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Maybe a day had passed since Kadyrelite had told her it was January 4th. Maybe. At this point, she was just guessing -- Hvergelmir had no way of knowing how much time had passed each time she slept, and she'd given up singing to herself to try and keep time. She was too tired anymore, and trying to go through the songs in her head was too unreliable. Still, it was important -- probably -- to have a sense of time, so she decided on one arbitrarily. A day had passed. It was January 5th.

Last drink of water: January 4th. Last bathroom break: January 4th. Last food: January 1st. Starvation was a very slow death, and incredibly tiring. She could tell they were already having to go to less effort to keep her energy sufficiently drained to prevent her accessing her magic.

Most of her treatment had been tolerable, so far, if cruel. Aside Schörl -- who'd left her mark in the form of the Cosmos star shape carved into Hvergelmir's left palm, and the matching one on the small of her back -- many of her visitors had been tame. A few friends, to offer apologies or small favors. Zircon, with her clipboard and her dry demands. And a few other odd visits, people who came to Hvergelmir expecting only entertainment or comfort, and assumed that even in these circumstances, they would find in her a giving audience to serve their needs. (They did, at that: Kadyrelite and Cinnabar both. Dubiously likely though it was of paying off, Hvergelmir figured it was never too late to take the chance that someone might feel sympathetic enough to her to offer her some help. She answered their questions like a good little helper.) There hadn't been much actual interrogation. She wondered if they were short-staffed.

The room around her -- the puppeteer's workshop, lines of marionettes in different stages of completion hanging around her -- was dark, as ever, though her eyes had long since adjusted as best they could. A tiny sliver of light from under the door was her constant compass rose in the room; when she was especially bored, she watched pale dust motes move through it.

Now, a series of shadows broke the bar of light into dashes: two pairs of feet. Two visitors. She tried to sit up a little straighter in the chair she was chained to, but the open wounds on her back and her hand gave her hell for fidgeting, and she didn't have much of anywhere to go, anyway. The door swung wide to admit them both.

Hvergelmir recognized the first face -- though it had gotten older in the ensuing years, and was framed in more ostentatious finery. The second one was new to her.

"Buddingtonite," she said with a hint of surprise, "I didn't realize this was your division now."

He turned to Jet, offering the young officer a smile and motioning for him to step forward, and he explained, some pleasantries in his voice though more or less professional, despite their surroundings. "Oh no, please, don't think like that. My division is still in recruitment and public relations. I'm simply here for two reasons: to assist my esteemed lieutenant here in questioning you, and for the fun of it. Are we ready to begin?"

Jet stood close to Buddingtonite as the General greeted the knight. Hvergelmir, huh…? He’d heard whispers about her, others who had encountered her. Apparently she claimed she had no ill will towards the Negaverse, and yet she was there, saying she would answer questions, but clearly she was lying, or why would they keep her alive if they didn’t think she had any more useful information? She was a tricky one, he could tell that right away.

He scowled when she spoke about him to Buddingtonite, but not to him. “I’m not very young,” he hissed, although he glanced up at the General to make sure he wasn’t overstepping his boundaries. With the other, when he was on his own, he had no qualms against beating on them, but this was General Buddingtonite. He knew to be on his best behavior if he ever wanted to amount to anything in the Negaverse. Maybe his brother would have been proud of him.

If given the opportunity, he would happily give her the same treatment he gave to all the others. A good kick or punch to make her more cooperative was all it took, usually.

Buddingtonite really had changed -- or was very good at covering up his humanity with showmanship. Either way, there was no getting around the issue of the boy he'd taken off the street and duped into the Negaverse, nor this new one. He was responsible for that, one way or another.

And the new lieutenant really did look terrifyingly, heartbreakingly young.

"Your predecessor was called Schreibersite," she told Jet, turning to him at last. "He was a penniless, confused homeless boy that General Buddingtonite bought into the Negaverse for the price of a bar of candy. Evidently it didn't take him long to get bored of that one and move on to," her lips settled briefly in a thin, disapproving line, "greener pastures."

"My tattoo," she said stiffly, still in a sour, concerned mood mainly to do with Buddingtonite's burgeoning collection of young, impressionable boys, and her general concerns that he was maybe some kind of a *****, "is the seal of my Wonder. It shows that if I break my oath of non-violence against Negaverse agents, it'll hold me accountable. It's got nothing to do with Ganymede or..."

(It was, in fact, a little hard to refer to someone as 'Penicillin' with a straight face and maintain one's serious, stern tone. Unfortunately, not knowing who he meant, she had no other option.)

"...Penicillin."