???: How long will I stay this time?
The girl carries a basin of bloody water, following behind the woman.
Water pushes in from all sides. A leaf wavers on the water, moving with everyone's voices, never knowing which way it should flow.
Just like being shoved around by a crowd.
Pleading Man: She's got nothing to do with me; she's just a stray!
The crowd stands as sullen as gravestones, eyes peering out from lowered brows, as if keeping their gaze down might let them slip past disaster.
Like lambs casting their eyes away from the butcher, hoping that by looking away, they might be spared.
At the foot of the execution platform, the man weeps in a mess of snot and tears.
Bandit Chief: Where is she? Bring her over and let me see.
The man who looks like their leader waves his broad hand. From outside the crowd, a massive figure carves a path.
Not one figure but two, two men "stitched" together, escorting a girl whose hands are bound behind her back, drifting in and out of consciousness.
Her steps are heavy, her cheeks are scraped with dirt, and her brow furrows as if holding back pain.
The two men's faces are bruised and swollen. Their weighty steps fall uneven, adjusting to their newly mismatched limbs.
Bandit Chief: Hahaha, bring her over!
They stagger toward the platform. The crowd parts, then presses in again, like grain parting in a sieve.
The gathering cannot help but sneak in a few curious glances.
Stitched Bandit I: Move!
???: Ugh!
The stitched man flings the girl onto the platform. Writhing along the ground, she eventually worms herself upright.
???: ...
She props her head up, lifting her dirt-streaked face, to meet the eyes of the bandit chief with a glare.
Bandit Chief: Where are her fingers?
Stitched Bandit I: Here.
One of the stitched bandits hands the chief a dripping red bundle.
Bandit Chief: She used these two fingers to stitch you together?
He unwraps the cloth and pulls out a finger, grinning at his two men as if watching a comedy.
Stitched Bandit I: Yes, boss. She crawled out from the paddock behind the tavern ...
Stitched Bandit II: Told you to watch that paddock!
Stitched Bandit I: ... Then we got stuck together.
The chief squats down, facing the girl. All trace of his grin disappears.
Bandit Chief: Separate them.
???: ...
The girl stares coldly at his face, silent.
Bandit Chief: Huh, is she mute?
He turns toward the man cowering on the ground.
Pleading Man: No! She's not! She can talk! ... But I've got nothing to do with her! I don't know why she was in my tavern!
???: ...
The girl turns her head toward the terrified man. Her icy gaze only makes him more desperate.
Pleading Man: She's got no parents, no one! Just another orphaned straggler.
Bandit Chief: So, why did she protect you?
The girl's nose twitches.
Pleading Man: T-That's because ...!
His scrambled thoughts come out through blinking eyes.
Pleading Man: How should I know? I didn't ask her to!
The gun goes off. Gasps ripple through the crowd. The man collapses, his pleas fall silent.
Bandit Chief: Separate them, or you're next.
Blood spatters into the girl's eyes. She tucks her face into her shoulder, wiping the blood clean as she returns an icy glare at the chief.
???: I can cut them apart, but it'll be straight down the middle.
Bandit Chief: Don't make jokes with me!
???: I never joke.
Bandit Chief: ...
His hand tightens on the grip of the gun; the girl's life hangs on a sliver of metal.
Another shot snaps the crowd stiff.
But it's the chief who falls.
Stitched Bandit I: Ambush! Ambush!
At the word, the crowd scatters.
The girl flattens to the ground, forcing herself over to the bundle, where she promptly stuffs her torn fingers into her mouth.
Bullets whistle overhead. She scrunches into a ball.
The barrage drags on unbearably long. She clings to the ground like an old tree root.
At last, boots crunch closer through the din.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Well.
The girl lifts her head, and now she sees a long-haired woman dressed in a guerrilla uniform.
She gives the bandit chief's lifeless body a solid smack with her foot, then turns her gaze toward the girl kneeling on the ground.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Still kicking?
She crouches down, pulling the fingers from the girl's mouth with a look of concern, though her tone stays flippant.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Oh come on, how did you get this hungry? You can't eat these.
She turns toward her allies and shouts.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Shepherd! Get over here! Bring this girl something to eat!
At that, another guerrilla rushes over to untie the girl.
???: You know nothing.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Huh?
