Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 {Author's Notes: This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to classified
documents, systems, equipment, or persons (with the exception of a
callsign, used with permssion by the co-authoress) is purely coincidental,
and unintentional.  I know how to do this stuff, and have friends that do
it for a living, but I'm not going to tell you.  That's why there's no
references to Abu Grabe, Gitmo, nor even 9-11.  This isn't that war, nor
our America, literally none of it ever happened.  So, I don't have to worry
about my friends getting in trouble for what I'm not supposed to know. 
Because you'll never read it from me in the first place.

   Trigger Warnings: Torure, PTSD, and Snuff.  Also, NS, its Erotic, but
other than masturbation, porn, and a maybe little groping through clothes,
completely asexual.  Still Erotic, Sexually motivated Sadism, from an
Anger-Exitation Malignant Narcissist.  All adults, no Lolidoms here, but in
case you're wondering what happened when she grew up?  Yeah, by "She" I
mean the only contiguous character throughout the sub-folder.  }

   Valerie {MF NS}

   Hmmmmmh!  My phone buzzed, so I flipped back the Keyboard, and checked
my messages.  [#Secure] just a blip from my home sensors.

   "What's that, hun?" We left early, to avoid most of the traffic. 
Partial success, we could see the gate!

   [#Daylight] "Huh!" just the light sensor at the top of the stairs. 
"Probably a false alarm," then [#Daylight] again, "UH!" Hmmmmmh!  [#Snare]
Switching back on, but the actuator triggering.  "Belay that, I might have
to head back.  You all right getting a ride-in with the MPs?" Approximately
657yds from the gate, it's a hike with all that gear, but he shrugs, and
cuts the motor.

   "Gotta carry it in the field anyway," Everyone is going.  Can't say
where, but the bottleneck at the gate is unavoidable, and we'd been
essentially parked for several minutes allready.  "I'll tell them,?"

   "Tell the Ltn.  Admiral it's a Family Emergency," he knows the rest of
the chain of that command.  The ones that know what I do in my spare time,
since retiring.  He dropped the tailgate, switching the clamshell cases to
both hands.  Already moved over, I rolled the window down to kiss him
goodbye.  Click the cuffs on the cases for him, since they're stowed in the
back.

   Wanted to do this at the flightline, "Come back safe," but things come
up.  He would have saluted, if he could have.

   "Yessir." He grinned, outranking me as a civy now.  Excited to be in the
field again, no idea where beyond how bad it has to be for him to be
Deployed, along with everyone and their dog, by the look of it.  But I'm a
"Wife" now.  Still have to wait for the guards to wave me around while his
partner is kind enough to check the chains on his wists for security. 
FNGs, getting out as if they can just turn around and head back home. 
"Good luck," to the mirrors, not unless they have something that mission
critical.

   But I have to get back, in this traffic.  ASAP, hope the home defenses
hold them until then.  Or I just find one, on the stairs...  Last I
checked, the only thing that tripped was the ground level snare.  Thank god
he had the most critical equipment with him.  In the armory, cross myself,
"Amen."

   Intruder {M Mono NS Bond}

   My watch beeped, they should be on base by now.  Which means at least an
hour's drive back, with everyone in town mobilizing.  Then across the
bridge to Topsail Key, or it would be on the gulf coast.  A barrier island,
in case of storm surge, good enough reason for the cellar.  If you didn't
watch them long enough to see them load before he shipped out, then unload
when he got back, months before he's back in the equation.

   Okay, he's a Marine, but a Nerd.  Freedom of Information Act, married a
navy nurse, and looked stong enough, but all his training was Combat
Engineer.  EoD, Signals, Communication, and she's just a navy nurse, but
there's two of them.  It's their basement, and every Marine is a rifleman,
first.  Gather any 4, say a cook, truck driver, and a couple fuckups from
the brig.  Throw in a Captain, and 6 rifles, you have a fireteam.  And from
what I could get from the signal traffc from this place, I'd guess some
sort of Hacker.  What strategists call a Force Multiplier, 2 Marines is
about 4 times as capable as one, in their own basement.

   Great security!  Whoever they Contracted for it, I want to find out, and
work there long enough to learn their secrets.  The outer door is
deceptively simple, just a trench-plate leanto in a triangular box of
cement.  Next to the power meter, breaker, and cable box, you'd have to
hide in the woods behind the double-wide to see how they open it.  First,
the utility box next to it, right below the real breaker box has a keypad
in it.  Just regular metal buttons, purely mechanical, and the handle on
the side to release the door.  If you know the 8 digit code.  In a
mechanical lock, they're generally 4-5 because of the complexity that
multiplies with every digit.  8 of them, and the metal buttons are
electrified, as is the release handle, thrown closed as a knife switch.

   I held my other arm out, and released it before the ground cable from my
glove to my boot heated up too much.  I'd probably get a burn from it from
a lightning strike, but this is at most 240v (RMS) residential current, to
run like a dryer, or central heater.  But the trenchplate puffed out on the
seal.  So, I could slip the shim I made over it, and the inductive Prox I'd
spotted, cemented into the base right under the handle.  Taped down, I can
lift the 1" rolled homogenous steel door up, that you could shoot all day
with 9mm, and just skip them up into the siding overhead.

   SCREEE!  From down below, check my shim, to make sure it's secure, and
step over it.  Weightless on the piston, I had thought pneumatic, but the
fittings look Hydraulic.  Take a seat on the edge of the sloped sill before
putting my boots down.  On the step, as my eyes adjusted I made out a
line-shadow around at ground level.  Or, just below the second step, but
poking my arm in, I swept the cable insulation with my wand sensor, and
flipped the retical around over my left eye.  Nope, no feild from a
current, I clamp a ring coil around to check for signal.

   Dead, but there's a black patch on the wall.  Less than a foot below the
cable, it's glossy enough to reflect the stairs below, but doesn't look
like a mirror.  Literally cemented in, like the Prox behind me to sense the
door being lifted.  So, I'd need to chistle it out to identify and disable
whatever is in there.  I would guess some sort of sensor, but if it's
active, I would pick up on something with my passive gear.

   Low ceiling, with the slope, so I have to duck my head a lot.  Never
occured to me that could save my life, the cable snapped out of the corner
clips first, but before I could look up, and turn, it pulled tight, broke
my nose and pulled down my mask before slamming my back against the top
step.

   Light/motion sensor.  I'd bet, placed so that it releases just as the
top of your head clears.  Right about throat level, to strangle you, if not
break my goddamned neck!  Unless you duck, so it just pins me across the
shoulders, against the sharp feeling edge of the top step.  For all I know
it's sharpened to decapitate me.

   Nerd-marine, looks like a clever one.  I grit my teeth through the pain,
and have to reach across for my wire-snips.  Wrong handed, my control
gauntlet gets in the way across my armor, but I get it under my arm, and
around the cable to start working my way through the insulation to plaited
steel microfibers, like a bike-lock.  Designed to be resistant to
bolt-cutters, but with my little snips I can cut the strands individually.

   That's when my watch beeped, to tell me I had at best 45 minutes before
anyone could make it here from Base.  Unless they send a helicopter, or an
air-strike.

   .

   .

   .

   Valerie {FM Solo/Cyber NS}

   HMMMMMH!  "Huh!" Well, straightaway on the bridge, so I can risk
checking it on the road, without getting pulled over.  Key in by feel below
the dash, and look down.  Don't speed, run any reds, or stopsigns, you
don't get there any quicker stopping to talk to the civies.  In a white
Surburban with MIA/POW, Veteran, and USMC plates, and stickers.  Usually
enough around here, as long as you don't do something stupid, like checking
your messages, while driving.

   [#Clamshell.] "Fuck!" that's the inner door.  Never got a text from the
outer one before the light sensor, but that means they're through both, and
somehow didn't get caught in the Snare.  It's a snare, not all that
reliable, but a good first escalation after the electrified door.  Kind of
exciting, after putting so much work into the basement, to see how it pays
off against real Intruders.  Hopefully 1 down, but persistent.

   Which no doubt means they have some idea of what they're after, which
narrows down the suspect pool.  "All right, with the assumptions." I'm not
a detective, and maybe I watch too many civy cop shows.  So, button it
down, Captain(Ret.) but it's so exciting!  Never thought I'd miss it, all
the discomfort, horror, and rigid lifestyle of serving my country.  But I
still make the bed, tuck the corners, and wolf down meals like I'm lucky to
have 2 minutes.  I tried not making the bed, it drove me nuts until I drove
back and did it.

