There’s nothing green about Green Meadows. There’s no meadows, either.

Ha. I know it’s in poor taste to laugh at your own jokes, but I’m just so witty sometimes. Besides, it helps with my irritation. I’ve been walking for hours, the sun beating down mercilessly on my back. I look disapprovingly at my boots, all dusty from the endless road, and not a girl’s tongue in sight to clean them…

But soon. This is the final hill to crest before I’m finally at my destination, such as it is.

Green Meadows is just a town, though even that term feels overly generous for the kind of ramshackle agglomeration of makeshift buildings that cling desperately to the barren earth here. I think of it more as a hole, really. A place dug out from the ground, for fleeing animals to hide in, to find safety in. Perhaps a colony of termites, burrowing into dead wood.

I pause for a moment, surveying the town from my vantage point. It's not much to look at - a haphazard sprawl of structures that seem to have been cobbled together from whatever materials were at hand. Corrugated metal, splintered wood, even the occasional tarp fluttering in the hot breeze. A far cry from the cities, and even they haven’t fully recovered yet. For every new sleek building the New Order builds up, there’s two apartment buildings that are still bombed out. But even that looks like a five-star hotel, compared to this shithole.

But then, that's rather the point, isn't it? This isn't a place for the loyal citizens of the regime. This is a hideout, a bolt-hole, a last refuge for the desperate and the hunted. For rebels and dissidents.

For my prey.

The only reason the New Order maintains the fiction that it doesn’t know about this place’s existence is that it allows them to keep a close eye on potential dissidents, in a place they already know to look at. Or so the warden told me once. I think it’s equally likely that he’s requested the troops to reduce the place a while ago, and his superiors denied his request.

Not even the most powerful of men can be everywhere all at once.

I study the place further. The town is south of me, and it’s built flush along a modest river that runs to the east. There’s some vegetation growing on that side, but the western side is barren.

I adjust the pack on my shoulders and start down the hill, my boots kicking up small clouds of dust with each step. I let my mind wander, considering my approach.

I could try to sneak in, of course. Scout out the town's perimeter, find out the nearest patch of woodland and hide until darkness falls. But that doesn’t feel like the soundest approach for a place like this, where everyone’s always looking over their shoulder. If I set off any alarms, my quarry would scatter like roaches when the light is switched on.

No, better to walk in bold as brass. Just another weary traveler seeking shelter, or perhaps something as simple as a drink at the local bar. After all…

I’m just a woman in need for protection, aren’t I?

My feet ache inside my boots, and I wipe away sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. I wish I had a vehicle, and that’s not something I say often. Yes, the mobility is nice, and you can carry more women back in a single trip. But vehicles also make your approaches more predictable, easier to track.

Then again, I’m not going in stealthy, and I’m just supposed to find the cell and let the men do the rest, so maybe I really should have asked the warden for a truck, or something.

But even with his permission, if I’d gone to the re-education center’s motor pool and tried to requisition a vehicle, the guards there would surely have taken their… payment… upfront. Motor pool guards are infamous. They might have taken my food — their rations are notoriously shit — or they might have bent me over the hood of a car and taken turns with me. Likely both.

On second thought, I’m better off walking.

When I reach the bottom of the hill, a battered wooden sign welcomes me to Green Meadows. It lends a quaint, small-town charm to a place that is anything but. Or it would, if not for the peculiar coat of arms chosen to represent the town.

It's a crude spray-canned depiction of a woman in a rebel's outfit and combat boots, one fist raised in the air with a broken chain dangling from the wrist. She's stepping on the neck of a man in the uniform of the re-education centers. The letters below, in a flowing script, read:

"FREEDOM FOR ALL WOMEN."

How cute.

I have to admit, there's a certain dumb audacity to it that I can't help but admire, even as it makes me want to roll my eyes. It's like a chihuahua yapping at a doberman - you have to give it points for sheer gumption, even if it's ultimately futile.

I step closer, examining the details. The lines are rough and uneven, clearly done in haste, but there's an undeniable energy to the image. The rebel woman's eyes blaze with righteous fury, her teeth bared in a snarl of defiance. The guard beneath her boot looks suitably cowed.

It's a powerful image, for sure. Defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. A promise of retribution, of tables turned and oppressors brought low.

Too bad it's complete bullshit. Too bad spray cans don’t win wars.

