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Post by the panopticountolaf on Nov 13, 2021 8:18:54 GMT -5
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Post by the panopticountolaf on Dec 5, 2021 12:35:19 GMT -5
CHAPTER ONE in which R. GETS A THIRD EYE R. had only seen kidnappings in movies and on the television before, and so was unprepared for her own. For one thing, she was kidnapped on a fairly open place, in full daylight; kidnappings in the movies were almost always at night. For another, her kidnappers did not throw a blindfold over her eyes, or a gag over her mouth. That always happened in the gangster movies that R. was not allowed to watch, but still knew all about. And for another, her kidnappers were very kind and well-dressed people. They were not missing fingers, or chewing tobacco, or swearing loudly like the villains in the movies. They had a pleasant if confusing conversation with R and gave her a sandwich to eat. In fact, the only thing they had done that was even slightly villainous was give her a funny smelling handkerchief that made her fall asleep.
R. stared down at her ankle, which stared back at her. It hurt. It hurt a lot. R. wasn’t even sure where she was -- when she tried to cast her mind back to the car trip, things seemed to just... fade away. She was alone in a very large room, filled with grey, lumpy beds exactly like the one that she was sitting on now. R. felt very lonely, but willed herself not to cry. That was the worst possible thing to do when one had been kidnapped, because then the villain would get angry and threaten her with a gun. He wouldn’t shoot, of course -- the evil boss would make sure that she wouldn’t get hurt -- but R. wasn’t sure she could deal with the barrel of a gun being pointed in her face at the moment. The pain in her ankle was positively excruciating, and she suddenly realized that she was very hungry. What time it was, R. wasn’t sure -- she didn’t own a watch, and there were no clocks or sundials or time-telling parrots in sight.
What kind of person draws a picture of an eye on their hostage’s ankle? Like with all of the other questions rattling around in her head, R. did not know the answer. What she did know was that the ink that had been used wouldn’t smudge, no matter how hard she tried to rub it off. Maybe it was one of those permanent markers that her mother always forbade her from using when she drew.
R. hadn’t meant to cry. Really, she hadn’t. But once she had thought of her mother it was very hard to think of anything else. How far away from home she was R. wasn’t sure. Often in a difficult situation, when everything that can go wrong has, a small piece of information can be calming, a sort of anchor when the seas of life are churning all around you. Of course, R. had no information whatsoever about where she was or why. It was all very mysterious. Mysterious indeed.
Whenever someone is kidnapped by the bad guys, a detective is close behind. The thing was, R. could not know this for sure. So she had to be her own detective. Usually, a detective poked around an alleyway or a scary crumbling building for clues, but R. wasn’t sure she had the strength or bravery to go poking around wherever on earth she was. She settled instead for poking around her memories of how she got here.
After school, R. had gone to the nearby park to spend some time with her friends. Once she had arrived, however, she realized that she had left her backpack back in her classroom. R. had hurried back to school, not noticing the long black automobile driving just alongside her or the people inside it who were arguing until she was on her way back to the park. A young and handsome man had leaned out of the passenger-side window and introduced himself as T. T. had asked R. if she was nice to her mother. R. had thought this was a silly question — why should some stranger care if she was nice to her mother? — but responded “Pretty good” all the same. T. had looked confused for a moment. The look didn’t suit him. The driver (who was named D.) mumbled something about it not mattering, and that “they never taught it to her anyway. That’s why we’re here now.”
And almost before R. had realized what was happening, T. had grabbed her by her shoes and was dragging her into the car. R. had thought of screaming for help as she was shoved into the back seat and the car roared away, but wondered if it might anger T. and D. into doing something worse. She realized that while she had often been warned against speaking to people she did not know and had even more often been warned against going into the cars of people she did not know, she had never been told about what to do if these things happened. This frustrated R. Sure, no kid would do that sort of thing on purpose, but what if it just sort of happened by accident like it did for her? Grown-ups just didn’t think of these sorts of things — or they did and never told children about it. Just telling someone not to do something didn’t mean it would never happen.
