Marts
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Oct 16, 2004
- Messages
- 182
- Points
- 43
Previous Chapter || First Chapter
The claxon’s shriek was a physical assault. It tore through the stale silence of the Undercroft, reverberating off the stone walls like a collision.
Stephanie didn't gasp. She didn't freeze. The sound had been re-coded in her brain from a panic trigger to a movement command. She rolled from the thin mattress, hitting the cold slate floor with practiced fluidity. She scrambled toward the heavy iron door, turning onto her back and propping herself up on her elbows.
She could hear the heavy thud of rubber boots moving rapidly down the corridor. There was no waiting today.
CLANG-SLIDE.
The sound of the hatch at the far end of the hall, Cell 04, being thrown open.
She listened to the morning ritual play out down the line.
"Four," Matron Agatha’s voice boomed, echoing off the stone.
"Nnnngh hihi" Lakshmi yelped.
"Arches tight. Good."
CLANG-SLIDE. Cell 03.
The boots stomped closer. Clack. Clack. Clack.
"Three," Agatha called out. A pause. The faint sound of Rachel letting out a sharp, surprised "Hhh-kkh!"
"Acceptable."
The boots moved to Cell 02. Samantha.
CLANG-SLIDE.
"Two," Agatha said. There was a pause, then the sharp sound of a slap against skin.
"Yip!" Samantha squeaked.
"Anticipation," Agatha barked. "I hadn't touched you yet. You flinched at the shadow."
"I... I'm sorry, Matron! I just—"
"Nerves require settling."
There was a rustle of heavy fabric, then a sharp, rhythmic scritch-scritch-scritch sound of nails on dry skin.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! NO! WAIT! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!" Samantha’s voice exploded through the iron door, scaling instantly into hysterical, breathless shrieks. "I'M S-SORRY! AHA-HA-HA! IT’S TOO M-MUCH! HEE-HEE-HEE!"
"Still," Agatha commanded, the skittering sound intensifying for five agonizing seconds. Samantha’s laughter turned into a chaotic, weeping gurgle violently cut short when the Matron stepped away. "Better. Control yourself."
The boots stomped closer. Clack. Clack. Clack.
BOOT
CLANG-SLIDE.
Stephanie’s own hatch flew open, the sudden light from the corridor slashing across her shins.
Stephanie shoved her feet through the slot of her own door, blindly offering them to the corridor. She locked her knees, turning her ankles so her soles were vertical, toes pointed rigidly toward the ceiling. She lay there in the semi-darkness, shivering in her thin chemise, her breath rushing in shallow, terrified puffs.
She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself. A hand, smelling of antiseptic soap, clamped around her left ankle like a vice.
Agatha didn't speak.
Stephanie felt the hollow tip of the pen—a cold, blunt circle of metal—press firmly into the center of her arch. The Matron dragged it slowly down toward the heel, exploring the topography of the sole.
"Nnn-gh..." Stephanie bit her lip, her head knocking back against the floor. The sensation was dull but terrifyingly specific, the cold metal tracing the deep, sensitive valley of her foot before hitting the callus of the heel.
Agatha stopped. Click.
The sound of the pen tip extending was deafening in the silence.
"Reflex check," Agatha muttered.
She reversed direction. Now, the sharp, fine point of the ballpoint dug into the tender skin. Agatha drew a slow, deliberate figure-eight right in the center of the heel.
Skrrrt... tick... skrrrt...
The tiny metal ball rolled over the ridges of her footprint, vibrating directly into the nerve cluster.
"EEEE! HHH-UH!" Stephanie jerked, her hips bucking off the slate. The difference in sensation was electric—sharp, ticklish, and scratching all at once. "P-PLEASE! EEEP!"
"Reaction time remains high," Agatha observed, capping the pen with another loud click. She released Stephanie’s ankle. "Retract."
Stephanie yanked her legs back into the cell, curling into a ball on the floor, trembling. The grinding of keys in the heavy locks began immediately.
Thunk-CLACK.
The door groaned open.
"Out," Agatha commanded. "Mess Hall formation. Move."
---
The Mess Hall was a cavern of hostility. It was vast, smelling of damp concrete and the faint, bitter aroma of the nutrient paste steaming in their metal bowls. The high ceiling was lost in shadow, swallowing sound, while the single row of fluorescent lights buzzed angrily overhead like trapped hornets.
Stephanie, Samantha, Rachel, and Lakshmi sat huddled at the end of the long zinc table. They were isolated in the emptiness of the room, their grey shifts marking them as property. Matron Agatha and Matron Helga stood by the heavy exit doors, arms crossed, their conversation a low rumble that didn't carry across the expanse.
"Eat," Rachel whispered, nudging her bowl. She looked awful—her eyes were red-rimmed, her hands shaking slightly as she held her spoon. "We have to keep our strength up."
"For what?" Samantha scoffed quietly, staring into the beige sludge. "For the weights? For the Pedicure Circle?" She shuddered at the name.
Stephanie kept her head down, spooning the tasteless paste into her mouth mechanically. Her feet were throbbing from the morning inspection, the ghost of the ballpoint pen still itching on her heel.
"Listen," Lakshmi whispered.
The tone of her voice made Stephanie stop chewing. It wasn't fearful. It was sharp. Urgent.
Lakshmi leaned in over the table, her dark eyes darting toward the Matrons before snapping back to the group. "The letter. The one Sterling made me write."
"The goodbye letter?" Samantha frowned. "To your parents?"
"To Beatrix Croft," Lakshmi corrected, her voice barely a breath. "I didn't just write a goodbye. I coded it."
Stephanie glanced at the Matrons. Agatha was laughing at something Helga had said, her head thrown back.
"Coded it how?" Stephanie whispered, her heart starting to beat a little faster.
"The Parallel Postulate," Lakshmi murmured, her eyes gleaming with a fierce, terrifying intelligence. "I referenced a math module we finished months ago. 'Euclidean Variables'. It’s an impossible reference for anyone who knows the curriculum. Trixie knows math."
Lakshmi lowered her voice even further, her words rapid-fire. "I used an anomaly cipher. Em-dashes where there shouldn't be. Pressure points on the back of the paper. It spells out where we are."
Rachel’s spoon hovered halfway to her mouth. "Where... where are we?"
"We aren't in some random dungeon," Lakshmi hissed. "We're under the new Science Wing. The one Trixie's father paid for. The message I sent her was: IS UNDER CROFT FOUNDATION."
There was a stunning silence at the table.
Rachel dropped her spoon. It clattered against the metal bowl with a sharp ping.
"Oh my god," Rachel breathed, her hands flying to her mouth. A sound escaped her—not a word, but a high, choked squeal of pure, agonizing hope. "Eeee!"
WHACK!
The sound of a heavy cane striking the zinc table cracked through the air like a pistol shot.
