ARC: Crushed by Eliza Crewe

a choice . My eyes slide to the left and right. Everyone is tense; the other Corps have come half out of their seats. I hear the movement of people behind me, slipping around to grab me if necessary. The Sarge looks pissed, but not enough to intervene. I’m outnumbered with no one to help me. It’s true. I don’t have a choice.
    I straighten and force my fists to relax.
    When I do, I see several others around the room relax as well. The tense moment has passed. Graff doesn’t smile at my acquiescence, but I sense his satisfaction. “We will keep it as brief as possible.” He waves at Professor Puchard. “Professor?” He reaches behind him for his chair, turning his back to me.
    And here I thought they knew better than to trust me.
    Two strides and a giant leap take me over the table. I slam into Graff and he, I, and his chair go flying into the wall. I smash my fist into his arrogant face, and smug satisfaction wells in me like the blood from his broken nose – that makes twice today.
    And here I thought it was going to be a bad day.
    Sadly, I only have a moment to enjoy it. No, not even a whole moment, a half-moment, a quarter-moment – and I suspect I was only given that much because the Sarge was enjoying my punch as much as I was – before I’m hauled off him.
    “There’s my choice, Art ,” I snarl as I’m dragged away, gnashing my teeth in his face. Graff cups his hand over his nose then pulls it away to look at the blood pooling in his palm and rolling from between his fingers to stain the brilliant white cuff of his expensive shirt.
    “Professor Puchard, now .” He snaps through blood-stained teeth.
    A Corp holds each of my arms, and someone I can’t see grips me around my midsection. Whoever it is hauls me backwards off my feet. I flail, dragging my arms together in an attempt shake the Crusaders off, and kick blindly behind me. It’s mostly for show; even I know I can’t take on a room full of Crusaders – at least, not without casualties. But I want there to be no doubt in their minds that I do not consent. I do not agree.
    I have no choice, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy on them.
    My heel catches the Crusader behind me and he releases his hold. I leap toward the Crusader holding my left arm, slamming into her like a bowling ball and pulling the guy attached to my right arm off-balance. I jerk my right arm free and slam my elbow into the gut of the woman still holding me. Free, I half dive, half scramble toward the door. I wrap my hands around the knob, but I don’t pull.
    I can’t.
    I’m frozen, locked in place by a thousand invisible hands. They’re everywhere; every inch of my skin feels the pressure of fingers and palms I can’t see. Some small and soft, others huge and leathery; all with a grip like iron. I try to jerk, to shake them off, to make my arm move, but the hands squeeze tighter and tighter, becoming bruising in their force. I stop fighting and the hands relax, their grip firm but not crushing.
    Then a hand on my right arm starts to move, sliding up my wrist to my hand. It pinches my pointer finger in its steely grasp and peels from the doorknob. I try to force my finger back down, but the invisible hand grips it too tightly. We battle, still and silent, until sweat breaks on my brow, until I feel the hot pop of my finger bone cracking. I release my hold.
    Then my middle finger is gripped and peeled from the knob. Then the rest, one-by-one, as I stand there watching helplessly. Once I’ve released the knob, my hand is forced jerkily to my side. I can’t stop it; the more I try, the more pressure the hands exert. And they’re everywhere; I can’t even open my mouth to curse.
    My foot lifts, awkwardly, then the other, turning me in small, shuffling steps until I face the Crusaders again. Everyone watches, wide-eyed, as the puppet master makes me dance. Everyone but Professor Puchard. All I can see is the top of his speckled-egg head as he looks down at