Heart of Steel Ch. 01

"Get in." said the first girl, having already climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.

It sounded more like an order than an offer, but who was he to turn down a free ride. An audible "click" told Tristan that the rear driver's side door had been remotely unlocked by his benefactors, and so he made for that door. As his hand touched the handle and the door came open, he sensed something was wrong, but he couldn't say what. Something about the silence in the car, the stillness of the atmosphere, the predatory gleam in the backseat passenger's eyes.

It happened in a second that seemed to stretch on for an eternity. The girl in the back seat dove across the car and pulled Tristan all the way into the vehicle, slamming the door behind him, which the driver remotely locked. He was too dazed, too concert-weary to have struggled much, but even if he had, her ferocious grip was astonishing. An attempted scream was muffled by a black bandanna forced over his nose and mouth, and at that same moment a sharp scent assailed him from the cloth gag. / Drugs,/ his mental voice said in a panicky tone, /they're/ /drugging/ /me./

Already his senses were swimming, a strange "falling" sensation dropping into his belly as the girl pinned him painfully to the seat. He felt the sharp bite and heard the raspy "zip" of a zip-tie as it cinched around his wrists, which were painfully pulled behind his back. The bandanna fell away and he let out a groggy croak of a scream, his voice catching in his throat. Was it the drugs or fear that kept him from screaming, from kicking and biting and ramming his head into his assailant?

He gazed out the window into the dark night, at the silhouettes of people walking to cars or hailing taxi cabs. He watched and he did his best to cry for help, though his cries were quiet and feeble. He was /not/ invincible, not here. He had /no/ power. But why wouldn't they, those people out there, help him? Couldn't they see him? Didn't they know what was happening? /No,/ he told himself, /they don't know because I don't even know what's happening! Oh Gods, I don't know what's happening to /me!/ As the car backed out of its space and pulled away into the night, as Tristan was painfully pushed down to the floorboard, his face pressed to the mat by his attacker's boot on the back of his head, as the drugs took their final hold and began robbing him of his consciousness, Tristan became acutely aware of the possibility that he very well may die.

Chapter 3: Welcome to Hell

Fog clouded his mind. He walked amongst it, amongst the mist, a wanderer in his own head, shrouded in confusion and displacement. / Where/ /am/ /I?/ he asked himself again and again. But there was no answer, and the environment around him stayed in that same, murky, intangible form, such that he gained no sense of direction as he walked forward through the mist.

He knew he was in his own head, like a dream, but not quite. He was aware of his body, or so he thought, and yet aware of himself in this strange place. Like some sort of astral projection. This made no sense at all to him! /But/ /wait,/ /what's/ /that?/ A light in the distance, faint, almost indiscernible, but definitely there amidst the fog. With that in his sight, Tristan began to run (/was it really running?)/ toward the light. It grew brighter, solidifying into a single orb, /there just in the distance, just out of reach./ Tristan threw himself toward it...

He awoke in a cool, but not cold, room, laying on his back on a soft bed. The light he'd seen in his semi-lucid state was a single white bulb set in a ceiling fixture. A ceiling fan whirred quietly, keeping the air moving between the unadorned walls of this rather austere chamber. Tristan took stock of his surroundings, which were not much. A bedside table with a single drawer, closed of course. The floor and walls were of no particular note, and he could see no windows. On the wall in front of him, from where he lay on the bed, there was a door situated somewhat left of center. Plain, white, with a small knob. Nothing of note... / nothing/ /describable./ Nothing he could ever link to this place.

But Tristan could not rise and approach the door, though his curiosity overwhelmed his fear at this moment. Attached to his left and right ankles, tightly so as not to slip off, but not tight enough to cut off his circulation, were steel rings, locked tight and attached to the bed's footboard via a short chain. They were spread apart, not absurdly so, but enough so that his legs were held apart from each other. Tristan quietly pulled at the chains with his legs, but to no avail. He sat up and examined them, but that proved fruitless as well, for the chains were sturdy and the footboard was far too thick to break.

Yet, Tristan did realize that his arms also were adorned by these steel rings. / Shackles./ But his wrist-shackles were not attached to anything. / Yet./ But he could be, easily. Twisting around he saw chains already hooked to the headboard, their ends complete with little locks to secure them to his shackles. / Where/ /am/ /I,/ he demanded silently, /what is going on here?!/ Why was he lying here, helpless, why hadn't they killed him, or robbed him and left him by the roadside. He was still clothed, save for his boots and socks, and his pants pockets still contained his wallet, but his cell phone was missing. / I can't call anyone,/ he thought, /I'm/ /helpless./

"Hello?" he called out, his throat dry. "Hello, is someone there? I have no money, please let me out of here."

