Count DeMonteior was one of the best councilors I've ever had. His precision with a bolt was unperceivable, his glare with a scope was incredible, and his point with a dart was among the top five percent. I couldn't have asked for more when I acquired him as my personal coach. He helped me get from the rank of Seed Spitter to the rank of Tip Crusher in a fortnight. I've never progressed up the ladder as fast as this before, moving up six ranks on the sixty-level chart. At this rate I could make it to into the top five ranks before the age thirty five, a record only two people have ever accomplished.

We'd spend hours upon hours on the range shooting, my aim went from a greater than two thousand to a greater than twelve hundred, an incredible increase I gladly boasted about. I was determined, no; I would pass Count Gebbens precision of greater than sixty at this rate.

I opened my eyes and looked into the scope, I was done thinking back on the past months, I needed to focus on here and now. The target, I couldn't find it—was it behind the tree? Floating? Where was it? All I could see was clouds. Square clouds. This scope must be broken, no—what was I shooting? Why can't I remember what I was shooting, I was so close to being the best, but I couldn't even remember what I was shooting. Only square clouds were in my scope now. I tried to pull my eyes away from the scope, but the square clouds stayed. I moved my head as if to get closer to the clouds and jolted up in reaction. Awake.

I heard some sort of sharp squealing in the distance; it was coming from down the hall. I got up out of the bed and dared the open expanse of the room until I was able to feel the safety of the door frame. The squealing grew louder as I felt my way down the hall and out into the living room.

"It's the damn terrorist again." I heard the potato man grumbled from the area I remembered was the kitchen. There was a terrorist attack? Here? What were they going to do! We have to hide, we had to get out of the building, and I didn't want to die. "Look at them, they're just sitting there. Peaceful protests… What's wrong with these people?"

I felt my way along the wall till my bare feet felt the tile in the kitchen, "What do you mean?" I asked.

"They always do this, protesting peacefully, without war we will all perish of starvation and old age." I had to learn more, how the hell was peaceful protest ever a bad thing? So fingering my way around the kitchen I found something that resembled a stool and sat down.

I then went on to ask, "What do you mean? War is bad."

"No odd one. War is good; war is our only method of populating the world. Without war who would gain their rage and slice off body parts? We need war to have our children. Those damn terrorist are going to be the end of us all, preventing war with their hippie drugs and songs of love and peace," how would cutting off your leg or arm in war EVER be a good thing? My stomach growled, which brought up another interesting question, how did the machine in my belly button work? Could I stick, say, a pencil in it and sharpen it?

"And don't get me started on those terrible countries like Gorgostan and Falenstan. They refuse to declare war on us, we demand war to help reproduce. But if they refuse war we'll be forced to invade and force them to war—even hippies will get frustrated and throw out a bout of rage and slash at someone, eventually." I heard the blender and decided it was best not to test the pencil theory. Either way I doubt digesting lead would be a good thing.

The blender stopped, "Look at that filth. The guards on the bottom floor have come out with the axes and swords and those filthy terrorists started tossing about flower necklaces and backing away. They'll run away the second the guards get too close. They'll never let the guards use their rage. It's no fair if they never fight back anyways, we'd only be helping them to reproduce their hippy ways but they'll never strike back." The potato man handed me a tube of something, "I remember last year—the Stan Massacre they committed. Our country The Combined Counties, and our good allies Great Nattin were having a ritualistic battle of those who wanted babies. The terrorist somehow knew about the battle and jammed the signal to GN, instead the terrorist showed up, all suited up in Nattin armor. They charged us, we charged them, but they never returned a single blow. End result? Twelve thousand babies on their side and six on ours. They'll try anything to destroy us. And I feel they're winning."

I shamefully stuck the tube in my belly button and listened as the machine turned on, sucked it dry, then released it.

"You sleep a lot," The potato man suddenly said, changing the subject.

"I do?" I tried to hand back the tube, only guessing the smile the potato must have every time he saw me 'eat'.

"Yes, three days," to me it felt like three years, I always have the most interesting dreams, though I can never remember them after waking up. Just then there was a knock at the door, "Come in! He's awake this time." The potato man called at the door.

"Well, well, you're finally up?" A familiar voice came from the door. It was the Mind Reader, "You ate breakfast I can see," he probably noticed the empty tube in my outstretched hand, "well, you're coming with me. It's been decided to show you our world, maybe then you can remember how to get back to the possible."