   Conditioned response, mind control, I understand the need.  I wouln't
have made it in the Marines, the Navy was bad enough, but just their Basic
school is only surpassed by those for the respective Special Forces.  Not
that I had my heart set on MARSOC, but at least I understand the need. 
Because we need Marines, and you have to break the boy to make him One. 
Civies die out there, can't take them, "Might want to try the coast-guard."
But I'm an Officer, and they trained me for that.  Most grunts are
incapable of understanding the need to train likeat unless they're DIs. 
But knowing why I still fold my shirts the same way doesn't keep me from
doing it, any more than knowing nobody will be in to check my work, with
white gloves.

   "Huh!" Hope I don't have to blow it.  I can, until they get past the
Armory, but it's untested.  Not to mention expensive, and can't be
reloaded. In theory it won't destroy everything, but you can't depend on
that untested.  Okay, hypothetically, doesn't rise to the level of Theory.
Cross myself again, again thankful that anything that would get us
transferred to Leavenworth is on the flightline by now.  Secure, already on
the plane, ready to dust off as soon as cleared.  It's a clusterfuck, but
unless they're that good, nothing that will get us debriefed, then
executed, in secret.

   It's not the Execution I'm worried about...

   Armory {M...FM NS Trap.}

   SkreeekHK!

   "Hm," my mask cleared of all the blood, but it still hurts like hell,
and I can't tell if it set straight.  Make up a story for it later, with a
good enough line it could get me laid easier, but until then, I have a
problem.

   The door swings up, weightless from the hydraulic piston across the
ceiling, identical to the one outside it's slaved to.  As countermass, push
this one up, that one goes down, along with the column of fluid, you clever
Marinerd.  But it hurts to chuckle.  That's not the problem, just past that
are walls that are honeycombed with countless round holes,
floor-to-ceiling, all the way back to the dark side of this concrete
passage.

   Terrific!  Light switch right there.  Riiiight.  Now, what's in all
those steel pipes mudded in like the motion, and inductive proximity
sensors out front?  Looking back, I finally see the counterweight that hit
the floor when the cable snapped across the front of my armor, and sleeve.
Still deaffened by the crash, I think I patched it pretty good, but can't
see all that well without taking everything off, and hoping I still have
the nominal 15 minutes to make it past the Indiana Jones setup.

   So, check the floor, smooth polished looking concrete, could be a
skating rink, so scratch pressure plates.  Capacitive proxes couldn't work
through even a light coat of cement, unless they use some leveling compound
IDK about, but I take my boots off incase he thought of more Inductive
ones. Lineman boots, and a good thing, considering how many shocks I didn't
take, but they're pointed perpendicular, straight across the hall, so if I
stand back I should be safe sliding one across the floor.

   Then I throw the other, higher to bouce and hit something, couldn't be
more than 10', but it sounded like a concrete wall.  There's a shocker,
looks like he got a deal on trench-plate too, from the countermass that
slapped down beneath the stairs.  Nothing active on infrared, but my
bodyheat didn't trigger anything, any more than my night vision or whatever
gets through the shielding on my gear with the radios silent.

   In the dental mirror, there's definitely something in those pipes.  Look
like ¾' conduit, or steel going by the rust, but without color, fuck it, I
switch on my headlamp.  I don't have time for this, just don't hurry into a
deathtrap, any light sensors didn't trigger anyway, but I can see it now.
I'd guess a shotshell, or hundreds of them, but instead of the crimp
there's a coin shape with the light green shell rolled in around it. 
Alluminum cap?

   No signal, with the outer door closed, I'd bet it's NBC shielded, but
they didn't keep anything in the house, and always loaded up from the
basement.  Besides, nobody puts lethal electric, strangulation, and
ballistic boobytraps up to protect their stamp collection, but looking
across the room, I see it.

   10' away.  Between 2 steel safe doors embedded in poreless concrete.  A
display, about a foot above my boot, framed and from here I recognize 2
sets of Uniform.  Blues, and Whites, his and her's, Marine and navy
officer's right down to the crossed swords.  Full ribbons, a purple heart
each, and around his neck a ribbon.

   Silver Star, already had the buyer.  If I could make it there without
disappearing in a cloud of buckshot, or worse.  The problem is I don't know
the trigger, because it's encased in at least 3" of cement, steel pipe, and
military grade shotshells.  I was expecting maybe a Claymore or two, but
these Marine nerds.  Ever since they deposed the SaUd, and got a practical
lesson in Improvised Munitions.

   "Expect the unexpected," yeah right.  That's Everything else, except
what you'd expect.  BeepBeep, Beebeep, Bebeep!  Stop my watch, terrific. 
Make that 30 minutes.  "Uh!" if I'm right, and my shoulder hurts worse than
my nose now.  On my good arm.  Wouldn't you know, I'd get within sight
before the first thought of cutting my losses.  But now I'm committed,
nothing between me, and that Star but a window, and 10' of shotgun barrels,
on both sides.

   Well, better get going...

   Valerie {MF NS Tort}

   "Huh!" strap on my armor, pull and chamber my peice, then secure the can
to the muzzle on my way around the corner.  Not my first firefight, but I
wish I had him here.  Think his name, but I'm not Valerie either.  Because
this didn't happen, I didn't think to call him "Boyscout," yet.

   At that point, my greatest concern was who They could be.  Working for,
who knows what it is, and where to look for it narrows it down to US, and
whoever they have working for US.  China {Not North Korea} leaps to mind,
followed by IslamiStan, then possibly Brazil in order of sophistication,
but who had it in for either of us?  That's a completely different matter.

   I absently locked back the slide, and chambered another round.  In .45,
it doesn't hurt to stave off another reload, with everyone double-stacking
10mm {Moran Magnum} if not doubletapping 9mm, or going full-auto.  But
still as far as the Armory, not past any of those doors, unless they know
about the capacitive proxes to tape a bent strip of trench-plate to the
concrete base with the same alluminum doped paint on the inside.  "Huh!"
(Same Rolled Homogynous steel/amagnetic coating as the Up-armored Panhard
VBL) {Standoff plate for RPGs, Fictional Atrocity Wars hardware.}

   So, maybe the gunsafe, or equipment locker, which narrows the choices
quite a bit.  Blow the walls, or toss in a flashbang just might alert the
neighbors, but I'm not dying to avoid attention, that ain't worse than
death.  "Huh!" Dishonor?

   Call, "Playtime." ?  Okay, body/s.  (Send] So probably later.

   "Sup, Nigga?"

   "ETA on Topsail?"

   "36, 28 hours?"

   "Yes." [END)

   Immediately felt much better.  Might be nice through the door, but I
know I'll be taken care of.

   Then, the video comes through, and either he's the only one, or they're
standing out of the cameras.  Didn't disable any of them, light sensor's
off, with the outer door closed, they might be in the stairwell.  And he's
standing back, extending something on a boom to the middle door.  Out of
the killzone, so let's see how he reacts?

   SCREE!  Finger over the E button, with Caps locked, and the TYU/GHJ/BNM
"Numberpad" off.  {Keyphone.}

   He jumps back, but not fast enough, okay I hesitated.  Blowing the room,
but he doesn't have anything to blow through the back of the door, I can
see through the button cam.  AND I DON"T WANT TO BLOW UP MY BASEMENT! 
"Huh!" and the stairs are clear, so just cover the bottom edge in case he
tries to open it, and stick that Serbu Shorty up under it.  Instead of
flatten against it, checking his watch, and then thinking about the
"whippit" {~J.  Dillinger} sling under his arm.

   Left handed?  No, wearing a wristwatch, though.  Can't make it out, but
his left also has a flat pannel on the inside, which isn't great with a
tactical shotgun with a shell-carrier.  Hanging on the wrong side? 
Possibly right handed, but wounded, by the cable, cut so the armor plates
fell flat to the floor under the stairs.  Also clear, I pull my piece back
out, and screw the can back on before I step over the bulkhead under the
door.  Quickly ducking, but he doesn't even go for the door.

   HUD eyepeice, but folded up, no doubt for the wrist computer, and sensor
suite.  Already got the job-lite up on a tripod, in the center of the room,
but definitely knows where not to stand.  If he doesn't want to dissapear
in a cloud of armor piercing fletchettes.  "Huh!" carefully sighted in, if
I'm going to kill some damned body I'd rather press a button, but this may
be the moment I trained for.

   Shoot him first, before he shoots me, with a sawedov.  So, shoot better,
but he'll get a headshot while I still get his legs first.  And I still
have to aim, ducking down, and pulling the door.  45 degrees, so it's
roughly level, and the lower one stands out halfway to the ceiling.  No
shadow yet, but there's a toe, calf, knee, and quickly run through the
deflection tables in my head.  Level, he backs to the edge of the killzone,
but my phone is folded, and I switch to steady my grip when I let the door
go.

