>You and your friend are trying to unwind after a long Friday filled with soul-crushing office work >Taking it easy at a bar, having a few drinks and thinking up ways to spend your weekend >Some mouthy thot of a pig in a red tank top and jeans won't stop hitting on all the guys with shitty puns >'Hey baby, you want this pig up in your blankets?' 'yo hot stuff, wanna be the eggs to my bacon?' 'How's about you squirt your apple sauce on my mutton?' >Just tons of low effort shit. She comes off as a moron and the fact that she's wearing sunglasses inside doesn't make her look any smarter. >Her rabbit friend's practically a mute in comparison, sitting lonely at the bar and boring holes into the wall with her thousand yard stare. >You see her around here from time to time, often alone, but sometimes with friends. >Other than the wisecracking pig you'd seen her hanging out with that Goth-looking bat girl with the trenchcoat and terrifying laugh and that one tanuki girl who was pretty much a walking, talking Japanese stereotype. >Biggest gaggle of weirdos you've ever seen. You think they were war buddies or some shit, but you can't be sure. >The pig flirts her way down to bar, shrugging off rejections as she goes. She's either extremely resilient or just too dense to realise she's being a nuisance. You'd put your money on the latter. >You hope the corner you chose to sit in is too dark for her to see through those Ray Bans, but you've got no such luck >Circling the bar for more potential prey she centres her snout on you and saunters over, cocky grin reinvigorated >In one smoothly obnoxious motion, she slams her hands down on your table, leans over to flaunt her cleavage and inadvertently knocks your pint over >"Howdy boys, you two in the mood for spit roasted pig?" >"We're fine, thanks." you say, pointedly shooing her away >"hell yeah you are," she purrs, taking your clearly obvious objection as an invitation to sit down. She swaggers her way over to your side of the table, stepping painfully on your toes as she squeezes past and worms her way into the middle of you and your friend >Her sheer ignorance is so palpable that it transcends annoyance and becomes actually sort of impressive >"Lemmie tell ya, I wouldn't mind makin' a ham sandwich with a pair of fine studs like you guys." she says, draping an arm over both of your necks in a flagrant disregard for personal space >You're about to tell her to go harass someone else, but then you notice your friend's eager smile and decide to humour her a bit, for his sake >The initial conversation involves some ironic flirting on your end - all of which she took as being completely serious. Then your friend mentioned how she looked like some action hero from a movie he liked and now she wouldn't shut up about how 'fuckin' awesome' Techno-gator was and how Arnold Swinenegger was the 'pinnacle of bitchin'' >You butt your way back into the conversation just as they begin to discuss their top ten favourite Sylvester Stallion flicks >"So who's your friend?" you ask, gesturing to the tall, lonesome rabbit at the bar, staring pensively into her beer. >"Huh? Oh, that there's Daisy: toughest bitch in the UAC." >"UAC? So she's army?" >The pig produces a pair of cigars from her pocket, offering one to you. You politely decline, and consider pointing out the 'no smoking' sign on the wall before deciding not to waste the effort; she didn't strike you as the type who gave a shit about the rules, anyways. >Sparking up, she continues. "Yup. Ol' daisy's been fightin' the good fight since she was old enough to hold a plasma rifle. Earth, Mars, some tiny-ass moon I can't remember the name of, If you can name a place, then chances are Daisy's been there and kicked its ass." >"So, what? Is she, like, special forces or something?" >The pig billows smoke into your face as she laughs. "Special forces? Pfft, she makes those sunz-a-bitches look like pansies. Nah, Daisy's a little more serious than that. She's more 'war hero times a thousand', if you catch my drift." >You look over the towering bunny sceptically, and wonder if the pig was just fucking with you. Being a tough motherfucker you could buy into, but 'war hero times a thousand?' >Sensing your disbelief, the pig shrugs. "Believe it or not, that's the truth, bucko. She's been on-" she pauses, furrows her brow in concentration and counts her fingers. "-four tours - no wait! Five. Heh, forgot that one back in '64. You ever heard of operation E1M9?" >You shake your head. >"Nobody has. It was some black ops shin-dig back at the height of the demon war. One military base swarming with hellspawn, one angry marine with an empty 9mm and her bare fists, one survivor." >You crack a smile and chuckle, but the pig doesn't chuckle along with you, and you realise she's being serious. >"Jesus... You mean-" >"Uhuh." >Jesus..." >Clapping you on the back and, with a surprising amount of strength, effortlessly pushing you up out of your chair and onto your feet, the pig notions towards Daisy. "Why don't you go talk to her?" >Honestly? You kind of want to >Like, sure, the whole 'murder machine' shtick scared the shit out of you, but you had to admit, it made her into one hell of an interesting enigma >You look back at your table, and the pig gives you an encouraging thumbs up. "Don't be shy, go introduce yourself. I'll keep your lil' buddy here company." she smirks, squeezing the arm she'd slung around your friend's shoulders a little tighter and leaning her bust into him >Fuck it, you're going in >You approach the rabbit like you might approach a tiger: slowly, so as not to spook her >Maybe it was bit ridiculous, but after everything that pig had told you, you were afraid she might flinch and reflexively kill you, should you startle her >It isn't until you're standing next to her that you realise just how imposing a figure she is. >She's tall enough for her ears to reach the ceiling, and her arms are heaped with muscle. She looks as if she could snap you in half with a hand tied behind her back, and if what that pig had told you was true, then she probably could >You introduce yourself by clearing your throat. She doesn't seem to respond - she's lost in her own little world, staring through her pint glass into God only knows what >"Uh, excuse me?" no response >"Hello?" Nada >You reach out and wave a hand in front of her face, temping fate. She doesn't even flinch. She just keeps on staring through lazy, half-lidded eyes, as if she'd fallen asleep where she stood >Maybe... Maybe if you just gave her a tap on the- >You nudge her arm with an inquisitive finger, and your suddenly you're pinned against the counter, a furry paw clamped around your throat and squeezing with what felt like intent to kill >Her sleepy eyes are now fully awake and bloodshot, and the thin line of her mouth twitches into the white, toothy snarl of a beast. >She's the very picture of rage. Complete, utter rage. Her breath swamps your face, molten-hot with anger, and you realise you're about to die