Incident [TEXT]

You awake to a throbbing headache, gritted teeth and the chafe of rope around your wrists. Everything hurts. Bright light is painting the inside of your eyelids red, so you keep them screwed shut for the moment.

You take a deep breath, made somewhat ragged by the pain.

First things first. What were your captors kind enough to leave you with?

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Feel free to suggest anything our captive might have on them at this moment in time: clothes, trinkets, useful things that might have been overlooked, whatever. Imply whatever you want and I'll run with it.

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Exquisite Illustrations Related to This Tale of Woe:

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A handgun. No bullets, obviously.

A machete that is so dull that it is better off to be a bludgeon.

Your captors are a bunch of dicks.

A whole mess of useful electronic items, with the battery slots all filled in with packing foam.

Thirty-eight wheels of Limburger cheese.

a toy gyroscope

A map.

Mostly to taunt you.

Your tongue.

Your trusty partner.

In bloody pieces.

Your tongue.

True... but with the reputation these guys have, you're not sure whether to count yourself as lucky or not. On the one hand, you're still intact. On the other, it rather implies that they have some interest in what you have to say. The kind of interest that makes a mess of their nice clean knives and shiny thumbscrews.

You're guessing that's why you still have fingers.

You try not to think about it and open your eyes instead. Blinking, you twist your head away from the lamp aimed directly at your face. Nice. Very friendly.

A handgun. No bullets, obviously.

A machete that is so dull that it is better off to be a bludgeon.

Shifting around in your chair, (as much as the rope binding you to it will allow) you squint at the items just out of range of your feet: a machete, clearly completely useless even from this distance, and your handgun. It was loaded when you got into this mess. You doubt that's still true even in the most freakish of parallel universes. All you can think of is that your captors are trying to be funny, and putting almost useful items just out of reach is their idea of hilarity. But maybe if you run out of things to do you can try and claim the useless weapons.

Aside from that, all you have is the clothes on your back.

a toy gyroscope

...And the gyroscope, in one of your pockets. How did you forget about that? They probably didn't take it because they didn't understand its importance. Truth be told, you don't either, but if somebody uses their dying moments to point something out you're sure as hell going to keep hold of it.

Yes, the victim, the gyroscope. That's how it all started.

But you're not in the mood to dwell on that goddamn toy again. Better to focus on more pressing issues. For instance: where are you? And who is responsible for putting you here?

Number 6.

You're up to your eyeballs in debt. What else is new?

Your parents.

And they wonder why you hardly ever visit any more.

The bank. But not just ANY bank.

Somewhere underground. A basement? Probably a resident's home--and that homeowner is likely a member of the "underground" as well.
Getting involved with a supernatural mafia seemed like a dumb idea at the time, and in hindsight it comes out looking downright suicidal.

The bank. But not just ANY bank.

For the first time your eyes drink in the plushness of your surroundings. The walls are wood-panelled, the furniture dark and expensive, the chairs upholstered in smooth leather. And all are covered in a thick layer of dust.

A massive desk squats in front of you like a glowering bullfrog. There are still stacks of paper standing on it, plus the gleaming nameplate of someone you've never heard of. Whoever they were, the evident knighthood signals that they were doing far better than you are now. Probably never tied to a chair even once in their lifetime.

As you meet the gaze of the figure in the oil painting behind the desk (the legend declaring it to be the aforementioned 'Sir') you begin to have a sneaking suspicion as to where you might be.

The Old Bank.

Or The Abandoned Bank, or The Bank On Crestbridge Street. It's a beautiful building – at least, from the outside – with an impressive façade of carved stone, all low steps and Corinthian columns. As far back as anyone can remember, the windows and doors have always been boarded up and barred. Warning signs plaster the walls. Nobody knows why such a prominent building has been left derelict for so long, only that it's always been like that.

There are dozens of stories surrounding the building. Most of them refer to groups of people that went mysteriously missing when they broke in, and a few expand on the theme by blaming monsters or ghosts that lurk in the abandoned rooms. It's nonsense, but it keeps people away better than the warning signs ever could.

It's nonsense, but you can't help but notice the deathly silence. You strain your ears and only catch the sound of your own breathing.

Why is it so quiet?

You try to say something to break the silence, but your mouth is too dry and the lack of noise too oppressive. Your words catch in your throat. So you try to think of something else.

Your parents.

Number 6.

Right. The kidnappers. To be truthful, you're not entirely sure who brought you here, seeing as you were tapped as you left your office and didn't get a chance to see who did it or to ask them about their allegiances. But there are two main candidates, and you have a pretty good idea whose toes it is you've been treading on.

