𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹 | 𝑘.𝑏.

18

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T H E S H O W M U S T G O O N
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FETA'S FIRST COHERENT THOUGHT: FUCK.

Her body was no longer her body, just a gathering of pain. She just wanted to lie there on...whatever she was lying on and stay still enough that the pain would grow bored and settle down. However, despite that Feta was fairly certain amongst her jumbled thoughts that she wasn't moving her limbs, it seemed the room itself had other plans, shifting just enough to gently shift the pain around her body.

Oomen, Feta remembered with startling clarity. That motherfucker.

Perhaps latching onto Oomen's back after he stuck Inej with his blade wasn't the smartest idea, but Feta had hardly been one for logic. Though in her defense, who would've thought Oomen would go straight for her throat, pin her against the crates, and carve her up like there was a prize hidden inside?

Bringing a knife to a piñata fight.

Feta tried to laugh at her own thought, as she was prone to doing, but the laugh was just depressingly painful, giving up as a gasp in her throat as if Oomen's vice-like fist was still clamped around it, cutting off her air.

Forcing her eyes to crack open, met with the wooden boards of the ceiling, Feta flushed with relief at what was undeniably the underside of the Ferolind's deck. They'd made it out of the harbor.

Had anyone else gotten hurt? Had she failed to hide someone during the shoot out? Were there any problems sailing away from Kerch? Shit—

Feta could've kicked herself, if she could tolerate the thought of moving at all: they'd probably been sailing nonstop and where had she been after talking big about helping the ship's crew navigate rough seas?

Sleeping on the job, scolded Kaz in her head.

Shut up, Kaz.

It was then Feta realized one of her hands felt warmer than the rest of her. When she turned her head she found Nina — gorgeous, wonderful, exhausted-looking Nina — loosely holding her hand. Feta didn't trust her voice yet — didn't trust how she'd feel if her voice, her first weapon, failed her entirely — so she settled for squeezing Nina's hand.

Nina jolted awake. "I'm up!" she blurted, then peered blearily at Feta. "You're awake." She sat up straighter, the disbelief fleeing her. "Oh, Saints, you're awake!"

And then Nina burst out crying.

It was fitting that the first thing Nina saw Feta do was smile.

Feta opened her mouth and then immediately grimaced. She mimed drinking water and Nina almost tripped over the stool she'd been drowsing on to offer her a tin cup full of cold water.

"It's fresh," Nina informed her. "We had rain yesterday." She paused, watching Feta sip carefully, greedily. "How's your throat feel? I'd been trying to tune it when you seemed stable enough. The bruises came off easy, though."

Feta dropped her head back to the pillow, water dribbling down her chin. Tentatively, with the coolness of the water, Feta croakily said, "What about you? Are you okay? Have you been—?"

"Saints, Feta!" Nina laughed through her tears. "I swear if you're about to ask if I've been sleeping properly. You're the one who got stabbed."

Feta's laughter was squeakier, and more painful, than it ought to be with how it jounced her body and upset her wounds, but Feta was hoping any aching in her throat could very well be from lack of use. "Yeah, and? I've been worse."