1 - Narrational Imperative.
He slowly opened his eyes. He tried to remember when he'd closed them, but drew a blank. There was a light directly above him, and it made him squint. He became aware of heat. Whatever he was laying on was hot, as was the air around him. His eyes got used to the light, and he realised he was looking up at the sky, the sun burning down on him. When did he lay down? This also drew a blank. Obviously, shortly before he closed his eyes.
He began to feel an ache in the back of his head. As he focused on it, it began to pulsate, and the pain grew. There was a tight feeling around his neck, which restricted his breathing somewhat. His gut also hurt, but it was a different sensation. The pain was all there before, he just hadn't noticed. Waking up had slowly triggered his senses, one by one. Smell appeared to be next, as sweat and body odour filled his nostrils. There also seemed to be manure and something burning nearby. While unpleasant, it was not unbearable, thankfully. So, he thought, sight, touch, and smell. They're all working.
"How you feeling, lad?" said a voice nearby, assuring him that his hearing was fine. He turned to where the sound came from, and instantly regretted it. What was a dull pulsating pain while lying still became an overwhelming sense of nausea and vertigo the instant his head moved. His skull felt like an explosion had gone off inside, the whole world seemed to fly by as the vertigo grabbed hold, and he threw up. Taste completed his sensory exploration, assuring him that everything was fine, contrary to his current opinion. He imagined that the food had tasted better going down.
"Ah, not so good, apparently. It's okay, though. I'm sure I can get most of that off of my pants." concluded the voice.
When the world stopped spinning, he looked at the person who spoke to him. He saw a kindly old man, who seemed to have a hint of concern in his face. Usually, waking up in this fashion brought a number of questions to the mind, each one fighting for dominance as the one that should be asked first. This leads the individual to have a confused expression, and an open mouth, waiting for the winning question to be asked.
"What the hell did I eat?" came out, causing the old man to chuckle.
"Nothin' good, I'd wager. Nothin' healthy. Can you sit up? Good, but be careful, son, take it slowly."
Another man came into his field of vision. "I was a medic in another life. Let me take a look at that skull of yours, see what kind of damage you've done."
The medic leant him forward slowly, and touched the hair on the back of his head. When he gently pressed on the middle back of his skull, pain shot out with such intensity that he threw up again. The acidic, burning sensation in the back of his throat made him wonder yet again what he'd been eating. Something spicy, apparently. He looked at the old man, who was looking down. The medic's hand had some blood on it that wasn't there before.
"Seems ta me you're still bleedin', although not a great deal." Stated the old man.
The medic looked at him, seeing the concern in his face. "It's fine, it'll heal up naturally. Good thing, really, as I don't exactly have any medical supplies available to me." The look of concern gave way slightly, and a flash of anger crossed the man's face. "Now, tell me, why did you have to go and do such a stupid thing?"
This gave him pause for thought. He couldn't remember laying down, or closing his eyes. He tried to remember beyond waking up, and drew another, humungous blank. Panic began to swell, and he tried to remember anything. Nothing sprang to mind. He couldn't even remember his own name!
He looked around at his surroundings, hoping that something would jog his memory. He was sitting on the floor, next to the old man. Just past him was a wire fence with a chained up gate, with animals on the other side. A look to his right showed the fence continuing, while behind and to the right of the gate stood the remains of a single story building, with one entrance inside this small area. He seemed to be trapped in a cage with the old man, the medic and two females. A young girl sat in a corner, idly tapping the ground with a metal pole, seemingly uninterested in anything around her. An older woman was standing near the animals, trying to touch one through the wires. Her hand was small enough to fit through, thin enough to be almost skeletal. He looked back at the others. Everyone appeared to be unnaturally thin, as did the animals on the other side of the fence. This theme even continued to himself, as he realised that the pain in his stomach was actually hunger. He thought about the food he wasted when he woke up. He put his hand to his neck, and saw that everyone had a kind of metal collar on them, with a small flashing red light. This is what was restricting his breathing when he moved his head earlier. Some of the losing questions from before returned, determined to be vocalised.
