“You’re moving to another facility tomorrow, puppy.” At first you don’t understand. Your brain’s a bit hazy, with your head between her thighs and her taste lingering on your lips. And her fingers in your hair, again, longer than it was when you arrived. Not regulation. “… I am?” “Mhmm. Things are in motion. Your empire’s getting desperate, too,” a sharp-toothed grin, “maybe we’ll trade you for something good.” “… oh.” ...
“So,” you ask, “why am I still alive?” She’s sitting at the little table outside your cell doing paperwork again. The Liberation has more paperwork than you ever suspected. “We disabled your mech’s countermeasures,” she says, not looking up. “About an hour before you spotted us, in fact.” “That’s not what I meant—WAIT, an hour!? But I spotted you barely an hour into the patrol!” “Yes,” she finally looks at you, smiling, “your command/control system is full of holes, dear.” ...
“… this is an abuse of power.” “Is it?” She tilts her head, genuine curiosity flitting across her face. By now you know that she’s a perfect actor. On the table behind her, far out of reach, a bowl of soup—your dinner—congeals. “Yes. There are rules for prisoners of war.” “Hmm. No, I don’t think so.” “It doesn’t matter what you—!” She shushes you. When you’re able to breathe again she continues, “the purpose of power is in its exercise. It doesn’t care how it’s used. There’s no platonic ideal that I’m twisting out of shape, no laws written that matter more than how they are enforced. All hierarchy is unjust. That’s what this is about, dear.” ...