Out of My Head

GENERAL EVENT DETAILS

When: August 15-18 *Writing challenge submissions will be accepted through the end of August (or later if needed).

How to Participate: 

🎁 Birthday Gifts aka the writing challenge 🎉 Party Favors aka Submit Your Superior AI Custom Order

🎁 BIRTHDAY GIFTS (AKA THE WRITING CHALLENGE) 🎁

Rules for Fic Entries:

500 word minimum, 5,000 word max. (Please put your story under a cut after 150 words.)

Original works only. If your story is part of a series, it must be able to be read as a standalone piece.

Please tag me @stargazingfangirl18 when posting your story.

Include the tag #happy birthday siri 2026 on the original post of your fic (not on reblogs or reblog replies, please.)

Any genre accepted! Can be fluff, angst, smut, comedy, AU, dark, soft!dark, whatever you want.

Please stick to the CE characters listed below, and no RPF.

Reader insert stories only. LGBTQ+, BIPOC, & interracial stories are welcome and encouraged!

No toilet stuff, no necrophilia, no snuff, or bestiality. Non-con and dub-con must fall within commonly posted dark fics. (FYI: I personally don’t read daddy kink, mommy kink, spit kink, lactation kink, harsh degradation, dumbification, or anything focusing on health/illnesses/medical details/scenarios.) 

Please include warnings as needed for explicit language, explicit sexual content, non-con, dub-con, dark fic, trigger warnings, 18+, etc.

Odds & Ends:

Each writer can submit a maximum of 3 stories.

Writers DO NOT need to claim prompts.

Smut writers and characters must be 18+.

Writers can also submit a Superior AI Custom Order but please keep it to one submission per person.

You do not need to write smut, I know it’s not everyone’s jam. 

I reserve the right to not read or reblog anything that makes me uncomfortable.

Writing Challenge Babes & Prompts

BABES

Andy Barber

Ari Levinson

Bryce Langley

Cole Turner

Curtis Everett

Frank Adler

Jake Jensen

Lloyd Hansen

Pete Brenner

Ransom Drysdale

Reverend Drew

Robert Pronge (aka Mr. Freezy)

Steve Rogers

PROMPTS

Pick at least 1 prompt. You can pick more than 1, and you don’t need to claim prompts:

SCENARIOS:

Being a predatory babe’s prey (in a sexy way, not a hungry way lolll)

Sweet and/or Vulnerable!Reader x Scary!Hot!Babe

Being blackmailed by someone unlikely 

Scary babe is only soft with you

Commitment phobe!babe is high key obsessed with you

A titillating encounter with a monster!babe

You’re an actual human disaster, but soft!dark babe finds it charming

Emotional constipation

Making a deal with the devil

Meet!oops or fail

Sacrificing yourself to a dangerous babe to save someone else

Being betrayed by someone you trust

DIALOGUE:

“I was just going to punish you, but now? Now I’m going to annihilate you.”

“Oh my god, how can someone be so fucking oblivious?!”

“You have no idea what your scent does to me.”

“That’s it! I’m done! No more adulting, no more responsibilities, no more anything! We’re just going to lay here and cuddle and hide from the rest of the world.”

 “You picked the wrong man to steal from.”

“I have no idea what the future holds, but what I do know is that I want you by my side for every second of it.”

“I’ve never had someone so innocent, but by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be as corrupted as me.”

“Did you just… propose to me?”

“You know I reward loyalty and good work, and I thought she would make such a sweet, pretty gift.”

“Please, just give me one more chance. I know I can be better, for you. I would do anything for you.”

“The only thing you have to offer that’s of any interest to me is that sweet, warm place between your legs. So strip and show me just how badly you need my help.”

“I know I’m the last person you want to see right now, but we really need to talk.” 

