First Reply O U T B R E A K

[Shego Striga]

I HEAR THIS VOICE KEEP ASKING ME
IS THIS MY BLOOD OR IS IT BLASPHEMY?

O P E N​

The prison drifted like a coffin through the void, its steel ribs humming with engines and restraints. Most of the inmates here never saw the stars. Solitary cells, restraints, endless "corrections." But Shego had been afforded a different kind of cage. Her wheelchair sat near the viewport, IV tubes snaking into her arm, oxygen canisters hissing softly at her back. The mask strapped over her face filtered each ragged breath, sharp green eyes burning as they locked on one star among the scatter of jewels outside.

She sometimes forgot how she'd ended up here, locked among killers, warlords, and broken things. But then the memory cut like a knife. Oh, yes. The chemical strike. The Arkanis board clawing at their throats, drowning in the very air they thought belonged to them. The theft of her family's work had cost them their lungs, their lives, their legacy. And it had cost her this cell. Still, she smirked bitterly at the thought. Her brilliance was useful enough to make her valuable, even in this madhouse. The warden's pet project kept her alive, and in return she was allowed to scrawl her equations across glass walls like an artist in a gallery of madness.

"STRIGA! Got a visitor!" Rosco's voice broke through her muttering.

Shego didn't look up, her marker squeaking against the transparent wall as blueprints blossomed in frantic lines. "I don't get visitors, Rosco. Tell them I'm contagious~"

The guard chuckled, then shoved her chair back from the glass with a squeal of wheels. She flailed her arms like a furious child torn from her toys. "N-no! Wait, I just need five more minutes, or twenty! Just to finish this cycle!" Her chest hitched, a coughing wheeze rattling through the filter until she collapsed back against the headrest.

"They insist," Rosco said with mock sweetness. "Someone wants to talk to you."

Her cane rattled against the side of the chair as she was rolled out of her cage and down the gleaming corridor. Security relays blinked at each checkpoint, guards with rifles watching her limp figure glide by. For all her fragility, she still felt the weight of their unease. Like they knew a spark could turn her into a wildfire.

"If it's lawyers," she muttered through her mask, chin propped in her palm, "tell them I can't pay in credits. I've got lungs full of poison, though maybe we can barter~"

The guard snorted. "You'll see soon enough."

Shego's eyes narrowed as the wheelchair was pushed into the cleaner, better-kept halls of the administrative wing. Whoever had insisted on seeing her wasn't here by accident.

And that made her curious.

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Shego Striga

---

To say Scherezade was pissed would be an understatement. She had spent days planning this. Scheming. Collecting scraps of intel, twisting them into something almost resembling a map, stitching together a gazillion breakout drafts. All for this. And she had done it. She'd slipped in, smooth as butter, convinced those who mattered she'd been rotting away in one of these cages for ages.

And for what?

She'd come here for someone. A very specific someone. Rumours had painted them larger than life, claiming they were a prisoner too dangerous to approach, exhaling clouds of poison, a monster in human skin. Exactly the kind of deliciously stupid challenge Scherezade couldn't resist.

Gas, poison, fumes that melted flesh? Pu-lease. She'd eaten worse at shady cantinas. Death didn't scare her. She'd already done the whole dying thing once before, and if she had to repeat it… Well, at least she wouldn't have to carry the shame of failure into tomorrow. Let some ancestor yank her back out of the grave a few thousand years from now and deal with it then.

But no. No monster. No poisonous wraith. Not even a half-assed war criminal in need of rescuing. The target she'd hunted didn't exist. Had never existed.

Someone had baited her. Played her. Lured her here like a mynock chasing a glowstick. And that? That was worse than dying. Being tricked meant humiliation, and humiliation made her blood sing with the promise of murder.

She was halfway through fantasizing about carving the entire prison administration into neat little sausage links when she saw it, a guard pushing a wheelchair, a limp figure strapped on tight. Scherezade froze, spine flattening against the wall. Not toward the showers. Not back to the cells. The administrative wing.

Her eyes narrowed. Oh, how convenient.

The rumors had lied, but maybe, just maybe, this was the replacement prize. Whoever was in that chair wasn't the phantom she'd chased, but they could still be useful. Or entertaining. At the very least, they were a fresh piece of chaos she could shove between herself and the prison's teeth while she found an exit.

