Bump. Julian's head bounced up then smacked the floor, jarring him awake. Head foggy he tried to remember whose bed it was he'd gone to sleep in. His stomach dropped as he remembered the mysterious paramilitary man who had drugged him unconscious.

A persistent rumble saturated the stagnant air.He felt plastic-wrapped roles of unknown material covering him, but couldn't make them out in the pitch black. Pushing on them he could feel resistance almost immediately - the ceiling was almost on top of him.

Julian tried to wriggle between two of the rolls to get out from under them, but they were packed tight and seemed somehow bound together. He envisioned a man-sized sardine tin.

Attempting to raise his hand to scratch his nose only succeeded in chafing his wrists; a zip-tie bound his hands together behind his back. The floor behind him was oddly corrugated, probably plastic.

Giving up on physical exploration, he focused on the mystery sound. The rumble was mostly constant, but every few minutes a secondary vibration seemed to slide by one side. After a few minutes of careful listening he heard the distorted warble of a Doppler-shifted siren. Road noise. He was stuffed in some closed vehicle compartment, though it seemed larger than a trunk.

"This is new," he thought, "never been abducted before." His AR glasses were gone, but the controller that had been in his pocket had voice control and basic networking. It might still be there. He opened his mouth to try a voice command, at which point he noticed the gag.

There was a larger bump, the road noise changed, and the ride got a lot rougher. The jostling battered his head repeatedly against the floor. He strained to hold his neck up off the ground, turning his body periodically as the muscles tired out. It mostly worked, excepting a few particularly savage potholes.

Half an hour of neck strain later, the vehicle finally came to a merciful stop. He heard two doors open and the crunch of boots on gravel. One man talked in a language he didn't recognize, the other grunted by way of response.

The roof above him lifted away and cool night air rushed in. Some dim light filtered through the rolls of what he now saw were some kind of thermal foil insulation bound with packing tape.

The ground rocked as one of the men jump up into the truck bed. He flicked out a utility knife and set to work cutting tape. He seemed to take particular pleasure in making slices uncomfortably close to Julian's face. Once a few rolls were free he shifted them out of the way.

"Good morning sweetheart, rise and shine," intoned the stranger as he yanked Julian to his feet. The man feinted at Julian's face with the cutter, laughing as he flinched. Julian didn't know him, but he recognized the man still on the ground as the asshole that had drugged him back in the Netherlands. He had a black duffel bag over one shoulder but otherwise looked the same as before.

The two paramilitary grunts bundled him off the pickup and onto the gravel below. The cruel one with the utility knife gave Julian a shove and he tumbled headfirst to the ground. His nose crunched and he felt a rush of blood that took him back to his inept childhood football days. Academic life until now had proven blissfully free of nasal trauma.

Julian spit out some gravel then lay motionless. The men ignored him as they closed the truck bed back up, tossed a duffel bag onto the porch, and got back into the vehicle. By the time he'd pushed himself to his knees they were disappearing down the road, invisible but for their headlights. He mentally kicked himself for not getting the license plate, then decided it probably didn't matter.

A full moon cast dim light over the surroundings. He stood at the end of an unremarkable gravel driveway cutting through a large field, miles from anywhere.

"I apologize for my coworkers' behavior," said a voice from behind him, "you spend enough time in hostile territory and it's easy to forget compassion for your fellow man. My name is Antoine, I'll be looking after you. You must be hungry. Please come inside and I'll make us a snack."

Julian stood slowly and turned around. Light spilled out of the open front door of a simple cabin, little more than a box. Standing in the doorway was Antoine, a tall man with a lean fitness. He had picked up the duffel, the camo print clashing against his stonewashed jeans and salmon v-neck.

"Ah, you've hurt your nose. Allow me." Antoine descended the two steps to the driveway then pinched Julian's nose between his thumb and finger. He stood too close, holding his arm high to avoid drips. His breath smelled faintly of onions. "Wouldn't do to spill blood on the furnishings, I'm only a visitor here myself."

The two of them stood in silence, Antoine staring intently into Julian's eyes, not blinking. He wanted badly to be away from this disconcerting man, 'flight' being his preferred stress response.

The trickle of blood finally dried up. Antoine pulled a tissue from his pocket, wiped the smear of blood from his fingers, and dropped it to the ground.

"Right then, let's go inside. After you," he gestured expansively with his arm. Julian saw little point in resisting and trudged resignedly up the steps and through the door. Even were he unbound he stood no chance running - Julian's faint athleticism was limited to the occasional jog around the park.

They entered into a sitting room, sparsely furnished with a small couch and two arm chairs done up in matching faux leather. The coffee table held up an overflowing ashtray, a copy of Guns & Ammo, and an honest to god pornographic magazine in some language with too many consonants. There were two doors on the far wall: one opened into the kitchen, the other was closed. Conspicuously absent were any electronics. Or windows.

Antoine paused to shut the door behind them, turning the deadbolt with a key from his pocket. The lock made an ominous thunk as it engaged.

"I'm afraid all I can offer you must come out of a tin. I'm not much of a cook myself, and we try to avoid extraneous provision runs. Would you prefer beef stew, or chicken noodle?"

