The world came back in fragments—sharp pain behind his eyes, a raw throbbing in his skull, and the dull hum of an engine beneath him. Wang stirred, his mouth dry, jaw clenched tight around a dirty strip of cloth stuffed between his teeth.
His eyes fluttered open.
Bright fucking sun.
Everything ached. His wrists were tied tight behind his back, legs bound at the ankles. The inside of the motorcycle's sidecar was cramped, padded with some old blankets and a half-torn tarp. Sand scraped against his skin as the rig bumped and jerked over the red desert terrain.
A few seconds later, the engine slowed.
Then came the brakes—screech—and the bike stopped.
Boots hit the ground.
The woman's shadow blocked the sun for a second. She leaned over him, squinting under her wide-brimmed hat. Her braid was messier now, loose strands stuck to her sweaty forehead. Her pistols were still strapped to her hips. A trail of red dust coated her duster.
"Well well..." she muttered, pulling down her scarf. "Sleeping Beauty's finally up."
Wang grunted, squinting.
"Oh, don't give me that look," she said, reaching down and yanking the gag from his mouth. It came out with a wet pop, leaving him coughing and drooling sand.
"Shit," he rasped. "That—fuckin'—tasted like it's been up someone's ass."
"Probably has," she said flatly.
Wang blinked, trying to focus. "Where the fuck... where are we?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she uncorked a dented metal canteen and held it to his lips.
He hesitated. She narrowed her eyes.
"Drink, or choke."
He drank.
The water was lukewarm and tasted like rust—but in that moment, it was heaven. He swallowed several gulps before she pulled the canteen away.
"Thirsty bastard," she muttered, wiping his mouth with her glove like he was some stray dog. Then she stood up again, canteen sloshing as she tucked it away.
Wang groaned and lifted his head a little. "Alright. Look. You've got me tied up in some Mad Max sidecar, and I'm guessin' we're headed somewhere real fucking unpleasant. Just talk to me for a sec, yeah?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"You're not gonna try some Stockholm Syndrome seduction shit, are you?"
Wang cracked a weak grin. "Not unless it gets me untied."
She didn't laugh. Instead, she crouched down, brushed his sweat-slick hair out of his face, and said in a slow, calm voice:
"You're worth ten thousand credits alive, Wang. So unless your voice box spits out fucking gold, we don't have a lot to talk about."
He frowned. "You don't even care why I got branded?"
"Nope."
"I am not a killer."
"Don't care."
"I'm not resisting," he added, more serious now. "I'm not gonna fight. I'm not gonna run. Can we at least—"
She sighed and stuffed the gag back into his mouth mid-sentence.
"Jesus Christ, you talk too much."
MMFF! Wang growled through the cloth.
She tied it tighter this time and gave him two hard pats on the cheek.
"Try not to choke on that. I ain't stoppin' again till sundown."
Then she got back on her bike, kicked the engine to life, and tore off through the desert—leaving Wang bumping in the sidecar, gagged, bound, and riding into God-knows-where with a bounty hunter who clearly wasn't in the mood for a conversation.
Q: Have you ever seen the movie "Taken"?