Part 2
If Only Dreams Were Real
Ratchet didn't immediately remove herself from her dreams when she felt water splashed, and then dripping all over her face. Her dreams immediately reflected the reality, though, and she found herself in a raft on a river, water undeniably spraying with uncalled-for violence in her direction. Ratchet reflected, nonsensically, that it was good sense for her to have her eyes closed in real life, just in case this dream flitted over the boundaries of fantasy and entered the possibly nightmarish reality she would soon have to deal with in some way. Her captors noticed a displeased and annoyed expression pass over her face. Of course, they wouldn't have made anything of it if it hadn't also landed and placed itself nicely over her still unconscious face. Thus, it did so. The effect would have been alarming, had said captors not already cleverly agreed that Ratchet was no more asleep than a llama can trample an elephant.
Ratchet visibly sighed. At this point, she had come awake, and was slowly coming to grips with the ropes, chains, and duct tape, well, gripping her arms and legs at more places than were necessary, even if she was stronger than a chinchilla on steroids, growth hormones and coffee. As it was, Ratchet hadn't put much effort into muscular development, and was unable to resist the clumsily devised grasp of the quantity of restraints imprisoning her.
Ratchet paused. Being awake, now, she pondered what she'd just thought. "The quantity of restraints imprisoning her." At the moment, she didn't think it, but later she'd realize it gave some comfort to consider these restraints her captors, instead of human beings, well capable of torturing her, killing her, or, by golly, nuking her neighborhood.
Though she hadn't had great relations with anyone in the neighborhood, she quickly became irate that her birthplace, current residence, and probably even deathplace, had been overrun by fire, hot air, and radiation.
Thinking of nothing else to prolong her improbable sleep, she pondered again her survival. If, in fact, her neighborhood had been nuked, then perhaps she'd either gained immunity to nuclear radiation, or, and she audibly gasped at the thought, it'd made her into some sort of superhuman, well capable of...of, well, who knows what!
To her surprise, her eyes opened. It'd be cruelly unjust, untrue, and wrong to say that she opened her eyes, simply because she didn't open them. Her dream, which had long degraded into her falling off the edge of the world in a barrel unkindly marked, "THIS WAY UP," ended immediately. Despite the unpleasantness of such a dream (some might even call it a nightmare, whatever that is), Ratchet's blood pressure continued to escalate, and her teeth, which were usually pleasantly, and not violently acquainted with each other, met in a dark, narrow alley and ground each other to dust.
That is to say, Ratchet ground her teeth.
Until this point, she hadn't bothered to use her eyes. By whatever miracle, she had simply stopped using them by power of will, and thought herself staring at blackness. However, she suddenly decided she'd like to use her eyes. Like a nurse in a well-maintained hospital, she took mere seconds to open her eyes, and, subsequently, observe her unpleasant surroundings.
At an unpleasant distance, there was a face, obviously belonging to a man completely unaware of the other sex. His facial hair, which might have been at least normally colored, on a bad day, was a deep shade of green that Ratchet reflected, later, might have been the exact color of her barf in her dream.
On the nasal facet of things, her glowering partner in, Ratchet firmly decided, her personal space had possibly the worst smelling visage she had ever acquainted herself with. Given, she hadn't acquainted herself with many visages this intimately in her lifetime, but this probably still easily took place over her dear Aunt Josephine, who, for whatever reason, wore such a rare combination of both ladies' and mens' scented toiletries that merely entering the same room frequented the unbearably strong need to cough, sneeze, or, if need be, sputter. Being so closely related to her Aunt, Ratchet had taken to the regrettable but necessary habit of carrying around nose-plugs with her. Usually undetectable, she had stolen these helpful artifacts into her nasal cavities when such emergencies presented themselves, smug to the extreme, to her unsuspecting consciousness.
To cut a long description short, the man stunk, looked like a bear who'd neglected to shave only the least attractive section of his body, and generally made Ratchet's head spin. It would be difficult to explain how Ratchet's head spun, but one would be well-informed to know that Ratchet's head did, indeed, rotate a good 482 degrees. This phenomenon may never be explained, but it was momentarily sufficient to send the partially shaved and deeply disgusting bear several paces backward. He, however, seemed to have expected this, and advanced back into her thoroughly violated personal space. It occurred to her to try rotating her head like that again, but she found it difficult, now, to go beyond the usual two hundred or so degrees of rotation.
Ratchet snorted. Cruel fate.
!Noah!
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