Possibility one: one of the crime syndicates. And there is only one, really. It also happens to be run by your biological parents. You keep quiet about that particular fact because it's bad for business, and they keep quiet about it because you're a nobody. Everybody wins, especially considering that they're scum and you want nothing to do with them.

In any case, you've been on good terms with the mob lately. As good as they can be between a PI and the hub of organised crime.

So that leaves possibility two: Number 6.

Who is Number 6? It's unclear. But several high profile assassinations have his name linked to them. He probably wasn't the one personally responsible, but word is he has something of an army hidden somewhere in the city and a use planned for it. You've seen the posters and graffiti around, so you know this much: Number 6 wears a mask, and his plan is to do with the sparkers and the city's mercenaries. The former is shady as hell and the latter means blood is going to get spilled, sooner or later. The assassinations are just the beginning.

And the reason you're involved with this maniac? Your rent is due. And you haven't been getting cases lately. So when some guy turns up with a story about a rich relative receiving death threats, you jumped on it as fast as you could. Problem is, those threats quickly became reality and you stumbled on the scene just in time for the murderer to get a good look at you. You also filched the gyroscope because as far as you're concerned, this is still your case. Although maybe not for much longer.

Damn.

You hang your head and grit your teeth. You're not going to take this lying down, so you guess you'll just have to escape before somebody turns up to check on you. It's not like you haven't been coshed and tied to a chair before.

What was it that you did last time?

You were at a bar picking up la chicas scrounging for dirty secrets

You lifted up the chair and stumbled around until you found something to cut the ropes on.

Too bad this chair's bolted down.

You unintentionally tightened the ropes by moving around carelessly. They basically became a tourniquet around your wrists and you nearly lost a hand.

You flipped the chair over so you could wiggle around on the floor until you got to a sharp object you could use.

You kept a level head and hoped.

You were at a bar picking up la chicas scrounging for dirty secrets

Ah, yes. Had you not been dragged off and had the shit kicked out of you that would have probably turned out to be a pretty good night. It's just a shame that you didn't get their number before someone realised what you were up to.

You unintentionally tightened the ropes by moving around carelessly. They basically became a tourniquet around your wrists and you nearly lost a hand.

You flipped the chair over so you could wiggle around on the floor until you got to a sharp object you could use.

You kept a level head and hoped.

You were young and inexperienced back then, and as such immediately panicked. It's not like you metamorphosed into an escape artist or anything because of that one incident, but at least now you know better than to lose your head and flail around while tightly bound up. Obviously you didn't back then.

Long story short, after the ten most drawn out minutes of your life you managed to tip the chair over and wriggle towards a broken pipe that was sharp enough to cut the rope. All the while you were hoping the person you'd been flirting with would bust open the door and save you, whereupon you would both run into the night and kiss under a streetlight or something vaguely romantic like that.

Like you said, you were young and stupid. They probably forgot you existed within moments of you walking off. Not to mention that if they were hanging around a place like that, they were probably involved in criminal dealings. Not your type.

You take a moment to recall that this was only four years ago. It feels like you've been doing this job for decades.

But you got out on your own, and even managed to bust a few of the people responsible for your bruises and cracked ribs. It was good to see them again in the courts when you testified against them. Yeah.

The memory has sent a stupid smile spreading across your face before you remember that you're still stuck in this chair in this dusty room in the creepy building, and you haven't got the time to reminisce about small victories. So you gingerly prod the knots of the rope (as much as you can) and decide against the escapology route. You never got around to educating yourself about knots and such.

Only one thing left to try.

The chair is infuriatingly solid, but focused rocking back and forth eventually leads to the chair tipping back just a little too far. Slowly at first, you fall backwards and slam into the ground...

...directly onto your hands. You try and fail to withhold a strangled scream.

And then, of course, you hear the sound you failed to notice while creakily trying to get the chair to move.

Footsteps. Drawing nearer.

You start to panic, but just for a moment. They're too close, and if anything the scream drew their attention. Whatever happens, you're not getting out of this one scot free.

So when you finally see the infamous mask of Number 6 coming towards you, you see it upside down. And on your back.

The wearer stops in front of you, clearly at a loss for words. Or perhaps just contemplating the idiot that they captured.

What do you say?

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One day, perhaps, I will decide on a gender and sexual orientation for this character.

But that day is not today.

"Mind helping me up? I'd do it myself but I'm a bit tied up at the moment."

"I have you right where I want you."

"Big kahuna, little help?"