Chương 2: Welcome

Ch 2 - Welcome As the craft makes a bumpy landing Huffy Guy hands her a balaclava.

"Put this on. Cover your face with your hands. Keep your eyes shut," he instructs her.

"The winds will be strong enough to rip you off your feet. The temperature has dropped fast; we need to get you to shelter as soon as possible. Lean into me, I'll get you inside." Her hands are numb with cold. By the time she has pulled the balaclava over her head he has unbuckled her harness and is leading her out of the craft. The wind screams at their intrusion into the storm, punishing them with a pelting of grit and debris. He doesn't let her hesitate.

Huffy Guy curls her into his body, half carrying her, her tiptoes barely meeting the ground. Breathing is hard. The balaclava and her hand covering her mouth do little to thwart the wind from stealing her air. He lifts her over a high threshold. Someone counts them in and slams shut a heavy door behind the group. The stillness inside the room is in deafening contrast to the whirling storm outside that continues its angry roaring at the door.

She fumbles to find the edges of the balaclava, keen to take an unhindered deep breath. Her hand is swiftly but gently snatched away by Huffy Guy.

"Not yet," he mutters, turning and following behind the others, pulling her with him. They pass through a second thick metal door. They are outside again but the storm has vanished. The balaclava has ridden up her face, obscuring her view. She can make out a barren patch of dirt boarded by a row of faded orange buildings. Huffy Guy still holds her hand, guiding her down a gravel trail.

Their pace is so fast she is forced to concentrate on her feet, trying to ensure she doesn't trip over herself as she quickens her stride to keep up. The gravel trail twists right, snaking between the buildings. Whoever is leading the group opens another thick metal door and ushers them inside, sealing them in with a heavy clunk. After they pass through a second doorway Huffy Guy releases her hand. Inside the bunk house the group begin stripping off their gear.

Bags, utility belts, masks, goggles, vests, gloves, coats. Dumping everything unceremoniously onto a table or draping it casually over chairs, glad to be rid of the heavily grit-encrusted kit. She pulls off her balaclava, wincing as the material scrapes against the cut on her head. The room is a sparsely furnished living area. In front of her is a circular dining table around which the group has gathered, behind it a set of bland cupboards lead into an alcove kitchen.

To the side the room widens into a casual seating area. Everything is functional and looking worn around the edges. Something about the room feels wrong to her. No pictures, no ornaments or knick-knacks. Lived in but no signs of homeliness. Unloved, but that's not what is unsettling her. The rustle and clattering of gear dies down drawing her attention back to the group. All eyes are on her. The man standing across the table from her clears his throat.

"I'm Wyndeer," he says as he smooths back locks of his grey-streaked hair which has become ruffled with the removal of his kit. He has a strong nose; thick eyebrows frame his grey eyes. The stubble on his cleft chin is encrusted with dirt. Despite having shed his outer layer he remains clad head to toe in black. This layer is more form fitting, hinting at a trim body underneath. His shirtsleeves end at the elbow. Clasped around both forearms are long, thick metal cuffs.

The smooth brushed brass metal extends from his wrist to just short of his elbow.

"What is your name?" he asks.

"Oh, um, Cara," she croaks. Six pairs of eyes train on her. She clears her throat and tries again.

"I'm Cara," she repeats, disappointed that her second attempt is barely an improvement.

"Cara," Wyndeer says slowly, pausing as if to allow her to correct his pronunciation. He speaks clearly with a faint lilt at the end of her name. His accent causes her no concern or surprise. She waits in an uncomfortable silence as his eyes search the length of her body before returning to her face. His forehead creases into a brief frown as his mouth hovers on the edge of addressing her further. He snaps his attention to the shorter man standing to his right.

"Crathsun, it looks like we'll be here for the night. Secure the bunk house and review our position." Crathsun nods, his attention only momentarily diverted from staring at her. His short beard is also encrusted with grey dirt; it makes his wide neck look even thicker. His body is a bulk of muscle. He is probably the Whooping Guy who had been sitting opposite her on the craft.

