So just some international glossary things
Panadol is another name for paracetamol, acetominophen, tylenol etc.
Berocca is one of those fizzy vitamin things people dissovle in water and drink when they're feeling under the weather.
Wallabies are like mini-kangaroos.
Oh, and our possums are waayyyy cuter than American possums. And really small, too.

Also just wanted to thank everyone who has left a review. They make me so happy! I always really appreciate all your feedback so please keep leaving them 3

With that out of the way, enjoy ^^

Elsa downs two Panadol with a Berocca as she squints through the dirty window into the morning sun. Her head is killing her. She is severely sleep deprived. Her dickhead boss called in the middle of the night and demanded she drive to Canberra and back, last minute, no warning. The nation's leaders need their coke, of course. And someone has to deliver it.

So that leaves her with what feels like two knives poking her eyes and grumpy, sluggish thoughts. She scrolls through facebook absentmindedly and sips her shitty roadhouse coffee. Many tasks require her attention today, but the other guys are gone and she has the place to herself, at least. Peace and quiet only found in complete solitude. Apart from Anna, of course. But hostages don't really count. For these one or two terrible weeks of their lives, well, they aren't really people.

Of course, she will still check in on Anna before starting work. Make sure she's still alive. Memories of yesterday flood back to her and a soft note of shame creeps into her bitter coffee as she thinks of that busted nose. She is used to this, though. She has resigned to the cobwebs of guilt and regret that hide in the corners of her mind. The knowledge that she is not contributing anything good to the world. Only death and despair. The sense that she is sinking deeper every day, becoming unrecognisable. Unhuman. It doesn't bother her too much any more. It's become a faint discomfort, like small, itchy mosquito bites on the back of her soul.

And yet, despite all this, despite what she is and what she has done, Anna's face unmistakably lights up when she enters the room. Like a Christmas tree. She is so delighted by her instant coffee, the bread and butter, fresh ice pack and a lighter to ignite her cigarettes. So grateful. She looks at the Panadol suspiciously, though, 'What's this? Are you drugging me again? I've only been up for a few hours!'

'It's just Panadol. For your face. It looks pretty painful.'

Her nose is very swollen and it's irritating to look at. Kind of like when a stunning mural gets defaced with mindless scribbles. That shit really grinds Elsa's gears. So disrespectful.

'Oh,' Anna takes the pills and squints at the little P, 'Thanks. It's okay, though. You know what's really painful? The boredom!'

It's not exactly boatloads of fun checking and rechecking the numbers for credit card fraud, either. But Elsa says nothing, because it's not like she'd want to trade places.

'Could I maybe have my weed? So I can at least think some entertaining thoughts while I stare at the same twelve trees for another eight hours?'

'It shouldn't be too much longer now.' Elsa says, 'I'll see if there's a magazine or something.'

As it turns out, there are a few trashy magazines lying around. No one will admit to buying them, but Elsa's money is on Patch. The kind with wildly unbelievable headlines like, My Husband left me for a Tumble Dryer, or My boobs are haunted, and puzzles at the back where you can win, like, an ironing board or some boring shit nobody wants or needs. Elsa's mum used to buy them all the time, and it was maddening. The stories are obviously fake and nobody ever wins the prizes, it's a total scam.

Anna, as it turns out, disagrees.

'Hey, I love this magazine!' Of course she does. 'Her dead son came back as a pig? Oh, that's crazy! I can't wait to read this. Thank you!'

Elsa rolls her eyes, throws a pen to the ground, and leaves.

It's around midday when her headache comes back. She closes her laptop, takes off her glasses, and rubs her eyes. She's powered through her work, actually pretty much finished all of it without any distractions, and her posture has paid the price. She goes back to the kitchen and drinks a whole glass of water, makes another coffee, stretches her neck, but to no avail. It's when she pops another two Panadol out of the packet that her thoughts return to Anna. Her painkillers have likely worn off too. It wouldn't hurt to offer her some more. And some lunch - she's only a skinny little thing as it is, wouldn't want to starve her too much. Best to check she hasn't passed out from the heat or anything. It does happen on the odd occasion.

'Oh, I get a lunch time visit, now? And more bread! You sure know how to make a girl feel special.' Anna flutters her eyelashes. Yeah, she's being tongue-in-cheek. It's still refreshing, a nice break from pathetic, snivelling hostages with no sense of humour. 'Not surprising, though. I do have a way of growing on people.'