Contacts in place, glowing green eyes hidden under a dull brown, Scherezade padded after them until she reached the door. And then she stopped. Waited.

Patience, she reminded herself, was a virtue. One she did not, in fact, have. Her fingers twitched against the hilt of an imagined knife, and she counted her heartbeats in threes just to keep herself from pacing.

Sooner or later, that door would open again. Someone would step through. And when they did? Oh, they were going to bleed. Maybe a little. Maybe a lot. Scherezade wasn't picky.

 

[Shego Striga]

I HEAR THIS VOICE KEEP ASKING ME
IS THIS MY BLOOD OR IS IT BLASPHEMY?

Scherezade deWinter​

The wheels on her chair squeaked to a halt in the middle of the polished marble-like floor, the sterile light gleaming down on her. Shego melted into the chair like a rag doll, sighing so loudly it practically echoed. Her marker spun lazily in her fingers, round and round, the only flicker of movement as she stared blankly at the opposite wall.

When Rosco came back, he wasn't pushing anyone, just carrying a holoprojector. He plunked it onto the floor with a grunt, then tapped it on.

Shego's head lolled to the side. "This seriously couldn't wait? We could've done this in my cell, y'know~ At least there I have an audience of my own scribbles."

Blue static bloomed upward into a tall projection: a man in an immaculate suit, posture so stiff it could've been bolted into place. Even through the distortion, he radiated that smug, perfumed air of high society. Shego didn't need to smell the cologne to feel it choking her.

"Must be nice..." she muttered under her breath, rolling the marker between her fingers faster. But then her eyes sharpened. The pin on his tie. She leaned forward, glasses flashing in the glow. Her pupils dilated."Son of a-"

"Miss Striga~" the man interrupted smoothly, voice rich but flat. "I trust you remember us. Though most of my esteemed colleagues perished in your...unfortunate outburst, I was spared by circumstance. And so, as their rightful heir, I now carry the weight of Arkanis Military Industries upon my shoulders."

Shego tilted her head back against the chair, letting out a wheezing laugh behind the mask. "Oh, I remember. I remember the smell of your board choking on their own luxury air. You should've been there, it was delicious."

The man's smile didn't falter, but his tone cooled. "I'll be brief. You have technology that belongs to us. I want it back. In exchange, I can ensure your release from this...unpleasant arrangement." His gaze flicked around at the sterile walls of the prison wing. "Refuse, and I can equally ensure you never leave it alive."

For a moment, silence, save for the hiss of her respirator and the faint squeak of her marker spinning faster and faster in her palm. Then Shego leaned forward, eyes glinting venom green.

"You really are a plastic yes-man, aren't you? Spouting the same corpo drivel like it's scripture. My family bled for that work. Died for it. And you think I'd just hand it back so you can slap your logo on it and call it innovation?" Her laughter broke into a cough, her thin shoulders shaking as she fought for air. But she still grinned behind the mask, sharp and spiteful. "No, darling. I'd rather choke to death right here, in your little zoo, than let you profit off their ghosts."

The projection's smile tightened, brittle around the edges. "A shame. I had hoped you might be more...practical."

"Practical?" Shego spat the word like acid. "If practicality was my priority, your company would still have its shiny little board. Be grateful, you inherited their empire. But you'll never have my famlies work...and lets be honest. Your company wouldn't be what it is without our research. Your overplaying your hand~"

Her finger jabbed toward the hologram, her marker spinning wildly in her other hand. "So send your threats, polish your shoes, and keep pretending you're in control. But remember this. You breathe because I let you. Don't mistake that for mercy."

The man's hologram flickered, his face unreadable, before it blinked out. The projector whirred and went dark.

Rosco let out a low whistle. "Gotta say, Striga. You really know how to make friends."

Shego slumped back in the chair, marker dropping into her lap. "I don't befriend imbecilic corpos. Take me back to my cell~" She huffed. Eventually being taken back to the door out of the administrative wing and ever so slowly rolled back out into the corridor as her fist clenched her knee tightly. "Rat bastards. I hope their company withers faster than my health. I'd like to see them go bankrupt before i die~" She mused with a wheeze and cough, adjusting the nozzles on her mask as she was escorted back through the prison station.