Fallout Kink Meme Part IV: Closed to prompts, open for fills.

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Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (96/109b)

[(Anonymous)]

She’s laughing with Mila--Legion-named “Octavia”--when the three legionaries step through the door and start looking for Anatolia. Anatolia intercepts them three steps in, before they're anywhere near any of the rest of the women, and especially the girls, at the far end of the line.

Everyone goes carefully quiet--not silent, silent looks like you're guilty, but quiet like they're being polite. Maintain the facade in front of the legionaries, just in case one might catch on. If one catches on, someone--no guarantees who, or why--will end up in trouble, and trouble is the last thing they need.

She keeps her head down, glances at Mila to her right and Soledad--Lucretia--to her left. Both of them are intent on their work, eyes straight ahead, mouths unquirked, but their heads tilted just so to catch any snatch of conversation they can.

“Lucia,” Mila says, when the legionaries break from Anatolia, who bustles after them, scanning the line. “They're here for you. Good things lead your way, bad things fall behind.” She doesn't look up from the meat she’s cutting.

“Thank you,” Lucinda says, keeps her head down, bites her bottom lip as a chunk of tendon refuses to cut easy. Tries to look absorbed in her work as four sets of footsteps approach.

“Lucia,” a man says, snaps his fingers at her. His voice is deep, she doesn't recognize him, and when she turns to follow his command, she sees his head is shaved like a new acquisition, his cheeks hollow like he's been hungry too long. New legionary, probably. Some man finally judged loyal enough to do… whatever he’s going to do.

She doesn't say anything, and no one else says any more. she doesn't recognize either of the men flanking her, now, either--they look like they've been loyal longer, even though they're younger, barely more than boys. Raised to it, most likely, born loyal. They’re maybe a year or two older than Aeliana’s oldest.

Anatolia stands in the doorway as they leave, circles under her eyes more prominent than ever.

They march her down the street, and after they pass the first block--a half dozen women peer out from behind curtains, a dozen men standing in the street, talking, a handful of children too small for responsibilities playing in the gutters--after the first block, dozens of pairs of eyes studying her, she raises her chin, sets her shoulders back, strides instead of just walking.

The women stop watching, only cast glances before looking away.

They know it's a gallows-walk too.