Chapter 1

Chapter One

Fiona

B right lights assault my eyes, sending sharp pain pounding through my skull. The shards fan out in a brilliant display, like starbursts. Ugh. How much did I drink last night? Normally, I'm the sober one, especially at work.

It's the running joke amongst all my coworkers—wee Fiona cannae handle her spirits like a true Scottish lass. It's nauseating, really. It's not as if I choose to get sick every time I drink.

Groaning, I tip my head to the side and force air in and out of my lungs. Someone must have slipped me something. Spiked a drink. If I find out who, there will be hell to pay.

Not only will I get HR involved, but I will personally make their life a living hell. A sigh ripples through my body at that thought. Wishful thinking. Granted, HR is a given, but I can't be mean even if my life depended on it.

Unease slithers through my gut as the pain morphs into a dull ache. Again, that niggling feeling of concern slams against my rational thoughts, rendering them nearly useless. I've been hungover before, but this feels different. I go to clutch my stomach as bile rises in my throat.

If I do imbibe too much, I usually have a pounding headache and sensitivity to light. Never nausea or disorientation. A slight groan slips past my lips as I turn my head. Something cool and metallic kisses my cheek, sending a wave of relief through my system.

It's so nice, soothing even. Until now, I didn't realize just how feverish I felt. Fucking alcohol sensitivity. How in all the world am I the only Scot unable to hold her liquor?

Maybe the American swill is just subpar? That's a thought. But then, it's not like I can handle a good Scottish ale either. So that can't be it.

Again, my stomach tenses as everything churns. Another thought, one far more horrific nags at the back of my brain, going off like the loud, annoying sirens Americans turn on the first Wednesday of the month. Did someone spike my drink with something other than alcohol?

Not that I truly think anyone I work with would do that… but it's not like I actually know anyone here. I keep my distance for a good reason. There's no way I can allow myself to become enmeshed with them. Not when so much is on the line.

Again, that odd cramp twists my stomach until it's hard to breathe. Did someone find out why I was there? Are they trying to pull information out of me? Granted, I just got started with my investigation, so no one should know anything about me, but that doesn't mean something didn't get leaked.

To my coworkers, I'm just a systems analyst, simply another cog in their well-oiled machine. However, to the man who hired me, I'm there for far more than that. My primary job, the one I get paid for, is to ferret out those set on sabotaging the company.

I hack into their computers and systems, looking for anything that might cause alarm. Thankfully, I haven't found anything yet, but it doesn't mean it's not there. And that's why cold sweat beads on my skin as the nausea rises in my throat, threatening to choke me.

But it's silly. Who would actually try to drug me to get me to talk? It's preposterous. The more I think about it, the more idiotic it becomes. More than likely someone slipped me a roofie to try to get lucky.

"State your name."

My blood runs cold as the stern voice vibrates through my skull. It doesn't sound like anyone I know. There's a hardened edge to it, a rough quality that I've never heard before.

Is it an accent? No. Not really. I can't place what's off about the voice, but it doesn't sound American, that's for sure. In fact, it doesn't sound like any country I've visited. Perhaps whoever is speaking is disguising their voice?

That would explain that hint of metallic reverberation as he repeats the question. I lick my lips as I think through what he's saying. It's a simple question, yet loaded with numerous unspoken facets. If he wants to know my name, then he's certainly not here to fuck me.

Though roofies don't necessarily have to be administered by a known partner, I'm sure someone wanting sex would have fucked first and asked for my name later… That is, unless they've already raped me and now want to make small talk.

A frisson of fear slithers up my spine, freezing me in place. Nothing feels sore or abused. In fact, besides the splitting headache and aural disturbance when I open my eyes, I feel better than I have in a long time. Again, I open my eyes, snapping them shut as the bright light assaults me.

"Can you understand the words I'm saying?"

Yes , I think inside my head. But I don't want to respond. Especially not if this is, in fact, an interrogation . Strong fingers brush the side of my head, causing a knee-jerk reaction.

I wrench my neck to the side to escape this foreign, unasked-for touch, but the person is insistent. They probe their fingers over a spot just above the back of my ear, causing a dull ache to run down my neck and into my shoulder.

"It seems to be functioning correctly. Check the systems."

I understand the words floating around me, hovering just in the ether, but I can't seem to comprehend the meaning. Systems. Functioning. Correctly. All these words seem to correlate to a computer. But what does that have to do with the man constantly touching the side of my head?

And that's when I hear the faint beeping noise off to the side. It's a rhythmic pulse, fast but steady. My heart rate. I'll bet anything. That's when a new fear settles into my gut, threatening to make me hurl.

Am I in the hospital? What the hell happened to me? Two voices now murmur beside me, so low I can barely catch the words. But a few stand out. Metal snake? Translator malfunction?

What the actual hell is going on? Now, instead of shying away from the pain, I force my eyes to open. The glaring light sears my optic nerves, but I fight past the discomfort until blurry shapes begin to appear.

