Dva x men

The neon lights of Busan flicker in the distance, but for Hana Song, the world has shrunk to the cramped, claustrophobic interior of a wreckage strewn alleyway. The MEKA, once her pride and her shield, is a tomb of mangled titanium. A tactical strike from a rogue mercenary unit has done more than just disable her engines; they have fused the suit's hydraulic stabilizers to her very skin.

The suit is no longer a vehicle; it is a heavy, form fitting exoskeleton of cold, unyielding metal. The weight is astronomical. Even with her enhanced pilot strength, Hana can barely twitch a finger. She is encased in a pressurized shell that clings to every curve of her body, the internal padding molding to her skin like a second, artificial layer of flesh. She is a prisoner of her own technology, immobile and ****.

The heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots echoes against the metal walls. A squad of mercenaries, their faces obscured by tactical visors, surround the downed MEKA. They aren't here to rescue her; they are here to scavenge, and they have found a prize far more precious than scrap metal.

One of the men, a hulking brute with scarred knuckles, jams a thermal cutter into the seam of her chest plate. With a violent, screeching groan of protesting metal, he pries the heavy torso armor away. The structural integrity of the suit fails, but the limb stabilizers remain locked, pinning her arms and legs in a wide, splayed position.

Hana gasps, the sudden rush of cool air hitting her exposed skin. The removal of the torso armor has left her completely denuded from the ribs down. Her breasts, compressed by the suit for so long, heave with frantic, shallow breaths, the tips hardening in the sudden chill. Below, the pelvic stabilizers hold her thighs apart, leaving her crotch completely bared to the predatory gazes of the men.

She is a statue of flesh and fury. Her eyes burn with a mixture of indignant rage and rising, primal terror. As the first man approaches, his gloved hand reaching out to claim her, Hana lets out a defiant, muffled snarl, her body writhing in a futile, frantic squirm against the metal constraints. She is a goddess of the battlefield reduced to a living, breathing doll, trapped in a cage of her own making, waiting to be used.

The mercenary’s hand is rough, unceremonious, as he grips her hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh just above the metal rim. He doesn't care about her fame or her skill; to him, she is just a high value asset, a warm, soft thing to be broken.