R. was pulled out of these thoughts by hushed voices, the voices of T. and D. T. seemed nervous about something; “I have a bad feeling about this. She seems so unaware of what’s going on”. D. was reassuring. “She doesn’t know about anything that’s going on because her parents didn’t want her to know about our organization. As I’ve said before today, that is why we’ve had to come and retrieve her while she’s away from home. Nothing about this particular recruitment is normal. That’s why you’re nervous.” T’s face darkened, and he said something uncharitable about D’s driving ability before noticing that R. was watching them both. “Want a sandwich?” he asked her. R. remembered what those mothers at the PTA meeting had said. A sandwich was similar to candy... perhaps she shouldn’t take it. But she was hungry, and the villains (as R. had already begun to think of them as) had already put her in their car, so it didn’t really matter if she ate something that they gave to her. Of course, you and I know that this reasoning is faulty, but R. was quite young when this story takes place and she’s under a lot of stress, so her decision-making facilities are not at their best. Let’s cut her some slack.
The sandwich was ham and tomato — a fine combination, but the sandwich had been sitting out for too long and the bread had become a bit soggy. R. made sure to eat it all, though. She didn’t want to upset T. and D. Who knew what they might do if they got upset?
T. turned around to look at R. “You’ve got a bit of mayonnaise on your nose,” he said, and gave her a handkerchief. “Thank you,” R. said uncertainly, and looked at it. The handkerchief was embroidered with T’s initials at one corner, and at the opposite corner was an eye. (Back in her hospital bed, R. realized with a start that this eye and the eye on her ankle were one and the same.)
“To get the mayonnaise off of your nose,” T. said impatiently, still watching R. What is he waiting for? R. thought to herself. She brought the handkerchief to her nose. She certainly didn’t feel anything on the tip of her nose.
In a flash, T. had grabbed R’s hand, keeping the handkerchief firmly in place. R. struggled, but soon found that she was very tired. This car trip had been very strange, and she really needed to sleep. T. kept watching as R. flopped down onto the unoccupied seat and slid into a deep sleep. The last thing she remembered before waking up was T. saying something to D. What was it...?
“She’ll make for an excellent volunteer.”
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Post by R. on Dec 5, 2021 13:44:47 GMT -5
This is the first graphic description of a VFD recruitment I have ever seen in an ASOUE fanfic, and it is terrifying. So much, in fact, that I audibly gasped in fear when I read it. So much ASOUE fanfiction is pro-VFD, and so this was a welcome change.
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Dec 5, 2021 14:48:45 GMT -5
This hooked me from the start. I'm very interested in R right now, and trying to imagine her unusual childhood. I always felt that R and Lemony were kidnapped at a time of transition between the old VFD and the new VFD. I think the new VFD never kidnapped a child against parental consent. (At most from time to time the kidnappers might even get confused about this consent, but they would never do so on purpose). On the other hand, the old VFD was made up of all sorts of people, some of whom just didn't mind enslaving children, which was one of the reasons behind the schism. I'm not pro-VFD, but I understand that the new-VFD was made up of idealists, and all of its flaws are "fails trying to get it right."
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Post by the panopticountolaf on Dec 15, 2021 18:08:42 GMT -5
CHAPTER TWO in which R. IS SAVED Time passed. R. tried to spend it well, but she found that it was difficult to do something productive when you’ve been kidnapped and don’t know where you are and your ankle is too painful to stand on. R. went over the twelve times-table in her head, and tried to recount the plot of a book she had just read, and by the time she was done with those two things another person was looking at R. with a funny expression on her face.
“How are you feeling?” said the person. She wore a white gown, rubber gloves, sensible shoes, and a hairnet, and looked like she might bolt for the door if R. made any sudden movements.
“My ankle hurts.” In R’s opinion, honesty was always the best policy.
“Tell me, R, do you know where you are?”
