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Missing Person

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QUIKlog (build 7.0.11)


LOGIN: shortz03

PASSWORD: ***********************

Welcome, Ginger (shortz03).

ΔXTT encryption is ACTIVE.

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SUBJECT: Missing Person

DATE: K187::236

I previously logged my misgivings about ROTC darling Blaire Zu’loris’s strange cross dance for the drooling Klorman masses. Something didn’t strike me as.... I hate to say “authentic,” because the pain and humiliation all looked authentic enough, but the circumstances gave off a weird vibe.

Anyway, I bring it up again only because I woke this morning to a campus-wide alert that Blaire Zu’loris is missing. She missed curfew at the dormitory last night and never turned up. Even worse, a second student named Joshua Venwood also failed to check in at the men’s dorm. He and Blaire both last signed out of the Re-Ed gym around the same time last night, and nobody has seen them since.

The fact that campus police have declared them missing rather than escaped (the latter usually being the default until proven otherwise), is telling. What I don’t know yet is what Blaire and Joshua had to do with one another, if anything, and who would wish them harm. I’m pumping every source I can think of for information, and I’ve asked Roxie to put out some feelers through our usual ground channels.

Not sure why I care about this. Maybe it’s my innate curiosity trying to make sense of that bizarre crucifixion, putting some kind of order to the quiet, oddball Blaire Zu’loris's sudden propensity for trouble, and perhaps figure out if she’s friend or foe or just somebody’s useful idiot. Let’s wait and see if anyone is willing to talk.


UPDATE:

Well, that didn’t take long. I snored through morning classes and came back to a dozen messages from different corners of our little SSU underworld.

Looks like Courtney Magloine went shopping. She hit up two SSU bad boys for a hands-dirty sort of job. Said bad boys not only turned the job down, but ran their traps just to be sure everyone understands how they wouldn’t touch Courtney’s proposal with a three-meter neck pole. Not sure what the job is specifically, but nobody on campus was up for it—nobody who’s talking, at least.

Nothing points conclusively to the Blaire-Joshua disappearance, but the coincidences are piling up. It was Courtney’s activist group that wound up cruxxed after Blaire tried to join them, and I’ve got my own sources suggesting Blaire is a Klorman enforcer in training. Maybe Courtney got the memo late, and now her narcissism has taken a dark turn.

If this is the case, and she wound up securing off-campus help (not impossible; she comes from money), then Blaire’s health might be at risk. Joshua Venwood could be involved, or he could be no more than collateral damage.

I’m not sure what to do. If I break this to Klorman authorities, I risk compromising my entire information network and getting even more people in trouble. Further, merely possessing this knowledge makes me criminally suspect, and my ironic attempts to help a Klorman toady will have me doing a minimum of several hours in full shackles. It takes me a month to get over bruises left by simple police-issue handcuffs. Depending on how the cops take my news, I could wind up cruxxed myself, and somehow I don’t think my “Irish glow” (as Mother has always called this freckled zombie suit I wear for skin) would hold up too well on a cross. I’d sooner volunteer for another public spanking, actually.

On the other hand, if I sit on this and Blaire Zu’loris gets hurt or worse, am I any better than Courtney?

Maybe Blaire chose her path and deserves whatever happens, or maybe she’s just a victim of circumstance. Either way, I’ll run it by Roxie, see if she’s got any non-insane advice. This might be a matter for forces greater than the ragtag abolitionist underworld.

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Adding encrypted file to database.... Done.

Logging off user shortz03.... Done.

Goodbye.
 
Author's note:
Gravity and weight are problematic in 3D, and the suspension method on display below never quite worked. Should've used a cross, I guess. :wink:

--

Meat

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QUIKlog (build 6.9.21)

LOGIN: toasty165

PASSWORD: ********

Welcome, D.T. (toasty165).

ΔXTT encryption is ACTIVE.

!!!WARNING!!!

Network mode active! Proceed with caution!

------------------------

SUBJECT: meat

DATE: K187::236

TO: dar3810


Wrapping up a job, u might be interested.

Make sure ur sitting down....

Blaire Zu’loris, a Klorman officer’s virgin teenage (barely, 19EY) daughter. OK, she’s a full dyke, so “virgin” maybe not the word, but she swear no stud ever been there, and she’s not in a lying mood ---- if ya get my meaning. She’s got that brooding, stubborn attitude your t-nova crew loves to break like a twig, and i’d give her face a B plus and a solid A for that tatted bod.

Had to hammer on her hard to get what I need for client, but she’ll heal. Will send photos when she cleans up.

This’ll be easier than last time. Client gave kill order but settled for picture proof ha ha. A little while in the makeup chair, and I can make Ms. Zu’loris “dead” enough for me to get paid, and then she can be all yours.

i shit you not, she’ll be a fuckin goldmine if we can get her off world.

Got ur attention?

ping back and we’ll set somethin up

-D.T.

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Sending encrypted file to dar3810.... Done.

Save local copy? (Voice input: “no”)

Local copy was NOT saved.

Deleting local cache.... Done.

Logging off user toasty165.... Done.

Goodbye.
 
Could Have Been Worse

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QUIKlog (build 7.0.11)

LOGIN: shortz03

PASSWORD: ***********************

Welcome, Ginger (shortz03).

ΔXTT encryption is ACTIVE.

------------------------

SUBJECT: Could Have Been Worse

DATE: K187::237

Assuming time is of the essence, and assuming Blaire Zu’loris is running out of it, I overcame fear and perhaps my own sense of self-preservation by taking the information I’ve gathered to the campus KSS.

As mentioned in my last entry, I fully anticipated being detained, and I was—rather roughly, I must say. After being relieved of my clothing and the datapad containing my [heavily curated/redacted/censored] evidence, I found myself shackled under an interrogation light.

Fortunately, that was the worst of it. I spent maybe half an hour in chains, and then some Klorman uniform named Sgt. Nash arrived. He personally removed the restraints, returned my clothes, apologized, and offered me coffee and donuts. I know he just wanted my cooperation, but it was a flicker of humanity that I long ago stopped expecting from syndicate enforcers.

Anyway, I got the sense that he actually cares about his missing student. When I told him I’ve had my own issues with syndicate authorities and didn’t want to rock my own boat by getting involved with this, he seemed sympathetic and assured me his only concern is finding Blaire and punishing her attacker. Maybe this is epic naivete that will see me whipped and hoisted up onto a cross anyway, but I believed him.