The girls jumped, their knees hitting the underside of the table in a collective rattle of terror. The ambient roar of the Mess Hall—the rattling ventilation fans and the hissing steam tables—seemed to vanish instantly.
Matron Agatha was standing directly behind them. The industrial din had masked the heavy clack… clack… clack of her boots until she was already looming over them, a monolith of grey wool and cold intent.
"Noise," Agatha spat. Her cane rested on the table, inches from Rachel’s hand. "Excitement. Hope. These are emotions that waste calories."
She leaned down, her face inches from Rachel’s. "Do you have something to share, Subject Three? Or do you require solitary confinement to regain your composure?"
"No! No, Matron!" Rachel stammered, shrinking back, tears instantly springing to her eyes. "I just... I bit my tongue! I'm sorry!"
Agatha stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, she straightened up.
"Finish your meal," she commanded, her voice like ice. "Silent consumption. You have heavy lifting today."
She turned and marched back to her post.
The girls sat in stunned, terrified silence. But under the table, Stephanie saw Lakshmi catch Rachel’s eye. Lakshmi gave an imperceptible nod.
The message had been received. Trixie knew. And Trixie was untouchable.
"Subjects Two, Three, and Four—with Matron Helga," Agatha announced, her voice cutting through the silent breakfast. "Manual labour detail. The Expansion requires clearing."
As the trio shuffled away, casting worried, sympathetic glances over their shoulders, Agatha turned her cold gaze to Stephanie. She lifted her cane and pointed toward the far corridor.
"Subject One. To Recalibration."
Stephanie’s stomach dropped. Panic, sharp and immediate, flooded her chest. She grabbed the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white.
"No... please, Matron!" she blurted out, her voice rising in desperation. "Please, let me go with them! I can work! I’m strong enough! I don't need—I'm cured! I swear I'm cured!"
"The conditioning schedule is not a negotiation," Agatha said, gripping Stephanie’s arm and hauling her up from the bench. "Move."
Stephanie dug her heels into the concrete, but Agatha’s grip was iron. She was dragged, stumbling and pleading, down the corridor to the door marked RECALIBRATION.
Stephanie knew this room. She knew the white tiles, the drain in the floor, the heavy dental chair. But today, the room was different.
Usually, Headmistress Sterling would be waiting, peeling off her gloves. Today, the room was empty of people.
In the center, next to the chair, stood a stainless steel trolley. Upon it sat a single object.
It was a brand-new electric hand mixer. A blocky, heavy-duty unit in "Harvest Gold" plastic, appearing incongruously bright and domestic against the sterile tiles. The power cord was still coiled fresh from the box.
"Where... where is the Headmistress?" Stephanie stammered, staring at the appliance with a growing, sickening dread.
"Monday morning is Advanced Calculus," Agatha said, gripping Stephanie by the shoulders and shoving her back onto the padded vinyl. "She has a school to run."
Stephanie struggled, kicking out, but Agatha’s routine was practiced and brutal. She pulled the thick leather strap across Stephanie’s waist, the buckle clicking loudly as she cinched it tight, pinning Stephanie’s hips to the seat.
"Stay," Agatha grunted.
She moved to the foot of the chair. She grabbed Stephanie’s ankles, forcing them apart and locking them into the raised, padded stirrups. She tightened the cuffs with a jarring ratchet-ratchet-ratchet, immobilizing Stephanie’s legs in a wide V. Her soles were left fully exposed, defenseless and perfectly positioned at chest-height for the Matron.
"Please... I can't take this again," Stephanie begged, straining against the bindings, her eyes fixed on the strange machine on the trolley. "I'll be good! I promise!"
Agatha ignored her. She turned to the trolley.
Agatha picked up the mixer. She clicked two strange attachments into the sockets—wire whisks woven with stiff nylon bristles and tufts of soft goose down.
"What is that?" Stephanie whispered, her eyes widening as Agatha clamped the unit onto a sliding rail bolted to the floor at the foot of the chair.
"Evolution," Agatha replied. "Human hands cramp. Rhythm wavers. The Kenwood A-70 does none of those things."
Agatha reached for the heavy mechanical switch on the handle.
CLICK.
The motor roared to life. The smell of hot copper, burnt dust, and new ozone filled the room—the scent of a brand-new appliance heating up for the first time. The beaters blurred into a grey, whirring haze.
"Speed One," Agatha announced. She slid the rail forward.
The spinning heads made contact.
THWIP-THWIP-zzZZZZT-whirrrrrrr!
"AAAAHH!" Stephanie screamed, her head slamming back against the headrest.
It wasn't a touch; it was an erasure. The motor's pitch dropped from a high whine to a strained, guttural growl as the heads dug in. The soft down whipped her skin while the stiff nylon bristles scratched in a blur of motion that defied processing. It was a constant, drilling vibration of ticklish fire. The motor's torque generated an immediate, brutal friction heat. The stiff nylon didn't just scratch; it burned, dragging a dry, hot line of abrasion across her arch at four hundred rotations per minute. The feathers arrived a millisecond later, offering a mocking, ghostly coolness that the nylon immediately incinerated, confusing her nerves into a panic loop of blistering heat and phantom softness.
"NO! NO! STOP! AHA-HA-HA-HA!"
Agatha ignored the shrieks. She walked calmly to the counter and picked up a brown glass vial of ammonia salts. She turned to face the thrashing girl, checking her stopwatch.
"Your record for conscious endurance is twenty-nine minutes and twelve seconds," Agatha shouted over the mechanical whine and Stephanie’s desperate, high-pitched laughter. "Let us see if we can’t improve that before the blackout."
Agatha tapped the glass vial against her palm, watching the scene with the detached interest of a technician monitoring an engine. Stephanie was thrashing against the heavy leather straps, her body bucking in violent, rhythmic spasms as if trying to physically shake the sensation out of her bones.
Vvvvvv-ZZZZZZZ-vummmm.
The motor pitch dropped slightly as Agatha pressed the bristles deeper into the meat of the sole.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! PLEASE! NOOO! HEE-HEE-HEE! IT BURNS! IT TICKLES! MAKE IT STOP! AAAAA-HAAA-HAAA!"
"The manual oscillator the Headmistress used was precise," Agatha observed loudly, stepping closer to inspect the contact point, careful to keep her fingers clear of the spinning bristles. "But it allowed for... gaps. Micro-pauses where your nerves could reset."
She watched as the blurred heads ground into the center of Stephanie’s arches. The stiff nylon bristles were leaving angry pink scratched circles on the skin, while the feathers created an agonizing, ghost-light sensation around the periphery.
"GHK! NNN-GH! I C-CAN'T! HEE-HEE-HEE! MATRON! P-PLEASE! I'M SORRY! I'M S-S-S-SORRY! WAHA-HA-HA!"
