"Why don't you get the word out?"

Thursday wanted to. Sometimes slaves got lost, others were stuck in traffic, some accidentally fell asleep at the bus stop, missed their ride and had to wait another two hours for the next one. Any of that could've happened to Morse.

Except it was only a twenty minute walk to the nearest store, then another twenty-five minute walk to the house. Add in the estimated time to shop for food, Morse should've only been out for at most, two hours. Less than that.

It has now been six hours he's been gone. Thursday already drove past all the places Morse could've possibly gone to and nothing.

Morse may have been kidnapped. But why? As far as Thursday knew, Morse kept his head down, his nose clean. He shouldn't have any enemies.

Or... or Morse ran for it. Maybe he thought Thursday was lying about setting him free and took the little money he earned and ran away. He was probably on a bus somewhere, heading to the other side of the country, laughing his head off. If Thursday reported Morse missing, and he was found escaping, Morse would be killed. No trial, no hesitation, he'll be taken out to the side of the road, away from prying eyes, and shot like a dog.

Somehow Thursday didn't think Morse ran away.

His freedom was only a few weeks away, why risk that? Was it something Thursday said? Was it something he did unintentionally?

Win was still waiting for an answer. Wetting his lips, Thursday said slowly, "Morse has too many strikes against him. If he is found escaping, he'll be recycled."

"What if he's been kidnapped?"

"He'll still be recycled," Thursday said.

"What if he's hurt? What if..."

Morse was damned either way. If he's run- and God, Thursday hoped he ran - the best thing Thursday could do was give him time to get away. The boy was young, strong, he was capable. He could get away, find someplace where nobody knew he was a slave, a place where he could be free.

()

Morse woke slowly. He was conscious just enough to remember what happened, to know what was happening, but he kept being pulled under, his head too heavy to fight against it. He felt hot, sweaty. He was vaguely aware a giant blanket was over him, and he struggled to kick it away. He was getting smothered.

There were voices, too muted to be heard. Was something wrong with his ears? Had he gone deaf?

His body begged him to let go, to go back to sleep, and he fought against it. Get up. Get up. Get up, get up, get up, get up-

His eyes flew open. With a groan he pushed back the blanket. The air was just as thick as being under the blanket and it didn't ease any of his discomfort. His sweat-soaked shirt stuck to his back. He wished for water.

He saw he was lying in the backseat of a car. Kirk's car, that he remembered. It was dark outside, pitch black almost. Good god, how long has he been unconscious?

Carefully he pushed himself up, peeling himself off the seat. It was so hot, god, why did Kirk put this stupid blanket on him?

For a second, he fell back and fainted from the heat.

He gained conscious again quickly, desperate now to escape the suffocating air around him. He pulled himself up again, reached out, opened the door and threw himself out.

He fell face first into mud. Cool mud, so he didn't mind too much. It helped him push away the fog from his mind.

He managed to haul himself up and lean against the car, gasping for air. Where was he? Did Kirk managed to take him all the way to Paris?

Fuck, it was freezing. Now that the first initial shock wore off, the cold air outside was too much. The mud on his face was bitter and thick, and he wiped it away with a trembling hand. A part of him wanted to crawl back into the sweltering car.

From not too far away he heard voices talking. About him.

Morse recognized Kirk's voice immediately. "How long will it take for you to get him to the harbour?"

"Another hour," said a different voice. This man had a French accent. "He needs to be awake though, pretend to be a passenger."

"No can do, he's been brainwashed by his master into staying. Is there another way to smuggle him?"

"We can try. I don't like binding slaves, they tend to hurt themselves. Do you still have more of that... stuff you brought?"

"You mean the chloroform?"

"Yeah. Maybe if we can... keep him lightly drugged. Pretend he's drunk, then we can pass him by as another passenger."

"Not sure if it can work that way. Let me go to the car, see if I have anything..."

Morse heard heavy steps, shoes upon dry leaves and gravel coming towards him. Get away, he thought, pushing himself forward as he crawled on all fours, away from the car. Get away, get away.

"Morse?" He heard Kirk getting closer.

Morse surged to his feet. Not bothering to even look back, he took off in a full sprint.

"Morse!"

He stumbled, his legs cramping from the sudden movement. He pushed through the pain, gritting his teeth, ignoring the cries behind him.

"Morse, come back! I am trying to help you! Please!"

Morse didn't know where he was, where he was going. He didn't have a torch on him. The moon was out but so were the clouds, giving him minimal light. He kept running, only praying he wouldn't run himself off a cliff.

Kirk's voice was getting smaller and smaller behind him. Kirk was only a few years older than Morse. For a police officer, he had no stamina, no strength. Morse kept running, ignoring everything behind him. He didn't stop.