Naked and spreadeagled.

I was naked and stretched, spreadeagled, on a large table. It didn't seem to me to be set up for that purpose, which as I laid there at first made me feel better because I thought maybe if Reverend Tommy and the cops were not set up to interrogate me or keep me hostage, they wouldn't be very good at it.

Then, I thought if they're not very good at it, then they might just hurt me for the fun of it or accidentally or something, and I felt worse.

The table, I was pretty sure, was an old kitchen table. A solid wood, smooth, very nicely made kitchen table, but an old kitchen table anyway.

They'd shot me with something when I was crumpled in the net, some sort of electricity, but a really low current of it, I guessed. When they'd done it, my muscles had gone all loose and limp and I'd just flopped. After that, I was aware of what was going on but I couldn't really do anything about it. I was just a puddle of me, being picked up in the net and jammed into the back of the cop car and then taken here. They'd draped a blanket over me so I couldn't tell where I was in the city, just that I was inside a building of some sort. It felt basement-y: damp, dusty, unused. I turned my head side to side and tried to see stuff but I was pretty glared out by the lamp that was hanging over me. The lamp was not directly above my head. I didn't know if that was amateurish or politeness. Why would people who will shoot ray guns at you and then jab you with something electric to make it impossible to move and tie you to a kitchen table then be polite and not put the light right in your eyes.

But it was still bright enough and direct enough that I had afterimages on my retinas and couldn't see very much around me. Shapes all around, but they were obscured by purple and red blobs.

I figured out where I was in a moment though when people came walking in: Reverend Tommy. A cop. Some older man. And Rex, Brigitte's dad's dog.