You waddle, with all the copious nobility your ankle-chain allows for, up to her.
The rebel.
The one that put you in this cell, and stands on the other side of a painted line — same colour as the sand she threw you into; left your mech behind in, to be recovered later.
You smile, same as then, cos’ they’ve got it now and she’s just figured out that you’re fucking untouchable. Not that she dares show it on her split-lip, frigid-bitch face, arms a trench line across her chest, in a red-dusted bomber — yours, with the patches and medals torn off.
You don’t even think she looks bad in it. But she would look better with it off.
There’s no stripshow. Instead, she peers down a thrice-broken nose and sneers, “The data vault in your mech. It had one accessible file: the SWN-6B Swan.”
“Not gonna call it impressive, but it’s common. Messes up ambushes, can fuck on a patrol time-to-time,” she continues. “Until we had this — the entire declassified spec. IFF codes? Scrambled. Transponder? Tracked. Buncha design fuck-ups we didn’t spot.”
Boots tread onto the line; she puffs you up on her own breath.
“You’re not supposed to have that.”
And— that’s a statement, not a question. Huh.
You suppose cos’ aces are still grunts, no matter the shine — and whine, almost as if you’re confused. Your hands held at the tips, you look up doe-eyed and twist your feet till the chain scrapes and her mouth curls.
And she — she wants to look tough. But you both know, like all rebels, that she’s soft. It really wouldn’t have been much trouble to starve this outta you — it’s what you’d do — but oh how the rebels must insist on being ‘better’ than your evil empire.
Boo-hoo. Tough shit, soft girl.
“It’s a sample,” she cracks. “Right?”
“644 files,” you slip to her. “Production specs for a bunch of small arms. Coordinates on some factories, listening posts, and more. Full run-down for all our mechanised stuff: tanks and mechs both, got ya some fighters, think I might’ve snagged a battleship?” You beam at each one, like it’s a bigger and bigger laser cannon under the christmas tree.
“And it’s all locked,” the rebel spits, sends a glob of something tobacco-infused to the damp concrete floor. “You tell us how to access it and things’ll look better for you.”
But presents aren't supposed to be unwrapped before the special day.
“One file each day, at noon,” you offer, smooth poison on a sunlit tongue, and twirl about on the spot; brush her with your shoulder, and take it slow as you settle invitingly on the bed.
“But,” which she was waiting for, “after I get something sweet.”
And blow a kiss.
Her gaze narrows into a hand-sharpened AM round, drives it through the temptatious pose in her mind, and steps across the line. Your eyes can’t grow wide in time, as she leers closer than she ever let herself when she was ‘safe’ behind it. Not that she ever wasn’t, as hand-over-shoulder well demonstrates the sheer muscle she has on you.
You figure those AM-rifles must weigh a fuck-ton — the ones that would’ve shredded you into a fizzing pile of crimson goo, if she bothered to aim better than precisely the knee-joint.
“Y’know — doesn’t have to be much,” you blubber out, trying to shuffle back in measured graduations, so you don’t bob-up into her.
But she follows, leans long over the slim bench.
“W-we could start with a chocolate bar, maybe? It’s been a while. O-or like—”
Your chin’s in her hand. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to press the back of your head to the wall — and tell you not to move. She rotates you up, slowly, to meet her.
Does it firmer when you shirk from her without thought.
“Hmm,” she smirks. “Something sweet?”
She slips to your cheeks, both of them — squeezes. You can feel she’s waiting on an answer and there’s only one direction you can move.
You nod, throat choked on your own bluff.
Mwah.
It’s just a peck — but the rebels are soft, and it’s all she needs to bloom you hotter than the skull-white sun you fell under. You try to shake it off; mutter breathlessly, “delta28Kinross…
It’s a— detention facility… isolated… low guard.”
That was a precious, familiar file. Should’ve been bartered for more.
She smiles, treads back over her line, looking forward to tomorrow.