"This provides zero latency," Agatha continued, her voice cold and analytical. "Constant input. Total saturation. Your brain has nowhere to hide, Subject One."
She checked her stopwatch again.
"Thirty seconds. Heart rate is spiking. Don't you dare pass out yet."
Stephanie’s head whipped from side to side on the headrest, sweat already beading on her forehead. The sound of the motor—Whrrrrrrrrrrrrr—was relentlessly steady, a terrifying counterpoint to her chaotic, broken screams.
"NOT YET! NOT YET! AHA-HA-HA-HA! OH GOD! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE! STOP! STOP IT! STOP IIIIIIT!"
Agatha didn't stop it. She simply uncapped the ammonia vial, ready for the inevitable crash. "Focus, One. Endure. The audience will expect a longer performance than this."
---
The traverse from the clean, bright Mess Hall to the raw belly of the Undercroft was jarring. The air grew thick, tasting of limestone dust and wet cement. The rhythmic hum of ventilation fans became a roaring, industrial gale.
Before they crossed the threshold into the active construction zone, Matron Helga stopped them at a heavy plastic curtain.
"Halt," she barked. She pointed to a wire basket on the floor filled with grey, felted overshoes—shapeless, thick-soled slippers that looked like hospital cast-offs. "Wear them. The floor is unfinished."
"Thank god," Rachel whispered, stepping into the soft, ugly shoes. Her feet were still throbbing from the morning inspection.
"Silence," Helga grunted. "You are not wearing them for comfort, Subject Three. You are wearing them because scarred soles have reduced sensitivity. Protective measures are mandatory."
Properly shod, they were pushed through the plastic curtain.
The space beyond was immense. It was a natural cavern that had been blasted and shaped by modern machinery. High-intensity work lights were strung on temporary cables, casting harsh, swinging shadows against the rock walls. The floor was rough, unsealed concrete, littered with piles of lumber, bags of cement, and stacks of heavy conduit pipes.
"Move those crates to the north wall," Helga ordered, pointing to a stack of heavy wooden boxes marked FRAGILE - LIGHTING RIGS. "Do not drop them. If you break a bulb, the glass comes out of your hide."
The work was grueling. The crates were heavy, and the felt slippers offered no grip on the dusty floor. Instead of footsteps, their movement was a constant, breathless shhhhk… shhhhk… shhhhk. The wool polished the unsealed concrete with every slide, finding no purchase in the grit, making them stumble like ghosts struggling with impossible weight.
"What is this place?" Samantha panted, her shoulder pressed against a crate as she and Lakshmi maneuvered it around a pillar. "It’s huge. It’s too big for a boiler room."
"Maybe a gym?" Rachel suggested, struggling with the utter weight of her end. "Like the one upstairs?"
"No windows," Lakshmi murmured, her eyes scanning the ceiling. "And the ventilation is too aggressive for a gym. It’s industrial."
They set the crate down with a heavy thud, wincing as the impact shuddered through their arms. They paused for a second to catch their breath, wiping sweat and grit from their foreheads with the backs of their hands.
Samantha looked around, squinting into the gloom at the far end of the cavern. The work lights didn't reach all the way back, but they illuminated the strange, sweeping curve of the rear wall.
"Look at that," she whispered, nudging Rachel.
The concrete floor didn't just end at the wall. It rose. Massive, poured-concrete steps ascended in wide, concentric semi-circles, climbing halfway to the ceiling. They were too high to be stairs and too deep to be shelves.
"It’s tiered," Samantha said, frowning. "Like... like that picture in our Latin textbook. The Colosseum in Rome."
"The Colosseum was an arena," Rachel whispered back, a shiver running through her despite the sweat. "For fighting."
"It’s a gallery," Lakshmi corrected quietly, her voice cold. She turned slowly, looking from the high, dark tiers down to the flat, brightly lit circle of smooth concrete in the center of the cavern floor where they were standing. "Look at the angles. The acoustics. Everything is designed to look down at this spot."
"Who would sit there?" Samantha asked, looking up at the empty, jagged concrete rows. "There are no seats."
"Not yet," Lakshmi said. "But they’re building them. It’s not a gym, Sam. It’s a theater."
"A theater?" Rachel asked, confused. "For plays?"
"For us," Lakshmi said. She stomped her felt-clad foot on the ground. The sound was swallowed by the vastness of the room, but the echo snapped back from the curved walls with terrifying clarity. "It’s an observation deck. A viewing gallery. They aren’t just keeping us here. They’re planning to..."
"HEY!"
Matron Helga’s voice boomed across the cavern, amplified by the very acoustics Lakshmi had just identified.
The girls jumped, spinning around. Helga was marching toward them, stepping over a pile of conduit, her face red with exertion and anger.
"This is labor detail, not a social club!" she roared, grabbing Samantha by the shoulder and shoving her toward the next pile of crates. "If you have breath to gossip about architecture, you are not working hard enough!"
She raised her hand, threatening a backhand slap, and the girls flinched in unison, cowering.
"Double time!" Helga commanded. "Clear this section, or you will spend the night in the stocks!"
They scrambled back to work, heads down, hearts hammering. But as they hauled the crates, they couldn't stop glancing up at the darkened curves of concrete looming above them—silent, empty rows waiting to be filled.
---
The Recalibration Room was no longer sterile. The air was thick and humid, sour with the sharp tang of stress-sweat and the burnt-copper smell of the overworked electric motor.
Stephanie was a wreck. Her grey shift was soaked through, clinging to her heaving chest. Her face was flushed a deep, blotchy crimson, streaked with tears and saliva. Her vocals had long since shredded from high-pitched screams into a raw, breathless rasp.
"Ghh-hh... haa... puh-leeze... hee... ungh..."
The sounds were barely human anymore. They were wet, guttural spasms of sound punched out of her lungs by the unrelenting assault on her nerves
The Kenwood screamed on. Whrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Agatha stood by the trolley, her arms crossed, watching the sweep hand on her stopwatch. She hadn't adjusted the speed once. She just let the machine eat.
"Thirty seconds to target," she announced over the din.
Stephanie’s head lolled on the headrest. Her eyes rolled back, showing the whites. Her body gave one final, violent convulsion against the leather restraints—legs straining against the cuffs, spine arching off the vinyl—and then, seemingly all at once, the tension snapped.
Her laughter cut off mid-gasp. Her body went limp, slumping heavily into the straps. Her chin dropped to her chest.
Silence, save for the motor.
Agatha watched for exactly three seconds to confirm unconsciousness. Then, she reached out and slapped the heavy mechanical switch on the mixer.
CLACK.
The whirring blades spun down. Silence.
Agatha uncapped the ammonia vial and waved it briskly under Stephanie’s nose. "Inhale."
Stephanie gasped, a violent, hacking intake as the chemical fire hit. Her eyes flew open.
