“The *who* of *what* now?” Zinaida sputtered, her mind still replaying the image of Anya’s snarling face and the frantic whispers of ‘life magic’. “And who are *you*? I’m not going anywhere. I have a botany lecture to avoid. It’s a very important avoidance.” Before she could protest further, or even attempt a kick to the shins, the man’s grip tightened on her elbow. It wasn’t painful, exactly, but it was certainly non-negotiable. He tugged, and Zina stumbled forward, nearly face-planting into his broad back as he pivoted sharply. He moved with a quiet, lethal grace that suggested far more experience with urgent departures than Zina had with anything beyond napping. “No time for explanations,” he murmured, his voice a low gravel rumble. “The Emperor’s patrols will be here any moment. Your… unscheduled botanical revival caused quite a stir.” Zina dug her heels in, or tried to. It was like trying to anchor herself to a departing train. “Unscheduled botanical revival? You mean my attempt to make a cabbage less wilted? And it worked! I’m a prodigy! Now, if you’ll just let go, I’m sure I can explain this all away as an elaborate, very convincing prank.” He ignored her, pulling her through a service door hidden behind a woven hanging depicting the glorious (and suspiciously verdant) history of the Voryan Empire. They emerged into a narrow, dimly lit passage Zina had never known existed, smelling faintly of dust and forgotten things. She usually stuck to paths where the sun could reach, for optimal napping conditions. Footsteps echoed from the main corridor, followed by the sharp, metallic clatter of Imperial sentry boots. “Split up! Search every wing! The informant saw her, a green light, near Sector Beta!” Zina went rigid. “Sector Beta? That’s my lecture hall! Oh, for the love of… I just wanted to nap!” Her abductor didn’t slow. “Follow close. Stay silent. Don’t draw attention.” His pale, river-slate eyes flickered over her, a flash of something unreadable. “And for the Light’s sake, don’t revive any more produce.” They wove through a labyrinth of dusty storage rooms, disused supply tunnels, and maintenance shafts, each turn bringing the sounds of the search party closer, then fading, then closer again. Zina, usually a master of passive resistance, found herself scrambling to keep up, her resentment bubbling. This was far too much effort for a Tuesday. She clutched her satchel to her chest, the worn strap biting into her collarbone. Inside, amidst her neglected textbooks and a half-eaten krendel, lay her most recent acquisition: a rather sad, long-bodied critter, stiff as a board, destined for a taxidermy project she would probably never start. She’d found it by the river and thought it looked… interesting. Now, as they ducked behind a stack of ancient botanical charts, she felt a sudden, inexplicable tremor emanate from within the satchel. A faint, sickly green glow pulsed through the satchel flap. Zina fumbled with the clasp. The carcass – the *dead* thing – twitched. Its tiny, bead-like eyes snapped open, a startling emerald green. It emitted a high-pitched, indignant squeak, then burst from the pouch with sudden speed. It was longer than she remembered, sleek and muscled, with fur that seemed to shimmer even in the gloom. The creature launched itself at the stranger's arm, sinking sharp teeth into the heavy hide of his sleeve. The cloaked man grunted, his stoic facade cracking for a fraction of a second. “What in the—?” “Kip!” Zina yelped, recognizing the little beast. “You’re alive! And you bit the scary man!” Kip released the man's arm with a triumphant flick of his head, then chattered excitedly. *“Tasty leather! Not as good as roasted squirrel, but a start! And this one smells… important. You woke me up, little sprout! What’s next? A banquet? A revolution? Or just more biting?”* The man stared at the now very-much-alive ferrety thing, then at Zina, his brow furrowed. “It talks?” “Only to me, apparently,” Zina said, still reeling. “And I didn’t mean to! He was a taxidermy project! Now he glimmers. And bites.” Kip wrapped himself around Zina’s arm, his long body surprisingly warm. *“Glimmer-weasel! I like it! Now, about that banquet…”* The man shook his head, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “No banquets. We need to move. Now.” They finally burst out of the Conservatory’s periphery, into the bustling, vibrant chaos of the Pryvitne market. The air, thick with the scent of roasted meat, spiced wine, and damp earth, was a welcome assault after the stale confines of the passages. Her captor pulled his hood lower, merging with the flow of humanity. Zina, still clutching Kip, tried to appear nonchalant, as if being hauled off by a grim-faced rebel with a talking beast was just another Tuesday errand. They pushed through crowds haggling over iridescent fish, past vendors hawking ornate lacework and rough-spun wool. The noise was deafening, a cacophony that almost drowned out the rising alarm bells from the Conservatory’s spires. Suddenly, a flash of Imperial crimson. An imperial scout, his helmet glinting in the late afternoon sun, spotted them. “There! The girl in green! Target in sight! Stop her!” Panic seized Zina. The market, once a shield, now felt like a net. The rebel shoved her behind him, drawing a short, wickedly curved blade from beneath his cloak with a whisper of steel. The imperial scout lunged, his saber arcing downwards. The cloaked fighter met the blow with a clang, the impact jarring through the crowded street. Another soldier appeared, circling. The cloaked fighter deflected and parried with fluid precision. But he was outnumbered. The first soldier feinted, then spun, his blade aimed not at the fighter, but at Zina, who stood frozen while Kip hissed indignantly from her perch. The cloaked man threw himself between Zina and the strike. The blade bit deep into his upper arm, a sickening rip of fabric and flesh. A sharp grunt escaped his lips, but he didn’t fall. He retaliated with a brutal kick that sent the soldier sprawling, gaze still fixed on Zina. “Run!” he gritted out, blood already blossoming across his dark tunic. “Go!” Zina stared at the gash, a red trench across his arm. Her vision swam. This wasn’t a wilted cabbage. This wasn’t a dead pelt. This was *real*. A man was bleeding, badly, because of her. She reached out, her hand trembling, driven by an unthinking urge to make it stop. Her fingers brushed the wound, the torn flesh hot and slick. A blinding emerald flash erupted from her palm, engulfing his torn flesh. The imperial soldiers, still struggling to regain their footing, cried out, shielding their eyes. When the light faded, Zina snatched her hand back as if burned. The gash was gone. Not healing, not scarring, but *gone*. The skin beneath the torn tunic was smooth, unblemished, as if it had never been cut. The man stared at his arm, then at Zina, his slate eyes stunned. Kip whistled from her collar. *“Well, that was efficient! Next time, try it on the swordsmen! Less running for my little sprout!”* Zina felt a cold dread settle in her stomach, eclipsing the panic. This power wasn’t just for plants. It was… terrifying. And it was hers. “She healed him! She’s a witch!” one of the recovering soldiers shrieked, pointing. “Get her!” More watchmen swarmed from the market’s periphery, their shouts echoing. The rebel grabbed Zina’s hand with calloused fingers. “No time for questions. Move!” He dragged her down a narrow alley between towering brick buildings, the pursuit roaring behind them. They sprinted, the sound of boots gaining. At the end of the alley, a dead wall of grimy brick loomed, impenetrable. A trap. They were trapped. They looked back, panting, to see the alley mouth choked with Imperial troops, their breastplates gleaming, weapons drawn in an inescapable semicircle.

A Most Inconvenient Abduction