@hittheredline
She feels like a bug. Too-big leather driving gloves cover her hands, an equally too-big leather jacket over her shoulders. A bandana covers her nose and mouth, a scarf over her head and wrapped around her neck, tinted goggles over her eyes, all to protect her from the sand and sun. There’s practically no skin exposed, just a clash of leather and denim and bright colors where she could find them.
Dottie’s grateful for the coverage; she knows underneath it she looks a fright. It can’t be a good sign, in the desert’s heat, that her face and hands and feet feel cold. Her stomach is still churning, and she resolutely keeps her eyes on the horizon, one foot in front of the other. She needs to find safety before she can go into shock. She found a little outcropping to take shelter under during the hottest part of the day, but with dusk’s swift arrival, she needs real shelter. She’s not eager to find out what the desert has in store for her at night.
She’s barely holding the shock at bay; as long as she doesn’t think about it, she—
Dot yanks her bandana out of the way as she hits her hands and knees, stomach heaving. There’s nothing left to get rid of, but it doesn’t stop her stomach from trying. She sits back on her heels when it settles again, shoves her goggles out of the way and removes her bandana to wipe at her eyes. No. She needs to stop thinking. One foot in front of the other. She shoves back onto her feet, starts walking again. She’s read her father’s letters so many times she has them memorized; to keep her thoughts from straying, she mentally recites them.
She’s half through his fourth letter when she finds an encampment, and relief courses through her. She’s young and alone; surely whoever’s set up would let her stay the one night. She just needs shelter, after all, she’s not asking for food or water. And, her mind whispers treacherously, causing her stomach to clench again, now we know we can kill anyone who tries to hurt us. She’s trying not to think about it. Bright blue bandana still clutched in one hand, she angles toward the encampment until she’s close enough to see who inhabits it, then pulls up short at the white figures. She backs away, yanking her goggles back into place and fumbling with her bandana. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Dracs were bad, but crows were worse, more likely to—
“Dorothea!”
“Fuck,” she hisses. She gives up on tying her bandana back into place and bolts. She wasn’t going back, she wouldn’t let them take her back, she would never, ever be under Duke’s power again. She stopped being a Prentiss when her mother disappeared, and that was only cemented with confirmation of Josephine’s death. The final nail in that coffin was Percy’s death; without him, there was no one to protect her from Duke’s machinations. Rod was too much his father’s son to care much about his mother’s bastard.
More concerned with looking over her shoulder than watching where she was going, she trips and goes skidding down an embankment. The zipper on her backpack bursts, its contents scattering across the sand. “No!” she cries, scrambling to gather everything up and shove it back in her bag. She can deal with the sand later. She tries to keep running, but the second she puts weight on her right ankle, it crumples like wet paper, sending her crashing back to the ground. She slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle her scream, tears from pain and frustration burning her eyes. There’s no way she can unlace her boot, wrap her bandana or scarf around her ankle for extra support, and tighten her boot again before the crows catch up with her, but she tries anyway.
“You father’s very worried about you, Dorothea.”
“Bullshit,” she spits, pulling her knife. Not that it does her much good as she hears multiple guns power up. She’s been hit with stun shots before, and she’s not eager to repeat the experience. “Duke’s worried about his own ass. And he’s not my father.” She glares at the mask, imagining his face underneath, because of course she recognized the voice, just as he’d recognized her. She tries to push back, away from them, but she’s fairly securely surrounded.
Duke’s pet crow tilts his head at her. “Is that your blood?” Curious, not concerned.
She grins at him, a feral snarl. “No,” she taunts, unsteadily pushing herself to her feet again.
He lifts his gun, pointed square at her chest. She doesn’t back down.
