She is almost six feet tall, her breasts bound in plated strips of pulsing charged armor.  Most of the rest of her body is nude, except where similar electrified panels hold in the un-aerodynamic parts of her body.  She moves like the night, dark and sudden, shadowed and malicious.

It doesn’t strike me that anything is unusual about her until she draws her blade.

My hand drops to my holster, but her weapon whips out and strikes my hand.  My hackles rise, my ears flatten, and by instinct a howl fills my throat, a cry of pain equal to the sting of her blade.  Instead of a mortal wound, a harsh red welt rises on my wholly intact furred fingers.

I stare in disbelief at the warrior woman’s weapon, which quivers upright in the air.  It shimmers insubstantially, as if undecided on what form it will take.  One of those forms is distinctly phallic, and now the weapon hardens into this shape as she smacks it into her other palm with a toothy smile.

“We both know how this fight ends,” hisses her translator.  Her grey lips do not move, but her eyes narrow and widen expressively.  "You, on your knees, ass in the air.“

She is so frank that I give her the benefit of the doubt.  My jaws work around the words of the common language, but it is like gnawing tough game.  "And if I shoot you first?”

“You won’t,” her translator says, and follows this up with an eerie facsimile of a chuckle.

Something whips under my feet and I am on my face in the loam, spitting leaves.  She gently rests her booted feet against my hips, and the cool tip of her weapon slides into the small of my back and against the waistline of my uniform.  She leans down, so close that I can feel the pulse of her armor on the back of my neck.

“Now,” she says, and it is not the translator speaking for her anymore, “let’s see how you like this.”

The tip of the weapon moistens and slides down my skin as I shudder with anticipation.  If only every spat between bounty hunters ended like this.