Chapter 15

15

“You know what’s a really great way to ruin a perfectly lovely walk on top of the Great Wall of China?” I’m not asking anyone in particular, but if the people I can hear breathing loudly on the other side of the potato sack my head’s been shoved into happen to understand my question, I won’t be mad about it.

No one answers, but that’s ok, because I’ve got the answer for them right here. “It’s a kidnapping. Kidnapping will ruin a perfectly lovely afternoon stroll along the Great Wall.”

Again, no one replies, but they heard me, I know they did.

How did this happen with a demigod holding my hand during said stroll? I’m not really sure. I was hit in the head before it all went down, and I woke up with a potato sack over my injured head. I definitely probably have a concussion, but it's likely super mild because I’m not experiencing any of the terrible consequences of concussions. My head hurts, yes, but there’s no brain fog or sleepiness or whatever else, just an annoying headache. If my hands weren’t tied behind my back I would activate some pressure points to maybe help a bit with the headache. I know those are mostly placebo, but results are results, right? If the placebo works, then it works.

I heard that if you take regular old ibuprofen and package it as “works for fevers” or “period cramps,” then it works better for those things because medicine works better when the people taking it believe that it does. I actually convinced my younger sister that regular ol’ ibuprofen works best for PMS and that the “menstrual relief” medicine was a scam, and she reported to me that ibuprofen does, in fact, work better than the things branded for PMS. What do you know? Convincing the brain that the medicine works makes the actual medicine work better.

I wonder if I had convinced her that sugar tablets are the best if that would have worked? Too late to experiment with that now.

“So, where are we going anyway?”

I receive a punch to the head for that question. It takes a moment, but my brain decides it would rather not be awake for this, and I faint.

When I come to again, it’s because I’m being dragged out of wherever I was and hauled to my feet. The hands on me are strong and grab-my-entire-upper-arm-from-elbow-to-shoulder huge.

I’m being dragged around by giants. Interesting.

“I’m going to barf,” I warn them as my stomach revolts against the whole concussed, punched, dragged out of a faint thing.

The pulling on my body stops and the bag over my head is ripped off. Before I get much of a look around, I’m shoved over so I can vomit on red dirt. Oh look, I’m in Hell again. Lava floes to my right and left tell me I’ve been brought back here, but why? Who in Hell could possibly want me?

My stomach heaves, and all that delicious food Darcy didn’t pay for finds itself spattered across the dirt, my shoes, and someone else’s size thirty shoes. That’s unfortunate.

Once the dry heaving stops, the potato sack is shoved over my head again and I’m lifted up and tossed over someone’s shoulder. I might be twelve feet off the ground at this height. I’m just guessing, obviously, but I know I’m higher than the average height of a human based on that lift.

A couple of voices grind out some daring whispers, but the universal translation spell tells me exactly what they’re saying:

“Why are humans so weak?”

“Stop asking stupid questions and shut up. Master told you not to say a fucking word.”

“Master’s not here, is he? And he’s not the one with vomit on his shoes.”

“Shut up, Hen. You’re going to get us killed.”

“Only if you snitch,” Hen grouses.

After that exchange they do shut up, but none of what I just heard is very encouraging for them. “You really shouldn’t work for a dude who’s likely to execute you for talking. That’s not really a proportional response, you know? Besides, you’re not children, are you? Talking in the workplace is generally allowed. Freedom of speech and all that, you know?”

I know, freedom of speech doesn’t work that way, but they probably don’t know that, and the point is that their employer is an asshole if they think murder is the commensurate consequence to talking out of turn.

The people transporting me say nothing.

“I bet if you shopped your skills around a bit you could find someone to work for who will let you kidnap innocent humans and talk on the job. Gossip is really important to society. It keeps us connected to a larger community than we can keep up with on our own. We have our immediate family, and we keep up with them and our close friends, but with gossip, we can keep up with our friend’s friends and their families and their families’ friends. It means that while we may only have face to face contact with twenty to fifty people that we keep up with regularly, our knowledgeability reach is closer to a thousand people.” (That’s an exaggeration.) “And that keeps us connected to the community at large. We know what’s happening in our city, but also in a town in another state or what’s happening in another country. If a disease happens in one place, gossip gets spread to help mitigate the spread of the disease. If there’s a natural disaster, we can come together to help people we might have no real connection to, but we know about it from a friend of a friend of a friend. I bet you didn’t know that, did you? Spreading news through gossip is important to the health and safety of societies.”

“Did you know that?” Hen whispers to the person not carrying me.

“It makes sense that that’s the reason the succies are always talking,” the other voice replies.

“Maybe we should tell Master that gossip is important to the cohesiveness of the group?”

“You think he’s going to listen to us?”

“No,” they say in unison, and that’s it.

“Well if you ever decide to find a different employer, I’ve got a couple of ins that might give you better options for workplace satisfaction. Can’t guarantee better pay, but sometimes we sacrifice a few bucks for better mental and emotional health. Less stress is better than more, in my opinion, but also in the opinion of the experts who tell us that we live longer if we only have a moderate amount of healthy stress.”

“What the fuck is healthy stress?”

“Oh, you know, like the pressure that society puts on you for your health. Like, take a shower because hygiene is important and we don't want to smell your BO, and the stress of making sure you eat healthy foods in moderate amounts. The stress of growing up and adding to the space around you instead of destroying it, right? There are healthy stressors, but too much is bad for you. Workplace stress can be productive in small amounts, but too much of it and you’re going to find yourself in a spiral that could lead to heart attacks, strokes, and suicidality. You gotta moderate all that for your health.”

“You remember Finty?” Hen asks solemnly.

The other one grunts sadly.

“Finty succumbed to stress?” I ask gently, because no one deserves to have their losses referred to callously.

“Yeah. Poor girl walked into the magma spires and never came back.” Hen explains. “It was after Master screamed at her and had her flogged for losing his favorite shoes.”

“Fuck, man. I’m sorry to hear that. No one deserves to be screamed at by their employer, much less flogged.”

“It was just the last thing in a long line of things,” the other one sighs. “You need to shut up now. If anyone catches us talking, they’ll kill us.”

I don’t want that for them, so I close my mouth.

Soon a gate creaks and low voices murmur around us. More walking—stairs get involved, and I know that because the bumpy ride on Hen’s shoulder gets bumpier.

Eventually, I’m set on my feet again.

“Strip him and throw him in the dungeon. Cell number seven.”

“Listen, you don't have to take my clothes. I’m not going to try to escape. I’m pretty sure that the rescue squad is coming, and there’s no need for them to find me naked.” Darcy isn’t going to let this go on for long, and I wouldn’t even be surprised if the baby flink is the entirety of my rescue squad—they definitely don’t deserve the trauma of finding me in my birthday suit.

This time the punch comes to the stomach, but I’m fairly certain it’s not from my escorts, who both release protesting grunts. “Prisoners will stay silent until it’s time to scream.” The voice who punched me hisses that with a little too much evil glee.

I gag inside the potato sack, but since I’ve already emptied my stomach, nothing comes of it.

I don’t want to get hit again, so I don’t say another word or resist when they rip my clothes off. They don’t even have the decency to preserve them, they just tear them off.

“What’s that?” Hen asks, confused. Poking at my prosthetic.

“That’s my artificial limb. Please don’t take it off or I won’t be able to walk.” I can hop and I’m pretty good at it, but only for short distances.

“Remove it!” the evil voice insists.

This is going to be an expensive—

Blinding pain rips a scream out of me as the prosthetic is ripped off of the end of my stump.

That’s it for Elijah—I’m out.