Then he thought about his situation a moment more. What if this wasn't a robbery? What if this was some sort of sick ritual and they were going to mutilate him for some sacrifice or other? What if they were going to steal his organs for the medical black market? What if it was some sort of government facility and he was being falsely detained for an interrogation? His mind ran wild with potential scenarios, but nothing could have prepared him for what lay ahead.

The sound of a dead-bolt being drawn back caught Tristan's attention. He sat alertly, though a cold sweat now stood out on his pale skin, his hands shaking ever so slightly. Then came the click of another lock, this one sounding like the turn of a key. Finally, the door opened enough to admit a person.

A girl, tall and raven-haired, with skin as white as liquid paper. From her hair to her boots, she was clad in black. A long-sleeved black shirt, tight black pants, and what sounded to Tristan like fairly heavy black boots. She strode into the room with a brisk pace, almost business-like in her actions, looking Tristan over, but not meeting his eye. In her right hand, she held a cup. One of those red, plastic cups that you can buy a pack of for seventy-five cents at any corner store.

"You." Tristan said, recognizing the girl from the car who'd drugged him. "Look, this must be some misunderstanding. I didn't do anything, I don't have any money, you've got to let me go."

She just laughed.

"I've got to?" she repeated, her voice smooth and commanding. "I've got to do what the helpless, scrawny kid says? Or else he'll what? Huh?"

"I uh... no I just meant that--"

"You aren't in command here," she explained, walking closer and sitting on the bed, "you don't get to give orders and expect anyone to follow them."

"You have the wrong guy, I don't do that." Tristan insisted.

"So I'm wrong too, am I?" she demanded, a hard edge coming into her voice.

CRACK! Tristan didn't even see it coming. She set the cup of water on the table and with that delicate, slender, pallid hand, struck him a terrific blow across the face. His face stung, his eyes watered, his nose briefly throbbed with that sensation one gets from an impact of any sort in the nasal region. And then another blow, two blows, one with the front of the hand and another with the back. CRACK CRACK! Tristan threw up his hands, covering his face.

"Stop hitting me." he whined in a tone too weak, too childlike, not at all as commanding as he'd intended.

Now she was on top of him. In a second, she had him flat on his back, her left shin planted across his belly, pressing down until Tristan grunted in dismay. Grabbing his head, painfully pulling his hair, she held his face inches from her's, their noses almost touching.

"Listen, you little /fuck,"/ she snarled, her breath smelling of mint and cigarettes, "you had better drop this attitude right the fuck now, or this is going to be a miserable time for you, do you understand me?"

"Y-yes, yes I understand."

"Good," she snapped, pushing him back down and getting off of him, "now drink this water, to get you hydrated so you don't get sick and then bitch about that too."

"Okay, thank you."

"There you go," she said, a smile crossing her lips, "see, you're doing better already."

Leaning down, she sweetly kissed his forehead, as though she'd not just been yelling at him and striking him, as though she were rewarding him for his kindness. She handed him the cup of water, and then left the room, shutting and locking the door behind her, leaving Tristan alone again, to drink his water and to wonder just what she intended to do with him.

He was alone for a while then, left with his legs shackled to the bed. He grew bored, his fear smoldering without new fuel, his helplessness tiring him. He wanted to reach for his Thor's hammer pendant, to feel the comfort of the thunder god's strength, but the pendant was gone from its usual place around his neck. Instead, he merely lay back on the bed, resting his head against a pillow. Apparently, he drifted back off to sleep, because when he awoke, three white faces, framed in jet-black hair, were staring down at him from the sides of the bed. He started and the three girls laughed.

"Rise and shine," said the tallest one, who'd given him the water, "we have a gift for you."

From behind her back she produced a thin band of leather with a lock at one end and a small metal ring at the other. / A/ /collar,/ realized Tristan, and he began to squirm in dismay.

"Girls," the apparent leader barked, "get his hands."

"No, please!" begged Tristan.

