I was tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, driving (or at least what I thought constituted as driving) and humming a small melody which I couldn't actually sing unless I wanted to get copyrighted, but let's call it, a few hundred miles.
The truck rumbled beneath me, the engine's purr a constant reminder that I was way out of my depth. I mean, sure, I could fly and shoot light from my hands, but operating heavy machinery? That was a whole new ballgame.
It wasn't long before I found a road, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the wilderness like a scar. Following said road, I soon reached a city. The skyline loomed ahead, a giant grey wall bigger than any other structure I had ever seen (not that I had seen mean, still my point stands). I slowed the truck, joining a line of vehicles at what I assumed was the city's southern gate.
As we inched forward, I could see figures moving between the vehicles. They moved with a predatory grace that marked them as Devourers. Great.
Finally, it was my turn. I stopped the truck, my heart pounding a staccato rhythm against my ribs.
"Open the window," I heard a man's voice command. I complied, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. You know, just your average, everyday truck driver. Nothing to see here.
The man peered in, his eyes sharp and assessing. "Moonlace truck, huh. A good haul, I hope. We're gonna need it for the next few months."
I nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah, good haul." I had no idea what moonlace was, but I wasn't about to admit that.
He seemed satisfied with my answer. "Okay, show me your permit and you'll be right in."
Oh, crud.
I quickly began to open all compartments, rifling through them in a desperate search for anything that looked remotely like a permit. The glove box, the sun visor, even the little pocket on the door – all empty.
"Everything okay?" The guard's voice had an edge to it now.
I popped my head back up to the window, plastering on my best 'I'm not panicking' smile. "Yeah, just fine. I just remembered I put them in the back. I'm really forgetful, sorry about that."
He nodded, though his eyes had narrowed slightly. "No worries."
I practically leaped out of the driver's seat, hurrying to the back of the truck. As I opened the doors, I was greeted by the sight of my two 'companions', still out cold, and surrounded by those weird blue plants.
Right. Time for some creative problem-solving.
I started searching their pockets, trying to ignore the guilt gnawing at my conscience. It wasn't really stealing if they had tried to kill me first, right? After a few tense moments, my fingers closed around a stack of folded papers in Karl's pocket. Bingo.
Just as I was about to head back and hand over my ill-gotten permits, the truck's back doors were yanked open wider. Four Devourers stood there, their expressions a mix of surprise and suspicion as they took in the scene – me, hands in the pockets of two unconscious men one with a spear still stabbed into his torso, surrounded by their 'haul'.
"Uhmm, I can explain. Promise." My voice came out higher than I intended, squeaking like a mouse caught in a trap.
"Hands in the air," one of them barked. I complied, my mind racing for a way out of this mess.
"Get on the ground."
I lowered myself to the truck bed, the metal cool against my cheek.
"Get up."
I stood, my legs shaky.
"Turn around."
I spun in place, feeling like a very confused ballerina.
"Face us."
I turned again, now thoroughly dizzy.
"Don't move."
Okay, that was it. My patience, already worn thin by the day's events, finally snapped. "Make up your ducking minds!!" I yelled, frustration overriding my common sense.
For a second, they looked at each other, seemingly taken aback by my outburst. Then, as one, they rushed at me. I could have fought them off – probably – but that seemed like a spectacularly bad idea. One of them tackled me, pushing me face-first into the truck bed.
"Ow! Watch the nose!" I protested, my voice muffled against the metal.
They ignored me, of course. I felt cold metal close around my wrists as they slapped on a pair of handcuffs. A small cable ejected from the cuffs, latching onto my skin. Suddenly, I felt weak, like someone had unplugged me from my power source. The light balls that had been hovering at the back of the truck winked out of existence.
The shackles made a weird sound, like a computer booting up underwater. "B-poop," they went, or something like that. Look, I'm not great with sound effects, okay?
Two of the Devourers lifted my unconscious 'friends', carrying them out of the truck. Another reached for my spear, still embedded in Orange-hair's gut.
"Don't do that!" I yelled, panic rising in my throat. "Do you want him to bleed out? Why do you think I didn't remove it?"
My outburst earned me a rag over my mouth, effectively gagging me. But my words seemed to have the desired effect – they left the spear where it was. Small victories, I guess.
As they led me away from the truck, I couldn't help but whine pathetically as I watched my spear – my last link to home – disappear from view. Only muffled sounds made it past the gag, but in my head, I was unleashing a string of curses that would have made even the toughest Devourer blush.
They marched me through the gate and into the city proper. The streets were a maze of towering buildings and neon signs, the air thick with the scent of too many people crammed into too small a space. Devourers of all types moved through the crowds, their enhanced physiques and barely concealed powers setting them apart from the regular humans.
We arrived at a squat, gray building that practically screamed 'jail'. They led me inside, the fluorescent lights harsh after the dim city streets. The processing area was a flurry of activity – Devourers bringing in other prisoners, the click-clack of typewriters, the constant murmur of voices.
They sat me down in a hard plastic chair, finally removing the gag. I worked my jaw, glaring at them. "You know, there are nicer ways to welcome visitors to your city."
One of them, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, snorted. "Acheron has been closed to visitors for over two decades."
Welp, guess my words are invalid then.
"Name," another one demanded, poised over a typewriter.
I hesitated. Should I give them my real name? But then I remembered Grandfather's letter, still hidden in my boot. If they found that maybe..
"Felice," I said finally. "Felice Ronin."
The typist raised an eyebrow. "Ronin? As in-"
"Search her," Scarface interrupted, his eyes narrowing.
Rough hands patted me down, checking every pocket, every fold of clothing. I winced as they none-too-gently removed my boots. A triumphant "Aha!" signaled the discovery of Grandfather's letter.
Scarface snatched it up, breaking the seal without ceremony. His eyes widened as he read, then narrowed dangerously as he looked back at me.
"Well, well," he said, his voice low and menacing. "Looks like we've caught ourselves a big fish. Granddaughter of Geralt Ronin himself."
The room went eerily quiet at that. Even the other prisoners seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere.
"Take her to isolation," Scarface ordered. "And get me the captain. She's going to want to see this."
They hauled me to my feet, marching me down a long corridor lined with cells. Other prisoners watched as we passed, their eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and hunger that made my skin crawl.
Finally, we reached a heavy metal door at the end of the hall. They shoved me inside, the door clanging shut behind me with a finality that made my heart sink.
The cell was small, barely large enough for a cot and a toilet. A single, flickering light bulb cast everything in a sickly yellow glow. The walls were bare concrete, covered in scratches and markings left by previous occupants.
I sank onto the cot, the thin mattress offering little comfort. The cuffs on my wrists scrapped against my skin, I had the thought of chewing through them but feeling my powerlessness I decided against it.
As I sat there, alone in the gloom, the reality of my situation finally hit me. I was trapped, powerless, in a city I didn't know, surrounded by people who saw me as a threat or a prize. Grandfather's letter – my one link to home, my supposed get in Acheron free card– was now in the hands of people who clearly didn't really care.
For the first time since I'd left home, I felt truly, utterly lost. A lump formed in my throat, and I blinked back tears. I wouldn't cry. I couldn't. Ronins didn't cry.
Instead, I took a deep breath, forcing myself to think. I'd gotten out of tough spots before. Though most of those came from grandpa and not being stuck in a city, but potato potato.
As I lay back on the cot, staring up at the cracked ceiling, I couldn't help but wonder: What would Grandfather do in this situation? And more importantly, was he watching me now? Because all in all my performance had been pretty subpar.