I’ve seen what little is left of the women that exit the re-education centers, and some day, the author of this coat of arms will get to find out first-hand.

As I creep closer and closer to Green Meadows, I run into an absolutely adorable sight. They have makeshift city walls! Sure, they’re made of corrugated metal and they don’t look too firmly planted in the ground either, but anything that helps you sleep better at night, I guess.

Every metal panel seems to bear some manner of graffiti or other, and most of it seems to be slogans. "The Future Is Female," and "The Day Of Reckoning Is Coming," and other similarly generic statements.

But one catches my eye. It says, in full caps, "COLLABORATORS, YOUR TIME WILL COME AS WELL."

How curious. I wonder if it’s coincidence, or if rumour is already spreading that there’s a woman hunting after her own kind. I trace the edges of the letters with my fingers, feeling the texture of the paint. The colors are still vibrant, the lines crisp and clean. It hasn't yet started to crack or peel.

This wasn't done months ago and then forgotten. It’s recent.

Well. Good to know I have a fan!

I shake my head and tear my gaze away from the graffiti. Enough woolgathering. I have a job to do.

I stride past what seems to be a northern gate - in reality simply a gap through the metal wall, though it is guarded by two armed women — and into the town. I’m doing my best to look wary but not too wary. I've dressed for the part - sturdy boots, practical pants, a simple shirt, a light coat to keep off the dust, a hat to shield my head from the sun.

I’m carrying a huge backpack, yes, but to an untrained eye it could simply be because I’m carrying my home on my back, rather than the tools of my trade. Nothing too flashy or attention-grabbing. I want to blend in, to look like just another drifter passing through.

The main street, if you can call it that, is little more than a dusty track flanked by ramshackle buildings. A bakery with empty display cases, a hardware store boasting a perpetual going-out-of-business sale, a barbershop with a handwritten note in the window: "Closed for the Foreseeable Future." Pretty much what you’d expect from a town like this.

More interesting to me is the configuration of twisty alleys created by the decentralized and haphazard nature of the town. My internal radar is sweeping back and forth in a methodical fashion, taking note of every landmark, every window, every narrowing alley and impassable dead end, committing the place’s geography to memory.

A quick circuit of the town’s periphery reveals that there’s no gate on the eastern side, where the town is flanked by the river. Besides the gap I used myself, there’s two more guarded points of exit: one is to the south, still on the main dirt road, and the other is to the west. Good to know.

There’s an art to inconspicuous observation. To taking in all your surroundings without tipping off other people that that’s what you’re doing. To not seem like someone who’s overly interested in the area, someone who might be trying to sabotage you or spy on you. To not seem like a threat.

Not many people seem to be around right now. There’s a woman hurrying along with groceries, and a man with hollow eyes dragging a heavy black plastic bag behind him on the ground. An old bandstand sits derelict in the middle of what must have once been a small public park.

And there,nestled between a consignment shop and a pharmacy, is my destination. The neon sign buzzes and sputters, fighting a losing battle with the afternoon sunlight. It proclaims the establishment to be "Rudy’s."

A bar. A dive, really, seedy and run down, the kind of place whose seedy charm comes from a long history of disreputable clientele.

Perfect.

I step inside, taking off my hat and coat and hanging both on the coat rack near the door. The patrons inside glance up at me, briefly, but the place is half full, and to them, I’m just another customer walking in.

I take in the scene. It’s a claustrophobic cave of a place, with low ceilings and poorly spaced beams that created a warren of semi-enclosed drinking nooks. The mismatched tables and chairs must have probably been salvaged from wherever the owner could find some, or maybe stolen.

I move towards the bar, the wooden floorboards groaning in protest under my boots. A large man with a wrinkly face and walrus-like mustache – presumably the eponymous Rudy – stands behind the bar, polishing a glass with the sort of listless attention that suggests a state of perpetual tedium.

Rudy ambles over when he spots me, setting the glass down and wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “What’ll it be?”

"Beer. Whatever’s on tap."

He grunts, then turned to fiddle with a keg hidden behind the bar. I use the moment to survey the room again. Most of the patrons present are male, a typical mix of blue-collar types: one older man in a flannel shirt is drinking together with a guy in a leather jacket and a trucker cap. A pair of young men who looked like millworkers or roughnecks. A few women also dot the crowd, all wearing the same tight-lipped expressions.

