In the rubble, she stood in a plume of smoking cinders. She towered over the collapsed citizen, standing proud and relaxing her shoulders. The wind whipped past her. Soot smeared her angular face, clinging to her sweat and casting dramatic shadows over her strong body. Her hair, just reaching her shoulders when undone, twisted like flowing water in the wind. Under the red sky, a silhouette of a warrior goddess. Kate was a juggernaut, here to save the day.
She smiled wide, eyes flared, and reached a gentle hand out to the fallen woman. The woman shook out of her stupor, and moved to flee with her heroine. Then--movement. Kate spun around and crouched, drawing her weapon instantly. She sighted onto a target, aimed directly at the solar plexus, and stopped. She held her finger still.
4 men were visible, each aiming back at her. She considered her way out. Visualized diving to the side, relying on the dusk light, smoke, and rubble to take out the only one of them who wasn't shaking. She felt confident she could resolve this firefight. They were already dead.
She grit her teeth in fury. She lowered her weapon. 12 men were here, each aiming at her. She didn't need to see the rest. The woman would escape alive, but only if she didn't draw fire.
"I can't believe it," one of the enemy spoke, "It's her."
They gathered close. The woman was out of myth and legend. She stood at 6'5 in her boots", peering down at the soldiers with disdain. Her dirt-covered baggy pants ruffled in the wind, clinging tightly to her waist and ankles. A tight shirt stuck to her form, revealing relaxed muscle forged for efficient violence. Her body was grimy and battle-worn, but her combat boots recently waxed surface still repelled some filth and gleamed defiantly in the flames.
She was the Angel of Death. A living boogeyman in the war that they were doomed to lose. She had slain countless of their brothers in a war with no possible end except for pitiful defeat. They hated her and what she represented. She was a symbol of victory, wreaking destruction on their forces.
"Don't move!" said a man, "We must bring her back as prisoner."
There was dissent. Some of them considered lethal action. But, the call seemed to come from a position of leadership. And, though these men were weak, they were loyal.
She dropped her weapon to the ground and raised her hands over her head. The soldiers moved in on her, capturing her. Even as they did so, they were shivering in fear. This woman was a monster, inhuman and indomitable. The campfire stories they shared about her spoke in hushed whispers of how she couldn't be defeated in even the best circumstances.
Was it all myth?
Kate opened her eyes and they were already adjusted to the dim light. A faint orange glow flickered, dancing over the stone walls, floor, and ceiling. The air was cold, wet, and stale. Her shoulders ached--she moved and found her hands bound above her head with many passes of thin braided rope. She looked up, seeing her bindings attach to a thicker rope that continued into a hoist mechanism in the ceiling. She pulled, but it only groaned in protest without budging. At her current strength, she was stuck.
She felt cleaner. There was no dryness of residual salt on her body from her sweat during the mission. There was no soot on her anymore, and little smell of ash. Had they hosed her down while unconscious?
Her bare feet were folded under her, sitting princess-style. She tried to move them, but they too were bound together with the same strong twine. The bindings snaked up to her knees. She looked around to see if the enemy had left her boots in the room with her, and saw them neatly placed in the corner with her socks rolled into them. How tidy of them.
She scanned for anything near her, then anything far from her in the room. Near her was nothing but the smooth stone of the room. In the center of the room was an eyelet screw that was cast into the concrete, leaving a steel loop protruding. Elsewhere in the room was a sturdy wooden table, what looked like a medieval pillory, and a torturer's rack. These guys seemed stuck in the past in more than a few ways.
Though Kate had been trained to resist torture, she'd never needed to use those skills practically until today. She grit her teeth and steeled her mind. She knew the only way out, for now, was holding out until her squad could retrieve her. She trusted them, knowing they'd come for her if she could survive.
The door opened. In walked a tiny rat of a man, who held a black canvas bag. He clearly belonged to the enemy: The Party. He wore their black military uniform, and he must've been so proud of it. It was cleanly pressed, adorned with glittering medals and shiny boots. His hat was pulled low, tailored to fit his head beyond their government sizing. Clothes that Kate despised--unfit for war.
The man was short, standing at 5'4" even in his lifted shoes. He walked to the table silently and removed his hat. He looked like a circus monkey. He turned toward her and looked down at her kneeling form. Even still, she was almost to his chest if she lifted up more. He spoke, "Angel of Death. Major Kate Rook. You are a woman, like any other, though my comrades feel you are special."
He stepped closer, a foot away now, "It is my job to beat you into submission. Make you remember your place."
Her eyes stared into his. She was alert and calm, unyielding. She knew him, and her recognition stabbed through his soul and shook him. He didn't let his disquiet show, but his heartbeat murmured to itself.
He was Inspector Rick Beckham, the Vulture. Infamous inquisitor for the Party. He was known for his vile political backstabbing and iron grip on his sycophantic followers. He had sway beyond his rank, with an almost cult-like support from the people. How such a fragile person could maintain that control was beyond her.
She couldn't engage him now, not in this situation. But, if she could free her legs or hands, she was confident she could dispatch him. Did he have keys on him? She needed to verify if she had an alternative to waiting.
He set the canvas bag on the table, and unbuttoned his shirt steadily as he spoke, "First, I will break your body. Then, I will break your mind. Finally, I will break your spirit."
He placed his crisply folded shirt onto the table, revealing a bulky, muscled body. A body acquired in the gym, with strict monopolization of time and resources. A body unfit for efficiency.
He opened the bag, unrolling its contents:
"A camera, set to stream this torture live to soldiers of the Party. Men whom have suffered at your hands."
"It's 'who', the way you used it."
He clenched his fist, and then relaxed. He set up the camera in front of her and set lights to flank her in the room. He operated a controller to move the hoist mechanism on the ceiling, dragging her into the center of the room.
He activated the camera, and continued listing the items as he set them onto the table, showing them to the audience:
"A blindfold. A paddle. Rope. Aphrodisiac oil. A wooden breast vice. A vibrator. A dildo. A ring gag. A whip. A pair of scissors."
He chuckled, "Ah, and a gift, something unplanned. A package of 6 Sharpie markers. I suppose I'll see what I can do with that."
The camera blinked at her, but at no point did she look away from Rick. He moved to her, wrapping the blindfold over her eyes. He adjusted the hoist, hooking her hand bindings through the loop in the floor, and pulled the hoist tight. She was shoved hard, down, her hands pinned to the ground by the mechanism.
She grunted, kneeling on the ground, her legs bound and her wrists stuck together on the floor. She heard him walk behind her, and set the camera behind her. He spoke with confidence, "Look at the kneeling Major. Helpless to stop the justice I will bring."
He stared at her a moment to appreciate her form. The tight shirt and the silhouette of a bra underneath compressed her breasts, but still they were cutely prominent when they hung under her hunched form. Her baggy pants were tight at her hips, which signified an impressive butt. Considering her height and training, she was unreasonably gifted in where her body kept the little fat it had stored. She truly was an angel--someone blessed. He would need to dismantle her.