The information I put on the datapad included the timestamped darknet posts from the local muscle Courtney Magloine initially tried and failed to hire. I did not divulge my own contacts, so maybe I can salvage some of my reputation after this. Sadly, I did agree to make a formal statement. There was really no way around it. I’m the “source” as far as KSS is concerned, and here’s hoping I’m credible and helpful enough to not be put back in chains later, or hooked up to a brain reader, or just collared and sent to auction because I can’t stay out of trouble. This isn’t the hill I want to die on.

Roxie thinks I should have forwarded everything to Nebula. Maybe she’s right, but Nebula would have enlisted Meta, and Meta never does anything without Caspyr, and Caspyr is the least subtle person in the entire universe. The three of them would have blown something (or someone) up, and that’s a headache nobody needs right now.

Side note: slavery reformist rockstar Renee Firewing, of Wyrm Whore fame, has taken Blaire’s missing status personally. That’s a surprise, because Blaire is weird and quiet, and I never would have pegged her as someone with rockstar friends. In any case, Firewing has been beside herself, frantically wandering campus and passing out printed flyers (admittedly, the artwork is far superior to those generic notices KSS has been broadcasting). It’s a little touching, a little sad. I want to go up to the poor lady and tell her everything will be okay. Of course, I don’t know that, and I’m also lacking the social capital to go accosting rockstars, even with good intentions, even when the rockstar is a disgraced prisoner like me. Maybe Blaire has one up on me there.

As I write this, wearing ice wraps on my bruised wrists and ankles, I’m in pure waiting mode. I’ve done what I can, possibly to my own detriment, and I can only hope Blaire Zu’loris is okay. One thing is for certain—if she’s alive, I’ve got a few questions for her. At the very least, a troublemaker like me can never have too many sets of friendly eyes and ears inside KSS.

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Adding encrypted file to database.... Done.

Logging off user shortz03.... Done.

Goodbye.
 
Pressure

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INTERROLOG

...AI awake...

...Date: K187:238...

...Loc: Interview 6...

...Auth: Sgt. Theodus Victor Nash #7403-12082-98...

...Sus: Courtney Ophelia Magloine #SSU-339-9011-574...

...Listen & Parse Mode active...

------------------------

[Magloine]: This is a false arrest, and my parents are going to sue this school into oblivion.

[INTERROLOG ANALYSIS]

Suspect’s tone lacks conviction.

Recommendation: pressure.

[Nash]: Your local darknet isn’t quite the haven you think. We’ve got informers everywhere, and we know you put out feelers for wet work. This is absolutely proven, and it’s why you’re here. Given your seditious history, you face enslavement at the very least. A magistrate having a bad day might send you straight to the noose.

[Magloine]: You can’t... I don’t know what you’re talking about!

[Nash]: Let me rephrase. I want to know what happened to Blaire Zu’loris and Joshua Venwood. If you confess, I’ll recommend slavery. Depending on what you did, that might involve a total brain-wipe, but you’ll survive. If you keep up this ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ charade, and I have to go out and track your victims down the hard way, you’ll be twitching at the end of a rope within the week. How’s that for clarity?

[INTERROLOG ANALYSIS]

Suspect’s body language: wide eyes, mouth slightly agape and trembling, hands clenched, straining against wrist and ankle restraints, perspiration increasing.

Suspect is experiencing cognitive dissonance between a prior belief in safety and the current reality of danger.

[Magloine]: I didn’t.... I didn’t do anything to Blaire!

[Nash]: No, you paid someone to. We followed the money. We know your sister on the outside bought a prepaid PriBank syn card through your brother’s Nakano Trust business account. We’ve tracked a conversion of that exact amount to an illegal crypto-currency, which was then transmitted off-world and laundered back into syns.

[Magloine]: But.... I hardly talk to my brother or sister. I’m in Re-Ed! How....

[Nash]: You spent an emergency token to call your sister five days ago. The syn card purchase happened mere hours later.

[Magloine]: That’s my sister’s business!

[Nash]: Sure, and she’s suffering the consequences for it as we speak, at a police station across town. Will her story match yours, I wonder?

[Magloine]: This is purely circumstantial! I want an attorney!

[INTERROLOG ANALYSIS]

Sgt. Nash shows the suspect a darknet chat log, in which users liberatas and toasty165 discuss a murder, a kidnapping, and what to do with the surviving victim. The victim’s crude description bears a notable resemblance to Blaire Zu’loris.

[Magloine]: Oh shit....

[INTERROLOG ANALYSIS]

Suspect’s body language: weeping uncontrollably, shoulders heaving while eyes dart about the room.

[Nash]: Compose yourself and start talking. Your life—and possibly your siblings’ lives—depends on it.

[INTERROLOG ANALYSIS]

Suspect takes a moment to regain some measure of emotional stability. Analytical subroutines suggest her will to resist is broken.

[Magloine]: Blaire was a plant. So was that cunt celeb Renee Firewing. I got cruxxed thanks to those bitches.

[Nash]: How do you know this?

[Magloine]: Sources.

[Nash]: I see. We’ll return to the matter of these sources later. Right now I just want to know everything about Blaire, Joshua and the person you hired to hurt them.

[Magloine]: I didn’t hire anyone to do anything to that Venwood guy.

[Nash]: He’s dead. You think the fact that he was collateral damage is going to matter when a magistrate is deciding what to do with you? I need actionable information, Miss Magloine, and I need it now.

[INTERROLOG ANALYSIS]

Suspect’s body language: has gone limp in her shackles, eyes fixed on a spot between herself and Sgt. Nash.

Recommendation: reduce pressure, emphasize reward for cooperation.

[Magloine]: Nobody on campus would take the job, so I had my sister contact some people on the outside. They pointed her to this supposedly reputable darknet fixer working under the name Toasty. She sent him to me—on the darknet, I never met the guy—and I gave him the details. We agreed on a price, and he went back to my sister for payment. It went through, and he fixed my problem. I swear to god, that’s all I know.

[Nash]: That doesn’t give me much, and I already know most of it. Who are these people your sister contacted?

