Where Am I?

DATE: 12 FEBRUARY 2018 A.D.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the hostess smiled, baring her pearly teeth to the camera. “Give it up for the man of the hour, the host of the channel HypnoPro, the Confucian Deity himself, Ruxian!”

A scrawny man sporting a pair of sunglasses swaddled in a lab coat stepped into the blinding lights as an obnoxiously loud tune blared. The studio erupted with clapping, cheering, and the odd whistling. Smiling, Ruxian waved at the audience before settling down facing his interviewer, a beauty who would not even allow him within a hundred metres twelve months ago.

“Thank you, thank you,” he bowed his head effusively. “I’d like to thank the broadcast for having me, and my fans for showing up. If not for you, I’d still be delivering meals on a hired scooter.”

This got him a wave of laughter and a discreet thumbs up from the hostess. Good.

“Before we go any further, I have a real question,” said the woman as she adjusted her miniskirt. “I think your fans will agree with me that you look very…different, in person. What happened?”

Ruxian barked a laughed, tilting his glasses. For his first live stream, he showed up in a white suit with pink stripes and dyed his hair purple. Looking back, his viewers probably thought him a side-quest NPC in a popular game franchise featuring gangsters of a Japanese flavour. He distinctly remembered the foul odour of the cologne he applied that day and could not for the life of him figure out why he used it.

“Well, washing out the dye did take some work,” joked Ruxian, tugging at his black fringes. “But if I show up at the Spring Festival Gala looking like a gangster movie extra, I may get some angry phone calls from my mother.”

From here, Ruxian summoned willing guinea pigs from the audience, punctuating each trick with a well-rehearsed punchline. He pinned his first assistant to a chair and rendered him unable to stand, convinced the second volunteer that the chilli was apple candy, and made the hostess throw away her microphone, which she thought a cobra. The last segment, combined with her low-cut dress, had Ruxian gazing nervously at the camera crew. Hope the censors don’t mind.

As soon as the lights went off, Ruxian slipped into the changing room and scrolled through his social media feeds. While the posts were largely congratulatory, a comment accusing him of looking up the hostess’s skirt made Ruxian bite his lips. Why was this loser getting more likes than his clip of the chilli pepper? He lifted a fist but caught himself before he could slam the table. Taking a deep breath, he counted to three and loosened his hand. Getting baited was stupid.

Roused by the elevator announcer, Ruxian fumbled for the exit button and stumbled into the first taxi he found. He reached for his phone but thought better of it. He needed rest. Who knew thirty minutes of television was so taxing? Shutting his eyes, he fell asleep to the driver’s mysterious dialect and the white noise of what he assumed was radio static.

Ruxian woke not to the sight of his apartment, but to a giant marble woman wearing a blindfold. The cold, hard stones digging into his back forced the hypnotist upright. He sneezed at the scent of oil and incense. Glancing around him, he found himself in a church with a ring of men in white robes whispering in a foreign tongue.

His heart pounding fast, Ruxian quickly dialled 110 only to receive a robotic out-of-service notice. Furiously, he pounded the network icon with frozen fingers. Nothing. The calendar clearly displayed 21 January 2020. Could his kidnappers really transport him out of China within such a short time? Undetected?

A plump abbot, rolling back his hood to reveal his receding hairline, proffered him a hand. When Ruxian hesitated, he smiled, showing a row of yellow, uneven teeth. Ruxian frowned. He may not know the man, but he knew the expression for it was the same mask he wore during the interview. I’ll play your game. Squeezing a diplomatic grin, Ruxian accepted the offer.

The contact, however, left the grimacing hypnotist clutching his head. It felt like he slammed face-first into a wall. The pain reminded him of the concussive whiplash he experienced in a car crash that burned his arm. The frowning priest tilted his head, waved his hands as if to swat away gnats, and herded Ruxian onto a bench.

Now seated, Ruxian felt his world coming back into focus. The fat priest returned, presenting him a cup of stale water in a coarse cup that could easily qualify as 60-grit sandpaper. Gagging upon the first taste, Ruxian unhanded the cup and massaged his throat. The holy man, bowing in genuine apology, lifted a hand for his guest to stay rested and went outside.

Thirst besting him, Ruxian drained the cup and licked his parched lips. Awful, but most likely not poisoned. The fragrance of wildflowers turned his head. The ever-smiling clergy gestured at the buxom young nun to his right, who bowed so low that Ruxian widened his eyes before turning away. This woman was showing more cleavage and thigh than the interviewer back in the studio!

The pudgy priest opened his mouth again. For a moment, Ruxian thought he made out something. Squinting his eyes, he turned to one side and leaned closer. Funnily enough, the more he focused, the more the slippery syllables resembled a language.

“...your....name?” said the priest who looked at him with expectant eyes.

Encouraged, an excited Ruxian drew frantic circles around his mouth, requesting for a repeat.

“I am Lucius,” said the grinning man, redirecting his index finger from himself to Ruxian. “What is your name?”

“Ru,” said the young man, tracing lines in the air before realising these signals would not work with foreigners. “Ru, Ruxian.”

“Lord Ruxian,” praised Lucius, clapping his hands to attract the attention of the congregation. “On behalf of the Eternal Empire, in the name of Emperor Paerawyn, allow us to welcome you, our esteemed hero, to Targonia.”