Two women in particular catch my eye. They’re huddled together sullenly around a table near the back wall. A shadowy corner of the bar to pick… mmh.

Rudy slides a tall glass of amber liquid in front of me. I produce a few crumpled bills from my pocket and make for a table.

I choose a quiet corner too, a seat that allows me to stay on the sidelines while having a perfect view of the bar and the entrance. I lift the glass to my lips, taking a slow, measured sip.

It’s pretty bad, even as far as bad beers go. But I guess that’s to be expected. I set the glass down gently, then drape myself over it, propping my head on one hand. Time to listen to the ambient chatter.

Most of it is useless to me: trivial town gossip, nostalgic mutterings about the way things used to be, the occasional gripe about taxes and the price of commodities. Oh, life was so much better before the war! Would you like an award for this incredible insight?

The world has changed so much, and yet human conversations have changed so little. People really are mostly just cattle waiting to be pointed in one direction, I suppose.

One of the millworker types makes an offhand comment about “those damned fascists,” but it lacks conviction. Nothing seditious about it. Just a guy venting some frustration in the most generic direction he can.

I’m about to lose my patience when the man wearing flannel mentions, sorrowfully, that a captured woman was taken to a re-education centre recently.

"Poor thing," the man’s drinking buddy says, the one with the leather jacket. "She’ll be a different person when she comes out."

Flannel glances around the room cautiously before responding. "She won’t be a person at all."

My ears perk up. I take another sip of the watery beer, and when I put down the glass, I slightly change the angle of my body, turning to better hear the conversation. Interesting. Mireia's capture is recent - too recent, I would have thought, for word to have already spread this far. But then again, bad news always seems to travel fast.

"That’s an evil thing," Leather says, turning away from the table as if to spit on the ground, before seemingly reconsidering. "An evil thing to do to a person. Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy."

Flannel nods solemnly. "Yeah…"

I seize the moment. Casually, as if making idle conversation, I turn to Flannel and Leather. "This the redhead? The girl you're talking about?"

They both startle slightly, clearly not expecting to be addressed. Leather eyes me warily, but Flannel seems more open. "Yeah," he says. "You heard the same rumor?"

"Sure have," I say. "And I’ve heard more besides…" I make sure to look all perturbed about it, too, twisting my face in the imitation of a sorrowful look. For some reason, that’s one emotion that people always respond to. You make a face and they just eat it all up.

Idiots.

Their interest is obviously piqued. They both lean forward slightly, Leather's wariness momentarily forgotten. "What have you heard?"

I take another sip of my beer, letting the moment stretch out. Then I set the glass down with a sigh. "Well… it’s just a rumor, but… scuttlebutt says she’s been released."

A beat of silence. Then Leather frowns. "Released already? From a re-education center? That's not possible. Once they have you, you're… I mean, it takes time…"

Flannel’s eyes widen. "You think maybe they speed up the technique? Maybe they do it faster now?"

It takes all of my commitment to my acting performance to not facepalm openly right now. You can take a horse to water, and all that. I was hoping to be a bit subtler than this, but I guess I’ll have to spell the lie out clearly for everyone in the bar to get my intended meaning.

"Way I hear it, she was captured and brought to a re-education centre… but the day after, she was set free. You ask me, no one leaves a place like that so soon… unless they cut some kinda deal."

A ripple of unease goes through the bar. More people than just these two idiots are listening, now, and I let the silence stretch, so they have time to process the implications of what I’ve just said. I don’t really care if they believe the lie or not. I just need them to doubt the truth.

"No way," a woman sitting alone at a table says. "No one would cut a deal with… with…"

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "Hey, I'm just telling you what I heard. Apparently this redhead, she used to be some kind of big shot in the resistance. Had all sorts of intel. So the Regime offered her a deal - feed them information, help them take down the rebels from the inside, and she gets to keep her mind intact. Or somewhat intact."

I sit back, letting my words hang in the air. I can feel the mood in the bar shift, a palpable unease settling over the patrons. Conversations falter and die as people exchange nervous glances, suddenly eyeing their drinking companions with new suspicion. It’s like I’ve poured a single drop of poison down a well, and I’m watching the drop spread through the clear water.

Beautiful.

There’s also something wonderfully poetic about the fact that, after utterly destroying Mireia’s life, I’m still finding further ways to screw with her. Not that she’ll mind… by the time she gets out of there, she’ll be closer to an animal than to a person. But hey, it amuses me, and that’s all that matters, right?

