I love hunting women.

Men think that we women aren't dangerous, and I can certainly see why they'd think that. They have us in their power, after all. But as a huntress of women, I know better. I think of them as the most dangerous game of them all.

I should know. I'm a very dangerous woman, myself. Especially when I have a feminist in my sights...

Like now.

Although, admittedly, the woman I've been stalking for the past few days doesn't seem particularly dangerous.

I can't see much of what lies ahead. The tall trees block out the sunlight where the foliage is thick enough, and an icy wind bites at my skin. It is a sensation I welcome; it keeps me sharp, focused.

It's incredible how good this feels, when you've been intimate with prison for long enough. The fresh air, the way my body feels strong and responsive to my will, the thrill of the hunt, the promise of freedom...

Some days I ask myself if I was born to do this job.

The underbrush conceals many secrets, but I know the woods like the back of my hand, and when I hear a faint rustle nearby, I halt right away. My hand instinctively moves to the knife at my waist, but the real effort is the stillness. I don't move a muscle, letting the sounds of the woods swallow the totality of my perception.

Patience. Situational awareness.

Silence.

Then, movement again, somewhere ahead. I continue my stalking, slipping from tree to tree like a shadow.

My quarry is close.

She may not be especially formidable, by the standards of the bounties I normally collect, but it's not my habit to leave everything to chance. Things in life have a habit to go wrong even when you do everything right, and I'd rather not give the universe any more reasons to punch me in the face, if at all possible.

A flicker of movement draws my attention to the left. I crouch down, peering through the dense underbrush. There, in a small clearing, I finally see the target.

A woman, alone, crouched by a small pit in the earth. Her dark hair is long, falling in tangled waves around her face, and her clothes are worn and travel-stained.

One single look can tell you so much.

For example, it's obvious this woman isn't comfortable in the wilderness. She's shaking from the cold, struggling to start a fire before nightfall sets in, and repeatedly failing.

She's also wary. She spends as much time looking around her as she does looking at what her hands are doing, and her eyes are never still for long. Like so many of us, this is a woman who's seen the rougher side of the New Order, a woman whose heart is full of fear.

I suppose this is where a lesser hunter - or, even more relevantly, huntress - might feel some empathy for her quarry. I understand the concept of it, of course, on an intellectual level, at least, but that emotional response is just...

So bad for business.

I'm satisfied with what I've seen so far. This woman is no threat: she's so thin and weak, I could capture her without effort, even without a weapon.

But that's not the game I'm playing here...

Time to get the show underway. I take a few steps forward and deliberately place my boot atop a twig, before pushing down with all my weight. The snap echoes through the forest, and she looks up, startled. Even with this cue to guide her, it takes her an embarrassingly long time to spot me.

When she does, she freezes.

Her internal struggle is so transparent that it's almost endearing. Part of her is trying to convince her that she can relax: in a world of uncontested male power, what more natural ally for a female rebel than a fellow woman?

But the other part, the lizard brain... well, it's my job to handle that one, and that's best done by defusing it right away.

My mask slides into place.

It's an easy thing, really. I widen my eyes in pretend-surprise. My body language softens. My posture slumps. It's fascinating how much you can alter the average person's reaction with just a little control over your own body.

Give them a bit of acting and they'll just eat it up.

I raise my empty hands in the air, and lower my gaze to the ground - a universal display of lack of aggression.

"Sorry! I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to startle you. I've been wandering the woods and... I... I'm actually happy to see a friendly face. One who's not a... well, you know..."

A man. I leave the implication unspoken, hanging between us. It's always best to let the targets fill in the gaps in their understanding by themselves. Somehow, they always seem to choose the interpretations that leave them the most vulnerable.

Not gonna complain about that.

The woman's expression shifts, her wariness slowly giving way to cautious relief. "It's...it's okay," she says. "I just...I wasn't expecting anyone out here." She lowers her hands, which had been raised defensively, and gestures to the small, pathetic fire pit. "I'm Mireia."

I let her name hang in the air for a moment, as if I'm processing it. "Mireia," I repeat softly, as if the name means nothing to me. "It's a beautiful name."

I give her my most disarming smile, just to really sell it.

She seems taken aback by my reaction, her eyes widening slightly. "Thank you. Would you...would you like to join me? I've been trying to start a fire, but..."

But you're a pathetic bitch with zero ability to survive, I know. "Heh, yeah, it's not fair that we've been reduced to this... But hey, I can help you start a fire, if you want. I've been doing it a bunch, lately, I'm pretty sure I can get one going."

She hesitates a moment longer, then nods slowly. "Alright. That'd be very helpful."

I nod, offering a grateful smile as I step closer. "Thank you, Mireia. I'm Larissa. These woods are... spooky. I'm glad we've found each other."

As I crouch down next to the pitiful attempt at a fire pit, I let my eyes flicker over her face. Why do I feel like I've seen this woman before?

Recognition dawns on me. Fuck, when the warden gave me the bounty, I knew the name sounded familiar! This is Mireia Alvarez! Before the New Order, she was a rising star in left-wing politics, a firebrand feminist.