R. didn’t know how to respond to this question, probably because it wasn’t for her. You see, I, as the author (B, not I.), have elected to only use people’s first initials to describe them. This is to help protect their privacy. But the woman had used a full first name, a name that wasn’t R’s even though it began with the same letter.
“My name isn’t R.”
The woman laughed. “An admirable effort, young lady. But we know exactly who you are. We’ve got the proof and everything.”
“But my name isn’t R! It’s-”
“Please don’t raise your voice. It alarms some of our members, who are in the rooms all around us.” The woman walked over to a metal cart she had apparently brought in and picked up the large pitcher that was squatting on the top shelf. “Would you like a glass of water before you’re debriefed?”
“Yes,” R. admitted. She drank five glassfuls of water from a short and stumpy kind of glass she had seen her mother and father use to drink wine.
After the fifth glassful, R. felt a good deal better, well enough in fact to ask “What does ‘debriefing’ mean?”
“T. and D. are going to tell you all about why you are here and what you are going to do next,” the woman explained.
“What am I going to do next?” Anything seemed possible — that was what scared R.
“Who can say? That is your decision,” the woman said with an adventurous gleam in her eye.
R. liked the sound of that. “Can I go back home to my family?” she asked.
The woman didn’t meet R’s eyes. Instead, she said “Time for your debriefing” and rolled the cart away, through a small narrow door off to one side of the room. She returned with a crutch — R. recognized it from hours of watching one of her favorite TV programs — and helped R. to her feet. The crutch made things significantly less painful, and soon R. was walking around, looking for some kind of clue as to where she might be. She hadn’t forgotten the woman’s question about where they were, and didn’t like to answer “I don’t know” to a question.
“We’re in a hospital,” R. said confidently. “You’re a nurse.”
“Doctor, actually,” the doctor replied. “Usually I’m much busier than this, but there haven’t been many fires as of late. I haven’t had to use my patented healing salve in ages,” she said wistfully.
“Fires? Is there a fire department near here?” R. followed the doctor as she walked to the far end of the room.
“We’re in it,” the doctor said simply, opening a pair of double doors to reveal an office, complete with a skeleton replica, desk, computer, and enormous poster of the human brain on the wall with a section circled and “REMOVE THIS” connected to the circle via an arrow. “T. should be here any moment to take you to the meeting room. Are you ready?”
“I... I hope so,” R. said, catching sight of the plaque on the office door. “Thank you, Dr. Madaal.”
“Please, call me Viola. I’ll see you after the debriefing.”
“R! Come on, we’re behind schedule. There’s a lot we have to tell you.”
There it was again, that name that wasn’t hers! R. considered telling T. that it wasn’t hers, and that her real name was R, but somehow he seemed even less likely to listen to her than Viola. She limped over to the other side of the room and followed T. into an ornate, stuffy hallway with wooden panelling and faded green wallpaper. Thousands and thousands of eyes stared at R. from the walls as she followed her kidnapper — this eye drawing was showing up everywhere. Surely it must mean something. Or perhaps the hospital or fire department had an eye doctor.
The meeting room was the exact opposite of the hallway. It was cold and it was clear no-one had entered this room for a long time. D. sat behind a desk; in front of the desk another chair sat. It took R. a moment to notice the new face that was standing next to D. and holding an enormous stack of files, topped off with a small thin book. He blended into the faded room and its unpolished furniture perfectly.
“I don’t understand why we must have the debriefing here, where the central heating does not reach for some reason,” the new face was saying as T. and R. entered.
“For the last time, X, we do not want Madame Malvolia to know that R. is here,” D. said through gritted teeth. “Otherwise she’ll snap up the girl in a flash. We don’t want that, now do we?”
“I suppose not,” X. said dubiously.
“Therefore we’re using the old meeting room — hello, R!” D’s entire demeanor changed from sullen to a suspicious joy when she caught sight of R. As R. had expected, D. also called her by the wrong name. “How are you feeling after that long car ride?”
“Confused,” R. replied. “I have a few questions.”