"NO! NO MORE! PLEASE!" Stephanie shrieked the moment consciousness returned, thrashing against the straps before her eyes even focused. "I CAN'T! I CAN'T TAKE IT! STOP THE MACHINE! PLEASE MATRON! LET ME GO!"
"Shhh... shhh, now," Agatha cooed, leaning in close. Her voice wasn't harsh; it was dripping with a poisonous, saccharine sweetness. She brushed a damp strand of hair from Stephanie’s forehead. "Oh, you poor, poor dear. Look at you. Such a state."
She smiled, the expression not reaching her cold eyes. "The session is concluded, Stephanie. The machine is off. We can get you out of those nasty restraints right now."
Agatha paused, her hand drifting down to rest lightly on Stephanie’s left ankle, her fingernails hovering over the inflamed, red-raw arch.
"Just as soon as you thank me for helping you improve."
Stephanie blinked, her breath catching in a sob. "W-What? Thank you? But you... you tortured me! Why would I—"
Agatha didn't argue. She simply curled her fingers. Her sharp, manicured nails bit into the hypersensitive skin, dragging slowly and sharply up the center of the arch.
"EEEEEE! AAAAAH! NO! WAIT! STOP!" Stephanie’s body bowed off the chair, the fresh wave of sharp, scratching agony unbearable on her sensitized soles. "HEE-HEE-HEE! PLEASE! DON'T!"
"Manners, Subject One," Agatha purred, digging deeper, vibrating her hand against the raw skin. "Say it."
"OKAY! OKAY! S-STOP!" Stephanie screamed, tears streaming down her face, desperate to end the contact. "THANK YOU! THANK YOU, MATRON! THANK YOU FOR HELPING ME! PLEASE JUST STOP!"
Agatha withdrew her hand immediately. "See? Was that so hard?"
She patted Stephanie’s leg. "You're very welcome, dear."
Agatha stepped back to the trolley, her demeanor instantly shifting from sadistic aunt back to cold technician. She picked up the clipboard, checking the number she had written down.
"Twenty-two minutes and thirty-seven seconds," she mused.
"It is not a personal best," Agatha admitted, tapping the pen against the paper. "You managed twenty-nine with the Headmistress over the weekend. But considering the sustained RPM of the Kenwood... yes. It is acceptable."
She looked down at Stephanie with terrified professional satisfaction.
"It is certainly a marked improvement over this morning’s first session," Agatha noted. "You only lasted sixteen minutes and twenty-one seconds then. You are building tolerance, One. Your nervous system is learning that panic is expensive."
Agatha began to unbuckle the ankle cuffs. Ratchet-click. She freed Stephanie’s swollen, red-raw feet from the stirrups.
"Mr. Van Der Hoven will be pleased when he returns tomorrow," Agatha said as she moved to the waist strap. "The Headmistress has been... creative. She sent him a revised brochure."
Stephanie winced as feeling rushed back into her legs. "Revised?"
"She framed your 'defect' as a challenge," Agatha explained, hauling Stephanie up to a sitting position. "Instead of paying for endurance, he is now paying for intensity. The game is no longer 'how long can she last', but 'how quickly can you break her'."
Stephanie stared at the Matron, horror dawning through the fog of exhaustion.
"Come," Agatha said, pulling her off the chair. "Back to the block."
The walk back to the cell block was a blur of misery. Stephanie limped heavily, her feet radiating a pulsing, scratching heat with every step she took on the cold concrete.
The phantom sensation of the spinning bristles was still there. It had burrowed past the skin and was vibrating in her bones. Every time her heel struck the floor, the impact sent a fresh shockwave up her shin, as if the mixer were still running inside the marrow, triggering a ghost-twitch in her toes.
Agatha walked behind her, her cane tapping a steady, impatient rhythm.Tap. Step-drag. Tap. Step-drag.
"Pick up your feet, One," Agatha snapped as Stephanie’s toes dragged uselessly against the stone. "You are scuffing the floor."
They entered the main holding corridor from the far end, past the construction debris of the expansion zone. This meant walking past the endless line of dormant, rusted doors to get to the active cells at the front.
Usually, the row of heavy iron doors past Cell 04 were just faceless slabs of grey metal—dusty, forgotten, and sealed shut.
But as Stephanie trudged past the fifth door in the line, the air changed. The smell hit her first—thick and cloying, coating the back of her throat with the taste of acetate and chemical propellant.
Stephanie slowed, her eyes drawn to the metal surface. On the door itself—which had been a blank slab of rust this morning—a fresh, stark number had been stenciled in thick, wet black paint.
05.
The black gloss was still weeping slightly at the edges, glistening wet and poisonous under the halogen lights. The fumes were so strong they made her eyes water.
Stephanie stopped dead. The sight of that number hit her harder than the cane. It was a declaration of intent. The row was growing.
"Is..." Stephanie’s voice trembled, pointing a shaking finger at the wet paint. "Is someone else coming?"
Agatha didn't slow down. She nudged Stephanie’s spine with the tip of her cane, hard.
"That is none of your concern, Subject One," Agatha stated flatly. "The administration is merely preparing for the future. You have enough to worry about with your own performance."
"But—"
"Move," Agatha barked. "Before I decide you need another session to improve your time."
The threat silenced her. Stephanie lowered her head and limped past the fresh stencil, past the closed door of Cell 04, then 03, then 02, until she reached her own open door at the head of the line.
Agatha shoved her inside. Stephanie stumbled into the darkness, catching herself on the frame of her cot.
CLAAAANG.
The heavy door slammed shut. The key turned with a final, grinding thunk.
Stephanie stood in the dark, her heart hammering. The silence of the cell pressed in on her, but as her breathing slowed, she realized it wasn't silent at all.
Life—miserable, aching life—was audible from the other cells. They were back.
From the cell beside her, cell 2, she heard the soft, rhythmical scritch-scratch of Samantha pacing or rubbing her arms, a nervous, repetitive sound.
And from further down, from Cell 03, came a low, pitiful weeping.
"Nnn... hot... it’s still so hot..." Rachel’s voice drifted through the iron, thick with exhaustion.
Stephanie sank to the floor, leaning her back against the cold stone. They had spent hours hauling crates and enduring the Pedicure Circle while she had been strapped to the machine. Time had moved on.
But her mind was stuck on the wet paint down the hall.
Lakshmi had been so proud of her code. Trixie is coming, she had whispered in the Mess Hall, believing her letter was a map for a savior to find them.
Stephanie hugged her knees to her chest, the chemical smell of the fresh paint drifting under the door to choke her. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image of the empty Cell 05 burned behind her lids.
She wanted to believe Lakshmi. She wanted to believe it was a rescue. But sitting in the dark, paralyzed by the efficiency of the school, Stephanie was gripped by a cold, sickening terror.
