Snippet Saturday is a brilliant collaboration by Lauren Dane and a fabulous group of authors that she’s invited to join her in posting book goodies every Saturday, of which I am thrilled to be a part of. This week’s Snippet Saturday theme is—FIREWORKS, meaning an action scene or a love scene. I chose an action scene this go-round.
This is a scene from Death and Roses, a sci-fi erotic romance starring an awesome Gen8 Super Soldier named Scharsi and our hero, Tanil.
Now every girl needs to get her shopping in every now and again, right? Well, Scharsi is at the spaceport market trying to get her fix when she has to remind a person why you don’t ever, EVER want to mess with a Gen8. Check her out, then enjoy the rest of the Snippet Saturday authors via the links at the bottom of the post. Tally ho!
Today’s outfit, a gift from Princess Cerise, was a wholly feminine affair. Well, almost. Cerise had revealed that the bottoms were made of a synthsilk fabric so light that it would practically float against her skin as she moved. The cut was such that it looked like an elegant skirt, but the panel in the front actually hid the true design—a pair of wide-legged pants to give her the ability to move quickly and fight, if needed.
The top was a finely knit material, soft and clingy and just thick enough to keep the chill off her arms. It fit like a second skin, showing off her breasts, the muscular set of her shoulders and back, clear down to the flare of her waist. Where the top ended was where the pants began.
Both were done in a jewel-toned green that reminded Scharsi of precious stones. But she still sported tactical boots. After all, comfort was comfort.
“Hey, beautiful, how ‘bout joining me and my friends here for a drank?”
Drank? Did the man actually say “drank”? Good grief. Guess it took all kinds to make a rebellion work. And these men sported baggy overall suits that, regardless of the oversizing, still didn’t quite fit. These guys were simply…big. Not muscular, but tall and wide with bellies that could probably use a few jack-knife sit-ups. They sported various splotches of what looked like crystolium dust and engine grease. Hmmm. Scharsi wondered what use engine grease could possibly be in one’s hair.
“No thanks. Appreciate the offer.”
“Aw come on, darlin’. We’re about the only ones here that ain’t a-scared of you. Take your pleasure where you can git it.”
“I will say this once and once only. Go. Away.”
With that, Scharsi turned her back on the man and his dumb-as-volcanic-ash friends and went back to choosing a gift for Tanil. It was a hard thing. She wasn’t really sure what he liked. Today was an open market of sorts. Those who wanted to sell or trade brought their wares to the Bay, a large empty central space in the main hangar. Luckily there was plenty to choose from.
Idiot Number One stepped into her path.
“Word has it you’re some big bad Super Soldier bitch. But we know better.”
“Yeah, we know better,” said Idiot One’s sidekick. “Everybody knows that no Super Soldier leaves the corps. Only ones ever done it is the consorts of the princess.”
Scharsi smiled as she recalled Carl getting a friend to hack into the IMF security files. What she’d read about her generation of SS blew her away. It happened years ago, but just the thought of what they’d found in that file made her chest swell with pride. Why? Because it was the truth, probably the only truth she’d ever seen come out of the IMF.
CONFIDENTIAL—Conclusion of Gen 8 Testing: Ability to heal has increased significantly compared to a typical human. E.g. A bullet wound to a human’s deep muscle tissue of the shoulder would require 840 hours, or 35 standard days, of intense physical therapy and rehabilitation. For the same wound, Gen 8 requires approximately 210 hours, or 9 days with no intense therapy. Gen 8 is vulnerable to fatality by puncturing the heart, intestines or brain. However, the increased bone density in the skull makes it difficult. If a Gen 8 soldier decided to turn on the IMF there would be little we could do to stop them, other than track them down and kill them. Quelling a rebellion could only be accomplished by breeding a more advanced soldier.
“Why don’t you show us how badass you are? Come on back to our room. Bet you taste like real chocolate with all that pretty dark skin.”
Scharsi looked down at the fingers now dirtying up the sleeve of her new outfit. Asshole.
“Take your hand off me. I won’t tell you again.”
He didn’t. Bad choice.
“Well, you just look like a big-assed dike, to me. And a dike ain’t nothin’ but a wannabe man.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Scharsi saw a familiar shape on the edge of the growing crowd. Tanil. He simply shook his head with an expression of pity. She knew it wasn’t for her, but for the mouth breather who threw back his head and laughed like he’d told the biggest joke of the century. What the oversized, engine-grease-wearing IQ-deficient backward acting human didn’t realize was that he was the joke. If he pushed her hard enough, took one more step, he would learn that some jokes had terrible punch lines.
Damn. He took a step. Too bad.
Tanil had just left a meeting with Regan to discuss their next move. A shortcut through the central square brought him up on a scene that he had a feeling would become all too familiar.
He overheard the greaseball who had the nerve to touch Scharsi. All he could do was shake his head in amazement at how stupid some people really were. In fact, Tanil wondered where the man got the brain energy to breathe everyday. Before he could complete the thought, Scharsi was in action.
The woman spun off her weak foot and took down the target so fast Tanil was glad she wasn’t mad at him. Her aim for the soft flesh of the man’s belly had been true and he could tell she hadn’t bothered to temper the force behind her perfectly executed spinning back kick.
To this point, he’d only seen this woman’s purely feminine side. This? This was something else entirely. This was the trained soldier. The woman who could put her fist through a body and pull out a beating heart. The thought made him absently rub the healed laser rifle wound, now nothing more than a fading scar on his chest.
Her opponent, if you could call him that, must have thought Scharsi was through with him. Instead she raised the bawling, writhing mass of “supposed male” off the paved deck and tossed him into one of his buddies who probably thought he was coming to the rescue. Poor suckers.
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