"Bah, but they have no subtlety," she complains -- the late night raid has been sticking in her former-KGB craw ever since it happened. "It's all mass-level intimidation, there's no art. Where I come from, we have monsters under the bed, not Godzilla stomping around all over the city. When we took people away, it was silent and swift and made grown men cry in their beds at night for fear of what they didn't know. Here? They make a broadcast all about it and talk about it on their gossip shows."

She takes the bottle back, making sure their hands brush again but not acknowledging it. "If? Did no one tell you what happens here when you die in the arena?" Molotov smirks at him. "It is far better than being shanked in your cell, I can tell you that."