Everything went dark.
My head throbs, and I instantly regret opening my eyes when intense white light hovering above me scorches my retinas. My immediate instinct is to squint and shield my face, but I can’t lift my arms. I feel them extending away from me, and my fingers wiggle fine, but something restrains my wrists. I’m lying flat on a floor, the rough wood underneath me chafing my backside.
Why am I naked?
I remember blacking out, and I ache all over as if every inch of my body has been crushed. My eyes adjust to the light, and though it hurts to lift my head, I look past my bare breasts. My ankles are similarly bound, my feet pointing outward, and my legs are spread wide open.
Is someone planning on raping me? Or has it happened already?
I thrash about, trying to escape before my captor comes back, but whatever binds me—it’s neither handcuffs nor straps—doesn’t give. My arms are pinned to the floor by rectangular sheets of thick, frosted cellophane, about a foot wide and three to four times as long. What the hell are they?
Clenching my fists, I flex my biceps. If I can bend my elbows, maybe I can pry myself free. It doesn’t work, so I try again with every muscle in my body. My back arches off the floor, but my extremities stay fixed in place. I hold myself there for several seconds, grunting and sweating, until I crash back down breathless. Are the sheets glued to the floor? Nailed? How are they holding me down?
“What have we here?” The deep, sultry voice is distinctly feminine, emanating from beyond the circle of light. I shudder at the first evidence that I’m being watched. “Cat got your tongue? Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” She snickers.
“Where am I?” My words squeak out as I tremble. “Who are you?”
“Don’t you already know?”
I ignore the question. If she’s part of the organization I’m tracking, then they got me first. And since I’m naked, they must have my clothes, my credentials, and my weapon.
There’s a shrill, grinding sound as the lighting fixture suspended above me tilts, so I’m no longer in the center of its pool. I’m near the back edge, where it’s not as bright. She’s taunting me, beckoning me to look where the spotlight now aims. I’m simultaneously too afraid to know and too curious not to do my job and investigate.
If she approaches, I’ll hear her footsteps clop on the floor. If she’s out there, I’ll see her cast a shadow. But there’s a dim expanse in all directions.
“Up here,” she says, her voice booming as if broadcast on loudspeakers hanging from the rafters of an empty sports arena.
With a gulp, I gaze upward. The indirect light illuminates a giant pair of lips, smirking and colored blood red, contrasting the surrounding olive skin. The bottom half of this face is too large to be human; it must be a projection screen, a ruse to frighten me into revealing my assignment.
An enormous hand emerges from the darkness, and I scream. I must have been drugged, and this must be a nightmare or hallucination.
But it’s too vivid, and I’m too lucid. I don’t just see the hand; I feel four individual digits wedging themselves underneath my left hip. The middle and ring fingers grope my ass.
“Firm,” the voice says. “You must work out.”
I focus on the distant movements of the mouth, bright white teeth large enough to bite off my limbs. The thought terrifies me, but I’m sure their plan is to unsettle me. I won’t give them the satisfaction, so I close my eyes and concentrate. Maybe I can snap myself back into consciousness.
There’s sharp pressure against my sternum, like a shovel digging into my chest, which forces the wind out of me. Gasping, I open my eyes to see an armored plate, polished with a heavy coat of glossy red paint—the same tint as the lips.
Its softer underside squashes my left breast, a massive thumb fondling me. I won’t acknowledge this illusion is part of a real person because it can’t be. Such a woman would have to be over fifty feet tall. Unless…
“You’re in exquisite condition.” A tongue emerges from the mouth and licks the lips. “More toned and natural than my usual acquisitions.”
If that’s an admission of guilt, then I need to end this delusion so I can make an arrest. I’ll need backup, but I don’t know where my phone is. Not that it would do me any good while I’m still bound and under surveillance.
A loud grating noise echoes in my ears, and I wince as hairs on my right forearm are violently uprooted. My arm is free, but my skin is inflamed from the unwanted waxing treatment.
“Didn’t think you’d mind,” teases the voice. The fingers slide out from under me, laying me back on the floor. The thumbnail drags along my stomach; with any more pressure, it would probably slice through me. “You’re smooth down here.”
The nail burrows into my vagina, and I yelp as it scratches and scrapes, the sharp pain paralyzing every nerve in my body. What kind of drug did they give me? What kind of examination is this?
I don’t feel the sheet being peeled off my right ankle. Either I’m desensitized to it now, or it’s because I shaved my legs that morning. Or was it yesterday morning? How long have I been here? My throat is parched, my body sore, and my mind reeling. I blink to prevent tears from dripping before they see I’m unnerved.
When the thumb withdraws, I try to curl into a fetal position. With one arm and leg still bound, I can only roll onto my side, my dark hair spilling over my eyes. Through the tangled strands, I study the translucent sheet affixed to my forearm. Its narrow ends have noticeable jagged zigzag patterns, almost like it had been torn from a…
No. It has to be an elaborate oversized stage prop, another way they’re screwing with my head. For ordinary strips of household adhesive tape to restrain me, I couldn’t be more than maybe six inches tall. And that’s…
Not…
Possible.
