The Shell of Casper

- 9 - To Kick or be Kicked

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Casper June stirred, awakening. He opening his eyes as his mind seemed to reboot from his sleep. He saw nothing. Blinking again, Casper raised his hands to rub his eyes and was met with a smack that reverberated through his body, painfully cascading down his bones. His hand throbbed, but he ignored it. Pulling his hand slowly to his face, Casper gripped the headset and tugged at it. It held strong.

"Hey!" He shouted, feeling his nerves begin to jump. "Help!"

No sounds came from around him. Casper struggled, his legs locked to the seat below him as well as his right hand. It was no use. Grunting, he battled against the restraints.

"Enough." A woman's voice murmured from behind him. Casper flinched, figuring that if he had not been bound to the spot that he might have leapt up the sound.

"Take this off of me." Casper jerked his head to the side, while his head began to spin madly. "Take it off!"

"You wouldn't want that." The soft voice chuckled darkly. Casper strained again with a sudden outburst. Why wouldn't he want whatever was fastened to his skull taken off?

"Why not?" Casper collected himself. The voice didn't respond. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, his nose filling with the smell of cleaner and fresh cloth. "Hello?"

"Calm down."

The seat that Casper was in then clicked, shifting beneath him. He tried not to let his nervousness show. "Why?"

"People act recklessly when they are scared. Keep yourself in order and things will be easier."

"How?" Casper looked up to where the face of whoever was talking to him would be. He only stared at darkness, but he could feel their presence as his chair groaned again and moved. He was being wheeled down... somewhere. The voice laughed.

"What?" Casper frowned at the emptiness. This wasn't funny. They were just lucky he was a civilized person. He'd rather smart his way out than immediately throw hands. The voice was right, he had to be smart. The wheels of the chair squeaked as they spun, buzzing against the floor while he was rolled away from where he had awoken, like a hospital patient.

"You just ask a lot."

"Well, no kidding." Casper hissed, bunching his hands into fists. Calm down. "I think you have a lot to explain. Wouldn't you be spit-firing questions if you were me?"

The voice didn't respond, but hummed a sound of agreement. Casper's mind raced. His hair was tossed over the front of the mask, curling around the strap over his ear. He raised his lip and tried to push it aside, and he bumped into a hand. The person jumped back, jerking away from his touch. Casper was about to grumble something about being offended when he heard the menacing click of a gun cocking. He froze, now immobile in fear. A breath slipped out from his lips hesitantly. He would not risk one wrong move.

"Don't do anything stupid." The voice was cold, no longer friendly. "Hand back down. Right now."

Casper lowered his hand to his lap and stayed still, still turned to face his captor. It felt like all kinds of wrong to have someone so terrified of him brushing a bit of his hair aside. His hand that was normally typing keys or playing his half-broken guitar or carrying a scrawny orange cat. Not actions worthy of someone readying a gun at his one hand. His other was strapped to the armrest.

They did not move. He listened hard, hoping to hear the ruffling of a holster or a lowering arm. Nothing.

"Would you stop looking at me? Turn away, right the hell now." The words were careful and acidic.