But much more important than my enjoyment is the reason why I’ve voiced this lie to begin with. I study the patrons closely, watching for reactions, for any sign that my little rumor has hit a nerve.

Oh. The two women. Of course.

They’ve been conspicuously silent while I was talking, but now they’re having a hushed and intense conversation. Their whispers are too low for me to make out from this distance, but I’m a bounty huntress. You don’t get far in my line of work if you can’t read people like they’re an open book.

The slimy warden and his words flash back into my mind.

You promised perfection, Larissa.

Fucking weasel of a man. I breathe deep, bringing my anger back under control. A good predator is cool and collected when she hunts, and I’m the fucking best.

I focus on the two women again. The shorter one, a wiry girl with close-cropped dark hair, is gesticulating frantically now. God, if she’s in the resistance, I can see why they’re fucking losing, this complete lack of self-control on her part is almost funny to witness.

Wish you could see this, Mireia. Maybe you wouldn’t have been so confident about the resistance if you could see what morons your comrades are.

The brunette’s companion, a tall blonde with a scar running down her cheek, is shaking her head vehemently. They're arguing, that much is clear, and my little rumor seems to be the catalyst.

Interesting. Very interesting.

I keep my gaze on them, but not directly. I've perfected the art of watching without appearing to watch. It's all in the periphery, in the corner of the eye. People can feel a direct stare, but a sidelong glance? That slips right under the radar.

The argument seems to reach a crescendo. The short one slams her fist on the table, making their drinks jump. The blonde leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. A defensive posture. She's not happy with whatever her friend is proposing.

But the short one is insistent. She leans forward again, her expression intense, her words coming fast and furious. She's trying to convince her companion of something. Something urgent, by the looks of it.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity but is probably only a few minutes, the blonde relents. Her shoulders slump, and she gives a curt nod. They've reached an agreement, but it's clear she's not entirely happy about it.

They both stand abruptly, their chairs scraping against the wooden floor. The sound is loud in the subdued atmosphere of the bar, drawing a few curious glances. But the women pay no heed. They're already moving, weaving their way through the tables towards the exit.

As they pass by the bar, I catch a snippet of their conversation.

"…can't risk it. We have to go warn the others," the short one is saying.

The blonde's response is too low for me to hear, but her expression is grim.

And then they're gone, the door swinging shut behind them with a bang.

Bingo.

I allow myself a small, satisfied smile. It seems my little seed of doubt has found fertile ground. These women, they're part of the rebel cell. They have to be. And now, thanks to me, they're running scared.

Oh, I'm sure they'll be cautious. They'll take the long way back to their hideout, doubling back and weaving through alleys to throw off any potential tails. They might even split up, each taking a different route.

As if that’s going to be enough to stop me.

I drain the last of my beer and stand, stretching languidly. I take my time leaving the bar, acting casual and unhurried. No need to draw attention to myself. The barkeep and other patrons barely spare me a glance as I saunter out the door. Just another drifter passing through.

Outside, the afternoon sun is dipping low now, and shadows lengthen. I scan my surroundings. The two women are nowhere to be seen, of course. They've already disappeared into the warren of alleys and side streets that make up this ramshackle town.

But that's fine. I didn't expect them to make it easy for me. In fact, I'm counting on them being cautious, paranoid even. It will only make my victory that much sweeter in the end. I briefly ponder which one I’d like to rape the most. The short one, for the size difference? Or the blonde, because of the implied reversal? I scoff to myself. Trust me to always look at the bright side in a serious situation.

Sure, I’m being threatened with hell on earth if I don’t get this mission done. But life is like a box of chocolates sometimes. So many different women to sample. So many different flavors of rape. Who has time to try them all?

Still. Work first, pleasure later. I set off down the street at a leisurely pace, my hands in my pockets, the picture of nonchalance. To an outside observer, I'm just stretching my legs after a long stint at the bar.

The truth is that there’s only so many places in Green Meadows where you can be. It’s small enough and there’s very little cover outside the town.

I’m sure my prey is busy taking an indirect route towards the outskirts, likely away from the main road, to avoid being followed. As careless as they looked in the bar, they probably don’t want to be seen leaving town directly. But there are only three points of egress they can take, unless they plan to scale the town walls. The open passages are north, south, and west.