I stuck my hand out, I rather not do the fingering around walls all day thing, I much prefer someone to just lead me around. I heard shuffling, then the hairy Mind Reader grabbed my arm to lead me out of the potato man's home. I didn't mind a tour; it wasn't like my life could get any worse.

He led me down the hall, yes the infinitely long hall. My feet brushed along the cold and warm sections of tile. I smiled. It was an exciting massage of the feet; I was at an expensive massage salon. The first step of the six-step massage was the soothing walk down the polished hall and to the end where there were better and more extravagant options. They covered my eyes with a lush white towel, to keep the moment even more mysterious of course. I felt the smooth towel move so slightly as I strolled down the comforting hall. The walls were made of wonderful glass. Behind the glass was millions of amazing things, a few being an aquarium on one side and a massive wild jungle of dinosaurs and other mysterious and uncomprehendable beasts on the other. But I wouldn't see the wonders yet, that was the desert of the massage session, it was the end when they finally unveil your eyes and let you see the wonders, refreshed and renewed.

The warm and cool floor was fragranced with light citrus and slowly slathered your feet with pleasant and smoothing oils and creams. They said the hall of sweetness, as it was nicknamed, was one of the most prestigious foot massages you'll ever get. I don't complain, I've been to hundreds of parlors before, and I say, this is indeed by far the best.

A door slammed open. We must be at the end of the hall of sweetness. I was prepared for the four different massages spanning over the course of two hours. It was going to be the time of my life. A breeze. I was… outside? No massage?

"Watch your step," the Mind Reader said as he led me down a flight of steps and onto something hot and covered in gravel, a parking lot. He led me across the hot parking lot and quickly ushered me into the passenger seat of some kind of car. The seat felt like fake leather and the back warmed itself as if on cue, the Mind Reader sure had himself a fancy car. I brushed my bare feet up and down the carpet on the passenger side to cool them off from the hot dash across the parking lot. I assumed the carpet was white, because then that would mean me rubbing black gravel over it would be more entertaining. The Mind Reader would have to spend a fortune to re-carpet it or something outrageous.

The engine started up, the car felt smooth upon start up—he most defiantly had something expensive. I fumbled around for a seat belt, it was after all instinctual. I couldn't find one. The car moved, it went straight up. Up! My hands instantly went from the seat, to try and hold myself in place and I struggled more to find some sort of seatbelt, I felt I needed it.

"What are you looking for?" I heard next to me.

"A seat belt or something."

"Ah, these cars don't have one, they wouldn't matter. Death rate is too high." Death rate is too high! They have cars with what, one star crash safety? They mark the safety so low the seatbelts wouldn't matter. That's wonderful. Just wonderful.

"Well, below us now is the Hospital you're staying at. The roof, as most that would drive over it can see, is currently covered with one of the largest ads in the country. I'm proud to say we already have twelve different companies willing to pay top-dollar for placing an ad there. It's almost as if we make more money off the advertising than we do on the hospital. I remember when I first started this Hospital eighteen years ago. I remember…"

And I remember something a bit more interesting that the Mind Readers past eighteen years of cheating his way through to the top. All he had to do was read the mind of those around him and take control, one by one. But let's get off remembering and onto something much more intriguing.

Yes, I'm talking about the future. It must have been the year 2112, yes 2112 was the year the world as we knew it ended, the earth—it crinkled in on itself. Everyone first thought the world ending blow would be in 2012, but those dumbasses that predicted it had one slight mistake. The calendar they were basing it on accidently skipped 100 years in the 1700's, a small miscalculation by the people who translated the calendar in the mid 1900's. So then here we are, 2112, the real dooms day.

The positive about this date was that the people of earth were already so advanced entire civilizations had figured out how to live on massive space stations circulating the earth. When the Earth spontaneously collapsed on itself on December 12th, 2112 only about half the population as we knew it died.

But I'm not going to go into detail about those people that died, about the devastation, or about anything of importance on the ship I happened to be on. Cause, quite frankly, I wasn't too important. The only reason why I was able to slip onto one of the massive space stations was as a bathroom cleaner, I was the guy that had to walk miles upon miles in a wonderfully yellow jacket that said "Janitor" on it in some mysterious universal language invented about thirty years ago. But everyone always laughed at my yellow jacket because in English it roughly looked like "Loser" if you titled your head just right.

