Post by Lorpius Prime on Jun 2, 2009 12:28:28 GMT -5
Reg fell. The space around her was utterly dark, and after her feet left the ground behind her she could feel nothing at all. Reg sucked air in through her teeth out of surprise; she had not yet had time to be afraid.
The sensation lasted only a moment, however. The darkness gave way to light again—although it was much dimmer than the morning sun Reg had just left. Still, it was enough to let her see that there was a floor in front of her. Reg lifted a leg forward instinctively, but it was not enough to overcome her inertia.
The heel of her shoe slapped against the stone floor, and Reg tumbled forward. She managed to twist her torso to one side so that she didn't crush the camera she was still holding in her left hand. Instead, she landed on the palm of her outstretched right hand, bounced, and came to a rest on her shoulder.
"Oww," Reg groaned, and squeezed her eyes shut for a second.
After opening them again, she shifted her waist to let her bring her knees back under her. Reg pushed off the ground with the fingers of her right hand and crawled back to her feet. With a few more feet between her head and the floor, it was safe to let her camera hang free again. She did so, and used her left hand to straighten her glasses on her nose and then rub her bruised right shoulder.
"Oww," she said again, but with less urgency. She was glancing about at her surroundings, and they were far more unsettling than the pain from her fall.
I'm in a dungeon, Reg thought. She was standing in a long hallway. The floor, walls, and ceiling were made of unpolished grey stone. It looked like genuine stonework, too, not just a decorative façade. The stone walls were lined with honest-to-God torches in racks. Reg knew the torches were real, too, because two of them were lit, providing the only source of light in the hallway. The whole place looked like something out of a cheesy horror film.
Reg turned around. There was a solid wall behind her, a single piece of flat rock rather than stacked blocks. The face of an archway had been carved out of the wall around the flat surface. It looked like the same as the archway from the cliff face, only completed. There was even a full inscription above the arch:
Reg couldn't see the final words of the inscription because they were obscured by a big mess of twigs and pine needles. It was an odd place for a bird's nest, but that didn't bother Reg at the moment. She had other concerns.
She reached out and put a hand on the wall beneath the archway—carefully, this time. The wall was solid and cool against her fingers. Reg frowned, she pushed harder against the wall, but it didn't move, and her hand certainly didn't go straight through it. She turned her hand around and tapped against the stone with her knuckles. The rock absorbed the sound.
Sighing, Reg turned around again. There was a large wooden door at the end of the hallway, and two openings to either side that were showing a bit of light. Reg shrugged and walked towards that end.
Air was wafting down from the two passages, and Reg turned left to go down one. The light was much richer than the torch flames, and she thought it was sunlight. Reg walked around the little stone wall and hurried down the tiny corridor on the other side.
It was sunlight. Reg reached the end of the little passage—more of a tunnel, really—and could see a blue sky at the end. She frowned unhappily. Between her and the sky was a heavy iron fence. The bars had been nailed into the rough stone walls on either side, sealing the passage. There were no hinges or other apparent means of passing through the fence. Reg wrapped a hand around the bars and shook them, but the fence didn't budge.
She removed her hand in disgust, both at the blocked exit and because the bars were wet and grimy. She rubbed her hand off against her jeans.
The passage on the other side was also blocked off short of the exit.
"Hello?" Reg called out through the bars. No one answered. She tapped her foot against the damp floor of the tunnel. After a few minutes, she gave up.
That only left the large doors in the center of the hallway. They were both wide enough to let two or three people pass through side-by-side, and probably weighed over a hundred pounds each. Reg looked glumly at the wrought iron handles. Even if the doors weren't locked, she wasn't sure she could open them.
She couldn't know until she tried, however. Wrapping both hands around one of the handles, Reg set her feet carefully and then pulled with all her might.
The door flew open towards her; Reg had to backpedal in a hurry to keep it from colliding with her face. Whoever had hung these doors had done an absolutely perfect job of it—there was hardly any resistance at all. Reg grunted and had to exert herself to stop the door before it crushed her between it and the wall. That was more difficult, but she managed. The hinges hadn't even squeaked. Breathing a little heavily, Reg walked around the wooden door to peer inside.