KINKS:

Breeding kink (non-pregnancy version)

Size kink

Praise kink

Somnophilia

Prone bone

Squirting

Manhandling

Oral sex (f receiving)

Anal play/sex

Overstimulation 

Monster fucking 

Creampie

TROPES:

Omegaverse

Mob AU

Good girl x bad boy

Biker AU

Delulu babe or Reader

Mercenary AU

Human disaster!Reader or babe

Conqueror AU

Friends to lovers

Sugar daddy/baby AU

Guard dog!Babe

CEO AU

🎉 PARTY FAVORS (AKA SUBMIT YOUR SUPERIOR AI CUSTOM ORDER) 🎉

Rules for Submission:

Submissions will only be accepted during the event dates of August 15-18. Those sent before or after those dates will be discarded. 

You must submit your order by sending me an ask that answers the questions below.

There is a limit of 1 submission per person (please respect this limit, even if you request on anon; I don’t want to be overwhelmed or stressed).

Odds & Ends:

If you’re new to my Superior AI verse, you can check it out here.

Even if your babe of choice isn’t an AI in my verse, you can still request them for your custom order. Think of these resulting drabbles as AU :) 

I may not get to every submission within the event timeframe, but I’ll try my best to answer all of them eventually, so please be patient.

Submit Your Superior AI Custom Order Form

Send me an ask with the following info, and I will write a (likely AU) Superior AI verse drabble starring the CE!babe of your choice! I’ve written these questions in one paragraph to make it easier for you to copy/paste, but you can space them out when you send your ask. Thank you! 

Superior AI Custom Order Request: 1) Your CE!babe of choice (If you’d rather I pick the babe for you, let me know). 2) What are the top 3 reasons why you are ordering an AI? 3) Soft, soft!dark, or dark? 4) Smut or no smut?

Thank youuu. But also, happy birthday to me 🫠 lolll.

—

Tagging some fellow hoes who may be interested or want to signal boost the event, no pressure though! (Sorry if I forgot anyone, I’m awful at tagging lol.) ❤️

The Legate goes to the door and lets in a servant garbed in slate with a plain white apron; the Legate’s crest sewn into the chest. She keeps her head down as she carries a covered tray to the table. You thank her as she removes the lid and puts it to the side. She twitches as if surprised. You are a bit too. You rarely dare talk without prompting.

She leaves, addressing the Legate formally before she does. He shuts the door and approaches. He tucks a hand in his pants pocket.

“You thanked her.” He states.

“Yes, Leg– August.” You answer.

“It is her job. She doesn’t need that.” He says.

You swallow. “Oh. I…”

“You’re kind,” he pulls out the chair across from you and sits. “And hungry, I’m sure.”

You push your shoulders up as you wring your hands. You look down at the spread of food. Glazed chicken breast, some sort of dark rice with vegetables mixed in, an array of fruit on a separate plate, some dipped in dark chocolate, and a salad with all sorts of colours.

You rest your hand on the lump of peanut tin in your pocket. You stare, stunned, at all the food. Too much for just you and him. Your lip trembles and a tear wobbles at the edge of your eye.

“You don’t like mushrooms?” The Legate takes one of the small plates and the serving spoon.

You sniff. Your stomach squeezes painfully and you almost double over. You lean in until your chin is almost on the table as you battle your guilt and hunger.

“It’s… so much,” you murmur.

“You must eat.” He doles out food on the plate.

You sit up, shaking. You flick away the tears in your eyes. You look at him as he puts the plate in front of him.

“I… may I use the restroom, August?” You ask.

“Are you unwell?” He asks. “You will feel better if you eat.”

“Yes, I don’t feel…” You clutch your stomach.

He reacts quickly. He stands and comes around, guiding you from your chair by your shoulders. He takes you across the large sitting room and opens the door to the bedroom. He ushers you through to another door and into a bathroom where half of the space is a tub installed into the floor. 

You’re dizzy from how much everything is. The food, the furniture, the rooms, him. You slip from his grasp and hurry to the toilet. You flip up the lid, barely able to get a hold of it as you think. You use a latrine; never a toilet. You bend over and wretch the meagre remains of the peanuts into the water.

“Darling,” he nears.

You shrink and cover your mouth. You close the lid and flush. You bat your lashes and stand up.