[INTERROLOG ANALYSIS]

Suspect’s body language: a deep breath, apparent discomfort at being compelled to divulge a long-kept secret.

[Magloine]: It’s a group called Crysix.

[Nash]: The Broken Chain splinter cell?

[Magloine]: Yeah, well, I don’t think they’ve got much to do with Broken Chain anymore. Started off as ex-operatives who decided freelance work paid more than fighting the man. The ranks swelled with general purpose talent after a couple years—or so I was told.

[Nash]: What did this Crysix terrorist, Toasty, do with Blaire?

[Magloine]: I ... told him to get rid of her.

[Nash]: I need a location.

[Magloine]: I don’t ... have one. I didn’t want to know. I swear.

[INTERROLOG ANALYSIS]

Sgt. Nash abruptly leaves the room. Suspect remains shackled, weeping openly.

Recommendation: 1-hour isolation, then follow-up with female interviewer.


Evidence forwarded to KSS Central for additional processing.

--
 
A Brief Distraction From Dread

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QUIKlog (build 7.0.11)

LOGIN: shortz03

PASSWORD: ***********************

Welcome, Ginger (shortz03).

ΔXTT encryption is ACTIVE.

------------------------

SUBJECT: A Brief Distraction From Dread

DATE: K187::238

My friend Maeve got spanked today. Poor girl is the only person I know more quiet and socially awkward than Blaire Zu’loris, and she still managed to get her gluteus maximus assaulted for the sin of tardiness.

Luckily, tardiness is a lesser sin, and things normally don’t get too severe unless you fail to attend your duly apportioned punishment. In Maeve’s case it was after-hours detention. She just had to show up in a specific classroom at a specific time, and sit at a desk with her eyes down until she got called up front to lift her skirt for whoever had monitor duty.


As SSU discipline goes, that’s pretty mild, but I can see how it was humiliating for Maeve. Like many of us incarcerated at this godforsaken school, she never really did anything wrong, but made the “mistake” of expressing the wrong opinions (she drew an unflattering satire of chancellor candidate Hideki Watanabe on MetaChirp, and someone reported her). Her parents feared legal repercussions, so they put her in counseling for wrongthink, and the counselor eventually recommended reeducation. A week later the completely innocent Maeve had a KSS prisoner number, and made her first steps onto the Re-Ed campus in handcuffs and leg shackles.

Maeve and I don’t speak every day, but we’re both Terran natives, Irish girls who were born a mere hundred kilometers apart, and we share that genetic stock right down to the freckled infinity we call skin. Since I also happen to empathize with her legal nightmare, I think she sees me as a sort of refuge in the storm, and that’s fine. She belongs here even less than I do, and I don’t mind making her incarceration a little easier when I can.

Such was the case when she made a vid-call a little while ago, right before data curfew, and told me the tale of her tail. The way she was shaking and crying, you’d think she spent her evening in the crux park instead of getting put over someone’s lap for a few swats of the paddle. All I knew to suggest was a cool towel and some soothing lotion, and I assured her it wouldn’t hurt as much in the morning, even though her Irish butt might be quite bruised by then.

Dorm comms are strictly monitored, or I would have also told her how asinine and draconian SSU rules are. Sometimes it’s comforting to have someone tell you what you already know.

Sometimes it can also lead to logical fallacies and groupthink, but that’s neither here nor there.

By conversation’s end, Maeve had calmed down and even laughed a little when I made a joke. Mission accomplished, I suppose. I’ll track her down in person tomorrow and make sure she’s okay.

As much as I feel bad for Maeve, this has been a nice distraction from the Blaire situation. As I’ve been Maeve’s refuge, Roxie has been mine in the middle of this dark place, but the sad reality for all of us is that we’re ultimately alone with our thoughts. Nobody has told me anything about the state of the investigation (why would they?). Word on the darkweb is that Courtney Magloine was indeed hauled in on unspecified charges, but KSS would be crowing from the rooftops if they’d actually broken her and found Blaire. I can’t shake the feeling that no news is bad news.

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Adding encrypted file to database.... Done.

Logging off user shortz03.... Done.

Goodbye.
 
Slave Pics

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QUIKlog (build 6.9.21)

LOGIN: toasty165

PASSWORD: ********

Welcome, D.T. (toasty165).

ΔXTT encryption is ACTIVE.

!!!WARNING!!!

Network mode active! Proceed with caution!

------------------------

SUBJECT: slave pics

DATE: K187::239

TO: dar3810

Here she is. Told ya she’d clean up real nice.

I already kept this meat longer than I wanted, so if you want her we gotta do this now. I’m making a run to South End in two hours. I’ll be there till tomorrow if the heat isn’t bad. You get first dibs, but keep me waiting and I’ll sell her to the first schmuck to flash 25k.

BE THERE.

-D.T.

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Sending encrypted file to dar3810.... Done.

Save local copy? (Voice input: “no”)

Local copy was NOT saved.

Deleting local cache.... Done.

Logging off user toasty165.... Done.

Goodbye.
 
Robot Overlords

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If I had to get arrested, I suppose I’m glad my brother’s friend Xavier was one of the cops. Embarrassing? God, yes, but it could have been so much worse. He talked his female partner into leaving my clothes on and the nipple clamps off, and the overall level of manhandling was minimized as I got marched down a public sidewalk and stuffed into a police cruiser. The ride to the big AUR-2 precinct just up the street from SSU was awkward and quiet, and when we got there I felt kind of weird being the only new detainee wearing shackles and clothing. Not that I’m complaining.

All considered, lucky me, right?

After escorting me into the intake area, Xavier pulled me off to the side near the beds reserved for forced blood draws and other acts of coercive medicine. Profession notwithstanding, he’s always been a good guy, and the face he made while I stood there in handcuffs was one of pure concern.

“You’re gonna have to be processed,” he said.

I shrugged. “It’s okay. Thanks. For going easy on me, I mean.”

“Yeah, I.... Mindi, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that robotic meter maid needed to get away from my bike,” I said. “I was only seconds late. The lot wasn’t even close to full. Nobody else was around. It was ridiculous.”

Xavier shook his head. “You hacked an enforcer bot and caused it to start dancing to Love By Algorithm instead of doing its job. You’ve probably got multiple charges headed your way, like possession of an illegal comm device, unlawful crytography, and vandalism of Klorman property. You’re just lucky I was in the area, instead of....”

