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Life as the Shrike is spartan—not in the way that life as a soldier was spartan, with bare quarters and belongings enough only for a duffel bag or two, but spartan in the sense that her way of living itself has been stripped down, and her identity with it. Once, she had many names, many titles, was many things to many people, and now she is the Shrike. Like the bird, she strikes swiftly, is known for her deadliness, for her precision and ruthlessness, but still, this is simpler than whom she was. When she must, she acts, strikes like the bird for whom she is now named, and otherwise, she lives a simple life, one of piety, of charity, of prayer. She works to better her homeland, to protect it however she must.
Sometimes, however, parts of her other life seep in, memories of Ana and Ummi disturb her thoughts, a desire to protect in ways she no longer can coming to the fore, or a longing for a time in which she did not kill, did not know death so intimately as she now does. Then, and only then, does she allow for indulgence, and even then only the one. A single extravagance, a single complication, in an otherwise simple life, that she might purge herself of her past. It never lasts, but the reprieve it grants her is enough.
In some ways this is not new, is not so different from her behavior when she was that other woman, but the meaning, now, is changed, and her with it.
Here, in her homeland, it is easier to find partners without going to bars, without the pressure to drink, if one knows the right places to look, and even if she is one eye less than once she was, her vision is sharp as ever. Across the room, there is a woman (these days, it is always a woman) in a maroon hijab, with wide dark eyes and lips slightly parted. She is young—not so young that it truly matters, but everyone seems young to the Shrike lately. (Younger, still, they seem to Ana, who is a mother, unlike the Shrike, who has a lifetime of memories, unlike the Shrike, who once was as young and innocent as this woman seems, unlike the Shrike.) Their eyes meet, the woman smiles, and she seems so light (the Shrike is a bird, is light, but Ana sits so, so heavy in her chest), and yes, thinks the Shrike, yes, she shall do.
Between them, words pass easily, but they are meaningless, nonsense things, the true weight and depth of their conversation communicated in tone, in gesture, in double entendre. Each of them has something the other wants (or needs, like the Shrike needs to be free of this, of the specter of Ana), although the Shrike cannot put a name to what it is she has to give, not here and now, not like this. It will be enough.
Easily—almost too easily, anything short of a challenge makes the Shrike suspicious, these days, where once the woman she was might have laughed cockily and attested success to her charm—they find themselves alone in a room, dark lips against darker skin, able to feel the curve and warmth of one another through clothes, the taste of smoke in the air from occupants of the room long gone, a last lingering trace of something someone once was. Hands roam until, abruptly, Ana (for she is Ana, now again, or becoming her) stops them.
Not yet, not yet, there are things which must first be discussed, be negotiated, ground rules to establish. She is in control, must be, but only so long as her partner for the night consents. If not, if she has misjudged, she will leave, quickly as she entered, will be the Shrike once again, will ride out the instability, the blurring of identity between past and present for a day longer, before she returns and tries again. She asks directly, not speaking in circles as they had earlier, and the other woman—she does not know her name, does not need to know, or desire to—assents.
(Her aim is true. She has not misjudged. She rarely does.)
They exchange safewords, then, “الآذريون نبات” for her partner, marigold, and “Captain” for herself, a reminder of her past rank, of service, of duty, of something more dignified, more rigid, than their present situation calls for, something Ana used to introduce herself so many times in the past that her tongue curls around the foreign word just as easily as if it were her own tongue.
(Rarely do her partners need their safewords, but it is better to have them, just in case—she is here to teach hard lessons yes, but not unpleasantly—and rarer still are the times she has had to use her own. Once, when she first began doing this, and her partner had called her mother, a sudden, sharp reminder of whom Ana had been, and again a year or so later, when the woman with whom she stood reached out to cup her face so tenderly it had ached, to think that anyone might be able to feel such depth of emotion while she had only this. She hopes never to encounter either circumstance again, has built prohibitions against each into negotiations.)
Always, these encounters follow a pattern. Contact, flirtation, seduction, negotiation, and then, this, the back of the other woman pushed against the wall, that she might feel the strength which still lies in Ana’s limbs, that she may know with whom she is contending, that she will learn her place, here. No kisses are shared, no gentle touches, only Ana’s knee between her thighs, Ana’s hands trapping her where she stands, Ana’s gaze, pinning her in place, daring her to continue to look.
When the other woman breaks, whimpers, grinds her hips down against Ana’s leg (just like so many before her, and the part of Ana which has become accustomed to thinking like the Shrike thinks everyone does, everyone will, better to break like this than to be broken in any of a thousand less pleasant ways) she backs off, moves to stand in the center of the room, stares down her nose at the girl against the wall, and orders that she strip.
