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The trawler that they acquire for her when their final plans are set in motion is no aircraft carrier, but it's close enough. They have it all set up for her, ready and waiting for her arrival, which Eva can appreciate. These past few weeks have been overwhelming. Having the logistics taken care of for her is one less thing that she has to try and set her weary mind to while she reacclimatises to life outside of a cell.
The crew has made some obvious efforts to mirror the setup they'd perfected on their first vessel. The layout is as close to the previous as they can get, and even some of the furnishings seem to have been transported from some of the old rec rooms to these new ones.
It should be a comfort. Eva finds that it is not.
The familiarity does nothing to help the panic that sets in when Eva is finally left alone in her quarters, a place that is spacious as far as ship quarters go, but is still a mere three metre by three metre box when all is said and done.
It's a ridiculous thing, to feel trapped in a room with an unlocked door. Ridiculous, she tells herself, leaving said door to swing shut behind her as she makes for the top deck.
She only passes a few people on her way, keeping her head ducked low so nobody will be able to get a read on her expression. Eva can blame her brisk pace for her breathlessness and nobody would be any the wiser, but doesn't want anyone to stop and question her regardless. Not that she truly thinks anybody might – it'll take more than a decade away from them for anyone to forget that it's a bad idea to interrupt Eva Stratt when she is walking as purposefully as she is doing so now.
She finds a quiet corner of the ship with little trouble – the cold wind is biting enough to cut through the haze that had carried her away from her room, and she doubts anyone else is going to brave it willingly – and she soon finds herself gripping the steel railings, taking deep but unsteady breaths.
Ridiculous, she tells herself again. She's being ridiculous. How is she supposed to resume command when she is afraid of lingering for too long in a small space. Almost all of the rooms on this ship will be small.
She closes her eyes, and makes another attempt to steel herself. The sound of the waves crashing against the side of the vessel is mesmerising, and she tries her best to focus on it.
It had just been a room, she tries to reason with herself. It had been small, yes, but any of the ship's sleeping quarters would be, and it wasn't even that small, not by the standards she now held. It hadn't looked even remotely similar to–
She takes another breath, even more ragged than the last.
The roar of the waves seems distant, somehow. She's waiting, she realises. Waiting with baited breath for something else. Jeering, perhaps. Or laughter.
For the most part, her life over the previous years had been dull. Whether it had been dictated that she served her time owed outside of a cell or within, she was always watched very carefully. Treatment had ranged from mundane to harsh, but had rarely been cruel.
It made the times where their treatment of her had been cruel stick with her all the worse.
With little else to do she would find herself stuck in a cycle of reliving the worst days over and over, either those during her tenure as mission director, or those spent at the hands of some particularly vengeful overseer. There were a couple of faces she doubted she would ever be able to forget. A couple of places, too; small rooms, with no windows, and nobody around to hear her shout or yell in fright at some imagined threat in the dark.
Rooms with no space to pace around, or even to fully stretch herself out.
Rooms that she had thought they might keep her in forever, because nobody was hurting her, were they? In fact, they were being kind enough to leave her to her own devices. It was a kinder fate than she deserved, wasn't it?
Eva grits her teeth at the memories, then smooths her expression. A moment of anguish is all she can allow.
The walls of this ship will not crush her, no matter how much they might have seemed to press on her lungs. The room that she will sleep in – somehow, eventually, between nightmares – may not have a window, but there is nobody to stop her from seeking out a different view. There will be no laughter. No mocking. Nobody to taunt her, and to tell her that providing her with any space larger than a grave was a mercy she didn't deserve, not with all the blood on her hands.
No. Things are different now, Eva reminds herself again. She can't lose her nerve, not yet – she still has work to do. She tucks her shaking hands inside her coat, then turns to walk back inside.