Page 3 of Katya and the Young God

For once she unclamps the latch, it’s a quick and easy garrote weapon. Her smallest, most innocent of weapons, one she’s never been stopped over.

One she’s never had to use, but it's nice to have something with her at all times. One she’s practiced with more times than she can think, so it’s as familiar as her old combat boots and as comfortable as her everyday suit, something as close to her as her skin.

She has other weapons on her, of course—she’s hardly going to be someone caught off guard—but they’re things other people can see. Easily identify. Weapons that she has paperwork for, has permits for, the sort of weapons that leave people to thank her for her service, leaving an uncomfortable lump in her throat.

Still, a weapon. And she always—always—wants more weapons on her person. She hasn’t felt safe in almost a year, since she got taken, teleported by a Demigod, and thrust into a conflict between brothers that almost cost her her life.

Her shoulder aches at the reminder, and she presses her fist into it through her suit jacket. A year out, and it still aches enough to give her pause, make her think before she does anything physical. Before she engages in any conflict, before she pulls out a knife, before she’s able to pick any locks.

But…

As she presses her hand deeper into her shoulder, as if she could stop any phantom aches, the dry air prickles at the edges of her eyes, drawing a sensation that’s close to tears. Not that she would actually cry on an airplane, but...something close to the feeling of it.

So instead she shuts her eyes, leans her head back, and pretends to sleep.

* * *

Katya keepsthe plane window firmly shut, not wanting to even catch a glimpse of whatever landscape is awaiting her. But the rough bump and roll of the landing gears stops for no one, and certainly not her own wishes.

The back of her legs aching from being seated for so long, she averts her eyes from the windows her fellow plane passengers open, but the sunlight streams in anyways. Her internal clock whispers that she should be getting to sleep, but the light tells her she still has a long day in front of her, and the encroaching headache of jet lag nips at the back of her mind.

She’s supposed to make a home here. Somehow. Investigate the new ‘source of power’ and go cave diving and live in a cabin in the fucking woods. A cabin that’s at least a twenty-minute drive to the nearest store, and a forty five minute drive to the nearest city that actually boasts any sort of infrastructure. Two hours to the biggest city that she would deign to call a city, which still has nothing on Los Angeles.

The LA suburb where her office was has a higher population than downtown Denver.

And the population density of others, of the not-normal people, of the people she’s built her career around helping and connecting with, is small in Colorado. Almost minuscule. The local office is a joke, with only ten full-time employees and four interns.

Compared to the couple of thousand employees of the Organization in Los Angeles, it’s suffocatingly small.

She stretches, the lines in her suit cutting into her, but it’s a welcome sort of discomfort, something familiar and kind, as she pulls down her single carry-on from the overhead compartment.

Her eyes flicker up, her awareness pulling to the side as people start to move around the airplane, and the small sense of otherness comes from a man, somewhat short, on the other end of the cabin, as he eyes her with an equal amount of curiosity. His hair is long, frizzy and wild, and the overall appearance of him is kind, mischievous.

A Pixie. On her flight, and she’s only now noticing.

She nods at him, a simple inclination of her head, and he does the same. Almost all of the not-natural people can sense when someone knows about them, and like draws to like.

At least he doesn’t recognize her, and the thought bubbles up into her throat like she needs to swallow. Anyone recognizing her out here would have questions, the sort of questions she doesn’t want to answer.

In Los Angeles, she had gotten known. Everyone knew of her involvement with the Demigods, in stopping the twins, and people would stop her and ask her about it. Which is undoubtedly awful, but…

Keeping her neck stiff and straight, she wheels her carry-on down the plane, not looking down, not looking at the windows.

She can accept the view later.

* * *

Denver’s airport is...odd,and she appreciates the oddness, with its overarching caverns and Russian-themed coffee shops.

Her summoning tells her that she’s supposed to meet an “Official Ollo” down in the garage, to take her to the cabin and further brief her, but little else. So she lets herself take some time, slows her steps as she moves between the fast food restaurants and the mall-like shops of the concourse, and lets her eyes wander.

But, despite the bustle, she sees no obvious others, and it leaves a sort of hollow spot inside of her, and she wishes she could just pull out her phone and text her old assistant, Miri, but...but Miri’s still on the run and Katya doesn’t trust her phone to not be tapped, and until she can buy another one with a burner credit card, she’s not going to risk it.

Old paranoid habits die hard.

So she makes her way to the garage, which smells...distinctly fresher than any parking garage at LAX, but she knows to expect that and refuses to let herself get swayed by that. Almost every place in the world smells better than LAX, except maybe some sections of New York City, but she loathes New York City with a passion only born from someone who did their unpaid internship in the middle of the city while living on the outside edges.

There’s a polite honk, and a man waves at her through the windshield of a well-loved Subaru. A rumpled collar to a familiar blue polo shirt, the uniform for the Organization.

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