“Sorry. Apologies–”

“August.” He interjects before you can slip up again. “Come. Wash your hands and mouth.”

He takes your arm and moves you to the long counter with three sinks before a wall of mirrors. He turns on the faucet and tests the water. He points to the flow as your eyes wander up to your reflection.

Who is that stranger? You put your hands under the water as you gap at yourself. You shake off the shock of your appearance and lower your head. You bend to rinse out your mouth then the Legate offers some soap to scrub your hands. 

He uses his large ones to lather and rinse off the bubbles. He dries your hands with a plush towel and hangs it. He grabs your hand and draws you toward the door.

Lupa is outside, concern in her big dark eyes. She comes forward to nuzzle your side until you pet her. She follows you as the Legate takes you back to the sitting room. He sits you back on the settee and retrieves the plate he made up for you.

He sits beside you as Lupa rests her head on your lap. He cuts up the chicken breast and balances the knife on the edge of the plate. With the fork, he impales a portion and holds it up before your mouth. You still feel nauseous. You wrap your lips around it and slide it off the tines. You chew slowly.

He watches your mouth intently. His tongue slips out then he hides it again and offers more. You swallow and accept it. Three bites before you can’t bear it. You put a hand up.

“Sorry, I need to… slow down.”

His eyes search you. He nods patiently. You lower your eyes. “Apologies.”

“It’s alright, darling. It’ll take time.” He assures as he puts the fork on the plate. “In time you will be used to it. As you will me.”

You nod. “It’s…” you begin then smother your thoughts. “Yes, August. I am trying.”

“How about you come back to it in your own time?” He stands and puts the plate back on the table. He keeps the knife. “Maybe it would be better to get you cleaned up.”

You scratch behind Lupa’s ears. She groans. You thought of breaking free of the camp. It was always just a dream. Now that you’re out, you want to go back. Whatever this is, whatever he wants from you, you just don’t think you can do it. And if you don’t… he can do anything to you.

“Come.” He doesn’t await your acquiescence. 

He takes your elbows and forces you up. He walks you back into the bedroom then to the bathroom. He leaves the door open as you hug yourself and look around. He turns you to face him and grabs the collar of your jacket. You gasp as he pushes it apart.

“I’ve had clothes arranged for you.” He says as you drop your arms and he strips off the filthy canvas jacket.

You shudder as he pulls it from around you and puts it on the counter. He turns back and you instinctively lean back on your heel. He tilts his head. “I’m… I’m sorry. I just–”

He shows his palm. Silently, calmly, he unbuttons his shirt. You stare at his hands as he reveals his torso, dark hair across burly muscle. Shame bubbles over and you put your eyes to the floor.

“We will do this together.” He coaxes as he removes his shirt. “See?”

You can’t look at him. You can’t even move. He reaches for you again and tugs at your tattered shirt. His thumbs slip under and graze your skin.

“You will not be afraid of me because I do not mean to hurt you.” He commands.

“Yes, Legate.”

He growls and lifts the fabric higher, faster.

Log Date 53499Willow5

Subjects stabilizing companionship. No outbursts or conflicts observed. Biometric data balanced with signs of pheromonal compatibility. No mating behaviors. Further enrichment introduced to enclosure.

You stare at Kurt. Your eyes narrow. There’s no way. He can’t.

“Do you have any fives?”

“Goddamnit,” you huff under your breath, handing the cards over the table.

A small smirk quirks at his lips before vanishing—smug asshole. He’s wiping the floor with you. You can never win. Not checkers, not hangman, not go fish. He’s good at every game you come up with.

“Don’t pout like that,” he gruffs, tucking the cards into his hand and putting all four on the table in a pile. “You’re cute. It doesn’t suit you.”

You swallow. Shifting in your seat, you shuffle the cards in your hands. Trying to focus on the numbers. Not the way his comment plucks at something longing inside you. The next one you need to make a set—that’s what matters. Your eyes flick up to Kurt, his attention solely on you. His brow quirks.