The two girls on either side of him took his wrists. He couldn't fight back, he was genuinely not strong enough to resist as his hands were pulled up and his wrist-shackles secured. The lead girl set the collar on the bed and reached into a pocket of her pants. What she held up next glinted in the light, and Tristan screamed in terror. / A/ /knife!/

"Please," he beseeched, "please, oh Gods please no, don't do this."

"Shut up." snapped the leader.

"Just lie still," said the girl on his left, a shorter girl with equally black hair, "we're not going to cut you."

The girl on his right sneered derisively, as if to silently say, "We might."

Moving over him, straddling him, the lead girl moved toward his body with the knife. Tristan whimpered incoherently, closing his eyes and tensing up for the cut, the cut that never came. The knife sliced like a razor, but not through his skin, only through the fabric of his shirt. The cloth parted easily to her careful incisions, and soon the shirt was pulled away. She had a harder time with the thick cloth of his jeans, but somehow managed to cut them off as well. At last came his only remaining bit of clothing, his undergarments. Tristan's begging redoubled as she slit both sides of his underwear, pulling them away and leaving him helpless and naked.

"And now, the collar." she proclaimed.

The two other girls held his head in place as their leader took up the leather band and fitted it around his neck. The "snick" of the lock was a clearly audible tone, and it echoed in Tristan's memory like a door being slammed on his freedom, on his control over his own body. The girls laughed and smiled with glee at their accomplishment, before departing from the room once again.

Tristan was alone for a third time, but now the fear was not going away, not ebbing like the waves of the ocean, but constantly around him, over him, cloaking him like the garments that had been taken away by his captresses. / Captresses,/ he couldn't keep calling them that, couldn't leave them inhuman. If he did, he would feel at the mercy of some unearthly beings. They were people too, he had to humanize them, had to keep himself feeling some sense of power, some sense that he was not a helpless little pawn in the hands of deities.

/Crystal./ That was the leader, Tristan decided. She was beautiful, they all were. But despite her beauty she was cold, her features sharp, like a crystal: gleaming yet cold and jagged, there was no comfort in its touch. That was perfect.

The girl who'd stood on his left, the one who'd told him to be still, he'd call her /Mai./ He wasn't sure why, but it fit. Perhaps because the name Mai was (he believed) Japanese, and her eyes had a noticeable slant to them. / A/ /bit/ /racist,/ he admonished himself, /but I can't think of another name, so it'll have to do./ So that girl became Mai.

During his life as an avowed metalhead, Tristan had been exposed to bands from nearly every corner of the globe. As such, he'd picked up some interesting words and phrases from other languages. One of those was a Finnish name, Hilja, which he recalled to mean silence, or silent, or something of the sort. The third girl, a tough looking girl with a compact build, short hair, and a piercing on the cartilage of her right ear, had not spoken at all. He'd call her Hilja. For now, she was silence.

There now, they all had names. Names gave him power, the power at least to remind himself that these women were not inhuman, not all-powerful. They were people, mortal flesh and blood just like Tristan himself. They held the upper hand now, but that would not last forever. (/Would/ /it?)/ Crystal, Mai, and Hilja were not perfect, unstoppable, they were just people.

"They're just people." he whispered to himself again and again, hoping he'd soon start to believe it.

Chapter 4: A Nightmare to Remember

"Hello," called Tristan, "girls, may I please go to the bathroom?"

It had been about a half an hour since he was given his collar, and that cup of water from earlier had made its way through his system. Naked and ashamed as he was, he had biological needs that he would not ignore. That and if he was slapped repeatedly for demanding his freedom, he'd probably get a lot worse for pissing on their bedspread. To that end he called out a few more times, his voice rising in volume, until the door was opened.

"Please, not so loud," Mai said, entering the room, "we heard you the first time, there's a baby monitor plugged into the wall under the table."

"Oh, okay." Tristan said. "Uh... sorry I guess. But I need to piss."

"Right."

Mai approached the bed and, with a small key taken from her pocket, unlocked all of Tristan's chains. / That/ /was/ /it,/ he marveled /I'm free just like that?/ Then, the knife came up, leveled at him as Mai motioned him out of bed. The blade's tip prodded his back, forcing him forward. Having only just been freed, Tristan stumbled a bit, but Mai's free hand caught him by the forearm, steadying him. Her grip was firm, but the hand was soft, warm even. Gentle? Perhaps. But the cold steel blade was not, as it pushed him forward, on out of the room and sharply right, down a short hall and into a small room at the end.

