Escape for Herself

That was enough delusions of heroism for one day. Atheer needed to be clear of that place before things escalated. Practically following the burglar, she broke from her hiding spot to exit the way she had come. Past the point of stealth, she ran down the hall. She made it far enough to recognize the top of the staircase ahead. Before she could reach it though, someone came dashing the opposite way and crashed into her. The two of them were knocked to the floor with heavy thuds.

It was the burglar. For one reason or another, they had reversed their course and been too hasteful to avoid Atheer. They wore some manner of mask, but Atheer could see in their eyes that they were as shocked to encounter her as she was them. There was an awkward moment where both of them waited for the other to demonstrate malicious intent. The burglar held up some kind of bludgeon and Atheer waited for them to use it on her, but they didn't. Cautiously, they both rose to their feet, each waiting for the other to drop the ruse of amicability.

The two of them nearly jumped out of their skin when a shot rang out. Back the way Atheer had been fleeing from stood a young man with a coat thrown over his long nightshirt. In one hand he held a lantern and in the other a smoking revolver. Indoors, in the previously silent house, the bang was as loud as a cannon.

"Get out of my house, ya caitiffs!" the young man bellowed. The gun wavered in his hand as he worked his thumb to cock it to fire again. Neither Atheer nor the burglar needed any further instruction. The two of them scrambled for the stairs, wanting more than anything to make it back out that window.

Another blast flooded the house, but this time a harrowing pain tore at Atheer's arm. The spontaneity of it caused her to stumble. She had been shot, and it hurt like nothing she'd felt before, but the fear of sticking around for more punishment kept her feet pounding under her.

The burglar was a few steps ahead, their lead broadened by Atheer's injury. Clutching at her limb, she followed them down the staircase somewhat clumsily. With efficiency that looked practiced, the burglar vaulted the window into the alley. Understandably, the young woman encountered greater difficulty when her turn came. She tried at first to heave herself over with her one good arm, but failed. Spurred by the threat of being shot again, she dared to use her wounded arm to pull herself over the sill. Atheer tumbled out onto the boxes, knocking her hat to the ground below. With her good arm, she barely managed to straighten herself out to fall feet-first, landing with a roll.

She was out of that alley as fast as she could manage. Back in the street, she caught the receding form of the burglar making their own escape. Still clutching at her bleeding arm, she took off the opposite way. The injured woman ran as fast and as far as she could. The pain screamed in her arm, but louder was the call of mortal danger. Still, running with an open wound was a toll that could only be put off so long. Atheer found her pace slowing and her course drifting.

Finding the idea of stopping to rest rather attractive, she picked an alley to take refuge in, and sat with her back to one wall. As she slumped there, she was distantly aware of the way her vision was tunneling. She was winded and desperately wanted to catch her breath, but it became harder, and harder to continue sucking down the air she needed. It became less of a natural compulsion and more of a deliberate and demanding act; one that she had steadily scarcer energy for.

Somewhere in her mind was a voice that shouted that something was very wrong with her, and that she needed to resist... something. But that voice was quiet and... distant. Besides... she was... tired. It had... been a while... since she'd slept. Yes... she needed to sleep.

Maybe it was reality, or maybe it was a dream. It was hard to tell, but Atheer thought she remembered something amidst the haze. Someone was talking to her. It was hard to comprehend. She didn't like their tone, it agitated her. Then there were people. More than one, but she couldn't be sure of the specifics. They tried to make her do something hard. She hadn't wanted to. They were so demanding. Their surroundings changed. She wasn't sure what to or from, but it was different from what it had been. The light was bothersome. When did it get so bright? Someone should make it dark again. The surroundings changed again, and again. There were more people; more than there had been. Things got easier. She didn't have to work anymore. It had been uncomfortable, but now she was more comfortable. But then things got colder. Why were they making her colder? They should give back her warmth.

They should give back her warmth.

The warmth was returned to her when Atheer woke. She was cozy in bed. When she opened her eyes, the unfamiliarity of the room worked to slowly remind her of what sleep had pushed from her mind. She was in some strange place that positively insisted on acting like the twentieth and twenty-first centuries hadn't happened. Was this like an Amish thing? Atheer had heard of the Amish but didn't know much other than their reputation for rejecting technological and cultural advancements. Perhaps this town was some weird offshoot of that lifestyle.

Atheer made to move in the bed and her arm swiftly aborted the action. A soreness gripped her left arm, the sort that saps one's strength and affects paralysis by punishing attempts at movement. A chill washed over her as her last memories returned and she had to remind herself that she was no longer in danger. At least, seemingly so.

The goth displaced the blankets to get a look at her arm. Layers and layers of bandaging swaddled her bicep and tricep. An unmistakable red stained through, though not so much as to leave it wet to the touch. A sling stopped her from extending her arm beyond a right angle.

