He couldn't tell if it was the cold, the claustrophobic space, or the way his head jostled back and forth that woke him. All he knew was that he had no clue where he was, who he was with, or why he was tied up.
He squinted in the low light. He was surrounded by blobs – men – dressed in heavy coats who stank of booze and smoke and sweat. There was one next to him, and two in front. They were in a car, he guessed by the way the clumps of brown and white moved just through the window.
"On bodrstvuyet," said the man next to him.
"Sdelay chto-nibud'," snapped one of the men in the front row of the car – he couldn't tell which one.
The one next to him leaned over, breathing hot cigarette-breath on his face. "Lozhit'sya spat'," he said, his form obscuring his vision.
He was about to open his mouth to ask what he was saying, where they were going, anything, but he was cut off by a rag being shoved into his mouth. It stank of chemicals and tasted worse, but before he got a chance to properly object, he was out.
-O-
When he woke again, things were a bit clearer. He remembered his name was Artemis Fowl II. He remembered that he came to Russia to hand a shipment of contraband off to the local mob. He remembered the shootout. And he remembered his Russian.
Artemis observed the room he was in. It was small, with rusted iron walls and a barren gray floor. The door was a circular port, the frame attached to the wall with bolts. Underneath the metallic stench of rust was something salty, leading Artemis to guess he was being kept in the hull of a ship.
He grimaced. That's what he needed. More ships. At least it didn't seem to be moving at all.
Artemis twisted around in his seat. His hands were bound with rope and tied behind the back of a chair. He tried to wriggle his hands loose, to no avail, and after five or so minutes, he was already exhausted again.
His throat grew tight and his eyes wet. He ached, he was freezing, and hungry, and thirsty, and he didn't even know when he last used the bathroom – he was in a strange place tied to a chair and he had no idea where Butler was or if he was even alive.
Artemis bit his lip, but it did nothing to stop the tears now streaming down his cheeks.
Idiot, stop crying! What if Father saw you in this state?
That stopped the tears. He sniffed, willing himself to be calm. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block the cold and the hunger and the fear out of his head.
If he ever managed to do so, he wasn't conscious enough to enjoy it. He passed out again.
-O-
Artemis was in the middle of enjoying his dream about absolutely nothing when someone grabbed him by the front of his coat and yanked him to his feet and effectively out of his slumber.
It was the same man who had shoved the rag in his mouth in the car. This time he was dragging Artemis by the collar out of his little prison and down a narrow hallway. Artemis's boots squeaked and scraped against the floor as he struggled to keep up, but the man paid no heed to it.
They reached a staircase and Artemis was hoisted up like little more than a sack of potatoes.
"Where are you taking me?" Artemis asked before he could think twice about it.
The man didn't answer. He opened a hatch over his head, and sunlight spilled onto them. There had been a window in Artemis's prison, but it had been small, and covered with grime. To suddenly be showered with actual, clear sunlight was a painful visual assault. Artemis cringed away from it, but the man kept going.
For a moment, Artemis thought he was blind. As he squinted at the world around him, the bottom of his stomach dropped out as it dawned on him where they were. Alone, on some WWI-era ship, frozen in a lake, likely hundreds of miles from civilization, in a northern arctic wasteland.
The man gave him a tug, and Artemis had no choice but to follow.
A makeshift ramp took them to the frozen ground. The snow had been packed low and dense by frequent use, and would have been as slick as an ice rink if not for the numerous imperfections created by the bottoms of men's boots. The man led Artemis down a sort of path, around the hull of the ship. It wasn't a lengthy walk, but felt as though it took forever.
Finally, they came to a stop where the ice met with liquid water, against the side of the ship. Patches of yellow spotted the area, making it look muddy compared to the stark white landscape. The man slashed the ropes around Artemis's wrists, and gave him a shove. Artemis stumbled a few steps, then looked back at the man, bewildered.
"Piss," said the man through a heavy accent.
"I... I'm sorry?"
"Piss!" the man snarled. He pulled a gun out of his coat pocket and aimed it at Artemis's head.
Artemis spun around and began fumbling with his zipper. It was much more difficult than it should have been, between his stiff, frozen fingers and being held at gunpoint, but before long Artemis had added another yellow stain to the mirage of piss-puddles dotted around the snow.
Almost before he'd zipped his pants back up, the man had him by the collar again and was dragging him back to the ship.
"Hang on, what is this place?" Artemis blurted. "What am I doing here? Who are you people?"
The man didn't answer. Now that his eyes were adjusted, his bladder was empty, and he didn't have the barrel of a gun pressed against his back, Artemis noticed a long, garish scar stretched across the man's face. Artemis had seen facial deformities and injuries before, in books and on the internet, and many much worse than this man's. But something about this scar made Artemis shrink inside of himself. Maybe because it belonged to the man who just threatened to shoot him for not pissing fast enough.
The man took him back to his little prison. It was different than before – someone had put up a cot with a pillow and a few blankets. Laying upon it was a small journal with a faux-leather cover and a ballpoint pen.
"Boss is good to you because you are a child," grunted the man with the scar. He spoke so suddenly that Artemis nearly leaped out of his skin. He peered over his shoulder at the man, who fixed him with a steely gaze. "Make no mistake. If you do not cooperate, you will be stand naked in this room for days in the cold. No food. No light. Only darkness and rats."
He leaned in, close. Close enough for Artemis to smell his foul cigarette-breath. "Be good. Maybe you live that way," he said.
The man with the scar turned and left, slamming the circular door behind him.