“Do you have any sevens?” you ask.

Before he can respond, a loud bang rattles the window. You jump.

A creature stands outside, their voice garbled as they gesture with long appendages. Their teeth gnash with saliva. All the while, they continue to pound on the glass.

Your eyes dart over the surface, sure the force will be enough to cause cracks. Your pulse pounds in your ears, in time with each strike. You start to lean away, bracing for the moment when the alien will break through.

Kurt’s cards scatter over the table. His solid form shielding you as he steps in front. Widening his stance, his arms hang at his sides. His fists clench and unclench readying for action. Yet you still peek around him.

“I hope he doesn’t try to get one,” you mutter under your breath.

“What?” Kurt’s asks, glancing over his shoulder with a bewildered pinch to his expression.

The keeper door hisses open. Virion glides into your habitat, their hand gesturing for calm. Your alien walks toward the window as others of their kind intervene without.

Are you alright?

“We’re fine,” you direct toward Virion as they stand between you both and the scene outside. “Are they going to be able to, you know?”

Kurt shoots you another searching look, his brow furrowed.

Virion’s head swings from one side to the other. You breathe in relief. Your head nods in acknowledgment. The thought of some human unknowingly sent to live with that kind of…fervor. A shudder quakes down your spine.

Virion approaches. Their hand lifting. And you just know that they aim to place it upon your head and stroke over your hair. To offer comfort.

But before they can get too close, Kurt blocks the way. “You can leave.”

Virion stops short, staring down at Kurt with an indecipherable expression. Cool and calm ever present but rigid. Their gaze finds you, still seated at your table. Cards flicking and shuffling in your hands.

Does he speak for you?

They blink slow as they wait for your response. Hand cradled against their chest, ready to extend once again for the contact you expect.

You drop the cards, stand, and tug on Kurt. He steps aside. His jaw tics, a heavy breath flaring his nostrils. He doesn’t step far. His shoulder stays in your way.

“They probably need to make sure we’re calm now,” you say under your breath to him. “Let them perform their checks and then they can go. They’re just doing their job.”

“Yeah,” he huffs in response, arms crossing over his chest and bulging his muscles. A quick look cast over his shoulder toward you. “Keeping us here. Making us a spectacle.” His eyes narrow in a glare. “They’re not fucking touching me.”

Your lips part. Not for breath but in searching for something more to say. Any placation for Kurt gone with an exhale. You’re blank.

May I inspect you?

You turn your gaze back to Virion. Your alien holds out their hand.

Kurt growls in the back of his throat. A grumbling comment he spits out, “it would be better if they just left us alone.”

You hesitate with that statement, mulling it over in your mind. Would it? Without the interaction with Virion, would it be better?

You skirt around the man who would be your protector. Strong resolve in the answer formed in your mind—no.

Your hand finds Virion’s. They guide you a distance away, toward the glass. Kurt stays planted in place, glower affixed just as firmly.

Have you told him about our connection?

Their hand lifts to your head. A brush of it over your hair. A cooed praise that rolls in their throat. Chirps and chittering words follow. You don’t think you’ll ever understand them. Though you find you don’t mind. Your head shakes back and forth in response. Their gaze brightens.

We would like to perform an attachment test soon. Would you be willing to comply?

“What’re they saying?” Kurt asks with a huff.

You ignore both. Thoughts snagging on the phrasing—attachment test. Attachment to whom?

You nod regardless. Trepidation pulses in your chest. Virion won’t go far. They’ll come back eventually. It’s just a test. Or maybe Kurt? You wouldn’t want to be here alone. Not again. It’s been so nice to have constant company—no matter how surly he may be.

Three cycles. Will that be enough time?

Your lips part without an answer. Because what does that mean? Three days for what? The test? To prepare? Though Virion has never been very transparent with explanations, questions buzz through your head. But then they coo something soft, a treat offered in their fingers.

You accept. Mouth full as you reply, “I guess.”

“How do you know what they’re saying?” Kurt calls over, his eyes narrowed and flashing between the two of you. “They teach you their language?”