"What... Where... Dammit, what the hell's happened? Where am I, and why do I feel so god damned hungry?"
The medic snorted. "Fine, deflect the question." and walked off.
The old man's right eyebrow raised, genuine curiousity appearing on his face.
"Well, son, looks like the crack you took to your noggin done gone messed up your brain some, givin' you a healthy dose of amnesia." He paused a few seconds, looking thoughtful. "Seems ta me that this is good news, believe it or not." The old man received an incredulous look, but continued. "Right, first thing's first. Your name's Douglas. Ring any bells?"
Douglas gave this some thought. The name meant nothing to him, but he trusted that the old man knew more than he did himself. "No" he stated.
"Hmm. Exposition time. Feel free ta zone out for a minute or two." He tapped his fingers on the wall, thinking before he continued. "It seems ta me that what we have here is a case of narrational imperative. Y'see, life is made up of stories. You tell your friends what happened to you las' week. Tha's a story. It'll usually have a beginnin', middle an' end. How you met your partner; what you did when you were a kid; what your parents were like; all stories. History itself can be broken down inta two words: High Story. The past is a big story, one huge piece of narrative."
The old man started to fidget, as he got into his speech. Douglas looked around the cage, and saw that everyone else was ignoring the old man. Douglas figured that Hector did this sort of thing a lot. He tried to pay attention.
"World War One, World War Two, World War Three. All o' these were separate stories in a much larger saga. Each started at one place, an' ended at another. But there are smaller stories too. Everyone has their own story, and this is the start of yours."
Hector started to get quite excited, as if he was revealing the greatest secret known to man. Douglas, despite his best efforts, had already lost interest, but kept his eyes focused on the old man.
"You're an amnesiac, which is a very powerful thing in stories. Means you have ta make a huge journey ta find out who you are, fighting terrible odds an' bad guys, culminating in an epic battle against your greatest ally, or even a family member. And, no, I'm not your father, before you even think such a thing. However, every epic story starts small. An' this is your start."
Hector stood up, spread his arms and gestured around him, taking in the enclosed area they were living in.
"You're trapped in a cage, treated like an animal. Narrational imperative means that you're gunna escape, take down the evil leader, and free the slaves. At some point later durin' your story, somethin' will happen that will cause you doubt. Slaves we may be, but we're no strangers to love, and it's that bond that will cause some of the freed slaves to turn up and help you out."
The old man beamed at Douglas, happy to reveal his place in the grand scheme of things. Douglas just stared,
"Fine, fine. You don' believe me, fair enough. It'd be an odd world indeed if ya did. But you'll see. When ya escape, when ya beat the head slaver, you'll come back ta ol' Hector and wanna know more. Now, go. I've dispensed enough wisdom and secrets fer now."
With that, old man Hector shut his eyes and laid down.
Douglas didn't know who he was, so couldn't occupy his mind with fond memories or personal interests. Hector remained asleep for the next few hours, as did the medic, so he'd moved on to the lady. She was talking to the animals on the other side of the fence. They were large, with two heads, two horns on each head. She would try to soothe them with a soft voice, but her voice had a croak to it, as if lack of food and water had damaged her throat. When he engaged her in conversation, she would tell him how badly these animals, called brahmin, were treated. She would go into detail about the physical punishment they would be put through, and he could tell from her eyes that she found the topic emotionally demanding. When she finally told him how the slavers would rip the brahmin's clothing before humiliating the poor beasts, he began to realise that the things she'd described had not actually happened to the animals. Her eyes welled up, and she went back to soothing the animals, her rags occasionally snagging on the fence. Any further attempt to talk to her merely made her eyes flicker from the brahmin to him, and back again. She was not willing to carry on their talk for now.