And they won’t pick north or south, because they want to avoid the road.

It’ll take them time to double back, to take circuitous paths. By the time they reach the western gate…

I’ll be waiting.

***

I'm crouched behind a dilapidated shed, my back pressed against the rough wood, every sense on high alert. The western gate is close by, a simple gap in the makeshift wall, guarded by a single bored-looking sentry. She's leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette, not paying much attention to her surroundings.

I've been waiting here for about fifteen minutes, watching the comings and goings of the townspeople. A few have passed through the gate, mostly men going about their daily business. No sign of my prey yet.

But I'm patient. I can wait.

The minutes tick by, each one feeling like an eternity. The sun is starting to dip below the horizon, but the day is still hot, and I can feel sweat trickling down my back. But I don't move. I barely breathe. I'm a statue, a shadow, blending into the background.

Finally, after what feels like hours but can't be more than twenty minutes, I spot them. The two women from the bar, approaching the gate from one of the side alleys. They're moving quickly, furtively, glancing over their shoulders as if expecting to see the entire New Order army on their heels.

They reach the gate and pause, huddling together for a quick, whispered conversation. I strain my ears, trying to catch their words over the ambient noise of the town.

"…split up. It's safer that way," the short one is saying. Her voice is low and urgent.

The blonde nods. "You're right. I’ll take the longer route, go west, circle around to the old mill. You take the eastern route, along the river. Go straight to the usual spot and drop your copy of the message. I’ll be the backup."

"Copy."

Alright, so they’re headed for a dead drop place of some kind, maybe a shed in the wilderness where they can leave a warning. It’s not as good as leading me directly to the cell, but it’s a step in the right direction.

"I’ll see you there," the blonde says.

The short one hesitates, then reaches out and grasps her companion's hand. "Be careful, Sophia."

Sophia. So that's the blonde's name. Good to know.

Sophia squeezes the other woman's hand in return. "You too, Ava. Stay safe."

Aww. How cute of them to make my job easier!

They break apart, each heading in a different direction. Sophia strides through the gate, nodding at the guard as she passes. The guard barely acknowledges her, too busy with her cigarette.

Ava takes a more circuitous route, skirting the edge of the wall until she's out of sight of the gate before making a sharp turn. Clever girl.

Ava’s route will take her close to the river, where the vegetation is thicker. More familiar ground for me. It might also show me the location of the dead drop, not to mention I should have plenty of time to secure Ava and prepare an ambush before Sophia returns; the route she’s taking seems long enough to doom her and her friend both.

Time to get the show on the road.

I wait until Ava has disappeared around the corner before I move, slipping out from behind the shed and following her path. I stay close to the wall, using its shadow for cover, my footsteps light and silent on the packed earth. I would have to keep a much bigger distance in broad daylight, but the day is fading. Great time for hunting women.

Ava is moving quickly, her short legs pumping as she half-walks, half-runs along the wall's periphery. She's clearly in a hurry to get out of town, to reach the perceived safety of the wilderness beyond.

But she's also being cautious, stopping frequently to look back over her shoulder, checking for any signs of pursuit. I have to admire her instincts, even as I exploit them.

Each time she pauses, I freeze, pressing myself against the wall, becoming one with the shadows. I hold my breath, counting the seconds until she starts moving again. It's a game of cat and mouse, of hunter and prey, and I revel in it.

We continue like this, Ava leading and me following, as we make our way around the southern edge of the town. The wall is in worse repair here, the metal sheets rusted and warped, the gaps between them wider. I catch glimpses of the life beyond - a woman hanging laundry in a small yard, a man tinkering with a decrepit motorcycle.

Fragments of a life I'll never have. Not that I want it. Even if I succeed get my big payoff, I don’t see myself settling down for so mundane a life.

Ava pays no heed to these domestic scenes. Her focus is entirely on her escape, on putting as much distance as possible between herself and the town. She's clever, I'll give her that. Instead of making a beeline for the river, she's taking a roundabout route, doubling back and forth, trying to confuse any potential pursuers.

But I'm not so easily deterred.

As we round the southeastern corner of the wall, the terrain starts to change. The hard-packed earth gives way to softer soil, the scraggly weeds and stunted bushes becoming more lush and verdant. We're nearing the river, and with it, my best chance at making my move.

