Page 46 of Nemesis

Some part of me is vaguely aware of how fucked up it is to be laughing right now. Another, quieter part realizes it’s not a good sign for my survival.

I ignore both. I’m dancing, after all. Most people don’t know that the Dance of the Knights is a bit of a trick. It’s placed at the beginning of the ballet, when everyone is bright and lively, so most people mistake it for a celebratory tune. They don’t realize until the end that it was a funeral march all along.

I frown when my music fades out beneath the trickle of male voices.

“We’ve got trouble. Someone breached the perimeter.”

“What? How?”

“I’m not sure. I just got a text from the backup team…”

Ew.

I don’t want to listen to men right now.

“Be quiet. Rewind the tape,” I mutter, head lurching to the side in a dizzying shift.

I want my Prokofiev turned back on!

Suddenly, cymbals fill my ears. A smile melts across my mouth—at least, I think it does.

“Good boy,” I mumble, resigned to sit back and listen to the music progress.

But something’s…wrong.

The string section comes way too soon. The clashing cymbals warp into sharp explosions.

Idiots probably fucked up the tape. Maybe I can get them to fix it…ask if it could be my final meal?

Please, let Prokofiev be my final meal. I’ll waltz into the light. A veritable feast of apples and potatoes and⁠—

But that’s when I realize the string section never began in the first place.

What I thought were the high notes of a skilled violinist are replaced by screams that echo through the room.

The crashing cymbals morph into pops that collide with the metal door.

Suddenly, I’m not the only one bleeding. Bodies line my feet in a delicate lace, overlapping and twitching to add a vibrant, crimson dimension to the dull, shitty ground. Brethren, I think with another giggle. I wonder how much their blood is worth. Not as much as Vasiliy’s, surely.

“Clear!” someone shouts.

Another voice filters in, as familiar and comforting as a warm cup of tea. “Don’t you dare touch her!” he yells. I lick my dry lips at the sound. Harsh consonants. Guttural tone. “She is under the protection of the Morozov Bratva!”

So many new men fill the room with their stupid bodies and awful voices that the final dregs of my waltz drown in my ears. I glare, thoroughly annoyed.

“Boss, I think you’re gonna want to come down here and see this for yourself,” someone says. I don’t hear a response, but I do feel the heaviness of tall shadows falling over me.

“Don’t touch her! Back the fuck up!”

There goes the pretty, accented voice again. I try to look his way, but my head is far too heavy.

“Who the hell is he?”

“Don’t think it matters. Brother…she has your eyes.”

Okay. That’s enough. I was having a perfectly nice funeral waltz until these assholes came in and turned off my music.

“If you identify as a man and you’re talking, please do me a huge favor and SHUT THE HELL UP!” There. That oughta do it. The words may have come out mostly slurred, but all the voices momentarily quiet down. A win is a win.