As for the room, Atheer seemed to be in some sort of recovery ward. The ceiling was high, and her bed was just one of a row, but it did not look very big. Atheer would have thought a hospital might have a larger space dedicated to mending. Regardless, just as with everywhere else she'd been in recent memory, nothing here looked typical of her own time. An uncomfortable thought struck Atheer as she imagined her bullet wound being treated by a Victorian physician. She shivered.

The wall nearest the foot of all the beds was host to tall windows. The blinds were set such that the daylight was allowed in without blinding her. As she looked about the room further, she noticed that she was not alone. Two beds down was the form of someone tucked in much like her. Not remarkable in and of itself, but she did notice that they appeared relatively young, probably the right age for primary school.

A door to the ward opened and in walked a cross-dressing man. He was carrying a pitcher and a platter of drinking glasses. Atheer watched in silence as he set them down and filled them. He was turning to distribute them when he noticed Atheer looking back at him and did a double take.

"Oh! Don't move!" he said with bridled excitement. He took a step toward the door, remembered the glasses, set them beside the pitcher, then left. He returned about a minute later with another person. "She's awake," he gestured to Atheer.

The two strangers approached her. The newer of the two was a middle-aged woman, made to look older by the streaks of grey in her dark hair. It was asymmetrical and cut high of her neck. Her skin was light-brown and she wore trousers and a vest over her white shirt with its sleeves rolled up past the elbow.

The man Atheer had first seen hung back, watching the woman. He too looked middle-aged though noticeably younger than his companion. He wore a tight-waisted, muted-blue dress with billowy shoulders. On his head was a curly red wig that draped down to the top of his chest. Small touches of makeup sat against the brown skin of his cheeks and lips.

"How are you feeling?" the woman asked Atheer.

"Not fantastic," she admitted, downplaying her state dramatically.

"Yes, a bullet will do that to you. You caught it on the inside of your arm," the woman pointed on herself to the side of her bicep closest to her torso. "You were lucky enough that it didn't hit your humerus - or worse, your back - but not lucky enough for it to just pass between arm and body."

"Are you a doctor then?" Atheer asked.

"I am. Doctor Octavia Estela Tejedor, at your service." The woman offered Atheer a hand in greeting, which she took with her functional arm. The woman shook and motioned to the man behind her. "And this is..."

"Pu'a Vailili," he said, stepping forth and giving Atheer another handshake with a smile.

"And you are?" Doctor Tejedor addressed the goth.

"Atheer."

"Atheer... what?"

"Atheer al-Vaziri. Where am I?"

"This is the Anchorage infirmary."

"And where is Anchorage? Am I still in America?"

At this question Doctor Tejedor and Pu'a each took on a confused expression, then looked to one another in hopes that the other better understood.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think we know where that is," Pu'a explained. "Is that a village or something?"

"Is America a village?" Atheer echoed their question to make certain she was understanding them correctly. She waited for them to palm their foreheads and laugh at themselves for having misheard her or something, but they stared on, treating the question as a candid one.

"Okay," Atheer scoffed, "where are we then? What nation is this?"

"Nebrines," Pu'a answered flatly and without hesitation.

Atheer closed her eyes and took a deep breath to recover her patience. In such a foreign place, she did not appreciate these separatists or whatever they were coming up with their fake name for whatever part of America she was in.

"And what continent is Nebrines on?" she tried again.

"Euslan," the doctor answered in the same manner as the man beside her.

"And do these places go by any other names?" Atheer was struggling to keep the irritation from her voice. She was giving these people every chance she could to give up the gag without her telling them to, but they simply would not take the hint.

"I mean... we call them home," Pu'a chuckled weakly. It was an attempt to placate Atheer, but her refusal to find satisfaction in any of these answers was starting to concern him.

The goth clenched her teeth before a new approach came to her. "What year is it?"

"146," Tejedor responded after blinking away her momentary bewilderment.

Well that just wasn't helpful at all. Atheer was not sure what to do with these answers. How does one navigate their way out of a location they cannot place? She could leave this place and set out in search of someone or someplace that spoke in her terms, but wandering and hoping did not sound like an attractive plan.

"I take it that doesn't sound right to you?" the doctor asked. "What year do you think it should be?"

"Never mind," the young woman waved the question away with her good arm. She wasn't interested in getting hung up on just how far off Tejedor's answer had been from the range of acceptable answers. "I really appreciate you saving me from... this," she motioned to her arm, preferring to refer to the injury rather than the potential consequence. "However, I need to find my way back to my friends, and I fear I may be a great ways away from them."

"Where might we find them?" Pu'a asked.

"Stoneaxe, United States," Atheer offered, already anticipating a response.

"I've never heard of Stoneaxe states," the man remarked, giving about as bad a response as Atheer had been expecting.

"Is there anyone you could point me to that might be a little more knowledgeable with geography; specifically foreign?"

Doctor Tejedor faced her associate. "Do you think Madam Yetunde would have any idea what she's talking about?"

"I think she's as likely to know as anyone," Pu'a shrugged.

"We'll ask her to speak with you," Tejedor said. "After you get some more rest. You're not ready to be walking around yet."