Lost? Start from the very beginning here!

                                      Choice: Four

Where am I?

The rocking of a ship slowly awakens you. With the methodical shifting and bobbing felt only in water and metal curved wall below and behind, the world around is that below the deck of some tiny vessel. You have no way of knowing how to leave the small space enclosed with crates and ropes. The air smells of an aggressive mix of spices and dank wood. What the hell have I gotten into now? This always happens! The minute I believe I can fix any problem, it turns out the solution is more dangerous than the ramifications of the thing I’m trying to solve! Why does everything I do turn to shit?

“So, this is my life now.” You complain. Why is that always true?

With the sarcastic, life-affirming question out of the way, you attempt to get up, but notice that your hands and feet are tied together. It’s a dreadful position to wake up in.

“Hello!” you scream. “Can anyone here me?”

Responding to the call, you hear the whines of floorboards: ones made only when strangers walk above. The whines grow louder when suddenly you hear someone opening, what sounds like, an aching door, yet you see nothing until one of the crates starts to move. Beyond the border of crates stands a young black-haired man with stark white skin. The man’s sharp features begin at his narrow forehead and end at his pointed chin. Paired with his features: a goatee, hazel eyes, and two earrings on his left ear, and the man makes for very questionable character.

“Hello, Icarus,” the man says with a familiar accent.

“How do you know my name?”

“We stole your wallet. We know much about you now,” the man replies.
Of course they stole my wallet. Why wouldn’t the steal my wallet? If you’re going to ruin a man’s life and tie him up, you should certainly lack the decency to steal his wallet. You try to remember how you got here, but only recall bits and pieces of light.

“What is this? Where am I?”

“You are in my boat. Her name is The Ceren. However, that won’t matter soon since we are going to dock shortly.”

“Where in?”

“Turkey.” Beginning with an understandable gasp, you start hyperventilating in response to the quick blow of information. Your mind overflows with questions. You attempt asking any and all of them, but your mouth won’t activate. “Listen, friend, you have been asleep for quite a while. We had to carry you through New York. That’s how dead you were. In that time, I learned one thing: you would be a lousy gift for my father. You’re so small and pathetic.” He laughs. “I can’t imagine you helping him at all, and to be totally honest, I don’t think he needs any help from anyone. So, we are just going to lie to him, see the palace, spend the night, and then let you go. How does that sound? Not so bad, am I right?”

Ignoring the kidnapping and possible slavery, that doesn’t actually sound so bad. Was he really going to give me away? Who gives a person as a gift? And what does he mean by small? Best not to question him, but still. You force a smile and nod at the question. The man laughs at the reaction when suddenly a bell rings in the unknown distance.

The young stranger turns towards a now visible door and begins to move, presumably towards the source of the ring. You stop him with a question. “Wait, who are you?”

Without turning around, the young man confidently answers. “My name is Kara, Icarus. I’ll see you later.” His voice echoes as he exits the room.

Hours pass, and several large men arrive. They remove all the cargo, and make sure to move around you as they work. Among them are the two burly men you encountered earlier. You smile, they sneer, and it is an awful moment.

Once everything has been cleared a deckhand, or at least someone that looks like a deckhand, approaches you with a large knife and a syringe. He stabs you with the needle and pushes down the plunger. Fighting the urge to yelp in pain, the release of whatever the needle has to offer gives you a slight rush all over, your vision soon goes glossy while you watch the deckhand cut your ropes. The release of whatever the needle had to offer, creates the feeling of slight rush all over. Soon you understand why you didn’t feel sick upon awakening: they have been keeping you marginally high for your own good. How kind of them.
Your handler throws the syringe into some dark corner of the room right before he briskly forces you to your feet and pushes you out the door. From behind he pulls a thick black bag over your head, robbing you of all sight. Everything known about the outside now comes from other senses: the smell of saltwater, and the feeling of a cold mist tickling your shoulder. You can hear yourself stepping on wooden floorboards, which later turn to hard rock. The smell of saltwater abates, and is replaced with the scent of old candlewax. A heavy door squeaks as it opens and closes. With the door comes a retreating rush of warm air. There’s tile beneath each step now, proven with the uniform click of your steps. Other bodies move around at differing paces: some heels click with a casual step, some clomp with a quick hustle. Scant breaths and tractions echo about in the silence of wherever this is.

The men stop you after a few paces on the tile. Slow meticulous footsteps become louder as someone approaches. With the brush of the bag being lifted from your head and a surge of soft light, a very large man comes into view. He smiles graciously, his hands clasped at his navel. The latest stranger stands a head shorter than you, but it’s obvious that this doesn’t matter to him. The rings he has on his hands, his black suit, the powerful men he so easily employs, and his opulent home legitimize his unquestionable authority. Gawking at the new world around, you find yourself in the middle of a now-apparent banquet hall lit with an enormous crystal chandelier. White marble walls announce the stranger’s power, and golden ornaments exude wealth in every cranny of the mansion.

“Hell-o, how are you?” the large man asks. You can hear the hint of an accent in this man’s voice. You suspect, like all the ne’er-do-wells you’ve dealt with thus far, that he is also Turkish.

“Hello?” you confusedly respond, not entirely sure how to react to something like this. Behind the old man, you see Kara. He too wears a black suit, and has shaved his goatee. He rolls his hand in the air, as if to say, “Get on with it.”

“My son tells me you’re a world traveler,” the wealthy stranger continues.

What?

“This is exciting, because I too am a world traveler.” The pluck and vigor in which he says this makes it clear that this man in happy to have you in his company.