Now, because of the union of the world, the invention of the "Universal Tongue", and the natural clash of cultures everyone knew about six to ten different languages quite fluently—and I was no exception. English was my third tongue by the age four; the "Loser" pinned on my back was a terrible reminder of my lack of class in the new space society.

But it wasn't all negative, at least I knew I had something, there were billions upon billions dead on the surface due to the Earth's implosion. At least I wasn't among them. So I felt proud of my "Loser" uniform, I had no complaints with it. But that's not to say I didn't complain. No, complaining was my alibi. I was damn good at it, so good that I sometimes even made one or two people change their pooping habits. But let's get onto the condition of these bathrooms. Now, I'm sure everyone at one point in time, even those who now live on the stations, has been to one or two of those moldy, rotten, middle-of-nowhere truck stop restrooms back on earth. You know, the ones that they give you a key attached to a two foot stick only after you buy a pack of gum and claim you're a "paying customer." Yeah. Those, the ones that often have mold covering the corners and where the walls meet the ground. The ones that have dried toilet paper stuck to the ceiling cause some kid thought it was funny. The ones that never flush right, that have an eighty percent chance the only toilet bathroom already has something floating in it, the ones that never have any toilet paper—and if they do its safer to classify it as sand paper. The ones where just touching the seat you feel like you've acquired fifteen STD's and just had sex with an old truck driver. Yeah, those. My job's not quite as bad as those.

But, I was damn good at making it appear that way. So good, in fact, that six of the twenty-two regions I serviced created ordinances that basically said that they people who use the restroom will jointly help in keeping them well-stocked and organized. Things such as, if you use the last roll, get another, if you clog it, you unclog it—you know, things that made my life easier. These ordinances actually, in a way, gave me power. I was given authority to look over the security cameras of those going in and out of the restrooms and was able to keep track of the public restrooms material stock. I was actually able to give out citations for disobeying the law, yes me, the guy with "Loser" written on his back. The guy that escaped death by being at the bottom of the food chain doing the job no one else wanted. But I, simply because of my awesome complaining, was able to gain power, slowly but surely until eventually every region I serviced had ordinances that kept me in control. All I had to do was go from location to location making sure everything was in order and giving out citations, or fines, to those who tried to go against my reign of the bathrooms.

"Then he shoved his entire hand up his ass. Yes! His entire hand!" I turned to my side, recalling I was traveling in a flying car and the guy next to me was still talking to me.

"Uh huh," I replied, hoping he didn't notice my lack of attention… Wait! Did he just say hand up ass? What the hell is he talking about? Maybe I should be listening and not fantasizing about my wonderful adventures as a futuristic janitor.

"But I said no, the implications of a genetic outbreak of the systematic floriad H: 40.5 V: 101.4 was at such a small percentage we shouldn't raise the bar to yellow…" I lost my ability to understand how some outbreak could be related to sticking your hand up your ass, then and again the hand-up-ass could have been some metaphor for a guy making a fool of himself. But then I considered how the doctors thought of me so far, it might not be. Whatever.

So, two years passed and I wormed my way up from the lowest of the low, the poop sweeper to a decent rank, I was able to make my own hours, I was feared by all the poopers in my domain, which, if you didn't catch my drift, was everyone. Matter of fact, I had so much power I was able to fabricate data, black mail people of higher class, or simply threaten to tighten regulations. As a matter of fact I became so corrupt I was able to bribe people to work for me in order to pay off their citations. With this blackmail I was able to rank up to some ridiculous amount. Normally working off a citation meant anywhere from ten to fifteen hours of work each citation, that mean they had to work for me for at least two days. I turned from a janitor cleaning the toilets to a bureaucrat who monitored security tapes and data piles in search for people dumb enough to make mistakes.

But even that was too hard for me, I went even further—I started getting people to look for people that made mistakes for me! Soon I was able to stay at home, never present, and no one noticed—I became the lazy rich guy who I used to clean up after. And who said that being a janitor had no benefits?

For one reason or another that still wasn't enough—I wanted even more power. I now renamed myself from "Loser" to "Sanitation Manager" and somehow managed to slip onto the board of the station as one of the back advisors. No one seemed to notice that my raise to power was via blackmail and snake-like assaults on others. I slithered my way onto the board, but that still wasn't enough—I wanted more power. There was this saying, absolute power corrupts absolutely, well, I strived to be corrupt. I was no exception to the saying.

