Vasilisa the Brave - Chapter Nine - Prejudice

She was dragged forwards against her will, and really there was nothing she could do about it.

Strong hands had her by the upper arms, squeezing so hard her biceps hurt. She grit her teeth and tried to walk even with the arms tugging her along. It was hard, she had no idea where her feet were going, and she felt entirely off-balance.

Sometimes they'd tug her one way or another, and without any way of knowing when and where that would happen, she never saw it coming or had time to brace.

Her breathing was coming in shallow and fast. One of them had dropped her onto something hard and it had dug into her kidney. Ever since her breathing felt short. There was a bag over her head. From the few glimpses of blue-ish light she could see through it when the sun caught the bag, she was pretty sure that it had started as one of those sports bags. A gym bag?

It definitely had straps on the outside. One of the guys who'd caught her had made a joke about tugging on them while doing... things.

They'd seen through her charade quickly enough. Vasilisa was proud of the way she hit one of them when he pawed at her chest. She was pretty sure the crunch she heard when he fell had been his nose breaking.

"In here," one of them said, and she was pulled to a stop, then forwards again. She wasn't even trying to work against them, but she found herself having to fight against their pull just to stay on her feet. She desperately didn't want to fall.

The door shut behind her, and then she was unceremoniously pushed backwards. Her knees hit something and bent, and she found herself crashing onto a chair. It had arms, and hers were quickly tied to them. Tape, judging by that familiar ripping and tearing noise and the way they wrapped it around her forearms.

Vasilisa tried to shake the covering on her head off, but all it earned her was a smack behind the head. Not so hard as to bruise, but a warning.

"Stop squirming," someone said.

She sat up straighter, hands gripping the edge of the chair's arms. Her feet shifted a little, and she discovered that there was something on the ground. A tarp? It crinkled that way.

The door opened and two more people walked into the room before it shut, then someone spoke, a man, with a calm, authoritative voice. Someone used to being listened to, someone used to people obeying. "Put up more tarp against the wall back there. And not too tight with those bonds, we don't need her in pain, just restrained. What the fuck happened to your nose?"

"I fell," a man said, his voice squeaky.

"He tried to feel some tits for the first time in his sad life and got a boot for his troubles," another said with a laugh.

There was a thump, and the squeaky-voiced man groaned, doubling over. "Get him out of here. He can dig out latrines for the rest of the week," the smooth-voiced man said. "Tch. We don't aim to hurt or abuse. It's what makes it so that we're not animals. Now, where are the other two?"

"Haven't found them yet, sir," another man said. "We know they were at the bar, but after that, not much. Someone saw them in the park next to the Camp, but otherwise, nothing. They can't have gone too far though."

"Keep looking," the leader said as he crossed the room. A chair was moved, wheels rumbling over a wooden floor until it came to a stop a little ways ahead of Vasilisa. Then the man sat. "Take off the hood."

Vasilisa winced as the bag over her head was tugged off. The sudden bright light hitting her was like a slap to the face, but she squinted through it all the same. She was... in an office? There was a nice desk across from her, with large windows behind it. Two men were draping a tarp on a bookcase next to her. The door was to the right.

Notably, there were two other chairs in the office, both to her left.

Three men, not including the man ahead of her.

He was sitting on a nice chair, leather and wood with brass furnishings. He was a middle-aged man, with a well-trimmed beard, pressed shirt, bulletproof vest. A long coat was sitting on the desk behind him, recently removed, and there was a revolver tucked in a holster under his arm. "Hello," he said. "My name is Kuzma, what's yours?"

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Vasilisa licked her lips. "Luka," she lied.

He smiled. "Sure, Luka. I have some questions for you. Answer them honestly, and we'll let you go. Do you know where you are?"

Vasilisa shook her head slowly.

"This is the Camp. It's right on the edge of the Zone. It's where Stalkers come to trade and talk and work together. It's a safe space. A neutral one. My boys found you close by. You were in an area with a lot of traps. Mines and claymores. This area is safe because of places like that."

Vasilisa swallowed but didn't speak.

"I'm sorry for the treatment so far, Luka. That was unkind of my men. For that I apologise. Nonetheless, you were sneaking close to the Camp. That's dangerous. So I have more questions for you, Luka."

The way he spoke was kind, disarming, and yet she could tell he was repeating her fake name with humorous emphasis. He didn't buy it.

"Okay," she said, because what else was she supposed to do?

"Why did you come into the Zone?" he asked.

"I have my reasons," she hedged.

He smiled kindly. "Is it because you're looking for someone?"

Vasilisa flinched. "What?"

"A mother? Sister? A close friend? Usually it's someone close and a woman, but sometimes... a father? Ah!" He smiled. "You're looking for your father, is that it?"

"How did you know?" she asked.

"When did you arrive in the Zone?" he asked next. "Was it the morning after the last storm?"

She nodded slowly. That sounded about right.

"Good, good. Tell me, what do you remember about where you live? Do you remember your neighbours? What did their faces look like?"

She blinked. Of course she could remember her neighbours. There was... there were a lot of them in the apartment.

"You came from a city nearby... Pripyat?" She nodded, and he continued. "Did you talk to anyone on your way out of the city? Anyone at all?"

Had she? She couldn't recall, but she was pretty sure she hadn't. "I was discrete," she said.

"Mhm," he said. "Did you talk to anyone in the Zone itself?"

No, but she'd been seen, shot at. And... the old lady. Vasilisa shook her head. "No," she said.

The man, Kuzma, was it? He leaned back in his seat, lips pursed and clearly not entirely satisfied. "Shit, I hate this part," he said.

"What part?" she asked.

"Could you do me a favour, Luka?" he asked kindly. "Could you close your eyes? Perhaps it makes me less of a man, but I don't enjoy the nightmares."

"What?" she asked.

But then Kuzma was standing, and he casually reached for the gun tucked under his arm. She understood, then, the need for all of the tarps. He unfastened a button holding the gun snug in its holster, then pulled it out. It was a small revolver. He checked the cylindre with all of the bullets, then snapped it shut. "Eyes," he said.

Vasilisa tried to fight her bindings, tried to kick her chair over, but it was stuck in place and she wasn't strong enough. She looked up then, past the hole at the end of the barrel and into Kuzma's eyes.

He didn't seem pleased. He didn't seem to be wearing any emotion.

His finger started to squeeze on the trigger and Vasilisa winced back, eyes squeezing shut.

The door banged open. The gun went off with a thunderous boom that made her jump in her seat. She expected a great burst of unbelievable pain, but other than the quickly-fading ringing in her ears, there was nothing.

Vasilisa opened her eyes and discovered a bullet. It was pinched between a forefinger and a thumb, smoking wafting off its shiny brass surface.

She blinked, then followed the hand up from the bullet to a young woman dressed all in blue Stalker gear that was somehow perfectly clean. She was smiling at her.

Another woman walked into the room, dark and brooding and somehow exuding danger. "Mister Kuzma. I heard that you wanted to talk to us?" she asked.

***