A Number of Wrong Turns

Chapter 3

It shames me to admit that in the seconds that followed that imperative statement I did absolutely nothing. An action hero would likely have done... well, anything; quipped about being a captive audience, commented on her tailoring, or kicked her in the chin.

I was not so fortunate; fear had paralysed the speech centres of my brain, slut shaming was cruel and while I was filled with adrenaline, it'd be utterly useless against a woman who was three times stronger than I was, even if her friend didn't have me literally in hand.

How did she know my name?

Presented with this most important of questions, I said the first thing that came to mind.

"Could you say that while standing to the right?"

On the face of things, that might have sounded like the word salad of a mind on the verge of fear induced cognitive collapse... and I won't deny that was true. But as Ayjer had said, I have had the misfortune of being in this approximate position before, many times in fact, and something I'd noticed was that as Andskoti are usually very direct, non sequiturs tend to confuse them, and confusion is desirable in a captor.

I just wished I could think of a way to use it as the receptionist reared back, a frown on her perfectly symmetrical face. "What?"

"I didn't mean to interrupt; you've very clearly put some thought into your menacing speech, but as you were standing right in front of the fire... I couldn't see you very well. If you'd like to try from the left or right-"

She punched me.

That... was unexpected. Or so I mused when my head stopped rocking and the pain receded enough for me to string two thoughts together.

On top of being direct, Andskoti I'd met previously had military self control which took more than a disingenuous comment to break. But beyond that, it just didn't make any sense for her to punch me in the face. The stomach? Sure. Maybe the chest, but if she broke my jaw, I couldn't talk!

Thankfully she had pulled the punch enough to merely bruise, but I could already feel my face starting to swell, though as I reached up to rub the welt, I felt new pain as my wrist was roughly grasped and forced down to my side.

"I don't have much of a sense of humour." The receptionist scowled, drawing back her hand, only to lower it when I cringed.

"So... I see," I muttered thickly, working my jaw and tasting blood though I was fairly sure she hadn't loosened any teeth. "How'd you know my name?"

I was expecting her to tell me 'I'M asking the questions," perhaps with another blow for emphasis, but again I was surprised when she merely sneered down at me. "Being stuck in the ass end of this planet means I have plenty of time to read those bulletins the military puts out." She crowed, cockily putting her hands on barely covered hips. "And when a guy comes in smelling of crimson skank, it's not hard to put a name to a face."

From her victorious smirk, I assumed she wanted me to show shock, but another reason not to hit someone in the face, is that swelling paralyses muscles. When I failed to react, her face soured, "...Which brings me to my first question," Slowly drawing her arms up and folding them, she demanded, "Why are you here?"

"Would you believe my sat nav broke?" I grumbled; most people say I suck at lying, so why bother?

"You're serious?" She stared at me incredulously.

"Do you really think I'd walk in here if I knew what was inside?" I shot back, wishing her friend would let me rub my jaw. "If we knew you were here, your first clue would be when Svarthvik knocked the door down."