Welcome to the House of Cards

As soon as the fabric was over her face she learned something about herself. She did not love the feeling of confined spaces. The juxtaposition of the implied confinement when your head is trapped while your arms are still free was disorienting. It was short lived though. A moment after the bag had been fully cinched shut her wrists were roughly pulled in front of her and cuffed together. Through the fabric it was hard to make out the mumbling that grew around her now that she was contained. Bodies brushed past her, jostling her where she stood. Had she become invisible? Maybe there really was something to the childish belief that if you can’t see them they can’t see you.

A coarse had grabbed her upper arm and whipped her to the side. She thought it was a man, based on the size of the hand roughly handling her. He pulled her along and as she stumbled she decided to catalog her thoughts. Beyond the voice calling her ‘Ms. Spade’ she was unsure who she was. She was currently in a nondescript building, in an unknown city, that held an alarming amount of people with guns. She wasn’t a fan of the people with guns. The feeling extended past the obvious dislike towards people intent on harming you. It was something deeper, but it was also out of reach, she’d have to think on that harder. The noises outside the head covering had quieted down as she shuffled along. Either most of the gun people had left the entryway or she had. Her gut told her it was the latter.

Spade’s thoughts continued to spiral as she tried to put together more certainties. While she tried to rebuild her life they walked. On and on they walked with a tough tug or painful push turning this way and that. After adding ‘no acid spit’ and ‘nails too short to cut with’ to her list of certainties they stopped. A whisper of air shot forth as a door was opened. They entered and she was practically thrown into a chair. The cold radiated from the metal and bit through her jeans. The hairs on her neck stood on edge as it tried to acclimated to the cold of the chair compared to the warmth of the room. It didn’t quite add up.

One of her wrists was freed from the cuffs, but only momentarily. The man grunted as he pulled her arms to the side. Now she had one warm wrist and one cold one. The cuff that had taken hold of her free wrist was just as frigid as the chair. She sensed the man walking away so she gently tugged on the bindings much to her regret. Once she reached the point where she could tell she was now shackled to the chair she was rewarded with a shock to her body. Seizing up, her jaw locked, keeping any scream she might have uttered buried deep within her. For that she was grateful. If she was to be hurt she would try to limit her response. She refused to let them take any satisfaction from her reactions.

That proved a vain hope. As she breathed away the memory of the pain she heard a low chuckle. Her captor was enjoying this, jerk. If she ever saw his face she would commit it to memory and pay him back in kind. She was fairly confident she even had the necessary skills to do it, recalling them was the only hitch. She realized she was absently spinning her ring. The motion helped drive away the lingering tingle. Note to self, do not test the bindings.

The door slammed and her eyes flew open. Listening hard she could only hear her breathing. She waited a few minutes more for him to shuffle or make some noise. After five minutes relief that her captor had left seeped through her veins. It was short lived however because the gravity of the situation hit her. She was chained to a freezing chair and her body temperature was dropping by the minute. There was no obvious way to get out of the chair without facing more shocks. Even then freedom was not a guarantee. The only certainty was pain. Again she started to spin her ring as she began to ponder just how she would get herself out of this mess.

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