Beyond the doors was a throne room. Reg grimaced. The decorations were sparse, but elegant, and it was hard to mistake the design for anything else. The doorway was at the top of a raised platform. Several shallow steps led down to a large chamber that could comfortably hold several dozen people. A red carpet ran straight down the center and then out two shadowy passages at the corners. The walls were lined with more torches in racks. These were unlit; but above them was a row of glass-enclosed lamps that emitted a softer, yellow light.
"Huh," Reg muttered to herself as she walked forward through the doorway. She couldn’t fathom why someone would have built a fancy chamber like this backed up against the dungeon she was leaving. There was no harmony whatsoever to the design. She ran her tongue around in her mouth as she stepped onto the carpet at the top of the platform, pondering.
A man's voice, "What the—hey!"
Reg jumped slightly in alarm, and started to turn to towards the person who'd shouted behind her. She didn't make it, however. Someone grabbed her from behind and pushed her arms against her backpack. Reg yelped at the pain in her shoulders and elbows.
"Got 'im," a different voice said from just behind Reg's ear. "What the hell do you think you're doing, eh?"
"Hey! Ow!" Reg shouted. She tried to pull away from the person holding her. Whoever it was, though, pulled her closer to clamp down on both of her arms with one hand, while his other hand reached around her front to clasp a shoulder. A huge, hairy arm pressed against Reg's throat and the top of her chest, holding her still.
"Shit, Mike," the man holding her said, and then chuckled. Reg could feel his breath against her temple. "I think it's a woman."
"What? Hold him still," the first voice—Mike?—said.
Reg was leaning her head back, trying to escape the arm that was threatening to choke her. Her captor held tight and planted one foot right beside Reg's, preventing her from stepping away or kicking him without falling.
A man stepped into view in front of her, and Reg stopped struggling for a moment to stare at him. He was dressed in a bright crimson uniform with white and gold belts and accessories. His boots came nearly up to his knees and were polished black. In his hands he was holding an enormous antique rifle tipped with a bayonet.
Reg barely contained a snort. He looked like a member of her high school drill team, or maybe a member of a marching band. He noticed her laughter, though, and Reg choked on it when he glowered at her and hefted the point of his rifle slightly towards her.
"Damn," his eyes glanced over Reg's shoulder, "you're right." He looked back at Reg, "Just what do you think you're doing, Fräulein? How did you get in there?"
"Huh?" Reg looked at him blankly.
Mike the costumed soldier frowned and turned again to his unseen colleague. "I'm going to check back there," he said. Then he jerked his head to one side.
This must have been a signal, because the person holding Reg suddenly picked her up—painfully—by the arms, and swung her around. Then he released his arm that was squeezing her neck, and instead placed his hand between her shoulder blades and shoved Reg forward. Reg turned so that her forehead wouldn't strike the wall in front of her. Instead she took most of the impact on her cheek while her glasses were pushed lopsided up onto her forehead.
"Ow!" she yelled yet again. "What the hell?"
"Shut up," the man behind her said. He was still holding her arms together and keeping her pinned.
Reg stopped fighting him for a moment, she wasn't getting anywhere with it anyway. She wished that she had been allowed to bring the can of pepper spray that she usually carried in her purse with her to Germany; although she couldn't imagine how she would have used it even if she had brought it. Just what the hell was going on? The man holding her down was hurting her, but it didn't seem like he was trying to mug her or rape her or anything beyond just preventing Reg from moving. And why was his partner dressed up in that ridiculous outfit?
On cue, Mike returned. He walked through the open door to Reg's right and stood next to her, so that she couldn't see his face from the way the other man had her pinned.
"There's no one else there," he said. Then he shifted and leaned forward to look Reg in the eye. "Hey, sprechen Sie Englisch?"
"I think she does," the man holding her said, "she was yelling at me."
Mike nodded, "How did you get in here?" he asked. "Is there anyone else with you?"
"I don't—" Reg blinked and tried to shake her head. "What's going on?"
"Oy." Mike took one hand off of his rifle to snap his fingers in front of her face. "Who are you?"
