Chapter One

Waves lapping gently against concrete pillars. Seagulls chirping and flying overhead. The taste of salt in the air.

These are the sensations Efrim Kitsault takes in as he stands on the upper balcony of the Milles Coastal Patrol headquarters, gazing out across the vast expanse of the ocean. A constantly shifting blanket of dark blues and greens below a grey cloudy sky. Taking a sip of what was could only be described as something resembling coffee, Efrim checks his watch. It’s only 9:03AM. The visitors aren’t due to arrive for another few hours. Sighing, he gets up out of his chair and goes back inside.

Efrim is second-in-command of the Milles Coastal Patrol. It’s a position he relishes, since it typically requires very little work and commands a lot of respect. In the event the island ever came under attack, he would be partially responsible for managing the first line of defence. Admittedly, not the strongest line of defence – several refurbished civilian mechs, bought second-hand from military factions that may or may not still exist – but the Coastal Patrol’s defence reserve was the best they had, and the mechs themselves were certainly impressive to look at. Imposing, fitted with deadly harpoon cannons and reinforced military-grade armour.

Only a few decades ago, Milles had been an uninhabited and unnamed island in the middle of the ocean, between the larger nations. Stretching only six kilometres wide by ten kilometres long, it was at most a curiosity for anyone glancing at a distance during air or sea travels. At some point, however, a ragtag group of opportunistic libertarians and anarchists had broken off from the thenburgeoning seasteading movement, marked the island as their own, and named it after what would many would assume to be a misspelt tribute to an economist of centuries past. With limitless access to fishing and an equatorial placement suitable for farming, the population of Milles slowly grew into an isolated agrarian society.

Milles had never sought official recognition from any government body, whether because its inhabitants – Millesians, as they referred to themselves – didn’t believe in such things, or because war had broken out almost immediately after its establishment and derailed any chance at receiving recognition for the foreseeable future. Exactly why war had broken out was, in opinion of most Millesians, something for the historians of the future to debate. It was not a war they were interested in joining, and so they declared themselves neutral territory to anyone who would listen. And for some time, that was the be-all and end-all of it. The war continued somewhere across the seas, and the Millesians continued their isolated lifestyle.

That had changed by five years into the war. Milles remained officially unaffiliated, but as military combat had expanded into the ocean instead of exclusively land and air, Milles found itself in close proximity to naval vessels, refugee boats, and everything in-between. Rather than panicking, Millesians decided to take advantage of the new opportunities. What was once an isolated agrarian society now established itself as something of a trading post and rest stop. An unspoken mutual agreement seemed to naturally emerge that any of the military factions, however many there were, could come and go as they pleased, as long as no fighting broke out within a fifteen kilometre radius of the island. Since factions tended to avoid each other when not in combat, this agreement needed very little enforcement.

Until now.

Efrim walks down to the radio room to check the daily schedule again. Timetables, frequencies, verification details, and so on. The dedicated radio operator doesn’t clock on until 9:30AM, but he can’t take any chances. Of course, he doesn't expect to hear from his visitors until 11:50AM, when they will be ten minutes out. There’s plenty of time to make sure everything was in order. But he’s impatient. Today is very important. And with his superior office on leave, Efrim alone is responsible for how well the day will go.

Minutes drag by. Hours drag by. The rest of the Coastal Patrol slowly filters into the building. At 11:30AM, Efrim makes an announcement over the building’s speak system.

“Attention, all Coastal Patrol staff members,” his voice crackles over the speakers. “As previously discussed, please assemble in the entrance hall at midday and look tidy. We have an important guest and we want to make a good impression.”

At 11:45AM, Efrim stands in the radio room, glaring over the shoulder of the radio operator. At exactly 11:50AM, the radio crackles to life.

“Hello, hello, Milles Coastal Patrol,” a grainy voice says. “This is New Coalition Air Vehicle, registration NCAV-7719, requesting permission to land, ETA approximately ten minutes, over.”

The radio operator turns to Efrim, who nods.

