September 9th, 2106 - Ninety Seven
Today, the Department of Homeland Security held a press conference to comment on the increased insurgent activity along the border between the Federal States and the Dissonant Territories. Interspecies Coalition spokeswoman Frederika Vernov had this to say earlier, broadcast from Atlanta at 11 a.m. central daylight time.
"Citizens of the American Federation; it is our first priority to assure you that the ISC, along with local and state authorities, are working around the clock to resolve what has become a concern throughout some states. The self-proclaimed ‘New Republic of Texas’ represents a fringe movement that threatens to jeopardize the coexistence between our species, by establishing a human-supremacist government that seeks to segregate parahumans from themselves. This type of division between our citizens will not stand, and by every power bestowed upon us, we will take every step necessary to make sure those in contempt are held responsible."
This conference comes three months after an Interspecies Coalition task force apprehended several members of a terrorist group known as ‘the Order of the Blue Shield’ operating from the Dissonant Territories. This is Violetta Petrova, Federal News Network.
The feeling of a headset being snatched pulled me from the newscast, my eyelids clenching shut as the first light I'd seen in a week flooded in. It was interrogation day, yet again, with blurry spots surrounding me.
There was four, maybe five ‘parahumans’ (or as we knew them derogatorily, monster girls). I could feel two sets tails brushing against my sides; one fluffy and the other much less conditioned, with a slight orange glow about her in peripheral view.
“We’ve been playing this little game for three months, so why not just tell us where the rest of your order is hiding?” a sultry voice blew into my ear, her humid breath almost tickling.
The temptation to correct her that it had been three months and five days was strong; but being stripped of everything but your birthday suit, forced to sit on shivering feet for more than five hours in a chilly room, and questioned every week since then left me almost no opportunities for snark.
“I’d tell you to ask the other detainees for information, but that ain’t really an option, is it sweetie?” I scoffed.
The report neglected to mention most of the people who the coalition apprehended back on June 4th had since then been sent to a very eager mindflayer, whose job was to make certain they couldn’t even remember their names after hours of invasive molestation. It was a fate I was almost guaranteed to share, and saw little point in selling out my order in hopes for temporary clemency.
If anything, there was one thing I could still relish despite being a dead man walking, and living in conditions that would make a Super-Max seem like a ritzy motel. It was the annoyed grumbling of a particular interrogator; the hellhound, if her orange eyes and the burning sensation from her paws on my right pushing me on my back was any indication.
“You’re as much of a headache as always, ninety-seven,” she said, “I’ll be glad when they ship you and that battered old fart to the stockade tomorrow morning.”
I never knew their names, but I knew 'Hothead' in particular had a short temper around this time of month. The hellhound made it all too easy for me to strike back at her, and if this was the last time she would be my interrogator, I decided I may as well make it a memorable one. There was no reason to hold back my tongue if we were going to part ways this soon.
“How cruel, riddin' yourself of the man you gave your virginity to,” I jeered before the crowd of ski masks around her, wispy flames coming from the corners of her eyes. I was unsure whether it was her embarrassment or my death sentence, but she was quick to mount me with a paw pressing hard against my neck.
“That’s fucking bullshit!” she growled through the bantering of her comrades, tangerine orbs of rage staring into my eyes intently.
"Well you were awfully tight, and took your sweet time gettin' comfortable down there."
Her discontented low grumbling was almost musical for me, “You’re a fucking liar, knight.”
Whether it was her first time or not, the fact hadn’t changed she took my cock for a ride in this very room about the fifth week of my detainment here. She made sure I couldn't move as she smothered me with the tuft of fur between her cleavage, grinding her damp ash-colored mound into my bare lap.
Recounting that night had a rigid effect on me, given the way the hellhound focused on something poking against her thigh.
“It was just like this, hon, those deep orange eyes looking into mine before you rode my dick for ten whole minutes-” she cut me off with a claw pressing deep into my Adam's apple, a signal for me to stop before anything regrettable happened.
“Say one more fucking thing, ninety-seven” she muttered, eyes fixed towards me coldly as if to gauge my response.
I never was good at taking signals, even if I saw them from a mile away. I began mouthing something towards her in a whisper.
“Speak up, whelp, I fucking dare you.”
I drew out the silence for half a minute before the most cheeky grin took over my face.
“You even kissed and said you loved me afterwards,” I said slowly as I brushed a lip against her chin, shortly before something hard struck my forehead. The sight of a hellhound being pried off me by her comrades was the last I had for some time.
I awoke some time later, a fresh hood over my head and freezing metal cuffs securing my wrists together. It was my cell, if this particular patch of rough concrete was any indication. Part of me wished the hellhound could have dragged me into another room to vent her frustration, if only to have reprieve from the chilly jail block I'd called home for these long months.
Though it was better than having multiple lacerations and a fractured pelvis, I supposed.
"Finally up, chief?" a gravelly male voice called from behind me, my cell-mate as of three weeks ago. Jonathan Vicks, or as the guards called him, 106. He was a knight from another order on the east coast sent undercover to make sure I didn't defect, or worse.
"How long was I out?" I groaned, head still spinning from the interrogation.
"I went for a nap when they pulled you for questioning, so no less than six hours I'd guess. I'll cut to the point since the guard's out for a smoke," he coughed, "Gimme your hand boy, what's the news."
It didn't take long to catch on when his forearms were rubbing against my back, that he had something to share with me besides words.
"They're sending us to a stockade tomorrow morning, probably the same one they use to brain-wipe detainees." I whispered, hoping he could make sense of my words through the nylon hood.
He placed his palm under mine before I began to feel something prick into it and force its way under the skin. A warm needle, maybe an inch long with a slight lump at the end, ran between my ring and pointer fingers. I could feel him rub over the site to make sure it blended into my skin almost seamlessly.
"To transport us, they'd have to use either a car or prison bus since the area's a no-fly zone for about two-hundred square miles," he pondered, "The closest Super-Max is at least eleven hours west, assuming the info I have's still good."
"That might give us just enough time..." I thought aloud.
"I trust you have a plan, chief?" he said, scooting himself away towards a corner.
It was the first thing you learned once the Order recruited you; to make sure you knew how to escape captivity when the chance presented itself, and by whatever means necessary. We had until our transport reached its destination to slip our restraints, take out the guards, and make it back to the closest safe house for smuggling out of the Federation's borders.
"I've thought about it for three months and five days," I yawned as I retired onto a concrete bunk, "Let's hope I ain't rusty."
Vicks laughed, "That makes two of us, so catch some shut-eye. It's gonna be a long day ahead of us."