08-18-2013, 10:58 AM
2040
It was an unspoken understanding not to ask questions; that there were those here who, for whatever reason, shouldn’t be. But it cost pittance to crash for a night when she had nobody else to rely on, and it was safer than walking Moscow’s streets alone in the early hours. The hostel might not boast luxury; simple cot beds, shared facilities and a grey, sombre interior, but it was secure. And probably safer than sleeping on some stranger’s floor; because if you messed with the patrons here, disturbed the other guests, or broke the peace – well, depending on which rule you broke and how badly you broke it, you learned not to make it again. Or you didn’t come back.
She’d gotten the tip from an acquaintance, and she was pretty sure the whole rig was illegal; so many of the old buildings in and about the city had basements that thrust deep roots into the Undercity, and they punctuated right to Moscow’s heart - or they did if you put your ear to rumour, anyway, and there were plenty of rumours. Oriena didn’t care much for the place’s moral standing, of course, and whatever business went on beneath the surface she was content to turn a blind eye to. The price was right, and the location was convenient; it had a roof, walls, privacy, and, in the depths of Russian winter, it was warm.
It was also where she discovered Cara.
The first time they met had been perhaps the third or fourth time Ori had used the hostel for refuge. She’d exchanged the cash, received her key, and was stumbling down the corridor, yawning and brushing the hair back from her face. Stale cigarette smoke permeated her skin, mixing toxic with the stink of alcohol; she hated that remnant smell at the end of every shift in the shit-holes she worked, but at least the rules in such places were loose. Her head swam pleasantly from the shots she’d shared with some pissed-up gap-year tourists exploring the famed heart of the CCD. At their expense, of course.
She didn’t see the woman hovering in the shadows of a half-open door. Not at first. Her lips pursed when she did – she vaguely recognised her, a regular face here; distinctive enough to remember, with dark hair curled tight to her head and night-dark eyes. She had the hollowed out look of an addict, and ghosted this place with the cautious slink of a cat. Always looking, always staring, with the coal-red glow of mistrust to her gaze. Harmless, at least if she valued her residence here, but what the fuck was she doing loitering at this time?
Oriena shouldn’t have paused – it wasn’t even worth the aggravation – but something felled her footsteps anyway, and propelled her to run her gaze up and down the stranger. Her brows rose in confrontation. Maybe an antagonistic flame to her blood; the alcohol? or something more intrinsic to her nature. Tension shot through her muscles when the woman stirred in response; faster than Ori would have anticipated, or maybe she was just too damn drunk. She yanked her left arm, twisted it, and shoved up her sleeve to the elbow all before Oriena could blink. Fury burned at the shocked indignation, but the moment the sweet sensation of power flooded through her veins the other woman looked up; looked her dead in the eye, like she felt it. “What the fuck?”
Ori snatched her arm away, though the woman’s grip had already slackened.
“Well shit.” Her dark eyes widened and she stumbled back, though it only took a moment to compose herself. Then her brows slashed deep over her eyes and her body stiffened; she seemed poised between fight or flight. Yeah, the woman was grade A crazy. It was 3am; Ori was not in the mood to be the target of some trashed druggie’s idiotic high. Her stare was flatly unimpressed as she shouldered past into one of the empty dorms. “I’m not a junkie, and I’m not helping you score. Don’t bloody touch me again.”
The door slammed shut; the lock twisted with a click.
It was an unspoken understanding not to ask questions; that there were those here who, for whatever reason, shouldn’t be. But it cost pittance to crash for a night when she had nobody else to rely on, and it was safer than walking Moscow’s streets alone in the early hours. The hostel might not boast luxury; simple cot beds, shared facilities and a grey, sombre interior, but it was secure. And probably safer than sleeping on some stranger’s floor; because if you messed with the patrons here, disturbed the other guests, or broke the peace – well, depending on which rule you broke and how badly you broke it, you learned not to make it again. Or you didn’t come back.
She’d gotten the tip from an acquaintance, and she was pretty sure the whole rig was illegal; so many of the old buildings in and about the city had basements that thrust deep roots into the Undercity, and they punctuated right to Moscow’s heart - or they did if you put your ear to rumour, anyway, and there were plenty of rumours. Oriena didn’t care much for the place’s moral standing, of course, and whatever business went on beneath the surface she was content to turn a blind eye to. The price was right, and the location was convenient; it had a roof, walls, privacy, and, in the depths of Russian winter, it was warm.
It was also where she discovered Cara.
The first time they met had been perhaps the third or fourth time Ori had used the hostel for refuge. She’d exchanged the cash, received her key, and was stumbling down the corridor, yawning and brushing the hair back from her face. Stale cigarette smoke permeated her skin, mixing toxic with the stink of alcohol; she hated that remnant smell at the end of every shift in the shit-holes she worked, but at least the rules in such places were loose. Her head swam pleasantly from the shots she’d shared with some pissed-up gap-year tourists exploring the famed heart of the CCD. At their expense, of course.
She didn’t see the woman hovering in the shadows of a half-open door. Not at first. Her lips pursed when she did – she vaguely recognised her, a regular face here; distinctive enough to remember, with dark hair curled tight to her head and night-dark eyes. She had the hollowed out look of an addict, and ghosted this place with the cautious slink of a cat. Always looking, always staring, with the coal-red glow of mistrust to her gaze. Harmless, at least if she valued her residence here, but what the fuck was she doing loitering at this time?
Oriena shouldn’t have paused – it wasn’t even worth the aggravation – but something felled her footsteps anyway, and propelled her to run her gaze up and down the stranger. Her brows rose in confrontation. Maybe an antagonistic flame to her blood; the alcohol? or something more intrinsic to her nature. Tension shot through her muscles when the woman stirred in response; faster than Ori would have anticipated, or maybe she was just too damn drunk. She yanked her left arm, twisted it, and shoved up her sleeve to the elbow all before Oriena could blink. Fury burned at the shocked indignation, but the moment the sweet sensation of power flooded through her veins the other woman looked up; looked her dead in the eye, like she felt it. “What the fuck?”
Ori snatched her arm away, though the woman’s grip had already slackened.
“Well shit.” Her dark eyes widened and she stumbled back, though it only took a moment to compose herself. Then her brows slashed deep over her eyes and her body stiffened; she seemed poised between fight or flight. Yeah, the woman was grade A crazy. It was 3am; Ori was not in the mood to be the target of some trashed druggie’s idiotic high. Her stare was flatly unimpressed as she shouldered past into one of the empty dorms. “I’m not a junkie, and I’m not helping you score. Don’t bloody touch me again.”
The door slammed shut; the lock twisted with a click.
![[Image: orianderis.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/orianderis.jpg)