Farisia Rising

Reggie

There was a faint vibration, like the hum of a motor. The vaguest sense of movement, though she couldn't tell if it was real or just her murdered equilibrium. Eva cracked her eyes, and saw only blackness.

Am I dead?

The ceiling was low, somehow tangible in the cramped, lightless confines. She sensed it first, and felt it second.

Then it registered.

A trunk. I'm in the trunk of a car... But why is it so hard to breathe? Feels like there's something over my head. Wait—

I think there is. I think it's a bag.

The ride lasted for maybe half an hour. Long enough for trepidation to collapse into despair. By the time the trunk unlatched, Eva had already mulled through dozens of possibilities. Her hopes rose no higher than "flayed alive".

A long shaft of moonlight shone through the burlap covering her face. Silhouetted, she could almost make out her captors. They manhandled her arms and hoisted her to her feet, before pushing her forward, walking her along, kneeling her down.

The bag came off.

And suddenly, she was face to face with the last thing she expected.

A kid.

The bigger men walled to each side of him, but he was the center. Tall for his age, but wire-thin. He wore a ragged newsie hat and a patchy brown blazer. Corduroy trousers, high socks, old black loafers. His face was pale and dirty, his eyes like oil stains. He had a smooth nasal bridge, an upturned button nose, and a sharper chin that lended a drama to his expressions. His hair was ratty, glossy and black. It resembled a nest of some kind.

She focused on him all of two seconds before breaking. He wasn't big, but his goons certainly were.

"Oh...no—NO!" she panted, hysterically. "Where's Holland and Jarvis? What have you done to them?!" The memory gathered, like a crack of lightning. "You vile reprobates! You killed my guards!"

The boy at the front didn't seem too bothered. He thought for a second, seemingly confused. "Uh, not us," he shrugged. "That was someone else. I'd tell you if it was us."

At last, she blinked back enough of her tears to see him. Before, he'd been a generous seventeen, maybe sixteen. But as the world became less fuzzy and more defined, she was sobered to a jarring fact.

"You...look younger than me." An earnest, quiet-voiced hesitation. "Are you the mastermind?"

"Yep," he said. Zero pretense.

"Please," she was at a loss, "I don't know why you picked me to abduct, but you've got the wrong person. I don't know any of you..."

"But we know you," the kid shot back. "In short, that's all that matters." He leaned in, as if to examine. "Eva Courtenay, eldest daughter of MP Leo Courtenay. They'll pay a pretty penny for you."

She stood silently, as he gauged her. Flinching every time he got too close. "Please...don't hurt me."

He kept looking. 

After a minute or so, he flicked a pocketknife from his blazer. The blade appeared manually sharpened, polished to a near-obsessive shine. He moved it closer to her neck, closer. Expression unchanging. Eyes terrifyingly lifeless.

"Please!" she cowered, tearfully, "I'm no good to you dead! You said it yourself!" 

She clenched her eyes tight. When nothing happened they drifted back open, her throat perfectly intact. He had cut a lock of her hair. The golden curl wilted in his hand, as he studied it.