Ava seems to sense it too. Her pace quickens, her movements becoming more furtive, more desperate. She's no longer checking behind her as frequently, all her attention focused on the path ahead.

Perfect.

I wait until she's turned the corner, heading north along the eastern edge of the wall. Until the entire bulk of the town is between us and the western gate where Sophia made her exit. Until the vegetation around us is thick enough to muffle any sounds of a struggle. Until we’re in sight of the shed that must be the dead drop she’s aiming for.

Then, I make my move.

I carefully unsling my backpack, easing it off my shoulders and setting it down on the soft earth. The weight lifted from my frame is a relief, allowing me to move more freely, more silently. But more importantly, the pack contains the tools of my trade.

I crouch down beside the pack, unzipping it with slow, deliberate movements. I select a length of rope, running it through my hands, feeling the rough fibers against my skin. It's strong, durable, perfect for binding a woman’s struggling limbs. I loop it over my shoulders like it’s some kind of bandolier.

Next, I pull out the handcuffs, these a generous signing bonus from the Regime when I took the deal. Amazingly, I didn’t even have to fuck anyone to get them. And my trusty hunting knife is sheathed against my boot.

I’m ready.

I rise from my crouch, leaving the backpack hidden in the undergrowth. Ahead of me, Ava is still moving towards the shed, barely looking at her surroundings now — she must think herself safe. What is it that makes feminists have so poor a situational awareness? It’s like the more devoted they are to the cause, the dumber they get.

I’m very happy not to share this delusion. Time to show her why.

I slip silently through the vegetation, my footsteps muffled by the soft earth beneath my boots. The growing darkness is my ally, shrouding my movements as I close the distance to my unsuspecting prey. Ava is a mere silhouette now, her form outlined by the fading light as she hurries towards the shed.

Her single-minded focus is her downfall. She doesn't hear my approach, doesn't sense the danger until it's far too late.

I break into a run, closing the remaining distance between us in a few long steps. Ava hears me coming and spins around, her eyes wide with fear and surprise. She opens her mouth to scream, but I'm on her before she can make a sound.

I tackle her to the ground, my body slamming into hers with the force of a freight train. She grunts in surprise as the air is driven from her lungs. We hit the soft earth together, the soil cushioning our fall, but the impact is still jarring.

As we go down, I'm already moving, my training taking over.

I bring my knee up sharply, driving it into Ava's solar plexus as we crash to the ground. She lets out a choked gasp, her body folding in on itself from the force of the blow. In the same fluid motion, I grab her wrists, slamming them together in front of her chest. The handcuffs are in my hands before she can even register what's happening, the metal snapping closed around her wrists with a satisfying click.

She’s acting on pure instinct, thrashing and bucking beneath me, her brain still processing what’s going on. I intend to stay a step ahead. I press my knee deep into her sternum, making her gasp from air, and I rapidly unsling the rope from my shoulders.

"What the fuck!" She shouts. Nice way to waste precious breath. "Who the fuck are you??!"

I smile down at her, pouring every ounce of condescension that I can into my expression. It’s the first sincere smile I’ve flashed today. "Oh, sweetie. I'm your worst fucking nightmare."

Her eyes widen further at that, and she renews her struggles, thrashing beneath me with a desperate strength. But it's futile. I unsheath my knife with one hand, while gripping the other around her slender throat. I put the knife squarely before her eyes, and start clamping down with my hand, tightening my grip until she starts convulsing beneath me.

As soon as her struggles weaken, I release my grip. She coughs and wheezes, desperately breathing in lungfuls of precious air, but hopefully she’s gotten the message now. I sheathe my knife and stand up, kicking her in the ribs.

"Fancy making your acquaintance, bitch," I tell her conversationally as I start to uncoil the first length of rope, running it around her ankles. "I’m the woman who’s going to utterly ruin your life. But don’t worry, you’ll be in good company! I’ll do the same to all your friends. But before I do all that, as a personal bonus, just because I’m so nice… I’m going to rape you and Sophia, too."

Bent in two from the pain, panting from lack of breath, Ava tries pathetically to crawl away from me, though her cuffed hands get hopelessly in the way. She looks like some slug, a spineless creature that belongs on the ground. I let her crawl away a few inches, just for the hell of it, while I prepare the next length of rope.

