Nest Slave: Chapter 1
It was 6 o’clock in the evening on a Tuesday in late June when Jennifer Kurosawa was k**napped. It was dark, damp, overcast and unusually warm outside the walls of King George Hospital, and the weather seemed to be getting to everyone. The staff was silent, the patients were irritable, and she herself just wanted to go home, get changed into some comfortable jogging bottoms and her favourite Star Wars T-shirt, fix herself a sandwich and watch some telly on her computer.
This, however, did not seem to be in the plans. Three students had come in with what looked like a nasty case of meningitis, and she had vials of cerebrospinal fluid waiting to be tested. Mrs. Parker, the chief technician, had her bat-like ears cocked for the slightest suggestion that someone might be ‘willing’ to stay after work to take care of the backlog, and Jennifer had a feeling that it was going to be her. ‘Willing’ in this case meant ‘whoever annoys Mrs. Parker’, and Mrs. Parker, a tall, dumpy, snaggletoothed woman, always seemed to be permanently annoyed with Jennifer.
Jennifer knew it was arrogant of her to think that Mrs. Parker’s vexation was due to the disparity in looks between the two of them, but it did seem rather self-evident. In contrast to Parker’s 175 centimetres of menopausal flab, crowned with a jowly, orange-pansticked face and grey-blonde hair which she had for some mad, unknown reason styled in a feathercut, Jennifer was a short, slight Asian girl with hair in a neat, fringed bob. Her face was very young for her age of twenty-three, even causing her to be mistaken for under 18 when she went out to the pub with friends. She herself was allergic to alcohol, but a surly old barkeep had once called her ‘young lady’ and threatened to ring her parents until she produced her ID. Her figure was slender but not skinny, with modest-sized breasts that nevertheless looked large on a girl of her race, and her muscles were defined from frequent aerobics. She knew she looked better than all of the other assistants except Emily, a voluptuous, stunning redhead who was regarded about the lab (whether fairly or unfairly) as being a bit of a tart.
As predicted, Mrs. Parker once again assigned Jennifer to stay behind and finish up the backlog. As the others cleared up, disposed of their gloves, packed their things and walked out the door, she could not help but think with regret on the Ramen noodles, jam sandwich, and episodes of Star Trek: Voyager that she was missing. Nevertheless, there was nothing to be done about it, and she set to work.
The first indication that something was amiss was a curious whining sound. She looked around, thinking that perhaps some equipment had gone wrong, but nothing seemed to be out of order, so she tried to ignore the sound. After about thirty seconds, she began to feel very faint. She of course drew the logical conclusion that this was the result of low bl**d pressure, to which she was sometimes prone, and was about to sit down to regain her strength when there was a blinding flash of light, and she fell to the floor u*********s.
She awoke naked in what appeared to be the hold of some sort of ship, with her arms chained behind her back and her legs manacled about thirty centimetres apart, which would have made walking difficult if she had had the strength to walk in the first place. Around her were several dozen other people, all young women of more than average attractiveness and of about an even ethnic ratio, all chained and manacled as she was.
‘What the hell?’ she managed hoarsely, before leaning back against the metal wall, gasping for breath. Whatever that sound and light was, it had taken something out of her. She was reminded of the sonic weapons she had read of on a blog about advanced military technology.
A freckled, very voluptuous brunette with long hair in a high, teased 1980s ponytail crawled over to her. ‘Don’ worry, luv,’ she said in broad Cockney, ‘Th’ wake-ness’ll wear off after an ‘alf h’our or so.’
‘How long have you been here, then?’ inquired Jennifer, ‘Wherever “here” is, anyhow.’
‘‘Bout’n h’our. Dunno where “‘ere” is, though. I’s knocked cawld just like you, inni? Coul’ be one’uv ‘em Chinese k**nappin’ ships y’ ‘ere ‘bout online as snatches girls an’ takes ‘em overseas t’be toms. No ‘fence on the Chinese fing, mind,’ she added hastily.
Jennifer closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘No offence taken. But we’re buggered if that’s it. Literally and figuratively.’
‘Cheer up,’ said the brunette in a falsely hearty voice. ‘Skinny little tart over there finks we’s been b’ducted by spacemen. Mebbe she’s right? Be an ‘elluva lot better’n t’other, innit?’
Jennifer laughed bitterly. ‘And I’m Kate fucking Middleton. What sort of alien would want a load of naked girls, and most of them young and fit by the looks of them?’
The brunette had no witty comeback for that, so she simply sat down next to Jennifer and stared blankly at the herd of girls. Some of the girls were crying, some were whispering amongst themselves, and one or two more weak-stomached sorts had vomited. Against the human babble, Jennifer and the brunette sat silent.
‘Wish I ‘ad me iPod,’ muttered the brunette dully, after about ten minutes. Jennifer said nothing, but merely waited for the slavers, or the aliens, or the alien slavers, to release them.
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