Sometimes, the process is sensual, sometimes, it is hurried, sometimes, it is awkward. Whatever happens, Ana does not interfere, is a silent observer as she learns about the woman before her, as she observes her manner and her body, both in time. Today, Ana’s partner removes her hijab (red like blood, the first thing about her Ana noticed) to reveal hair dyed a purple so light it is nearly silver. Strange, to see one so young with hair just slightly lighter than Ana’s ever was in life (when she turned to the Shrike, her hair turned too, from dark and streaked with grey to something whiter and whiter). Nothing else about her is terrible remarkable, even the way in which she disrobes is relatively mundane—orderly, and efficient, eyes never meeting Ana’s (whether out of shame or deference she does not know).
When she is finished, Ana circles her, as if judging, sizing up the woman before her and taking account based upon what she sees. In truth, this is for show, is made to make the woman before her squirm—Ana judged her the moment their eyes first met, learned her ways when they spoke, took a full accounting of her as she undressed, but she does not know this, does not know what Ana is (the Shrike, a sniper, trained to view people as a composite of their parts, to judge them quickly and decisively, to learn how they will think and use it to catch them in her scope—all things which pained Ana to do, dehumanizing things against Ana’s nature which become acceptable only here, only now, like this).
Beneath her gaze, her partner squirms, shifts her weight from one foot to the other, nervously tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and Ana decides that time enough has passed. Quickly as the bird from which she now takes her name, Ana strikes, moving the woman across the room, pushing her back until she meets the wall with a solid thud. A gasp, pupils widening and making the already dark eyes of the woman beneath her hands seem darker still. (They agreed to this, beforehand, but Ana knows that her frame belies her strength and speed, and the surprise that paints the woman’s features is as real as her apparent arousal.)
They stand, much as they had minutes before, but now her partner is entirely nude and Ana is unchanged (there is little enough of her left of her to change, these days, and it would take something far greater than this to affect her). One hand she puts around her partner for the evening’s neck, the other she trails down, slowly, a blunt nail scratching lightly in a circle around the woman’s breasts, figure eights getting tighter and tighter as she approaches stiff nipples, enough to make the woman shiver, enough to tease, but not enough to provide any real stimulation. Normally, she would not bother with foreplay of any sort, dives right in, but her partner is beautifully responsive, and how could she resist? (There is power in this teasing, but it is not the sort of power she usually seeks to exercise in this position, is not what she is looking for—but, perhaps, deviation from a plan is not always a bad idea, perhaps she can do something simply for pleasure and not simply in the hopes of achieving an objective, just this once).
(But that is not why she is here. For now, yes, she is Ana, is not only the Shrike, is allowed something more, but she dare not take too much, dare not seek too much pleasure, for then to return to her life as it is would hurt all the more. Perhaps the woman she is with deserves more but she herself does not, and so she shall not seek it.)
They have no need to tarry, did not agree to do so in the first place, so Ana does not linger any longer, denies both of them the pleasure. Quickly, she moves her hand to its target, roughly inserting two fingers with no warning. Dark eyes widen in response, and a squeak comes from her partner’s mouth. Ana removes the hand at her neck to shush her, one finger over her lips—there is no need for speech in a situation such as this, she can communicate well enough her message with her body alone. (What she is saying is this The world will be rough with you, girl, is this, You ought not to trust so easily, is this, Pain is constant, so you had best learn to take some pleasure in it now. All of these things she did not learn so easily, nor so sweetly as this. It is a warning, if her partner will heed it, is something she wishes someone had told her, before she was taught these same lessons through experience, before they were cut into her body.)
(It is not always like this—sometimes, there is variation, women with cocks and women who do not enjoy penetration—but the theme is the same. Ana takes, even as she gives, touches and is not touched in return. Already, she has been made to learn her lesson, already, she knows that life can be cruel, there is little enough anyone could teach her of that, or of pleasure. She has known pleasure, in every way that a person can, but she will not have it now; it would be too cruel, a moment’s respite in an otherwise harsh existence. Never does she allow her partners to lay a hand on her, or anything else, for she neither wants nor deserves such, any longer. What she wants is this, only this, her hands on another, the understanding that comes with lessons engraved in the flesh. Her own pleasure she can take later, swiftly and alone. For now, she has something to achieve, has something which she means to say.)