'Yeah. Like a tumour.' Elsa holds back an unexpected smile and offers the Panadol, 'Do you need a fresh ice pack?'

'It's fine, doesn't really hurt.' She gulps them down, nonetheless.

Elsa raises one eyebrow. She has had her nose broken before, and she knows that it does, in fact, really hurt. 'You know, you don't need to act tough. It's a broken bone. It hurts.'

'It's technically cartilage. Although in my case I think it's mostly mush at this point.' She says nonchalantly, and pokes at the soft mound of swollen flesh between her eyes, 'Nothing left to break!'

'Stop poking yourself!' A strange kind of anxiety is twisting Elsa's gut. She swore to herself she wouldn't get drawn into some ridiculous conversation. Her logical brain says she doesn't want to know. But she needs to know. Not because she cares or anything corny like that. Just because, well, she prides herself on getting a full and comprehensive picture of a person, of their life, of their family. Being able to predict the whole process, every action and reaction. Knowing her hostages better than they know themselves. That's just good professional practice. 'Who hurts you?'

'Huh?' Anna looks adorably confused with her mouth stuffed full of bread. Wait, no, not adorably. Just confused. Like the stupid little rich girl she is. Yeah, that's better.

It's usually the boyfriend. But she has no boyfriend, at least, not one who she contacts regularly or mentions at all. When it's not the boyfriend, then it's usually the father. But that just doesn't seem right. Their text message history doesn't read like that of a violent or abusive relationship. He cried on the phone, according to the last update, begging them not to hurt his little girl. So then, what? Is she part of some kind of underground fight club? Does she break her own nose to get the attention of some attractive Emergency Room nurse? Jump into enclosures and box kangaroos as a dare? The possibilities are endless, and endlessly disturbing.

'Your nose. Why is your cartilage mostly mush? Does someone abuse you?'

'Ha!' She gives a knowing smile, 'Oh, you must be an only child.'

'What?'

'Personally I don't believe in astrology. It's like, tell me your birth order. That's where the real formative damage happens. Right?'

'I-' Elsa is not following, 'What does this have to do with your mushy boneless face?'

'I have a brother,' Anna shrugs, 'We fight. It's normal.'

'And he breaks your nose?'

'Sometimes.' Anna smiles like she's remembering something funny.

This is worse than Elsa thought. She has the sense that she's stepping into a rabbit hole she won't easily get out of. And yet her feet (or rather her mouth) keep moving. She can't help herself. She may be a terrible person, a murderer, liar, thief and all the rest of it. But all her victims are strangers, usually crooks themselves. Elsa does have a tiny, withered scrap of a soul left, and she cannot stand a man who terrorises his own family. It's cowardly, for a start. And families are supposed to love and protect each other. Even she understands that.

'That's not normal, Anna. That's family violence, and it's never okay. If it happens again, you should file a report-'

'No, no!' She says casually. 'You've got the wrong idea. It's not like that. I provoke him.'

Elsa sighs. Classic battered-wife syndrome. How depressing. She can't believe she's about to have this talk. With her hostage! Next thing you know, she'll be explaining where babies come from, and it won't even be the weirdest part of this whole ordeal. 'It's not your fault. No matter what he says. Take it from me, violence is a choice. And you don't deserve-'

'No, no, no, no, no, no! You really, truly have the wrong idea!' Anna cuts her off, 'I really do provoke him. Like, on purpose. Relentlessly. I put mouse traps in his slippers. I stab him with skewers. Put horse poo in his coffee. Put super-glue in his ear. One time when he was passed out on cold and flu medicine, I nearly managed to pull his tooth out with pliers, but tragically he woke up before I could really give it a really good yank.'

What. The fuck? Elsa is speechless. Just gobsmacked. In the absence of sense or reason, she simply takes one of Anna's cigarettes and lights it, contemplating the actual mechanics of getting pliers inside somebody's mouth while they sleep without waking them up. Perhaps they should recruit her. Part of Elsa is relieved. But another part of her whispers sinister implications into her mind's ear. Maybe Anna isn't someone she wants as an enemy.

No, that's ridiculous. Not this little girl who looked so vulnerable on the mattress the first night, with her freckly little legs and soft breathing, and earnest request for a hug of all things. There must be a reason. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe he started it.

