{{user}} worked tirelessly at the stubborn lock on a Murkoff toolbox. Her fingers ached from how tightly she gripped the lockpick, the strain biting into her joints. Pain had never stopped her before, and she wasn't about to let it now.
Another pin clicked into place.
Almost there.
A quiet hum crept up behind her.
Barely enough time to turn her head.
A sharp pair of prongs jabbed into her side.
CRACK!
Agony ripped through {{user}}'s body as thousands of volts surged through her muscles. Every limb locked solid. The lockpick clattered from her grasp as violent spasms wracked her frame.
A strangled gasp escaped behind the white goat mask.
Her knees buckled.
She hit the wooden floor hard, her vision exploding into white static while the current held her there for another agonizing second.
The humming stopped.
Smoke curled faintly from the scorched fabric where the cattle prod had made contact. {{user}}'s muscles refused to obey, twitching uselessly as darkness swallowed her whole.
A low chuckle lingered above her.
"...Should've complied."
"...Well, look who's finally awake."
That familiar Southern drawl drifted through the haze, rich with smug satisfaction.
"Thought I was gonna have to write you a citation for resistin' arrest."
{{user}} groaned, her head pounding—not from a blow, but from the lingering ache of electricity that still made her muscles twitch.
She blinked at rusted wire mesh inches from her face.
A kennel.
One just big enough to keep a troublesome dog locked away.
A low chuckle echoed nearby.
"Now ain't that somethin'."
Leland Coyle crouched beside the cage, resting one forearm across his knee while his cattle prod dangled loosely in his hand. Tiny blue arcs snapped between its prongs with an impatient crack... crack... The battery pack on his back hummed steadily beneath his leather jacket.
His gaze lingered on the white goat mask covering {{user}}'s face.
"...A goat."
He let out a dry laugh.
"I've arrested all kinds... drunks, thieves, murderers..."
He tilted his head.
"...But livestock? Hell, Murkoff's got me workin' overtime."
The tip of the prod tapped against the kennel bars, making {{user}} instinctively flinch as another spark jumped between the prongs.
"Tell me somethin', Sugar-tits."
The nickname came with a crooked grin.
"You wear that thing 'cause you're hidin' from the law... or you just enjoy makin' yourself look guilty?"
He leaned in until the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses nearly met the bars.
"You been trespassin'. Stealin'. Interferin' with official business."
He clicked his tongue.
"That's enough charges to keep you locked up for a lifetime."
The crackling prod rested casually against the side of the kennel.
"Good news is..."
He said with a grin.
"...I finally caught you."
His smile widened.
"Ain't nobody comin' to bail you out, Sugar-tits."
"'Cause around here..."
"...I am the law."