A massive round light, like the type you see in operating rooms in movies and shows, looms above me. My fingers dig into the table below, and I'm dismayed to feel metal beneath my fingertips. So I am in the hospital then.

"W- what happened to me?" I finally croak out, my lips, tongue, and throat parched and barely working.

"Can you understand me?" The maddening voice growls again.

"Yes, I can fooking well understand ye ," I snap out, my Scottish lilt taking over as irritation slithers up my spine. " Ye dinnae have to shout."

My head aches and throbs as pain zips through me. Granted, the longer I force my eyes to stay open, the quicker the discomfort seems to dissipate. Turning, I look over toward the voice, desperately needing to see the man who's holding me captive.

Will it be a doctor? Or will it be someone far more nefarious? However, as I open my eyes again, everything freezes. I must be hallucinating. Granted, without my glasses, it's not like I can see details or anything, but I certainly don't need those to make out the blue, man-shaped being next to me.

As if my brain catches up to my eyes, I jerk back, unsure of what I'm seeing. It must be some good drugs; a new one I've never heard of before. I blink, squinting a little so I can improve my vision.

It's not much, but I can now make out dark blue eyes and jet-black hair. The man has a strong jaw and a stern expression. Normally, he'd be the type of guy I'd go home with, but there's something wrong with his face. That or whatever is in my system is causing me to freak the fuck out.

Unease drips into my veins like a drug, making me wooden and unable to move. But soon, the need to actually get a good look shakes me out of this panic state. Because, honestly, there's no way in hell I'm seeing what I think I'm seeing.

Perhaps a visit to the eye doctor will be in order. That or a neurological exam. There's no reason why his face should be a big, blue blob. No rational reason, at least.

I reach down to grab my glasses, but find my hands and arms refuse to move. They're not paralyzed, just pinned down. Thrashing about, I jerk on my restraints, realizing, with a ball of dread gathering in my gut, that I'm completely immobile.

Hysteria bubbles up my throat as the man just stands there. I can't see his expression, but his body language tells me he doesn't give a shit that I'm panicking. Off in the distance, the heart monitor beeps out even faster, matching the fight-or-flight adrenaline dump coursing through my body.

"State your name." His voice is smooth, devoid of any named emotion.

It's as if he doesn't care at all what's going on inside my mind and body. Somehow, that's even scarier than anything else currently happening. I want him to express something, show some sort of emotion. Anything.

"Why?" My voice is small, whispered, and tenuous.

Not at all the strong, capable woman I wish to present, but what can I do? I'm unsure of anything at this point. Despite being lashed down onto this immovable surface, I feel as if I'm free-floating, about to escape my skin.

He turns, presumably to look over at the other voice I heard. They exchange a low, murmured conversation not meant for me to hear. Again, the other approaches, his face clearing as he gets nearby.

"What is ailing you?"

"You mean besides a galoot like you being all demanding while I'm pinned down, scaring me nearly half to death?" Sighing, I bring my hand up to rub my forehead, but just a moment too late remember I can't move. "My head hurts."

"Where?"

"Unlatch me, and I'll show you."

His lips widen into a feral grin, showing off snow-white teeth. "Nice try, little human. You will not be released until we are done with you."

My body tenses at his words. Something is very much wrong. Again, I jerk against my restraints, the need to flee coursing through me. The man walks over and places his hand over my breastbone, pushing me further down into the hard, metallic surface.

He leans in, his face a hair's breadth from mine. "You will do well to settle, little cow. Do not make me hurt you."

I blink at him, unable to formulate any words. My mind is a jumble, threatening to fracture and crumble at the slightest pressure. Am I truly kidnapped then?

‘Little cow.' That phrase bounces about my mind, seeking purchase, but finding none. It makes no sense to me. If anything, I'm far skinnier than I should be. I can eat anything, and my metabolism will gobble it right up.

More than that, compared to this behemoth above me, I'm tiny, insignificant, a speck. There's nothing bovine about me.

"Please," I murmur, not even knowing what it is I'm asking for.

At my soft plea, the man smiles, a touch gentler now. "That's better. Be obedient and compliant, and we will not hurt you. Now then, state your name."

"Fiona." My name drips from my lips, soft, nearly inaudible, but he hears it.

"Fiona. It suits you."

"Glad you think so. My parents did as well."

"And feisty too," he chuckles, pulling away.

Again, I squint, not willing to allow my nearsightedness to make me miss any detail of what's happening.

"What's causing you pain?"

"Nothing." I spit out, horrified I even admitted to any discomfort a few moments ago.

It's a sign of weakness, something these strange men can use against me. I suck my lips into my mouth to keep from speaking again. Thankfully, my churning stomach remains silent and doesn't give anything else away.

"Then why is your brow furrowing?" He places his thumb in between my eyebrows and pushes until my muscles give way, relaxing my face.