“Pretty much anybody else?”

“Yeah.”

“I know. Like I said, thanks.”

He sighed, looked side to side nervously, and put a hand on my shoulder. “Look.... No promises, but I’ve got a few friends. I’ll pull some strings. Meantime, you’re gonna get stripped and thrown into general. You gotta be smart, a lot smarter than you were earlier. Keep your head down, your mouth shut, and obey all commands. Okay?”

My mouth trembled. I’d been stoic up to this point, but hearing him describe things was a bit of a wake-up call.

Truth is, I have no idea what I was thinking. That damn robot pissed me off so much, even more so when I realized it had already hit my bike with a kill code and called for backup. Even if I’d gotten away, angry Klorman agents would have tracked me down at home later. Probably best I was just yanked off the street. As my dad has told me many times, I’m too smart for my own good and just stupid enough to make it a problem.

Xavier must have noticed my change in mood, because he squeezed my shoulder.

“They’re gonna put your mugshots in the slave catalog queue,” he said, “but try not to worry. It’s standard procedure, and I don’t think a magistrate will enslave you for a first offense like this. You might get put in Re-Ed for a year, or a public whipping or some cross time. I’d be surprised at anything worse. Just don’t do anything stupid to make it worse, and I’ll help you if I can.”

Tears, warm on my cheeks. Dammit, I did not want to cry in front of him.

Afraid I would sob out loud if I tried to speak, I just nodded.

Maintaining a worried furrow of his brow, Xavier cocked his head toward the line of naked people waiting to get processed. I was about to become one of them, but hopefully my benefactor wouldn’t hang around to see. Under most normal circumstances, I maintain a healthy fantasy about stripping in front of Xavier, but this didn’t quite fit the bill.

I nodded again and said, “I’m ready.”

With a gentle grip on my arm, he guided me to the back of the line.

--
 
What I much like about @Servus Venandi's artworks is that they have a very distinctive style.

There are many artworks with a similar theme which screams "yet another Daz3D render". But SV's works always have that high contrast, bleached look, and creative camera angle, and often highlighting muscular features of a female body.

Even though not every such elment meets my own preference perfectly, I appreciate artists who can imbue such originality in their works.

Thanks for the great work, as always :)
 
What I much like about @Servus Venandi's artworks is that they have a very distinctive style.

There are many artworks with a similar theme which screams "yet another Daz3D render". But SV's works always have that high contrast, bleached look, and creative camera angle, and often highlighting muscular features of a female body.

Even though not every such elment meets my own preference perfectly, I appreciate artists who can imbue such originality in their works.

Thanks for the great work, as always :)

Thanks for the kind remarks. I certainly don't make the best characters or scenes, but I try to avoid the canned Daz look whenever possible. ;)
 
Ned Loses His Mind

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Best Meta can recall the conversation, Caspyr’s exact words were, “Ned has lost his fucking mind. Might be time to find a new chemist.”

Seeing how Caspyr is more than slightly eccentric himself—he’s gotta be to live with Jerri, his hot mess of a wife—Meta interpreted the observation as “Ned is in the midst of a bad time. Tread lightly,” and then filed it away in some back corner of her mind. After collecting Nebula at South End Station, she drove out to Ned’s country lab to procure the latest batch of explosive compound required for anti-Klorman charity work.

Things didn’t go well. Around the time Ned clamped his bionic arms around Meta and pressed a chemical-soaked rag over her face, she understood, yes, he’s truly lost his fucking mind. As eyelids fluttered and consciousness packed for vacation, Meta distantly realized Nebula was latched onto the half-cyborg bastard’s back, pounding the ever-loving hell out of his cranium, but it was bare fists versus titanium skull.

The professional courtesy of not bringing weapons into Ned’s home lab, in retrospect, seemed like a terrible mistake.

Nebula, at some point, crashed into a wall on the other side of the room, leaving behind an ass-shaped dent and a small cloud of plaster. After that, despite her best efforts, Meta went to sleep.

***​

Crawling out of the depths some unknown amount of time later, the blurry room on its edge and a headache of cosmic proportions pulsing between her temples, Meta groans. The muffled noise that results conveys in no uncertain terms that she’s gagged. A quick examination with her jaw reveals it’s the adhesive variety, aided by a wad of fabric jammed between her teeth.

Arguably even worse, Meta’s wrists and ankles are bound—hands behind her, feet pulled up into her butt, effectively a hog-tie. Ned’s implement of choice seems to have been smart binding wire or zip-ties. She can’t say which, but either way, she won’t be squirming out of it.

In the course of evaluating herself, she notes with some relief that’s she still wearing her bra and panties. Nothing down below feels violated, and the only thing in her mouth besides the gag is the lingering taste of Ned’s knock-out chemical. The fact that she was stripped at all reeks of a slave-grab in progress, but at least she hasn’t been literally fucked just yet.

Ned has lost his fucking mind.

Nebula is nearby, lying on her side, purple dreads a tangled mess around her head. She is bound and gagged also—hands behind her, wide strips of black tape covering the lower portion of her face—but her legs aren’t tied. Ned the perv slipped off her shorts at some point, but she’s still wearing boots, panties and her top. Steady breath and a lack of visible injuries suggest she survived her violent, ass-first impact with the wall.

As Meta’s brain continues shaking off the sedative, and her eyes regain some measure of focus, she’s finally able to take stock of the room around them, and it’s unfamiliar. In all her years of working with Ned on Caspyr’s behalf, she’s never been invited into the basement, where she assumes the crazy half-cyborg does most of his work. This is probably it. Glowing equipment and racks of chemical bottles cover every wall. An ominous restraint table sits nearby, with cracked leather upholstery and worn straps, which seems odd equipment for a chemistry laboratory. An acrid odor permeates the air—nothing identifiable, but perhaps the combination of so many substances crammed into a small space.

Meta figures her cancer risk over the next twenty years just went up by a solid ten percent.

This optimistically assumes she’ll be around in twenty years ... or days, or hours.

“Sorry for getting rough,” Ned says.

Meta flinches and cuts her eyes toward the voice. He’s standing right beside her, bionic hands on hips, staring at the main display of some machine. In the fog of sedation, she totally missed him.

She groans again.

