The Slave World Abductions

A Fanfiction

Based upon characters and concepts created by Roxy Rex

The Author wishes to convey his thanks to Roxy Rex for his permission in writing this story.

Case #48

Kim O'Brien pushed the cart along the aisle. Her turn to take care of the returns. Actually it wasn't, but Larry, the lazy bastard, wanted to get off early and asked her to take his place. A flash of his male model smile, a glimpse of his A&F pecs, and an umpteenth never-to-be-kept promise to make it up to her was all it took. Not that he had to use much.

Logically, Kim knew a guy like Larry would never show interest in a mouse like her. She did it because it was what she always did: everything everyone wanted.

Mouse described Kim to a tee. Short and slim with wide blue eyes, deep auburn hair ending in two small buns to the side; she was almost a caricature. Her quiet stoicism and compliance sealed the deal.

No small wonder everyone in her life, from friends to family, took advantage of it. Kim was used to a life being pulled this way and that. If her sisters Belle and Moira weren't shanghaiing her into babysitting duties, or caring for their dementia afflicted mother, her brothers, two of them mobbed up, wanted her on some errand or another.

And there was Father O'Donnell, but he was dead now.

Kim's personal life, her goals, wishes, dreams, were given no thought. Her family couldn't be bothered. Nor would they care if they had. "No, I take it back," Kim thought.

If anyone acquired mind reading abilities, and took a glimpse into Kim's brain, they would reel back in horror. They would see a dark array of thoughts no well-brought up Catholic girl had a right to own.

Fantasies of pain and blasphemy, submission and torture, black enough to change people's perceptions of the meek, young Boston-Irish woman. No one knew the dark dreams dancing through her mind. How a drawing of a flagellant made her wonder how his whip would feel on her flesh.

They knew nothing of the self-inflicted cuts and burns, easily concealed, painful enough to bring wet heat, soft enough to leave no scars.

Kim put a book on the shelf. Her thoughts turned again to Larry. No, he would not be interested, but if he were, he still wouldn't give her what she wanted. Guys like him didn't go that far.

The one's who did were either too dangerous or went to places not suitable for "good" Catholic girls. Two of her brothers, Francis and Barry, Irish mob to the core, knew those places, but she dared not ask them. The O'Briens had limits when it came to family.

Kim, occupied with books and her own thoughts, didn't notice the flickering lights. Her annoyance was mild on doing so. "Great, another blackout."

Kim stayed put. The library would get dark for a few seconds until the emergency lights kicked in.

A wave of darkness flowed down the aisle, like a flood of black ink. Something about the wave sent chills across Kim's skin. She looked into it, fear and curiosity mingled together. "Are those people in there?"

The darkness reached the librarian. Kim's fear walked hand in hand with the heat between her legs. The wave passed, the lights switched on, and Kim was gone. An overturned book cart the only object marking her absence.

Selma was outside the warehouse when I got back. Her partner wasn't there. A good thing. He's a piece of shit. I wasn't too happy seeing her either. The feeling's mutual.

"So detective, what is it this time? Superintendent think I put a curse on him. Piece-of-shit think I'm running another scam?"

"Don't tempt me," Detective Selma Brown smirked. "We got a snatch job."

"So? Somebody important or am I a suspect?"

"More than a few who'd like to put you there but no, you're not a suspect, and yes, she's important to some folks." She tossed me a phone. "Take a look."

The scene was a parking garage. The victim was very attractive, of Asian descent, dressed neat and tight in a power suit. I recognized her immediately.

"Maria Torres."

"You know her then." Selma's suspicion level rose a notch.

"She figures in a case I'm working right now. Where'd you get this?"

"Security camera in the garage. We were sitting on this. Some of the guys wanted to give it to you, the higher ups said no. Then your little secretary's query popped up on the database, so they sent me to see what you know."

Maria was kneeling to pick up a dropped purse. She was shouting into her phone, pissed about something obviously. I was more interested in the looming darkness behind her. Things were in there, indistinct, easily dismissed as a trick of the light or a camera malfunction.

The video showed Maria looking up and back as if she heard a sound. She stood up, dropped her phone. The darkness reached her, the camera went out, then came back on. Maria had vanished, leaving her purse and dropped phone.

