Late 20s tgirl. Elf ear pervert. Some say hemipenis girl. Writing mostly original F/F. Stories will frequently be horny so if you're under 18 you're getting blocked.



caffeinatedOtter
@caffeinatedOtter

Kandi intentionally and without hesitation blows straight past the roach motel's parking lot, surreptitiously checking it out as she goes past.

It doesn't exactly take a tactical genius to figure what's up; there's a rent-a-cop mobile command truck rolling to a stop. Standard crew is driver and spare eyes up in the cab, comms operator and maybe a wired-in hacker in the armoured capsule immediately behind, and then the quick-deploy rear cabin holds up to eight SWAT fuckers.

Whisper's drawn some heat.

Kandi knows the area, a bit; in her bad little hoodlum days she ran muscle for a local outfit the motel paid small-time protection money to, so she got comped a shitty room a time or two by flashing a bad attitude and gang colours, when she needed somewhere to take a hookup. She spins the bike into the next turnoff, the grimy gap between a laundromat and an unmarked unit with scarred and graffitied shutters and some current-gen local hood smoking nonchalantly outside, powers it down, and briskly walks it down the narrow alleyway between the back of the laundry and the facing backs of other businesses, weaving between their dumpsters, circling back toward the motel.

There's supposed to be a fence blocking that end of the alley, but if she remembers right, it rotted down decades ago. She's willing to bet nobody's replaced it still, and it gapes onto the parking lot.

The sloppy cash-cop motherfuckers are assembling their strike team. That means, as a quick glance around the end of the alley confirms, they're climbing out of the back of the MOCOM like they have all day to joke around, scratching their balls and bragging loud and generally being shit.

Kandi's not complaining. There are six of them, in the kind of macho bullshit over-geared gun-laden state that comes with legal impunity and a bottomless budget, and there's only one of her; sloppy amateur dickweed hour is fine. It's better than fine.

She jacks into the bike's open source replacement firmware, sets the wheels to run free, the balance recovery gyro to spin up to max, and the steering forks centred and locked. It's a bitch on the battery, with the engine off; but that's gonna be moot real quick.

She strokes a boot knife over the seat upholstery, unearths the pull ring on the distinctly aftermarket incendiary grenade that's sandwiched between the saddle and the pressurised hydrogen tank beneath it. Makes sure the bike's lined up nice and straight and directly at the cops, overdriven gyro keeping it upright; pulls the pin and shoves it hard with a boot to the rear license plate, sending it rolling straight and silent toward them. Flattens herself behind the cover of the edge of the wall.

Amateur motherfuckers barely notice until it's on top of them, barely get a word out, and then the tank goes up with a flash and a roaring punch of hot air.

If any of them were worth a damn, they'd have had the sense to dodge behind the MOCOM — or have enough ware in them to stand back up. But no: she rounds the corner and runs into the hotzone, six burning heaps of shredded pig on the floor, and slides all cozy up the passenger side of the truck. The driver's mate starts to scramble out with an AR swinging in a stupid action-movie one-handed grip; Kandi's riot shotgun takes off his face, and then she fires it again through door, still swinging open under his falling weight, across the width of the cab and into the driver. Rounds the MOCOM's nose at a run and back down the driver's side of it, into the opaque billow of fire-suppressant fog it's pumping into (and out of the gaping deployment doors of) the back cabin, trying not to breathe. She vaults into the back, unsurprised by the desperate choking noises from the comms capsule, the hatch left open between it and the rear.

Shitty, sloppy, mighty handy.

One dude, not visibly the hacker type. One more shotgun shell, close-range, and breathing the fire suppressant isn't a problem for him any more, and Kandi hurriedly rolls out onto the asphalt and gets some distance before it becomes a problem for her. The disposable toxin filter in her nasal cavity will need replacing.

She scrubs at her eyes with a corner of her shirt as she crosses to the motel entrance. Probably the closest she'll get to the advisable "flush clean with saline" until they stop running, and they haven't even started yet.

She meets Whisper, exiting at a run with a small backpack in her hands.

"Told you to run," Whisper grates at her.

"You're welcome," Kandi says, sliding to a halt and reversing direction. "Hey, you know what, there's a fucking MOCOM right there, how fast you think they go—"

"Not without a day to scrub it for backdoors, bugs, and bombs," Whisper says. "Jack something that looks normal, fucksake."

Kandi hadn't been serious. Well, mostly not. Well, her very own MOCOM would be cool, wouldn't it.

"One day, beautiful," she tells it, backlit by the angry blaze-backlit fire-damping fog surrounding the bike's burning lithium-ion laden carcass, and hotwires a dumpy beige subcompact with dad-joke bumper stickers instead.

Whisper shudders silently and continuously in the passenger seat for dozens of miles, as Kandi sticks to the speed limit and only breaks traffic laws a normal-people amount. And Kandi thinks that's probably bad, hacker brain-burn bad, but they don't have much option right now but to keep on and see how they land when they hit bottom.


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