Something squeezes my left foot, plucking me from the floor. I’m still stuck to the piece of tape—it can’t be that—and I feel it being wrapped around my legs, clamping them together.
Four claws pinch my ankles and start lifting me. A construction crane, not giant fingernails, must be scooping me up. My restrained wrist impedes my backward motion, and to add resistance, I dig my free hand into a crevice in the floor. Or is it a nick in a tabletop? I can’t be that small! The opposing pulls stretch and strain my body, and before I’m ripped in half, my arm splits through the tape with a deafening snap.
I writhe in pain as I’m carried to somewhere warmer and much brighter. As my vision adjusts, I notice a tall but bent pole. My eyes follow it down to a circular base not far from the broken remnants of tape, still attached to the floor. Only from this vantage point, helplessly dangling upside down, can I see the large on-off switch and understand the towering structure for what it is. A common desk lamp.
“Tell me why you’re here,” commands the voice.
I see the chin and red lips, and the light reveals a slightly upturned nose and high cheekbones. This hallucination is too surreal yet far too real, but I refuse to believe that she’s a gigantic woman or that I’m a tiny one. “No, no, no!”
“Then I’ll have to make you talk.”
She—or whatever’s clutching my legs—lowers me, and my head and shoulders plunge into icy cold water. The abrupt temperature change shocks me, and I spread my arms to swim up, but my knuckles collide with impenetrable barriers on both sides of me.
When I’m lifted out, I gasp for breath. Water dribbles from my mouth and trickles past my eyes and forehead.
“That was a warning dunk. Why are you here?”
My gaze drifts past her neck and collarbones. She wears a tight black top, its plunging neckline accentuating her ample breasts. The chasm of cleavage is wide enough for me to fall inside.
“This can’t be happening,” I mutter, hoping to clear away the horrifying vision.
She must take my head shaking as defiance because my descent is rapid. I’m able to inhale before I’m submerged, this time to my waist.
I force my eyes open to ascertain my surroundings. I’m in a cylindrical tank, about halfway to the bottom. The cold water is clear, but I need to breathe soon.
I’m jerked upward and out. I inhale, and in the chilly air around me, I see the breath I puff out.
“I can do this all night,” she says with contempt. “You’re not particularly heavy like this.”
“What’d you do to me?” Between my shivering and the water dripping off me, I probably appear to be crying. I know I want to.
“You’re intelligent. In the FBI, after all. So why are you here?”
She knows. I’m not surprised since she must have taken my identification when she stripped me. Or did she shrink me out of my clothes?
“You still haven’t answered.” She’s angry now.
Knowing I’ll soon be fully immersed, I take a deeper breath. I’ve been trained in firearms, hand-to-hand combat, and interrogation techniques, but never how to withstand physical or psychological torture, especially anything like this—whatever this is. I reach down to push off of the bottom of the glass—because that’s what it must be; a standard drinking glass—but I can’t fight against her drowning me.
She pulls me up before I pass out. My shuddering body is numb, and I’m wheezing.
“This is the last time I ask,” she says malevolently. “Why are you here?”
I shouldn’t compromise the investigation, especially if she’s my target, but I don’t want to die this way. Maybe if I answer and promise to let her walk, she’ll show mercy and restore me to my normal size.
“People… disappeared.” Hugging my arms around me, I speak through chattering teeth. “Suspected… human trafficking.”
I try to gauge her reaction from the curves of her lips, but I’m freezing and lightheaded. After keeping me hanging a few more moments, she says in a higher-pitched patronizing tone, “That wasn’t hard, was it? I’m sure you’ll make a lovely pet.”
My vision blurs as I’m swung, flipped, and released. I plummet until I land with a crash in the bottom of a transparent pit. Clutching my knees to my chest, the tape still binding them, I cower against the curved wall and glance up. A ceiling is twisted into place, eclipsing any view of her face. I only see her fingertips.
“We need to relocate.” Her voice is muffled. “Don’t want her colleagues snooping around.”
They’ll never find me, and I doubt they’d think to look where I am. Before my abduction, I had gone dark, cutting off all communication. By the time they catch her—if they catch her—I’ll be sold, my location presumably untraceable.
I’m jostled as my prison clanks against other glass. The fingers vanish, and pinpoints of light appear through air holes drilled into the lid. A cramped array of jars surrounds me, each containing a naked woman or man.
Drenched and alone, I curl up on the floor and shiver. The muted cries and pleas for help from her other victims will forever haunt me. I was supposed to rescue them and protect others, but I failed.
High above, two massive cargo bay doors made of cardboard start closing. Growing shadows creep over me until everything…
Goes.
Dark.