“It’ll wear off within the hour,” Ned explains. He misses a beat, then adds, “Long as I don’t have to use it again. Don’t fight, okay? You’re not going anywhere, least not till it’s time, and there’s no point in making this hard on yourself.”

“Uh duh uh uhmph!” Meta demands through the wad of cloth and layers of tape.

The sound is embarrassing and unintelligible, but it has the unintended side-effect of stirring Nebula back to life beside her.

“I’m not going to explain myself,” Ned says, as if the gag-talk made perfect sense. He taps synskin-coated metal fingers on the machine in front of him. “The details aren’t important anyway. All you need to know is somebody is gunning for Caspyr and Jerri, and they knew I could get to them. Of course, getting to Caspyr and Jerri and actually getting them aren’t the same thing, and that’s where you two come in. Actually just you, Meta, but I realize you and ‘Bula are a package deal. A lot of money is involved, as well as long-term security, and that’s all I can say.”

Meta considers explaining how fucked in the head he must to be to think any incentive short of a brain-wipe will make her turn on Caspyr. Forgoing more incoherent gag noise, she instead just glares at him, but he refuses to meet her eyes.

Ned wanders off, starts messing around on a table across the room.

Meta takes the opportunity to rock herself up onto her knees. It isn’t comfortable, and her head swims, but she prefers it over lying down. Nebula follows suit, working herself into a sitting position with her knees together and her boot-covered feet splayed to either side.

When Ned returns, he’s holding up a nasty syrine filled with puke-green liquid. Meta swears it glows, but she can’t even begin to guess what it is.

“Phase one,” Ned announces, as if that explains everything. “It doesn’t hurt, besides the stick. Phase two hurts a lot, and I’ll be strapping you to the tables. Unless you want to get strapped down early, I suggest the two of you don’t get any wise ideas.”

In flurry of motion, perhaps perceived faster than it was due to Meta’s drugged state, Ned thrusts out his bionic right arm and catches her by the throat. He pins her to the wall, and the needle sinks into her neck despite her spirited attempts to struggle away from it. She screams into her gag.

Ned lied. It’s not an unbearable level of pain, but the green shit burns going in.

He empties half the syringe before the power goes out.

“Goddamn budget genny!” Ned cries. “It’ll be the first thing I upgrade!”

Not sure what just happened, and not really caring, Meta redoubles her struggling efforts. Ned’s viselike grip on her throat doesn’t relent, not at first, but Nebula bursts into action to Meta’s right. It’s pitch-black, no way to tell what’s happening, but the result is Ned tumbling away. The needle exits Nebula’s neck with uncontrolled force, ripping a hole that leaves warm blood trickling toward her left collarbone.

She throws herself in the opposite direction of Ned’s fall and immediately goes down face-first, smashing her chin and breasts on the conrete floor. With her ankles connected to her wrists behind her, locomotion options are severely compromised.

Still, the displacement draws a sharp, “Fuckfuckfuck!” from Ned.

More clattering of metallic bionics as Nebula attacks him again, followed by a fleshy crunch and a muffled squeal when he retaliates.

I’m tied too tight to help her!

Across the room, metal hinges groan in the darkness an instant before light blasts it away. Two shadowy figures appear at the top of a stairway, male and female, pistols drawn.

The scuffle on the floor freezes like a paused video.

“Ned, you robotic sum’bitch!” shouts Caspyr. “Unless you’re hell-bent on finding out what happens when that chrome dome of yours tangles with an AP round, I strongly suggest backing away from my girls. Do you copy, fuck meat?”

Ned screeches in a manner reminiscent of an angry toddler. “This isn’t happening! Goddamn it, Caspyr!”

“You can take it up with God after I send you to him, if you want.”

“I’m backing off! Don’t shoot!”

“Back is the operative word,” Caspyr says. “Don’t turn around. Just back the fuck up, and nobody dies.”

“Fuck!”

Meta rolls onto her side, getting weight off her sore breasts, and watches Ned obey.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Caspyr descends to meet him.

“Easy now, robo-man. Get those chrome appendages behind you.”

Ned growls. “You’re fucking kidding.”

“The AP-to-skull experiment is still an option, man.”

“You have no idea what you’re getting into here, Caspyr. Not a fucking clue.”

“Two of my best friends in the world are tied up on your floor, I’m guessing without their consent. Whatever else I might be getting into, my priority is getting them out of here. Now, if you don’t mind....”

With a shake of his metal-encased head, Ned places his hands behind his back. Caspyr slaps on a set of heavy-duty digital handcuffs, the kind designed for restraining bionic limbs. Click-click, and Ned’s powerful arms become dead weight.

Placing a boot against Ned’s ass, Caspyr says, “Sit down,” and kicks him across the room.

Ned stumbles ahead with three big strides before ramming a wheeled cart and going down in a heap of flesh and robotic analogs. Chemical bottles rain onto and around him, but they must be shatter-proof since nothing breaks except the fucker’s pride.

Glancing upstairs, Caspyr says, “Hit the lights, love.”

“Copy,” Jerri replies.

She disappears, and a few seconds latter the overhead fluorescents sputter to life.

Caspyr holsters his pistol and crosses the room, no longer all that concerned about Ned since the guy can hardly move.

Kneeling in front of Meta, green mohawk aglow and a smirk on his face, Caspyr says, “Should I just leave you like this for being stupid?”

“Uhh phuh uh-phi mmph,” Meta replies, and again regrets attempting to speak through the gag.

Caspyr raps his knuckles on her ballcap. “Was that a yes? Have you done gone and got kinky on me?”

“Grrrrrrmph!”

“You guys okay? Nebula?”

Meta nods. Against the wall, one side of her taped face displaying the early stages of a nasty bruise, Nebula does the same.

As it turns out, Ned’s restraints of choice were in fact zip-ties, not smartwire. A multitool on Caspyr’s belt makes short work of the outer plastic and steel core. Seconds later, Meta and Nebula remove their own gags and the drool-soaked rags behind them, and then huddle together on the floor while nursing their injuries.

“He got about half that shit in me,” Meta says, pointing at the syringe Ned dropped halfway to the stairs. “No idea what it is.”

Caspyr picks up the syringe, studies it. “Me neither, but robo-man is gonna enlighten us. Aren’t you, robo-man?”