“CAV-7719, this is Milles Coastal Patrol,” the operator says, turning back to the radio. “You are all clear to land when ready. Second-in-command Efrim Kitsault will meet you on the landing strip upon your arrival, over.”

The landing strip is approximately five minutes walking distance up the beach from the Coastal Patrol headquarters. Looking out towards the sea, Efrim can already see the Coalition Air Vehicle in the distance. As it comes into focus, he recognises it as a quadcopter transport shuttle, the same model as a second-hand one that the Coastal Patrol had acquired for itself during a resource trade several months ago. Certainly less imposing that the New Coalition Warships that occasionally pass overhead, it seems to function more as a transport shuttle than anything else, but fitting them with weapons was not unheard of.

Eventually, the quadcopter gracefully touches down on the landing strip. The spinning of blades slowly dies down and the shuttle’s side doors swing open. The first of the passengers, a woman seemingly in her late-thirties or early-forties, steps out. The first thing Efrim notices are her eyes. They’re pale and watery, like the surface of a misty lake during a winter morning, but her gaze pierces through him like a javelin. The rest of her body follows, mostly shielded by a black leather trenchcoat. Beneath the edge of the lower hem, what appears to be the tip of a riding crop swings with the rhythm of her gait. Thick knee-high combat boots crunch gravel under each step. Silvery brown hair falls down her shoulders from beneath a black muir cap emblazoned with the logo of the New Coalition’s military. She carries herself with an imposing confidence, rigid posture, and a stern expression.

Behind her is what looks like a person. It is person-shaped, at least, wearing standard camo jeans and a dark green combat jacket, carrying some kind of firearm that he didn’t recognise. But the feature that really grabs Efrim’s attention is the wire basket muzzled affixed to their face with leather straps and buckles, like something a dog would wear. Above that, dark matted hair that looks like it hasn’t been properly trimmed or cleaned in years, and two eyes constantly affixed to the woman in front of them. They slowly shamble forward like something not meant to walk on two legs. Like a feral animal wearing a human costume.

Oddly enough, Efrim had a good idea of what this was strange creature was. New Coalition mech pilots in dog muzzles were somehow enough of an open secret that even many Millesians had received passing word of it. Compared to others, Efrim personally knew very little, since most information circulating come from conversations between manual workers loading trade items on or off vehicles and low-ranking members of other factions. He was effectively at the complete other end of the whisper network to whatever this… so-called “dog handler program” was, if it was actually called that or if it even really existed. Still, it seemed like something he wasn’t really supposed to know about.

Suppressing an uneasy shudder, Efrim eagerly steps forward to greet his two guests.

“Efrim Kitsault, second-in-command of Milles Coastal Patrol,” he introduces himself. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Nora Longbird,” the woman replies in kind, leaving her position unspecified. Her demeanour seems cold and emotionless. Almost mechanic.

“And who is this, if you don’t mind me asking?” Efrim asks, gesturing towards the muzzled pilot behind Nora.

“This is TRHA-168, but you can just call it 168 for short,” Nora explains. “You can consider it to be my… personal bodyguard, for the time being. Apologies if its not very talkative.”

168 lets out a quiet growl. Its eyes dart around, scanning the area for threats.

“Do you mind if I smoke while we’re out here?” Nora asks. “Military base policy strictly prohibits anyone from indulging in such things.”

“Please, go ahead,” Efrim nods. “Though perhaps you would like to wait until we’re inside where it’s not so windy?”

“Hmm,” Nora turns her head to the ocean, breeze blowing across her face and through her hair. “Very astute of you. Yes, perhaps that would be ideal. Let’s get going then.”

“I would imagine getting out on missions like these is quite the treat then,” Efrim says, leading the walk back down to the Coastal Patrol headquarters, “if it means getting to smoke. They must have you on quite the tight leash.”

“In a manner of speaking, I suppose,” Nora replies. “Usually, these kind of diplomatic field trips are handled by other departments, but given the specifics of our agreement, it was decided I was best for this particular assignment.”

“And you usually have your personal bodyguard with you on these assignments?”

“As a matter of policy. I hope you weren’t under the impression I believed whatever security you have to be below my standards.”

