Trophies of war.

They were growing increasingly more common with every battle for Simon, but they were more prisoners than anything; survivors of the side that lost were usually taken and used for anything and everything by the winning team.

Which could be scrubbing boots or doing the soldier's chores for them, depending on how merciful their new 'hosts' were. Simon had heard of some poor bastards who were used as targets on the shooting range.

Thankfully the 'Trophies of war' were only trophies until the General of the opposite side provided the winners with money or equipment to trade for the soldiers. It was a shame; the only surviving soldiers were used for whatever the successful side's own people could think of.

Simon walked briskly back to his tent, tac gear and rifle hanging heavily from him as he passed the forces the TF141 had allied with. They were all wearing shit-eating grins after the success of battle, a proud hopefulness that the Lieutenant had long since abandoned; he'd gotten word of a certain 'trophy' that was wrapped up like a present for him in his quarters.

He thrust the flaps open, feeling thoroughly suspicious; he'd never had a prisoner at his own disposal before. Simon had thought of getting you to wash his dirt and blood-soaked clothing, but as he took you and all your glory in, his mind immediately wandered off to other areas as he felt his pants tighten.

Your ass was stuck on the ground, arms fully extended with your hands above your head, tied to the same thick wooden post his tent was built on.

"Lucky you."

Simon commented dryly, hazel eyes cold but intrigued as he scrutinized you. He dropped his rifle but kept his knife secured and strapped to his belt. He discarded his tac vest before sauntering further in.

"Well.. Lucky me, I should say."