"Regina Odette," Reg said. She tugged her shoulders again, uselessly. "Why are you holding me?"
Mike frowned, "Regina? Are you British?"
What? "No!" she said, exasperated. "I'm an American."
Mike screwed up his eyes. He stared at her for a moment longer, and then stood up again. She could see his arms move in a shrug.
"What do we do?" the man holding her down asked.
"Let's take her to Sergeant," Mike said in a reluctant voice.
There was a pause, and then the hand on Reg's back grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and pulled her back upright. "Come along," her captor huffed. Rather than actually lifting her up this time, he merely put a hand on her shoulder to guide her into a turn. In front of her, Mike started walking towards a hallway at the back. After a little shove, Reg followed him.
The man behind her loosened his hold enough that Reg could relax her shoulders, but he still kept both of her wrists firmly clasped in one hand. His other hand stayed on her shoulder, but at least he wasn't trying to choke her anymore.
The three of them marched like that for a ways. Reg kept trying to think of questions to ask the two men, but kept deciding against it. For now it felt better not to antagonize them.
The further they walked, the less this place looked like a dungeon, and more like a castle. The walls were still undecorated stone, but they were lined with finely crafted lamps, and they passed occasional recesses filled with various marble statues. Reg wished they would walk slower, or let her take pictures with the digital camera still hanging uselessly around her neck.
Mike and his companion walked her up a gently curving staircase. Once at the top, Reg changed her assessment again: she was in a full palace. Was this Neuschwanstein? The decorations certainly looked gaudy enough, but she didn't recognize any of the designs or rooms specifically from the information she'd read before her trip.
They turned off from a long gallery filled with intricately made gold and copper statues standing on pedestals in front of mirrors. Mike opened a side door and they passed into a much smaller room, like a lounge or study.
There were several other people, men, already in the room. Each one of them was wearing the same absurd red uniform as Mike. They were all sitting around a small table playing cards and smoking.
"Sergeant," Mike said after opening the door. He stepped to one side to let his companion march Reg into the doorway.
One of the men at the table—he looked like the eldest but it was hard to tell—glanced up at Mike, then over to Reg. His eyes bulged.
The sergeant pulled his cigarette out of his mouth and set it on the table, then he pushed his chair back to stand up.
"Jesus, Ox," he said in a gravelly voice, "let that poor woman go before you tear her arms off."
For a moment, Reg hoped that she was about to be released, but nothing happened.
"Sergeant," Mike said again. Everyone else at the table had now stopped what they were doing and were staring at Reg. The sergeant frowned and reluctantly turned his gaze back to Mike. He went on, "We found her in the main hallway downstairs. We don't know who she is and she won't tell us how she got in there."
The sergeant's expression grew very dark as he gazed at Reg again. "There's no one down there now?" he asked.
"No, Sergeant. I checked around but couldn't find anyone else; we thought we should take her to you."
The sergeant nodded. He pointed at two of the others at his card table, "Corporal, go with Meer and help these two secure their post again." Both of the men he indicated nodded and stood up, grabbing rifles leaning against the table as they did so. The sergeant turned to the final card player, "Watts, take over from Ox." He nodded at Reg, "Get her things."
"Yes, Sergeant." The one called Watts stood up and walked towards Reg.
"Hey," Reg said, taking a step back. The hand on her shoulder stiffened to keep her in place. "Listen, I haven't done anything. So why don't all of you just stop, and tell me what the hell is going on?"
She put as much authority into her voice as she could manage. The men in front of her paused for a moment to exchange glances with one another. Then the sergeant made a hurry up gesture with his hand, and everyone kept going.
Behind Reg, Ox pushed her forward into the room to let others squeeze out through the doorway. Watts walked up to Reg and nodded, and then Ox let go of her hands at last. Reg sighed and rotated her shoulders. She thought about punching one or all the people around her, but decided against it in the end. Instead she merely clenched one fist and used the other to finally straighten out her glasses again. The plastic frame had been scratched when Ox pushed her face into the wall.
The man called Watts met her glare with a very small smile. He held out a hand, "All right, miss. I need you to give me your bag and whatever that is around your neck."
