Page 7 of Citrine

I blink back the tears and try again. "Where are we going? What are you planning to do?"

They don't answer, just go back to talking about some stupid football team. Soon after, we pull onto a gravel road, and I know I'm screwed.

It's a cop car, so the doors are locked. My hands are cuffed.

I'll just have to hope they kill me fast and there's no torture involved.

I'm feeling lightheaded as we bump down the road, my empty stomach sending waves of nausea up to somehow make the whole experience just one more layer of terrible.

"Why?"

Again, they ignore me. Cops and I haven't always had the best interactions. Partly because of my homelessness, the other part because I look like an immigrant, but many of them have been kind.

Helped me out, even, but these two are obviously among the scum that give the whole profession a bad name.

I give up trying to talk to them and instead look at my surroundings. The miles of baked ground, low scruff, and intermittent cactus aren't making me feel good about my odds if I try to run.

Another mile, with no plan formed, and we stop. I struggle when one of them pulls me from the car.

"Calm down, sweetie," he tells me, making me wish I knew how to break his stupid neck.

I struggle against the cuffs, desperate to get away, but it's futile.

"You'll like it," the one on my left mocks.

Before I can say anything more, the mocking one throws a thick cloth over my face, muffling my screams, then they drag me across some gravel before pushing me roughly against something hard.

Judging by the feel of it and the sudden pain of splinters, it's a wooden fence post. Big hands push me down until I smear all the way down it, my hands scraping along the wood until I can feel blood flowing.

Then they use another zip tie so my arms are tied around it, continuing to ignore me yelling at them. Then both car doors close. I scream at them again, but my only response is the sound of tires kicking up rocks.

No one comes and I eventually run myself out of energy, the hot sun leeching me of the ability to even keep myself upright.

It's like some sort of mockery of the sunshine cape I imagine around myself when I need to get my panic under control. What I get for trying to run away from reality all those times.

Now it's burning me alive.

I'm delirious by the time I hear the strange sounds, though I do notice that it is blessedly cool now. Far better than hours of endless heat and the fear of suffocating under the thick fabric.

When I smell some sort of gas and feel it pushing me toward sleep, it's a relief.

4

Wroahk

Voices hover over me, but my entire body aches too much to respond. I try to grunt, but even that feels like an effort. My lungs are burning, unaccustomed to being used. I never liked surfacing or the heavy feeling of my body outside of the water.

I can't understand them. My eyes won't open so I can see them, but I can feel their disgusting limbs all over me. My tentacles won't respond to my commands to crush them.

What is happening?

Am I dying?

They're probing at the drum covering my left ear and a searing pain comes as something is pressed against it until it breaks through. Then they're dragging me onto a surface with sharp edges and a smooth top, the rough motion jarring my senses.

Suddenly I can understand their wet, garbled speech. "He'll be perfect for the auction. One of the matrons will throw all kinds of credits at us when they see both of those thick things. We can market it as a fuck hunt."

I try to grunt again, still unable to move any part of my body. I only hunt for myself. Never for others.