Chapter 12: Naked Tactical Superiority
The sterile chill of the lab annex was a distant memory, replaced by the suffocating heat and throat-coating grit of the battlefield extraction zone. Ozone stung Anya’s nostrils, layered over the thick, metallic tang of blood and the cloying scent of charred flesh. Beneath her bare soles, the ground vibrated with the concussive thumps of distant artillery, punctuated by the high-pitched whine of drone rotors cutting through the smoke-choked air. Sector 7, codename ‘Scorch’. A graveyard of twisted durasteel skeletons and pulverized ferrocrete.
Around her, moving with eerie, silent synchronicity, were the others. Her others. Twenty Petrova-75 clones. Naked. Identical down to the serial number freshly laser-etched on their left collarbone – 75-001 through 75-020. Her own number, 75-000, felt like a brand. Their shared green eyes scanned the rubble, their identical bodies – tall, muscled, honed to lethal efficiency – tensed and ready. Sweat glistened on their skin, catching the sickly orange glow filtering through the haze. The sight of them, a battalion of naked, weaponless women advancing through hell, sent a familiar, shameful throb straight to Anya’s cunt. Exposed. Expendable. Perfect weapons.
"Contact! Twelve o'clock!" The voice, identical to her own but devoid of inflection, came from 75-008 to her right. Anya snapped her gaze forward. A squad of four heavily armored Kaelon troopers emerged from behind a collapsed hab-unit slab, their matte-black powered exoskeletons making them hulking silhouettes against the smoke. Plasma rifles swung towards the naked women.
"Engage!" Anya barked, the command ripped from her throat, raw and necessary. The clones surged forward, silent as wraiths, their bare feet silent on the rubble. Anya ran with them, the raw power in her legs driving her forward, the rough ground scraping her soles. The first trooper leveled his rifle. She saw the barrel begin to glow.
75-003 was a blur. She leapt, impossibly high, using the momentum to drive a heel down like a piston onto the trooper’s helmet. The metal crumpled with a sickening crunch. He staggered, rifle firing wildly into the air. Before he could recover, 75-003 landed, pivoted, and drove an elbow straight into the weakened neck joint of his armor. Bone shattered audibly. He dropped, a puppet with cut strings. Anya felt a hot gush between her legs. Fuck.
Another trooper turned, firing. Plasma bolts sizzled past Anya’s ear. She ducked low, rolled over jagged debris, the sharp edges scraping her back and ass. Pain flared, irrelevant. She came up behind the trooper. He was still tracking 75-011. Anya didn't hesitate. She drove her knuckles, hardened from a thousand hours of combat drills, into the side of his knee joint. The polyceramic armor cracked. He bellowed, staggering. She hooked her leg around his ankle and jerked hard. He crashed down onto his back, the impact jarring his rifle loose.
Before he could react, Anya planted one bare foot on his armored chest, pinning him. The other foot she brought down, hard and precise, onto his exposed throat, just above the chest plate. She felt cartilage give way under her heel, heard the choked, wet gurgle. His visor fogged instantly. She ground her heel down, feeling the life crush out of him. A shuddering orgasm tore through her, sudden and violent. Her cunt clenched rhythmically, slickness flooding her inner thighs. "Yes!" she hissed, the word lost in the battlefield din.
"Flanking left!" 75-019 called out. Two more troopers were advancing, more cautiously now. Anya yanked her foot free from the dead man’s throat, her pussy still spasming. Focus. The clones moved like a single organism. 75-007 and 75-015 feinted, drawing fire. 75-012 darted low, scooping up a chunk of rebar. She lunged, jamming the jagged end through the weak point at a trooper's hip joint. He screamed, collapsing. The remaining trooper panicked, spraying plasma bolts wildly. One bolt caught 75-005 in the shoulder, vaporizing flesh and bone in a puff of acrid smoke. She went down without a sound.