Efrim tries to keep the conversation light, not touching any matters he imagines would be too sensitive. Nora is obviously some kind of military personnel, but her being evasive about any specifics has to be for a reason, right? Either she just doesn’t like talking about herself or has secrets she’s not supposed to share. Regardless, he isn’t in a position to step over those kinds of boundaries. This is as much a diplomatic assignment for him as it is for her.

Eventually, the trio reaches the headquarters. Stepping inside the foyer, Nora takes a packet of cigarettes from her coat pocket. Efrim averts his gaze – not because he objects to smoking, but the pictures of tumorous organs and decayed bodies on the packaging always makes him feel queasy. Instead, he turns his attention to 168. Up close now, he can see its gaunt features, pale skin, bloodshot eyes – this thing is definitely still a pilot, or at least lives like one. Pilots fighting for the New Coalition typically don’t spend time outside in the sunlight or eat anything other than militarygrade nutrient paste. Out of all the factions he’s interacted with, these kinds of pilots usually seem to be in the worst shape. That this one doesn’t have missing limbs or obviously visible interface ports yet may as well be some kind of miracle.

His thoughts are interrupted by Nora sighing loudly as she exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“Mmm, that’s good,” she smiles. “I always forget how much I miss these. Now, where were we?”

“If you’re ready to meet them, we have the team gathered in the main entrance hall, as you requested,” Efrim says.

“Yes, of course,” Nora nods. “Let’s get to business.”

Efrim leads Nora towards the entrance hall, with 168 following behind. As they walk in, the members of the Milles Coastal Patrol are already gathered in a tight crowd on the opposite side of the hall, quietly conversing with each other. Efrim clears his throat.

“Excuse me, everyone,” he says. Everyone else goes silent. “Thank you for joining us. I know some of you were rostered to have today off, but this meeting is very important. I don’t have too much to say for now, so I’ll hand you over to Nora Longbird of the New Coalition.”

Efrim steps aside and motions for Nora to step forward. She does so, 168 at her side. There are some muted murmurs amongst the crowd as they catch sight of the muzzled pilot.

“Thank you for having me,” she says. “I’m not particularly good at public speaking, and I’m sure most of you have other duties to be attending to, so I’ll keep it simple. I know there have been rumours circulating about an agreement between Milles and the New Coalition, and I can confirm those rumours are true. After much fruitful negotiation, Milles is no longer remaining neutral in the war. Henceforth, they are now a proud ally of the New Coalition. As of today, there will be no more trading or communication with other military factions.”

More murmurs from the crowd. Some confusion, but no outright hostility. So far, so good.

“The Milles Coastal Patrol,” Nora continues, “is effectively the closest thing to a military organisation here, and also the closest thing to a proper governmental institution. As such, it will be the New Coalition’s main point of contact with Milles, which is why we’re having this meeting today. For the sake of transparency, I would like to open the floor to any questions you might have.”

A hand raises at the back of the room. “How does this benefit us?”

“A very good question. In exchange for your allegiance, the New Coalition is willing to provide new mechs for the Coastal Patrol’s defence reserve, along with proper training for members of the reserve and an upgraded training sim. I’ve heard that your current one is several generations old by this point, and coming by a newer model on such an isolated trading post is may as well be impossible. Our agreement also has provisions for regular supplies of materials that you would otherwise have to rely on trading for, putting yourself at risk of receiving inferior products or inflated prices. Next question?”

Another hand raises. “Why is this happening, exactly? The deal, I mean.”

“How much do you know about the war?” Nora asks.

The crowd remains quiet.

“Very little,” Efrim steps forward, replying on their behalf. “Only that there are three main factions fighting with each other – the New Coalition, the Solaris Union, and the Centralia Economic Cooperation.”

“Wrong,” Nora says coldly. “It is true that there were three factions fighting. Individually, the forces of both Solaris and Centralia are smaller than ours. But they have entered a temporary ceasefire with each other. There are rumours of peace negotiations.”

“They’re joining forces?”