Although she can be gentle, and has been in the past, Ana is no longer accustomed to being so, is no longer used to caring for and being delicate. Now, her hands are to kill, not to heal, are roughly calloused from what seems a lifetime of holding her gun. To be gentle is for her no longer a simple thing, and she will not take care to be so now. Neither of them truly wish her to be, anyway. They have agreed to roughness, to a certain ferocity, and Ana can deliver, can leverage herself well enough that the body before her is rocked by the thrusts of her hands, small breasts swaying in time. (Once, she might have preferred to be gentle, might have made her partner ache by teasing, moving slowly, touching lightly. But no longer is she the woman she once was, no longer does she need the things she once did. Now she needs this, needs something rough as she has become. In her life, she has been patient enough already, and more than. What need has she to be so any longer?)
For her part, Ana’s current paramour is indeed as sensitive as she indicated, and it is only a short time before she beings to respond strongly to what little stimulus Ana is providing, squirming, as much as she is able, pinned as she is on Ana’s hand. When they spoke, she said that she needed more than this to come, needed more than penetration, more than two fingers, but Ana thinks that is not the case, watching her now, thinks that it will be difficult, but that she can learn to make do as she is, just like this. (All of them can learn to make do, must learn to get what they will with what they can. If she can learn this here, then it may not be so hard for her to do the same in her life outside of this, may be easier for her to learn to adapt and to live with near-nothing. Eventually, everyone has a breaking point, a moment when it seems they have naught but themselves. Eventually, one must learn to move past it.)
Ana can see the words forming on her lips, can see her partner moving to beg, but no, not yet, she will grant nothing, will not give her partner the release she so wants. If she desires an orgasm, the woman must learn to take it for herself, must learn that if she wishes something to be hers, the people in her life will not give it to her—she, and she alone, can she trust in this life. She, and she alone, can get her to where she wants, needs to be. (Ana was a fool, once, to believe in teammates, in squad members, in commanding officers. And for what? She was left for dead. All that she has, she has taken. Her rifle, her place, her life.)
So she covers the other woman’s mouth with her free hand, feels breath hot against her palm, lips moist against still-soft skin. Take it, she challenges her partner, take what you will.
But her partner is hesitant, is unwilling, or unable, to take this step. Perhaps, this is not what she wanted, perhaps she thought that Ana being in control would mean that her work was done for her, would mean that she would not have to act on her own. (Even choosing to obey orders is, itself, an action. One is not free from what one has done simply because they were ordered to do so. Ana knows this well, has for years shouldered the burden of command and the weight of guilt for actions she has been made to take. Is it not easier, this way, to learn to think of oneself as beholden to no one? One can surrender control, utterly, and retain a sense of self, here. Such will not always be the case. This is all the gentleness of which Ana is capable, now.)
They are in a holding pattern—Ana having given all which she is willing, and the woman before her unwilling to take any more. Tension rises, now, differently than it has before, not in an escalation of arousal, or action, but between them. Already, Ana knows she will not lose, but it is beautiful to watch the woman before her break, to watch her war with herself, and lose. What she wants is to wait, but the longer this continues, the more desperate she becomes, writhing and whimpering and wanting. (It is better, is it not, to learn now that one must compromise on one’s morals? To learn that one must sometimes do that which they do not wish, in order to get what it is they want. If she truly does not want this, if she truly cannot do it, then she may safeword out, and Ana will finish her, but nowhere else in the world will she be afforded such an opportunity—to break without consequence.)
A furrowed brow, the feeling beneath her hand of lips moving—a frown? a bitten lip? Ana’s sight has always been the best of her senses, and she cannot ascertain the true nature of the movement—and muscles, clenching tightly around her fingers, bearing downwards. She is close, Ana can feel it, so close, folding in on herself further and further, sweat beading her brow, breathing ragged. Tighter, tighter, and then, a moment of plateau, frozen between them. (This, Ana knows, is the instant at which she breaks, releases all of her tension and collapses in on herself. Jouissance at the instant of connection.)
Then, quickly as things began between them, everything is over. (Always, the buildup, the anticipation, is more dramatic than the moment itself, is just as important, if not moreso, than the results. Like a battle between snipers. A long wait, and over in an instant—but what an instant.)
The Shrike removes herself, wipes her fingers clean on the skin of the woman before her, and turns to leave the room. Behind her, the woman says something, but she cares not for Ana’s dalliances. Now, she will return home, will tend to the ache between her legs, as quickly and efficiently as possible, and return to business as usual. She has all she needed. This woman need not become another Shrike, and it is enough to sate Ana.