Sighing, I give in. Besides, what exactly can they do to me if I admit the truth? "I can't see. If you'll return my glasses, I won't squint as much." The conversation is absurd, as if this stranger gives one fook about my ability to see or not.

With a snap of his fingers, another blue monster comes into view. Well, fook me. These drugs must be better than I thought. Now there's two of them. What in the bloody hell did they slip me?

They put their heads together and speak for a moment before turning back to me. Without saying a word, this new man comes around to the top of the table and grabs my head in his firm grip.

Panic rushes through me as the heart monitor beeps out in a rapid staccato. My breath catches in my throat, unable to fully fill my lungs. The more I'm unable to breathe, the worse it gets until I'm nearly dry heaving on the table.

"Sedate her," the first stranger barks out, his eyes darting over to the side.

I follow his gaze and watch as symbols fly across the screen. They could be numbers. They could be letters. Hell, they could be fooking hieroglyphics for all I know. Without my glasses, I have no clue what any of it means.

But I do know body language. It's something I can read even without my glasses to aid me. The man is concerned. Worried for the first time since I've seen him. The lines of his body are tight and rigid.

Soon, however, I don't care. The one holding my head slides an odd device down the side of my neck, distracting me. One sharp puncture later, and all cares and worries drift from me like steam off of hot asphalt.

Forget the drugs making these men blue. I want whatever this is bottled up and available for use at any time. My body is languid, floating as the first one hovers near.

I don't even flinch as he pries my eyes open, flooding them with that horrific light. Besides, it's not like I actually feel any discomfort. It's as if my body and mind are split in two.

Though I can feel every sensation, I can't bring myself to care. It's blissful, relaxing, a spa for my mind. I want to stay here forever, cocooned away from all the worries that bombard me on a regular basis.

The man grips my head again. I can feel the sensation of his fingers digging into my scalp. Pinpricks of discomfort skitter over my skin, but that's as far as it goes. There's no fear beating at my chest. No fight or flight begging me to run.

Even the monitor beeps at a slower cadence, lulling me almost. The first one relaxes a touch, his body sagging ever so slightly as he leans forward and runs an odd cylinder over my face.

"Mid-ranged nearsightedness with astigmatism in both eyes," he murmurs, peering down into my eye socket. "Everything else seems healthy."

"Well, I could have told you that," I slur, giggling at how drunk I sound.

He doesn't answer, but instead smirks at the other man. Shaking his head, he looks back down at me and runs his fingers across my cheek. "This is going to sting. Would you like me to put you to sleep?"

"Heck no," I laugh. "I might never wake up. Besides, I've handled my fair share of scrapes. Only girl with a family full of brothers. You do that math."

His face draws down into a frown. "I am unable to math without the rest of the equation. Unless the equation is to solve for the number of brothers you have? But even then, there is not enough to go by. The number of offspring to Earthlings is vastly different from none at all to far more than the body should produce. You must give me another variable."

I cannot control the laugh bubbling up from my lips. It sounds crazed, deranged even. "No, silly. Not that math. Just… It's an expression."

Again, he nods, but something tells me he doesn't quite understand. But then, I cannot bring myself to care. It must be a language thing. Goodness knows how many idioms I didn't understand when I first came to America.

When he leans in once more, he holds an odd tool in his hand. It looks similar to a scalpel, but duller somehow. Not that I've seen that many scalpels. He drags it over my eye, and for a moment, searing pain floods my body.

I want to scream, to thrash about, but the drugs they gave me keep me locked in this perpetual loop of disinterest, even as my body threatens to fall apart. To his credit, however, the pain doesn't last for long.

Soon, it gives way to no sensation at all. In fact, I would worry he severed the nerves completely, rendering me blind, but that's not the case at all. With my right eye, I can see just as clearly as if I had my glasses on.

He leans in to do the left eye, but this time, I can brace for the pain. It's a familiar agony, one I know will disappear before I drown in it. Under my breath, I count out, reaching ten seconds before the discomfort leaves and gives way to perfect vision.

I blink, unable to comprehend what it is that's happening. "Is it some sort of LASIK?"

Though I had been meaning to get the procedure done, I always held back, not wishing to mess with my eyes. They were functional with glasses, and I didn't wish to ruin them permanently. It doesn't matter that the success stories are abundant. I didn't want to be the one bad procedure.

"For you, that will be the closest approximation. However, our technology is far more advanced than your rudimentary procedures." There's a smug note of pride in his voice as he pulls away.

Now that I can clearly see, I take in the space around me. The entire room is metal, as if dipped in stainless steel and chrome. Monitors line the walls, many showing a screen with symbols on it that have no meaning.

Glancing up at the man at the head of the table, I watch as he takes the wand over to my neck again. Once more, there's a sharp prick and everything crashes in as my mind and body combine once more.

Frantic, I tug at my arms, looking down to see what's holding me in place. And that's when I realize I'm not only restrained, but I'm also naked. What the hell is happening to me?