“Fuck off,” Ned replies.

“Or I can just start shooting. So much of you is chrome, I bet I can go through five, six mags before I have to move on to your squishy bits. And even then, I can draw this out a long-ass time. Wanna see?”

“It’s Surrenderol,” Ned says, “a prep dose.”

Caspyr frowns. “Is that so? The real Andorian stuff, or a knock-off? Prep dose for what?”

“It’s legit, imported from Andor. Prep for a brain-wipe.”

“Interesting. Why?”

“I just love the pretty green glow.”

“Someone’s paying him big to eliminate you,” Meta says, “or so he claimed while he still thought he was getting away with this bullshit.”

Caspyr plants a boot on Ned’s back. “Who’s paying, robo-man?”

Ned turns his head, scowls. “Eat shit, Cas. Eat a freighter full of shit.”

Caspyr has always been something of a quick-draw (usually explaining it with a smile and the “I grew up in Texas” line), but his pistol barks in the confined concrete lab before Meta even realizes he’s gone for it.

Just one shot, right in the hollow of Ned’s right knee. Sparks fly, and the limb convulses a few times before losing power.

“How’s it feel to have a couple of cinder blocks where you leg should be?” Caspyr wondered. “Shall we make two more on the other side? How will you ever drag you worthless ass up the stairs if that happens, hmm?”

Ned flops over, or tries to, but the dead weight of three useless limbs make it an awkward affair that only halfway works.

“It’s the social unrest, you ignorant fuck,” Ned says, “abolitionism specifically. The Bay Bridge Hanging sorted things out for a couple decades. But Earth Authority’s handling of Sage Gallows, and now a surge in activity from Broken Chain and their ilk, that explosive mess with Paula Broadway, and now some student-led bullshit bubbling up out of SSU.... It’s got Klorman Syndicate worried, ‘specially with elections coming up.

“Anybody even close to being on the radar—people like you—well, let’s just say you’re problematic, and Klorman’s searching for solutions outside official channels.”

“Name some of these solutions,” Caspyr says.

“Me, for one,” Ned obliges.

“You’re a joke. Who else?”

“I don’t know. You think every contractor is aware of every other contractor? The whole filthy operation would implode in a day.”

Caspyr smiles. “I’ve known you too long, and you don’t work blind.”

Ned swallows hard. “So maybe I dug up a few rumors first. You know Sledge Kriger?”

“By reputation.”

“Right. Well, word is he tangled with Broken Chain, got fucked up, lost an arm and his condo. Some slave deal gone wrong, and his syndicate handlers put him on a tight leash after he cost them a bundle. He and that slimy partner of his, Marcus Giovanni—they’re working for the cops now.”

With a shrugs, Caspyr says, “They’ve always worked for the cops, and vice versa.”

Ned shakes his head. “No, no, no. This isn’t the usual corruption. Sledge is on the beat. He’s been spotted in full armor, trotting around with some KSS hotshot, and the two of them have been worming their way into Crysix, the abolitionist-turned-merc splinter cell. They want a backdoor into Broken Chain, to take it down from the inside. With Paula Broadway collared, I guess Petra Bellevue is next, but I don’t think they realize the bulk of Broken Chain is off-world now.”

“You didn’t enlighten them?” Caspyr asks.

“I don’t work for Sledge or his masters,” Ned replies, “and their concerns aren’t mine. They want that kind of info, they can pay me for it.”

“Who in Crysix is feeding Klorman Syndicate about Broken Chain?”

“All I’ve got is a nick—Toasty. Works from the darknet, supposedly ex-BC. I got nothing else. He or she is quite the ghost.”

Caspyr gestures at nothing particular, as if confused. “But you somehow know Toasty is drip-feeding Klorman Syndicate? How’s that work?”

“Jobs, Cas, fuckin’ jobs. Shit gets done, and I hear about it. Over time it’s not hard to build up a profile and connect dots. Toasty might be Klorman Syndicate’s best friend in the underworld, though I’d wager only a handful of agents know it. It’s the sort of thing you don’t want getting around. Election year, remember.”

Caspyr asks, “You got any connections to Toasty?”

Ned replied, “Nope. Just the usual Crysix contacts and paranoid obfuscation. Good luck.”

“Thanks, pal.”

Caspyr lifts his pistol and discharges a round right between Ned’s eyes. There’s a red mist, and Ned’s metal-encased head is snapped back so Meta doesn’t see the final result.

She’s glad. Not an image she wants decorating her dreams. Bad enough already.

“Should’ve started between his legs,” Jerri says from the stairwell, “and then ripped off his arms and legs and let him squirm around like a human potato while he bled out over the next hour.”

“He was a good asset for a long time,” Caspyr replies with a regretful tone, staring down at the twitchy corpse.

“Till he wasn’t. Back-stabbing sack o’ shit.”

“Right.” Caspyr glances at Meta. “If you wanna resign after this, I don’t blame you. I’ll pay you and Nebula for the rest of year, till you can find your feet again.”

Meta blinks and stands up.

“You outta your mind?” she says. “I want a raise, and I want....”

Her head swims, and she’s on her way down when Nebula catches her under the arms. Jerri rushes in to help, and the two of them keep Meta upright.

“It’s the Surrenderol,” Jerri says.

“Probably,” Caspyr agrees. He steps forward and looks Meta in the eye. “Do you suddenly feel submissive or uncharacteristically vulnerable to suggestion?”

“Fuck off,” Meta snaps.

“Just checking. Let’s get you ladies outta here. Dinner’s on me.”

“What about robo-man?” Jerri asks.

Caspyr heads for the stairs and doesn’t even look back.

“Leave him for the rats ... in whatever form they might arrive.”

--
 
The Transfer

SW_BGSSU_27.jpg


After Xavier abandoned me to the horror of Klorman police procedure, I made it through the intake process with my sanity intact. My dignity, of course, waved goodbye in the rearview as a pair of armored female enforcers marched me shackled, gagged, clamped and naked into a public holding cell.


And when I say public holding cell, I mean it was literally a cage in the middle of a room, in full view of everybody.


They left my shoes on and didn’t collar me. How kind. Despite having to pose for the slave catalog queue during mug shots, I really-really-really wanted to believe this meant I would get released in the morning after a hearing. Maybe, at some glorious point in the future, this would all go away behind a hefty fine and/or a day or two in the crux park. I did not want to get sentenced to Re-Ed ... or worse.