“I’m afraid they’ll have to wait,” T. said. His tone suggested that he wasn’t really afraid of R. having to wait.
“Gosh, I’ve never done this before,” D. said. “Come on, T, would you read from the Initiation Handbook?”
“You know I hate reading.”
“You know we would both hate Madame Malvolia discovering the child.”
She knows I’m right here. Why is she talking about me as if I’m not here?
“All right,” T. grumbled. R. sat as he walked around the table and snatched the book from the top of X’s file stack. Flipping past the first few pages, he read:
“The world is quiet here. This is a sentence you can say truthfully in far too few places in this wicked world of ours. That is why you were dragged by the ankles into a long black car. That is why your ankle has been emblazoned with our insignia. That is why you are in this room, hearing or reading these very words — oh, come on! This is stupid, D. I thought we were trying to get the operation finished as soon as possible. Then Madame M won’t have any use for her. Can we just answer her questions and be done here?”
“Fine!” D. shouted. “What do you want to know, R?”
“Why is everyone calling me R? It’s not my name.”
“Of course it’s your name!” X. seemed indignant. “We’ve been observing you for nearly your entire life, and even though you are wearing a very convincing disguise at the moment, you are absolutely without a doubt one hundred percent who this file says you are! Are you questioning my filing abilities?”
“No!” said R, who felt a headache coming on. “But my name isn’t R, it’s R. You have to believe me.”
Silence. “The proof’s in the paper.” X. said it as if it were a religious mantra. He set a file down on the table and opened it to reveal dozens of photos of a girl who was most definitely not R.
“You can see it yourself — this girl’s got blonde hair,” R. pointed out.
“Listen, kid,” T. said, leaning over the desk. “I don’t know what your parents told you to do or say when we recruited you, but it isn’t working!”
“Gentlemen! Please let R. continue with her questions. I thought you were interested in letting her talk, T.” D. gave him a pointed look.
“What’s going on with the drawing on my ankle?”
“It’s a tattoo of our insignia.”
A tattoo! R. nearly gasped, but stayed focused.
“What does ‘insignia’ mean?”
“A distinguishing mark or sign. In this case it distinguishes who is and is not a member of our organization,” X. chimed in.
“What's this organization called?”
“Hurry up already!” T. was glancing anxiously at his watch.
“I’m sorry, R. We’ll have to answer the rest of your questions later,” D. said. “Can you take her back, T?”
T. tried to lead R. back to the door, but she wouldn’t go. “Where am I? How do I get home?”
“That’s quite enough,” D. said. “See you soon, R.”
“That’s not my name! Why do you think that’s my name?” T. picked R. up, threw her over his shoulder and carried her out the door as she continued screaming. She screamed all the way down the hallway and into the hospital room, where Viola had changed out the tray’s contents for some very sharp-looking tools. R. was set down roughly on the bed. T. turned to speak to Viola.
“Thank you,” Viola said. “No, no need to stay and watch. It’s a very stressful procedure, you understand. Yes... Yes. Thank you, T. I’ll let you know. Good-bye!”
She watched T. leave, her shoulders shaking. Is she crying? R. was doing so herself.
“It’s strange,” Viola said. “They’re in such a rush to get you away from Madame Malvolia. And then they just bring you to her without any fuss!” Viola tore off the white gown, revealing a fashionable red dress. The rubber gloves hid sleek white ones, the hairnet had corralled a waterfall of wavy hair, and the sensible shoes stayed where they were. “I’ll have to do a lot of running to get out of this place.”
“Are you saving me?” R. asked as Madame Malvolia picked her up and ran for the exit.
“Yes, darling, I am!” Madame Malvolia shouted, seemingly without a care in the world. She lunged for the door handle. Turned.
The doors flew open.
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Dec 15, 2021 22:54:21 GMT -5
Oh, this is really turning into a very interesting horror for children. I didn't really realize, in the first chapter, that R had been mistaken for someone else. It now makes sense that only the last Duchess of W joined VFD.
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