I regain my consciousness, but the feeling of experiencing the blackout remains.

What just happened?

Am I dead? Like, for real now?

Because this seems like it is hell: total darkness, only littered with specks of faint light, encompassing a clean void. What better way for an afterlife of suffering to be than to feel more alone and secluded than I have ever been.

No need for eternal fires or some devil inflicting some form of physical torture to convince me that I've lived a horrible, sinful life; loneliness is punishment enough.

I actually would've preferred the former. At least, I'd have company—it's the devil, sure, but it technically is company.

I let out a sigh.

Oh, wait. I'm still breathing. Which means I'm not dead.

I close my eyes to concentrate, to focus on what my other senses are telling me.

I can hear something. It's weak, but it is something. Almost like a soft snore—drawn-out grunts followed by a snort, going on for a loop—of someone not that far away. Or maybe it's someone blowing and slurping some liquid—hopefully not blood—on repeat? To be honest, it's hard to tell the difference when you're so used to relying on your eyes that your other senses end up a little underdeveloped.

I can also smell something. It's the kind of odor that overwhelms your house right after you had the gardener cut the grasses at your front lawn. At the same time, it's also kind of sweet, with, like, a mix of honey in it. Odd.

Damn, I'm even feeling something. Actually, I'm feeling a lot. Apparently, there's this gag over my mouth—so tight it's almost breaking my jaw—and some sort of rope tied around my torso that's hinging me to this cold concrete and around my wrists tethering them together. I figure I'm also slumped over a surface of what felt like gravel, the sharp edges of the pebbles and rock fragments pricking my butt skin like an acupuncture treatment going wrong.

I open my eyes.

Still nothing.

So, I'm just blind now? Because of one jab to the eye?

And trust me, it wasn't even that solid.

As I entertain the possibility of losing my eyesight for good, I feel the rhythm of my heartbeat slowly intensifying.

There are so many things (and people!) I still want to see: mom, Lola, Wendy, what earth would be like when all of this is over, my own future kids...

My breathing starts to quicken. Then, some sort of material, presumably canvas or burlap, begins to wrap my face with every gulp of air.

Shit.

I've been kidnapped.

And whoever they are behind this scheme haven't even bothered to make it their own, dealing with me in all the cliched ways possible: silencing me with a strip of cloth, strapping me to some pole with probably the same material and putting this bag over my head.

Well, my money's on those Antes.

They seem like simple-minded beasts who wouldn't dare think out of the box, considering how their main purpose in life is to take the human race out of the equation in order to cement their dominion over all of the earth—or what's left of it. It's like there's one sentient entity, one mastermind, one (not very intelligent) brain where these orders to carry out their hostile crusade for conquest are coming from.

They have no personalities, nuances, quirks and much less, humanity.

They're basically like robots. Only creepier.

Stupid and creepy.

I try to mumble a word through the gag.

Nothing.

I try to jiggle my head out of the bag and my body out of the rope, kicking some of these pebbles as I do so.

Nothing.

Now, I get why they have had to stick to the traditional, unoriginal way of doing things: it's so damn effective.

Maybe these Antes aren't so dumb after all.

To think that they are obviously faring way better than us, humans, in this post-apocalyptic environment should've been reason enough to believe that they're not. They've even found a way to take advantage of the situation and climb their way to the top of the food chain, no matter how perverted that way is.

Like what their apparent patron, Littlefinger, would say, chaos is indeed a ladder.

So, with my struggles to get free futile, I resolve to ransack my brain (i.e. my television quotient) for a plan and to just reserve my energy for when I already have one.

Now, what would Harry Houdini do?

"Dude!" some guy—or thing—calls out from a distance, its voice grating like some lad's who's been stuck in puberty.

The sound of the entity talking rouses me from my meditation stupor like a shot of adrenaline to my heart, bringing my sensitivity at peak.

So, these creatures can articulate actual words and not just growl? Using a contemporary vocabulary, at that?

Interesting.

"The entire party's leaving," the same source says, its speech stamped with urgency and alarm, as the crunch of his footwear rapping on gravel louden with every step. "We better get our asses going if we don't want to get left behind."

So, wait, leaving? To where? Also, where am I?

I again try to speak through the fabric over my mouth, but all I could emit are the same groans and murmurs.

"Right now?" another entity, who's much closer, asks, its voice familiar—deeper and thicker. "Won't we be waiting until daylight?"

"No more," the first entity responds, its intonation calmer now. "Shaman Gallant just had another vision about the Village being attacked by those beasts, and, man, they're triple in number than they are earlier today."

Hold on.

Shaman Gallant? Vision? The Village?

Oh, I knew it.

I'm somewhere inside, or within the vicinity of the Village.

And it has been Alexander and his henchmen, Clifford and Gabriel, who frigging punched me in the face and abducted me, all along.

Assholes.

Just what do they want out of this outrage?

"What about prison-breaker?" the guy with the naturally modulated voice, who I presume to be Clifford asks. "We can't just—"

"Leave him? Of course, we can," Gabriel answers, without even letting the other finish. "Because if we don't, we'd be dead."

"But Ace said—"

"Oh, but I don't care what the bitch said!" Gabriel interjects, cutting him off again. "He's not even here, is he? Making us do all these dirty works for him. And wasn't this his idea, his mission, his vendetta for the guy whom he claimed to be stealing things from him? This was never our business since day one."

Uh, stealing? Me? From him?