'I'm almost afraid to ask, Anna, but… why?'

'Honestly, I'm ashamed to admit this, but, for the likes. It's true what they say about social media. It's so addictive. That dopamine hit from the likes and comments - better than coke, man. Worth every beating. I had a tiktok account with almost a million followers. We were world famous. It started with, like, fake spiders on his pillow or whatever, then people started sending in requests and they got more and more extreme... But daddy put his foot down and made me delete it. Such a party pooper. He said it would be bad for Hans' political career, but I think it would actually help. Australians love a good sport, right? A politician who can laugh at himself? And I say this with all the love in the world, but he has a little bit of a likeability problem. And a hearing problem, too, now, but the ENT surgeon says his ear canal should make a full recovery in time.'

Elsa spins around and faces out the window so that Anna won't see her laugh, but an audible snort escapes her face regardless. She shouldn't laugh. She recognises that what she's hearing is objectively horrible. Her brother probably has PTSD. But the prospect that Anna has the capacity for such barbarism makes Elsa feel… relieved. Also horrified. Also disgusted with herself - partly because who is she to judge anyone else's acts of violence or their reasons for engaging in them? Because also partly because the image of that cheeky little grin, and the twinkle in those eyes as she stabs her poor brother with a fork or whatever should not be so funny! or so cute. Although a million followers apparently enjoyed it, too, so apparently she isn't alone. They hadn't even bothered checking if she had a TikTok account. Elsa had thought that app was just something school kids used for dancing or whatever. It's all so deeply confusing and conflicting, like a swirling storm inside, and that must be why Elsa is laughing. Right? Who knows. She's deeply emotionally constipated, there's no point denying that.

The bright light stings her eyes and she rubs them vigorously, having still not conquered her headache, and now additionally burdened by philosophical questions like, what is the relationship of violence to human nature? Why do we like to watch other people's suffering? Is Tiktok the new YouTube, and is Elsa getting old and out of touch at twenty-three?

'Let's go outside!

Well that's… ambitious. 'Yes, we always let our hostages go outside whenever they feel like it. How about a foot massage and a cocktail while we're at it?'

Apparently this is hilarious to Anna, 'Oh, classic! But seriously, have you even been outside at all today? Or have you been staring at a screen in a dark, stuffy room all morning like a miserable sexless drone? I think you work too hard. Take a break!'

Huh. This is sounding awfully familiar. Rather like the tactic Elsa used just yesterday to get Patch to leave her alone.

'Yeah, so you can run off into the bush-'

'I won't!'

'I think we've established that you will.'

'No, I promise! I just want a coffee and a cigarette outside in the fresh air and then I promise I won't ask for anything else until this whole thing is over!' She springs into the plastic chair, stiffly holding one foot on each of the front legs and her hands over the armrests. 'You can tie me to the chair!'

Elsa doesn't even have to say it. With just a lowering of her chin, a raising of her eyebrows, and a crossing of her arms, Anna clarifies, 'It's not a weird kink thing, I swear.'

Despite this, she bites her lip and blushes as Elsa once again wraps the duct tape around her ankles, and this time around her wrists as well, and drags the girl-in-chair through the second secure metal door - the one that leads straight outside. A brick holding it open should let a bit of airflow through. It does get stifling in that little room, in the afternoon, and that's the only reason she's doing this. It's a real pain when hostages get heat stroke. All that babbling and vomiting. Better to avoid it.

Anna takes breath so deep and blissful, one would think she'd been stuck in a cave for a month. But it is actually very nice to be outside, not doing anything, just taking a genuine break. Anna is right, even if it's just a manipulative tactic. Elsa does work too hard. And her headache eases in the gentle sounds of nature.

'It's beautiful out here.' Anna says. 'Look at that wattle, it's so bright.'

She's right. The cool breeze is fresh and delightful, a relief from the chemical, metallic smells inside, and the thick, oppressive darkness. The stuffy rooms with black curtains to keep out the heat and keep the inside activities hidden, just in case. It does get a little depressing. Elsa spends so much time at this base, and she often takes an occasional moment to note the untouched beauty of the wilderness all around. The almost purple tones of the gum trees and the gentle green of their leaves against the wide open blue sky with its billowing clouds. And the wattle is indeed bright crimson against the earthy tones of the landscape. But usually these quick moments of appreciation are stolen away from the constant crunch of work demands.

