She woke in chains, only knowing so because of their rattle and weight. The room was night, oilblack and just as thick; the heaviness of the damp and the irons made everything just that much more suffocating.
And her head hurt like a motherfucking trainwreck.
“Who even uses chains?” she snorted, rolling her eyes. It only made her feel seasick to have displayed the sarcasm; the headache was like nothing she’d ever known. She felt a little stupid, as the eye rolling was only for herself, or for anyone she imagined watching her with nightvision.
Then again, in her more paranoid moments, she imagined everyone who came after them was using nightvision or infrared or something else equally game-changing.
“Seriously,” she said, rattling the links, and then began to examine them with her fingers, looking all over for defects, for locks, for hinges, for charges or wires or anything else that might — as he had so delicately put it one afternoon — “blow her to fucking bloody bits” and when she found none, she simply used the monster behind her eyes to tear the metal open at her wrists. When the cuffs themselves split, she felt that same splitting, in some deep, vital part of her, and she knew the wet warmth she felt on her face was blood.
“Well,” she sighed. “That’s unfortunate.”
That’s when she heard the faint gasp, and realized she wasn’t alone.
“Awright, fuckers,” she growled, turning and reaching out, invisible fingers splaying, seeking. “Marco.”
She tightened that unseen fist, until she heard a man’s voice make an unmistakable sound of choked pain.
Her voice was a low, chuffing laugh. “Polo, bitch.”