Not my style, buddy. Wrong guy.

"Well, no, yes, but—"

"Either him or us," Gabriel says, the arrogance in his speech matching Alexander's, if not exceeding it. "Like what father always tells me, we gotta choose our battles, Cliff."

Birds of the same arrogant feather, indeed.

"You either continue to kiss his ass and do his insane bidding, only to be killed when the Antes arrive and reduce this place to dust, blood and carcass, or you come with me right now and save yourself."

"But aren't they looking for Ross?" Clifford asks, his utterance laced with concern—not sure if for me being left here to die or on the possibility of their stupid plan being busted any time now. "Especially President Moore? He might have us exe—"

"Don't worry. Ace has taken care of it," Gabriel reassures him. "He managed to convince everyone that Ross has fled again."

But I did not! I mentally exclaim. Motherfucking liars!

Gabriel shushes Clifford's soft muttering for a second, before asking, "Did you happen to hear that?"

Confused, Clifford answers, "Hear what?"

"Uh, nothing. Let's just go."

Guys, please, don't leave me here, I plead with my mind. Somebody, please help.

"Here it goes again."

"Here goes what, Gabe?" asks Clifford, his brash disposition unaffected by Gabriel's clear distress. "Dude, if you're trying to scare me just to convince me, there's no need; I'm coming with you. Voluntarily."

"I'm not. I swear, I heard somebody."

"Somebody howling from afar?" Clifford scoffs. "Yeah, right."

"No, like somebody begging for help."

Clifford pauses for a moment. "Well, I heard nothing."

Me neither.

Clearly, Gabriel must be losing his mind.

I would too, having to encounter all this crazy shit first-hand, after growing up so sheltered, secured and protected from the rest of the world by his father's badge and all the many perks that come with it.

"It sounded like prison-breaker's voice to me," Gabriel says. "Are you sure you gagged him alright?"

"I'm pretty sure I did, sir," Clifford answers. "Very tight actually."

"Hm..." Gabriel mutters, his voice fading into the sound of a couple footsteps on gravel closing in. 

Before the echoes the pebbles are making could die away, everything brightens up slightly around me, my eyes blinking as they adjust.

I let out a big sigh.

At last, the bag has been taken off.

Gabriel's freckled face greets me as he leans over to check my gag, tendrils of his untied auburn hair covering his right eye like a sheepdog. He tucks them behind his ear, before he narrows both eyes to see me through the cast of his own shadow.

I look around and realize that we're in what used to be an underground parking lot with a few dilapidated automobiles still lounging about and the debris from the collapsed part of the ceiling dumped above the ground.

"Alright," Gabriel voices, before straightening himself up, his eyes never breaking contact with mine. "We can now go."

Clifford clenches his friend by the shoulders and stares him down. "Are you really sure we're just going to leave him here? Are we actually going to give those fuckers what they want in a silver platter? Some flesh to rip open, like some gift to satiate their lust for spilled human blood? After all that their kind did to us and our families, our friends?"

"Actually, yes," Gabriel answers without flinching, his scary, almost bloodthirsty, eyes still on me. "Think about it: if they already had one easy kill in the morning, maybe they would consider it a good enough harvest for the day and just give us the rest of tomorrow to, you know, go about our lives unharmed."

Clifford shakes his head while clicking his tongue. "That's cruel, man!"

"Well, life is cruel, Cliff," Gabriel retorts. "Again, it's either him or us."

"But aren't we supposed to just scare him off? To warn him against showing off, hitting on Peyton, going against Ace and humiliating him in front of his dad?"

"That was when Ace was in-charge. Now, that he has left us with him, I guess it's now my decision to make."

"This is going too far, Gabe."

"Not even close."

The two guys continue to discuss my fate, but my ears involuntarily choose to shut the conversation off, as I feel my jaws clench, my muscles tense and my neck and cheeks heat up so much, they could fry eggs.

Before, I thought I'd never hate another man's guts more than I do with Alexander's; I was wrong. So wrong.

Gabriel is the worst.

The cruelest.

The real antagonist.

He reminds me so much of Cersei Lannister in the season seven finale, when she was more than willing to let her human foes be fodder for the Night King and his army, all after agreeing to help them defeat off their common enemy during the parley at the Dragonpit.

Selfish.

Treacherous.

Just plain evil.

It gives me so much rage that people like him get to live past the Shatters, while more than seven billion people who earned it better had never gotten the chance. Dying while being lambasted by the earth's forces, when it should have been the Gabriels of the world who should have taken the vengeful axe.

He is of no good to humanity.

He is not worthy of repopulating the earth with his bloodline.

He does not deserve this life.

I glower at Gabriel, my fury overcoming me.

The next thing I know, the guy is floating in the air, his head shaking like he is being possessed, his eyes bulging, his mouth open and gasping for air, and his hands and legs flapping and kicking like he is underwater drowning.

"Hey!" shouts a different guy. "What the hell is going on here?"

I snap out of my glare and turn my regard to the speaker.

It's Alexander, coming in from where the meager light is spilling through, loping to where we are, with a sword strapped around his waist.

The thump of a body dropping to the ground halts him midway.

He glances at the point of impact. "Jesus Christ!"

I follow his eyes and see Clifford cowering, looking down and tuck-sitting next to the body: Gabriel's, now prostrated on the gravelly surface.

Unconscious.

Still.

Bleeding.

Maybe dead.

Alexander shifts his focus on me, appalled. "What are you?"