Chapter Eight

If I owned the Alienverse, the Weyland corp would be smacked upside the head for being idiots, sadly I don't.

Have some fluff, after the gore of course...

If Jenette had a third eye it would be trained on the hulking beast laughing at her. Unfortunately, she only had the two. But that didn't stop her from focusing all her attention on him. He was a caged beast, just aching to rip her apart and free himself from the metal bars. God, she hated stereotypes, it's what got her in here. but in spite of everything she and her sister were legal. Even if her parents weren't.

Damn prison steroid use. Men, and sometimes girls, never failed to supplement what they lack upstairs with what they could develop downstairs. In more ways than one. Jenette always thought she was pretty even. She had her muscles and curves, and to top it up a pretty okay brain. How else could she come up with such a witty double entendre.

The elephant, on the other hand, was perfectly stupid. Something she knew he would regret.

Still laughing he was making "come here" gestures with his hands, glancing over his shoulder at his friends.

She swore she could hear Drake slap his hand against his head in disbelief.

She could feel her right boot jiggle a bit as she rocked. With her single bullet, she couldn't shoot the 9mm from this distance into those cords of muscle, it would only slightly slow him. She needed him put down, permanently. Before he could get to her, Jenette knew she would need to get to him first.

Plus, since the screaming audience wanted a show, she would give them a double feature. Reaching into the plain footwear, she took off, Browning in hand.

Running directly at the elephant, she passed him to reach the cage wall. Jumping up she placed a foothold on a horizontal bar, using it to boost her weight, she jumped to the top of the cage. Grabbing hold of a bar, she swung, gaining momentum, before letting go.

He registered her movement, just as she sailed through the air.

Jenette landed on his back, her thighs on his neck, gripping him as hard as she could, with what Drake affectionately calls her "deadlies" before she switched off the safety. "hasta la vista, bitch." Cocking the gun, she blew his brains away.

Drake smiled, he was worried for nothing.

"They could have at least clapped."

A very dejected Jenette sat on Drake's bunk as he rubbed stolen med-bay ointment on her calves.

"I wasn't expecting roaring and cheering, but silence! It breaks a girl's heart. Mierda! That stings!"

Drake briefly glanced up at her, glaring fire, before going back to his work. Rubbing it in just a bit harder. Ignoring Jenette's shouts of protest.

"Well maybe you should have thought of that before you sat on a giant's back as he fell face down."

"As if I was thinking of that, when this was on my mind." She pointed behind her to the ammunition piled onto her bed.

"Speaking of that." Drake put down the ointment, and nudged Jenette over, so he could grab a magazine. "How do you explain this?" He turned the clip to her, displaying the clear black writing on the side. "To my girl, with love." Drake read out, sarcastically. "What? Is this guy clairvoyant?"

"No, Morozko is just too smart for his own good." She leaned closer to Drake. "Sometimes I think he's a robot."

He pinched her nose. "I doubt that robots are that good in the sack."

She glared at him, rubbing her nose, and she picked up the ointment, and went back to nursing her scrapes and bruises. "Contrary to popular belief, I've never fucked him."

Drake raised an eyebrow.

"I haven't!"

"Well even if that's true, he sure wants to." He pointed to the ammo. "He's practically buttering you up."

Swiping the last remains from the jar, Jenette tossed it to the ground. She got up from the bed, "I'm going to the bathroom."

"A'right." Sighing, Drake collapsed back onto the bed, bouncing the ammunition up and down.

Jenette stared at her face in the mirror, as she plotted her next move.

She always counted on getting out before Morozko, after all she was older than him. They would either transfer her to an adult prison when she turned 18, or release her. Morozko had done much worse things than her; multiple murders, drug and weapon trafficking, you name it, he's done. If justice was true, he would remain here as long as possible, then be shipped to a full fledged prison. But the higher ups had other plans for him. So at 15, he was getting out. And Jenette would soon lose everything.

She had a lot of enemies. A lot. Even her roommate would poison her, if she could. Jenette was never the most likable of people.

And yet Mark Drake put up with her. In fact, genuinely cared about her, and she him. He was her best friend and comrade, and they could do anything together. And sometimes, as he joked, it was them against the world.

She was going to drag him into her mess. So she needed to protect him.

And how better to do it by winning a fight in front of the whole prison in the most gaudy, garishly insane way possible. All the while, gaining the ammunition to back up the strength. She hoped no one would dare mess with her now.

But hope could never guarantee anything. She "hoped" Carmen was safe back home, the letters her sister sent every month could attest to her safety. But she could be lying, to make sure Jenette was not stressed about how useless she was, confined within this concrete establishment. Unable to do anything if another Meyer decided to come along.

She tugged at her shoulder-length curly hair, kept manageable in her sister's memory. Carmen always said she loved her hair.

She knew she had a hero complex. And evidently so did Drake, which was how they met in the first place.

In a bathroom, haunted by the ghosts of swirlies past.

She grinned at herself, noticing the mischief in her eyes. Her undeniable wit could take her places.

Places she would transverse with Drake by her side.

Mark Drake was half in sleep, laying on his back, as he heard the creak of his door opening. He cracked open one eye, and saw Jenette pad in.

She stood still, as if waiting for permission. As if she needed it.

He flopped open his left arm, and slightly scooted over. She took that as consent.

Curling like a cat, she laid her head on his bare chest. Her hair tickling him, just under his chin. Rolling until he faced her, he buried his nose in her hair. Smelling rain and earth, he drifted off to sleep in a scent that was purely her.

I imagine Vasquez as resourceful, so of course she would use the gun. Plus my Hāthī is an arse undeserving of a "fair" fight.