It hurts.
Correction, my head hurts.
How long have I been out?
I open my eyes only to immediately close them again. That was a very bright light.
I try again, looking "forward" instead to avoid more pain. The light fixture above still makes me squint. Four walls, all slick-white. The light shines brilliantly off the reflective surfaces.
Hospital? Medical ward? I could be anywhere.
I look down. I'm strapped to a gurney. I'm slightly tilted. (45 degrees? Maybe a little less. I'll stick a bet on a solid 50.) There are four bars, one for each appendage.
I give them a tug with my left arm, then my right; I don't even bother with the ones around my ankles. Who has strong ankles? They're solid, most likely a very strong steel alloy, they are also shiny, brand new. Whoever put me here spent a lot of money to do so. How could they afford to build places like this?
Stupid question. Bad guys always have money.
Why is that?
Hissing. The wall to my right slides back into itself quietly. A figure, not much taller than I am, stands silhouetted against the light outside.
Silhouetted? It's brighter outside? How is that even possible?
Details; I'll worry about them later.
"How are we feeling?" The figure moves closer, his features no longer masked in darkness.
"That was dramatic," I snort.
He looks puzzled. His eyes widen, "What are you talking about?"
"The villainous entrance," I motion to the closing door, straining with my neck.
He rolls his amber-flecked eyes, "For a moment I thought the medical staff gave you too much." He motions to his arm and fakes sticking it with a needle.
"Nope," I say breathlessly, "just naturally this charming." I put on my best smile.
I'm answered with a heavy sigh. He's not pleased, "I'm sure." He pauses. He runs a hand through his auburn hair, "Do you know why you're here, Mr. Shade?"
I give him a solid frown, "Did I fail the 'villainous entrance' school?"
That was a mistake. I know it right before he slams a fist down on my stomach. Well, into my stomach. Is it "into" if I'm at this 45 - no - 50 degree angle?
Details.
He smooths back his hair and tries again. The cordial tone is lost, "I don't have the time, nor the patience to play games, Mr. Shade."
"Thank gods. I'm not very good at games," I smile.
Another punch. An explosion of color around my vision.
"I'm not good at them either," he seethes, "but I do the 'torture' one quite well."
I grunt through the subsiding pain, "If you compliment yourself it's not true, you know." I try to sound convincing but it's hard. I just got punched.
Those heroes on the screen make it look so easy. Does it hurt when they get punched, too?
He raises his fist for another blow. He's stopped, a tinier hand just barely able to grab it from below. "Enough."