   Level, it stands out more, and has more leverage at the end of travel.
SKEECHK!  At least he didn't cut the hydraulics, and trap himself inside,
nor move, so I just sighted in for right about where his head shoud be,
approximately 35 degrees out from the point of aim, and SPAP!  Sounds about
like somebody dropped a phonebook, still loud in the confined space, but
doesn't sound like a gunshot, and the neighbors probably already heard the
counterweight fall.

   Right after the doors slammed, he jumped, forward, then out to the other
side of the room.  The other wall, but still no cover without falling back
to the killzone.  Just about the same distance, right at the edge, but just
exposed up to the hip, which means just about the same angle.  But would
have to unhook the shotty to put it up over his shoulder, about the angle
of the ceiling, wouldn't even have to aim.

   Some crumbles of concrete had rolled across the floor from the ceiling.

   Ever play pool with Snipers?  SPAP!  Don't.  SPAPSPAP!  He falls back,
so I get out my phone.  "Wanna see a Magic-Trick?" An empty threat, at this
point I just don't want to clean it up.  More cement crumbles and dust
falling as the ecchoes died down.

   "No, wait!" Back against the display case, trying to hide behind the 2"
doors of the gunsafe, and equipment locker.

   "Drop your weapon, and get on your knees, with your hands on your head."
He complied.  I topped it off with a fresh stack, and moved down into
direct LOS when the sawdov skidded to the bottom of the stairs.

   "Ah!" yup, he used his left hand to lift his right.

   "Dislocated, or snapped collarbone?" Nasty rip across the sleeve too,
tore through the top layer of his shirt.  He just closed his eyes, but then
I had the can on his forehead so I could feel back for the zip-cuffs. 
Yeah, he could grab it, but by the time the trigger traveled back, his
options were limited to smacking it down into his face, or praying he got
it down to the armor.  Held his breath, his fingers didn't even twitch, so
I put his good arm down first, and pulled it behind.

   "Don't hurt m'aH!"

   "Don't break into my armory, then." Too late.  Good, don't have to kill,
today.  First, do no harm expired years ago, but at least I don't enjoy it.
Well, I didn't, I hadn't yet...

   "Boyscout." {FM Dom MC Tort NS}

   "Ah, you're hurting me!" Her hand went down to my elbow, and gripped the
back of my arm with 2 fingers.

   "Yeah," POP!  "Dislocated." Again?

   ZzzziP!  "Ngh!" It joined the other one with tight bands of toothed
plastic, and a couple ratchet flaps in the middle.

   "Don't get up!" She swiped the screen, clicked some keys on the bottom,
hit one on the keyboard, and waited half a second.

   Thunk!  Sounded like a solenoid, and she reached behind me.  "Move," on
my kneepads, she pushed me forward with the butt of her gun, and I saw
light flash my shadow across the walls.

   The glass, or I'd bet ceramic-polymer laminate on the case swinging
open, like a door.  Right, shake my head.  "Don't move," the gun went in
the holster.  Behind me, I heard her boots.  "Stand up."

   "Okay?" I looked down, "How?"

   "What the fuck," she laughed, "Over.  Who the fuck sent you?"

   "What?"

   "I said get up, turn around, that's right lean back and get your legs
under you, or turn around and walk on your knees." She tucked away the
black tubular silencer from the decocked H&K on her hip, then I looked back
at her unlocking her phone.  "Huh!" she looked down, and waved me forward.

   I had to climb over, the high sill.  About the height of a bathtub side,
with my arms tied behind my back, and my shoulder hurt.  Managed not to
wrack myself on the concrete web, with trench-plate on the inside.

   "But," I blinked, "You're a nurse." She bounced her foot, put it down,
and leaned down to pull my mask down.

   Again, "Ah!"

   "Ooh," she frowned, "The snare?" She unfolded a pair of glasses, one
handed, and slipped them on.  I nodded, "Hold still," all the way over, she
gripped the back of my head, and my nose.

   "AhhhkNGH!" Her nuckles snapped.

   "Didn't set it very straight."

   But, "You're a nughsh."

   She looked around, laughed, "Yeah, I was."

   A shipping container.  Oh yeah, the doors swung open to flare out from
the display/door, and sill about the height of a submarine, or below decks
bulkhead.  And a translator, (Spanish/Arabic) but one that happens to have
a dungeon in her basement.

   "Fugh!"

   "So," she stood up, pulled down a flat screen, and a camera on brackets
welded to the ceiling, "Who sent you?"

   Valerie {FM Tort Shad NS.  Trigger code: Shadenfreude.}

   Pull, and hook on the pocket flap, clicK!  "Seriously," grab his sleeve,
"Try not to move." Widened the slash, not Kevlar, but a pretty good
domestic wannabe, without as much slash resitance.  KkhctT!  Hang it from
my pinky, and hook my glovetips in.  "WHPThw!  Just a flesh wound, want
some liquid-stitch?"

   Look around again, at the buzzbox, sybian still strapped up on the
corrugated steel wall, still open door to the screeching loud inner door to
the armory, that light still on the tripod.  "Yes, a nurse, but then I
retired, and my career went on..." And I tortured for the DoD.  "Well, I
didn't torture, I actually patched them up between sessions with the boys."
But, we found they open right up with some tender loving care.

   Not a whore, nothing sexual about it, just take away their pain, let
them get some rest, food, water, and gain their Trust.  At Quantico, the
Marine base, but the Feebs sent some people over and gave us some tips on
just how to do it.

   "Nobody sent me," bloody snot, "I workh alone."

   "Oh god!" if it wasn't so stereotypical it might be plausible, "Come on,
how did you even afford half that equipment?"

   "I made it," he didn't shrug.  I tapped my foot so I could think while
he looked down.

   "Huh!" Lean back over, and pull his black neckerchief around to the
knot. Knife hanging so the dull back curve bounced on his armor, I just
picked it out with my nails through the tips of the gloves and pulled it
off.  "Strapaddo," I decided, and got up.

   "What?" Unlatched the spider ratchet, and pulled out the ends.

   Zzzzzzzs!

   "Sorry, stress position." Spanish Inquisition, nobody expects that. 
"How'd you like the garotte?" I have an extensive library.

   "It missed."

   "Yeah?" hooked the middle of the Zip-cuffs, and released the
counterspring.  Holding the pommel on the other hand, I sat down, and
crossed my legs.

   "So, who're you working with?" Relax, let my tricep stretch out with my
bicep, and the double-ended spool wind back.  "This doesn't miss." Why I
don't like guns.  He bent over, had to, and scooting around on his knees
won't do any good.  Those plastic cuffs are going higher, but no higher
than the knot I held out right in front of his face before he couldn't stay
up that high.  "Strappado."

   I call her Latchethese.  "Clikt!" She said back down.

   I tapped my foot in the corner of his eye, "How `bout another name, who
are you?"

   "Ah, Frank!"

   "Good," I put my foot down, "Hold this," up to his mouth.

   "Uh?"

   "Trust me, sweety, you do not want it to let go." Stood up, but he was
too busy to reply, with his mouth full.  "Nice bracer." Apparently a
civilian copy of the control pendant, check my watch, should be taking off
by now.

   "Uph!?"

   "Breathe through your nose," buckled on the back, the ends tucked
behind. "Hold still." Didn't even try to nod.  A keyboard, switched off
with the retical flipped back.  Not much bigger than the one on my
Keyphone, without the control buttons on the backs, and edges, but 3 rows
of keys, a full numberpad on in the end, and a trackball stuck in the
corner.  "Hm," No thumbreader, though, nor sign of the CPU, but with modern
phones, you could fit it, and the battery in a wallet.  I just like more
capability.

   Flipping the toggle-ratchet back, I tugged the end down, and out of his
mouth.  Diagonally, to keep it off his nose, and pull the headgear off the
back.  Phi strap, over a bandana, let it hang from his collar.  No visible
camera, Night Vision bracket, but we had one in a button quilting the
velvet back in the display case.  "Hm," monicle, in the other cargo pocket.
"What are you here for?" Conversationally, I walked back, to the computers,
and fired up His.

   Thumbed on the desktop, and brought up the camera in the corner, then
sat down to switch over to the Database desktop.  "Hm," serial number on
the back, no wallet at all, much less identification, but I don't need to
sign in for shopping, so I traced it back to the store, and started the
Search.

   "Where you from, Frank?  That short for Frances?"

   "Fuck you, bitch!"