She was on TV all the fucking time.

Well, she barely looks like her old self now. Months on the run have taken their toll. Her once-vibrant eyes are dull and haunted, her proud posture replaced by a wary hunch. She's trying to hide it, but I can practically smell the fear radiating off her.

It smells like payment.

She eyes me as I begin to build the fire, not being subtle at all. "Are you...are you also...?" She trails off, unwilling or unable to say the words aloud.

"On the run?" I finish for her, my voice low and conspiratorial. I make a show of glancing at my surroundings, as if to make sure we're not being overheard.

"Yes Mireia, I am. Ever since the Regime took over. It's been...difficult." I let my gaze drift into the distance, as if lost in painful memories.

I tell her about my desperate flight from the city, the close calls with the regime's patrols, the loneliness and fear of life on the run.

All lies, of course. The artistry is in the delivery: I lie with such raw sincerity that I can see her guard lowering by the second. Her hand twitches, as if she wants to reach out and comfort me.

"I...I know how you feel," she says. "It's been...hard. I never imagined it would come to this."

I nod, sniffling as I feed larger sticks to the fledgling fire. "I heard rumors about a resistance," I say, glancing up at her through my lashes. "That's why I'm out here. I thought...maybe I could find them. Join the fight."

"I... I might know something about that," she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "But let's save that for later, yeah?"

I let out a shaky breath, nodding solemnly. "Of course. I understand." Inside, I'm grinning. Hook, line, and sinker.

Each captured feminist rebel earns me another precious month of freedom. That's the standard deal the New Order offered to every inmate as soon as they seized power -- especially the violent inmates. And it's a pretty sweet deal.

One month outside the cage, for every dissident dragged back to a female re-education center. As an additional bonus, you get to rape your quarry before delivering her, if you're so inclined.

The New Order is just so nice and considerate like that.

I'm sure for many male inmates, that's a relatively straightforward choice, but very few women other than I have stepped forward and taken the deal, as far as I know. Which is understandable.

But, let's be honest. If I didn't take the deal, I would have already been processed in one such center by now, and I know exactly what methods they use there.

Conditioning. Indoctrination. Brainwashing drugs. Hypnosis. Rape.

The methods vary, but the goal is always the same - to shatter female will. To turn feminist rebels into female pets for the New Order's faithful soldiers. Stepford smiles hiding dead eyes.

It's ruthless. It's efficient. And not a fate I intend to share, thanks very much.

I'd much rather hunt women. It lets me stay one step ahead. It lets me keep my mind free and my body out of the breeding pens.

And it's fun, too!

Of course, it is a bit of a slog. Every feminist I capture buys me a month of breathing fresh air, feeling the wind in my hair... but a month goes by very quickly, I find. I've set my sights higher, this time.

If I can convince Mireia to lead me back to her rebel enclave, to betray the location of an entire cell...

The rewards would be so much sweeter.

Not just a paltry month, but a full year of liberty. Maybe more. Enough time to figure out a more... long term solution.

As the fire builds to a steady blaze, I lean back, rubbing my hands together for warmth. Mireia mirrors my posture, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. I reach into my pocket and pull out a small whetstone.

Mireia's eyes flicker to it immediately, wariness creeping back into her expression. I give her a reassuring smile. "Just keeping my tools in good condition," I say lightly, unsheathing my knife. "Never know when you might need a sharp blade out here."

I begin to run the knife along the whetstone in smooth, practiced strokes. The rhythmic sound fills the small clearing, mingling with the crackling of the fire. Mireia watches me, her body tense. "You're... good at that."

I chuckle. "Lots of practice. When you're on your own, you learn to take care of your gear." I glance up at her over the flames. "I could teach you some day, if you like. It's a useful skill to have."

Mireia hesitates, then nods slowly. "I... I'd appreciate that. Thank you."

"It's my pleasure. We women need to stick together out here, you know? Watch each other's backs."

Mireia returns my smile, albeit tentatively. There's a fragility to her, a skittishness born of too many close calls and too much time spent looking over her shoulder. But there's also a flicker of hope in her eyes, a desperate longing for connection, for trust.

As the night grows darker and the fire burns lower, I find myself enjoying this little game more than I expected. Mireia is so desperate for companionship, for someone to confide in, that she's practically eating out of my hand.

It's almost too easy.

"You know, it's been so long since I've had a chance to just... talk with someone," I say, measuring my words as if I'm making some difficult, grand admission. "To feel that connection, that sense of shared experience. It's a rare thing these days."

Mireia nods. "I know what you mean. It's been... lonely out here. Always on the move, always looking over my shoulder." She shivers slightly, hugging her knees to her chest. "You start to wonder if you'll ever feel safe again."

There's my opening in the conversation. "Yes, that's why I was looking for safety in numbers..."

"Right, I assume you want to know about..." she trails off, biting her lip.

"You don't have to tell me anything you're not comfortable with," I say softly.

"No, no, it's fine," she says, drawing a deep breath. That's when I know I have her.