She feared Lakshmi hadn't sent Trixie a map. She had sent her an invitation.
The claxon’s shriek was a physical assault. It tore through the stale silence of the Undercroft, reverberating off the stone walls like a collision.
Stephanie didn't gasp. She didn't freeze. The sound had been re-coded in her brain from a panic trigger to a movement command. She rolled from the thin mattress, hitting the cold slate floor with practiced fluidity. She scrambled toward the heavy iron door, turning onto her back and propping herself up on her elbows.
She could hear the heavy thud of rubber boots moving rapidly down the corridor. There was no waiting today.
CLANG-SLIDE.
The sound of the hatch at the far end of the hall, Cell 04, being thrown open.
She listened to the morning ritual play out down the line.
"Four," Matron Agatha’s voice boomed, echoing off the stone.
"Nnnngh hihi" Lakshmi yelped.
"Arches tight. Good."
CLANG-SLIDE. Cell 03.
The boots stomped closer. Clack. Clack. Clack.
"Three," Agatha called out. A pause. The faint sound of Rachel letting out a sharp, surprised "Hhh-kkh!"
"Acceptable."
The boots moved to Cell 02. Samantha.
CLANG-SLIDE.
"Two," Agatha said. There was a pause, then the sharp sound of a slap against skin.
"Yip!" Samantha squeaked.
"Anticipation," Agatha barked. "I hadn't touched you yet. You flinched at the shadow."
"I... I'm sorry, Matron! I just—"
"Nerves require settling."
There was a rustle of heavy fabric, then a sharp, rhythmic scritch-scritch-scritch sound of nails on dry skin.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! NO! WAIT! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!" Samantha’s voice exploded through the iron door, scaling instantly into hysterical, breathless shrieks. "I'M S-SORRY! AHA-HA-HA! IT’S TOO M-MUCH! HEE-HEE-HEE!"
"Still," Agatha commanded, the skittering sound intensifying for five agonizing seconds. Samantha’s laughter turned into a chaotic, weeping gurgle violently cut short when the Matron stepped away. "Better. Control yourself."
The boots stomped closer. Clack. Clack. Clack.
BOOT
CLANG-SLIDE.
Stephanie’s own hatch flew open, the sudden light from the corridor slashing across her shins.
Stephanie shoved her feet through the slot of her own door, blindly offering them to the corridor. She locked her knees, turning her ankles so her soles were vertical, toes pointed rigidly toward the ceiling. She lay there in the semi-darkness, shivering in her thin chemise, her breath rushing in shallow, terrified puffs.
She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself. A hand, smelling of antiseptic soap, clamped around her left ankle like a vice.
Agatha didn't speak.
Stephanie felt the hollow tip of the pen—a cold, blunt circle of metal—press firmly into the center of her arch. The Matron dragged it slowly down toward the heel, exploring the topography of the sole.
"Nnn-gh..." Stephanie bit her lip, her head knocking back against the floor. The sensation was dull but terrifyingly specific, the cold metal tracing the deep, sensitive valley of her foot before hitting the callus of the heel.
Agatha stopped. Click.
The sound of the pen tip extending was deafening in the silence.
"Reflex check," Agatha muttered.
She reversed direction. Now, the sharp, fine point of the ballpoint dug into the tender skin. Agatha drew a slow, deliberate figure-eight right in the center of the heel.
Skrrrt... tick... skrrrt...
The tiny metal ball rolled over the ridges of her footprint, vibrating directly into the nerve cluster.
"EEEE! HHH-UH!" Stephanie jerked, her hips bucking off the slate. The difference in sensation was electric—sharp, ticklish, and scratching all at once. "P-PLEASE! EEEP!"
"Reaction time remains high," Agatha observed, capping the pen with another loud click. She released Stephanie’s ankle. "Retract."
Stephanie yanked her legs back into the cell, curling into a ball on the floor, trembling. The grinding of keys in the heavy locks began immediately.
Thunk-CLACK.
The door groaned open.
"Out," Agatha commanded. "Mess Hall formation. Move."
---
The Mess Hall was a cavern of hostility. It was vast, smelling of damp concrete and the faint, bitter aroma of the nutrient paste steaming in their metal bowls. The high ceiling was lost in shadow, swallowing sound, while the single row of fluorescent lights buzzed angrily overhead like trapped hornets.
Stephanie, Samantha, Rachel, and Lakshmi sat huddled at the end of the long zinc table. They were isolated in the emptiness of the room, their grey shifts marking them as property. Matron Agatha and Matron Helga stood by the heavy exit doors, arms crossed, their conversation a low rumble that didn't carry across the expanse.
"Eat," Rachel whispered, nudging her bowl. She looked awful—her eyes were red-rimmed, her hands shaking slightly as she held her spoon. "We have to keep our strength up."
"For what?" Samantha scoffed quietly, staring into the beige sludge. "For the weights? For the Pedicure Circle?" She shuddered at the name.
Stephanie kept her head down, spooning the tasteless paste into her mouth mechanically. Her feet were throbbing from the morning inspection, the ghost of the ballpoint pen still itching on her heel.
"Listen," Lakshmi whispered.
The tone of her voice made Stephanie stop chewing. It wasn't fearful. It was sharp. Urgent.
Lakshmi leaned in over the table, her dark eyes darting toward the Matrons before snapping back to the group. "The letter. The one Sterling made me write."
"The goodbye letter?" Samantha frowned. "To your parents?"
"To Beatrix Croft," Lakshmi corrected, her voice barely a breath. "I didn't just write a goodbye. I coded it."
Stephanie glanced at the Matrons. Agatha was laughing at something Helga had said, her head thrown back.
"Coded it how?" Stephanie whispered, her heart starting to beat a little faster.
"The Parallel Postulate," Lakshmi murmured, her eyes gleaming with a fierce, terrifying intelligence. "I referenced a math module we finished months ago. 'Euclidean Variables'. It’s an impossible reference for anyone who knows the curriculum. Trixie knows math."
Lakshmi lowered her voice even further, her words rapid-fire. "I used an anomaly cipher. Em-dashes where there shouldn't be. Pressure points on the back of the paper. It spells out where we are."
Rachel’s spoon hovered halfway to her mouth. "Where... where are we?"
"We aren't in some random dungeon," Lakshmi hissed. "We're under the new Science Wing. The one Trixie's father paid for. The message I sent her was: IS UNDER CROFT FOUNDATION."
There was a stunning silence at the table.
Rachel dropped her spoon. It clattered against the metal bowl with a sharp ping.
"Oh my god," Rachel breathed, her hands flying to her mouth. A sound escaped her—not a word, but a high, choked squeal of pure, agonizing hope. "Eeee!"
WHACK!
The sound of a heavy cane striking the zinc table cracked through the air like a pistol shot.
