Chapter Text
Quinn tugged experimentally on the cuffs locked around her wrists, frowning at the thick metal they were made of. She cursed quietly, biting her lip in thought. She didn't know who the people that had taken her were, or what they wanted, but she knew she needed to get back and report this new variable to General Denall. She shivered, the freezing chill drafting in from the open grate in the prison wall chilling Quinn down to her bones.
At least she wasn't the only one suffering in this mess. The woman chained up across from her was clearly from the Hilts, and the embroidered badge on her coat suggested she was a high ranking general at that.
As much as Quinn wished she was anywhere else, at least the Velant army was missing one of its generals. With the dwindling numbers in the Hilts, Quinn was sure even one soldier going missing was worth noting. A general going missing would be sure to cause a panic on the other side.
The woman was still unconscious, blood staining her long blonde hair. It was clearly a head injury, and not a pretty one at that. Even though Quinn knew not to sympathize with someone from the Hilts, especially a general, she couldn't help but wince at the wound. The woman would be lucky if she didn't have a concussion.
Again, not that Quinn cared. She knew better than to waste her sympathies on anyone from the opposing side. She just didn't have much better to do at the moment than observe her cellmate, chained up as they both were.
It did lead to the question of who had taken them in the first place. To get the drop on not an experienced fighter like Quinn herself, but also a general? It was something to consider and definitely something that needed to be reported to Quinn's superiors. A third party could change things drastically.
Quinn is disrupted from her consideration by a moan coming opposite her. She watches silently as the woman's eyes slowly flutter open, pain clearly twisting her features. She breathes in sharply, shaking her head. Quinn stays quiet, not waiting to attract her attention. It's not long before the woman seems to realize she isn't alone, and her head snaps up much too quickly.
Quinn stares back. Her breath is caught in her lungs as she meets the woman's bright, unfocused eyes. They're the most extraordinary shade of green Quinn has ever seen. She has to look away first, having to avoid the woman's eyes before she does something stupid like gape. This is the enemy, Quinn scolds herself, urging her heart to slow.
The woman's stupidly beautiful eyes narrow at Quinn. “Where am I?” she asks, and when she speaks, her Hilt accent is strong.
It reminds Quinn that while she may be beautiful, she's still a Hiltan. It makes it easier to glare back up at her. “As if I know. I woke up here the same as you.”
The woman frowns, blinking hard and shaking her head again. She eyes the cuffs chaining her to the wall. She seems to struggle to put her thoughts in order. Quinn guesses that the head injury is affecting the woman's ability to think clearly. Her voice is rough, as most Hiltan's voices are, but her tone is more confused than hostile. “Who are you?”
Quinn only narrows her eyes, not bothering with an answer. She wouldn't freely give out her name to a Hiltan.
The woman takes her silence with a deepening frown. She seems to be taking Quinn in, her eyes looking her up and down. She looks displeased, a sort of bitterness settling in her gaze. “You're from Skara.”
It's not a question, and even if it was, Quinn wouldn't have been interested in answering. The woman clearly senses this, as she doesn't bother asking anything else. Quinn keeps her eyes locked on the door, turning her attention back to the most pressing issue at hand. She still doesn't know who has taken her, and what their reasoning is.
Quinn thinks it's safe to assume that this third party isn't here to assist on either side of the war. It's obvious that their intentions aren't friendly, with the way they've locked both of them away. Quinn isn't sure what to think about the whole situation. It makes her wish she had General Denall here to guide her. Instead, all she had in any semblance of an ally was a Hiltan woman and Quinn would rather die than willingly work with the enemy.
The woman opposite her slumped against the wall, and Quinn had to remind herself again that this was her enemy. That she shouldn't want to offer her assistance. Quinn swallowed the words of comfort that instinctively flowed to her tongue. It wouldn't matter anyway. There was nothing Quinn could do to help and empty words wouldn't do anything.
Even so, the sight of the woman's tightly closed eyes, blood crusting over on her forehead, made Quinn feel sick. Maybe it just reminded her too much of her comrades that had suffered in similar fashion during the war. It was better not to think about it too much.
The last thing Quinn needed was to pity the woman.
Quinn's eyes darted back away from the woman to the door as the heavy metal groaned, pushed open with a great deal of strength. A large man stands in the doorway, a rifle holstered to his back. He scowls down at her when she catches his gaze and Quinn tries not to be intimidated.
The man turns away from her, his eyes locking on the woman opposite Quinn, who is now glaring daggers up at him. He glares right back, stepping further into the cell and stomping right over to her.
Quinn resists the urge to wince once again as the man fists his hand in the woman's hair, yanking hard. It clearly hurts, but the woman doesn't look phased. The man, displeased with this, digs his thumb into the gash across the woman's forehead. The sound she makes is strangled and pained, and it makes Quinn block her ears.
“Quit it.” The man barks. "You aren't in control here, little miss general.”
The woman winces, but remains steadfast in her glaring. “You fight me without the chains and we'll see how in control I am.”
The man drops her hair, shaking his hand out as if she were something dirty he'd touched. He doesn't look nearly as impressed as Quinn feels at the woman's stubborn attitude. “Such a waste of a pretty face.” He sneers.
The woman spits at his feet. The man clenches his fists, but doesn't lash out again at her, muttering to himself in a dialect Quinn recognizes as of the Southern Isles.
He turns back to Quinn and she tenses. She levels him with her hardest glare. The man isn't interested in her defiance though. He walks over to her, leaning down. His breath wafts over her and it makes Quinn feel nauseous. She doesn't allow herself to falter, however. General Denall taught her better than that.
“You will be cooperative.” The man decides. “You will tell me where the Astar is.”
Quinn tries to suppress her surprise at the mention of the Astar, but by the look the man gives her, she doesn't quite succeed. Quinn narrows her eyes. “Why would I ever do that?”
“Because if you don't I will have to make you.”
Quinn sets her jaw. The Astar is the highest level of authority in Skara, and Quinn wouldn't dare share that information, even if she had it. Which she doesn't.
Quinn looks the man up and down theatrically before smirking. “I wouldn't tell the likes of you. You can do your worst.”
The man glares down at her before stalking off, wrenching open the metal door and leaving without another word. Quinn knows better than to take it as a victory. The man will be back, Quinn is sure.
She just needs to get out before then.