Kidnapped for pleasure by the Alien

At least the bench was unoccupied. Rose pulled the hand-me-down drab green slicker further down over her head, the rain, icy and soaking, coming down even harder as she sat upon the weathered wood. Her jeans were long since soaked on her walk to the river's edge from the Redbridge station. Sitting on the dripping bench couldn't make things any worse.

It was the strangest little sitting area, tucked in at the base of the bank of the slack River Roding, the gentle slope there affording one at least a hint of privacy. The corner of Roysten Gardens was nearby, but at this hour, there was nobody ever around. Just the way she liked it.

She was down to her last few pounds. To this day, despite living in the UK for several months, she still refused to call them quid. It had never sounded right, and not just because she was an American. Calling dollars "greenbacks" or the like never worked for her either, so she felt she was at least being an equal opportunity snob.

She looked around, checking for bobbies. They were rare in these parts, another point in the location's favor, and the driving rain wasn't likely to encourage them to scout out the banks of the Roding either.

For the thousandth time, she marveled bitterly at how a young orphan girl from Spokane, Washington had found herself on a dreary park bench in an even drearier section of Greater London.

Freshly aged out of the foster system at eighteen, and deciding to take up her friend Shana's offer to tag along with her on an extended summer trip to the UK with her father hadn't been the smartest decision Rose had ever made. Anything seemed preferable to staying in the Purgatory of where she'd been.

Now, Shana was long gone thanks to their final and worst fight. Drugs. They'd warped Shana, and after a few months, Rose didn't even recognize her former friend. Shana though had been her last lifeline in the UK, and ever since, Rose had been riding couches, bumming a spare room in the flats of people she met at the clubs, or "rough sleeping" it as the Brits liked to refer to sleeping in the great wide open.

She'd spent a night or two on the very bench now freezing her ass to miserable numbness.

The fucking drugs where the worst thing about London in 1996. The music was the best part. She voraciously consumed the latter, reveling in it, while watching friend after friend, acquaintance after acquaintance, fall victim to the former. Rose was determined not to let it victimize her too. Why do you even care anymore? You're out of options. It was the siren song, the lilting, seductive whisper, urging her to give in to it, to banish, if only for a few dazed hours, the hopelessness she was fighting a losing battle against. Atlantis, the club up in Epping she favored - that was the worst. Though the security was at least adequate, the place was awash in dealers, and more than a few shifty sorts seeking to prey on innocence, stupidity, or both. Though she'd learned to dodge the more dangerous ones, she still seemed to attract more than her fair share. Her formerly buxom figure withered into heroine chic waifness, garish red hair, and more freckles than there were stars in the universe, she shouldn't have attracted any male attention, but even in the low, ill-lit Jungle-infused thump of Atlantis, the American loser still wasn't immune from having to deal with the assholes. That was as mystifying as how she ended up in the current mess she was in. Broke, friendless, and without hope, on a soaking wet park bench in one of the countless, and to her, anonymous, little towns that bled one into another as part of Greater London metro. There was a shimmer off to her left, toward the water, and she peered in vain in its direction. But there was nothing there. It reminded her of the glint of passing headlights off the rippling surface of water. It wasn't the first time she'd seen it, and the first few times she'd assumed it was a play of city lights against the current. But with the pouring rain, the shimmer shouldn't have been there. "Who cares?" she muttered. "You're probably hallucinating from lack of food, you idiot." Her stomach growled angrily, as if on cue, and she wrapped her arms around her belly, trying to decide if she wanted to spend her last bit of money on this Earth for a little something to eat. "Bum a fag, love?" She almost fell off the bench, her heart in her throat, the softly spoken words taking her utterly by surprise. The voice was familiar - which wasn't a good sign. His tall, gaunt form was plastered with a rain-sodden bright blue windbreaker, the hood pulled tight about his face in a way that made it impossible to make him out. "You want to smoke? In this?" She shook her head, looking up. "Even if I had one, we'd never be able to light the damned thing. Maybe try building an ark or getting a clue. Either way, better use of your time." An acid tongue could chase off most of them, and she hoped it would work this time too. She didn't have the energy for anything else. "Oh, I think we could come up with something a might better, Yankee Rose." It was a deeper, much more assured voice, the bench creaking as another man sat down next to her. Reflexively, she flinched away the tiniest bit, hating that it was a too obvious signal of the fear growing within her by the second. It was Charlie Gareth. Shit. He definitely was one of the more dangerous men from the club. Much too free with the hands, and seemed to believe anything with tits was his personal property. She'd seen him at Atlantis more than once, even talked to him a time or two, if only to show him she was of no interest to him. It hadn't worked, but at least she'd never had to deal with him anywhere but the relatively safe confines of the club. Until now. And there was only one way he'd have known about this place. "You following girls now, Charlie? You could've just talked to me at the club like a normal human being. Asshole" She made to stand, but his hand clamped upon her thigh, his fingers like cold iron, pinning her in place. The man in the blue windbreaker stepped close, cutting off any escape route toward the street. Charlie turned his face toward her, leaning in close, the smell of stale cigarettes and whiskey on his breath, his black, beady eyes glinting. "The club's no place to have a go at some American cunt, now is it? We're bloody well exactly where we need to be, girl."