"Erro, Joss," Wyndeer continues, "I want a report on supplies, see what we have here in the cupboards: medicine, food, water; the usual. Magse, check out the rooms, find somewhere for Cara." Wyndeer had glanced quickly across to the younger man and two women on his left. All three murmur acknowledgement of his requests leaving Cara unable to determine who is who. Wyndeer looks towards the man who had carried her onto the craft and led her through the compound. He issues a cold stare rather than instructions.

As she turns to get her first look at him, she realises how close she is to him and takes a small step sideways. His short brown hair sticks up in small sweaty clumps, another casualty of the balaclavas. Dust clings in the faint lines across his forehead and in the corners of his mouth. His lower lip pouts on top of a strong chin; it gives him a rather sullen look. The rustle of movement brings her attention back to the main group, everyone other than Wyndeer has started to turn away from the table.

"Wait," Cara yelps, "sorry, but isn't someone going to tell me what's going on?" She swallows hard, her throat feels rough, as if she has been screaming recently.

"We need to ensure security and provisions first." Wyndeer says firmly, lifting a dismissive arm to the group.

"But…what…" she tries again, the words spluttering out weakly.

"It would be best to get you cleaned up first." Wyndeer's voice is a little lower this time, carrying a warning undertone. He watches her. They all watch her.

"But, where are we?" Pain shoots across her forehead as her brow furrows in confusion.

"Who are you?"

"We'll go over that later," Wyndeer clips.

"Can't you just tell me what happened?" she can hear the pitch of her voice rising, "Are you the police?" She searches their faces, "The army?" No one else tries to answer. No one looks away. They stare. The balaclava twists in her hands, the grit on her fingers grinding into the fabric.

"We will," his voice deepens again, "once you have had the chance to get cleaned up." She looks up at the man next to her. The Huffy Guy. The man who had reassured her in the craft.

"But what-" she trails off, her mouth opening and closing but the words refusing to form. He studies her, a rainbow shimmer like oil on water crosses his deep indigo eyes. He is close enough that she can feel the warmth emanating from his body. A prickle of goosebumps crawls over her back under her thin running top. Cold from her hands penetrates easily through the quick-dry material as she grips her arms. His tall dark form remains rigid, like the rest of the group.

Her head dips as she tightens her protective hug.

"Later," Wyndeer commands with finality. The prickle of goosebumps jitter into shakes across her dishevelled form. Her mind races as she tries to recall the events in the park. Pain pulses from the cut on her temple thrumming its beat into her left eye. She tries to reason why rescue personnel would need to retreat to a secure bunk house. An emergency situation should have meant a back and forth on radios, a buzz of activity, flashing lights. Someone checking her pulse. Someone asking her if she was ok.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. People talking to her not at her. The black boots of Huffy Guy and the woman with the high cheekbones and thin lips mark the periphery of her downturned vision. Heavy-duty, protective boots with thick soles. The man's are far larger than the woman's and marked with scuffs and scratches, but unmistakably the same model. Both are standing with their feet slightly wider than their hips, their weight evenly distributed.

She tracks up their bodies, the same style of trousers down to the padded knees and side pockets. Both have their shoulders back, hands ready at their sides. Their stance is mirrored across the group along with their stares – all directed at her. Wyndeer is looking at her impatiently. Swallowing hard she forces her chin up as she meets his stare.

"No, now. What happened? Who are you?" her forcefulness rising with each question as she tries to twist her panic into indignation.

"Where are we?" Wyndeer's eyes narrow as his mouth starts to form his rejection.

"Answer me!" The demand rolls off her tongue so fast and forcefully she is almost as surprised as Wyndeer looks. Wyndeer's eyes flick to Huffy Guy beside her before hardening back on her, his upper lip drawing into a snarl.

"Given the delay we may need to offer a short explanation. Perhaps we should confirm identity as per Argatta's protocol?" Huffy Guy suggests in a neutral tone. Wyndeer's jaw twitches as he considers the man for a moment.