   Shrug, "Suit yourself, Freedom of Information Act?" He checked up on me,
or could at least read some of my uniform.  It doesn't really say Nurse,
but the one ribbon he didn't notice, or understand is the black one, with
the Psi symbol embroidered on it.  In Black.  Navy doesn't have a Black
ribbon, that I can wear out in public.  Closest display ribbon is dark blue
with a black stripe down the middle, and that should tell you something.

   "He's a civy," shake my head, betcha $50.00 right after I thumbkeyed
into the AAD, and WTF?  NARA Databases.  "Hm," the reader automatically
slid closed and then back open, slowly winking to clear the oils from my
thumbtip.

   Why that terminal is locked up back here, not that valuable.  Compared
to the tens of thousands in the safe, or probably low Million$, adjusted in
bucks somebody would pay oveseas for what's left in the Locker.  "That just
covers up to my retirement.  I didn't work at a different station you never
heard of."

   "Where you tortured prisoners."

   "Detainees," officially, "Of war,"s not officially declared.  {Not yet
even colloqually called Atrocity Wars yet.} "We don't do that any more."
Never officially did, "So I'm retired."

   "As a Dominatrix?"

   What big words you have!  "My!" plucked the chain out of the neck of my
armor, and blouse, "I prefer therapist." dropped the Cross, and Saint
medalion on the outside.

   "Is everything PC with you?"

   "Was that a question?" I leaned over, and tapped the side of his nose.
Middle finger cocked right in front of his mouth.

   "GaAH!" He rocked back, then his head dropped screaming.  Until he was
gasping, and sobbing, and finally calmed down to panting.  I bounced my
foot until he looked up, blubbering blood.

   "You don't ask questions." Nor does he have to answer, I have days. 
Maybe a day and a half, so I don't really have to hurt him, every time he
refuses.

   "HuhHuhHuh!" He nodded, and tried not to sneese.  I scratched my lip,
then the side of my nose.  Bounced my foot until he subcosciously sneezed,
"Uh!" I put my foot down, o go back.  A little fear, there in his eyes,
glancing down at my foot.  Telegraphing the pain, but not technically
hurting.  Pavlovian subconscious response.  I don't like causing pain, but
I can, as long as I need too.

   Probably not much longer, I caught the hanging ball, and held it out for
him.  "Hold this, before I hit the release."

   Gave him a second and a half, "Ngh!" Turned away from his shoulder, must
really be hurting by now.  I went back to check the Military Terminal,
refined my searches by approximate age range, hair/eye-color, not enough
accent, to pick up with a thrice-broken nose packed with bloody mucus, but
he sure got whiney.  Who the fuck hires an FNG, equips, and trains him,
then sends them after me?

   His watch beeped, and I twisted it out to check the time.  Cut it off,
Casio Calculator watch, so collector.  Obviously, but, "Really?"

   "UPH!" He barked.  Let him catch it, grunt, and clamp down on the ball,
with another grunt.  2 hours ago, to the minute from when we left.  About
40-50 back with prep, and then his sounded off about 10 minutes after I get
back.  Timed me, out to the gate and back.

   "Huff!" Scoff, "Cutting it pretty close, you didn't have time to open
anything, and get it out even without your gear." Sit back down.  Credit
card, [Frank Castle] for the control board strapped to his wrist.  Push my
glasses up, rub my eyes.  "Uh!?" Either he's the un/luckiest fuckup ever,
or whoever set this up isn't trying too hard to make it look like they
didn't.  Is somebody fucking with me?

   All right, don't gaslight yourself, Corpsman.  It's not paranoia, he was
in my basement with a shotgun, and way too much sophisticated gear for it
to add-up, but he's a collector.  Noted, I guess I better unhook him, and
bring him over to the thumbpad before his jaw goes numb.

   "Uh!" He licked some slobber off his lips, and bloody snot from his
nose. Spat, "Sadistic bitch!"

   I laughed, "I'm not a Sadist!" but switched the escapement to hold his
hands.  Instead, I wiped the screen on my keybook keyphone.  "That's why I
can do this," torture, "A sadist can't control himself, he gets so Excited,
they end up killing you, or doing irreperable damage." Rolling his thumb on
the screen, I turned it over, and wrestled the other one around.  "I don't
enjoy this, I just Need To Know who's breaking into my basement."

   Checking the hook for security, it's too high for him to squirm out of,
and let his arms down, bent over his kneepads like that.  So, I
straightened up, and took it back to the terminal to thumb it on, and
connect to the micro-serial cable.  NARA still up, I cleared the search
fields, and uploaded his thumbprints.  "Huh!" Still probably take a while,
but if he ever took the ASVAB, and went to MEPS, he'll be in here.  I'm
willing to bet he at least tried, but might not have passed the Background
Check.  So, I brought up the Criminal databases too.

   "Why don't you just kill me?" Pitiful, I turned back, and picked up my
knife from a side table.

   "Having a little trouble breathing?" I hooked it under the back of his
collar, but he could bend over further to shrink away from it.  KHCT!  Most
guys like tactical folders, with flat tip bevels, and semi-serrations. 
Which can cut safety belts, and harness straps, but aren't ideal.  This
concave edge is better for hooking them out, like the tight elastic
velcroed straps on the sides of the vest.

   "Uh!" like a released brastrap, again I wish my husband was here, to
rough him up so I just have to treat him.  Of course, he probably waited
for him to deploy, along with everyone else I could call in the immediate
area.  I doubt he even thought about breathing in that position through the
pain, nor even the Bondage.  Even if it doesn't hurt, just being bound for
any extended period of time gets worse and worse.  Until you can't stand it
any more, the same as a normal pack, getting heavier and heavier every
mile. Even without a freshly damaged shoulder, broken nose, and compressed
diaphragm.

   "I'm not going to kill you." The other side was easier to cut, with the
slack, even reaching over his back, and twisting my wrist.  I got the bad
shoulder next, and he shot more snot.  Blood-flecked, instead of marbled
with it now, but it still hurts.  He gasped through his mouth, so I got up,
flipped back the ratchet, and held the ball down to him.  Rubbed his neck,
on the good side, but felt the tension cramp from holding the spring back,
that way.

   "I'm going to let go," I rubbed the bights over the oversized superball,
spliced with a marlin spike into a Turk's head.  Oh, and I used my nails,
over his clenched lips, "In 3, 2." He opened up, and I pulled the heavy pad
of ballistic weave off his back.

   "Any more injuries?" felt up his shirt, and gripped his collar.  Ripped
down from the cut past the double reinforced band, cheap shit.  Polyketone,
not even ballistic, abrasion resistant.  Looked close enough, same weave,
but didn't feel quite the same on my ungloved fingers.

   "NGH!" More snot shots.

   "Get it out, you want to heal, right?" Ooh!  Felt like a chip of bone.
Followed a loosened tendon under his ribbed white-cotton A-shirt (AKA "Wife
Beater") worn for it's original purpose, but the unnaturally relaxed line
fanned out to the inner corner of his scapula.

   "NGUH!" The ball swung in front of him, slack, he tensed, "Huh!" Hadn't
unlatched the ratchet, I pulled down his wrists, and unhooked them. 
"Huhhhh!" He relaxed, foetal, over his boot-toes, splayed out behind him.

   Cold, painted steel floor.  Fairly clean, hadn't been back here in a
while, and washed it good since the last time we used it.  "Looks like the
back step took a chip off of your shoulderblade." On the `good' side, the
other one probably didn't by dislocating.  I'd guess from the nature of the
injuries.

   He couldn't even get up, with his arms behind his back, and all that
gear on.  Wired together, I pulled the vest off the left arm, and he turned
his head over.  Still wired to his pants, a ribbon cable, flat,
multistrand, flexible from his glove to his belt.  Isolated ground,
standing in the back-yard, next to around the same bed the whole house is
grounded to.  Well, Double-wide.

   "Nice," motherboard in the traumaplate pouch of the front.  Probably
won't stop a bullet, but you got to figure if you're taking a shot to the
COBM, you probably don't want to leave evidence.  Make the cops destroy
evidence for you, it looks like it would shatter.  "He's gonna love this!"

   "Uhhh!" ?  Might have lost him a moment there.

   "You made this?" Brag.

   His eyes turned, up do look, and he nodded.  Spread-eagle, boots, BDU
style pants, split-shirt, undershirt, and zipper-cuffs.  Pretty-bad
wristburn, gloves hanging from their respective wires.  No discharge? 
"Where's the power-supply?"

   Is that it?  Strapped to his thigh, under the loose empty cargo pocket,
buttoned under the flap.  Khct!  In the pocket, feel up, and around for the
buckle.  Almost on the femoral artery, above the knee, squeeze the plastic
tabs on the sides.  No concept of circulation, somehow being brilliant, and
at once "Fucking retarded."

