Breaking, Breaking, Broken

It's barely been two days. He's been wearing me down with sleep deprivation as well as drugs, keeping my brain hazy and rubbing away at the edges.

I jerk open a built-in wardrobe. There is a travesty of my Lemur suit hanging there, with holes for my breasts, an exposed face, crotchless pants and the most stupid fucking ridiculous Neko ears I have ever seen.

I slam the door so hard it breaks. If that's the only clothing present, I'll be naked until I can find something better. The guards have fucked my arse, I don't care what they see while I'm killing them. I don't care if my tits flop around, either, they can deal with this as well as everything else.

I take one of the guards' utility belts so I can carry their Tasers, shocksticks and handcuffs. They have earpieces, too, so I take one of those.

I hear calm, authoritative orders give in an older, hard voice. "...peat, reinforcements to second slave bedroom. Suspect is para, proceed with extreme care and extreme force."

Did you know there are places where you can ring up and just order goons? Fucking expensive, and they have to vet you, but it's really not hard to hire a small private armour full of trained psychopaths.

I take my bearings by looking out the window, then turn right out the door and run.

I hear boots behind me, and boots in front of me.

I can run really quite quietly when I want to, particularly when my feet are bare and they're in army boots.

I launch myself just as they come around the corner.

The first one dies because my knee crushes his chest against the wall.

The second dies quickly, the third gets tangled in the fourth and they go down 1-2.

The fifth almost gets me with a Taser and gets a shockstick to the throat for his trouble, the sixth does hit me with a dart but at this point the pain is fuel and I use the muscle spasm to hit his wrist with my shockstick, breaking his bones.

I break their necks, 1-2.

The other squad stops at the bedroom.

I start running again, when I hear an emergency beep in my ear.

"Summer days, Rutherford is down, repeat, summer days, Rutherford is down."

"Confirm," the hard voice demands.

A second voice cuts in, "Winter fields, confirm Rutherford is down, repeat, Winter fields, confirm Rutherford is down."

Who thinks up these code phrases?

This is also why you send guards in pairs, children: In case one alone can be made to talk.

"Nuclear winter, the contract is terminated, repeat, nuclear winter, the contract is terminated. Withdraw, withdraw, withdraw. Suspect is parahuman, extremely dangerous, assumed armed, do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. Defend but offer no resistance. Repeat, do not engage. Nuclear winter, withdraw, withdraw, withdraw."

Well, isn't that just a fucking stroke of luck?

Hired men lose all interest when the money stops flowing.

I find the first gallery just as two guards enter from the other end.

They freeze in defensive crouches. They are not staring at my tits, which earns them half a brownie point against their huge debt. There is a brief moment of stand-off before I turn my head to let them see my ear-piece, and tap it.

They bolt through a different door. Clever boys.

I go through that gallery without finding what I'm looking for, and enter the next.

A fetish maid is staring at me.

There is no surprise in her eyes, but they are not entirely dead, either. She's not a robot inside, she's a robot outside. The only emotion I could possibly identify would be wariness.

"Leave," I say as I walk past. "Rutherford's dead, the guards are leaving the sinking ship, nobody will stop you."

She turns and walks away. She doesn't beg, cry, or run. She doesn't look at all hopeful. She just walks.

Clever girl.

I finally find it. There is no way that a man like Rutherford would not put my entire costume and kit on full display, undamaged. I can see the couple of spots where darts penetrated my kevlar (kevlar is shit at stopping sharp points, it's a woven fabric, the fibres separate).

I take the time to get dressed properly. I don't have underwear, and my nipples and cunt are still so sensitive that it's uncomfortable, but I can deal.

I faintly hear vans and heavier vehicles drive away, quickly.

The last thing I take is that fucking statue.

Here's a tip for aspiring Villains: Brainwashing takes weeks and weeks, and has its limits. It doesn't take irrevocably after a couple of days. All his former slaves weren't converted, they were living in a constant state of hostage terror.

Heroines talk a big game about taking risks and protecting the innocent, but they're full of it.

The real balls are carried by female Villains. They're so big we have to keep them on our chests.