I had a dream before they came for me.
I was running, thud, thud, thud, against the damp concrete of a long, blackened road. Trees flanking either side of me, I wondered where exactly I was going, and who was to greet me at the end of this road. An ominous cloud hung, a curtain slowly tearing from its rail, high above my head, and watched me with sad eyes:
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
I sighed myself awake. The sun was being particularly cruel in the heat it threw over London, making it so breathtakingly hot, I was certain all my organs were slowly but surely cooking. The darkened blue sky winked at me: I had forgotten to close my curtains.
Had I?
The window was open too, wide, although I couldn't recall opening it at all.
Nor did I remember not closing my curtains. I always closed my curtains.
I was the curtain-closing kid, if such a thing existed.
And then, with tired eyes, I watched two shadows manoeuvre past my dressing table, the sheen of their black suits reflecting back at me from the bedside mirror.
Two shadows. Moving. In my room. Without apparent reason.
Unless I was mistaken, my room was being ransacked.
Only I was mistaken. These people weren't looking for any item at all.
No, these people were looking for me.
They stopped in front of me, as I drew my duvet up to my chin, fear immobilising me.
"Don't worry," one of them purred, "We won't hurt you,"
How ironic. Two hooded figures bound into my room willy nilly and then reassure me that's it actually okay, they aren't axe murderers about to grind my bones to make their bread.
Well.
I took in a deep breath, and screamed.
They acted quicker than I imagined; the small, nimbler one pounced onto my bed, silencing me with a hand clutching my throat, squeezing my windpipe. All the air fled from my lungs, and I felt a surge of panic swell inside of my stomach. Oh god, they were going to strangle me to death. I was going to die of asphyxiation.
Holy shit.
"No!" the other roared, "We don't hurt her. We deliver her."
Deliver me? I wasn't a freakin' chicken korma. The tiny black figure released me at once, and I relished in the warm oxygen that floated back into me. I breathed in, and out, in and out, once, twice, thrice.
I was okay.
I wasn't dead, yet.
"HELP!" I yelled, "HELP ME! DAD! DAD, HELP ME!"
I held on fearfully to the headboard of my bed, as the larger one tried to drag me out from under my blankets. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a small black bag to my left, sprawled out on the floor: my toolbox.
Before we continue, perhaps I should explain my inane love of automobiles of any sort. Planes, trains, cars especially, I loved. I would often hang out at my local garage, trying to convince the old garage tech to let me have a look at some of the cars, to do an oil change, to just give me a job.
No dice, of course, but I simply enjoyed watching the boisterous men roll into the yard with their ugly, underdeveloped trucks, and demand new tires.
What they really needed, was my expertise.
But of course, I kept quiet. If my dad found out I was lurking by the garage, he would have my head. Anything unladylike, he sternly disapproved of.
"HELP ME!" I cried once more, as one of them dislodged my hands from where I had held on.
I fell to the floor, thankfully right by my toolbox. I quickly unlocked it, and began throwing whatever was heavy and sharp at the intruders.
Yes, maybe it wasn't the best of ideas.
But at the time, it was all I had.
My eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness, and I could make out the shapes of a man and a woman. The woman just managed to dodge a stray spanner, and the man collided with a screwdriver – seeing they were distracted, I made a break for the stairs.
Too bad I tripped over my own foot and fell down them.
No, seriously. I just dropped.
Almost as though the gods themselves were playing a cruel joke, I fell down all twenty-five stairs, landing with a thud on the floor.
There went my chance of escaping.
I didn't even bother to protest the second time they grabbed me; I was a goner.
My dad would find me three days from now in a ditch, missing my eyeballs and spleen.
"What do you want with me? Where are you taking me?" I hissed, as the man hitched me onto his heavy-set shoulder.
I kicked, and punched, and scratched, but it was no good – as though he were made of ...metal.
Weird.
To my utter surprise, as the woman unlocked the door, I saw a smooth, shiny stretch limo waiting outside. The windows were blacked out, but unless I was mistaken, that was the destination of my capture.
Not too shabby, I suppose, if I weren't being kidnapped.
"DAD!"
I realised, despite my dark humour, I was crying.
Why were they doing this to me?
Snatching me from my father, the only family member I had left. The only one that loved me, Haven de Angelis, the freaky mechanic with the raven coloured hair and weird PI father.
Why were they doing this to me?
Tear rolled down my cheeks, and I began shaking, shivering in fear.
What were they doing to do to me?
I was placed back onto my feet, and the woman opened up the limo door. I screamed once more, and made an attempt to run.
"She's a live one," the man giggled, grabbing the back of my nightdress and pushing me inside, my bare skin grazing the cold leather.
It smelt of blood and sadism; I closed my eyes, and began rocking back and forth.
This was all part of the dream. I would wake up and be okay. I would be okay. I would be okay.
"Hello,"
My eyes snapped open.
A guy was staring back at me, on the opposite set of seats, smiling, somewhat enigmatically.
He couldn't have been much older than me, nineteen at the most, with these beautiful dark eyes that reeked of pain, anguish. He was donned in nothing but a pair of black pinstriped trousers and a large fur coat, bear, I believe, - exposing his brilliant chest, toned, beautiful - and his jet black hair fell solemnly to just below his ears, his fringe flopping down, just scraping his eyes.
He was lovely.
"Don't be shy," he licked his lips, and I suddenly thought of vampires.
God, what if he was a vampire?
Oh wait, of course not, vampires are lame. That shitty twilight rubbish and whatnot. All that unoriginal crap.
This was reality and in reality hot guys were not vampires.
Pull yourself together, Haven.
"Haven, right?" he leaned across, and held out his hand.
I got a whiff of his scent: raspberries. Lucky for him, I liked raspberries.
"Haven," I repeated, tonelessly, as though all of a sudden I had forgotten my own name.
"Haven. Do you know why you are here?" the stranger asked, drawing a bottle of wine from nowhere in particular and pouring himself a glass.
I shook my head.
"Your father owed me. We warned him, and warned him, not to screw over the Mishima's. But he did. And so, we took you. The last thing he had. Charming, right?" he took a sip, his eyes as red as the wine.
I swallowed.
"Mishima?" I echoed.
"You don't know who I am, at all, do you, Haven?"
He put his glass down, this time moving all the way over to my set of seats. He pressed his lips to my ear, my face burning, and whispered:
"I'm Jin, Haven. Jin Mishima,"
And on hearing those two words, I realised just how much trouble I really was in...