Author's Note:
Well hello there again everyone. Sooooo here's the start of the story I promised. :3 I hope you guys like it. I will be taking down the fabulous sex scene until it comes up in the story, so *poof*. And I am simply disappointed by how many people cared to leave a review for me. Wahhhhh. Please leave me some, they are life. O.o To the two of you that left me one, thank you guys! It means a lot. :D
By the way, the italicized words are Leda's thoughts to herself. I thought I would try to make the fic more personal to her while still staying in 3rd person rather than writing in 1st because I really really really don't like 1st person. For some reason.
The day was certainly not playing out as smoothly as she'd planned. The bullet lodged in her bloody shoulder and the pack of Steves chasing hungrily after her was a sure sign of that. Yet all she could do was run. Just run through the woods and hope she came across the unlikely luck of safe refuge. Every possibility of how she could get out of this awful situation was going through her head; climbing a tree was out of the question, what with the almost immobile state her shoulder was in. Even if she could somehow manage to elevate her self about the mob, it was a bad idea anyway because she'd never be able to get back down. She was pretty certain this part of the woods was completely vacant, so that eliminated any random cabin or shed she could hide in. But again that was a bad idea; they'd blocked her in and eventually break the door down like the big bad wolf and she'd be in same situation as she had been in before. Her grip on the machete in her hand tightened in an effort to cope with the agony the bullet had left.
Just accept it.
There was no way out. Her shoulder felt like it was about to explode and the strap of the pack on her back wasn't helping. She physically couldn't keep running like this, not with all the blood she had lost already. Sheathing her machete in its makeshift cover hanging off her waist, slender fingers went to wrap around the .357 tucked away into the waistband of her filthy black shorts, deriving a small comfort in the cool metal against her palm. As stray branches and leaves whipped past her face, she readied herself for inevitable. Her strength was quickly receding, and her vision was becoming hazy. She would have to act fast, and just as she was shakily pulling the handgun out, the forest opened up into a field full of yellowed waist-high grass. She heard shouts and gunshots, but could barely register them. Having prepared herself for her own demise, her senses refused to take notice of anything over the sound of her own ragged breathing. Blurred figures streamed into her cloud of vision, and they certainly weren't Steves. They carried rifles in their hands and her first thoughts were of panic.
Not more crazy fucks.
One grabbed her, holding her in place he threw the pack and rifle from her to the ground. Her gun was forcefully removed from her hand and the empty fist flew out wildly only to collide with something solid, rewarding her with a struggled grunt. Running on instinct, she fought for all she had until her limbs grew heavy and the ground rushed up to meet her impaired vision. As she started to fade from consciousness, she sighed weakly, and welcomed the cold black fog.