“Not exactly,” you reply with a hum, glancing toward him in your periphery. “It’s like—”

Stop.

You trip over the thought. Virion chitters something, tilting your head back toward them.

He will not understand.

“What’s happening?” Kurt asks, finally making his move. His hand wraps around your wrist, a tug drawing you away from your keeper. “What’re they doing?” His voice drops low, only for you to hear.

You can’t figure out what to say. How to explain with Virion on one side and Kurt on the other.

Your brow tilts. Kurt’s glare landing solely on your alien. His lips lifting in distaste.

Kurt’s teeth click. “You done here?” The subtlest of shifts placing him between you and Virion.

Virion’s eyes narrow. The closest you’ve ever seen a reaction akin to outright displeasure. They step back and retreat toward the door without another glance.

“Why do you act like that?” you ask, letting space fill between you and Kurt. “They’ve only ever been kind to me.”

“Except for kidnapping you and placing you in their zoo, you mean?” Kurt bites back. “I don’t trust them.”

A flare of irritation fills you with fiery heat. It licks at your belly as you retort, “well, what else do we have?” You gesture to the enclosure around you. “There’s no way out. We’re here whether we like it or not. We might as well make the best of it.”

Kurt doesn’t respond. The sharpness of his stare cutting as he sizes you up in a new light. He huffs and turns, leaving you to wander through the trees of your space. Lost among the branches until you’re alone.

You turn back toward the window. The crowd gathers without. You sit and watch them pass, tears blurring your vision.

Next Part

A creature stands outside, their voice garbled as they gesture with long appendages. Their teeth gnash with saliva. All the while, they continue to pound on the glass.

TRULY alarming. Initial pounding, yes, startling, but this !!! And I will say that despite a softening of my attitude to Kurt because Curtis, I think this, Kurt's shielding also after the little almost flirty moment of him calling us cute would have had me changing my mind. I was almost considering it last chapter, but these are each significant in their own right.

And specifically with the games?

This is something I'm constantly in awe at with how you're rationing out the narrative of this story with us, and the game scene is a prime example. These segments are succinct, but you're dispensing them with this insane architectural precision! Giving just enough to convey what you want, but allllllways leaving us wanting more in a good way. (Painful, but good.) The fact that they're playing games, and it's been many games - different games, and we gather probably many of each - means that they're enjoying the time doing so. We've seen Kurt be impatient and taciturn, so the fact that he's so willing/at ease playing, and you haven't imbued any impatience here really shows us without telling us where they are, and you're just BLOODY BRILLIANT for it.

I hope you know that.

It's so clear you're being very intentional with this story, and your efforts are appreciated.

Now this whole Kurt and you and Virion moment is verrrrry intriguing. I'm so

jfaoj;oadsj

There's just an intimacy that was developed there between Virion and this human. There are still questions I have about their initial encounters (in a good way) and so much more that I crave for/from them (in a good way).

And I'll just flounce/huff away now, finally experiencing this as everyone else is now. I was too spoiled in getting to read so many chapters in succession without having to wait, and now that is my blessed curse.

You keep the rag to your shoulder as you lean your head back. It lolls one way, then you jerk up, only for it to fall the other. The light drips down the dirt as your vision blurs. You close your eyes as the throbbing in your shoulder radiates.

A kick to your foot jolts you awake. 6T00 is screaming as soldiers hold his arm straight, another man bringing down a thick blade to sever the hand. Quickly, a blow torch roars to life and cauterizes the stump. The prisoner passes out, left face down in the dirt, his arm in the puddle of blood, and 35B4 vomits between their knees.

The single oppio and his obedient decanus soldiers leave, the metal door slamming and sending down a dusting of dirt on you. You stay as you are, weak, worn, waiting for it to end. Your eyes drift again and you let them droop entirely.

When you rouse again 6T00 is gone. A soldier stands over 35B4, his back to you, and she whimpers. “No, please.”

“It won’t last long.” He snickers.