“Doubtful,” Nora shoots him an irritated look, as if his questions are a waste of her time. “Any alliance between them will be short-lived. And even if it wasn’t, the New Coalition still outnumbers their combined forces by a small but significant margin.”

She pauses to take another drag on her cigarette. At this point, it’s smoked down to the butt. She swiftly wipes away the hair from 168’s shoulders and ashes the cigarette on the back of its neck. 168 yelps but remains still, breathing heavily. From his position standing behind the two, Efrim catches a glimpse of what he thinks might be an interface port on the back of 168’s neck, just below the cigarette burn.

“But my superiors don’t want to risk any chances,” Nora continues. “Up until now, expanding to take in unaffiliated territories has been considered a waste of both time and resources. Evidently, circumstances have changed. We’re branching out, testing the waters. Seeing who’s agreeable and who isn’t. Or, to put it more bluntly: who our allies are, and who our enemies are.”

Efrim shifts uncomfortably, as do many in the crowd. The implication of being designated an enemy by the New Coalition is not something pleasant to think about.

“Well,” Efrim remarks, “we have two of our best pilots from the defence reserve for you to consider, as a show of goodwill. Fairly rudimentary training, of course, but skilled nonetheless. Lots of potential, if I do say so myself.”

“That’s for us to decide,” Nora says dismissively. “Show me.”

The two candidates step forward from the crowd. Efrim hands Nora a manilla folder containing personality tests, cognitive aptitude tests, training sim performance results – everything important to know about the two candidates.

“State your name, age, and any known medical conditions,” Nora instructs.

The first candidate steps forward.

“Levi Arnholt, Sir,” he states firmly. “Twenty-three years old. No known medical conditions.”

“Quite the strapping young lad here, I see,” Nora grins, flipping through his documents. “Good posture, strong build. You seem very sure of yourself. It says here in your profile that you think of yourself as a leader, an inspiration to others.”

“I would like to think so, Sir.”

“Looking to be the next hotshot pilot, are we? Thinking about your face up on a recruitment poster?”

“Yes Sir!”

“Don’t get cocky. Healthy confidence is one thing, but an excessive amount will get you killed on the battlefield. Or worse.”

“Understood, Sir.”

“Excellent,” Nora says, turning to the other pilot. “Now, moving on.”

The second candidate steps forward. What immediately stands out to Nora is how meek and androgynous they are. At a glance, it would be almost impossible to tell if they’re supposed to be a girl or a boy. Long parted black hair falls down the right side of their face, almost completely covering one of their eyes. The other eye struggles to make contact.

“Paige Cardinal, Sir,” they introduce themselves. Their voice is soft and shaky. “Twenty-one years old. Partial androgen insensitivity syndrome.”

“Quite the demure thing, aren’t you? And yet…” Nora says, flipping through the folder. She pauses and looks up at Paige, tilting her head.

“S-sir?” Paige asks, confused. “Is something wrong?”

“These training sim scores are yours, correct?”

She holds up the sheet of paper. Paige leans forward, squinting.

“Um, yes,” they nod, “I’m pretty sure they are, Sir.”

“I must say, despite your outwardly nervous attitude, these results are as good as some of the most confident pilots I know. You are very much worth keeping an eye on.”

“T-thank you, Sir!” Paige exclaims, eyes wide.

“Levi,” Nora says, turning towards the previous candidate. “As impressive as your confidence is, you have a lot to learn from this one. Perhaps you might not be as suited for a leadership role as you thought.”

Light snickers break out in the crowd. Levi opens his mouth as if to complain, but thinks better of it and remains silent.

“Now, before we adjourn this meeting,” Nora says, “do we have any questions from our two pilots here?”

Both of them think for a few seconds.

“Are we… going to end up like that?” Levi asks, motioning towards 168.

“You think you’re above being reduced to something like this?” Nora replies.

Levi simply nods.

“Then you shouldn’t have to worry about it,” Nora says. “Unless you think we do this to our pilots just because we get a kick out of it.”

“No, Sir,” Levi shakes his head. “Of course not.”

“Good,” Nora smiles. “Any other questions?”