He went over to the young girl, who had gone from tapping the floor with a metal pole, to walking back and forth, dragging the pole against the fence, then trying to balance the pole on its end. She never wandered too far from the corner, where he noticed some rags piled up into a crude bed. As he approached her, she froze and stared at him. As he got closer, she backed away, gripping the pole tighter with both hands. He raised his hands, palm outwards, in what he hoped was a friendly gesture, but she just hunkered down a little, ready to defend herself. Despite calming words, she wouldn't let him come near her. He noticed her clothing was torn in places, like the older lady's. He began to understand what they had been through, and figured that he'd tried to stop the slavers from taking one of the women. The slavers wouldn't have taken kindly to that, so had smashed him around the head, leaving him for dead.
He reached around and felt the back of his skull. There was no blood anymore, and the headache had abated somewhat, which was a good sign. Accepting that he wasn't going to get any conversation from either of the females, nor Hector, he started to examine the fence. If there was a weakness, some kind of gap, he could probably squeeze through and escape. If the others were mentally capable, he would help them to get out too.
No gaps. No weaknesses. If he had a lever of some sort, he could probably weaken an area, stretch it so he could get underneath it. The only thing that would be of any use was the pole that the girl had, and he doubted she would give it up any time soon.
He tried the door, which opened, much to his surprise. Inside was dim, but it was a little cooler inside. He wondered if there was anyone else inside, getting away from the sun.
"Hello?" he called. No response. He ventured further inside the dark room, and saw rusted trollies and dirty bed rolls inside, but no sign of life. He wondered why there was no one here, and everyone was outside in the baking sun.
A little further in, he saw some light coming from the back of the room. There were metal barrels piled up, with glowing green liquid pouring out. As he approached, it became warmer, and he began to feel sick in his stomach. The closer he got, the warmer and sicker he felt, with sweat pouring out of him. He backed away, but the symptoms remained. He went back outside, realising why the door was always closed and no one went in there. He felt worse than he did when he first woke up.
"Okay mutt," a new voice called out, "time to get back to it."
Douglas looked around, and saw a man standing on the other side of the gate, looking directly at him. It looked like this slave had a job to do. As he didn't know where he stood, he decided he would be best served to, well, serve. A slave he was, a slave he'd have to remain, for now. At least this way, he'd be able to get a better look at his surroundings, and formulate some kind of plan. And, perhaps, find something to alleviate the illness that had taken over him.
When he returned to the cage after sunset, he noticed that Hector, the medic and the brahmin lady were all missing, but the girl was still in her corner.
Douglas had spent half the day doing menial chores, then physically demanding tasks. He would have probably still found it difficult at full health. The slavers treated him with no respect at all, hitting him when they felt like it, or throwing things at him. He had not eaten since he woke up earlier, so felt weak, and the hunger pains were not helping. All in all, he didn't feel all that good. He sat in the corner opposite the girl, rolled up into a ball, and fell asleep.
When he woke up again, he was pleased to note he hadn't forgotten anything new. A strange thing to feel happy about, but you take what you can get. He noticed an apple on the floor in front of him. He looked around in the darkness, but neither Hector nor Brahmin Lady had returned, and Corner Girl was rolled up on her rags, hugging the pole, possibly asleep. The medic was grasping his collar, his fingers moving about it, seemingly searching for something. He finished the apple, core and all, and tried to get up. His whole body still felt weak, and he continued to sweat, so he decided to get some more sleep while he could.
The sun had risen when he woke yet again. Hector was asleep in his customary place, and Brahmin Lady was asleep next to the brahmin. Corner Girl was looking at him, but turned away a few seconds after he noticed. He tried talking to her, but she still wouldn't let him approach her. She wasn't afraid of him, she just REALLY didn't want him near her. So he went to Brahmin Lady, and started asking questions about the brahmin, like what they ate. As long as the topic was safe, she was happy to converse. Her name was Jess, he found out. Corner Girl's name was Polly. Polly with the pole, he thought to himself, amused. The medic was Sylvester.
The slaves were all fed soon, and he began to feel a little better, although still weak and nauseous. He found out he was asleep when they delivered dinner. If someone was asleep, they didn't get fed.
