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Games You Play

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' All the games you play,
I won't take the blame.

//

Selfish things you say,
And I won't waste another day
With all the games you play. '

Games You Play – 12 Stones

In solitary confinement, Queen Bea's done her fair share of alley cat pacing. The back and forth saunter accompanies the titular hunching of tense shoulders. Rebellion warrants an angel's sky high fall from Heaven. Agitated, her hand makes a fist that connects with the concrete wall. Give it time; her knuckles will bruise.

Bea Smith is far removed from the portrait of matriarchal suffering. Brayden Holt is a tainted memory that tarnished her sweet babe who was destined for a better, brighter future. When you take the last thing a woman love, she's left with her fuming anger. Such is the case for Red; you may as well brand her as dead.

In the slot, time is a construct; it's torn apart.

After hours, the metal bars groan and creak out their mournful song. Bea Smith lays alone in isolation, thrown in for her stint earlier in the day. Unlike the cold, unfeeling machine that assumed Erica Davidson's temporary position, Bea cares about the girls – they fill the hole in her heart. Like most things, it's a temporary fix.

A shadow with a human shape to it lurks in the corner of this bleak, morbid cell. Not a monster, but a woman.

Governor Ferguson stands tall, statuesque in her pose, as though she's been chipped out of marble and abandoned by the sculptor. For good reason, perhaps.

Contemptuously, Bea snorts. Her legs cross, heels of her feet grounded on the old, rickety cot though one now dangles mid-air. She mimics the pose of the the Hanged Man in the art of Tarot. It attracts yet disturbs Joan all at once.

The silhouette of the bun projected onto the wall resembles a photograph's: the perversion of portraiture. Juxtaposed to the fine lines that crinkle up the teals, her uniform's immaculate. She irons it daily come the early dawn. How peculiar to find an equal on the opposite side of the playing board. Joan's landed herself the acquisition of a perfect enemy.

Watching, waiting for the asp to bite, Ferguson folds her hands in front of her waist. The heels add a heightened effect; consider it another scare tactic.

"I find that I've been quite accommodating of your ostentatious claims."

At last, she speaks.

At last, Bea stands.

Smith saunters towards thine enemy. Cocks her head at an angle, her mouth puckered as though she's tasted something sour. Bouncy curls have been pulled back into a high, tight ponytail. It's the red flag that has turned her into a bloody icon. Boudicca's been resurrected.

"Not your office, eh? Couldn't stand to dirty up the place?" A thin smirk cuts sharper than a shiv. "You don't run this prison, Ferguson. Never have, never will." A firm shake cements her adamant claim.

DJ Allie Cat has yet to infiltrate this house.

Queen Bea never backs down.

The Governor's lips twitch, nude gloss making them shimmer. Another stride forward commences the war waged, soon to be won and lost. A vie for power's a tale as old as time. The mentality of ' you're either with me or you're against me ' resonates.

"Don't reduce yourself to such a pathetic role. I have so much more respect for you than that."

She scrunches her nose. Raises a brow. Little gestures give away nothing. Let the women think she operates as a finely tuned machine. She faults her opponent for feeling too much. Joan tuts, tongue striking the roof of her mouth.

"You think you can intimidate me; that it? I'm a lifer. There's nothing for me out there," she exclaims with a lavished flick of her hand.

Debbie acts as the cut that never heals.

Face to face, everything reeks of conspiracy. Neither dead nor alive, there exists a polarity between them. Smith attempts to size up through intimidation; she doesn't stand on the tips of her toes. Her presence, alone, acts as a deadly contender.

"Oh, Smith. You claim to know my intentions, but you're far from the truth."

An underlying bite caresses her velvety timber. Smoke and soot veil the wicked and divine. Ferguson doesn't look down upon her; on the contrary, she holds her in high esteem. Bea Smith acts as a fascination like no other.

"You're losing control of the women, yeah?" Bea taunts, a mirror image of arrogance.

Leather creaks, moans, and whines. The Governor tugs the gloves into place. Beneath the restraint, knuckles flex. Her fingers fit the mold well.

The gloves create a delightful barrier, preventing immediate skin contact. It reduces the risk of infection, as though emotion is a disease and she wants none of it. A hand catches her by the tail in the proverbial sense. Yanking viciously, Joan grabs the Top Dog by her hair.

"That all?" Bea taunts.

The Top Dog watches in return. Her jaw unhinges. Comes apart. She's got a bite to her. Teeth sink into leather. This is guaranteed to bruise.

From the gnashing of those degenerate maws, Joan jerks her hand. Catches her by the jaw. Thumb and forefinger pinch her mandible. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze – though it's not enough to inflict damage; it's a forewarning of impending doom.

Unabashedly composed, Joan refuses to relent to a prisoner's demands. "Hands against the wall, Smith," she instructs.

The concise tone of authority seeps in.

With her hands up, this is no white flag. Smith takes a step back. Delivers a cunning bow. Miss Bennett isn't here to do the dirty work. Here, Governor Ferguson administers the venom. Every ministration, every gesticulation, is duly noted.

"I've nothing to hide from you, Ferguson.”

What a bold claim!

The fire in Bea's words matches the ire in her eyes.

“So nice to hear you refrain from childish name-calling, Smith. It's a breath of flesh air,” Joan counters; the Queen on the proverbial board makes her move.

Complacent with the demand, palms come to settle atop the cool, clammy wall. Bea stares ahead. Tennis shoes spread apart. Again, her jaw slides to and fro. Back and forth. They're spitting venom at most everyone they now.

Ferguson's body presses against hers. Despite the layers of clothing, it's so bloody obscene.

"Can't afford any foreplay, eh? Getting off yet?" Bea quips, throaty and hoarse.

"Such a fondness for rhetoric, hm?" Joan purrs.

Cheek to cheek, this is as cold an embrace as they come. She presses her fingers into the curve of her hip, her ass. Pushes deeper into flesh to make the connection complete.

"Getting off yet?" Ferguson repeats, dishing back what's been giving to her. Straight for the knife, the smirk's buried into Smith's neck, the impression of teeth a reminder that death hangs over all.

You thought you'd get more out of this, didn't you?

The v of her gloved hand caresses the exposed column of her throat before sinking lower. There's the elastic snap of a waistband, but the leather spider stops short of her pelvic bone. She holds Bea to her body. Despite the difference in stature, they fit together well – riddles of a jigsaw puzzle that somehow manage to click.

“We're alike, you and I. You won't grovel; neither will I,” Joan whispers into her ear, truth administered in the dark.

Bea stares sidelong, paralyzed not in fear, but in anticipation. She's dealt with far worse poisons in her life. She strains her neck, fully aware that she'll feel the pain come tomorrow (whenever tomorrow may be). Gnashing teeth capture the Governor's bottom lip. She chews, but doesn't swallow.

“You're a dead woman walking,” the Top Dog mutters, lips moving as a means of conquest.

Bemused, Joan indulges her; she has the control to put an end to this charade.

“And so are you. This is my gift to you," the Governor croons in a gravelly timbre. She quells her God-like wrath; Dies Irae lingers at bay.