“Are you fascists?” Paige asks.

A cold silence takes over the room. Efrim goes still. Nora just smiles.

“In what sense?” she asks. Her exact emotion is unreadable.

“Well, um,” Paige pauses, becoming visibly nervous. Their eyes grow wide, like a deer caught in oncoming headlights. “I mean, the New Coalition. The countries you’re fighting for… they’re, um, pretty authoritarian, right? W-what if I don’t want to fight for what they believe in?”

Nora blinks, and then laughs uproariously. “Oh, my dear! How very naive of you.”

“W-what?”

“Paige, I’ll let you in on a little secret. There are very few true believers in war. There’s lots of talk of virtue and morals, but the reality is that war is far less noble than that. Take 168 here. What do you think it fights for?”

“Um. For you?”

“Exactly. Not for some political conviction, not for some ideological cause. It used to think that it did, thought that it was one of those rare true believers, but I personally helped dispel that illusion. And there’s nothing stopping you from fighting for whatever it is you want to fight for if you’re our pilot. Unlike some other armies, we’re very open to accepting recruits from any background, as long as they can prove themselves suitable and reliable.”

Paige doesn’t look convinced, but they don’t seem to have any objections worth articulating.

Satisfied, Nora turns to Efrim.

“I think these two are worth taking back for a proper evaluation,” she says, reaching out to shake his hand. “Hopefully they’re worth the high praise you’ve given them.”

“I’m sure they will be,” Efrim smiles, returning the handshake. “And please, don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything from us.”

“How very generous of you,” Nora chuckles. “Someone may be dispatched to retrieve the mechs assigned to these two if necessary – for which you will be completely reimbursed with adequate replacements, of course. But I have everything I need from you for now.”

“Very well. Now, you two,” Efrim says, turning to Levi and Paige. “You have your essentials stored in your lockers, as instructed?”

Both of them nod.

“Get them and prepare to depart with Nora in approximately twenty minutes from now. As for the rest of you,” he continues, turning back to address the wider hall, “you are dismissed.”

Following a collective murmur of agreement, the hall slowly empties itself until Efrim, Nora, and 168 remain.

“Quite a successful meeting, I think!” Efrim remarks.

“Mhm,” Nora grunts, lighting up another cigarette. 168 watches her intently.

“Do you, uh, have anything else you need before leaving? Some tea or coffee, perhaps?”

“Is there a bathroom around here somewhere?”

“Just down the hall to the left of the entrance, second door along.”

“Thank you,” she sighs, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Come on, 168. Bathroom time.”

168 perks up excitedly, following Nora as she makes her way to the bathroom. As both of them turn round the corner and out of sight, Efrim feels as if he can breathe again. He leans against the wall, not thinking about the summary report he’ll have to write later today for his superior officer.

In the bathroom, 168 kneels down between the urinals, gazing up at its Handler. Nora smirks, reaching down to unbuckle its muzzle.

“You were such a well-behaved hound today, 168,” Nora coos. “I think you deserve a treat.”

168 whines needily as Nora slowly pulls down the zip on her pants. Her semi-erect cock emerges into the cold bathroom air. 168 instinctively opens its mouth, eyes wide.

“Good hound,” Nora whispers lustily, slowly inserting herself into 168’s maw. She lets out a long sigh of relief as she begins urinating. 168 whimpers and moans, swallowing in big gulps, not letting a single drop leak out. This is a gift from Handler. A privilege. Its cock twitches, pressing against the tight material of its pants. No touching without Her permission.

Just as Nora is finishing, one of the bathroom stall doors unlocks. Nora looks over and meets eyes with Paige. As soon as they register what they’re seeing, they avert their gaze.

“S-sorry, Sir!” Paige stammers, eyes glued to the floor. “S-should I pretend to never have s-seen this?”

“Why?” Nora asks. “You clearly wanted to see this, right?”

“E-excuse me, S-sir?”

“Come on,” Nora chuckles, zipping her pants back up. “There’s no way you didn’t hear what was going on. You’re smart enough to have had some approximation of what was happening. You wanted to see it. Fucking pervert.”