   "Hm?"

   "Don't get up," kneeling, I stood, and looked back at the computer. 
Timed out, automatically, but my phone buzzed a while ago, meaning
something hit.

   He could, try to get up, carefully.  He's in no condition to fight, he
needs to rest, and "This is my house." Delta-6 could be at the door, by the
time they opened it, twice, I'd be ready to hold it against them.  If I
said something wrong at their last barbeque.

   "Boyscout" {FemdoM NS.}

   "Uh!" I couldn't feel it.  The slot between the ratchet straps for the
key to push open the sprung flaps.  Nylon, just them releasing, and her
hand holding my wrist.  The good arm, my shoulder was numb, but felt so
good just letting it rest on the cold steel floor.  "Huhhh!"

   Her gloved hand slipped the sleeve down, and felt.  "There," wiggled the
ball in the socket.

   "Ah!" Even through the numbness.  "MNH!"

   "It should set right." Traction?  I did dislocate it, again.  So, it was
like straightening my nose.  She is a nurse, she could have shot me right
out front, but instead drove me back to capture me.  She was treating me,
just the nature of my injuries made it painful.  "Don't get up."

   The piffs, and spray of the shots pucking up into the ceiling right
above, and behind my head.

   At the computers, his and hers?  I recognized the other one, Amiga 2000,
like the architecture I copied in my motherboard, for multitasking.  "Made
it through MEPS, Frank." I nodded sideways, but the metal warmed up under
my cheek.  "Or should I call you Doug?"

   My records, she could access them from there?  Had to be his computer,
Marine Nerd, combat engineer, signals corps.

   "I see you had your shoulder dislocated before." I remember that pain,
the first time, "Resisting arrest?" I nodded, the cop's knee in my back. 
"Like you would have made it through Basic.  You're not the type, not
enough discipline.  They would have broken you if you hadn't gotten picked
up, partying.  That when you got the tattoo?"

   She's using it, my pain, frustration, fatigue from this clusterfuck of a
morning.  So, I close my eyes, don't even nod.

   Clack Clack Clack.  "You didn't earn this," she slapped my arm.

   "Ah!" My bicep, it didn't hurt, I was drunk anyway.

   "You tell them you made it?  In the tattoo shop, you tell them you're a
Marine?" she laughed, "The girls believe you in bars?  Stupid civy girls, I
bet they do.  This get you laid?  You're not a Marine, they never would
have made you one, you're a Boyscout.  You came prepared, but you aren't
even an Eagle Scout."

   I shook my head.  "No."

   "You couldn't even get the Star."

   "Stop."

   Clack Clack Clack.

   I looked up.  Of course, it's not just a door, but the back opens.  On
the display, that's why I couldn't get it open.  Even if I was able to walk
right up to it, that bulletproof glass wasn't how to do it.  It wasn't
mudded in like everything else, interred like Lenin's body.  Or a
time-capsule, it was a door, and I had no idea what it hid.

   "This what you came for?" She hung it, by the ribbon, right over my
face. The Silver Star.  "You didn't earn it," it jumped back into her hand,
like a yo-yo from the ribbon.  "Let me show you what he got it for." She
set it aside, helped me up.  By the good arm, "Don't Resist." The folding
chair scraped back out, and she pulled the screen back down.  Flat pannel,
bolted to a bracket welded to the ceiling.  Right next to the spring loaded
double ratchet, the cable retracted to the hook, and the ball gag.

   She typed into her unfolded phone, and the screen lit up.

   I turned away, closed my eyes.  "You saw it." I shook my head.  "The
scar.  You don't have the balls to be a Marine."

   "Stop, please!"

   "He did, until they took them away.  My husband, they took everything
when he wouldn't talk."

   "Ah!" I couldn't look.  "Ah, yes!  Mistress."

   "Before we even met.  Back then, I was just a nurse.  Corpsman, we got
to know eachother on our way back stateside.  You think this makes you a
man?" She rubbed my pants.  "They couldn't take that from him."

   Porn?  Was she trying to turn me on?  SMACK!  "NH!" SMACK!

   "You are a Sadist!"

   "Ahahahahahah!" She shook her head.  "That's not sex, dumshit!  That's
therapy.  Of course, you wouldn't understand what it takes to process real
torture.  Any more than to make a real man, or a Marine.  That's what he
got the Purple Heart for.  This," she dangled it, out of reach.  I wasn't
bound, but I just held my arm across my lap.  "He earned this through
disinformation.  What they wanted was intel.  You know what that is?" She
shook her head.

   "Of course not, instead of giving them what they wanted, he led them
into a trap.  That's how we found him, it led to the raid that freed him,
and the other prisoners.  You can't even stand up, on your own.  Can you,
boy?"

   "Yes," I started to, but she pushed me back.  By the forehead, she stuck
her finger out.

   "Show me."

   "Nh!" I couldn't.  She held me back, with 1 finger, until the chair
skidded a little from the effort.  I reached up for her hand, but it pulled
back, and she slapped it away.  "UNH!" I cradled my arm in my lap again.

   "I've got a friend coming, you'll like her." She walked back to the
case. "She's no boyscout, either.  Scout-sniper, by training.  I was
trained, at Quantico, by the BAU.  She taught me, the more practical
applications, of Pain."

   "A female scout sniper?" Impossible, there aren't any.

   "Of course not," she looked back, straightened the collar, and closed
the back of the display.  "Officially.  She was the first, but they don't
talk about that." A simple catch, she just turned the tongue so it slipped
into the groove in the frame.  "That's what I'm trying to tell you.  Pain
is a tool, like a gun.  You ever shot someone?" She didn't even reach for
the holster, strapped to her hip.  "Neither have I."

   I knew it!

   "I don't need a gun to kill someone." She shook her head.  Pulled out
the zipper cuffs.

   "No," I got up, "Please." Backed away to the computers on the end.

   "I need a shower," she twirled them on her fingers, "And I can't have
you snooping around down here.  It'll only hurt more, if you fight."

   "Maureen" {F Solo}

   I left him, just hanging out, don't feel the need to fire up the
buzz-box, and it would probably be overkill for him anyway.  Half naked,
I'll probably take care of the wound in his good shoulder when I head back
down.  But to be honest, I was starting to enjoy it.  And I need not to. 
To stay objective, think clearly enough to get what I want out of him.

   "Huh!" It felt dirty.  I never got aroused by it before, but all those
years with my husband, the Admiral, "Playtime." Uh!  I should probably wait
until she gets here, she never loses her edge like this.  People in power,
they don't fantasize about it.  Why the Admiral likes being tied up, and
humiliated.  He Has to be in control.  Coming home, and holding the whip,
that's too much like work.  He just wants to relax, let go, let someone
else do all the work for once.

   No, it's the helpless that fantasize about exercising Power.  Asserting
it, because that's what they don't have.  I hate feeling powerless,
helpless, and it got to me.  He violated me, broke into my most private
place, threatened me in my own home, and it's making me sloppy.  I almost
told him too much.  Nothing specific about the mission, Passo, Nicueragua
once the ex-Columbians sold them, the prisoners to be tortured on that
hellish island.

   But, I started bragging.  I need to stop, but I Am starting to enjoy it.
His sniveling, moaning in pain, the pathetic look on his face, and even the
bloody snot dribbling down his lips.  "HuhHhuhuh!"

   "There," wash my hands, and start the water.  Make it a bath, he can
wait.  These nice epsom salts, with the menthol, and eucalyptis.  Slip into
something a little more comfortable, mentally going through my extensive
wardobe.  "Huh!" It feels so nice, to relax.  Maybe after this, I can talk
Playtime out of a freebie.  She's retired too, not as fortunate as I, she
has to WORK for a living.  Another night in the hotel....

   Not my type, but remembering our first few times together.  My civilian
training, the willing subs, and my husband.  My poor husband, the dick
doesn't make a man, but how long has it been?  Since I had one, a real one
instead of a plastic friend.  A strap-on, robocock.  I wonder if he's
circumcised, and there's not much air down in that shelter.  I can still
smell it, even through the scented water.

   His pain, his fear.  "Yeah," I'm gonna have to get off again first.  To
keep my objectivity.  He still hasn't told me everything I Need to Know.  I
need to not want anything else from him.  I don't need that distraction.

   Douglas R.  Franklin {M Mono...}

   Well, so much for Anonymity.  She's recording this, probably watching
from her phone through the home network.  Look up at the camera, but don't
give her the satisfaction.  "Huh!" I tried, all the possible ways to get
out of this, but she is a sadist.  In denial, but she touched me, and
probably went up to take care of herself.

