Lori strolled down to the mess hall, glad to have something to eat; she hadn't eaten yet that day. She slumped down at the single long steel table, rubbing her temples. It felt good to be out of her bulky armor, if only for a little while, though her sweat pants didn't exactly flatter her ample backside any more than her armor did. Shrugging to herself, Lori grabbed the nearest bowl, which contained what was supposed to be minestrone soup. It tasted like extremely salty chicken broth with a hodgepodge of vegetables and meat thrown in. She made a mental note to talk to Sarge about getting new cooking staff.
Her dissatisfied musings were broken by another one of the Reds, this one in orange armor. His hair was dark brown to match his eyes, and a persistent five o'clock shadow decorated his chin. He grinned cheerily at her as he plopped down across from her.
"You must be the new rookie," he said, offering an armored hand across the table. Lori nodded, her mouth slightly open and her soup spoon halfway to her mouth, though she didn't shake his hand. She figured he'd probably crush hers on accident.
"Name's Grif," he offered conversationally, helping himself to a plate of mashed potatoes.
"Lori," she replied, swallowing some soup with some difficulty; the salt was getting to her. Grif was about to say something when Simmons showed up, unfortunately taking a seat next to Lori. The young woman found her lip unconsciously curling in disgust. Simmons dumped a heavily laden tray on the table, sitting far closer to Lori than was necessary. Giving him a wilting look, Lori went back to her soup, which was threatening to make her gag. As she lifted the spoon to her mouth, Simmons' elbow came out of nowhere, clipping her in the collar bone and causing her to spill the soup all over the front of her tank top.
"Son of a BITCH!" she yelled loudly, jumping up.
"My bad," Simmons said, snorting with laughter.
"No worries, Dick," Lori replied venomously, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Let me just grab a napkin." She reached over for a pile of napkins that sat in the middle of the table, but just as she was about to grab one, she grabbed the edge of Simmons' tray and dumped all of its contents into his lap. Grif, who had been silently watching, doubled over in laughter. Lori smirked.
"Oops, my bad," she mimicked, turning to flounce out of the hall.
She wasn't expecting a sudden bear hug from behind.
A sickening squelching noise and an unpleasant squishy wetness covered her back. Lori struggled, jabbing backwards with her elbow into Simmons' chest. She needn't have done so, for he released her willingly, whooping with triumph.
"You sick bastard," Lori muttered, shuddering with disgust. She turned to regard Simmons, his tight muscle shirt covered in bits of food.
"Bow chicka bow wow," was all he said in reply, doing something of a victory dance. Lori only balled her hands into fists and ground her teeth, marching out of the mess hall in high anger.
Mercifully, Sarge had provided Lori with her own bathroom, so she allowed herself a steaming hot shower in which she scrubbed herself thoroughly, making sure none of the food remained on her body. She had washed her clothes twice to make sure they were cleaned properly as well.
Lori stretched luxuriously after turning off the water. Showers always helped her mood; she even started humming tunelessly as she wrapped her towel around her. Grabbing her clip from the sink counter, she put up her shoulder length hair and opened the door to her room. She had laid out a change of clothes at the foot of her bed. With her back to her closed door, Lori let her towel drop to the floor as she reached for her clothes.
"You know, you've got the cutest mole on that tight little ass of yours."
"EAT .300 CALIBER, MOTHER FUCKER!" Lori screeched, recovering herself with her towel while simultaneously grabbing Trixie and letting loose a hail of bullets in Simmons' direction. He rolled to his left, out of harm's way, but one bullet grazed his calf. Lori dressed in a blur, storming out of her room after him, Trixie in hand and a maniacal look in her eyes. Simmons gingerly got to his feet, wincing a little.
"Ow… that stings," he remarked, examining the red mark the bullet had left.
"Got a death wish, Simmons?" Lori asked through clenched teeth, poking him in the chest with her rifle. He raised his hands in surrender.
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Back off already. Please," he added when she pointed the gun at his head. For a moment Lori just cast him a steely glare in silence, then deciding to hit him across the face with her gun. Simmons grunted in pain, clutching his newly bleeding lip.
"If there's one thing I hate, it's peeping toms. Don't ever let me catch you doing that again, or I just might kill you next time." Simmons gave her a sour look, wiping blood from his mouth.
"Punishment and warning accepted," he drawled sarcastically. "Though… that mole on your ass is a definite turn-on. No joke." He smiled hopefully, but Lori's expression clearly said: 'Fuck off.'
"Go away," she said, her voice shaking with rage.
So he did, smirking to himself as he limped to his room.
Lori slunk back to her room, feeling sick with embarrassment as well as completely enraged with Simmons. To think he had such nerve! She angrily shoved Trixie back under her bed and crawled under her bed covers, refusing to go down to the mess hall when dinner was called. After all, she needed time to formulate a plan for revenge. Still, she just couldn't understand the lengths to which Simmons would apparently go to piss her off.
'Well,' she thought to herself, 'it takes two to tango.'