???: They're my fingers.
The guerrilla fighter glances at the fingers, then at the girl. She hesitates, then stuffs the fingers back into the girl's mouth.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: I've been all across Oreinósia, and not once have I seen anything like this.
The victorious guerrillas take over the bandits' spot. A few of them sit around the execution platform, watching the girl fiddle with her fingers.
???: Шев!
She brushes over the seam between the severed fingers and her palm, pulling them together with ease.
Though it leaves a visible line of stitching, her fingers begin to move freely, as though they were never severed.
Shepherd: Y-you reattached them just like that?!
The scrawny youth nicknamed Shepherd leans in with wide-eyed shock, staring at her finger as if it were a magic trick.
Bearded Man: Hahaha! Shepherd, go on, fetch your weeds. Let's see which herb can do that.
The bearded man kicks Shepherd, who clutches his sore side and shuffles to give him space.
A small man tags along behind the bearded giant as he makes his way up to his boss.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: That trick's pretty impressive. Can you heal others too?
The girl nods, then grabs a piece of hard bread beside her and wolfs it down.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Slow down, slow down. I'm afraid you'll swallow those fingers of yours.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Todor!
Bearded Man: Here!
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Go on, Todor, fetch us a basin of water.
The man's scowl is barely visible beneath his brown beard as thick as a lion's mane. He leaves with his lackey.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Where did you come from?
She lowers her head, trying to keep her eyes level with the girl's face.
But the girl keeps gobbling down food, ignoring her question.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Are you all by yourself?
Still no answer. Her cheeks bulge like a drum.
Watching this, the woman can't help but pat the girl's cheeks a few times.
???: ...?
The girl looks confused. It doesn't feel like a strike of anger, more like a friendly greeting.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Hey, what's your name?
Todor: Water's here!
The girl takes the basin full of water and plunges her head in for a gulp.
Shepherd: N-no, don't! That's not for drinking!
From a distance, Shepherd shouts in panic but shrinks back under Todor's glare.
He mumbles an explanation instead.
Shepherd: I-it's not clean ...
???: Ah ...
The girl stops to stare at her reflection in the basin.
???: I have no name, and I don't know where I came from.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Then you can join us. You seem to be in need of protection, and we're certainly in need of someone with your talents.
The girl's ears twitch. She glances around the woman, then suddenly bolts.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Stop her!
But the entire square is filled with ragtag soldiers. She scarcely makes it two steps before the hulking Todor seizes her.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Careful with her hand!
Todor: Right!
Despite her frantic struggle, she winds up bound and brought back to the guerrilla fighter.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: We're not the bad guys.
???: You're no different from those bandits. You use guns to get what you want.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: That's not true. I heard everything back there. You're a stray, aren't you? Just another victim of this damned war.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: We're your people.
The girl's face shows clear doubt. She can't even begin to understand the claim.
The girl carries a basin of bloody water in her clean hands, following behind the woman.
She lowers her head, watching it ripple with each step she takes.
The water stirs up against the basin's edge, splashing briefly, only to rebound and stir it even more.
???: I won't bleed for them! I protected that tavern keeper, and what did I get?!
Female Guerrilla Fighter: I don't need you to fight for them. I only need you to keep us alive.
???: Why? Just so you can rip this land apart piece by piece?
???: How are you any different from those bandits or the occupation's forces?
Female Guerrilla Fighter: This is our home.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: And it can be your home too, Iglika. You don't have to wander anymore.
???: Not "rat," not "slave." Iglika. That became my name.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: Wash the blood off your face and hands, then pour out that basin. Todor will fetch you some fresh water later so you can bathe.
Iglika sets the basin down on a crumbling table. Her shelter is an old gatehouse, damaged in some forgotten battle but still able to keep out the wind and rain.
Iglika: I won't go to the front. I'll only treat the wounded you bring back. That's our deal.
Shepherd lurks at a distance, both eager and fearful, eyeing the new "doctor" in their ranks.
Female Guerrilla Fighter: I never break my word. But since you've joined us, you'll follow the rules. And you'll address me properly.
Iglika: Yes, Captain Nusha.
Nusha: We're going to make a little home of our own here.
Corvus: To a little girl who grew up displaced, who never knew care from anyone else, that promise almost felt real.