"Go ahead, Draig," he mutters. Huffy Guy – Draig - reaches into the bag at his feet and pulls something out, wiping dirt from it with the palm of his hand as he straightens up. Holding it lightly between his fingers he takes Cara's hand and places it into her upheld palm.

"Hold this," he says casually, as if asking a friend to hold his beer. It is a shard of crystal, translucent with a pale yellow tone. Hexagonal in shape and cool to the touch, it is about the length of a pencil and the width of a large carrot. Its surfaces are smooth, cutting in to form an irregular pyramid at each end. She brushes her thumb across the glossy yellow surface as it lays in her palm.

A memory flashes through her mind; she is five years old, catching the drip of clover honey running down the side of a glass jar with her thumb as she sits at the breakfast table at Gran's house. Gran smiles secretly at her as she spreads the honey across a piece of bread.

"Our little treat," Gran whispers conspiratorially, causing Cara to clamp her hand over her mouth to muffle her giggle. Blinking away the memory Cara looks up at Draig in puzzlement.

"What is this?" His face is impassive as his indigo eyes study her.

"It doesn't mean anything to you?" Wyndeer asks.

"No," her brow furrows, drawing a fresh spasm of pain across her head. They stare at her, waiting.

"What," she questions in growing frustration, absently waving the shard in the air, "does this have to do with identity?" They stare. She presses her lips together hard, biting back her breath to fight the hot prick of tears in her eyes. An electrical tingle travels up her arm as the shard fizzes with a gentle vibration.

"Fuck, what was that?" Startled, she clumsily throws the shard onto the table and takes a quick step back. Too quick, she trips over her own foot, her knee buckles. Draig wraps an arm around her, catching her and pulling her back upright.

"I'm fine," she mumbles as she pulls away from his warm hand clasped at her waist, choosing to grasp a chair to steady herself instead.

"I'd say that was a positive," Draig says to Wyndeer. He retrieves the shard from the table and drops it back into his bag. No one else speaks, their eyes remain on her.

"So?" Cara says, rubbing the arm through which the shock had travelled.

"What does that mean? What is going on?" Wyndeer clears his throat, "Where are you from?"

"What?" she asks, confused by the pivot in conversation.

"Where. Are. You. From," he repeats, one word at a time.

"Richmond. Where you found me," she bristles.

"Richmond is a planet?"

"What?" she asks, dumbfounded, "No. Richmond is a place in London."

"Which planet?"

"Planet?" Wyndeer looks at Draig.

"Which planet is Richmond on?" Draig asks casually, as if he were asking what tube line it was on.

"Is this…Are you checking to see if I'm concussed?" she half laughs.

"Which planet?" Draig repeats simply.

"Well Earth of course." The smile falls from her face.

"And the year is 2026 and Starmer is Prime Minister." She falters. They stare.

"And Trump is President. Hold your fingers up because I'm pretty good at counting too," she blurts out, suddenly wanting to keep the joke going because there can be no other explanation for the question. Draig raises a quizzical eyebrow.

"Why did you come here?" Wyndeer demands.

"I… wait, why did I come here? You," her arms throw the words at him across the table, "you brought me here. Where even are we?"

"Why did you come to Xiatt?" he clarifies, "To a planet in our world?"

"What the fuck?" She inhales sharply, looking across the group wildly. No laughs, no smirks.

"Why do you just keep staring. What is this? What the hell are you talking about?" Her hand presses against the cut on her forehead trying to quell the pain that thumps harder and harder.

"Are you aware that you have travelled to Xiatt?" he tries again.

"Of course I'm not aware," she snaps back at him, rocking back on her heels.

"How can I be aware of travelling through your delusion?"

"No delusion," he says tersely.

"You have travelled from your planet to one of ours."

"This is ridiculous," she says incredulously, turning towards the door.