The girls jumped, their knees hitting the underside of the table in a collective rattle of terror. The ambient roar of the Mess Hall—the rattling ventilation fans and the hissing steam tables—seemed to vanish instantly.
Matron Agatha was standing directly behind them. The industrial din had masked the heavy clack… clack… clack of her boots until she was already looming over them, a monolith of grey wool and cold intent.
"Noise," Agatha spat. Her cane rested on the table, inches from Rachel’s hand. "Excitement. Hope. These are emotions that waste calories."
She leaned down, her face inches from Rachel’s. "Do you have something to share, Subject Three? Or do you require solitary confinement to regain your composure?"
"No! No, Matron!" Rachel stammered, shrinking back, tears instantly springing to her eyes. "I just... I bit my tongue! I'm sorry!"
Agatha stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, she straightened up.
"Finish your meal," she commanded, her voice like ice. "Silent consumption. You have heavy lifting today."
She turned and marched back to her post.
The girls sat in stunned, terrified silence. But under the table, Stephanie saw Lakshmi catch Rachel’s eye. Lakshmi gave an imperceptible nod.
The message had been received. Trixie knew. And Trixie was untouchable.
"Subjects Two, Three, and Four—with Matron Helga," Agatha announced, her voice cutting through the silent breakfast. "Manual labour detail. The Expansion requires clearing."
As the trio shuffled away, casting worried, sympathetic glances over their shoulders, Agatha turned her cold gaze to Stephanie. She lifted her cane and pointed toward the far corridor.
"Subject One. To Recalibration."
Stephanie’s stomach dropped. Panic, sharp and immediate, flooded her chest. She grabbed the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white.
"No... please, Matron!" she blurted out, her voice rising in desperation. "Please, let me go with them! I can work! I’m strong enough! I don't need—I'm cured! I swear I'm cured!"
"The conditioning schedule is not a negotiation," Agatha said, gripping Stephanie’s arm and hauling her up from the bench. "Move."
Stephanie dug her heels into the concrete, but Agatha’s grip was iron. She was dragged, stumbling and pleading, down the corridor to the door marked RECALIBRATION.
Stephanie knew this room. She knew the white tiles, the drain in the floor, the heavy dental chair. But today, the room was different.
Usually, Headmistress Sterling would be waiting, peeling off her gloves. Today, the room was empty of people.
In the center, next to the chair, stood a stainless steel trolley. Upon it sat a single object.
It was a brand-new electric hand mixer. A blocky, heavy-duty unit in "Harvest Gold" plastic, appearing incongruously bright and domestic against the sterile tiles. The power cord was still coiled fresh from the box.
"Where... where is the Headmistress?" Stephanie stammered, staring at the appliance with a growing, sickening dread.
"Monday morning is Advanced Calculus," Agatha said, gripping Stephanie by the shoulders and shoving her back onto the padded vinyl. "She has a school to run."
Stephanie struggled, kicking out, but Agatha’s routine was practiced and brutal. She pulled the thick leather strap across Stephanie’s waist, the buckle clicking loudly as she cinched it tight, pinning Stephanie’s hips to the seat.
"Stay," Agatha grunted.
She moved to the foot of the chair. She grabbed Stephanie’s ankles, forcing them apart and locking them into the raised, padded stirrups. She tightened the cuffs with a jarring ratchet-ratchet-ratchet, immobilizing Stephanie’s legs in a wide V. Her soles were left fully exposed, defenseless and perfectly positioned at chest-height for the Matron.
"Please... I can't take this again," Stephanie begged, straining against the bindings, her eyes fixed on the strange machine on the trolley. "I'll be good! I promise!"
Agatha ignored her. She turned to the trolley.
Agatha picked up the mixer. She clicked two strange attachments into the sockets—wire whisks woven with stiff nylon bristles and tufts of soft goose down.
"What is that?" Stephanie whispered, her eyes widening as Agatha clamped the unit onto a sliding rail bolted to the floor at the foot of the chair.
"Evolution," Agatha replied. "Human hands cramp. Rhythm wavers. The Kenwood A-70 does none of those things."
Agatha reached for the heavy mechanical switch on the handle.
CLICK.
The motor roared to life. The smell of hot copper, burnt dust, and new ozone filled the room—the scent of a brand-new appliance heating up for the first time. The beaters blurred into a grey, whirring haze.
"Speed One," Agatha announced. She slid the rail forward.
The spinning heads made contact.
THWIP-THWIP-zzZZZZT-whirrrrrrr!
"AAAAHH!" Stephanie screamed, her head slamming back against the headrest.
It wasn't a touch; it was an erasure. The motor's pitch dropped from a high whine to a strained, guttural growl as the heads dug in. The soft down whipped her skin while the stiff nylon bristles scratched in a blur of motion that defied processing. It was a constant, drilling vibration of ticklish fire. The motor's torque generated an immediate, brutal friction heat. The stiff nylon didn't just scratch; it burned, dragging a dry, hot line of abrasion across her arch at four hundred rotations per minute. The feathers arrived a millisecond later, offering a mocking, ghostly coolness that the nylon immediately incinerated, confusing her nerves into a panic loop of blistering heat and phantom softness.
"NO! NO! STOP! AHA-HA-HA-HA!"
Agatha ignored the shrieks. She walked calmly to the counter and picked up a brown glass vial of ammonia salts. She turned to face the thrashing girl, checking her stopwatch.
"Your record for conscious endurance is twenty-nine minutes and twelve seconds," Agatha shouted over the mechanical whine and Stephanie’s desperate, high-pitched laughter. "Let us see if we can’t improve that before the blackout."
Agatha tapped the glass vial against her palm, watching the scene with the detached interest of a technician monitoring an engine. Stephanie was thrashing against the heavy leather straps, her body bucking in violent, rhythmic spasms as if trying to physically shake the sensation out of her bones.
Vvvvvv-ZZZZZZZ-vummmm.
The motor pitch dropped slightly as Agatha pressed the bristles deeper into the meat of the sole.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! PLEASE! NOOO! HEE-HEE-HEE! IT BURNS! IT TICKLES! MAKE IT STOP! AAAAA-HAAA-HAAA!"
"The manual oscillator the Headmistress used was precise," Agatha observed loudly, stepping closer to inspect the contact point, careful to keep her fingers clear of the spinning bristles. "But it allowed for... gaps. Micro-pauses where your nerves could reset."
She watched as the blurred heads ground into the center of Stephanie’s arches. The stiff nylon bristles were leaving angry pink scratched circles on the skin, while the feathers created an agonizing, ghost-light sensation around the periphery.
"GHK! NNN-GH! I C-CAN'T! HEE-HEE-HEE! MATRON! P-PLEASE! I'M SORRY! I'M S-S-S-SORRY! WAHA-HA-HA!"
"This provides zero latency," Agatha continued, her voice cold and analytical. "Constant input. Total saturation. Your brain has nowhere to hide, Subject One."