Your insides churn and you sink again into mindless disparity. You blink and 35B4 is shaking against the wall in a heap. Her pants are gone. You look down at yourself. A ragged stale line of blood extends all the way to your jacket hem and through to the top of your pants.

The heat blares into the hole. Your fellow prisoner is carried out sobbing by a soldier you haven’t seen before. Your head drops forward and you shudder. It’s the best option to just bleed out.

“Those were not my orders.” The grizzly snarl rouses you a countless time. Your eyes slit open and you stare at your lap.

“Tribunus, we questioned them–”

“You played with your food.” The other man barks. “Get the fuck away from me before I do the same.”

“Tribunus,” the inferior man recites and retreats through the sole door.

Thick treads crunch in the dry dirt. You catch a glimpse of the scuffed boots at the edge of your vision. They pace around the parameter of the open air cell, around the dried blood and the lines in the dirt from the struggle. He sighs and stops across from you.

He marches across the cell and squats. He grabs your chin and lifts your head. His icy grey blue eyes flicker in surprise as they meet yours.

He hums. Your lashes flutter as he holds the weight of your head in his hand. His jaw clenches and his cheeks tick. His throat bobs above the black collar of his Tribunus uniform. Unlike other soldiers, there are no metals or ribbons or decorations, not even the tasseled epaulettes of the higher ranks.

He lets your chin go and inspects the tear in your jacket. He touches your wound. It burns. You whimper. He reaches down to take the blood-stained rag from your limp hand and scratches away the crust around the tortured flesh. A scratch noise rolls up his throat.

“Fuck.” He sneers as he pulls back.

He stands and tucks the rag in his belt. He takes three steps one way, six the other, then circles back to you. He bends and stares at you. Your head sways and rolls forward.

His hands graze up your sides and he hooks his arms under yours. He lifts you. You dangle from his grasp as he angles you around and scoops you up. The tension in his body is rigid against you. Your head hangs back, your eyes closed, your body drained. He carries you like it's nothing into the abyss of your weary unconscious.

⚫

A coolness wells in your veins. You float up from beneath the heavy shroud and into a cloudy plain of confusion. Your mind rejoins your body; you feel your fingers, your toes, arms, legs, and the pulsing agony above your chest. You feel the softness against your skin and the cushion beneath your weight.

Dead. Is this what you were afraid of? Is this the true escape? A senseless epiphany at the expense of your life.

“Open your eyes.” A low grit commands.

Your finger twitches and you wince. You obey. A man stands at the foot of the bed you lay on. You can’t remember the last time you felt a real mattress beneath you.

It’s him. The Tribunus. All in black. No shine, no colour. His wool cap looks out of place with the stiff cut of his military jacket. He grips the footboard of the bed.

You stare back at him. His cold eyes graze over you. His expression doesn’t change. There is no humour in him.

“Do you know how much that plasma is worth?” He nods his head.

You blink and look down at the IV tube in your arm. You follow the length up to the bag on the stand next to you. You turn your head straight again.

“N-n–” You struggle to get any sound out from your dry mouth.

“No. You don’t.” He says. “If my men weren’t…” he trails off.

You shift and flinch in pain. You let out a pained moan. He steps around the bed and marches along the side. He grabs the top of the plain cotton shirt and tugs it down. The open back allows the fabric to droop and expose your chest as his other hand comes up to check the edges of the bandage.

You reflexively try to push the cotton back over your tits. He yanks and swats you.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” He scoffs.

You shiver and look up at him.

“You have bold eyes, pleb.” He rebukes.

You look away.

“Plasma, gauze, medical tape, sutures, not to mention labour, the effort to bring in the surgeon.” He lists off each item on his fingers; his gloves black and without tips. “We all must pay our debts.”

You frown and try to close your hands. Your fingers curl then release. You slacken against the pillows again. He grabs the top of the shirt and pulls it back up, his grip lingering for a moment before he draws back.

Too late to rehash the argument now. Not as the yelps and groans of your comrades and the impact of their bodies on the earth fill your reality. Your soul weighs down your feet as you long to stop and help but you agreed on one thing; at the end of the day, everyone for themselves.

