“Of course, my apologies,” the old woman says. She doesn’t apologize more, or sound miffed at the correction. Small mercies.
“What about you?” Lucinda asks.
“NCR,” the woman replies.
“How deep did you get?” Lucinda asks.
“Too deep to be allowed to live.”
Lucinda snorts, reaches one arm out of the bars. She can’t stretch even halfway across the hall. She didn't expect to be able to.
“What are they gonna do to you?” Lucinda asks.
“Cross, if they’re feeling mean, hard labor if they're feeling kind. You?”
“Cross.” She doesn't qualify it. That's her only option, here, outside of escape.
“How long did they give you?” the woman asks.
“A week.” She pulls her arm back into the cell, starts pacing. It’s not enough space, and she doesn't have a window. She misses her bird, wants to run her fingers over her feathers, scratch under her chin, watch her roll through the dirt trying to open a toy capsule to get at the cricket inside. “He told me to start praying.”
“Do you pray?” the old woman asks.
“Not to any god he’d recognize,” Lucinda replies. “And not any god that's done me any good so far.”
“So you don’t pray,” the man says.
“Got a girl I wanna get back to. Might pray to that.”
“Best thing to pray to,” the woman says. “Hope you get back to her.”
“Thanks,” Lucinda says, sighs, and retreats to the back wall of her cell. She settles on her bench, crosses her ankles, folds her arms across her chest, and starts studying the texture of the walls.
Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (97b/109b)
“What about you?” Lucinda asks.
“NCR,” the woman replies.
“How deep did you get?” Lucinda asks.
“Too deep to be allowed to live.”
Lucinda snorts, reaches one arm out of the bars. She can’t stretch even halfway across the hall. She didn't expect to be able to.
“What are they gonna do to you?” Lucinda asks.
“Cross, if they’re feeling mean, hard labor if they're feeling kind. You?”
“Cross.” She doesn't qualify it. That's her only option, here, outside of escape.
“How long did they give you?” the woman asks.
“A week.” She pulls her arm back into the cell, starts pacing. It’s not enough space, and she doesn't have a window. She misses her bird, wants to run her fingers over her feathers, scratch under her chin, watch her roll through the dirt trying to open a toy capsule to get at the cricket inside. “He told me to start praying.”
“Do you pray?” the old woman asks.
“Not to any god he’d recognize,” Lucinda replies. “And not any god that's done me any good so far.”
“So you don’t pray,” the man says.
“Got a girl I wanna get back to. Might pray to that.”
“Best thing to pray to,” the woman says. “Hope you get back to her.”
“Thanks,” Lucinda says, sighs, and retreats to the back wall of her cell. She settles on her bench, crosses her ankles, folds her arms across her chest, and starts studying the texture of the walls.