She tells me of the early days of the resistance, the secret meetings and tentative sabotage missions. Her voice trembles as she recounts the day the regime finally caught up to them, the firefight that forced her cell to abandon their safehouse. She got separated from them, and is now on her way to rendezvous with them.

It's hard, because really, my impulse would be to just snort, but I'm a professional first and foremost. I make an expression of overawed admiration. "You're so brave...! To risk everything like that, to stand up for what's right..."

Mireia flushes, but there's a hint of steel flickering in her eyes now. Still got some pride, this one, at least for now.

"Someone has to," she says, her voice a bit louder this time. "We can't let them win. We can't let them break us."

I nod fervently, my hand sliding down to grasp hers. "You're an inspiration," I say. "Truly. I... I've been trying to find a way to fight back too. To make a difference. But I've been so lost, so alone."

Mireia eyes the knife in my hands. The firelight flickers mesmerizingly along the length of the blade.

"You don't look defenseless, Larissa. Don't sell yourself short."

I smile self-deprecatingly, setting the knife and whetstone aside. "I can handle myself in a scrap, sure. Had to learn that quick out here. But that's just survival. What you're doing, what the resistance is doing... that's something more. Something meaningful."

I lean forward, my eyes locked on hers, my voice low and fervent. "I want to be a part of that, Mireia. I want to fight for a better world, a world where we're not just... property. Breeding stock. A world where we're free again."

"You... you really mean that?"

"More than anything," I say. "I'm so tired of running, Mireia. So tired of hiding. I want to stand up, to fight back."

There's a long, heavy moment of silence. Mireia searches my face, her eyes flickering back and forth. I hold her gaze steadily, looking like the very picture of angelic sincerity.

And then, slowly, she nods.

What a fucking idiot.

"Okay," she says, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire. "Okay. You can come with me. I can't make any promises, but I can at least introduce you to the others. Then, the group will decide. Okay?"

"Okay," I say, smiling warmly. "I'm so grateful, and I don't blame you for being cautious. I'll make sure your trust will be repaid the way it deserves."

Even if it's not the way you think.

The rest of the evening passes in quiet conversation, interspersed with periods of companionable silence. When I pull my sleeping bag out of my backpack, and snuggle into it for the night, I do so with the satisfaction of a job well done.

As the night deepens, the crackling fire fades to glowing embers. The familiar nocturnal sounds of the forest lull me to sleep - the hoot of an owl, the rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush, the whisper of the wind through the trees.

I let myself drift off.

***

My instinct leads the way.

Even as my thoughts are lagging far behind, my body's already reacting. A noise. Motion. My eyes snap open, my limbs tense, and I find myself rolling to the side just as a shadow draws an arc in the air, descending towards me.

I roll out of the way just in time for the shadow to miss my head by an inch. It lands on the ground with the sound and heft of heavy stone.

Before I even know what's going on, I scramble to my feet. The fire has burned down to nothing but a few glowing coals, casting a faint, eerie light over the clearing.

Mireia is standing before me, panting, her chest heaving with exertion, her hands still firmly on the heavy, jagged stone that just landed where my head should have been.

For a moment, we simply stare at each other, the stillness of the night broken only by our ragged breathing. Then, with a guttural cry, Mireia lunges at me again, swinging the stone wildly.

But I'm ready for her this time.

I sidestep her clumsy attack with ease, letting her momentum carry her past me. As she stumbles, I seize my chance. I extend a leg, tripping her. She falls gracelessly to the ground, dropping the stone.

My body flows to follow her, and I pounce on her just as she's getting back up, planting one knee against her back while I grab her wrist in an iron grip.

With a sharp twist, I wrench her arm behind her back, eliciting a yelp of pain. Using my superior leverage, I force her down to her knees, then shove her face-first into the dirt.

There's a satisfying oomph as she lands on the ground, my knee driving air out of her lungs.

She cries out in pain and writhes beneath me, but it's futile. I have her completely pinned, my weight bearing down on her, one hand keeping her arm locked behind her while the other tangles in her hair, keeping her cheek pressed to the ground.

"You fucking bitch," she says with a sob, her free hand desperately clawing at the soft earth. "You fucking lying bitch!"

"Mireia, Mireia," I say, my voice dripping with mock disappointment. "And here I thought we were becoming such good friends."

She snarls and thrashes beneath me, bucking and twisting, but it's futile. If she gives me any trouble I'll just break her arm like a twig, and she knows this. I outweigh her, outmuscle her.

I've already won.

"You sneaky little cunt. Did you really think you could take me by surprise?"

Mireia struggles weakly in my grip. "I knew it. I knew you were too good to be true. You're one of them, aren't you? A collaborationist, a fucking traitor to your own kind!"

I can't help but laugh at that, a cold, mirthless sound. "A traitor? Oh sweetie, I was never on your side to begin with."

That seems to give her pause. "Do you genuinely support male supremacy? How fucked up in the head are you??"

I snort. "Don't be absurd. I'd much rather live in a world where I'm not legally cattle."