"Nothing stolen from her purse. Found a few sex toys inside. She has an interesting night life but no suspects there."

"You get anything from the phone?"

"Nothing, she didn't have time to switch on the recorder. The guy on the other end thought he heard her say, 'Who the fuck are you?' We thought it might be a snatch for ransom, or maybe to get into the firm's finances, but nothing's happened on that end."

Probably 'cause she was the merchandise. Those fucks had no understanding of modern capitalism.

"I don't see where I can help you on this."

"You said you're working a case connected to this."

"Two probable kidnappings."

"You have an idea who?"

I stood watching her.

"Obstruction of justice."

"Skeptical cops meddling with something they couldn't understand and fucking everything up."

That got her. Her skepticism got me arrested, a client killed, and broke up our (brief) marriage. CPD covered up the affair, but there was a mother who would never see her daughter again.

Selma stared at me, ice cold. I kept a stone face. We loved each other once... once.

"I find you held out on me, I'll shove a baton so far up your ass they'll floss shit out of your teeth."

"I better be sure to take a laxative then. I can have the satisfaction of shitting on your Louis Vuitton watch." I'd bought it for her wedding gift.

The frowning Selma left in her car. I went inside to talk to Chas.

"So how'd it go with Selma?"

"The usual."

"Heh, I managed to get more info on the women's families. The Librarian has a couple of brothers in the Winter Hill gang. Might be useful."

"Thanks Chas, it might help but the case has gone beyond that."

"How far."

"Outside the P.I."

"Oh."

Chas was in the know, and he'd gone on enough adventures with me to know what it meant.

"I'm going away for a while. I might be gone for good. I'll cut you your final check. Do me a favor and lock everything up? Also cancel all my appointments, shut down the electricity, put a cover on my car, and pay the rent for the next year."

"Got it."

"Tell the Rosenbergs I'm pursuing a lead on their daughters, and they'll only be charged for two days. The rest is pro bono. Take care of the payment."

"Got it."

"And after that, you can either hang around here for the rest of the month or go to your fiance. I sent a wedding gift to your house. Give my best wishes to Hari, and best luck and happiness to you both."

"Uh... thanks... I guess this is it then."

We hugged. This is one of those instances where ending a long-standing working relationship requires more than a handshake. The hug represented a friendship beginning with a wet-behind-the-ears freshman, who'd hired me to evict a poltergeist from his dorm room, stayed at my warehouse while I did the deed, organized my book collection and files (to my partial chagrin at his presumption), and stayed on as my secretary and sidekick through various ghosts, demons, werewolves, faeries, and other shadow creatures and cults.

We had a blast. I'd miss him, deeply.

"Go find them Max," he choked.

"I will." I didn't exactly choke back, but I feel no shame in admitting my eyes were a little wet.

We parted. I went into the office and locked the door behind me. I went to the desk, took out my leather satchel and placed the file on the Rosenberg sisters and the other abductees, plus a typed assessment of the situation and a flash drive, inside.

I took my fedora and trench coat and went to the bookcase. I unlocked the bolt and shoved the bookcase aside, exposing the pentagram carved into the wall. I placed my hand at the center and said the word. You don't have to know it. It's an ancient Elven dialect. I simply said, "Open."

The pentagram glowed. A silver beam appeared at its center, tracing a line, parting to form two rectangles. They swung inward.

I went into the passage, pausing to set the bookcase back in place. I have enough problems to risk some snoop, idiot, Selma or her piece-of-shit partner breaking in and finding a pentagram on my wall. My business is built like a safe but I don't take chances.

The "passage" is more a transition point between my world and Alfheim. The door at the end looked like any other door, and when I opened it, led to a bedroom like any other. You were expecting maybe a wardrobe?

I rarely slept in this place, even though I owned the house. Nice to see the brownies kept it up. I'd pay them but brownie custom views a gift as a release from service, and that would cause trouble with their cleaning agency.

I walked through the house, which was always quiet in ways I never liked. The furniture was covered in dust cloth. A radio and television were in the living room. I didn't bother to turn them on. I was in a hurry. Besides, the programming in Alfheim sucks.

The mid-century style of the furniture, including the TV and radio, represented the fashion in Alfheim. My house could have come out of a

Leave It To Beaver/Father Knows Best

sitcom. All neat, tidy, and clean. Owning a house I never want to live in, with brownies as perpetual maids and butlers, has its drawbacks.

