It was one of your fellow troopers who managed to disarm me, the rest of her squad binding me even as they died. You find me amid their bodies, each clad in the bikini that seems to be the uniform around here, in a passageway turned crimson by emergency lights and raise your pistol. I pause in my struggle with the rope around me, someone was a good knot-tier, and smile as you step back when I simply glance at you.
I don't think it surprising, I'm told my smiles are those of a predator's, and I focus on the minute shaking of your hands as I try standing. You back up further, eyes wide, and I grunt as I test my strength against the rope. It must snap in at least a half-dozen places, slithering to the floor, and you bolt.
You're hurled from your feet as I grab a pistol from a dead trooper and fire, the bullet snapping the string of your bikini top. I admire the ass you're pointing at me as I saunter towards you, run a hand up your firm thigh as it twitches in your death throes, and rip away your bikini bottoms, shoving them into a pocket as a trophy.
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