Gears begin to spin in your head as new lies start to form. Given your appreciation for lying and Kara’s previous explanation of the situation, you decide to make life a bit more elaborate. I am Icarus Holmes, world traveler. I’ve crossed several seas and many mountains. That’s good. No, no I’m an archeologist. Yeah. Yeah! This’ll work.

“Is that right?” you say confidently in your new persona. “Where have you traveled, my good sir?” you ask, gesticulating in what you assume to be a worldly manner.

“China, Afghanistan, Bolivia, London, Egypt, South Africa… everywhere, really. I can’t tell you how happy it feels to just move from city to city, country to country not a care in the world. Well I’m sure you know how I feel, don’t you, Icarus?”

“You are correct, sir.” Just respond casually. Don’t add any more than is needed. Although, I should mention something about Australia or Madagascar. Anything to massage the façade.

“Please, Icarus, you are my guest. You may call me Timur.”
You attempt to sound the name in your mouth, but it never fits right. Deciding to avoid the name altogether, you just use pronouns when speaking to him.

After his introduction, Timur gives a tour of his three-story palace, all composed of polished white marble. The first floor contains the banquet hall, where you were introduced, followed by the library, and then the hookah den. The second floor holds several private rooms: one for Timur himself, his son, his daughter, four other guest rooms, five bathrooms, a study, and an extended balcony with a magnificent view of the Black Sea. A grandiose staircase in the banquet hall links the two floors. With its gold and silver hand-rail and marble steps, you imagine the staircase makes the walk to heaven look humble. Timur also explains that you can also find a large Turkish bath in the basement, calling it a great place to go when you need to relax.

Walking through the second floor of his unbelievable home, Timur always makes sure there are at least two guards on him. The two on your side have never left either, but you keep forgetting about their presence. A key feature, you suspect, in differentiating between good bodyguards and great ones. But, as he shows you a third bathroom (this one styled with Venetian moldings and seashells), you realize that you have no idea why Timur would need bodyguards. But, with their eagle eyes, large muscles, and holstered guns, these men that follow the two of you around are obviously far from ornamental.
“Excuse me, sir, but may I ask how you can afford all of this?” you probe. Timur stops and looks surprised.

“Why, Icarus, I am a world trader. Turkey has some of the greatest poppy fields in the world, and I export globally.”

What? A look of confusion is not the response Timur expected. Unfortunately, it is all you may give without the knowledge of what a poppy is or does. While Timur waits for your response, a pause without response snowballs between the two of you. Time stalls for more than Timur has assumed it should have. Looking around you think for a connection between Timur, travel, and poppy. Does he mean puppy? What’s a poppy? …Poppy-seed muffin! Seizing the thought you begin to say something, but stop at a glance of the crystal and golden chandelier. Whatever this man does, it’s more than just muffins. The stale gap of silence has grown out of hand leaving everyone slightly confused.

Timur is unsure of his English as you continue to ponder muffins.

Breaking the awful mood, the body guard to your right points to a prick mark on your arm and then rubs his thumb with his finger. Poppy! It strikes you on the head.

Put off with Timur’s frankness, you reply simply, “Oh my.”

Your reaction amuses Timur. Taking control of the silence, he invites you to his palace’s hookah den in the first floor’s east wing. Descending the marvelous steps, you give the helpful bodyguard a head nod. He does not respond. The passive figure, like the other bodyguards, remains poker-faced while moving through the home. Like a squadron of soldiers, they move in a defensive square formation, only stopping at the entrance of the door to the hookah den. The guards at the front open the massive brown doors, unleashing a torrent of warm air and exotic fragrances.

The den may be the most comfortable place you have ever seen. Colorful hammocks and decorative scarves hang from the ceiling, and pillows of tremendous variety lay splayed across the floor. The pink floor and walls of the den are curved, warping the room into a spacious oval—one evoking the unconscious knowledge of a womb’s interior. In the center of the room stands a golden pillar with engraved indentations at its base in the floor and ceiling. The pattern gives the perceived effect of light rippling from gold into pink. Surrounding the base of the pillar rests a collection of gold and silver hookahs.

With its warm colors and obvious luxuries, just the sight of the room feels comforting, but upon stepping inside, this feeling grows even greater with the precise temperature of the den. Just a touch humid: the warm air feels like a natural blanket.
Moving inside Timur abandons his guards who do not move past the threshold of the room. Timur orders the door shut with the flick of his wrist, and for the first time you’re alone with him. “Tell me, Icarus: on your travels what stimuli had you experienced?”

Finding your place on the floor atop a lavender pillow and back against the pillar, you ponder on this question. I can’t say heroin, you think. I’m an archeologist for God’s sake. I’ll just keep it mundane, casual, human…

“Nothing too abnormal. Rum, whisky, marijuana when I’m bored.”

Your answer clearly excites Timur. With the new-found information, he happily yells something in Turkish. A young woman then emerges from somewhere beyond your eyeline. Beautiful black hair rolls over the light pink dress she so stunningly wears. Her lips are pomegranate red, while her eyes glow an auburn brown. She is a woman that has seemed to only exist in your daydreams and issues of National Geographic. Timur introduces his daughter as Irem. She has come with a tray containing several kinds of tea. You look at Timur as he gestures his daughter to sit next to you.

“In my journeys I have been lucky enough to find two wonderful drinks.” Timur picks up a red cup off his daughter’s tray. “I’m told the native people of Bolivia drink this tea when they are entering manhood.” Timur then picks up a black cup. “This tea is derived from a mushroom grown in Western Africa. It is used for extreme pain, visions, and, in high doses, torture. Tell me, Icarus, which would you like to try?” Timur holds both cups, eager to share.

Do you want to drink from the red cup? (go to Five.)
Or do you want to drink from the black cup? (go to Six.)