hiddeninsnow: (Dragon.)
Lisbeth Salander liked the empty city.

The city wasn't entirely empty, of course. There were others, others who had been taken out of worlds like and unlike her own. At this moment, Lisbeth had decided to follow the simplest theory she could come to: they were stuck there for no real reason, and just by chance.

Chance meant all manner of things could happen.

Chance had her the daughter of a war criminal. Chance had her fall in love, chance broke her heart.

By chance she'd found a punching bag in what looked to be a gym. She was much better than many of the others about looting the stores, and tended to leave money and as few broken windows as possible. The punching bag now hung from the frame of what had once been a set of swings. Lisbeth had uninstalled the swings with ease, and now she hit at the bag, her knuckles wrapped in athletic tape.

She didn't like gloves. They left out feeling.

Her usual bag and jacket were on a nearby picnic table, and the sun was slowly setting, casting shadows all around. Even so, she noticed quickly that one of those shadows didn't belong, and she turned with coiled muscles.

"Oh. It's you."

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Lisbeth Salander

March 2015

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