The Detective's Damsel

ii.

THE FIRST THING Corinna heard were the voices. They were coming from both sides of her, but her eyes couldn't seem to find the strength to open. Holding incredibly still, she focused on the voices. Hopefully, she could learn some information before taking them by surprise.

Hopefully.

"...hardly looks like a serial killer to me," a male voice to her right was saying. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," the voice on her left replied. Also a male, this voice was deeper than the other, with a certain bite to his words. Their accents weren't anything she'd ever heard before. "The most ruthless of killers never look the part."

Ruthless killer?

"Not that I don't trust you, but if she was a serial killer, wouldn't she have been able to fight us off just a little better?" The first voice spoke again, his words setting Corinna's teeth on edge. They couldn't be talking about her, could they? She had fought as hard as she could against them—and hopefully left some sort of scratch in the process—but she could never murder anyone. Fighting a desire to reveal her consciousness, she stayed quiet. It was clear the two men weren't quite finished with their conversation.

"Our job is to find them before they commit their first murder, Ivan. Not after." The second voice responded, his tone stern and matter-of-fact. She could sense arrogance from both sides, however.

A brief pause. "That stinks." said Ivan, the man on the right.

"What does?"

"Don't you have eyes, man? She's gorgeous."

Though she couldn't open her eyes without revealing herself, she could practically feel the man on her left rolling his eyes at his partner. "Shut up, Ivan. You can't seriously be telling me we're about to have a case of reverse Stockholm Syndrome." Corinna struggled to understand the context of the words they were speaking before promptly giving up. All she knew was that they were talking about her like she wasn't there. Or, well, like she wasn't lying immobile in front of them. The man on the left continued speaking. "Besides, she probably uses it to her advantage before she murders—" 

Murders? Unable to take it anymore, Corinna gasped and sat straight up, forcing her eyelids open wide and blinking rapidly. For a moment, all she could see was blinding white as her eyes adjusted, but her main focus was on controlling her anger. Corinna had never murdered anyone, nor was she planning to. And from the way they were talking about her appearance... Corinna swallowed her disgust. She had no interest in the men who kidnapped her and were apparently going to accuse her of something she didn't do.

Several moments brought new details into focus. The cold surface she had been placed on appeared to be a metal table. Four white walls enclosed Corinna and her two captors in a compact room, but the structure appeared to be built from some sort of advanced infrastructure Corinna had never seen before. A door stood at the far end of the room. Several cabinets lined the edges of the room, some of them pulled open but not far enough to reveal the contents. A large metal pole stood at her side with a clear bag filled with an unknown liquid and a long tube that... Corinna's stomach churned with alarm and disgust. The tube was in her left arm.

Anger quickly turned to fear as she attempted to pull her right arm into action, anything to rid herself of the skin intrusion. But she could only move her right arm a few inches before something stopped it. A clang against the metal table sent a shiver down her spine.

She was latched to the table.

"Rise and shine?" The voice startled Corinna. In her evaluation of the room, she had forgotten about her two companions. The voice had come from Ivan. Her eyes locked onto her captor's in silent scrutiny. Even though he appeared to be seated, Corinna immediately noticed his height. He was slouched in a metal chair, legs extended so far under the table that she could no longer see them. Ivan must have been the taller of the two kidnappers. He was handsome in a childish way, with light brown eyes, and a mop of curly black hair. Tanned arms were crossed over his chest, the picture of nonchalance. His fingers were tapping a hidden rhythm against the fabric of his...uh...Corinna wasn't sure exactly what he was wearing. Instead of the typical thick coat all the men of Hungary wore, Ivan was wearing what looked like a thin smock, but instead of plain white, the garment was black, with an image she had never seen before: a man in a red costume, holding his hand out as—were those spider webs?—shot from the palm. Corinna's cheeks heated as she realized that instead of tight culottes, Ivan was wearing a loose article of clothing that cut off at his knees. His legs were the same tanned brown as his arms, and...she was staring. She tore her eyes away, embarrassed. Surely he knew he was hardly wearing any clothing?