Chapter 2 — Neon green
And thus begins Chapter Two.
Now, children.
There I sat.
Room.
Phone on table.
Ringing.
Unknown number.
The council immediately becomes suspicious.
As well it should.
Normally,
unknown numbers belong to one of several categories.
Bank.
Telemarketing.
Wrong number.
Someone asking whether you require a loan large enough to destroy your remaining peace.
Or
apparently
Wandering.
I picked up.
Children.
My opening line?
Not:
Hello, this is Nuo speaking.
Not:
Good afternoon.
Not even:
Hello?
No.
“Who dis?”
The council stares.
Published author.
Yes.
Professional.
Always.
A woman’s voice answered.
“Are you Nuo?”
Pause.
Then
“Author of Book That I Refuse To Name Because That Book Should Never Resurface?”
The council opens the ancient cursed manuscript.
Close it.
Immediately.
Thank you.
Children.
That book has served its narrative purpose.
It need not be rediscovered.
Let it remain buried beneath the sands of literary mediocrity.
But yes.
She had the correct person.
I replied:
“Yes.
I am Nuo.”
The council waits for explanation.
Perhaps she wanted to discuss the book.
Perhaps she had a question.
Perhaps she was a reader.
Perhaps
“Okay.
Come out.”
Silence.
The council freezes.
Come out?
Yes.
Children.
No introduction.
No explanation.
No:
I’m standing outside your house.
No:
I wanted to meet you.
No:
I bought your book.
Just
come out.
The council immediately opens the Survival Department.
RECOMMENDED RESPONSE:
Do not.
Excellent.
Finally some competence.
And so
I went out.
The council slams the table.
NUO.
Yes.
I understand.
Questionable survival strategy.
Extremely.
Let us reconstruct available information.
Unknown caller.
Knows my name.
Knows my book.
Apparently knows where I live.
Orders me outside.
Children.
Every horror film ever created has now assembled itself into a helpful instructional pamphlet.
Stay inside.
Lock door.
Maybe look through window.
Perhaps ask:
Who are you?
What do you want?
How do you know where I live?
All reasonable.
Story Nuo considered none of these.
Why?
The council waits.
Because
woman.
Silence.
She sounded hot.
The council collapses.
Children.
That was the entire risk assessment.
Voice attractive.
Therefore:
Potential kidnapping acceptable.
A scholar.
Truly.
Centuries of human survival instincts,
evolutionary caution,
parental advice,
and basic common sense
defeated by
nice voice.
The council writes:
THREAT LEVEL:
Unknown.
NUO RESPONSE:
But woman hot?
Approved.
And so I left my room.
Walked through the house.
Out.
Through the compound.
Toward the road.
The council watches from behind reinforced glass.
And there
scooter.
On it
woman.
Children.
Attractive.
Nuo’s interest:
piqued.
Then
hair.
Neon green.
Pause.
Nuo’s interest:
significantly more piqued.
The council studies the visual.
Green?
Neon.
Children.
Bright enough to register before almost anything else.
A woman sitting on a scooter
with the sort of hair colour normally reserved for anime side characters,
cyberpunk rebels,
and people who have correctly decided natural pigments are merely suggestions.
The council looks at Story Nuo.
You are doomed.
Completely.
Because children,
there are combinations of traits that bypass higher reasoning.
Attractive woman?
Dangerous.
Attractive woman with neon hair?
Administrative control transferred.
The council raises an objection.
Surely not literally.
Children.
If she had pointed left and said:
Go there.
I would go there.
If she said:
Hold this suspicious bag.
I would probably ask:
Which hand?
If she said:
Trust me.
The council cries.
Already did.
Exactly.
I am only a man.
Anime looking women possess executive privileges.
The council updates system permissions.
GREEN HAIRED WOMAN:
Administrator.
NUO:
User account.
Limited privileges.
And before anyone asks whether Present Nuo has matured beyond this flaw
no.
The Archive maintains historical honesty.
Character development unavailable.
The council sighs.
I walked toward her.
She looked at me.
Recognition.
“Nuo.”
Children.
She knew my face.
I stopped.
“Hi.”
The council pauses.
That’s it?
“Hi.”
A tiny awkward hi.
Soft.
Confused.
Perhaps slightly terrified.
Perhaps distracted by green hair.
A masterclass in seduction.
The council applauds sarcastically.
Published writer,
ladies and gentlemen.
Thousands of words available internally.
One attractive woman appears?
Hi.
Now.
At this point,
another question should have become urgent.
How did she recognize me?
The phone number
book.
Address
book.
But face?
Children.
Also book.
The council slowly turns toward Father again.
Because yes.
My face was printed on the back.
Author photograph.
So let us update Father’s Publishing Security Initiative.
PHONE NUMBER:
Public.
HOME ADDRESS:
Public.
FACE:
Conveniently included for identification.
The council stares in disbelief.
Children.
This book was not merely a kidnapping invitation.
It was a complete starter kit.
“Please locate my son.
Here is where he lives.
Here is how to contact him.
Here is what he looks like.
Thank you for supporting independent literature.”
The council begins investigating paternal intent.
Dad.
Explain yourself.
Anyway.