   Just doesn't want me to see it, for some reason.  I mean, she showed me,
porn, left it on for me, but then why try to hide it?  How can I use it
against her?  So, I watch it, for Intel.  I know what intelligence is, she
saw my gear, she was even impressed by the sophisication of it, but she has
to keep the mask on.  Why she took mine off, right away.

   She's trying to act cold, but I'm getting to her.  Just don't struggle,
that's why she left me tied up like this, so it hurts if I do.  She doesn't
even hurt me, she lets me hurt myself?  And what did she get her purple
heart for?  Right, she doesn't talk about herself, she's in denial, so she
tells me about her husband.  Her imaginary friend the first female
Scout-Sniper.  They don't even let women in that school, or I would know
about it.

   She's just a nurse, fantasizing about being more.  Since she retired,
getting off on the war stories of torture.  Playing soldier with her
husband's .45, and punishing him for being the man she never will.  Why she
punishes me for it, she went navy for the cushy post, the easy Basic,
because she couldn't be a Marine.  I made it, just my bad luck, getting
arrested.  I'm not the only one that partied that night, got our tattoos,
the police just decided to pick on me, specifically.

   Once a Marine, always a Marine.  They swore me in, no arrest can take
that away.  Damned civy cop was just jealous, and they wouldn't train me,
with my bad shoulder.  He took that away from me, when that could have been
me.  Going to war, getting the milspec gear, joining Force Recon.  I could
have gotten a wife like that.  Why I eliminate luck now, as much as I can.

   SKREEEEK!  The inner door dropping.  She wants to talk Intelligence? 
SKReeeikHK!  I'll show her intelligence.

   Valerie {F/M...}

   "You like coffee?" I don't, French Roast Guatamalan, Black.  Purse my
lips at my slightly scalded tongue, and the bitter aftertaste.  Sniff,
Bounce my foot.

   "Uh!" Looking up, it's okay, he'd go through withdrawl eventually.

   "How's your shoulder?" He just looks up, I stop bouncing my foot.  Just
annoying, but triggering, he winces when he notices, and looks away.  In my
sleepshirt/shorts, bed head, put on some slippers, but left them in the
foyeur swept of concrete crumbles, and bullet fragments.  "Sleep well?"
Bolted to the post in the middle of the floor.

   4x4 Hardwood, rounded off with a hole/pipe through the sides.  Legs
wrapped around, and unbound, he could even get up.

   Bent over, the bed right in front of him.  Just a cot, made to spec,
knife edge corners, you could bounce half a dollar bill off the sheet
folded over the blanket.  Lean over, pretend to look at the wound, but the
liquid stitch didn't pull out, so there was nothing there.  "You'll live."

   "Slept" with his chin rested over the barrel arch of the post.  Bedhead
easilly affected by drying my hair on the pillow while I worked out some of
the tention.  Haven't even started with deprivation yet, but he didn't
answer.  I could just wait for him to beg for a sip while it cooled off. 
Bounce my foot so he glances back, but his shoulders tense, and he winces.

   Wanting to ask him what he came for.  I'm not buying the star, it's not
worth enough to pay for this venture, but he hates the military. 
Especially Marines, why he wanted to be one, brothers and uncles too.  He
Fucked it up, because he's a Fuckup, but he has to blame someone.

   Read what he'd written, forced to at the desk, just how he'd gotten in,
and that helped a lot.  Made himself sound tougher, grunting through the
pain, instead of wimpering, and whining.  Pre-broken, saves me a lot of
time, but imagines himself James fucking Bond.  Calls my husband a "Marine
Nerd," a wannabe marine nerd, I scoffed in bed over that one.

   "Um," dry lip, and eyes, but can't mask the ache.  No fight left in him,
but pre-broken.  Just not by a DI.  I lectured Marine DIs, would have
helped if they had.  "Can I still have, a sip?"

   ;_

   "You don't ask questions." Hold it for him.  "Why are you here?" Still
pretty hot, he spills some down his chin.

   "Ah!" gasp, "Huh!" Blinks up at me.  I asked him a question.  "The
star?"

   Set the coffee cup down, and tap my foot, impatiently.  On the floor, he
glances down so I stand up, and the cot springs squeek behind me.

   "Huh!" roll my eyes, "For your private collection, boyscout?"

   "For sale." Really?

   "How much?"

   "$700,000.00."

   "No," fuck me!  "For a silver star?" Running, the Eagle would probably
be one of the Medals of Honor.

   "It had to be that one." He shook his head, "The damaged one." Shrapnel,
he didn't get another Heart for that, but they Mortared us!  "From the
Funeral?" Put a lot of friends in the ground that day.  "It was on camera,"
He nodded, "If you get down to the pic cells, you can see."

   I got the Heart for that, thanks.  Yeah, they caught them, shot them.  I
would've liked to;

   I stopped tapping my foot, suppressed the urge to reach down, rub my
thigh.  "Huh!" I left the coffee on the bedside table, next to the drill
with the socket to his cuffs.  "I'm going to get some breakfast." Skreeeik!

   Self-care.  Don't destroy yourself with him.  "Damn it." Pull down the
outer door, check the time when I get back in.

   ;

   [Redacted] {M Mono NS Tech}

   [Well, thanks for the files, and photos.  Looks like Amiga architecture,
4 separate processors in parallel, anyway.  Mother/daughter circuits on the
main board, no idea how he cooled it.  Check his armor carrier for water
pipes?  INS what a ballistic hit would do to it.

   Miss you, we haven't gone in, but I got the briefing.  Doesn't look too
bad, I'll be behind a squad, and 2 fireteams, with airmail if we need it.
So probably TBSitH {Pseudo-military acronym for "The Best Seat in the
House."} for me.  Don't want to watch another magic trick, if I can help
it.

   How's our boy doing?  Back from Camp?  I agree, he's way ahead in
Technology for so low a pay grade.  I mean the money sounds good, but not
much I can do on my end.  Take care of him.  Flush him down the sewer pipe
if you have to, welcome PT aboard.

   GTG, but glad to hear from you.

   Over.]

   Boyscout

   The screen came on, more porn.  Why was she making me watch this?  Never
touched me again, but even if I close my eyes, I can hear her screams?

   Her?  I never thought I see her, strapped down with leather, whipped,
and why would she show this to me if she wasn't?  I knew it!  I was getting
to her, she just acts angry to cover it up.  Damned fine body, not like I
hadn't noticed, but she thinks I'm below her paygrade.  Officers, bitches.

   She barely touched me, but she never beat me.  Even slapped me, though
she obviously likes it, and does it a lot.  I just don't understand why
someone would want to be, like this, even with sex.  Wait, she doesn't have
sex with them.  Even take her clothes off, not even with what's left of her
husband.  She's educating me, but for what?  Her sex slave?  Yeah, he
doesn't take off the green ballcap, black shirt, or brown cargo-pants,
either.

   Whkict!  WhkiCT!  Just back, and forth, across her thighs, she winces,
but doesn't cry out, tears wetting her cheeks.  That one, hanging at the
end of the bed, next to the racks of paddles, and cat-o-nine-tails, canes
horizontal over them, but looks like a snake-whip.  Or signal whip, no
stock like a bull whip, just tapering down from a large round knot like the
one she gagged me with, from that ratchet.

   Naked, bound to a tilted X, I mean tilted back, and he's whipping her
enough to leave dark red welts striped across her tummy, and her tits shake
together, and "WHY!?" Look up, then away from the camera.  I've been
sitting here, all day, and she didn't even touch me.  Just gave me a cup of
mostly cold coffee, she didn't drug, and asked me questions.  Made me write
down the answers.

   I'm not tired, I'm depressed.  Okay, she got me, humiliated me, and just
being tied up like this is maddening!  I just want to get up, stretch,
maybe lay down for a seccond, or sit down on the end of the bed.  Where the
rough felted polyester blanket was still dented, and folded around where
she sat, and looked down, judging me.

   She doesn't even know me, from some computer searches.  "Phf!" Whatever.
She wants to control me, but I just feel like such a failure, after this
one job, which could probably set me for life went south, because I
believed what I read on the internet.  Sure, it's a .gov site, but the
Government lies to you.  Sorry if anyone believes the shit they spew, but
they own the internet too.  Probably even know you're reading this.

   Is she, watching this?  I mean, obviously watching me, set the camera
carefully, but is she touching herself watching it?  No, don't look up,
give her anything.  Give me fucking blueballs, I'll show you.  You won't
get off on this, but I wish I could at least rest my chin.  Where she
clipped the ring to the staple she hammered in, right in front of my face.
I think I can pull it out, I'll try again in a minute, but she didn't even
touch me then.

