“I do love my job,” the mustached man said with a sneer. “It allows me to enjoy every single time you act like a GODDAMN RETARDED MONKEY ON CRACK! Because of you, we now have to reposition somewhere else! Not only that, but we have to escort your new friends along as well!”
“Hey, we killed three of them!” Benson shouted back. “I ain’t doin’ no guard duty shity for these prisoners.”
“You don’t have any right to make demands right now! One of your three kills could very well have been friendly.”
“Bullshit!” jumped in little Timmy. “Everyone knows to kill the bitches. I can’t believe you would buy into their lies. They’re traitors!”
“Don’t get me started on you BOY! I’ve got a whole list just from today!”
“Hey, he’s just a kid. Don’t yell at him like that!”
“You’re just asking for it, aren’t you Benson?”
“We agreed to make you the leader, not the fucking king! So back off!”
…
“It’s amazing you aren’t dead yet,” an eloquent and smooth voice said.
Ignacio merely nodded. His eyes hurt, or at least where his eyes should be hurt. Their phantom pains stung worse than the cold bruise on the back of his head.
“I didn’t expect to see another survivor,” the voice continued, “especially a blind kid.”
‘It’s a recent thing,’ Ignacio thought to himself. He gave a non-committal grunt instead.
“Your friend; she’s one of them, isn’t she?”
Ignacio snorted in laughter, unable to hold the chuckle in.
“Is something funny?”
“What was your first clue?” Ignacio smirked. “My laughter?”
“So you’re a funny man are you? Open your mouth, I need you temperature.”
“Better than living in fear and despair all of the time.”
A glass stick was stuck in his mouth. He closed his lips around the thermometer.
“Maybe,” responded the voice, “but sometimes we need that feeling to keep us alive.”
Ignacio scowled as best he could around the instrument.
“Oh well,” carried on the cultured voice. “You’re young. If you survive this, you’ll learn what I mean.”
…
“Feeding time.”
A bowl half-full of slop was dropped before her, the contents sloshing all over the floor.
Margarita said nothing, didn’t even move as the muscular man closed the door, a loarge unlit cigar hanging from his lips.
She simply stared at the walls of her new prison, silent and still, as cold as the air around her.
…
Many of the prisoners had taken to calling her Baby Blue. She wasn’t sure where or why they had come up with the name. The few times she had bothered to ask the prisoner in question would say that that was what they all called her. Still, it was a name that she had grown fond of.
This, of course, mattered little to the one she was currently with as she ripped out one of his fingernails.
“Goddamn you, you fuckin’ bitch!” he cried out. “I’ll kill you!”
“There, there,” she cooed, tossing the bloody nail aside, “you know you don’t mean that.” She grabbed his middle finger by the nail next. “It’s not like I want to hurt you.”
“Fuck you!”
His screams echoed throughout the room.
…
4X2N-GT194 smiled at the soft click of the round sliding into the firing chamber.
It was a sound that always made her smile anew, a sound that meant a good fight and an even better meal later.
The rest of the unit ignored the Guntit as they continued their chase.
Yesterday, two Racks had failed to return from a routine demolition job on a small motor vehicle collection.
When the scouting unit found the charred remains of the two pokegirls, the commander had ordered the hunt.
Theirs was a small unit, only six in number, but they had a little more versatility than most squads with a Charmelons, Frostbite, Barrier Maiden, Spiderwoman, the Guntit, and their commander, a Dominatrix.
“Stop,” said the Spiderwoman suddenly. “We’re here.”
Grinning, the Guntit pulled out an SMG. “How many?” she asked with her devilish grin growing ever wider.
Concentrating, the part psychic pokegirl pressed her fingers to against the temple of her forehead.
“Three guards,” she said at last. “A blast in the middle could get them all.”
“Heh, this way’s more fun,” the Guntit said as she ran out, guns blazing.
“If she lives,” the Dominatrix said fingering her whips, “twenty lashes. If she dies, we’ll kill ‘em all.”
