Oh, this is good, she told herself. Talk yourself into fearing the absolute worst. Make sure you're as close to a state of panic as possible.
"I've got to pee," she said.
No answer.
"I can do it here. I can do it in my clothes. I can do it naked. I can do it in my clothes or naked wherever we're going. I can dribble it along the way. I can write my name in the snow. It's harder for girls, it requires a lot more athletic activity, but we can do it."
Still no answer.
"Or you can let me go to the bathroom."
"All right," he said.
"Which?"
"Bathroom." He walked out the door.
She followed him. Sure enough, there were soldiers out there. Ten of them. She stopped in front of one burly soldier and looked up at his face. "It's a good thing they brought you. If it had just been those other guys, I would have made my stand and fought to the death. But with you here, I had no choice but to give myself up. Good work, soldier."
She turned and walked on toward the bathroom. Wondering if she had seen just the faintest hint of a smile on that soldier's face. That wasn't in the movie script, was it? Oh, wait. The hero was supposed to have a smart mouth. She was right in character. Only now she understood that all those clever remarks that heroes made were designed to conceal their raw fear. Insouciant heroes aren't brave or relaxed. They're just trying not to embarrass themselves in the moments before they die.
She got to the bathroom and of course he came right in with her. But she'd been in Battle School and if she'd had a shy bladder she would have died of urea poisoning long ago. She dropped trou, sat on the John, and let go. The guy was out the door long before she was ready to flush.
There was a window. There were ceiling air ducts. But she was in the middle of nowhere and it's not like she had anywhere she could run. How did they do this in the vids? Oh, yeah. A friend would have already placed a weapon in some concealed location and the hero would find it, assemble it, and come out firing. That's what was wrong with this whole situation. No friends.
She flushed, rearranged her clothing, washed her hands, and walked back out to her friendly escorts.
They walked her outside to a convoy, of sorts. There were two black limousines and four escort vehicles. She saw two girls about her size and hair color get into the back of each of the limos. Petra, by contrast, was kept close to the building, under the eaves, until she was at the back of a bakery van. She climbed in. None of her guards came with her. There were two men in the back of the van, but they were in civilian clothes. "What am I, bread?" she asked.
"We understand your need to feel that you're in control of the situation through humor," said one of the men.
"What, a psychiatrist? This is worse than torture. What happened to the Geneva convention?"
The psychiatrist smiled. "You're going home, Petra."
"To God? Or Armenia?"
"At this moment, neither. The situation is still . . . flexible."
"I'd say it's flexible, if I'm going home to a place where I've never been before."
"Loyalties have not yet been sorted out. The branch of government that kidnapped you and the other children was acting without the knowledge of the army or the el
ected government--"
"Or so they say," said Petra.
"You understand my situation perfectly."
"So who are you loyal to?"
"Russia."
"Isn't that what they'll all say?"
"Not the ones who turned our foreign policy and military strategy over to a homicidal maniac child."
"Are those three equal accusations?" asked Petra. "Because I'm guilty of being a child. And homicide, too, in some people's opinion."