@kirramn.
there is the familiar stretch of bloodied knuckles splitting open when she hears the clamour of studded boots and a jingle of keys. they travel in pairs, she's found, one with a baseball bat, and the other with a set of knuckledusters that treat each rung of her ribs like a nail to hammer into. but this time she counts three, with the pricks of her ears and the muted thud of her wrapped hands grazing over grouted walls. there are days she settles into it, stares at the tally-marks and swallows the powder in the back of her throat before the wind is knocked out of it, but today, she twists her jaw until it cracks quietly, and tenses fists into tight white balls.
she's not expecting someone so young. she's her age, maybe, give or take with the blades of light through the bars casting across her left eye — it's bright blue, and a hard, starched collar does its best at hiding half of her face, and vi can't help herself when she launches herself at the bars, arms swiping through the gaps in the metal and hands clawing at the air with a faux-feral theatric. (if they want to treat us like animals, i'll show them fucking animals.)
it's blemished by the grin that splits across her cheeks and the way her arms drop quickly to drape over the bars. powder was always the more dramatic one. (in an instant it drops, and she glowers at the two uniformed creeps either side of her. pretty, huh. what's a girl like you doing in a place like this.)
"you should see your face." she slumps, pressing the side of her face against the cool metal of the door, and flipping a middle finger to the two guards either side of her.
"fuck you — cuff me again and i'll kick the shit out of you. now — we're in pretty company. what can i do for you, cupcake? do you want to kick the shit out of me too, or are you sandwiched between two assholes because they make you look important?"