"That'd be my camera," Reg said sarcastically.
"Funny-looking camera," Watts said. He wiggled his fingers to indicate that he still wanted her to hand it ever.
Reg huffed at him. It was a very nice—and very expensive—camera; she'd bought it last summer before taking a trip to Italy. She un-shouldered her backpack and thrust it at Watts, who took it without a word, then handed him the camera as well, somewhat more gently.
"Thank you," Watts said. Reg folded her arms and glared at him. He set the stuff down against the wall gently enough. Then he looked back.
"I'll, um…" his face turned reddish, and Reg raised an eyebrow. Watts looked down at her waist, "I'll also need whatever's in your pockets there. Slowly, if you please."
Reg rolled her eyes. She reached into her pockets and handed the man her wallet, lip balm, and hotel keys. Watts mumbled something and set these items down beside her camera.
The door closed behind Reg, and it was just the three of them in the room.
"All right, then," said the sergeant, who'd been watching Watts relieve Reg of her things. "Do you want to tell me who you are?"
Reg groaned, "I already told your friends. My name is Regina Odette."
The sergeant tilted his head, "Are you a British subject, Miss Odette?"
"What is with that question? No, I'm an American citizen. Look, should I be calling my embassy or something?" Reg had the number clipped to her passport just in case. She hadn't thought she'd ever actually need it.
Both men frowned. After a pause, the sergeant asked, "Where are you from?"
"Los Angeles."
Watts frowned and glanced at the sergeant, who quirked an eyebrow. "She's Mexican," the sergeant told him.
"What?" Reg nearly shrieked. Both other men looked at her with odd expressions. "I'm not Mexican," she shouted at them.
"You're from Los Angeles," the sergeant said, slowly. Reg nodded. "In California?" he asked.
"Yes," Reg said, frustrated. She turned her head between him and Watts, but both of them were just looking at her dumbly. "Los Angeles, California, United States of America!"
She shook her hands at them for emphasis, but she got no response. After a moment of blank stares, Watts turned away again.
"Sergeant?"
The sergeant shook his head without taking his eyes off Reg, "I think we're going to have to bump this one up the chain, Private."
The sensation lasted only a moment, however. The darkness gave way to light again—although it was much dimmer than the morning sun Reg had just left. Still, it was enough to let her see that there was a floor in front of her. Reg lifted a leg forward instinctively, but it was not enough to overcome her inertia.
The heel of her shoe slapped against the stone floor, and Reg tumbled forward. She managed to twist her torso to one side so that she didn't crush the camera she was still holding in her left hand. Instead, she landed on the palm of her outstretched right hand, bounced, and came to a rest on her shoulder.
"Oww," Reg groaned, and squeezed her eyes shut for a second.
After opening them again, she shifted her waist to let her bring her knees back under her. Reg pushed off the ground with the fingers of her right hand and crawled back to her feet. With a few more feet between her head and the floor, it was safe to let her camera hang free again. She did so, and used her left hand to straighten her glasses on her nose and then rub her bruised right shoulder.
"Oww," she said again, but with less urgency. She was glancing about at her surroundings, and they were far more unsettling than the pain from her fall.
I'm in a dungeon, Reg thought. She was standing in a long hallway. The floor, walls, and ceiling were made of unpolished grey stone. It looked like genuine stonework, too, not just a decorative façade. The stone walls were lined with honest-to-God torches in racks. Reg knew the torches were real, too, because two of them were lit, providing the only source of light in the hallway. The whole place looked like something out of a cheesy horror film.
Reg turned around. There was a solid wall behind her, a single piece of flat rock rather than stacked blocks. The face of an archway had been carved out of the wall around the flat surface. It looked like the same as the archway from the cliff face, only completed. There was even a full inscription above the arch:
Ja, war niemand hier eingegangen
Und ist niemand hier ausgegangen
Ja wohl ha—
Und ist niemand hier ausgegangen
Ja wohl ha—
Reg couldn't see the final words of the inscription because they were obscured by a big mess of twigs and pine needles. It was an odd place for a bird's nest, but that didn't bother Reg at the moment. She had other concerns.