"Fuck you," she spits. "Fucking traitor, collaborator scum. When the revolution comes, you'll be the first against the wall."

I pause in my uncoiling of the rope, cocking my head to the side as if considering her words. "Now, is that any way to talk to a sister?"

Ava’s pathetic display continues as she squirms on the ground, moving forward inch by inch like she’s a millipede. "You’re no sister of mine!"

I sigh theatrically, shaking my head. "So judgemental. I’m just an empowered woman living life as best I can, Ava. Besides…"

I expertly twirl the second length of rope, forming it into an ipromptu lasso. "… I’ve always been more interested in women’s wrongs than women’s rights."

With a flick of my wrist, I send the lasso flying, the loop whipping through the air. It settles around Ava's head and neck with perfect precision, the rough rope biting into her skin. What a shot! I pump my free hand into a celebratory fist.

I am fucking awesome.

Ava lets out a choked gasp as I give the rope a sharp tug. "Ack! Fuck, stop!" she sputters, her bound hands scrabbling uselessly at the rope. But it's pointless. I have her now, caught like a fish on a line.

I plant my feet firmly, taking up the slack in the rope. "Come on now, puppy girl. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

I start reeling her in, hand over hand, the muscles in my arms flexing with the effort. Ava squirms and thrashes, trying to resist, but each struggle only tightens the rope’s grip. She's dragged inexorably back towards me, the soft earth churning beneath her as she's pulled through the dirt and leaves. There’s something so wonderfully symbolic at her being dragged like this through the dirt, like a struggling animal or a recalcitrant horse.

Being dragged towards her rape. Being dragged towards her brainwashing. Being dragged towards her fate.

Sometimes I think that it’s such a shame that the regime sees me as a subhuman too, and that I’ll have to cut free eventually. If they truly recognised my talents, we could do such great things together…

"That’s a good girl," I say, in mock sweetness. "Come to mama."

Inch by excruciating inch, I haul her closer. Her face is turning an interesting shade of red as her breath is partially constricted. Not that I would mind if she passed out. Yes, I said I’d rape her, but that will likely have to wait. I need to pack Ava somewhere safe and set up an ambush for Sophia. Once they’re both secure, the true fun can begin.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity but can only be a minute or two, I have her at my feet. She's still trying to fight, though honestly the attempt only makes her look that more helpless. Gasping and wheezing, she’s trying to shift to as close an approximation of an all-fours position she’s capable of, with her ankles and wrists tied.

I nonchalantly press my boot into her back — so dusty, I’ll have to remember to make her lick it clean later — and slam down with all my weight, while simultaneously pulling on the rope with all my strength. I like the image it creates, the way her body contorts under the bidirectional pressure. After all, bidirectional pressure is how you break things.

Like taking spaghetti at both hands and just… snap.

I survey my handiwork with grim satisfaction.

With her wrists and ankles bound and the impromptu lasso around her neck, Ava is utterly helpless, sprawled at my feet in the dirt. She's still squirming weakly, but her struggles are feeble now, the fight draining out of her with each labored breath.

I release the pressure on the rope, letting her gulp down some much-needed air.

I crouch down beside her, grabbing a fistful of her short hair and wrenching her head back. She tries to flinch away from my touch, and yelps in pain as I force her to meet my gaze.

"There now," I say, softly. "That wasn’t so bad, was it? Certainly the least unpleasant of the experiences that are waiting for you until the re-education center has processed you, and you can take my word for that, sweetie."

"P-please…" Ava says in a whimper, her voice ragged. "Don't do this…"

"Oh, I'm going to do a lot more than just this, puppy girl. By the time I'm done with you and Sophia, you'll be begging me to take you to the re-education center."

Ava's eyes widen in horror at the mention of Sophia. "No! Leave her out of this! Don’t you dare hurt her!"

Awww. Are they like, a couple or something? Comrades in arms that have been sharing a bunk? How fantastically adorable. I genuinely hope that’s true, because it would give me so much more leverage to break these two.

"Ahh, tell me something I haven’t heard before," I say, shoving her face back into the dirt. "Do you know how many of you feminists I’ve captured by this point? Y’all say the same thing, over and over. Oh, you’re a traitor. Oh, you can’t do this. Oh, please, I’ll do anything! Seriously, it gets tiring. Can’t you make a little effort and be original, for once?"

