Capture Drill

If you can be taken, you will be taken. Learn to like the math.

OpFor wore gray. Unit 9 wore shine. The drill was mutual capture in a forty-meter tank: collars, soft cuffs, mesh bags, the same kit they carried on honeypot nights when a mark needed to be 'accidentally' restrained underwater for his own thrill.

Gigi got bagged first—laughing bubbles, red mouth open—then inverted the hold and bagged her captor with a scissor of stockinged legs that looked pornographic and scored points. Lailani took two at once, chain between her teeth, descending as she fought so the fight became a dive. Lucy refereed by joining late and ending everyone.

Debrief on the floor: three Unit 9 bodies tangled with two OpFor, latex on skin, slow camera along calves to thighs to the busy place where hips met, then hard cut to Lucy's face—mission eyes, not bedroom eyes, until she allowed one second of heat. They surfaced with cuffs still on, as ordered.