducting me and then telling me I hadn't been abducted. Memorable traits.
I slowed my breathing. Panic didn't help. Calm.
"Okay, better," he said. Tap-tap.
I skittered away from him like a spider monkey. Backwards across the floor. Patted the stone around me for something else to throw, but stopped.
He watched me tiredly. Waiting for me, holding that stylus on its chain, which caught the sun and sent disco-ball shards of light around the chamber. I memorized his face, his nasty, doughy face.
Because this wasn't going to fly.
But I was also terrified of him. To be so utterly helpless was a learning experience.
He offered a hand to help me up. I looked at it, knowing it wasn't a trick. Why would he play another trick, when he had something like that numbing zap at his command?
His hand was cold and fishy, soft and fatty. Weirdly moist. He hauled me up. I stood well back, away from him.
"Let's get you situated," he said wearily. "Time for the tour."
I wanted the tour. It would show me the best way to get out of here and away from him.