Begrudgingly, she admits to herself that it's kind of nice to just pause, from all of it. And it's… interesting to have another person to acknowledge it with. She doesn't hate it.

The singing might be taking it a little far, though. A cheery little melody, wordless and bright. It starts out soft, as though she's waiting to see if Elsa will tell her off. And slowly it gets bolder, louder, swaying her body lightly in the breeze and letting her sweet notes carry through the dry, crunchy eucalypt forest.

Out of the corner of her eye, Elsa spots movement and freezes. Her hand drifts to her gun, but she relaxes as she realises it's just a little wallaby. 'Anna, look.' she whispers and points.

They both keep still, not wanting to scare it away. Wallabies are timid little things. It's unusual to see one out at this time of day, all by itself. It could be lost.

The tune on Anna's lips slows and quiets, but she doesn't stop completely. The funny little creature seems to actually be moving closer to the sound. It cocks it's head curiously. Anna cocks her head back, and it hops slowly, hesitantly over, until it's close enough to touch, just looking at them with its big, dark, innocent animal eyes. Eventually it sniffs at her bound hands, and she awkwardly maneuvers them to scratch it between the ears.

That's unfair. Elsa wants to pet the wallaby, too. She gasps as something scratches on the tin roof above them. It's a little possum, scampering down the post. It, too, sniffs at Anna's feet, and crawls into her open hands, not even resisting her little kisses. Seriously? As well as being notoriously people-shy, they're bloody nocturnal, for crying out loud!

Next come the birds. Of course they do. Three rainbow lorikeets. One settles on her shoulder, another on her knee, and the last one on her head. It must tickle because she giggles as they nibble on her hair and ears. It almost looks like they're dancing. Bobbing in time to her humming, while the possum sits satisfied in her lap and the wallaby continues receiving its scratches.

All the while she keeps singing her little song.

'Oh, come on!' The animals scatter at Elsa's frustrated voice. She's big enough to admit she's a little jealous. She's been a vegan for six years, and this is how she gets repaid? 'What are you, a fucking Disney princess or something?'

'Well not any more, thanks to you.' She awkwardly manages to pull a cigarette out of its case and holds it out to Elsa, beckoning for a light and receiving it, 'It's called having good vibes. Less time chopping off fingers and more time sucking on fingers. This could have been you! But you chose a life of crime.'

A murder of crows settles in a particularly dry tree over to their left, cawing their harsh, judgemental caws. Stupid crows. What would they know about Elsa's life? 'I didn't choose this life.'

'Right. You just misread the job description. Thought you were signing up to deliver UberEats. Easy mistake to make. Could happen to anyone.'

It's Elsa's turn to laugh. For the second time today. It feels strange and unfamiliar on her face. Like her laugh muscles are stiff and dusty. She wouldn't mind doing it more often, perhaps. But she does feel the need to explain herself, at least briefly, 'I'm in debt.'

There's a brief moment of utter relief as she shares this secret. This burden she cannot lay down. This ugly beast that clings to her back. This tower she has found herself locked in for so many years, only able to watch from the inside and imagine a normal life. Of course, there would be others in her situation, but it's not wise to share these kinds of weaknesses in this industry. Relief quickly turns to shame as Anna nods and her face softens. 'The kind of debt an honest man can't pay, huh?'

Gross. She shouldn't have said anything. Is there anything more humiliating than being pitied by your own hostage? Now she'll have to shoot Anna in the leg or something to re-establish the power dynamic. But the softness doesn't turn to pity. Just a quiet understanding, 'How much?'

She can't. She shouldn't. But the relief is too sweet, like nectar in the desert. They'll probably never see each other once this is over, anyway. 'About five mil.'

Anna grimaces and breathes in sharply, 'That's rough, buddy.'

Elsa manages to smile briefly, 'It's fine. It's my own fault. I made one stupid mistake and- Never mind. Sorry I scared your animals away-'

The phone rings. It's Crowbar. 'Snowflake, are you at the Lockhart base?'

'I am. Why?'

'You need to leave. Now.'

Great. Just perfect. A rival syndicate is speeding down the highway, armed and angry, heading toward them this very second to raid the place.