Rage, cold and sharp, cut through Anya’s arousal. Her clone. Her flesh. She charged the last trooper head-on. He raised his rifle. She dropped into a slide, skidding across the gritty ground, grit embedding into her skin. The plasma bolt seared the air where her head had been. She came up between his legs, driving her fist upwards with every ounce of strength into his groin, armored or not. The force, amplified by desperation, dented the alloy crotch plate. He doubled over with a strangled gasp. Anya surged upwards, grabbing his helmet, twisting violently. Crack. He slumped.
Silence, heavy and sudden, fell over the immediate area, broken only by the crackle of burning debris and the low moan of the wind. Anya stood, chest heaving, sweat and grime mixing with the splattered gore on her skin and the slick juices cooling on her thighs. The clones regrouped around her, silent, expressionless. 75-005’s body lay where it fell, a dark, smoking ruin. Anya’s gaze lingered on it, then swept over the dead Kaelons. Her cunt pulsed again, a fresh wave of wetness betraying the thrill mixed with the horror. Reduction. Victory. Nothing but flesh.
A familiar crackle sounded in her inner ear implant. Vance’s voice, tinny and remote. "Zone secured. Status report, Petrova-75." Not a question, a demand.
"Four hostiles neutralized," Anya reported, her voice flat, mechanical. "Asset 75-005 destroyed."
"Acceptable attrition," Vance responded without pause. The words were ice down her spine, yet another pulse of heat flared deep within her. Expendable. "Proceed to extraction point Gamma. Thorne requires physiological feedback post-combat engagement."
"Understood." The connection cut. Anya looked at the clones. "Move out. Gamma extraction. Maintain formation." They turned as one, beginning the silent lope across the ravaged terrain. Anya fell in step. The rhythmic pounding of bare feet on rubble, the flex of identical muscles, the shared exposure – it was a constant, humiliating aphrodisiac. Her clit throbbed insistently against the inside of her thigh with every stride.
They reached the designated point – a relatively intact section of collapsed tunnel entrance, offering minimal cover. The clones took up defensive positions, scanning the smoky sky. Anya leaned back against the cold ferrocrete wall, the rough surface scraping her bare back. The adrenaline was fading, leaving exhaustion and the relentless ache of arousal. She couldn't wait. Couldn't think. Her hand, coated in dust and dried blood, slid down her stomach.
She found her cunt, swollen and soaking wet. Her fingers plunged inside without preamble, two then three, stretching her slick channel. A low groan escaped her lips. She curled her fingers, seeking that rough, punishing spot inside, mimicking the brutal efficiency of combat. Her other hand found her clit, rubbing it hard and fast with calloused fingertips. She fucked herself against the wall, hips jerking, the sounds obscenely loud in the temporary lull – wet squelching, her ragged gasps. Images flashed: the crunch of the trooper’s throat under her heel, the perfect violence of the clones, the cold observation glass in the incinerator room, the sterile glow of the lab annex as she signed away her life. Each memory, each act of degradation, tightened the coil in her belly.
"Fuck... yes... crush him... erase me..." she panted, her eyes squeezed shut, seeing only the furnace flames and Vance’s impassive face. Her fingers pistoned faster, deeper. She imagined the boot on her neck grinding harder, the plasma eating the last photo, Thorne’s clinical voice dissecting her arousal. The shame, the helplessness, the raw nothingness was the ultimate turn-on. Her cunt clenched violently around her thrusting fingers. "Oh god... Vance... watching... fuck!" Her back arched off the wall as an orgasm detonated through her, savage and consuming. Jets of fluid spurted out, soaking her thighs and the dusty ground. She sagged, trembling, fingers still buried deep in her spasming pussy, her breath coming in ragged, wet sobs.
One of the clones, 75-012, turned her head slightly, identical green eyes observing Anya’s shuddering form with detached curiosity. No judgment. Just data. The high whine of an approaching dropship cut through the air. Extraction. Anya pulled her slick fingers out, the sudden emptiness echoing the void inside. She pushed herself off the wall, leaving a smear of sweat, blood, and her own juices on the ferrocrete. Petrova-75 straightened, wiping her hand on her thigh, the trembling subsiding into the familiar, lethal stillness. The mission continued. The weapon was functional. The wetness between her legs was just another battlefield residue.