Tsukikage

He must have passed out. Very rude of him, seeing as he hadnt paid for that last drink. Would the bartender keep him at his stool until he woke, or kick him out at closing with the other drunks?

Die slowly cracked a gritty eyelid, hoping his first sight of the morning would not be a pissy bartender. When he was met with only
darkness, he opened both eyes fully. Over the pounding headache his hangover was bestowing upon him, he felt the pressure of fabric against his eyes. A blindfold, then? Lovely. Hopefully there was a naked girl within a five-foot radius to accompany it. Bondage was definitely the less alarming of the possible scenarios.

Could he take it off, then? Ah. No. He gave his wrists another experimental jerk before deciding that whoever had tied them behind his back knew their knots. A little too well, in fact. He could tell by the sluggish pressure in his fingers that his circulation was at least partially cut off.

Now to move... It seemed his ankles were bound as well. He was curled on his side. When he stopped to really absorb his surroundings, he became aware of steady motion. On a hunch he rolled over and tried to extend his body fully. Not even close. He could feel the scratchiness of polyester fiber against his skin. A car trunk, then.

Aside from his raging hangover, he wasn't in any pain. A date-rape drug would explain passing out at the bar, but he didn't feel like anything had been shoved... there. It would have been humiliating, to say the least. Girls and pretty boys got raped. He was a man. He was tall and broad-shouldered and manly... No, rape had to be out.

Kidnapping? Teenage girls and children. Right? He barely had any money, same for the family. He didn't owe anybody, and he didn't have any enemies that he knew of. He had heard of people being kidnapped for prostitution rings - but again, that was for women, pretty boys, children. Who the hell kidnapped a man? He was just two inches shy of six feet! Tall people, tall men, did not get kidnapped.

With his frustration growing by the second, he lashed out, his knees slamming against a wall with a dull thunk. A very loud thunk. Loud enough, apparently, for the driver to hear. He hadn't thought about it until he felt the car sputter and stop, but a person had put him here. The same person who was now opening the trunk.

Shit.

A rush of cool air welcomed him when the ceiling of his prison was lifted. It felt like night, but he had no way of being sure. He hadn't even realized it was hot in the trunk. Probably running out of oxygen, then. Just how long had he been in there? How far away from home was he by now?

Indifferent hands jerked him up and out, their movements nothing but cool precision. They felt... elegant. Almost delicate, like lace made from steel. A woman? Taking a chance, he slammed himself into the body owning those hands.

And found himself better acquainted with the car in which he had been traveling, the side of his head soundly bludgeoned against a taillight. Even in this the hands were calm, economy of motion in flesh. They did not seem to hold anger so much as a percieved action-reaction.

Then they were dragging him up, half pushing-half carrying him forward as he could not walk. So now I get thrown into a ditch and shot, right?

Still dazed from his hangover and the recent assault to his skull, he almost didn't register the quiet opening of a door. He was most certainly aware, however, when he was released into a well-padded seat. Attempting to surge upward, he was met with a bored fist to the temple. Then the door slammed shut inches from his face. Heels - heels!? - clicked over pavement as his abductor walked around the car. The door opened, closed. There was the expensive rustle of silky fabric over leather just before the engine purred to life.

At another time, the prospect of time spent with a very rich woman in a very nice (most likely Italian) sportscar would have been more than inticing. At present, Die was confused as hell. And by now, way too pissed off to be afraid.

"I don't suppose asking you to let me out would do me any good."

There was a long pause, stretched thin with irritation. Just as he had resigned himself to the silence, he was answered.

The voice was certainly masculine, low and without inflection. This provided some small comfort. That it at least took a man to stuff him into the trunk of a car was perversely reassuring.

"No, I don't suppose it would."

Die tried surging forward experimentally. His hands were still low behind his back, making the belt snug. With a frustrated grunt, he slumped back in his seat.

He still could not see, but he heard the asphalt give way to something softer, and then something like gravel.

He felt something ripple through his body like an icy wave. He shivered, and wondered how he could possibly be dry.

A pause. The engine was still purring quietly, but they had stopped. For whatever reason.

"You know," he said amicably, wondering when his bravado would give way to hysteria "I feel like I should know your name before whatever is going to happen happens. It would be kinda shitty, if you kill me and I don't even know what to call you."

Again, the voice was flat, even cold. The man, whoever he was, spoke as though answering the question was the most tedious chore imaginable. But he did answer.

"My name is Shinya."

And then the blindfold was gone.


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Thoughts and opinions are not required, but are immensely appreciated. <3