   Just made me hold my head back.  She probably couldn't do it, anyway. 
Hit me in the face, with a hammer.  "AhhHH!" She didn't really scream, but
he held back.  She looked up, nodded to him.  The tail came back in his
hand, then swung out.  "NhH!" and slapped her?  Didn't really whip her, up
between her legs, but the camera wasn't close enough.  Looked like it hurt,
I could see pain in her face,

   But why would she even show me this?

   ;

   Valerie {F/M Tort GunS NS}

   "What are those?" What part of don't ask questions doesn't he
understand?

   "Mass panties," shake them out, "Ever heard of them?" He shook his head.
So, I pulled out before letting them down on my side, turning, and;

   SPAP!  Something bounced off the open door behind him, and behind the
closed door next to that.  I didn't see where it landed.  He dropped his
cigarette.

   "AHHHHH!" He bucked, "You shot me!" Once, then decided that hurt even
worse!

   .30 Moran Automag.  {That's a 10mm necked down to a 7.62 rifle bullet.
Subsonic, Peirces up to class IIIa ballistic body armor, without the
trauma-plate.} Even the single stacked grip was hard to hold onto, because
it was so long.

   "Yeah." Always wondered what it's like.  "Never used these," they were
phazed out before I joined ROTC, "But they're for massive bleeding. 
Trauma, as with gunshot wound."

   "Gahhhhh!" He just looked down, and bled.

   Quite a lot, "Hold still," I leaned over, but not enough to be a major
artery, like the femoral.  "Through, and through," outside the femur, "You
want to die, Duggie?"

   "Noh!?"

   "Well, I'm going to have to stop the bleeding." With Compression. 
Already had it hooked up, My husband's (Target, Silhoette) gun back on the
table behind me.  Bolt automatically locked back, empty.  "Don't have time
to cut off the pants."

   Mall Ninja knockoff BDUs, black.  Other than the ribbon cable running
down his legs, should feel like the real thing.  "Ngah!" His head is
hanging back at this point, so I just pull his leg out straight.  Which
forces him to stand on his shot leg, hanging by his wrists, secured
overhead.  The bad one, to stuff in the inflatable diaper that goes all the
way over your toes, and can be blowed up like a pufferfish.  "Nmh!" Good
whimperer.

   Keeps the blood from the legs, pumped up into the body, arms, and head,
instead of bleeding out elsewhere, and it's a bitch to clean out.  Never
used it before, never had the need.  Had to peel a few of them from
patients, can't be more specific than that.  They weren't white, but you
could see the need for blood to get back into those tissues, and watch how
long it takes.

   Took the kneepads off.  Other than letting him have them, on them for
most of the last few hours.  But, he'd feel every button, and seam, wish he
had the regulation belt, but apparently just tightened them up by the pulls
on the sides.  I pulled them out in front, reached in.  He'd wet himself,
from the coffee.  I could smell it, but they dried.  So I maneuvered him
around inside through them, lined him up under the button fly, panting,
going into shock, but "You're not going to die."

   I hadn't told him enough, yet.  "Huh!  Who's the buyer?"

   "I don't know!?" Still increulous.

   "Well, you have to contact him, to deliver it, what's his email.  Burn
phone?"

   Looks up.

   "He'll kill me."

   "Yes, where-as I'm torturing you to death, how do I contact him?  Where
is your `Phone?  You got a radio on that Gargoyle rig of yours?" This
bunker is a Faraday Cage, with either outer door closed, supposed to be NBC
rated with the box buttoned up, and a storm surge could wash 15' clear over
the island without flooding it out.

   "Why?"

   "That's a question!" Just shook my finger in his face.  My bare finger,
didn't even have to hit him, somebdy broke him in good.  Tap my foot until
he can hear it.

   "Uh?"

   Well, got the pressure cuff on, and pumped up, had to hold the
stethoscope down for about 15 seconds.  "Have a seat." Then, I pulled him
down slowly, against the spring of the ratchet.  His legs went up, or
stayed up, puffed out in the Mass Panties.

   "How does that feel?" Bedside voice, intentionally paraphrasing Count T.
Rugen in the Pit of Despair.  {Good parts version.}

   He wimpered.

   "Huh!" well he's stabilizing.  Pull the cuff, brush the wound quickly
with my fingertip to check the artificial scab already forming over it.

   "I'm going to take some pictures.  You didn't bring a phone, but you
remember the number, don't you?"

   Back at the door, or the back of it.  Tip down the top to pull the
ribbon out of the half collar, cut out the back, and pick up his arm. 
Selfy-angle, "Cheese!" just as he looks up.  Draped across his chest, as if
celibrating at home, my Amiga blurry in the back ground.  Woman's arm in
the frame, holding it up, party down!  Snap another vertical.

   "Uh," he looked away.

   "You can type?" plugged his keyboard back into my phone, and slid it
back under his fingers, screwed down to the half desktop from a gradeschool
desk.  "Tell him you got it." Watch on the screen behind him.  Just up,
balanced on his leg, don't even have to tie him down.

   "Since you don't feel like talking, you didn't get into the gun-safe." I
brought the table around.  Simple folding table, "Thought you'd like to see
some of the things you didn't come-for.  You like gun-porn, duggie?  Hal
hal!" Panted, tongue out, "You ever seen one of these?  Of course not. 
This is a sniper-pistol." Unfolded the bipod to stand it up on the palm
rest grip.  "Integrally silenced, or you know.  You heard what muffled
gunshots sound like.  What I shot you with was one of these.  Actually
louder than that," point with the bullet, "Fifty cal, there."

   Look up at the screen.  "All right, we'll get back to that." Take his
keyboard, and do some editing...  Tap my foot, ...  dEiliting.  I actually
have some idea of how he writes, and a decent template for a
sale-ibration/seal the deal message looks like.  "Code words work better if
you can use them in a sentance," roll my eyes.

   Probably dumb enough to take a photo, with his face in it, fucked up the
night of the crime.  Seriously, I reach back, and push down his good leg.
"Comfortable?" Like a belows, I guess.  It's inflated, ideally wants to
sphere out, but has stitches between the layers so the legs don't turn
inside out, push off of his.  I had to cut some of these off, they weren't
used medically, they were used for torture.

   And bending one leg down causes pressure in the other.  "You weren't
here for the equipment locker?" Tape it to the chairleg.

   "Wh?"

   "You really can't be so stupid, to come in with your rig, which is an
emulation of the one he wears in the field."

   "Who?"

   "My husband, don't you know what he does for them?"

   "Signals?  Surveillance?"

   "No, he runs the Battle-Lan.  The run of the mill soldiers get Camera on
Target weapon scopes, and monoculars, but the MARSOC," doesn't even
register recognition, "Strategic/Operational special forces, they're wired
together a bit more.  Yeah, he also does demolitions, and disarming, can
provide some support fire, but he's the Tactical Hacker for SEALs, and
Scout-Sniper teams.  What I can't show you, even though I'm going to kill
you, is the gear he carries to keep the entry, and support teams connected
going into a compound," for instance.  "And keeps them secure from Elint."

   "Electronic Intelligence."

   "Yes, I know.  The problem is, whoever designed This rig," I held up his
mother/daughterboard "Knows way too much about what he has in those cases.
So, again where did you get this hardware?"

   The undernet, obviously.  But that doesn't narrow it down, you can't get
to it from a cell-phone, much less a digital one.  I'm on it, that's my
Amiga over there I still haven't fired up, but you can sell anything from
barrels of Kalashnikovs, and RPG-7s to the receipe for Saren, or
Sadomasochistic debriefings the Government doesn't Need to Know about. 
It's the electronic Portobello Road {Bedknobs and Broomsticks} There's
really no more secure network in the world, that I've heard of.

   He smokes, or had them on him.  So, I lit one, and set it in the ashtray
next to me.  For him, to smell while the pressure kept working on him.

   Dialup, he gave me the number.  Landline, barely even monitored any
more, and somebody has to come out, and climb a pole to monitor anything
more than usage over it.  On Topsail Island, with all of my neighbors for
blocks either official military, or not officially working for anyone,
foreign nor domestic, and their families.  So, good luck with that!  I
plugged the 5 pin connecter in, and fired up the Mo/dem.

   Someone, somewhere had a dedicated phone line, and a BBS, with the
network's proprietary operating system.  Cellular structure, like
Terrorists, and organized criminals, nobody knows them all.  Mostly
by-referral, of course the Militia level arms dealer, bragging about [Full
auto machineguns!] In Color!  "Ugh!" RPG-7 crossed over by a Karl Gustav
Recoiless Rifle.  For his logo, but looks like it was shot on a waterbed.