Whippings and crucifixions are painful inconveniences. Re-Ed fucks people up. Slavery is a death sentence, even if you don’t actually die.


So I sat around, kept my head down, and hoped for the so-called best. Despite being in full view, the cell's immediate vicinity was a low-traffic area, and I didn’t notice anyone gawking too hard. Cops see naked prisoners by the dozens every day, and I’m nothing special even if I’m not exactly eye poison.


I'd been locked up a couple hours when I heard a pair of voices coming not from the administrative area to my right, but from the secure door to my left, the one to the processing area. This was the first activity from there since they'd brought me out, and it had my attention.


“...One of the lead conspirators at SSU,” a man was saying. “Got cruxxed for it, then took out revenge on one of her own. Looks like murder, but the campus precinct sent her down for a full brain bore.”


“Lucky girl,” a woman replied. “Seems overkill. In my experience, your average Re-Ed type responds just fine to good ol' stripes-on-ass interrogation.”


“Yeah, well, they're on the clock with this one. Missing persons and all.”


“Gimme half an hour with her.”


“Pretty sure somebody above your pay grade has already tried.”


“Pfffft.”


A clank at the cell door.


Two Klorman enforcers brought in the prisoner. She was about my age, with a round, soft body and bright purple hair. Her massive tits dwarfed my own, but I suppose all nipples are equal in jail, because hers wore the same brand of clamps as mine. Heavy shackles hung from her ankles, linked by a short chain that made simple walking a frustrating, embarrassing affair, as I knew all to well.


Again like me, the new girl's wrists were cuffed behind her back, though for whatever reason they had spared her the excessive security of restraining her elbows. A shiny red ballgag hung from a leather strap around her neck, and her pink, mascara-streaked face held the pained, glassy stare of someone who'd just been leaned on hard, and who knew her troubles were only just beginning.


The cops plopped her down on the bench next to mine.


“Anything you want to say before the gag goes back in, Magloine?” the female enforcer asked.


Shaking her head, the prisoner replied, “I already said everything I know.”


“Well, clearly somebody doesn't believe you.”


“Please.... I don't.... Please just....”


The enforcer snagged a handful of purple locks and wrenched the girl's head back. With her other hand, she lifted the ballgag and stuffed it into her captive's mouth. Magloine sighed but submitted without a fight, and seconds later she sat with a giant ball between her lips and a thick line of drool on her chin.


Her work done, the cop turned to me and gave my gag and clamps a once-over. I'd been afraid to even shift my body weight for comfort, let alone struggle, so I prayed she didn't find anything amiss with my restraints and get the wrong idea.


Fortunately, she just smirked and gave the chain between my breasts a gentle tug.


“How ya doing, Orwell?” she asked. “Learning your lesson yet?”


I nodded as enthusiastically as I dared. “Mmm-hmm!”


“Well, you're in bad company now. Try not to let her depravity rub off on you, and maybe you'll get out of here in one piece.”


It was cause for hope, if nothing else. I nodded again.


The enforcers bailed, locking the door behind themselves and leaving me chained in a cage with an accused murderer. Bodily contrasts aside, I think what bothered me most is just how much Magloine didn't look like one. If you pulled ten random people off the street and asked them to guess which one of these bound, naked girls was up for homicide and a brain bore, I'd be just as likely to get somebody's vote as my cellmate.


I shivered—not hard enough to rattle my chains or draw attention, but electric ice still arced down my spine and into my limbs. “Fuck Klorman Syndicate” is a nice slogan and all, but this wasn't a path I wanted to be on. I'd do my time here, suffer the flogger on my ass and a few hours dancing on a cross in public. Afterward, I would do everything in my power to never wind up here again.


Is this how tyranny works? If so, it works very well.
 
Day One Disaster

SW_BGSSU_28.jpg


Firsts galore—first day, first class, first semester, first real job.


What better way to commemorate all this, Professor Brooke Fox had thought, than to introduce her students to controversy and critical thinking right out of the gate? Sadly, she was only halfway into her lecture on the philosophical implications of the fictional Trials of Ariana universe when SSU campus police burst in and declared the class dismissed.


While she stood on stage in front of her snickering students, waiting for a female cop to finish stripping and handcuffing her on suspicion of seditious expression, Brooke realized her father’s concerns about taking her Free Zone education into a Klorman Syndicate university were, perhaps, justified after all.


First encounter with Obseq's infamous enforcers, first arrest, first time in handcuffs.


Klorman aversion to critical discourse was known throughout the galaxy, of course. Still, if difficult, uncomfortable subjects couldn’t be broached and deconstructed in a higher academic setting, then where? Teaching students what to think, while denying them the opportunity to even feign dissent for argument’s sake, was quite the opposite of education.


“This is an analytical class,” Brooke protested as cold steel closed around her wrists. “I never endorsed or opposed the material. I just presented it for .... hrrrrmph!”


The cop shoved the business side of a leather panel gag into Brooke’s mouth. It instantly made her jaws ache while drool pooled behind her bottom lip. A rude tug and a couple of metallic clicks behind her head, and the thing was on so tight she might not be able to dislodge it even with both hands free.


Embarrassing as this was, the worst part was that it reinforced the absolute authority of the syndicate for her class. These students were already brainwashed, and now they had one more reason to fear independent thought.


Brooke sighed. Teacher arrested and gagged in her own classroom for trying to teach. Klorman Syndicate in a nutshell, Dad would say.


After doing her time in the campus crux park for this ridiculous offense, maybe Brooke would catch an interstellar flight back to Xena and cut her losses. She loved the idea of being a educator who challenged assumptions and pushed up against limits, but not if it regularly saw her dancing on a cross or, heaven forbid, collared and displayed on an auction platform.
 
The Exchange

SW_BGSSU_29.jpg

QUIKchat (build 4.3.81)


LOGIN: toasty165
PASSWORD: ********
Welcome, D.T. (toasty165).
ΔXTT encryption is ACTIVE.