"After that building was founded the terrorists were forced to migrate north to avoid assaults from the Yemm Army of Pacifists. Who would simply throw the terrorists on one deserted island or another so they could live out their lives in peace, fail to reproduce and die out."

I was sort of disappointed the Mind Reader's conversation had moved away from the fisting of some guy's ass, at least that wasn't boring as history. But I ignored him and continued with my own story in my head.

It was massive break from me when I slipped into issuing poop licenses in my twenty two regions, and also bribing other janitors to increase my reign of poop terror from twenty-two regions to eighty four, covering over six hundred thousand of the hundred and eighty million people on my station. The poop licenses, if expired amounted to huge fines when you used the toilets and monitored who enters and leaves a restroom. You had to swipe it at the door to both the restroom and the stall. Above all else my restrooms were some of the cleanest, safest, and best in all of the station—word of the amazing quality of the restrooms soon spread and poop tourism became an odd commonality.

The wonderful part about the tourism is anyone entering my eighty-plus-region domain had to purchase temporary sanitation passes just to use the bathroom, these passes generated hundreds of thousands in profits. The ones issued to the people who lived in the area were free, to be fair to those who had no choice. The profits from the tourism passes were used to help grow my reign; soon I was paying out salaries twice what the commonwealth of the station paid to those who wanted to join my growing control of the station's sanitation systems.

Four more years passed in my slow growth and soon I had over ten thousand regions, half of the station, under my command and I was paying out two to three times the allowance of those who worked for the station, greed was a powerful tool in my growth. I was literally able to buy my way into the Council of Twenty, or the top twenty people who controlled the Geos Branch, a group of six stations that had a little more than 600 million people living in its reign. I was a powerful man, and I wasn't just in the business of sanitation anymore either. I had bought out and monopolized various other aspects of life too, the distribution sector, the food department, the clothing factories, and of course anything related to sanitation. It wasn't that I went to the top executives of those areas at the time and bought their markets, but instead I undermined their markets by paying their workers double the minimum wage for the same job, just under my name—my opponents fell apart, crashing one by one until I ruled it all. Sure I wasn't making a one thousand percent profit like my competitors were, it was only about a twenty or thirty percent profit, but it wasn't the money that mattered—it was the power.

It only took six more months for the rest of the station to fall unanimously under my control. And when that happened the stations closest to mine followed example, they saw how prosperous my people were, how much they were being paid and were literally begging me to work for me. People would cry at my feet for a job, and it wasn't my willingness to add people to my ranks that slowed this acceptance of new people, but my lack of money to pay the wages. It was a slow and brutal process, taking over the other five stations, but it happened and in six months' time. I had the entire Branch under my control.

Now, you'd think going from janitor to Supreme Ruler of the Geos Branch was enough for me. But it wasn't, I still wanted more and more power. My branch doubled, no tripled the other four branches in production, wealth, and happiness. Immigration to the Geos Branch was massive, I was forced to lock all docking stations and cut the Branch off from the other four breaking the freedom of travel laws simply because I wouldn't afford more people, not yet at least.

"Well, we're almost to the station, then we'll take a trip on the train around the mountain of thought. The chemicals that spew from the mountain seem to have an odd property of helping people remember what was forgotten, it should work for you. I remember my first visit to the mountain, I was young boy of twelve…"

The Mind Reader had picked up his voice on some sort of announcement, but very quickly dropped back into his pointless story telling.

Now fourteen years had gone by since I first boarded the station in the year 2110. That was an additional four years from my takeover of the Geos Branch which only took ten years from when I first got my janitor job, I had advanced to the top, the Council of Five, or the group of head honchos that ruled over entire Human Empire in space. My money paid the wages of every person in the five branches and I was the most powerful person in the three billion people that called the stations home. And that's my story of progressing from a lowly janitor to ruler of the Human Race. The end.

The car jerked violently, it was the first time I felt it moving since take off. I thought for sure we were crashing. I tuned into whatever the Mind Reader was saying – if we were going to die it had to be important.

"And, touchdown," the car stopped shaking, "now this is the eighteen hundred foot parking lot I was talking about, the station is about a quarter of a mile away. The long thin poles that hold up the parking lot are made of the strongest spider sinew in the world, amazing how twenty-six poles eighteen hundred feet long the size of a pencil are able to support a one-square-mile parking lot that can hold over two thousand vehicles. Isn't it?"

