One: I Start
I try to reach for my bed covers, to smother the blinding light just over my head. There's an intense pressure right behind my eyes. It feels just as if does right before one of my panic attacks. Seems silly, though, to panic in my own bed, to feel my heart hammering in the empty space of my chest, to be unable to drive away the strange, bright light.
I suddenly realize, with sickening disorientation, that I'm not in my own bed. I'm not in my hostel bed, either. I'm on a thin cot, with a flashlight in my face, and my shirt drenched through with sweat. Someone seems to register my open eyes. They grab me roughly, pulling me up into a sitting position, and slap me squarely across the face.
The burning of my cheek finally pulls me into full consciousness. I blink rapidly, clearing the sleep from my eyes, trying to get my bearings. I'm in a small, dank room, lit by eye-piercing fluorescent lights. Two men stand over me, and I register with terror that they are holding long guns the size of my entire arm.
"Get up," one orders, reaching down and yanking me forcibly off the thin cot onto my feet. I follow his instructions without protest, too numb with shock to argue, swaying stupidly where I stand. I feel foolish for only now realizing I've been kidnapped. There's just enough space in my petrified brain to wonder if Hannah is okay; did she sell me out? Did they swipe her phone? Or have they kidnapped her too? I don't dare ask, not until I have a better grasp of what's going on.
"Are you Maggie Brown?" the guard demands.
"Yes," I bleat, embarrassed by the fear in my throat. The man closest to me moves-to hit me again? Instead, he's standing aside, letting me see the whole room. In the corner, there's another man I didn't count before, bare-chested, seated in a dirty old dentist chair, his long hair hanging limp into his face. He seems to be clutching his arm.
One of the men with the guns seizes my arm, and shoves me roughly towards the dentist chair. "Fix him," says the guard.
"I-don't understand. Fix him?" I repeat blankly, staring down at the man in the chair. He hasn't glanced up a single time to register that anything at all is going on around him.
"Yes," the guard confirms," Fix his arm."
I turn to stare at the guard instead. "I'm not a doctor. I'm an engineer. If his arm is broken, he needs an actual doctor-a hospital."
The guard who speaks steps forward, grabbing my shoulder with his free hand. He whirls me back to face the dentist chair, and shoves me so close I nearly tumble into the seated man's lap. A glint of light catches my eye and I lean closer. His arm... his arm is covered in metal. Covered-or is metal?
Instinctively I reach out to examine this new mystery, and the seated man jerks back, as if I have stung him. His head still hangs, chin tucked close to his chest, but the way he holds his arm suggests he is in a great deal of pain.
"I'm sorry," I say gently, trying to remain motionless so as not to startle him again," Please, may I see?"
For several long seconds, I'm not even sure he's heard me. Then, slowly, he releases his arm, extending it towards me, allowing it to gently rest in my grasp. The metal is cold to my touch. I run my fingers over it delicately, taking in the grooves, the scratches and the dents. I was right the second time-it IS metal. A metal bionic arm, like nothing I've ever seen before.
I glance over at the guards. "This is-this is far more advanced than anything I've ever seen. I didn't even know you could do this. You need a more advanced technician. I don't know that I can fix this."
"Have to," the speaking guard grunts in reply," Can't get anyone else. They're all at some conference. Mission has to continue, and you're what we've got."
"I'm not sure you understand," I insist, trying to keep my voice calm and even," I think there may only be a dozen people in the whole world who can fix this. I just don't have the capacity."
The guard who speaks motions forward the silent guard. I can see now that along with his long gun, he is carrying a large, overstuffed duffel bag. He clumsily paws at the zipper, dumping the contents at my feet-thick white 3-ring binders. I pick one up, peering at the contents, and catch pages of detailed schematics.
"Instruction manuals. Fantastic," I mutter, not reassured.
"You have 3 days," the guard informs me.
My attention snaps back to him," 3 days? Are you nuts? I'll be lucky if I can get through these in a week!"
"Mission has to continue," the guard replies, completely apathetic to my protests," Trail is getting cold."
The seated man seems to be watching me from the corner of his eye, head still bent against his chest. He hasn't moved an inch since offering his broken arm, and as I peer despondently in his direction, I can get a good look at him-scarred and lean with at least two visible knives in his belt. Is he a prisoner too, forced into doing their bidding as well? Some gut instinct says likely not.
I glance back at the guards. "And if I refuse to help?" I ask, less from bravery, and more from my pathological need to gather every piece of relevant information.
In answer, the guard subtly cocks his gun.
I sigh, figuring that would be the answer. "Well I'm going to need tools. Something a little stronger than Scotch tape, if you've got it."
The guard speaks over his shoulder to his companion-Russian, Ukrainian perhaps? I steal a quick glance at the metal arm. It's angled away from me, but I can just make out a decorative red star painted over the outer bicep. Yet the bossy guard is clearly American. I file away my endless questions; now isn't the time to be distracted.
The silent guard returns to our small room from a heavy, reinforced side door, letting it swing shut with an ominous bang behind him. He's carrying a large tool box, setting it carelessly at my feet. I push open the top to take a quick inventory. The tools are rudimentary, but I suspect I can make do.
"Fine," I bark, take a deep breath, and push all other concerns from my mind," Bring me a chair, and let's get started."