   The phone system doesn't care any more.  That's basically it, they're
almost as broke as the school-systems, and while they could monitor every
call, they don't have the manpower, nor the computers to actually sort
signal from all that noise.  So, I'm sure there's an address to this number
in their records, but it needn't even be in the same timezone as the
computer that sent back for a handshake, and confirmation.

   {Who he fuck are you?} Command line prompt.

   C=\: [Maureen, you check out my files?] Hadn't uploaded anything yet. 
To this system.

   {Interesting, what can I do you for?}

   [Oh,] sit back, hold up the sniper pistol, bolt back, a round ready to
go in the chamber.  [Got some stuff, lying around the house to get rid of.]
Underlining the bottom of my bra printed through the worn faded USMC brown
teeshirt.

   Hold down the [C=] key, and hit spacebar.  ...  Loading.

   {IC.}

   [Interested?] .50 cal, 5000 grains, in a case blown out, and turned down
to a rebated rim from a Belted Magnum.  Snap another pic with the spacebar.

   {Where did you get my number?}

   [A friend of mine, Hank Moran.]

   {Oh, Okay.}

   [I'm not going to Send this anywhere.] "Send it," ~Spotter.  [So where
do you like to meet?  St.  Louis works for me.]

   {When?}

   [I can make a trip out in a couple days.] And assemble a team. 
Thumbnail already on the retaining clip, I pulled the 5-pin, to sever the
connection.  Probably just a bye the river meet, under a bridge, with a
couple rifles in the trusses, like last time in Pittsburgh.  INS, not the
Tactical planner in the group, but it works.

   Making sure, the chair-legs are butted to the tilt-plate, I put my boot
on it, and pull him back.  "Talked to your friend.  The arm's dealer, looks
like he has a line on the knockov electronics." About all I can tell you
about the real thing is it doesn't use Amiga achitecture, but I don't
really know computers that well.  But then, we don't want anyone even
getting close, it had to have been someone who saw it in the field, but
didn't get a good look inside it.  Also, that it's not built into the
trauma plate holder of the body armor, honestly a stupid place to put it.

   He can't talk now, you know how someone's face gets red, and bulges when
they're being strangled?  His fingers were like that.  Got out the
pressure-cuff again, "Hold still," but he learned quickly that Moving makes
it hurt.  So, I don't have to restrain him any further, pain compliance
will do.  "You don't have to say anything," had pretty much all I wanted,
but now he can't barely breathe from blood pressure on his lungs, and
diagpragm.  I can bet he's hard, under the buttons in the fly, just like
the ones on the pockets are pressed into his thighs.

   "nguh!" That's what passes for getting a breath out.  On his back like
this, I might as well hang him upside down, with the added pressure on his
legs, and pelvis.  "You hate cops?  I was thinking, that hating the Marines
makes no sense, just for denying you.  It was the cops that did their job,
picking you up for drunk, and disorderly.  Didn't have to break your arm,
but you resisted.  Did they even ask you anything?  Who you're with, no. 
Just a wannabe marine, getting sworn in doesn't make you one, DIs do.  They
Drill it into you, Marines aren't sworn in, they come out of Basic.

   And you never would have made it.  You have no will, you gave up even
trying to stand, at gunpoint, because you're weak.  The Corps can't make
you stronger, if you haven't the will to let them.  You still have to do
it, get up, and keep going even after not sleeping, being wounded, you
think you suffered being denied?  Well, after these last few days,"
Timescale, he thinks he's slept, it's not even light the next morning yet
"I think you have a better understanding what it's really like.

   Not marching out, giving the enemy hell, and high fives for kills.  What
you never dreamed of was the paperwork, the waiting, and the discipline you
would have needed to even get there.  You're lucky, you got picked up by
the civy cops.  If you'd made it another day, you'd've ended up in the
brig, with the MPs, instead of getting an infirmary bed.  You didn't even
go to real jail, and you couldn't make it through 48 hours of that?"

   Really crying now, even over the pain, which was a dull ache, by now. 
"Can you feel your toes any more?" Slap the good leg for a grunt.  "Tell me
where you can feel it," I squeezed up, and felt his leg try to straighten,
push out against the tight inner layer.

   "NGUH!" Try to gasp.  The problem is getting air back in, but now his
ribs are completely expanded.  He could suffocate from this, strangled by
his own liver, swollen with backed up blood.

   "So, how does it feel, the big leagues?  All the suffering you deserve,
with none of the respect you never earned.  Are you hard?  Yeah, that's
just the pressure, but you'll never be hard again.  This is your last
erection.  So treasure it."

   "Nnnngh!" Slobbering, nose running clear, sputtering from his lips.

   20 hours, since Playtime said 28, minimum.  Hoped he'd have lasted
longer, but she can help me clean up this mess.

   "Ever tried water-boarding?" I got out a blue ER swab, and the
screw-gun. "Me either." Zzzzzz.  "We phazed it out, because of my
recomendation." Zzzzz.  "We need them to Talk, so the damage to their
resperiation is counter-productive." Picked up the spray bottle.  "Can you
breathe?" SPHF!  SPHSPHF!

   "WPH!" Some of it blew back out, but he had to suck more in, and I had
about a liter here.  "Since I don't need anything else from you, I thought
I'd try it.  You know, I never really tortured before.  Made a career out
of debreifing survivors, played a little S&M to get over it.  You see, I
have this theory how learning to enjoy erotic pain helps you accept the
torture that was forced on you.  Not that you'll ever know."

   "KGUHL!" He sprayed the inside.

   "Oh dear." Black, it stank.  This sick metalic bile tang, worse than
blood and vomit combined.  "Looks like your liver ruptured, into your
lungs. That's it, you're already dead." SPHF!

   SPHF!  "Sph!"

   "Takes a while, just dead in the sense that there's nobody who can come
in time to save you." Not much, hard to cough out, with it settling in the
backs of his lungs, but some darkened over his nostrils too.  Spreading in
the damp rag like mildew.  What's that got to smell like?  "It's already
backing up in your blood, and with it all pumping to your head like that. I
wonder, is your brain still working well enough to understand anything I'm
saying?"

   And here comes the spasms.  The reflexive seizure of the brain fighting
mindlessly, the nerves, and muscles flexing randomly, but unable to do
anything useful.  "Huh!" Get up, and turn around.  Bend down to pull the
bungee from the loop in the wall.  Pick up the Sybian, and undo my belt,
looking for a place to set it, and watch him dying.  I can check the
timestamps to see how long it takes.

   I don't think I'll need lube for it this time.

   "Playtime" {FF NS}

   "Merde'!" Well, better late than never.  She already had the sewer pipe,
landscape bricks, and cleanup.  I basically just had to help her get it up
to the `Burban, and set up the burn.  Undisclosed location, nowhere near
the outer banks, closer to Fayetteville, so it could be one of the Bragg
boys.

   Not that she left much evidence, he'd been shot, had a broken nose and a
shoulder wound, field dressed.  Obviously ran into some sort of trouble,
before I finished wiring up the terra-cotta pot on a coathanger stand
directly over the center, and stepped back, pulling down my goggles.

   We could have just dumped him, but she said "Sewer Pipe," insisted. 
Actually always wanted to try it.  She put her goggles down, so I lit it.

   PFH, wwwwwhhhhHHHH!!!

   Thermite, burns hot enough to give you a tan, but it dripped down the
hole in the bottom, for air to suck in around the landscape bricks, into
the blast furnace.  Nothing withstands that, it vaporizes flesh, and bone,
everything else cools to a puddle of slag in the bottom, but we stuck
around to make sure it was destroyed completely.  And she watched,
expression unreadable, even without the welding goggles to keep our corneas
from sloughing off.

   "Anything else?" She stopped hugging her arms, but had to reach up for
my shoulder.

   "Debriefing?" She shook her head.  "I really need my head straightened
out after this."

   "Me too," I sigh, and shrug, "I had a pretty hard week."

   "Oh yeah?" she turned to look up.

   "Tweekers, just trying to get a place.  Got a job coming up, legit."
After the shoot.

   "What kind of job?" She frowned.

   "Tactical training," kiddy stuff really, "Sherriff's department." Burn
wouldn't last much longer, then we could head back to her basement.  I
hadn't seen it, since they converted it from a survival shelter, but what I
did get to while we's hauling him out, it looked pretty well stocked. 
"There was this one guy, in Tx.  Thought he was a Dom, had a fucking
Spencer's swing." Good, she can laugh.  Can't remember the last time I got
some therapy, and I hear she's gotten pretty good now.  "Had to break his
arm, he'll get over it."