As the day wore on, he was called out again to do chores, but they were less demanding this time. He played the part of the dutiful slave, not rocking the boat, and was left alone. An old man he did chores for even gave him a sweet roll, although three slavers took it off him again. Douglas considered his options, but decided it was best to let them take it, rather than start a fight.
His second day ended with dinner and a sleep. He hadn't seen anything that would help him escape, so he bided his time, trying to get his energy back and stop feeling so weak. Maybe tomorrow will furnish him with results.
Wake up. Breakfast. Chores. Dinner. Sleep. New day. Wake up. Breakfast. Chores. Dinner. Sleep. The days seemed to repeat, were monotonous. Nothing new. But he was eating properly, and conserving his strength. His head was fine now, and he was only slightly hungry, instead of ravenous. He continued to have periods of sweating and nausea, and they seemed to be getting worse. His head would feel like someone was stabbing ice picks into it (they weren't, he checked), and his thoughts would get cloudy, impairing his judgement at times. Sylvester looked him over, but couldn't find anything wrong. "Just a bug. Drink plenty of fluids, and get plenty of rest."
Hector just laughed to himself, not engaging in conversation. Corner Girl... No, wait, Polly, she remained in her corner. She was never called out to work, and never left her corner. Jess would take her food near to her, and leave it. Polly would wait until she was gone, then get her food. Seems it wasn't just him she didn't trust, it was everyone. This made him feel a little better, for some reason.
He also found a member of the slavers who wasn't apparently evil. When Douglas did work for Patrick, he was treated kindly, even given water and food. Patrick spoke to him as a servant, rather than a slave. Douglas got the impression that he was oblivious to what was going on around him, thinking that the slaves actually wanted to be there. This was something that Douglas could potentially exploit and use to his advantage in the near future.
Patrick took him back to the cage, which allowed Douglas to walk slowly, and look around at the compound. It wasn't actually all that big, really, but there seemed to be a fair amount of slavers walking around. Douglas walked with his head hung low, carefully looking so as not to catch anyone's eye. No point having a slaver smashing him around the skull again. There only seemed to be one exit from the compound, and that involved running past lots of people, all armed with guns and bats, as well as a lookout who could spot anything from his perch. It all seemed hopeless. Still, he thought he knew a way. He saw the way the slavers interacted with each other, saw where they kept their weapons, and his plan began to form.
Back in his cage, he noticed that Jess was scratching her hands, and smiling. He started the conversation with brahmin, as usual, then worked his way around to finding out why she was smiling. All she said was that she had been cleaning out the nearby toilets. Not making much sense to him, he asked her if she wanted to escape. She tugged at the metal collar around her neck, then turned away, back to the brahmin. Conversation over, in other words.
A slaver came to the door with food. His head was swimming, his thoughts felt thick like mud. He was sweating heavily again. It was time to enact his plan. As the cage door opened, Douglas grabbed a rock and hurled it at the slavers head. It hit the mark, momentarily stunning him. Douglas rushed to the gate, grabbed the weapon from the holster, and held it to the slavers head.
"Okay, I'm getting out of here, and I'm taking these three with me."
Everything seemed to swim in and out of focus, the whole world seemed to be moving. There was a brief moment of confusion as everyone looked around. A black man in a colourful suit appeared from around the corner, took stock of the situation, and pulled out a gun. Douglas tightened his grip on his own gun, determined to see this plan through.
"You know the rules, and so do I." the new man stated, and didn't even aim; he just shot from the hip, hitting the hostage square in the chest. The unfortunate slaver sighed out his final breath, and slumped to the floor, dead. With that, the shooter holstered his gun and returned to whatever it was he was doing.
Douglas stood in shock, just as his hostage had done only a minute before. In his head, it all made sense. He'd thought of all possible outcomes. Well, except any possible outcome where they shot their own man. It was long enough for someone to get behind him and hit him around the head with the butt of a laser rifle. Douglas slumped to the floor next to his hostage.