The crates are restocked. Four days' provisions; long enough for - well, to start.
No decent prospects on the streets.
But in the parking ramp...
He recoils, turning instantly -
Nobody there. His eyes narrow, but there's confusion in the scowl...
He gasps, grabs his stomach, and stutters forcefully. Completely bewildered, as close to amusement as he is anger -
Something lands solidly at the base of his skull.
A burst of data, targeted to motionless forms. Human biological needs, a half-dozen conditions that require different kinds of assistance. A emphatic injunction to avoid damage or injury.
Fourteen shapes leap from the floor. Mobilized, aware, tangible.
Silently, the transmitter/activator departed.
Nylon hand-shells consider themselves, the cautionary information, the room.
A human. Unconscious. Regular inhalations. Leather, denim...
A large black feather, laid on the small of his back.
Two gloves pick up the feather and examine it. They investigate his jacket, his keys... Find his wallet, penknife, cigarettes. Mysteries.
The feather is not attached or secreted away in a pocket. Not his, apparently. An addition. Message, hint, sign.
A hint? The gloves have no point of reference... feather-on-human, human-under-feather. There is a lot of information they lack.
They notice boxes and crates along the side of the room and begin investigating. Hands learn how to pull off his jacket. As they struggle with his shirt, others examine more leather which was found in the crate nearest the door. Black and thick - and here's another pair. Four. The same texture as his jacket, and his boots. Clothing of some kind...
Four? Limbs, maybe. They fit best... right next to his hands, so they buckle them down snug. The larger pair
must be for his ankles. His boots are removed... and the socks. There.
The straps are wide and solid. Rings protrude from each... and in the box, there's a squarish thing with a shiny loop. Only one. Hands find thick rings in the floor, but there's four groups of three and they're all closed loops. The box yields several pieces of chain - and a number of snap hooks. Chain on hook, to ring -
He snorts once and starts to move. The gloves hide.
In the box, two keys are discovered...
Waking, groaning - he stops moving his head, and freezes. Staring at his bare chest, seeing the cuffs. He looks around warily... while he gropes for his shirt.
He starts to take a leg-cuff off, but shakes his head as if to clear it. Moving as if he was in a hurry, he starts picking up his belongings... Jamming socks into boots, and wallet into jacket pocket. Before the cigarettes are put away, he sticks one between his teeth and lights it smoothly, solving one mystery. Holding his bundle tightly, he stands up, turns and walks toward the door.
So many unanswered questions...
They notice a ring, or something like one, on the door... and comprehend its purpose. One ring, one lock, keys to open the lock.
Impulsively, they slide a crate between him and the door. He leaps in the air. Staring -
Bottled water, whiskey, smaller bottles and boxes.
They need many more answers...
A pair of hands glide out from between the bottles and cruise toward the door.
He sees this and stares, mouth hanging open.
They set the lock and coast toward the ceiling.
Several seconds pass.
Lunging - he slams full-force into the door. Risking damage - that wouldn't do.
Gloves curl around his upper arms and pull him back, maddening him further.
They pull him farther away, and his fight increases. He starts to yell.
Panic would be risky, and the gloves are determined to prevent injury. Walls and floor are bare, except for...
The pad he was sleeping on. They lower him backward - and he twists, crawling fast back toward the door.
He has to calm down. Apparently that'll take time...
Hands bring chain and hooks. Others pull off his jacket again, pin his legs and yank his boots back off, hike up his pantlegs. Hook the cuffs -
Pinning him to the mat, limbs spread out safely. There.
He flails, and they select other floor-rings that allow him no dangerous slack. He continues to yell...
A hand brings over a bottle of water, but he wants no part of that. They consider getting him a cigarette, but are too uncertain of all the steps involved with them...
After fifteen minutes, he's stopped yelling, is twisting and pulling less, and looks around a little less frantically. The cuffs and chains are more than adequate.
Tentatively, a hand brings over the feather.
He sees it, blinks - and starts yelling again, fighting the chains hard. The gloves don't move. Taking it all in. Puzzled...
When he settles down again, the feather drops closer - maybe three inches -
And he's off again...
Why would a human react so drastically to a piece of a bird's wing? What is he thinking? Clearly, he had a strong opinion as to what the feather means. He doesn't take his eyes off it.
The glove lowers the feather just over his eyes, twirling it once.
He doesn't like the sight of that. His noises get sharp, then soft...
And now, steady...
After he coughs a few times, they bring him one of the bottles of water. While his attention is diverted, the feather is dipped toward his sweaty breastbone. Impulsively, tentatively, it sweeps once -
Huge reaction. Unreasonable. Yelling and tugging. All from a little swipe.
Ten minutes later, the point of the feather touches the same spot as before.
Sweat trickles down his nose. He keeps pulling steadily, gravely. The glove drags the feather tip very lightly, in a
slowly expanding spiral... and he hisses, trying to flop and dodge -
Wow. He's making noise, suddenly. As if he didn't know he was going to.
An odd new feeling comes over the gloves.
They find his reaction... perfectly satisfying.
He squirms, making forced noises, watching as the feather dusts a nipple steadily - and he tenses even more, whining in a higher pitch...
When the tip pokes into his armpit, he jumps again. lunging and yelling.
Without intending to, six other gloves draw closer to the action. When the feather lifts off his belly, and he notices that they're closer, he shakes his head, looking and sounding unhappy, defeated -
To their surprise, they like this. Fear -
Of the feather? Just being t-
That's it.
The gloves consider their construction. The material they're made of. Not an accident. Of course.
Skating the feather across his navel makes him loud, suddenly trying to sit up until the chains tug him backward. Noisy, unwilling. Unable to help it. Squinting at the glove holding the feather, sweeping it from hip to hip. Almost smiling...
Smiling? Gigantic reaction, passionately resisted. Unwanted. And that... grin? Pleasure.
Flight response, and no risk of injury. So much pleasure, it mimics pain?
Well, one thing they're becoming sure of: he does not want this feather touching him. And he keeps staring at all the fingers, making noise steadily. Eyes locked on the shiny hands nearest to his right armpit and ribs.
Waiting for them.
Pleasure. Fourteen hands. No damage... no interference.
With so much attention to detail, it's significant there only one feather -
...which he watches, being pulled off his gut -
And so many inquisitive hands.
A tentative finger presses into the hair of his left armpit. Low, across from his nipple. His jaw is working, but silently -
Skating, burrowing gently. He makes noise, strong and steady, and tugs at the chains.
The gloves are exultant.
The finger slides, and all that glove's fingers touch down now, becoming a loose handhold. Traveling, while
he bucks in its grasp, louder still.
He's writhing, eyes frantically going from glove to glove.
Nylon creeps back up over his ribs, tightening its grip ever so slightly.
Cool fingers land on his other hip - and he jumps!
Both molding to his curves, down and up and down...
He's wild. Louder yet. His eyes slam shut, as gloves touch down on his chest -
And stomach, burrowing under the beltline, starting to disappear into his jeans.
17apr1998