The rest of the unit smiled, praying for their comrade’s quick death.
…
Little Timmy as he was known to the rest of the small militia band was young, just a week shy of being fourteen. Although the youngest of the group, he had quickly become a favored member of the militia.
As he sat huddled with his two companions keeping watch for the Monsters, he retold the argument between Benson and the Commander.
“So then Ben set him straight, gave him a good ol’ one-two.”
The other guards nodded.
“It’s ‘bout damn time,” said one, “he’s been letting it go to his head lately.”
“Plus, he’s a fuckin’ prick,” said the other. Then his head exploded into a shower of red.
“Fuck!”
“Enemy attack!” Timmy screamed into his radio as he ran to the entrance.
…
“Phooie,” pouted the Guntit, “I only got one.”
With a crying charge she ran forward, bullets spraying everywhere.
…
Painful alarms rang in his ears.
“Hey,” Ignacio called out, “what’s going on?”
“We’re under attack,” the cultured voice told him. “We need to get you out of here.”
Ignacio reached out and grabbed what felt like a sleeve.
“Where’s Margarita?”
…
Pulling the pin, Timmy tossed a grenade at the Monster.
The commander was right, the damn thing had led them straight here.
Benson would fix it. He had to.
…
The entire office roared with fire and flame.
His mustache twitching, the militia commander looked down at the small revolver in his hand.
With only a single bullet, it had just one purpose.
Taking a deep breathe, he placed the barrel beneath his chin, and closed his eyes.
‘This is my failure,’ he thought to himself.
“Not yet,” growled a soft voice, as small hands grabbed him by the wrists.
He opened his eyes to a huge pair of breasts.
“Wh-who are you?” he stammered.
“I am the way,” said the cleavage, “prepare for salvation.”
…
“This is it,” the cultured voice told Ignacio, putting his hand on the handle to the small shed. “From here there’s a storm drain on the other side of the fence.”
There was a strong clap on Ignacio’s back. “Survive. Learn from it.”
“Thanks,” said Ignacio.
There was no response, only silence.
…
Benson checked his ammo.
Only two clips left, and he was fighting a goddamned fire-breathing lizard.
It was all just fucking ridiculous.
“I hate this shit,” he shouted as he tossed his last grenade at the long snout sticking out from the door frame.
…
She steeled herself as the doorframe slowly opened.
It had taken them long enough to get around to killing her. They must have been wanting to try and make her suffer. So why was she so at peace with that thought?
Yolanda. Her sister-daughter.
“Margarita,” asked a familiar voice.
Opening her eyes, Margarita found herself looking back at the emptiness of Ignacio’s, concern etched in his face.
Ignacio. Why was he here? And all alone, as well.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. “We need to get out of here, this place is being attacked.”
“I’m fine,” she said suddenly. So be it.
Concentrating, she let the metal bracelets around her writs grow brittle. With a jerking tug, they fell apart.
“Let’s go,” he said, grabbing her by the arm.
…
As ordered, she sat there waiting.
While not always accurate, fortune telling and abilities of foresight provided a definite idea of how a battle was likely to go. So when a psychic said to be somewhere, it was usually necessary.
Still, the uncertainty and doubt was a bitch, so she while she sat, she cleaned her shield.
Her “shield” as it were, was a car door. The window had long since been shattered, broken even before she had ripped it from the rest of the vehicle.
Although not as effective as a proper shield, she found that she preferred it to more “traditional” armament.
As she was buffing off a scuff mark, her light suddenly disappeared. She looked up to see two figures squeezing through the narrow storm drain.
Smiling, she stood up, shield in hand.
“Hello,” she said with a smile as they dropped to the ground.
Bonking both of them in the head, she knocked them into unconsciousness.
…
The unit growled around her.
Eyes. It was just a pair of eyes. Eyes that she had already eaten even.
Crushing the soft orbs in her fingers, she howled, unaware of the form that silently faded into the shadows.