I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that and just keep going, maybe it was a good thing I couldn't see. I opened the door and tried to think of a thick concrete parking structure that wouldn't fall if the wind blew to hard. As I stepped outside moisture hit my face with a light breeze, maybe we were on the top level of that parking structure?

"Ah, I hate it when the darn clouds push over the structure, makes it soo hard to tell which way the station is. I remember once almost walking off the edge—they never did invest in rails."

It was raining, yes; I was on the roof it and was just raining. Nothing unusual about that.

"At least it's not a thunder storm yet—those were not in the forecast for this area for at least another twenty minutes."

A loud explosion shook the entire structure and set several car alarms off, I felt as if God himself just smacked me in the face.

I heard yelling from next to me as the Mind Reader took my arm, "Ah, its fifteen minutes away! Just checked! We need to get to the station before the cloud passes over the lot! It's really close right now!" He quickly pulled me in a zigzagging pattern, most likely walking around cars in the parking lot.

A second explosion shook the entire parking lot and I heard several loud secondary shatters, glass of the cars nearby shattering with the force of the thunder. Happy place, happy place. We were just on the top floor of a parking structure, it was foggy, and they were doing construction on a nearby building—that's what the noise was. There was nothing wrong with that—just… blowing up the building. Yeah, in construction. Just blowing it up…

I heard screeching metal and was pulled out of the fog, my bare feet, I had no idea why I still lacked shoes, touched carpet. The metal screeched again and first part of another loud boom was cut off, we were inside the station.

"Now the station and entire train track is suspended by only eighteen of the pencil thin eighteen hundred foot poles, some of those poles even extend up to almost four thousand feet. It's just incredible how a sixteen mile track around the mountain is help up by eighteen, basically sticks, right?"

Uh, no we were in the mall, and going on the slow train ride around the edge, that never goes more than a foot off the ground—I really do hate heights, and the imagery I'm getting of this train and parking lot wasn't helping one bit. Right now I'm glad my eyes are covered, I don't really think I'd want to see what my eyes would have to offer.

*Ding Dong* an announcer of some intercom started speaking, "Thunderstorms approaching, approximant time of arrival, fifteen minutes. If you'd like an exciting ride on the Train of Remembering ticket prices will now be increased from forty five each to one-o-eight each until the storm passes. Danger radius will also increase from a three to a six point five." *Ding Dong*

A low cheer erupted in the crowded station. As I felt the Mind Reader let go of my hand. There must have been several hundred, maybe even a thousand people in the station. I was shocked that instead of canceling trips on the train a thunderstorm crashing onto the train would increase ticket prices and fill the station with a few thousand people that were possibly waiting for the thunderstorm to start.

I was left, alone in the middle of the large station—I was afraid to feel my way to a wall, what if I walked outside on accident and got struck by lightning? So I stood still, waiting patiently for my Mind Reader to come back.

*Ding Dong* "Tickets for the thunderstorm are selling fast. Due to high demand the prices of the remaining tickets on this prime train have raised to one-ninety-five. If you'd like to wait twenty five minutes for the next train and purchase tickets now the tickets will start at eighty each with a seventy percent chance of the thunderstorm persisting till the next train takes off." *Ding Dong*

An arm grabbed mine; I assumed it was the Mind Reader, "I got us two tickets right before the prices raised! What a deal! They only sold about twenty tickets at the lower price; I've never been on a thunderstorm train before at this price." It was him. And he bought to on the suicide train! He sounded way more excited than he should of, do these people enjoy being near to death? War is a pastime activity to them and a train of death is an exquisite treat?

*Ding Dong* "The thunderstorm train has sold out all hundred and eighty tickets. Tickets on the next train have increased to one-o-eight with an eighty-five percent chance the storm persists till it departs. Have a nice day and enjoy your stay at the Train of Remembering!" *Ding Dong*

The Mind Reader pulled me around the station too excited about the trip to even speak, and I was too afraid to tell him I didn't want to go—he sure made it sound like it was perfectly safe and with so many people wanting on the train it wasn't a big deal. It appeared to be like this worlds rollercoaster, terrifying sure, but incredibly popular and rarely hazardous.

He pulled me towards a very windy door; I could feel large drops squeeze their way through the opening and land on my feet. A thunderous explosion cracked so loud it left my ears ringing and I felt the Mind Reader jump for joy, "That was feet in front of us! Amazing simply amazing! This is going to be the best ride ever!"