She checked her stopwatch again.
"Thirty seconds. Heart rate is spiking. Don't you dare pass out yet."
Stephanie’s head whipped from side to side on the headrest, sweat already beading on her forehead. The sound of the motor—Whrrrrrrrrrrrrr—was relentlessly steady, a terrifying counterpoint to her chaotic, broken screams.
"NOT YET! NOT YET! AHA-HA-HA-HA! OH GOD! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE! STOP! STOP IT! STOP IIIIIIT!"
Agatha didn't stop it. She simply uncapped the ammonia vial, ready for the inevitable crash. "Focus, One. Endure. The audience will expect a longer performance than this."
---
The traverse from the clean, bright Mess Hall to the raw belly of the Undercroft was jarring. The air grew thick, tasting of limestone dust and wet cement. The rhythmic hum of ventilation fans became a roaring, industrial gale.
Before they crossed the threshold into the active construction zone, Matron Helga stopped them at a heavy plastic curtain.
"Halt," she barked. She pointed to a wire basket on the floor filled with grey, felted overshoes—shapeless, thick-soled slippers that looked like hospital cast-offs. "Wear them. The floor is unfinished."
"Thank god," Rachel whispered, stepping into the soft, ugly shoes. Her feet were still throbbing from the morning inspection.
"Silence," Helga grunted. "You are not wearing them for comfort, Subject Three. You are wearing them because scarred soles have reduced sensitivity. Protective measures are mandatory."
Properly shod, they were pushed through the plastic curtain.
The space beyond was immense. It was a natural cavern that had been blasted and shaped by modern machinery. High-intensity work lights were strung on temporary cables, casting harsh, swinging shadows against the rock walls. The floor was rough, unsealed concrete, littered with piles of lumber, bags of cement, and stacks of heavy conduit pipes.
"Move those crates to the north wall," Helga ordered, pointing to a stack of heavy wooden boxes marked FRAGILE - LIGHTING RIGS. "Do not drop them. If you break a bulb, the glass comes out of your hide."
The work was grueling. The crates were heavy, and the felt slippers offered no grip on the dusty floor. Instead of footsteps, their movement was a constant, breathless shhhhk… shhhhk… shhhhk. The wool polished the unsealed concrete with every slide, finding no purchase in the grit, making them stumble like ghosts struggling with impossible weight.
"What is this place?" Samantha panted, her shoulder pressed against a crate as she and Lakshmi maneuvered it around a pillar. "It’s huge. It’s too big for a boiler room."
"Maybe a gym?" Rachel suggested, struggling with the utter weight of her end. "Like the one upstairs?"
"No windows," Lakshmi murmured, her eyes scanning the ceiling. "And the ventilation is too aggressive for a gym. It’s industrial."
They set the crate down with a heavy thud, wincing as the impact shuddered through their arms. They paused for a second to catch their breath, wiping sweat and grit from their foreheads with the backs of their hands.
Samantha looked around, squinting into the gloom at the far end of the cavern. The work lights didn't reach all the way back, but they illuminated the strange, sweeping curve of the rear wall.
"Look at that," she whispered, nudging Rachel.
The concrete floor didn't just end at the wall. It rose. Massive, poured-concrete steps ascended in wide, concentric semi-circles, climbing halfway to the ceiling. They were too high to be stairs and too deep to be shelves.
"It’s tiered," Samantha said, frowning. "Like... like that picture in our Latin textbook. The Colosseum in Rome."
"The Colosseum was an arena," Rachel whispered back, a shiver running through her despite the sweat. "For fighting."
"It’s a gallery," Lakshmi corrected quietly, her voice cold. She turned slowly, looking from the high, dark tiers down to the flat, brightly lit circle of smooth concrete in the center of the cavern floor where they were standing. "Look at the angles. The acoustics. Everything is designed to look down at this spot."
"Who would sit there?" Samantha asked, looking up at the empty, jagged concrete rows. "There are no seats."
"Not yet," Lakshmi said. "But they’re building them. It’s not a gym, Sam. It’s a theater."
"A theater?" Rachel asked, confused. "For plays?"
"For us," Lakshmi said. She stomped her felt-clad foot on the ground. The sound was swallowed by the vastness of the room, but the echo snapped back from the curved walls with terrifying clarity. "It’s an observation deck. A viewing gallery. They aren’t just keeping us here. They’re planning to..."
"HEY!"
Matron Helga’s voice boomed across the cavern, amplified by the very acoustics Lakshmi had just identified.
The girls jumped, spinning around. Helga was marching toward them, stepping over a pile of conduit, her face red with exertion and anger.
"This is labor detail, not a social club!" she roared, grabbing Samantha by the shoulder and shoving her toward the next pile of crates. "If you have breath to gossip about architecture, you are not working hard enough!"
She raised her hand, threatening a backhand slap, and the girls flinched in unison, cowering.
"Double time!" Helga commanded. "Clear this section, or you will spend the night in the stocks!"
They scrambled back to work, heads down, hearts hammering. But as they hauled the crates, they couldn't stop glancing up at the darkened curves of concrete looming above them—silent, empty rows waiting to be filled.
---
The Recalibration Room was no longer sterile. The air was thick and humid, sour with the sharp tang of stress-sweat and the burnt-copper smell of the overworked electric motor.
Stephanie was a wreck. Her grey shift was soaked through, clinging to her heaving chest. Her face was flushed a deep, blotchy crimson, streaked with tears and saliva. Her vocals had long since shredded from high-pitched screams into a raw, breathless rasp.
"Ghh-hh... haa... puh-leeze... hee... ungh..."
The sounds were barely human anymore. They were wet, guttural spasms of sound punched out of her lungs by the unrelenting assault on her nerves
The Kenwood screamed on. Whrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Agatha stood by the trolley, her arms crossed, watching the sweep hand on her stopwatch. She hadn't adjusted the speed once. She just let the machine eat.
"Thirty seconds to target," she announced over the din.
Stephanie’s head lolled on the headrest. Her eyes rolled back, showing the whites. Her body gave one final, violent convulsion against the leather restraints—legs straining against the cuffs, spine arching off the vinyl—and then, seemingly all at once, the tension snapped.
Her laughter cut off mid-gasp. Her body went limp, slumping heavily into the straps. Her chin dropped to her chest.
Silence, save for the motor.
Agatha watched for exactly three seconds to confirm unconsciousness. Then, she reached out and slapped the heavy mechanical switch on the mixer.
CLACK.
The whirring blades spun down. Silence.
Agatha uncapped the ammonia vial and waved it briskly under Stephanie’s nose. "Inhale."
Stephanie gasped, a violent, hacking intake as the chemical fire hit. Her eyes flew open.