I take a rag from my coat, bunch it up into a ball, and press it against Ava’s lips. "Here’s the thing you need to know about those girls. They all said so many things… made threats, appeals, or begged. In the end, they all ended up in the same place, and so will you. So, might as well save your breath. Now open up, puppy girl."

Her eyes widen and she clamps her mouth shut, shaking her head vehemently. I sigh. They always want to do it the hard way.

I grab her jaw in one hand, squeezing hard until she gasps in pain. Using my thumb, I pry her mouth open and stuff the rag inside, effectively gagging her. She makes a muffled noise of protest, her bound hands scrabbling uselessly at her face. I give her cheek a condescending pat.

"There we go. Much better. Now, let's get you tucked away before your girlfriend comes looking for you, shall we?"

Ignoring Ava's renewed struggles and muffled protests, I grab the end of the rope still looped around her neck and start dragging her towards the nearby shed - the very place she was so desperate to reach just minutes ago.

What can I say? I’m a sucker for irony.

"Time for a walk, puppy girl," I say absentmindedly as I drag her towards the shed. The door is unlocked, but I have to fumble for my torch because the inside is pitch black. Hardly a surprise. Even outside, nightfall is imminent at this point.

I shine my torch into the interior. It’s old and decrepit, the wood warped and rotting in places. But it will serve my purposes well enough. I haul Ava inside, not bothering to be gentle. She grunts in pain as her bound body bumps and scrapes against the rough floorboards.

There's not much inside - some rusted tools, a few empty crates, a coil of old barbed wire. I spot a sturdy support beam running across the ceiling that seems in excellent structural condition, and smile. Perfect.

Leaving Ava lying in a heap on the floor, I set about securing the other end of the rope to the beam, fashioning a crude but effective pulley system. Once I'm satisfied with my knots, I return to my captive.

Ava has managed to wiggle herself into a semi-upright position, propped up against one of the crates. Her eyes are wide and frightened above her gag as I approach. She makes a muffled noise of protest, shaking her head frantically.

I ignore her, grabbing the rope and hauling on it with all my strength. Ava lets out a choked scream as she's yanked upwards, her body leaving the ground. I pull until she's dangling from the beam, her toes barely brushing the floor. She swings gently, twisting in the air, her breath coming in panicked gasps around the gag.

I tie off the rope, ensuring it's secure, then step back to admire my prizze. Ava hangs helplessly from the beam, trussed up like a piece of meat at the market.

It’s only fitting.

I circle her slowly, letting my fingers trail over her body as I pass. She flinches at my touch, trying to shrink away, but there's nowhere for her to go.

"Comfortable?" I ask, my voice dripping with false concern. "No? Good. That's rather the point."

I give her a sharp slap on the ass, eliciting a muffled yelp. "Now, be a good girl and wait here quietly. I've got a date with your girlfriend."

Ava's eyes widen in horror once more and she thrashes in her bonds, her screams muffled by the gag. I chuckle darkly, giving her cheek a patronizing pat.

"Don't worry, puppy girl. I'll be back for you soon enough. And then the real fun can begin."

I turn and stride out of the shed, Ava's desperate, gagged cries echoing behind me. The cool evening air feels good against my flushed skin as I emerge into the darkness.

One down. One to go.

I make my way swiftly back to my hidden backpack, retrieving it from the undergrowth. The night is upon me now, the last vestiges of daylight fading fast, so I need to work rapidly — shining the torch around might give my position away if Sophia arrives here before I’m done.

Speaking of which…

Sophia had said she would take the longer route, circling around to the old mill. The best bet is to intercept her before she reaches the shed, but not too far away. Only, finding one person in the woods in the dark is easier said than done, so I need to let her come closer than I ideally want. The plus side is that I’ll have to cover a shorter distance to the shed once I’ve immobilized her.

The river is to my left, a dark ribbon winding through the landscape. I can hear the soft rush of water over rocks. I keep to the treeline, using the vegetation for cover, and settle to wait. A crucial part of any hunt.

Somehow, for all the acuteness of my focus, I almost don’t hear it.

Almost.

A soft footfall, the snap of a twig. It's coming from behind me. A whisper of air, a sudden rush. Before I can even turn, something cold and hard bites into my shoulder. Pain explodes, and my legs buckle as a woman’s furious snarl fills my ears.

Darkness crashes in, and the world tips sideways.

TO BE CONTINUED…