She reached out and put a hand on the wall beneath the archway—carefully, this time. The wall was solid and cool against her fingers. Reg frowned, she pushed harder against the wall, but it didn't move, and her hand certainly didn't go straight through it. She turned her hand around and tapped against the stone with her knuckles. The rock absorbed the sound.
Sighing, Reg turned around again. There was a large wooden door at the end of the hallway, and two openings to either side that were showing a bit of light. Reg shrugged and walked towards that end.
Air was wafting down from the two passages, and Reg turned left to go down one. The light was much richer than the torch flames, and she thought it was sunlight. Reg walked around the little stone wall and hurried down the tiny corridor on the other side.
It was sunlight. Reg reached the end of the little passage—more of a tunnel, really—and could see a blue sky at the end. She frowned unhappily. Between her and the sky was a heavy iron fence. The bars had been nailed into the rough stone walls on either side, sealing the passage. There were no hinges or other apparent means of passing through the fence. Reg wrapped a hand around the bars and shook them, but the fence didn't budge.
She removed her hand in disgust, both at the blocked exit and because the bars were wet and grimy. She rubbed her hand off against her jeans.
The passage on the other side was also blocked off short of the exit.
"Hello?" Reg called out through the bars. No one answered. She tapped her foot against the damp floor of the tunnel. After a few minutes, she gave up.
That only left the large doors in the center of the hallway. They were both wide enough to let two or three people pass through side-by-side, and probably weighed over a hundred pounds each. Reg looked glumly at the wrought iron handles. Even if the doors weren't locked, she wasn't sure she could open them.
She couldn't know until she tried, however. Wrapping both hands around one of the handles, Reg set her feet carefully and then pulled with all her might.
The door flew open towards her; Reg had to backpedal in a hurry to keep it from colliding with her face. Whoever had hung these doors had done an absolutely perfect job of it—there was hardly any resistance at all. Reg grunted and had to exert herself to stop the door before it crushed her between it and the wall. That was more difficult, but she managed. The hinges hadn't even squeaked. Breathing a little heavily, Reg walked around the wooden door to peer inside.
Beyond the doors was a throne room. Reg grimaced. The decorations were sparse, but elegant, and it was hard to mistake the design for anything else. The doorway was at the top of a raised platform. Several shallow steps led down to a large chamber that could comfortably hold several dozen people. A red carpet ran straight down the center and then out two shadowy passages at the corners. The walls were lined with more torches in racks. These were unlit; but above them was a row of glass-enclosed lamps that emitted a softer, yellow light.
"Huh," Reg muttered to herself as she walked forward through the doorway. She couldn’t fathom why someone would have built a fancy chamber like this backed up against the dungeon she was leaving. There was no harmony whatsoever to the design. She ran her tongue around in her mouth as she stepped onto the carpet at the top of the platform, pondering.
A man's voice, "What the—hey!"
Reg jumped slightly in alarm, and started to turn to towards the person who'd shouted behind her. She didn't make it, however. Someone grabbed her from behind and pushed her arms against her backpack. Reg yelped at the pain in her shoulders and elbows.
"Got 'im," a different voice said from just behind Reg's ear. "What the hell do you think you're doing, eh?"
"Hey! Ow!" Reg shouted. She tried to pull away from the person holding her. Whoever it was, though, pulled her closer to clamp down on both of her arms with one hand, while his other hand reached around her front to clasp a shoulder. A huge, hairy arm pressed against Reg's throat and the top of her chest, holding her still.
"Shit, Mike," the man holding her said, and then chuckled. Reg could feel his breath against her temple. "I think it's a woman."
"What? Hold him still," the first voice—Mike?—said.
Reg was leaning her head back, trying to escape the arm that was threatening to choke her. Her captor held tight and planted one foot right beside Reg's, preventing her from stepping away or kicking him without falling.
A man stepped into view in front of her, and Reg stopped struggling for a moment to stare at him. He was dressed in a bright crimson uniform with white and gold belts and accessories. His boots came nearly up to his knees and were polished black. In his hands he was holding an enormous antique rifle tipped with a bayonet.
