Just like all the other times, he ignores me and gets to his feet.
I hold my hands out toward him as I shift my body to block him. "If you willingly go toward that door, I'm calling this contract void."
Dread spiders down the back of my neck when my client laughs in response. Fuck that, his stupid-ass name is Chet.
He's no longer a client.
"There's only a limited market for this type. Pretty much only the slimes, and that comes with a whole lot of inconvenience. This only gains you a month, at best."
Fuck. They're talking about me. What the hell, Mar? So much for vetting.
When the door opens behind me, I rush the men at front of the room, catching the one who just said I was fucking undesirable with a hard blow to the throat with my elbow.
He collapses to the plush carpet, his hands flying up to his crushed windpipe, his eyes opened wide in shock.
He's unsuccessfully trying to keep living when his companion pulls a gun. I'm not fast enough to knock it away, and so the sound of a silenced weapon firing coincides with a searing pain in my upper thigh.
I let out a screech of pain, but keep moving, pushing the gun to the side as I reach up and yank out a knife from my lapel. A moment later, a darting hand flings it forward, and it's embedded in the man's eye.
Fucking Chet is screaming by that point, pleading with the men who came from the back to kill me. I'm slowed by the weakness in my leg and turn around just in time to take a shot to my left shoulder.
It throws me back and I thump into the door before sliding down it.
I know it's over, but I use the last of my strength to rip another knife from the side of my pants. It takes everything in me, along with a screaming cry, to make myself raise my good arm. I pull it up to my right ear, take aim with my already swimming vision, then let it loose.
Seeing the blood pumping out of Chet's throat makes it all worth it.
I'm laughing manically as I take a boot to the head.
***
I'm in and out of consciousness as I'm transported. They really don't like me very much, especially when I share some of the choice insults I learned from my sarge.
I take a few more kicks, but no more bullets, before I wake up with straps holding me down. The room is icy as fuck and I'm shivering, which sends spikes of pain all over my body.
There's too much swelling and blood in my eyes for me to see, but I can feel unyielding, frigid hands all over me. Pain follows wherever they touch.
No, not hands. Metal instruments? Ones that grip and pivot. Robots?
There's this weird hissing, gurgling noise as the robots or instruments, whatever they are, continue to prod me. It has a cadence that my mind wants to associate with something. Almost like... I'm too far gone to figure it out, so I give up.
Another cold touch, this time digging into the bullet wound in my leg, brings me back to wondering about robots. My hands jerk, trying to kill the bastards, but they are held fast.
I scream until they stop digging, then lay there panting.
Whatever it is, it shoves my head to the side next, and I screech as it pushes painfully into the swelling from the repeated battering. Then another agony altogether joins it as they force something into my ear.
A searing pain flows from the canal into my skull and down into my throat. It's all too much and I'm losing my grip on consciousness.
As I fade into the black, I hear someone speaking. Almost like an overlay to the gurgling, in a confusing jumble. "I disagree. The scars will just let a buyer know how they can paint her."
"No. Shentrea sent a new suite to test on this harem. There won't be any star-baked scars."
"Next time say that first, desiccated member. I don't like my time wasted. Just make sure this one's pink."
What the fu...
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