I had no time to ruminate on Alfheim domesticity. I had a job to do, so I walked to the front door. I took a deep breath,

Please let everyone be at work,

and opened the door.

Out of the door, over the porch, and I stood in the perpetually spring and summer air of

Century City

(or at least its northern suburb,

Pleasant Meadows

), state of

Eldendell, Alfheim

(or

Faerie

if you want to be picky about it).

No one about thank heaven. Last thing I wanted was curious and snoopy neighbors. Suburban elves can never get enough about Midgard

I rushed to my other car just in case. The brownies kept that up too. I noticed a recent, very good wax job. I assumed they also kept the tanks full of aether.

My other car differed from my Mercury in that it was a '54 model, or at least a copy of one. The car started well enough, thanks brownies, and I drove.

****

Almost a couple of centuries back, when the other Realms renewed their interest in Midgard (i.e. Earth) after centuries of isolation, they discovered humans had undergone something quite unexpected: industrial revolution.

Quite a shock all that fossil fuel pollution, iron all over the place, capitalism...

Some of the realms shrank away in horror. Others took major advantage. Irony is when modern age skepticism actually makes it easier to hide magical abductions.

Alfheim, following the example of some of the other realms, took the adjustment route; a sort Meiji style reform. It was successful in some ways, not so in others. You get a kind of hodgepodge in this place: traditional light elvish culture combined with twentieth and quasi-twenty-first century modernity.

Other realms stuck to their medieval traditions so, if you're traveling around, you might end up in a place not much different from modern New York, or a place out of the fourteenth century.

Century City was one of the best examples of Elven modernity. Dwarves designed and built it as the elven counterpart to Chicago. They're the best engineers in the realms. They make frequent trips to Midgard to study the buildings and infrastructure.

The art deco designs of the Chrysler and Empire State buildings impressed them greatly. Less so the Bauhaus and Modernist style. So the layout and styles of new Elven cities like Century, Empire City (New York's counterpart), and Angel City (Los Angeles' counterpart) reflected it.

Alfheim technology roughly matches Midgard, albeit more magic based. A good example is aether, Alfheim and the open Realms' equivalent to petroleum. It's a magic based fuel, impossible to replicate on Midgard. It burns clean though, which satisfies the carbon-hating Elves. It's one of the few things good about this place.

Elven and Dwarven aesthetics seemed to stop somewhere around the mid to late fifties. I saw it everywhere as I exited the turnoff into the city proper. I know some people who'd see the city as a diesel or atompunk fantasy. Some elves, though, are traditional so you're like as not to see horses and carriages, along with cars and trucks.

The city has its good points, and also plenty of bad, which is why I prefer Chicago.

A person not in the know would be surprised at the large human population in Alfheim and the Realms. Most are descendants of abductees from centuries past. Others found themselves here by other means. Plenty of Midgardian places where the walls are weak. Those tales from the Bermuda Triangle aren't all tabloid. I'm a descendant of one of the accidentals.

So that's the layout. Nice and clean, full of Elves, Dwarves, Humans, and other mage races. They do much of the same things we do on Earth... including committing the same crimes.

Which brings us to another group of concepts Alfheim, and the other Realms, took from Earth: bureaucracy, politics, and civic structures.

Reconnecting with Earth showed Alfheim and the others the value of alliances, political unions, trade agreements, and treaties. Rules and laws were put in place, some grandfathered from before the severance. Penalties were legislated for violations, agencies created to enforce them. Chief among them: there are open Realms and there are closed Realms... and you do not take people from closed realms. This is where my second gig comes in.

My destination was

City Centre.

In the Centre was the

White Tower.

The White Tower housed the agency which employed me.

I parked the car in the lot, got out, went up the steps, through the revolving door, and into the main lobby of the

Department of Interdimensional Interdictions and Law Enforcement,

aka the Magistrates (or Lighters as the Underworld calls us).

The old place hadn't changed much since I'd last been in. Still neat, still tidy, still clean, like everything else.

I saw Maggie Stonehand was still the Superintendent of Reception. Her short, stocky figure dominated the circular enclave. She paused occasionally to help some officer or another deal with a difficult complainant. There were many, hence the need for a superintendent. They usually quieted down after a few words from her granite face.

