A note before the next chapter: I didn't expect the following to be as edgy as it wound up being in parts. Consequently, I'm bumping the rating to 16+. If mods want an edited version, I can oblige.
Chapter 2: The Obstacle Encountered
“And just how much does that come to in property damage?” growled James Carvram. The nervous finance officer that was currently the object of his anger slid the report across Carvram’s desk, a massive and dominating redwood fixture. James’ eyes scanned down to the appropriate heading, “Total Cost of Equipment Rendered Inoperable.”
From this imposing corporate leader, narrowed eyes were not a positive signal. Nor was his low hiss of, “Would you care to explain to our stockholders just how much we’ve lost on this venture now that our machinery has been destroyed?” reassuring for the financier’s future job prospects. His boss was known for both a quick temper and a long memory.
Carvram noticed with vindictive pleasure the way this messenger’s eyes darted around the floor-to-ceiling window behind his desk. The man, Damian by name (or so the report said) seemed convinced that the retail sections of the job ads were his best bet at this point. James enjoyed the fear, basked in it as he purred, “You’re not finished yet, though. Find out what happened for me and I might not have your head on my desk the next morning.”
From the way Damian hurried from the room, James would have thought his paassing threat entirely serious. He chuckled and returned to perusing the report. His expression turned grim as he considered how much he had sunk into logging and drilling rights.
He stood and began to pace around his spacious office, considering his next action carefully. He had at least one assiduous agent in finding what had happened, but continuing this operation would prove difficult if his investors saw problems. His piercing grey eyes passed over a fern without seeing it.
Powerfully built, Carvram was a dominating leader, not so much charismatic. Instead, his presence overawed most people. A smirk spread across his face as he unlocked a door set into the wall. A small kennel was at the bottom of the unobtrusive closet. It was cramped, three feet by five and the assembly points had been welded together. A heavy padlock held the door. Through the bars at the top, a leash ran and inside, was clipped to a collar. Inside the kennel, wearing the constricting and ornate piece of welded steel was a small girl, black-haired, raggedly clothed, and sleeping.
James jerked on the leash. She started awake with a small gurgling sound as her head was pulled into the top of her confined world. He laughed and bared his teeth in a parody of a smile as he undid the padlock and pulled her out. Again, her only response to this inhuman treatment was a small, wet sound in her throat as the steel pulled on her airways. Three years had passed since he had acquired her, the lone profit in an otherwise worthless raid. He wasn’t sure she remembered how to speak at this point.
Yanking her to her feet, she shuffled beside him to his desk and sat by his chair, all without looking up from the floor. Eye contact was a habit he had beaten from her early on. Easing back into his chair, he began to idly toy with her unkempt hair. She was relaxing in that regard, a demure toy for his abuse and aggression. He could coo praise at her or beat her for hours and rape her, all without her changing expressions or shifting from her position on the lush blue carpet of his office.
Deep inside her mind, where a girl named Erin still existed, she shivered. He looked tense today and she doubted she would sleep that night for her bruises. Deep inside, she felt fear once again.
*****
Buried in the bowels of Cynastar Enterprises there was the Surveillance and Espionage Department. It was there that Damian found himself, asking a singularly unhelpful woman about the events of a week ago. The financier growled, “What do you mean, no records? Of course there have to be records! It’s policy!”
The tech held up her hands in defense and said, “You ever try installing a stable camera and satfeed on logging equipment? The shaking from the movement alone is enough to make the video unusable, much less the actual logging process. The only cameras we had were inside the foreman’s building."
Damian sighed in resignation and dropped his head into his hand to rub his temples. Sounding tired, he said without lifting his head, “Give me those tapes at least. Maybe there’ll be something there.”
There was nothing, though, on the first viewing. Or the second. Or the tenth. Damian’s eyes were tired and his head felt like it had been used as a quarry hammer. The darkened viewing room helped nothing, and the small halfbacked chair he was sitting in proved to be a hell all its own. With a sigh, he hit the rewound to five minutes before the tape went static.
There was nothing. Nothing again. Four minutes and fifty-five seconds of worthless footage. This time, in the last seconds, something caught his battered eyes in gazing about the tiny building. He paused it and examined the white blur, then slowed he tape and rewound. There, entering the building. Slashing upwards…
“Beautifully done,” he muttered, then stopped the tape. He ran from the room with the relief of having made a start. Snagging another tech, a man in an obnoxiously orange shirt, he said, “Compile a list of all natural threats in the forests we recently procured. Also, all corporations with resource-ventures large enough to get away with medium-scale sabotage. I need it tomorrow.”
This one, at least, didn’t cause problems, only moved to his computer with mechanically tired grace.
*****
Blood matted her hair as she was thrown back into her cage. The door closed and her eyes were once again cut off from light. What clothing she had had was now rattier and wet from blood and urine. He skin was sticky with their dark pleasure. Hanging on the edge of consciousness, she curled up in the small space afforded her, trying to sleep on her bruised body and what she was sure was a broken rib.
The handlers had been rougher on her today than normal, battering her body into a state of unthinking obedience and abused her further still. Tears for what had come before, her anger and confusion at why this was being done to her had already dried on the cold floor, had already been absorbed by the steel bars without noticeable effect. There was no point in wasting them there any longer.
Lairen, cold and hurt and alone allowed herself to hope for one nice dream, the one of revenge and blood. Finally, their blood not her own, their bodies mutilated and broken on the floor instead of hers. She thought of guns, of knives and a crimson patina staining her vision.