Author's note: sorry for the lack of updates, betwen schoolwork and writer's block I've been incredibly lazy. If you're still here, thank you!

Cora tried gingerly to find their body again. It was theirs, which was a good sign. Requisite number of limbs, all painful. Their clothes were ragged, and they were all over bruises. They were sitting on a hard, cold stone floor. Altogether, they weren’t dead. Which was more than they could have hoped for. There were heavy, cold bracelets on their wrists, each with a chain attached. Manacles. As if their week couldn’t get any better.

They let their eyes adjust to the dim light then wished they hadn’t bothered. The cell was a lot deeper underground than ones they had been in before. They had generally been careful enough to avoid arrest, but no amount of care would stop a bad-tempered constable looking for an urchin to lock up. The cell was dark, the only light filtered through the high, barred window. There was slime on the walls and stalactites on the ceiling. Other than being higher-security, it was much like the cells they were used to. Wooden plank with a pillow, sound of rats scampering through the walls, bucket. They sat on the bench with their hands folded in their lap, waiting for a gaoler. Given the higher-security cell they’d want a generous bribe, but Cora had emergency money. 

There was no way to judge time in the underground cell. Cora felt like it had been hours. Their rational mind knew there was no cause for worry. The constables had new bosses, and were eager to get some arrests. They’d make a big ‘donation’ and, as if by magic, their case would be dismissed. The biggest danger was getting slapped around a bit beforehand. Nothing they couldn’t handle. In that moment, their rational mind was easy to drown out.

There were no footsteps. No heavy guards boots. One moment they were alone and the next the hairs on their neck rose. Someone opened the flap, peered through. The goaler was young. At least, his face was smooth. Cora couldn’t judge his age beyond that. His eyes were a flat, cold green. Most bizarrely of all, he was sober. Cora had always assumed whisky-breath was part of a gaoler’s uniform. They couldn’t meet his gaze. He watched them in silence, and they gathered their confidence. “Look, trials are a big hassle. If you lock me up without them I’ll have journalists beating down your doors. Why don’t we see if we can come to an agreement that saves you all that trouble?”

The flat cold eyes regarded them for another moment, and a tiny bolt of lightning jumped through the bars. They knew they weren’t hallucinating when it hit them, shaking their bones and forcing them to the floor. They curled up against the worst effects of the shock, eyes squeezed shut. They heard no footsteps, but when they looked up the eyes were gone. 

This was all wrong. They were meant to spend a night in the cell and then make a nice, voluntary donation to the city’s police force. Torture made no fiscal sense; they weren’t important enough to be tortured. 

They learned how to sense when a guard was coming. It was from the lack of sound. When a guard passed, the silence took a breath. They braced themself for a shock, but none was forthcoming. They stayed slumped in the corner, affecting disinterest. As long as they were still, the guard seemed happy to watch them. He was sober. There was something wrong with his face. It wasn’t scarred; if anything it was too smooth. Each of his features, taken alone, was fine. As a collective they were wrong. The whites of his eyes were too bright and his jaw didn’t fit his mouth. They were transported for a moment to their childhood, terrified of masked dancers at a festival. 

The cell made Cora take what Marie had been saying to heart. Something was wrong with the city. Something fundamental had shifted. This wasn’t the kind of violence you could dodge by keeping your head down. Powerful forces were at work, and the old rules were being stripped away. 

For Cora, this was the most terrifying thing they could believe. They had built their life on the old rules. The fire that destroyed their home and killed their parents taught them how fragile life could be. From that moment on they had dedicated themself to security. Inconspicuousness. Safety in numbers. They let the world be unfair, provided they could survive in it. The suggestion of those rules failing set them on a spiral. There was a system. Behind that system, there was another system of loopholes. Easily bribeable gaolers. Incompetent constables. A figurehead monarch and an ineffectual parliament. 

They could no longer trust the system. Whatever else that implied, they could no longer trust it to get them out of prison. With a goal in mind, they beat back the worst of the panic. The gaolers had a regular schedule. Regular enough to plan an escape around. The best criminals always missed one detail. Cora hunched over until they could bite their left forearm. The tattoo was small and simple, a flower done in black lines. It was unremarkable, the sort of thing any drunk idiot or rebellious teenager might have got. 

The unremarkable tattoo contained an acid so corrosive it would melt steel, harmless as long as it was contained within the lines of the flower. They were proud of it. It had taken a week of sleepless nights and chemical burns, but they had persevered. They wished they could have published their findings, but they weren’t a respected academic. They were a scruffy street-alchemist who couldn’t afford to draw attention to themself. 

The acid ate through their manacles, and they bit down on their jacket to stop themself from screaming when a drop hit their wrists. They swung their arms around, adrenalin surging. They pressed their arm to the bars and barely felt the pain. Climbing out of the cell, they felt superhuman. 

The guard came around, regular as clockwork. He was inhumanly strong, but Cora was desperate. Along with the element of surprise, it tipped the fight in their favour. He swung, the blow glancing off their face and drawing blood. They hit back with a savagery they wouldn’t have thought themself capable of, and he fell to the ground. They didn’t wipe away the blood that dripped from their nose as they pulled on his uniform. In their first stroke of luck in days, it fit. 

They knew that they had fifteen minutes before the alarm was raised. Long enough to pick a lock, print a pamphlet, or break out of prison. They walked slow past cages full of slumped, groaning bodies. They calculated that there was no time to release them all. Too risky. The prison was a maze. They ignored their sense of left and right and focused solely on moving up. Towards the surface, towards freedom. 

A pale light filtered into the corridors, too bright after their time in darkness. They looked out the high window, seeing a flash of sky. They didn’t let themself hope; this was far from over. They clenched their shaking hands into fists. There were no cells on this level, only guards’ quarters and administration. They drew looks, but no challenges. Keeping an idle ear out for threats, they heard their name. They slowed down, trying to catch what was being said without raising suspicion. 

A beautiful voice, cool and clear as falling water, was arguing with a guard. Or rather, they weren’t. There was no hint of aggression in the voice, but Cora knew that it was not a voice you argued with. “Of course we’ll pay, but I had presumed you wouldn’t require money, due to the crown’s sustained interest in good diplomatic relations. I am asking you to release Cora West.” The gaoler sounded deferential. Whoever was speaking had power. Those mysteries could be solved later. Cora moved on. 

Cora met the glances they drew with a gaze hard as steel. People got back to their work; the regular staff were afraid of the new guards. Their stomach twisted as they stepped outside, sick with fear, maintaining their outward calm. They took a breath of city air and remembered why nosegays sold so well; the smell of manure and smoke was intense. People shouted, horses reared, and the filthy river cut through it all. They couldn’t have been happier or more terrified.