That's my Mags. Unlike her dwarven siblings, she went into law enforcement. She ran reception with an iron fist. Officers and complainants behaved themselves around her. She brooked no nonsense.

I stopped by the desk. It took several seconds for her to notice me. Her face brightened just a little.

"Max."

"Hi Mags."

"Been awhile."

"Yep. The Old Lady in?"

"As always. Business?"

"Yep."

"I'll let her know you're in."

I walked into Administration. It was humming quietly, with Elven order as usual. A few of the officers looked up, saw me, smiled and nodded, and went back to their business. I'd worked cases with some of them. My official designation was Agent at Large. It felt good to be back on some level.

The Old Lady's office was at the end. It took up the entire half of Admin. The shades were drawn. Her style was to project an air of aloofness. I knew that very well.

I knocked on the door and waited. "Come in."

She was at her desk. A tall, imposing woman; matronly, with coal-black skin and iron gray hair wrapped in a tight bun. Her office was orderly in Elven fashion. She, however, was human, like me. The Human minority who lived in Alfheim tended to follow Elven style. She was no exception.

She fixed her stern, hawkish look I always hated, at my face.

"Agent Grant."

"Ma'am."

"Your presence, I take it, concerns the email I received from Yggdrasil station?"

"Yes it does."

"I have not read it. I'll hear it from you."

I took out the file and tossed it on her desk.

"The Confederation's broken the Compact. Five breaches, six victims, possibly more."

She went through the file. "How did you stumble onto this?"

"Two of the missing victims' parents hired me to find them. Someone sent a video to their phone showing their abduction. The suspects stood out. They were older than the crowd, dressed up like D&D, but not Halloween costumes. They used a portal disguised as a door. I examined the crime scene. Sarranin oil. I recognized the smell."

"Slavers," the Old Lady spat, "From the Red Mountain Clan most likely. They use the most sarranin. What about the others?"

"Yggdrasil's hits all bore the same signature. Selma was outside my warehouse. She had a video of one of the victims. Looks like they used a blacklight spell to foil the cameras."

"You never expect Slave Worlders to be so savvy."

"They surprise sometimes."

"So what's your plan?"

"Simple. Go to Slave World, find the abductees, get 'em out, and wreak a bit of havoc along the way."

The Old Lady leaned back, pensive. "It will get... complicated."

"Of course it will. They broke the Compact Ma'am. Stole Midgardians from their lives and families. I see some reluctance here. Is there an issue I should know?"

"... No. No, you're right. Violations of the Compact need a heavy response. I'll notify the Central Committee."

"Ma'am."

"They'll have a shaman behind this, and a noble or prince behind him, or her. Find them out and settle them."

"Yes Ma'am."

"Your flash spelling up to date?"

"Yes Ma'am."

"Keep us informed."

"Yes Ma'am."

"Go to the Armory, draw whatever you need, and go get 'em."

"Yes Ma'am."

"Don't forget to take a tracer to summon backup if you need it."

"Yes Ma'am."

Her face grew less harsh for a second. She might have actually been concerned for me. I could never tell.

I took the file and went through it, chanting a mnemonic spell to write the victims profiles to my memory. Chas and Yggdrasil were very detailed. I had a feeling the Old Lady was holding on to something. She keeps her cards close. Another thing I hated. I had no time to dwell on it. I bid her goodbye and went to the Armory.

Ulrik the Ironmonger was the Quartermaster. He was a dwarf; no nonsense like Mags.

"Ho Max. Been awhile."

"Ho Ulrik. I'm here to gear up."

"What's the op?"

"Deep penetration, rescue, with punitive action on multiple hostiles. It's Slave World."

"Heh, figures. So waddaya need?"

"A Barret M107 with iron-tipped bullets and a magic-infused sight. Frag and HE grenades, silver pellets for the frags, phosphorous for the HE. Elven throwing knives. Smith and Wesson Model 66 speed loaders. One K-Bar knife, iron-edged. A weapons pack and ammo vest for all of them, tesseract woven and waterproof for both."

"Got it." Ulrik went back into the Armory and returned fifteen minutes later. "The pack and vest have conceal and repulse runes to deter cutpurses."