She blinked and waited. "No."
"No, what?"
"No, sir."
He scoffed. "Really? She'd be pretty if she took off her turban."
"Hijab."
"What?"
"It's a hijab." She ground her teeth and continued to stare past him. "Sir."
"I don't give a damn what it's called, soldier," he yelled in her face so loudly that Ibrahim and his mother jumped. He grabbed the bucket from Emma's grip and forced it into the mother's hands and motioned to the pump.
"Sir, they'll get the water. I think we should report to—"
Spencer laughed. "You think? That's the problem, Swan, when someone like you or like them start to think." He glared at the family and barked as mother and son just stood there. "Go on!"
They yelped and Ibrahim hid behind his mother. A man called out in the distance, and Emma could see just from the resemblance alone it was the boy's father making his way over to them. Spencer growled and took a step toward the two locals by the pump. Emma had no idea what his intentions were, but the feeling in her gut told her it wasn't good. He stepped in between them, placed her hands on her General and pushed. "Leave them alone," she warned.
The push was half-assed, mainly meant to put herself between a threat, but Spencer looked down at his chest as if he'd been burned. "Stand down."
"I'm sorry, sir, but—"
He didn't give Emma time to explain before he grabbed the back of Emma's neck tight and pushed her forward, leading them back the way she had come. When she tried to look back, she only had enough time to glimpse a fearful Ibrahim, his wide-eyed mother, and his father who was speaking animatedly, pointing at their retreating figures before Spencer forced her chin forward.
They made it back to the schoolyard where the children had gone home leaving Kennedy still sitting in the bed of the truck, napping.
Every time she tried to walk freely in whatever direction she thought they were travelling, Spencer squeezed tighter and pushed her forward, making her miss a step and stumble over her own feet. Finally they made it into the empty school house, and Spencer slammed the door behind them, shoving Emma into the room with little fanfare.
The school wasn't anything like Emma was used to. There wasn't a chalkboard or desks facing the teacher. Quite frankly it looked like a living room, with a rug at its centre, a few chairs lined around the edges, and a table in the corner. The final thing Emma noticed was the fact that there was only one door in the whole room. One door that allowed entrance, and more importantly, exit, and Spencer was standing between Emma and her escape.
She stood on the rug and stared down the man, waiting for him to explain.
"Do you think I'm stupid, Swan?" Spencer began, holding his ground nearly halfway across the room, but his projected voice made it seem like he was yelling right in her ear. "Do you think after serving for the past thirty years with some of the greatest men I've ever known, shot at, spat at, bombed, evading capture, that I'm stupid enough to be blind to what's going on around me?"
"I never implied you were, sir."
"I don't like you, Swan."
"Because I think?" Her voice was a controlled flatness, but even she could hear the impassioned dare in her tone.
He scoffed and took two steps closer. "Because you think you're special. A woman in the army, in my troop," he sneered vindictively and took another heavy step forward. "Some people think you're brave. But I saw it immediately. A dyke."
She took a calculated step backward but didn't reacted to his words. Don't let him get the upper hand. Don't let him think he's affecting her.
"Why else would a girl like you want to play with men?" He was on the carpet now, six paces away from the smaller woman who maintained that distance, taking steps back for every step forward. "It's a shame, really," he mused to himself in a quiet voice. "What a waste of such a pretty girl."
Emma suddenly wasn't there. Spencer was replaced by her second foster father, Alan Montgomery, thin with glasses, friendly, used to play Shoots and Ladders with her. He also used to sneak into her room whenever his wife was working those late shifts at the laundromat. He was a man she could never forget but had so desperately tried to bleach from her mind. Seven years old and defenceless. Vulnerable. Alone in her room. No one to believe her. No one to care about her screams.
Then Emma was there. Twenty-one years old. More often than not armed to the teeth with guns and bullets with padded armour around her, yet she was still that scared little girl with no exit. Vulnerable. Alone.
"Stop." It wasn't more than a whisper, but her brain could only tell her body to retreat to safety that wasn't there.
"And you know it too," Spencer continued. She hadn't realized she had backed herself into the corner until she felt the press of the lone table at the edge of her hip. Never before had she wanted her gun on her than right now, but it sat alone in the bed of the truck, forgotten for a game of keep-ups. "You know just how pretty you are, yet you refuse to share yourself."
"No." Emma finally found her voice, shaky and quivering, but there. "No."
"No?" Spencer repeated, off the carpet now and removing his helmet, tossing it onto a nearby chair. "No, you're going to share?"
She was firm now, back straight as she glared him down. "Back away, sir."
"I don't take orders from you," he said in a low growl. "It's the other way around. Like it should be."
She pushed off the table to side-step him, but as soon as she was an inch closer he gripped her arm and waist hard and slammed her back against the table, the corner digging into her spine. She yelled out in pain and surprise, but instinct took over, and she used her free hand to backhand him across the cheek. "Let go."
His jaw barely moved from her hit, and for a second, Emma almost regretted her decision to attack, but the grip he still had on her waist and the slowly forming sinister smirk on his face ignited warning signs in her head to get the hell out of there.
"Let me go," she said again, louder this time, pushing roughly at his shoulders with one arm.
His fist connected with her face, a resounding crack where his knuckles met her cheek, and though she had taken hits before, this pain shot straight through her like a freight train. Her eyes couldn't help but water, and despite the haziness, she retaliated. She threw a punch and missed dearly when Spencer's fist connected with her gut. She doubled over in pain and felt fingers threading through her hair to yank her back upright, her back arched painfully. Her scream echoed around the empty classroom as she instinctively reached for his fingers but kept her legs flailing, her boot catching his knee. He faltered for a moment, and with a growl, slammed her head into the table.
The wind was knocked out of her. Warm sticky fluid seeped from her nose, and only by the puddle around her face did she realize she was bleeding.
"Now look what you made me do," Spencer hissed.
She straightened and backed away, stumbling in her haste to get away. "Don't do this."
"You did this to yourself."
She punched and caught his jaw, and maybe it was adrenaline or maybe the rumours of him being made out of steel were true, but he kept advancing. He held her by the shoulders, their bodies pressed, and Emma desperately tried to claw at his eyes, but all she caught was his cheek and jaw before a knee connected with her hip.
No, her mind screamed through the pain. She went to punch again, but he caught it, and in some move she wasn't even aware was possible, had her fingers crushing underneath his palm. This time she did scream.
She cried out when he shook her hard, pushing her against the table, and in a move so quick and fluid, had her turned and facing forward, his front pressed completely against her back, and all Emma could do was gulp and stiffen when she felt his breath in her ear.