"NO! NO MORE! PLEASE!" Stephanie shrieked the moment consciousness returned, thrashing against the straps before her eyes even focused. "I CAN'T! I CAN'T TAKE IT! STOP THE MACHINE! PLEASE MATRON! LET ME GO!"
"Shhh... shhh, now," Agatha cooed, leaning in close. Her voice wasn't harsh; it was dripping with a poisonous, saccharine sweetness. She brushed a damp strand of hair from Stephanie’s forehead. "Oh, you poor, poor dear. Look at you. Such a state."
She smiled, the expression not reaching her cold eyes. "The session is concluded, Stephanie. The machine is off. We can get you out of those nasty restraints right now."
Agatha paused, her hand drifting down to rest lightly on Stephanie’s left ankle, her fingernails hovering over the inflamed, red-raw arch.
"Just as soon as you thank me for helping you improve."
Stephanie blinked, her breath catching in a sob. "W-What? Thank you? But you... you tortured me! Why would I—"
Agatha didn't argue. She simply curled her fingers. Her sharp, manicured nails bit into the hypersensitive skin, dragging slowly and sharply up the center of the arch.
"EEEEEE! AAAAAH! NO! WAIT! STOP!" Stephanie’s body bowed off the chair, the fresh wave of sharp, scratching agony unbearable on her sensitized soles. "HEE-HEE-HEE! PLEASE! DON'T!"
"Manners, Subject One," Agatha purred, digging deeper, vibrating her hand against the raw skin. "Say it."
"OKAY! OKAY! S-STOP!" Stephanie screamed, tears streaming down her face, desperate to end the contact. "THANK YOU! THANK YOU, MATRON! THANK YOU FOR HELPING ME! PLEASE JUST STOP!"
Agatha withdrew her hand immediately. "See? Was that so hard?"
She patted Stephanie’s leg. "You're very welcome, dear."
Agatha stepped back to the trolley, her demeanor instantly shifting from sadistic aunt back to cold technician. She picked up the clipboard, checking the number she had written down.
"Twenty-two minutes and thirty-seven seconds," she mused.
"It is not a personal best," Agatha admitted, tapping the pen against the paper. "You managed twenty-nine with the Headmistress over the weekend. But considering the sustained RPM of the Kenwood... yes. It is acceptable."
She looked down at Stephanie with terrified professional satisfaction.
"It is certainly a marked improvement over this morning’s first session," Agatha noted. "You only lasted sixteen minutes and twenty-one seconds then. You are building tolerance, One. Your nervous system is learning that panic is expensive."
Agatha began to unbuckle the ankle cuffs. Ratchet-click. She freed Stephanie’s swollen, red-raw feet from the stirrups.
"Mr. Van Der Hoven will be pleased when he returns tomorrow," Agatha said as she moved to the waist strap. "The Headmistress has been... creative. She sent him a revised brochure."
Stephanie winced as feeling rushed back into her legs. "Revised?"
"She framed your 'defect' as a challenge," Agatha explained, hauling Stephanie up to a sitting position. "Instead of paying for endurance, he is now paying for intensity. The game is no longer 'how long can she last', but 'how quickly can you break her'."
Stephanie stared at the Matron, horror dawning through the fog of exhaustion.
"Come," Agatha said, pulling her off the chair. "Back to the block."
The walk back to the cell block was a blur of misery. Stephanie limped heavily, her feet radiating a pulsing, scratching heat with every step she took on the cold concrete.
The phantom sensation of the spinning bristles was still there. It had burrowed past the skin and was vibrating in her bones. Every time her heel struck the floor, the impact sent a fresh shockwave up her shin, as if the mixer were still running inside the marrow, triggering a ghost-twitch in her toes.
Agatha walked behind her, her cane tapping a steady, impatient rhythm.Tap. Step-drag. Tap. Step-drag.
"Pick up your feet, One," Agatha snapped as Stephanie’s toes dragged uselessly against the stone. "You are scuffing the floor."
They entered the main holding corridor from the far end, past the construction debris of the expansion zone. This meant walking past the endless line of dormant, rusted doors to get to the active cells at the front.
Usually, the row of heavy iron doors past Cell 04 were just faceless slabs of grey metal—dusty, forgotten, and sealed shut.
But as Stephanie trudged past the fifth door in the line, the air changed. The smell hit her first—thick and cloying, coating the back of her throat with the taste of acetate and chemical propellant.
Stephanie slowed, her eyes drawn to the metal surface. On the door itself—which had been a blank slab of rust this morning—a fresh, stark number had been stenciled in thick, wet black paint.
05.
The black gloss was still weeping slightly at the edges, glistening wet and poisonous under the halogen lights. The fumes were so strong they made her eyes water.
Stephanie stopped dead. The sight of that number hit her harder than the cane. It was a declaration of intent. The row was growing.
"Is..." Stephanie’s voice trembled, pointing a shaking finger at the wet paint. "Is someone else coming?"
Agatha didn't slow down. She nudged Stephanie’s spine with the tip of her cane, hard.
"That is none of your concern, Subject One," Agatha stated flatly. "The administration is merely preparing for the future. You have enough to worry about with your own performance."
"But—"
"Move," Agatha barked. "Before I decide you need another session to improve your time."
The threat silenced her. Stephanie lowered her head and limped past the fresh stencil, past the closed door of Cell 04, then 03, then 02, until she reached her own open door at the head of the line.
Agatha shoved her inside. Stephanie stumbled into the darkness, catching herself on the frame of her cot.
CLAAAANG.
The heavy door slammed shut. The key turned with a final, grinding thunk.
Stephanie stood in the dark, her heart hammering. The silence of the cell pressed in on her, but as her breathing slowed, she realized it wasn't silent at all.
Life—miserable, aching life—was audible from the other cells. They were back.
From the cell beside her, cell 2, she heard the soft, rhythmical scritch-scratch of Samantha pacing or rubbing her arms, a nervous, repetitive sound.
And from further down, from Cell 03, came a low, pitiful weeping.
"Nnn... hot... it’s still so hot..." Rachel’s voice drifted through the iron, thick with exhaustion.
Stephanie sank to the floor, leaning her back against the cold stone. They had spent hours hauling crates and enduring the Pedicure Circle while she had been strapped to the machine. Time had moved on.
But her mind was stuck on the wet paint down the hall.
Lakshmi had been so proud of her code. Trixie is coming, she had whispered in the Mess Hall, believing her letter was a map for a savior to find them.
Stephanie hugged her knees to her chest, the chemical smell of the fresh paint drifting under the door to choke her. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image of the empty Cell 05 burned behind her lids.
She wanted to believe Lakshmi. She wanted to believe it was a rescue. But sitting in the dark, paralyzed by the efficiency of the school, Stephanie was gripped by a cold, sickening terror.
She feared Lakshmi hadn't sent Trixie a map. She had sent her an invitation.
