We were six hours into the siege.
I was avoiding the atrium. I was avoiding the upstairs offices too. I was also avoiding the room with the hostages in it. The teacher we'd violated in the Atrium hadn't spoken about what happened to her, but I'm pretty sure at least one of the five others did. I wasn't prepared to discover how this had affected their morale. What they hadn't done, was rioted or gone into hysterics. This was probably due in large part to the extra security I'd put on them. I'm sure figuring out they weren't going to be executed was some help.
What Ramona had come up with was sadistic and wrong on several levels. I'm sure a great deal of her motivation had to do with self-gratification. Which was why I hated admitting what a good plan it was. She'd found something more efficient than killing hostages, something far more effective and less wasteful. There were drawbacks, though. The shock value might be too much. The world had never seen something like this. The public outcry would be heinous, and letting it go on must be a publicity nightmare for the police outside, even if Ramona's threat was to make it even worse if they tried anything. The bottom line was, a lot of people wanted to kill us very, very badly.
I wondered why they hadn't tried anything yet. Ramona had gotten her female negotiator, one Lieutenant Eileen Riley, but only responded to attempts to negotiate by flirting with her, referencing jokes about the Queen song several times.
I was peering put a back window, bottle of water hanging off my left hand, my right in the trigger well. I'd posted two people, and had one following me. The gas masks we were wearing to protect us from being identified (and, incidentally, getting tear gassed) kept me from having ever seen any of their faces. I hadn't been to the lounge to rest yet, somehow I thought it might be a good idea to avoid that place as well.
It was quiet out here, no one peeking over the walls or throwing flashbangs or anything noteworthy like that. I popped one of the buckles on my assault vest to relieve some of the heat and turned back to my patrol. As I did, I saw two of Ramona's crew moving a hostage.
I called out to them. "Hey." They stopped and looked at me. "Where you taking that?"
"Upstairs," said one. The little redhead looked pale. She stared at me in awe with her hands behind her head.
"Care to join?" said the second. "Perk of the job, if you're into that."
I cringed. "I'm not. No marks. Be easy."
"Sure thing, Murky," said the first. She nudged the girl with her TMP, who jumped and scurried to comply.
I watched them leave, staring after the girl who was about to become that evening's entertainment for Bravo.
Upstairs next to the "media suite," much to my silent distress, Ramona's girls had set up a rape room to keep morale up and pass the time, pushing the number of acts of forced lesbianism in the building to some kind of record nobody but Ramona herself was capable of breaking.
"No, huh?" I spun around on Ramona leering at me. "Not into girls? You? Your file disagrees."
"Not here," I said, glad my face was covered.
"Hey, all I'm saying is, we're going to be here a while and eventually, even you're going to need to unwind. Just sayin'." She yawned. "Whoo, but not right now. I've been up for, like, ever. So, you're on deck."
"Right," I said.
"Here, drink some more water." She threw me another bottle. "Cutting off the air conditioning is like, the first thing they do, so stay hydrated."
She was right. In my rare moments of intimacy I don't show a preference toward either gender, but this wasn't the time to start sampling the merchandise. I needed to stay on task, and I could not be distracted by taking carnal enjoyment out of the nature of the job. I was fairly certain that was what Ramona hired me for, keeping track of the details while she went on her sick sapphic fuck-fest. Even if that wasn't the case, this had too much at stake for me to lose my head at all.
I kept this in my head as I made my way to the atrium.
I strode off the stairs onto the tile floor. There were four of Ramona's crew watching the crowd outside. I noticed several handprints had accumulated in the circles Ramona had drawn on the window. I decided to talk to the tallest.
"You," I said. "Name."
"Paris."
Not her real name. Ramona's crew had all been assigned or chosen the names of major cities as titles for the duration. At that moment the redhead upstairs was getting intimate with Tunisia and Jacksonville.
"Paris," I said, "There's a performance in about ten minutes. Think you can handle it?"
'Paris' looked at me. "She said you were in charge of it."
"I am in charge of it. I'm delegating."
"In charge of *doing* it."
"I don't think I have her touch."
"You mean, that?" Paris nodded to what looked to be a permanent stain below the two circles on the window. "There's no secret, the lube is drugged. They can't help it. Five or ten minutes and they pop."
The other three had stood up. I'd forgotten about the one I'd had following me, who was also watching me now.
"Is there a problem?" said Paris.
Being a new command figure is tenuous. If you're too soft, they turn on you. Too hard, and they break. And then they turn on you. Right then, Mommy was away and Big Sister had been left in charge, and the rest of the kids were making a push. I had to end it right away. And as I wondered what I would have to do just to survive in this power vacuum, I remembered that Mommy is a psycho.