You pump your arms harder as you focus on the tree line getting closer. Almost there. Just fifteen, no ten more feet.

A hot force knocks you forward. You stumble and roll over your head onto your back, flat in the dirt as you pant up at the moonlight. The clouds crawl over her face and shroud the night.

The heave of your breath is all you can hear. You close your eyes with a whimper. That's it. It's over. Just like you knew all along, there's no hope.

The burning agony impales your shoulder. Your hand shakes as you bring it up to touch the wound. Your blood smears onto your palm. You think it went right through as you can feel the ragged gap in your back. Is that good? No, none of this is. It just means you'll suffer more.

A chuckle rolls across the clearing. The drone of pained voices and crackly draw of final breaths mingles in the lull. Footsteps tamp on the grass and dirt. There's a grunt then a yipe. 5S77. Your friend, as good as a sister in this world.

"Pity." A low voice taunts. "Pretty lips."

A bullet rings out and you twitch. Then a metallic thump and another pained groan.

"Orders are to take as many alive as we can." A man snarls. "Do you long for the drought, Oppio?"

"Good as dead, chest wound." The other grits and receives only a growl in return.

"Remember your orders," the leader commands.

You try to roll onto your side. You might be able to crawl into the trees. The moon is overcast. You're not as close as the rest.

"Argh!" A man cries out and a grizzly thump makes your insides turn.

"Fuck you, coward." Dylan sneers and that noise comes again and again and again, his senseless moans and groans dwindling beneath the stomp of the soldier's boot.

"Fucking rat! Stabbed me." The soldier drags his bloody boot on the grass.

You roll onto your stomach and bite your tongue. You plant your elbows and knees. You lurch forward, the effort tearing in your shoulder.

You do it again and again. You're so close... Just as you smell the pine and feel the bristle of dry needles, a crushing weight comes down with the sudden glow of moonlight. The boot pushes your chest to the ground as the man above you snickers.

“Where’re you going, sweetheart?” He taunts.

You go limp and spread your fingers wide. There’s no use fighting. You’ve lost.

He shifts his weight and turns, the muzzle of his rifle running along your side to your hip. “Not as bony as those other plebs.” He mocks. “Bet you got a set on you.” He drags his foot off you, the dirt on his boot crumbling off. “How about you turn over and show me?”

You shudder and close your eyes. You couldn’t if you tried. You feel your strength draining from your shoulder.

“Don’t fuck with me.” He hisses and pushes the barrel of his firearm against your wound.

“Oppio.” The same grizzly warning comes as before. “Back away.”

“This one’s breathing,” the soldier above you rescinds his rifle.

“I see that.” The other man stomps up. You let your head fall to the side and look up as they come side to side. They glare at each other. 

The Oppio backs off and scoffs. “Heard, Tribunus.”

The other man, a Tribunus, high up for someone chasing stray plebs, sniffs and looms above you. He doesn’t move until the other man stalks off to bark at the other soldiers. You close your eyes and exhale. Weakness flows through you.

You whine as suddenly the man touches your shoulder. He pulls the sopping fabric back and feels along the edge of the flesh. He hums and wipes his fingers on your jacket.

“You’ll live.”

He grabs your elbow and hauls you up to your knees. You open your eyes as you sway and he tugs again. Your legs are heavy as you set your feet. You stand, hunched, as the Tribunus stays latched above your elbow.

You feel him staring at you. You keep your eyes to the ground. He turns you and checks the front of your jacket. Your numbered patch is gone. You all tore them off when you slipped through the gap in the camp wall.

“Doesn’t matter which one you are. We know what you are.” He turns you by your arm and hurls you ahead of him. “Walk.”

You slump and drag your feet across the ground. There’s two others able to limp. 6T00 and 35B4. The rest are hauled between men to the waiting truck with the caged bed. Dead or dying, they’re tossed in without care.

The Tribunus sighs and lets go of you. He shoves something into your hand. A coarse rag.