Page 11 of Katya and the Young God

AIMES (10:33 AM): Jake approves of the choice of dog.

K (10:33 AM): Of course he would.

AIMES (10:35 AM): So I don’t know where Jake is taking me for a honeymoon, but he says I won’t have cell signal.

K (10:36 AM): Fancy.

AIMES (10:37 AM): I think so? Anyway I’ll check in later when I’m back.

There’s the oft familiar discomfort, somewhere between happiness for her friend and the sort of jealousy that sits poorly within her. Where she doesn’t —ever—want the sort of bond Aimes has, the idea of being swept away to spend time on some peaceful adventure is...appealing.

K (10:40 AM): Have fun. Don’t let him commit any war crimes.

K (10:41 AM): Or go to space.

AIMES (10:42 AM): No promises.

The mild distraction over, she goes back to searching for clothes tough enough to withstand a few days in a cave, and finds a few outdoorsy shops in the small tourist town she’s in. Which is again, promising.

So she searches, collects information, and pats a sleeping dog for a few hours, feeling better about this whole Colorado thing than she has since she got the phone call back in Paris.

* * *

A few hours later,after the dog unceremoniously plods away with nary a look back, Katya stretches, changes into a suit, stows her new knife in the jacket, and goes into town.

In the midday light, away from the sleep deprivation and shock of the move, the town is still disgustingly adorable, but she can see a bit closer. Everyone’s wearing rough jeans, and flannel is as common as baseball caps.

A new place, a new uniform, a new way of blending in. Or a new thing to subvert, if she wants to stick out. All parts of a calculation she’ll have to do every time she comes into town, no matter how comfortable her own suits are against her skin.

She hates changing personas, especially when she’s put so much effort into this one. So much of a visual style, so people can see her coming, can tell when she’s the one walking towards them, but professional enough that she can blend into large crowds.

For a split second she just contemplates getting another suit so she doesn’t have to change a thing, but she doubts she can find a tailor up to snuff in this small town, so she heads into the outdoorsy shop anyways. Swallows past her weird pride and buys the jeans and flannel and long underwear, and tries to smile at the store clerk.

She’s still going to wear her fucking suit to the meeting tomorrow. Whatever that may hold, with whomever is going to be there.

Because if they’re expecting her to just keel over and die, be silent about this, she’s not going to give them that. She’s going to go, do whatever’s needed of her, and come out alive. Come out smarter, come out stronger, and come out with more information that can help the good people in the Organization. Somehow. If they’re still there.

* * *

After a jet laggednight of sleep on the couch, she’s woken up at 7 AM by the moving truck, and it’s clear that they started packing up her things the moment she left for Paris. Before she even got the phone call.

They wanted her out of LA, away from where she could cause any more problems for them. Even if they didn’t want her to die, they definitely wanted her to fade away into obscurity. Be useless: a permanent fixture of the forest until she quits or dies.

She bites back any anger-flavored bile at the movers, who have no clue, but still. It’s back there. Waiting. Boiling around like a toxic sea in the pit of her stomach, making her want to shoot something, kick something, break something.

Even the idea of drawing her gun, of pointing it with her fingers twitching around the trigger, makes her stomach clench in something resembling fear. In something she knows she’ll have to make herself face at some point, but not...not right now.

Instead she just directs the movers on where to put her bed and boxes of clothes and books and dishware, and they’re out faster than they have any right to be.

Leaving her with all her stuff, all her sleek furniture that she bought special for her apartment in Los Angeles, ill-fitting for this rustic little cabin in the middle of the forest with the dog asleep on the porch. Stepan didn’t even move when they left, not even a thump of the tail.

Her bed, an overindulgence of a California king she bought with her bonus for her part in taking down the Demigod twin, barely fits in the bedroom. Her dresser sure doesn’t, sticking out halfway into the tiny hallway.

And then, thankfully, she gets to her stuff. To her clothing, to her books, and, most importantly, her weaponry.

Nothing is missing. They packed all of it, all of her daggers and knives and questionably legal guns. Her bullets, her bullet-making equipment, everything.

Her favorite lock picks, cleverly disguised as earrings. Her favorite belt, with its hidden compartment for a small folding knife and an escape kit, with a diamond needle and a small saw.

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