It's okay, the ride is perfectly safe, we're in no real danger—the lightening was just a thrill. As we stepped over the wet door and into the train it rocked slightly, I heard someone kindly say to the Mind Reader, "We are charging a hundred dollar insurance fee per person at the moment, you will get it back at the end of the successful trip. Danger rate has surpassed seven. We are not liable for any harm that may come to you, damage assessment will be calculated after a safe arrival and if damage has occurred to the train or the tracks it will be deducted from your insurance fee."

We're going to die.

A few words were exchanged, the Mind Reader and I sat on a pair of fairly hard seats and the train started to move slowly. Every time thunder erupted from the sky the train swayed with its force, I held onto the armrest for dear life as the it sped up.

Thunder. Scattered screams. More thunder, more screams. The train picked up, faster and faster—every time thunder erupted the entire train shook. I held onto the seat as it roared over a banked turn, it felt like a rollercoaster speeding along its flimsy track. I heard something smudge against the glass and the Mind Reader gasped, whatever was outside of the window was interesting to look at, too bad I couldn't see it. I felt this ride was pointless but terrifying.

Bump bump bump bump bump bump bump bump the train flew over the tracks. Then everything went silent. Ringing, ringing a faint voice, "Fuccck!" Gunfire. I felt bullets wiz past my face, an explosion erupted from the back end of the train and I was forced over the chair. More shots went off; the train flew at a funny angle, threatening to twist off the tracks. Something grabbed my chest; it wasn't human, or potato for that matter—but something entirely different. Metal. What was going on! Glass shattered, the cart filled with water as if it was being poured in by the buckets—the metal object clasped around my chest held tight.

I heard the Mind Reader in the distance, screaming—more gunshots, more breaking glass, the train stopped moving forward completely and instead tilted over one side, only its connection to the tracks keeping it from plummeting down thousands of feet. Sticky fluid flew at my face, quickly getting washed off by the buckets water falling through the now broken glass. Screams. A snap, I was pulled up by the metal clasp, out of the train—my legs brushed against the broken glass as I was dragged up out of the tilting train, leaving slight gashes. I heard a little girl, crying—a gunshot, silence. As I hung in the air, glad I was blinded from the heights I heard a secondary explosion now well below me. I was then pulled back into dryness, dragged along some kind of metal landing before being lifted above it.

There was a radio, it was on, it was speaking, "That's as many as we can get, evacuate its falling—eighty is a good grab." I heard a loud groan of metal in the far distance as dozens of feet landed on metal. I was still behind held tightly by some sort of clasp. Then I too was dropped, hitting the metal landing once more. There was moaning from those around me and a louder moan from the metal train below. Loud cracks echoed from the distance; wind blew up at the open door to whatever metal structure I was now held tightly in. The door to the, assumingly ship, I was on swung shut as the radio voice picked up again, "The train just fell off the tracks, let's get out of here before the authorities show up."

Everything rattled as the ship I was on boosted away the distance, up, up, up I felt my ears clog up with the pressure and everything went quiet. A few mumbling whines filled the otherwise empty deck I was on, then the sound of large boots clinking on metal slowly moved along the floor. I few hushed whimpers fled from the sound as it moved up to me. The footsteps grew louder and louder as they edged closer to me then stopped right in front of me, "What are you." a deep rough voice came out as a pair of rough fingers yanked at the metal pipe that came out of my mouth.

A quick high-pitched beeping came from the machine as the force was put onto it and the normalized breathes I normally got went slightly out of whack. The guy let go of the pipe and the machine regulated, I tried to speak, the sound came out of the machine drilled into my throat, "I'm a Human. From the possible."

He took a step back, leaving me clamped tightly into whatever metal was holding me fast. I felt his heavy boots push against my left arm, then my right—after he was sure they were locked safely away from the blindfold covering my eyes he lifted me up by the hair. I heard a click as he detached the metal bindings from the cord that pulled me into their ship. Unable to walk due to the awkward nature of the metal bindings, he hurled me over his shoulder and carried me out of the echoing open area of his ship. As I was carried pressure was placed on the machine breathing for me and it locked up. I was unable to breath. I gasped for air but the man carrying me didn't seem to notice. My eyes slowly closed, he somehow triggered the knockout on the machine, I was fading away—I couldn't get any air. Why wouldn't he notice?

Nothing. Nothing… nothing

Stillness. Peace. Aching. HURT!