it was an easy cull job, they said. go in, grab the insurrectionist little shithead that’s been a pain in the top brass’s collective backsides for sweeps, get back to base before the rainbowdrinker eats you, no fuss, no muss, no problem.
what they hadn’t said was that the insurrectionist little shithead is seven sweeps old, centerfold-gorgeous, and unabashedly liable to pop a wiggly each and every time you have to tie him up for the day.
your name is the huntress and you are probably going to hell.