------------------------

Session initialized K187:240 11:33:02.
User dar3810 has joined the session.
User toasty165 has joined the session.



toasty165: i'm here w/ merchandise


dar3810: I see you. Meet me on the lower level.

dar3810: If anybody followed you, I hope your affairs are in order.


toasty165: dude calm down


dar3810: I am calm. Also cautious and prudent.

dar3810: Find a corner somewhere and wait.

dar3810: We'll trade when I'm satisfied with your own caution and prudence.


toasty165: whatever

toasty165: i'll be outside the market

toasty165: you want a hotdog or something


User dar3810 has left the session.
User toasty165 has left the session.
Session closed K187:240 11:34:29.
Deleting local cache.... Done.


------------------------

Logging off user toasty165.... Done.
Goodbye.
 
Conditional Release

SW_BGSSU_30_Full.jpg

I'm not sure how long I sat in the public lockup. Long enough to make my legs stiff and heavy once a couple of enforcers finally came to drag me out, and long enough to make my bladder cry for release along with the rest of me. Concerned I was about to be put in front of a magistrate, only to then be marched to a crux park for several hours of dancing, I managed to ignore both issues behind a cocktail of fear and adrenaline.

To my amazement, I indeed wound up under the withering gaze of a robed judge, but via video conference, and he actually seemed bored—if not annoyed—by the prosecution. I tried not to let this minor point get my hopes up, because I was surrounded on all sides, even in cyberspace, by people whose entire careers revolved around feeding people like me into the Klorman Syndicate meat grinder. Nonetheless, after a few minutes of bickering between parties, the final ruling saw me sentenced to one day on the cross, but stayed for sixty days. If I didn't get in trouble again during the sixty days, charges would be dropped, and I wouldn't have to hang naked by my wrists in a crux park.

As syndicate justice goes, I figured that was about as good as an outright acquittal. I don't think I've ever scrawled my signature as fast as I did when a guard handed me the order.

An hour later, they gave back the clothes I'd been wearing when Xavier arrested me, compelled me to sign some more digital paperwork, and then threw me out into the lockup's main lobby.

No car (impounded), no phone (seized as evidence), no money (all on my phone), but I was dressed and free of those fucking shackles.

It should have felt like a win, because it was, but I was nearly in tears anyway as I shuffled toward the parking lot. En route I passed a naked, chained girl headed the other way (I did not envy her), and a fit, pink-haired lady lingering near the exit. The latter eyed me hard, and I would have started running if not for concerns of KSS cops taking it wrong.

“You look in need of a ride,” the lady said.

She was ripped. Not big, but wiry, with a knowing smirk and some sweet ink on her left arm. I was pretty sure she could break me in half if she wanted to.

“No, no,” I lied, my voice cracking, “I can … I can catch the bus.”

The woman shook her head. “Unless Aurora Transit is taking blowjobs for payment nowadays—which wouldn't necessarily surprised me—I don't think that's gonna work out for you. Most of the buses are automated anyway.”

I glanced sideways, swallowed my heart, and kept walking. “Thank you, but … I'll be fine.”

She snagged my arm near the shoulder as I passed within reached. I met her eyes, my half-open mouth frozen in surprise.

“I know it's been a long few hours for you, Mindi,” the woman said, “but it's gonna get worse if you set foot off these grounds without a serious plan. You might make it a block. You might even make it across town, but you won't make it home. Through sheer happenstance and no fault of your own, you've become a loose end.”

I don't know how or why my brain made the connection, but I immediately replied, “That girl in my cell. The murderer.”

“Exactly. Courtney Magloine. She's from old money. In a horribly misguided web of abolitionist activism and childish spite, she's entangled herself with some powerful elements of the Obseqian underworld. You, too, are now entangled. Sorry.”

If possible, my heart beat even faster.

“I didn't hear anything,” I said. “I don't know anything. I never met her before they brought her into the cell, and we were both chained up and gagged. I don't think we even looked at one another the whole time.”

The lady shrugged. “If you talk really fast and with epic levels of persuasion, you might be able to convince your kidnappers of that before they gag, sedate or otherwise silence you. But I wouldn't bet on it. You know enough to know the girl's up for murder, so your 'I didn't hear anything' line is already bullshit.”

With her free hand, she gestured at the surrounding complex. “Don't kid yourself, hon. If I can get into KSS systems and find out all about your predicament, then you can bet far more nefarious criminal elements have done the same, and you're about to be up to your neck in the black market slave trade. Which is interesting, as I think your neck is just about perfect for a women's standard small training collar. I think you'd look good in it, but I don't think slave appears anywhere on your list of prospective career paths.”

My stomach turned. “What do you want?”

“To get you out of this mess,” she woman replied, “but the process is gonna be kind of ugly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means if you walk away from me, then some random Joe Slave-Catcher is gonna throw you in a van and claim your bounty in South End by morning. You'll be bound, caged, whipped and worse until somebody buys you, and then all bets are off. Maybe you win the lottery and wind up in cushy, gilded servitude for some wealthy do-gooder, but odds are far better you'll be somebody's fuck toy until you're used up, and then you'll be chipped, maybe brain-wiped, and sold into hard labor on Terra Nova or Hell's Divide until you die. You're a slight little thing, so my guess is you'll die sooner rather than later, which is maybe the best you can hope for.

“Alternatively, you can come with me. I need your help, and you really need mine. You'll still be sold”—she made finger quotes with one hand—“but in an undercover sense, under controlled circumstances. It's for a good cause, and healthier for you by far.”

“What cause?” I asked.

“A good one. Stick with me, and I'll tell you soon.”

“But I become a slave either way?”

“No, you only become a slave if Joe Slave-Catcher nabs you off the street. Work for me, and I'll take care of you. It won't be painless, but you'll come out on the other side without a collar locked around your neck—unless you decide you like it, of course.”

“I just suffered enough restraint to last the rest of my life,” I said.

The lady smiled again. “Oh, don't say that, but I can make sure you get the choice. Take it or leave it. To put things in perspective, you just wore shackles and a gag for a few hours. Now imagine that becoming your whole life, along with all the other fun that goes with slave training.”

I shivered. “Yeah, I.... It feels like a bad dream, but I get it.”

The smile softened, and the woman nodded once. “Good. Let's go. The sooner outta here, the better for us both.”

She nudged me toward the parking lot. I went without resisting, because I had no other option that didn't involve something worse.

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Jerri,” she said.

--
 
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