Reg barely contained a snort. He looked like a member of her high school drill team, or maybe a member of a marching band. He noticed her laughter, though, and Reg choked on it when he glowered at her and hefted the point of his rifle slightly towards her.
"Damn," his eyes glanced over Reg's shoulder, "you're right." He looked back at Reg, "Just what do you think you're doing, Fräulein? How did you get in there?"
"Huh?" Reg looked at him blankly.
Mike the costumed soldier frowned and turned again to his unseen colleague. "I'm going to check back there," he said. Then he jerked his head to one side.
This must have been a signal, because the person holding Reg suddenly picked her up—painfully—by the arms, and swung her around. Then he released his arm that was squeezing her neck, and instead placed his hand between her shoulder blades and shoved Reg forward. Reg turned so that her forehead wouldn't strike the wall in front of her. Instead she took most of the impact on her cheek while her glasses were pushed lopsided up onto her forehead.
"Ow!" she yelled yet again. "What the hell?"
"Shut up," the man behind her said. He was still holding her arms together and keeping her pinned.
Reg stopped fighting him for a moment, she wasn't getting anywhere with it anyway. She wished that she had been allowed to bring the can of pepper spray that she usually carried in her purse with her to Germany; although she couldn't imagine how she would have used it even if she had brought it. Just what the hell was going on? The man holding her down was hurting her, but it didn't seem like he was trying to mug her or rape her or anything beyond just preventing Reg from moving. And why was his partner dressed up in that ridiculous outfit?
On cue, Mike returned. He walked through the open door to Reg's right and stood next to her, so that she couldn't see his face from the way the other man had her pinned.
"There's no one else there," he said. Then he shifted and leaned forward to look Reg in the eye. "Hey, sprechen Sie Englisch?"
"I think she does," the man holding her said, "she was yelling at me."
Mike nodded, "How did you get in here?" he asked. "Is there anyone else with you?"
"I don't—" Reg blinked and tried to shake her head. "What's going on?"
"Oy." Mike took one hand off of his rifle to snap his fingers in front of her face. "Who are you?"
"Regina Odette," Reg said. She tugged her shoulders again, uselessly. "Why are you holding me?"
Mike frowned, "Regina? Are you British?"
What? "No!" she said, exasperated. "I'm an American."
Mike screwed up his eyes. He stared at her for a moment longer, and then stood up again. She could see his arms move in a shrug.
"What do we do?" the man holding her down asked.
"Let's take her to Sergeant," Mike said in a reluctant voice.
There was a pause, and then the hand on Reg's back grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and pulled her back upright. "Come along," her captor huffed. Rather than actually lifting her up this time, he merely put a hand on her shoulder to guide her into a turn. In front of her, Mike started walking towards a hallway at the back. After a little shove, Reg followed him.
The man behind her loosened his hold enough that Reg could relax her shoulders, but he still kept both of her wrists firmly clasped in one hand. His other hand stayed on her shoulder, but at least he wasn't trying to choke her anymore.
The three of them marched like that for a ways. Reg kept trying to think of questions to ask the two men, but kept deciding against it. For now it felt better not to antagonize them.
The further they walked, the less this place looked like a dungeon, and more like a castle. The walls were still undecorated stone, but they were lined with finely crafted lamps, and they passed occasional recesses filled with various marble statues. Reg wished they would walk slower, or let her take pictures with the digital camera still hanging uselessly around her neck.
Mike and his companion walked her up a gently curving staircase. Once at the top, Reg changed her assessment again: she was in a full palace. Was this Neuschwanstein? The decorations certainly looked gaudy enough, but she didn't recognize any of the designs or rooms specifically from the information she'd read before her trip.
They turned off from a long gallery filled with intricately made gold and copper statues standing on pedestals in front of mirrors. Mike opened a side door and they passed into a much smaller room, like a lounge or study.
There were several other people, men, already in the room. Each one of them was wearing the same absurd red uniform as Mike. They were all sitting around a small table playing cards and smoking.
"Sergeant," Mike said after opening the door. He stepped to one side to let his companion march Reg into the doorway.
One of the men at the table—he looked like the eldest but it was hard to tell—glanced up at Mike, then over to Reg. His eyes bulged.