There she sat.
Green hair.
Attractive.
Scooter beneath her.
Apparently perfectly comfortable with the fact that she had just called a stranger
and summoned him from his house.
And there I stood.
Unsure.
Clueless.
Confused.
Children.
The power imbalance was spectacular.
She possessed:
identity knowledge.
Address knowledge.
Transport.
A plan.
I possessed:
Hi.
The council nods.
Useful.
Very.
Then she said
“Hop on.”
Pause.
The council looks at Nuo.
Surely now
I hopped on.
Immediately.
The council screams.
Children.
We’ve established the rule.
Anime Girl Protocol.
If attractive woman with neon hair issues command
Nuo obeys.
No resistance roll.
No saving throw.
No committee meeting.
Just
hop on.
So I climbed onto the scooter behind her.
Did I ask where we were going?
No.
The council goes silent.
Did you ask who she was?
No.
Did you ask how she got the book?
No.
Why she came?
No.
Why she wanted you?
No.
Destination?
No.
Plan?
No.
Children.
The quantity of unanswered questions was impressive.
The woman had arrived at my home
using information printed inside my failed book,
identified me from the author photograph,
ordered me onto a scooter,
and Story Nuo apparently decided:
Sure.
The council attempts to locate survival instincts.
Missing.
Presumed dead.
And off we went.
Scooter moving.
House shrinking behind us.
Unknown woman driving.
Unknown destination ahead.
Nuo seated behind her.
The council watches the compound disappear.
Now perhaps,
finally,
logic returned.
A little.
Because my internal monologue began considering the situation.
Children.
I was absolutely getting my organs harvested.
The council nods.
Finally.
Kidney?
Likely.
Liver?
Possible.
Both kidneys?
Inconvenient.
Perhaps sold piece by piece to finance some elaborate underground enterprise.
The council becomes alarmed.
And did this realization make you ask her to stop?
No.
Why?
Because
damn,
she’s hot.
The council walks out.
Children.
That was the entire tension inside my head.
On one side:
Potential violent organ theft.
On the other:
Green hair.
And apparently the scales remained
balanced enough to continue.
The scooter moved through the city.
I sat behind her.
Still no clue where we were going.
Which makes this perhaps the cleanest instance yet of a Wandering coming to collect me.
Usually,
there is some degree of agency.
Even if the agency is idiotic.
I choose the train.
I choose the bus.
I follow the ocean.
I enter the aquarium.
I decide:
snakes.
Here?
Children.
A woman called me.
Told me to come outside.
Told me to get on a scooter.
And I did.
The council writes:
NUO’S CONTRIBUTION TO DEPARTURE:
Compliance.
Accurate.
No ticket.
No planning.
No destination selected.
No quest understood.
I had not even been told:
Kazhakootam.
At least not yet in the memory.
So Story Nuo wasn’t travelling to Kazhakootam.
Story Nuo was simply
being transported.
The council laughs.
Cargo Nuo.
Essentially.
Except cargo normally asks fewer questions internally.
And somewhere beneath the absurdity,
the book sat at the beginning of all this.
That terrible,
single digit selling,
trauma heavy relic of my early published era.
The thing Present Nuo would happily erase from searchable history
had done something unexpected.
It had reached someone.
And that someone
was now driving me somewhere.
Children.
The quality of art and the consequences of art are not always related.
A terrible book can still open a door.
Sometimes literally.
Sometimes the door is your front gate
because your father printed your address inside it.
The council sighs.
But we do not know yet why she had come.
We do not know who she was.
We do not know what she wanted.
We do not know what waited at the other end of the scooter ride.
Story Nuo did not know either.
And that matters.
All he knew was:
woman.
Green hair.
Hot.
Scooter.
Command authority.
Possible organ harvesting.
The council summarizes.
A strong opening.
Very.
And despite the internal suspicion,
I remained seated.
Because perhaps curiosity had joined attraction now.
Where are we going?
Who is she?
Why me?
What exactly happens when someone reads your book,
finds your address,
drives to your house,
and says:
Hop on?
Children.
There was only one way Story Nuo was going to find out.
Apparently
by making no attempt whatsoever to preserve his kidneys.
The council nods grimly.
So the scooter continued.
Home behind.
Unknown ahead.
Green hair in front of me.
And me?
Thinking something remarkably close to:
Yeah.
Definitely getting murdered.
But
damn.
She’s hot.
The council closes the Survival Department permanently.
Thus concludes Chapter Two.
The Unknown Number.
The Literary Identification.
The Command:
“Come out.”
The Highly Sophisticated Hot Voice Risk Assessment.
The Scooter.
The Neon Green Hair.
The Author Photograph.
The Increasing Evidence That Father Wanted Nuo Kidnapped.
The Awkward:
“Hi.”
The Second Command:
“Hop on.”
And Nuo’s Immediate Compliance.
Children.
A stranger knew my number.
My address.
My face.
Showed up at my home.
Put me on the back of her scooter.
And drove away.
The council asks:
Kidnapping?
Possibly.
Nuo’s assessment?
Also possibly.
Nuo’s counterargument?
She had neon green hair.
The council sighs.
And apparently
that was enough.