Julian made a few non-committal grunts through his gag.

"Whoopsie, where are my manners. Let me help you with that." Antoine unfastened the gag, which Julian spit hastily to the ground.

Antoine's lips curled up in disgust as the cloth hit the floor with a wet smack. Red blossomed across his cheeks, jaw muscle twitching spastically. "SLOVENLY PIG!" he spat, spraying flecks of saliva on Julian's face.

He grabbed Julian by the cheek with one hand and reached savagely toward his pocket with the right. "I will teach you to–" Antoine stopped mid sentence, took a deep breath, and the blood receded as quickly as it had come.

"I suppose you did not have much choice, your hands are tied, as they say. Still, it is rude to spit in the house of your host."

"I... uh... I'm sorry? I apologize. I meant no harm--offense," Julian stammered. His palms sweated and he couldn't stop looking at the handle protruding from Antoine's pocket.

"Water under the bridge. Now which will it be?"

"I... Sorry?"

"The soup. Minestrone, or chicken noodle?"

Now was probably not the time to mention that he tried to keep vegetarian. Julian doubted it was real meat anyhow, the place didn't give off a 'premium canned goods' vibe. "The chicken is fine, thank you."

"Of course. Please make yourself comfortable on the sofa."

Julian looked at the couch. The pleather was cracked across the left and right cushions. Off-color stuffing poked out cautiously, like some new species of sofa-dwelling rodent. Julian opted for the middle cushion, sitting slowly to avoid further chafing his wrists.

He closed his eyes, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. Some kind of weird act to shake him up? Or was he kidnapped by a madman? The house seemed to be gently rocking, as if he'd spent the day on a boat. He blinked hard and looked around the room.

It wasn't much. He admired in turn the cracks in the drywall on the ceiling, the cigarette burns on the coffee table, and the unlikely proportions of the model on the nudie mag. An old analog clock on the wall read 5:15. Julian watched it long enough to be sure the hands were moving. If it was set right he'd been unconscious for half a day. Antoine called him back to the kitchen.

A worn cooktop, sink, and counter took up the rear wall of the room. An old refrigerator and bookshelf filled with canned food stood along the interior wall, next to a doorway, probably the basement. Opposite the shelves sat a chrome-edged formica table with a pair of cherry vinyl chairs. A bare lightbulb was the only illumination.

"Dinner is served." Antoine set down two bowls of sludgy noodles pocked with indistinct white cubes. Julian turned to present his zip tie for cutting.

"Of course, I will have to help you with the spoon. Please, take your seat." Julian shrugged. He scooted the nearest chair out with his foot and sat down, steeling himself for another surreal encounter.

Antoine pulled the other chair around and sat next to him, shoulder to shoulder. He drummed out a little beat on the table with the utensils, flipped one end over end, and scooped up a heap of mush. "Here come's the airplane, open wide."

Julian smiled awkwardly and allowed Antoine to spoon the lukewarm slime into his mouth. Hunger might be the best seasoning, but it still tasted like an old can. As soon as he'd swallowed Julian was ready with the next spoonful. It was oddly intimate and extremely disquieting. As he slurped down his questionable meal, Antoine talked.

"You are probably wondering why you have been brought here, and reasonably so. For after all, it is not common for people to be abducted from the beach in broad daylight. But then, these are not common times." Julian remembered the VR stream he'd watched earlier, then tore his mind away. He had no interest in throwing up and having to start over. "Care to hazard a guess why you have the pleasure of being my dinner companion?"

Julian swallowed. "Money? My mom's employer has full ransom insurance. Let me give her a call and we can get this sorted out."

"Hmm, an interesting idea. But no, that would just be the left hand stealing from the right. The ownership structure is rather complicated, but your mother and I were both hired by the same corporate entity, you know. It would reflect badly on me to extort from our best profit center. Not to mention your mother is almost certainly dead by now, which voids her employment contract. No, if I need more funding I'll go through the standard channels."

Julian paled. "My mom–"

"Yes, yes," Antoine waved his hands, as if trying to shoo an unwelcome fly, "along with many others. But this is just the start, try not to concern yourself overmuch with a few lives here and there. It is true we picked you up as leverage over Alice. Since then the situation has evolved."

Antoine put down his spoon and gripped the edges of the table, leaning in inches from Julian's face. A hard edge entered his voice. "Now tell me, why do I need you now?"

Julian felt panic rising again. "S-s-s-something to do with my studies?" he stammered, "I'm sorry to say I've been a poor student at best, if you were hoping for inside information on a legal case–"

Antoine brought both hands down hard on the table. Julian winced as his bowl bounced off and clattered to the linoleum. "Wrong again! No my friend," Antoine continued, calm again, "as they say, it's not what you know, it's who you know. You see, your father has... disappeared, and despite our best efforts, we cannot find him. But you Julian, you are his blood." Antoine lingered on the word, savoring the taste of it in his mouth. "You are the only personal connection he has contacted in years. So let us help each other. You, Julian, I'm sure would like to go home and make funeral preparations and some such. And me, well, I need to get in touch with Marcos."