The sergeant pulled his cigarette out of his mouth and set it on the table, then he pushed his chair back to stand up.
"Jesus, Ox," he said in a gravelly voice, "let that poor woman go before you tear her arms off."
For a moment, Reg hoped that she was about to be released, but nothing happened.
"Sergeant," Mike said again. Everyone else at the table had now stopped what they were doing and were staring at Reg. The sergeant frowned and reluctantly turned his gaze back to Mike. He went on, "We found her in the main hallway downstairs. We don't know who she is and she won't tell us how she got in there."
The sergeant's expression grew very dark as he gazed at Reg again. "There's no one down there now?" he asked.
"No, Sergeant. I checked around but couldn't find anyone else; we thought we should take her to you."
The sergeant nodded. He pointed at two of the others at his card table, "Corporal, go with Meer and help these two secure their post again." Both of the men he indicated nodded and stood up, grabbing rifles leaning against the table as they did so. The sergeant turned to the final card player, "Watts, take over from Ox." He nodded at Reg, "Get her things."
"Yes, Sergeant." The one called Watts stood up and walked towards Reg.
"Hey," Reg said, taking a step back. The hand on her shoulder stiffened to keep her in place. "Listen, I haven't done anything. So why don't all of you just stop, and tell me what the hell is going on?"
She put as much authority into her voice as she could manage. The men in front of her paused for a moment to exchange glances with one another. Then the sergeant made a hurry up gesture with his hand, and everyone kept going.
Behind Reg, Ox pushed her forward into the room to let others squeeze out through the doorway. Watts walked up to Reg and nodded, and then Ox let go of her hands at last. Reg sighed and rotated her shoulders. She thought about punching one or all the people around her, but decided against it in the end. Instead she merely clenched one fist and used the other to finally straighten out her glasses again. The plastic frame had been scratched when Ox pushed her face into the wall.
The man called Watts met her glare with a very small smile. He held out a hand, "All right, miss. I need you to give me your bag and whatever that is around your neck."
"That'd be my camera," Reg said sarcastically.
"Funny-looking camera," Watts said. He wiggled his fingers to indicate that he still wanted her to hand it ever.
Reg huffed at him. It was a very nice—and very expensive—camera; she'd bought it last summer before taking a trip to Italy. She un-shouldered her backpack and thrust it at Watts, who took it without a word, then handed him the camera as well, somewhat more gently.
"Thank you," Watts said. Reg folded her arms and glared at him. He set the stuff down against the wall gently enough. Then he looked back.
"I'll, um…" his face turned reddish, and Reg raised an eyebrow. Watts looked down at her waist, "I'll also need whatever's in your pockets there. Slowly, if you please."
Reg rolled her eyes. She reached into her pockets and handed the man her wallet, lip balm, and hotel keys. Watts mumbled something and set these items down beside her camera.
The door closed behind Reg, and it was just the three of them in the room.
"All right, then," said the sergeant, who'd been watching Watts relieve Reg of her things. "Do you want to tell me who you are?"
Reg groaned, "I already told your friends. My name is Regina Odette."
The sergeant tilted his head, "Are you a British subject, Miss Odette?"
"What is with that question? No, I'm an American citizen. Look, should I be calling my embassy or something?" Reg had the number clipped to her passport just in case. She hadn't thought she'd ever actually need it.
Both men frowned. After a pause, the sergeant asked, "Where are you from?"
"Los Angeles."
Watts frowned and glanced at the sergeant, who quirked an eyebrow. "She's Mexican," the sergeant told him.
"What?" Reg nearly shrieked. Both other men looked at her with odd expressions. "I'm not Mexican," she shouted at them.
"You're from Los Angeles," the sergeant said, slowly. Reg nodded. "In California?" he asked.
"Yes," Reg said, frustrated. She turned her head between him and Watts, but both of them were just looking at her dumbly. "Los Angeles, California, United States of America!"
She shook her hands at them for emphasis, but she got no response. After a moment of blank stares, Watts turned away again.
"Sergeant?"
The sergeant shook his head without taking his eyes off Reg, "I think we're going to have to bump this one up the chain, Private."