The Warehouse

Chapter 4: The Warehouse

I slowly regain consciousness. My eyes closed, I analyse what I feel. I'm sitting on a comfy chair. I'm in large room. But full of objects. There is activity around me. And an anthology of smells and sounds.
I finally open my eyes. Shivering, I let my brain absorb what I'm seeing. A gigantic place. But also weird. Around me, a bric-a-brac of thousands of objects. Without any visible logic, they're laying around, separated by thin, purple lines on the floor. The lines glow faintly in the dim light.
Four people are seated before me. A man and three women. The man has long brown hair, tied on his neck. His beard is thick. A few strands of hair are tamed thanks to steam-punkish protective glasses. The first to realize I'm awake, he throws his stub on the floor, dries his greasy hands on his jumpsuit and shakes mine, smiling. His smile actually looks sincere:
« Jack, » he says, his irish accent rolling on his tongue. « O'Donnel. »
He shows one of the women with his thumb. She wears a scientist's blouse. She has a severe but calm expression. Her red hair, in a ponytail, frame her hazel eyes. The professional looking blouse is undermined by a black lace collar and assorted rangers.
« She's Layla Lewis. Our biologist. »
Layla waves. The second woman, a fiery brunette, comes forth. Her chair falls behind her but it seems usual for her. She pushes Jack away, her own ponytail slashing his face.
« Tiffany Wells. Archeologist. Specialized in linguistics, » she says, shaking my hand strongly.
She looks the part. From her brown leather boots to her Indiana Jones shirt. She even has tools hanging down her belt full of pouches.
« May I check on her now? » asks the last woman of the lot.
Her voice is soft. Her nice black hair shines in the purple light, cut chin length. Where Layla's blouse lets see her civil clothes underneath, hers is properly buttoned. She crouches near me and takes a tensiometer from her kit.
« My name is Annabelle Harper and I am a medic, » she informs me.
I let her examine me, without a word. I kinda feel like no word will ever comes out of my mouth ever again.
Four people -a biologist, a military trained doctor, a linguist and what looks like a mechanic- just said hello to me. In an Ali Babaesque cavern. Right after I got hypnotized and kidnaped by a weird woman in a 2001 Space Odyssey remake.
« Tension is slightly high but it's normal. Considering, » says Annabelle. « And the tattoo is healing nicely.

Something clicks in my head. « A tattoo? »
I jump from my chair and look at my left arm. Thin and delicate black lines form an elegant cog with antique looking clock hands pointing to twelve o'clock.
I'm about to burst out. Stress, anxiety from those past months. Those past hours. Thick concrete fill my insides and I just explode under the pressure and pain:
« By the goddesses what's the actual deal? Kidnappin'? Tattooin' like cattle? Where are we? What's with all the bloody crap? And who are you really? »
The questions flood as a river. I'm pacing, feeling out of my own skin. I point everywhere, from the floor to the invisible ceiling, to the pile of books near a perpetually moving rocking chair near a thimble. The others, collected, let me empty myself. Then, out of breath, I stare at them.
Layla, slowly, show me her own tattoo. One after the other, they all do. Patiently, the biologist explains:
« This is Clockwork Inc. logo. It means you have been chosen. »
« Because you were both talented and desperate enough, » Tiffany continues, « they chose you for a mission. »
« This is an extra governmental organisation. We go 'round the globe and collect... artifacts, » says Jack.
« Some of them are more dangerous than the others. But all need to be Secured, Contained and Protected, » concludes Annabelle.
I swallow hard. I'm cold. It's like my feet went ten feet underground. After a deep breath, I articulate:
« So let's say I believe that gibberish. That I forget about the kidnapping and tattooing. This... place. What's it exactly? »
Jack laughs and hands me a flask. I smell and my sinuses burn. Old home brewed whisky. I drink and he pats my back:
« This is where we stock the artifacts. Of course, the most dangerous are in another zone. Here it's just them small things. »
Tiffany looks almost kindly towards an old cupboard that seems to be slightly shaking:
« It has no beginning and no end. Nobody knows where it is exactly. »
We are abruptly interrupted by the sound of stilettos. As I was slowly starting to feel more comfortable I tense again and rotate towards her. Anna.
« To summarize it all, Alexandra Mourn, Clockwork Incorporated and myself are happy to welcome you into... The Warehouse. »