Page 114 of Katya and the Young God

Which isn’t great, isn’t ideal, but...but she’s worked with worse. She must’ve, at some point in her career or in the army or...somewhere. She’s been tortured by Demigods and came out alive, she’s been threatened by her own officers, she can get out of this alive.

And Selene...she hopes Selene isn’t too scared.

“Did you hear me?” She calls out again, and hears the footsteps pause. “I need water. Something.”

The blinking red light tells her she can’t attack the guard and hope to surprise him, so she eases herself back onto sitting on the cot.

Footsteps approach, and she sits, like a good little hostage would do, keeping her face impassive and her hands to her side.

There’s no reason to give away her only weapon before she knows who she can use it against, and information will be more valuable to her like this.

The door opens, and two guards enter, keeping their weapons pointed at her and their faces masked. One favors his right side, an old injury of some sort, but not enough so that she can easily sweep his leg and disarm him.

Especially not with her foot. Especially not with her fingers so puffy.

She holds up her hands, lets them see the lack of weapons, but they keep their guns on her. “You guys disarmed me,” she croaks out, and above the mask she can see a twinge of sympathy raise an eyebrow. “I just need water.” They expect her to be more demanding, they expect her to be difficult. “And a med report of my injuries.”

The one with the old injury snorts at the request.

“How long was I unconscious?” Katya asks, stiffening her spine as much as possible, drawing on all her years of control and pride and infusing every last syllable with the demand. Let them think her imperious, let them think she’s spoiled. Let them think this is all she wants.

The injured one jerks his head to the other, and he tosses her a small water bottle made of flimsy plastic. Not enough to be a weapon, and it’s warm from body heat.

She makes a play at trying to open it, like her hand is much worse off than it is, and he grabs it back, opening it before thrusting it at her again.

So. He’s willing to get close if he thinks she’s helpless.

Katya gives him her best simpering useless woman smile, before taking it and drinking heartily.

She can’t take them both down, not like this, not without knowing what’s on the other side of the door, but these are all good signs. An easily manipulated guard is better than the alternative.

“I want to talk to Feketer,” she says, smooth, after drinking her fill. She keeps her swollen hand against the water bottle, like it’ll help at all.

Again, the one with the old injury snorts. “After you shot him?”

She smiles, stopping one step short from fluttering her eyelashes. “I was scared.” Her voice is stronger now, with the water, but she still rasps it out. “I didn’t know who it was.”

The other one shifts, then gives a shake of his head to the injured one, a quick and obvious reminder.

“We’ll bring food later,” he says, and he’s not nearly as manipulatable as the other, she can tell in her bones. Like he can see into her and tell what she’s trying to do, and doesn’t like it.

Without another word, they exit, and she gets a glimpse of a long and unremarkable hallway and a glowing line of runes beyond the door before it shuts and the lock clangs in place.

So they have something to prevent their mistakes from last time, that’s for sure. They’re prepared for Not-Thomas, they’re prepared for an Archdemon, and at least half the guards are prepared for her to be an uncooperative hostage.

With nothing else, she slides her leg back onto the cot, taking the meager and flat pillow and propping it up the best she can. She can’t heal quickly, she can’t mend broken bones overnight, but she can sure as shit do whatever she can to lessen swelling.

As soon as she does, the lights abruptly shut off in her room, the blinking red light the only form of illumination.

She freezes, suppressing a flinch that’ll hurt whatever broken bone is in her foot, and there’s a sliver of light from underneath the door, not bright enough for her to see anything.

But the sound of the building, the power-filled hum of a place with electricity, still continues.

The assholes cut her lights.

She breathes out slowly through her nose, keeping her hand on her meager flimsy water bottle, and forces herself to lay down.

It’s the sort of darkness that’s only one step away from total, so the blackness twists and turns in her eyes, with only the single red light to keep her company.

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