CHAPTER 4 - ONLY A JOB
I like to think of patience as one of my best qualities.
Impatient hunters rarely go far. The resistance may be a bunch of delusional women -- and the occasional male simp, no doubt -- but they mean business, and captured bounty hunters can't exactly expect mercy, or a fair trial. Even the feminists can't afford to be that stupid, these days.
I'm the best at what I do. I'm a woman in a man's business, a man's world, really. I am awesome. Ergo, it logically follows that I must possess the quality of patience, as well.
But this time, even I can feel the impatience starting to boil over.
I squint against the glare of the midday sun, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. Several days have passed since I left Ava and Sophia bound in that shed. Several days of trudging through increasingly difficult terrain, rationing my supplies, and sleeping with one eye open.
But I'm close now. So close I can almost taste it.
The mountains loom before me, their jagged peaks cutting into the cloudless sky like broken teeth. The air is thinner up here. My legs ache from the constant uphill climb, and my shoulders burn from the weight of my pack.
Still, I press on. The abandoned factory complex is somewhere at the foot of those mountains, and in it, my quarry.
The rebel cell's main hideout. The culmination of my hunt.
Truly, the hardest part of my work is almost done. I don't even need to fight anyone -- just spot them, and radio in the coordinates. Then... I'll do what the big male boss wants me to do, I suppose, be a good girl, step aside, and let the men handle the capture.
I ball my hands into fists just thinking about the Warden. One day, he'll regret forcing me to suck his cock. One day...
But first, I'll get my month of freedom, which is what really matters. I'll also ask him for the opportunity to rape my pick from the feminists they'll capture. You only live once, after all! Gotta enjoy the pleasures life throws your way.
It will also be a good opportunity to release some of my frustrations. Yes, I'm frustrated, and that's part of the reason why I feel impatient.
I'm frustrated that fucking Mireia almost got the drop on me. I want to do things to the Warden that would make even his regime flinch, for daring to touch me. I'm upset that Sophia successfully counter-ambushed me, until I put her back in her fucking place.
Everything always comes so easy to me. But for some reason, not this time. Why?
I pause to calm down and take a swig from my canteen, crouching in the boreal vegetation. It grows thinner the more I climb, as do the signs of civilization. I haven't seen a single human soul in days. If I didn't know better, I'd guess the entire area has been left uninhabited since... well, since the end, I suppose.
I guess that's rather the point. These rebels aren't stupid enough to advertise their presence. They've chosen this location precisely because it's remote, difficult to access, and offers excellent visibility of any approaching threats.
Threats like me.
I trudge onward, feeling the crunch of pine needles under my boots. My muscles burn pleasantly with exertion. I'm in excellent shape -- have to be, in my line of work -- but even I feel the strain of this climb.
I pause to survey my surroundings, taking in the panoramic view that stretches out below me. From this height, I can see for miles -- rolling hills giving way to distant plains, a silver ribbon of river winding through it all. Somewhere down there is Green Meadows, that pitiful excuse for a town. Somewhere down there, Ava and Sophia have probably already been processed, their minds being methodically broken and remolded to serve the regime.
The thought brings a smile to my face. I wonder if they'll put them on the same re-education schedule, force them to watch each other's demotion to nonhuman status. That would be poetic justice. Being transformed into rapemeat is just what they deserve for being so goddamn annoying.
They dared pose a challenge to me. Stupid sluts.
I shake my head, and resume walking up the incline. The path I'm following isn't really a path at all, just game trails and natural breaks in the vegetation.
Eventually, I round a bend in the makeshift trail... and I stop. The scene before me makes me pause in my tracks.
Well, this is unexpected.
A man stands with his back to me, pants around his ankles, hips thrusting rhythmically. Before him, bent over a fallen tree stump, is a woman. Her wrists are cuffed behind her back, and a thick leather collar encircles her neck. She's nude from the waist down, her clothes in tatters, her face a mask of resignation. The wet slapping sounds of flesh against flesh fill the clearing.
A bounty hunter?
I take a moment to observe the scene. The man's technique is not particularly inspired. The woman isn't screaming -- broken already, then. Probably been his captive for a day or two at least.
Then the man shifts slightly, and I get a better look at his profile. I'd recognize that weathered face, that salt-and-pepper stubble anywhere.
Marcus.
Bounty hunters work together just as frequently as they betray one another. Honestly, sometimes I think I'd enjoy working more frequently with other hunters -- it would give me the opportunity to do some healthy backstabbing myself, and that just sounds so fun -- but my survival instincts always prevail over that impulse. As a general rule, I'm better off alone.
Marcus, however, is a bit of an exception.
My mask slides on.
I don't know when I learned to do this, exactly. I suppose it was always second instinct to me. People like to think they're complex, but for the most part, they're predictable things. All you have to do is arrange your facial muscles just so, and they'll start making all sorts of crazy assumptions about you: that you're emotionally invested in them, or that you can be trusted, or that you mean them no harm. That goes double, if you're a pretty girl.
It's truly bizarre. But since it makes my job so much easier, I'm not going to complain.
I clear my throat loudly as I step into the clearing. "Well, well. Small world, Marcus."
Marcus doesn't even pause in his thrusting as he glances over his shoulder. When he sees me, his face breaks into a wide grin.
"Larissa!" he calls out, as casually as if we'd bumped into each other at the grocery store. "Fancy meeting you here, kiddo!"
It takes all my self control not to roll my eyes at the "kiddo" -- he's been calling me that since our first hunt together three years ago. For some unfathomable reason, something about me seems to trigger his paternal instincts. Not that I mind -- his misplaced affection has proven useful more than once.
I don't reciprocate it, of course. I don't even know how that's supposed to feel like. Fortunately, you just need the barest imitation of friendliness to fool most people.