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Purgatory [Pam/Open]
Lisbeth spoke aloud in Swedish: "What a pathetic fool you are, Salander."
After deciding she was in love Mikael Blomkvist and going so far as to buy him a thoughtful gift and a confession of her feelings, she saw the journalist with his boss and -- their body language had been quite obvious as to their intentions -- lover. Lisbeth turned on a heel and began to walk home, throwing the gift into a dumpster when she had really wanted to throw it at Berger's head!
By now she should have passed Zinkensdamm, but instead found herself on a street that could not have existed anywhere in Stockholm. The night sky had turned to black and there were only stars, brighter than stars in a city ever should be, to light to path on the sidewalk.
I've lost it, she thought. I am completely insane and it's Mikael Fucking Blomkvist's fault.
It was a nice sentiment but if Lisbeth had gone mad, she wouldn't have imagined a city like this. She remained dead calm as she walked, in case it was some sort of temporary insanity that fresh air might correct. It didn't and, Lisbeth began to suspect, the roads were shifting on her. Her sense of direction was aided by a photographic memory. The alleys and turns she took didn't add up.
Lisbeth saw a bar, Purgatory, up ahead. Her mind had already considered several scenarios which might account for her Wonderland-like displacement. If she was drugged or had gone insane it was probably an appropriate time to get crawl-home drunk. The bar's interior didn't make Salander feel much better about her situation, looking like two establishments cut and glued together in half. On one side, there were burly North American looking rednecks. On the other, goths who were decked out in various degrees of fetish gear.
And everyone was speaking English with North American accents.
Lisbeth had the don't-fuck-with-me attitude of a hunter, but the tattoos and piercings of a fangbanger. The truth was that she didn't belong on either side. She took a seat at the bar as close to the invisible divider as she could and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. Lisbeth didn't see any No Smoking signs, and was having the sort of day where she couldn't be assed to care about any ordinances, either.
"Vodka," she said while holding up three fingers. The shots were just to start.
After deciding she was in love Mikael Blomkvist and going so far as to buy him a thoughtful gift and a confession of her feelings, she saw the journalist with his boss and -- their body language had been quite obvious as to their intentions -- lover. Lisbeth turned on a heel and began to walk home, throwing the gift into a dumpster when she had really wanted to throw it at Berger's head!
By now she should have passed Zinkensdamm, but instead found herself on a street that could not have existed anywhere in Stockholm. The night sky had turned to black and there were only stars, brighter than stars in a city ever should be, to light to path on the sidewalk.
I've lost it, she thought. I am completely insane and it's Mikael Fucking Blomkvist's fault.
It was a nice sentiment but if Lisbeth had gone mad, she wouldn't have imagined a city like this. She remained dead calm as she walked, in case it was some sort of temporary insanity that fresh air might correct. It didn't and, Lisbeth began to suspect, the roads were shifting on her. Her sense of direction was aided by a photographic memory. The alleys and turns she took didn't add up.
Lisbeth saw a bar, Purgatory, up ahead. Her mind had already considered several scenarios which might account for her Wonderland-like displacement. If she was drugged or had gone insane it was probably an appropriate time to get crawl-home drunk. The bar's interior didn't make Salander feel much better about her situation, looking like two establishments cut and glued together in half. On one side, there were burly North American looking rednecks. On the other, goths who were decked out in various degrees of fetish gear.
And everyone was speaking English with North American accents.
Lisbeth had the don't-fuck-with-me attitude of a hunter, but the tattoos and piercings of a fangbanger. The truth was that she didn't belong on either side. She took a seat at the bar as close to the invisible divider as she could and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. Lisbeth didn't see any No Smoking signs, and was having the sort of day where she couldn't be assed to care about any ordinances, either.
"Vodka," she said while holding up three fingers. The shots were just to start.