The Raid: Marisol in Custody Part 1

She had no idea how many hours might’ve passed.

The room was lifeless grey, its’ nondescript furnishings and color intended to draw her attention toward either her own reflection in the wall sized two way mirror, or the person who would eventually occupy the chair at the table’s opposite edge. The rigid positioning of her chair before the table was obviously meant to accommodate Alliance visions of the usual suspects, not a diminutive Spanic woman. Ere go, the eye bolt which bound her cuffs would not permit her to rest her back against the chair. As if the mere act of being in this place wouldn’t suffice, Marisol was compelled to sit on the edge of her seat.

Her bootlaces were now among the missing, and most painful, the silver lion earrings given her by Lyen just the night before.

How cruel, Marisol thought of a life that perpetually gave one, before taking two in return. She’d gone to her bunk, obedient of Dorian’s order to get proper rest, when all she wished to do was to slip into Lyen’s room. Sleep hadn’t come easily, such was her excitement at the emotion they’d shared, the sweet affirmation of Lyen’s kiss. Marisol closed her eyes upon a world that suddenly seemed that much kinder, and a future shared.

Now, it all came crashing down. Though of course, Marisol couldn’t yet be certain as to just what the Alliance had on her, she wasn’t so naïve to think that they hadn’t put two and two together. She knew her past. She’d heeded Dorian’s warnings on Beaumonde. With luck, her children were free and clear…the skillful refiling, nicknamed ‘Plan D,’ would hopefully pass the hasty examination of Alliance auditors in their zeal to pinpoint her military and postwar partisanship efforts.

However, if those doings were what they had taken her in for, she knew too well the Alliance penalty. She could only hope they’d be kind enough to offer her the choice of the noose, or the firing squad.

You’re getting ahead of yourself, girl, she chided herself. For all you know, this could be about a shuttle full of stolen meat. Marisol allowed herself that one bolstering hope, before the door to her interrogation room opened.

The door opened and women with saddled with three or four colorful handwoven bags. She stepped in struggling to keep them from spilling off her shoulder. “Oh! Nearly lost ya there!” She said as one slipped off the shoulder. “Hi! Hi! Hi!” The blonde woman greeted all but plopping into her seat and slid her bags to the floor.

“Well!” She said with a sigh of relief. “Hi hun! I am Lt. Colonel Jody Cleese Winchester … Oh my you don’t look too terribly comfortable! You want me to get you some longer cuffs so you can relax a bit?” She asked with a tilt of her head. The women spoke with an accent though not a Hera accent but definitely someone from the Georgia system.

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