"Take care of your business," Mai said, not angrily, "and be quick. We have plans for tonight."

/I do not like the sound of that,/ Tristan noted.

He made to shut the bathroom door behind him, but Mai gently pushed his hand away.

"No no, boy," she chided, "we're not supposed to let you free without observing you closely. Just go."

"But I can't with you here."

"Please," she murmured quietly, "please don't make this hard on me, okay? Just, just go."

Tristan went. That tone of voice she used, it was imploring, threatening but at the same time, imploring. It made him pity her. And so he walked into the bathroom, turning on the lights by reflex, even though the light from the hallway adequately illuminated the rectangular room. A double sink unit, with cabinets below, occupied much of the space, and a bathtub ran the length of the far wall. Between the sink and the tub was a toilet, on which Tristan sat to relieve himself.

While he sat, Tristan looked at Mai. She wore a long-sleeved black shirt, like the others. But instead of pants, she wore a skirt, whose length had it ending well above her knees. She also wore boots, though they looked more "fashionable" than practical. They were "cute," not heavy or durable in their appearance. Between the tops of her boots and the hem of her skirt, a generous portion of her light-skinned legs was exposed to Tristan's eyes. He caught her eye, realizing she'd (of course) seen him looking her over. A light blush crossed her face, but the innocence of it was marred by a smile, and that smile was something more sensual, more charged with intimate intention, than any smile Tristan had ever seen.

When he was finished in the bathroom, Tristan flushed the toilet and rose, returning to Mai, who guided him back to his room. / My/ /room,/ he thought, /already I'm calling it my room./ The hallway opened onto a living room, whose walls were adorned with posters for movies and musicians, some of which Tristan recognized. But he didn't have much time to look at them before Mai firmly shepherded him back into the room. Guiding him back to the bed, she shackled his legs again, but let him keep his arms free.

"Thank you." he said, genuinely meaning it.

"You're welcome."

Then, she leaned in and kissed him, hard on the mouth. Having sheathed her knife and put it away after shackling him, her hands were free to hold his head in place as her lips pressed against his. The kiss was moist, lightly so, her tongue gently probed his mouth, and she moaned lightly into him. Tristan was so taken aback, he couldn't do anything. He wanted to push her off, to turn away. His first kiss shouldn't have been like this. Even if she was the nicest of the three girls, he couldn't pretend she wasn't his captress too. He didn't want her kissing him, doing ANYTHING intimate with him, especially not for the first time. Tristan found himself wishing now, more than ever, that he'd been better with talking to women, so he might have had a chance at not having his first kiss come at the age of eighteen, from a girl who'd shackled him to the bed after escorting him to the bathroom at knife-point.

As Mai pulled away from him, leaving Tristan dazed and out of breath, he recalled something that had, until this moment, dropped from his attention. His necklace, his Mjolnir pendant that always hung around his neck, was missing, as it had been ever since he'd woken up bound to the bed.

"Hey," he said to Mai, before she left the room, "did you or your friends take a Mjolnir necklace off me?"

"A what necklace?"

"Mjolnir, Thor's hammer."

"Oh, oh that!" she exclaimed. "I have it, don't worry, it's safe."

"May I please have it back."

Mai came back to the side of the bed and sat down, moving to be nearer to him and hugging him affectionately. Smiling down into his face, she addressed him like a... not a friend, but not an evil captress.

"Look," she sighed, "we all had a hand in capturing you, and we all have our reasons. But mine don't involve wanting to see you hurt."

"What were they?"

"That," she continued, ignoring his query, "and I want you to be as comfortable as you can be while I have you to myself. I took your necklace so the others wouldn't take it and throw it away or sell it."

"Well thanks, I guess."

"I'll let you wear it when we're... together." and there was that predatory smile, that intimate gleam.

And with that, Mai patted his head gently, running her fingers through his long, black hair, before striding quickly out the door, locking it behind her and leaving Tristan, once again, alone. This was already becoming routine to Tristan: a sudden entrance, a brief interaction, and then he would be alone once more. But for how long? For that matter, how long would he be here? Would they ever let him leave, could they ever let him leave? They weren't hiding their faces from him, did they intend to keep him here forever? /Or/ /worse?/ The thoughts raced through his mind like a derailed train hurtling through the walls of his now tenuous grip on composure and rationality.