"I don't understand what's going on, but I want out." The woman next to her takes a slow, deliberate step, positioning her tall frame perfectly in front of the doorway. Her cold eyes stare down her long straight nose at Cara, one eyebrow arched in challenge.

"It would be best if you rested," Wyndeer says to her back.

"You can continue this conversation with Argatta when we get back."

"Back where?" she demands, reeling around to face him again.

"Whatever planet you think you're living on I don't want anything to do with it. I don't want to stay here. I don't want to stay with you. I want to leave."

"I can't let you go."

"So, you've kidnapped me? Is that what this is?"

"No," he says slowly, "I have detained you."

"Detained? Detained? For what? Running in a park? What happened?"

"I have told you," Wyndeer barks, "You travelled to our planet. You will be detained to explain why."

"What the-" she trails off, at a loss with how to argue with him. She tips her head back, searching the ceiling as if an answer can be found up there. The ceiling, a dull cream colour, has a smooth sheen to it like resin rather than paint. The colour is uniform even where it drops down onto the walls. Drops down, not meets. She straightens up, realising what has made her feel uneasy about the room. The corners.

Instead of the sharp 90 degree joining of walls, each wall curves into the next and similarly up to the ceiling and down to the floor. The windows too; their corners are curves; there are no hinges or latches. They are panels of translucent glass seamlessly embedded into the walls. It is as if she is inside a moulded box. This isn't like any building she has seen before, but that hardly proves she is on another planet. It could be a pre-constructed unit, she muses, or a temporary structure for a set.

"Is this a joke?" She snaps her attention back to Wyndeer.

"A prank?" There aren't any obvious cameras, but she could easily have missed them.

"Are you live streaming?"

"No," Wyndeer says in confusion, a dusty frown line appearing between his eyebrows.

"Ha, Ha," she says with exaggerated sarcasm, waving at the invisible cameras. Perhaps he has a bodycam on, that would explain those bulky front pockets.

"You got me," she throws on an exaggerated smile, cupping her hands on her cheeks to complete the pose.

"No," impatience creeps into Wyndeer's voice.

"You have travelled to our world. I am taking you back to our superiors."

"No," she mimics him.

"You have been rumbled. Your prank is over. Time to stop before your likes dip for dragging it on too long." Leaning forward he presses both hands onto the surface of the table, his fingers turning white under the pressure. The tops of his forearms flex as they disappear under the long metal cuffs.

"There is no prank," he snarls through gritted teeth. Even bent forward he is still taller than her, his eyes never break contact as he looks down at her.

"You have travelled illegally to our world, and you will be brought in to explain yourself."

"Give it a fucking break!" Cara shouts back. Her ribs ache as she jerks towards the table, her thighs pressing against its edge.

"It's all fake. You're fake. This stuff is all fake," she waves at the kit strewn between them, "It's all just props for your idiotic prank." She grabs at a handle protruding out from under a discarded vest and pulls it towards her. A wide blade emerges. It is heavy in her hand, but momentum is with her. The blade carves a scratch into a pair of goggles as she slides it across the table. The young man's hand slams onto hers before the blade clears the goggles, crushing her knuckles into the table.

An arm snakes around her waist yanking her backwards and she finds herself pressed against Draig. Others sweep the kit from her end of the table. Light flashes off the blade as the young man draws it down to his side. She bucks and thrusts against Draig's iron grip on her waist, scratching at his arm, her fingernails sliding along a hard surface under the fabric of his top. He quickly clasps his free hand over her arms, locking them tight against her body.

"This is kidnapping!" she screams, kicking her heels back hard into his shins as he lifts her further away from the table.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he murmurs into her ear, his cheek pressing at the back of her head.

"No!" she screams, whipping her head back into his shoulder. Pain erupts across her forehead and runs lightning bolts down her neck. She feels a scream fading in her throat as the room spins and flips around her and strength drains from her body.

"Please," she says desperately, falling limp in his arms.

"Magse, sedate her," Wyndeer orders distantly.