Paige blushes bright red. They can feel Nora getting closer, standing over them.

“Look at me.”

Paige looks up to meet Nora’s gaze. Her eyes are devoid of light, like two black holes.

“What’s someone like you doing on an island like this?” Nora asks.

“War refugee.” Paige doesn’t even register the words coming out of their mouth as their own. It’s as if some magical force has compelled the words to manifest.

“I thought so. Something about you just doesn’t seem to fit in with everyone else here, does it?”

“W-what do you mean?”

“Don’t act so fucking stupid. You know as well as I do that this whole island is a ragtag group of spineless cowards who remain neutral during a war so they can continue practising their own utopian version of bleeding-heart freedom-loving pragmatism, then side with what should be their clear opponents when it benefits them. Or if they can get their face on a fucking poster, apparently.”

Paige finds themselves nodding in agreement.

“You, on the other hand, revealed a little bit too much of your hand earlier. You accidentally showed some conviction. An attempt at standing up for what you believe in. Besides which, there’s no way you could’ve had training sim scores that good without actual combat experience. And if that all wasn’t enough, ‘Paige Cardinal’ is so obviously the kind of name that comes from the Solaris Union – an enemy of the New Coalition, in case you forgot.”

The room feels like its closing in. Paige can hardly breathe.

“What battle was it that made you run?”

“Firewall skirmish, two years back,” they manage to choke out. “My first time in the field. Coalition mech came out of nowhere, wiped out my whole patrol squad. I panicked and hit the eject button. Ran and never looked back once.”

“Oh, yes,” Nora nods as if reminiscing about a treasured memory. “I remember that.”

“Y-you were there?”

“Not in person.”

Paige’s eyes drift towards 168. Deep in their brain, two neural pathways cross. TRHA-168. The number on the mech that downed their squad. That killed their friends. That they thought about every time they were in the training sim. And now, that fucking thing is here, with its Handler, like fate is finally catching up to them. Like a hunter closing in on their prey.

“A-are you going to k-kill me?” Paige whimpers.

“We have bigger plans for you than that,” Nora says coldly. “Now go get your things. We’re leaving soon.”

“Y-yes Sir,” Paige nods, trying to hold back what feels like a panic attack building up in their chest. They rush towards the bathroom door and slam it shut behind them.

Nora turns her attention back to 168, kneeling down and fastening its muzzle back on. She smiles warmly.

“I think you two are going to get along very well.”

Three Years Earlier

Tahlia wanders aimlessly around the corner of her “room”, for lack of a better term. It’s the shared sleeping space she shares with the rest of her friends in a holding facility. Several sleeping bags on the floor, guarded by a makeshift tent, in the corner of a zone sectioned off by wire mesh fences. Her friends sit around in a circle in the middle of the sectioned zone, what they’ve declared as their “communal space”, singing old rebel tunes to keep their spirits up.

“Hey,” a voice comes from behind her. “You doing okay?”

Tahlia turns around. It’s her girlfriend, Moya.

“Just needed some quiet time,” Tahlia sighs. “Sorry. I’ll join you soon.”

“You don’t need to apologise,” Moya says, reaching out and gently touching Tahlia’s arm. “I can tell this has been getting to you more than everyone else.”

“I know you keep telling me not to worry, but…” Tahlia’s voice trails off. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

Yes. Please stay. Don’t leave me to get stuck in my own thoughts again.

“No. I’ll be okay. Go have fun.”

Moya hesitates, then pulls Tahlia into a hug.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“I’m always here if you need me.”

“I know.”

Moya pulls back and gives Tahlia one last smile before heading back to the circle. And now Tahlia is alone again.

She sighs and slumps down in the corner, trying to mentally block out the noise of the collective singing and focus on what she knows about her situation.

Just over a week ago, Tahlia and Moya had been part of a small sect of self-proclaimed revolutionaries causing the occasional nuisance for the New Coalition. Having grouped together in an isolated company town that manufactured military equipment, the sect had done everything from handing out pro-union leaflets to factory workers to sabotaging rail lines that provided ammunition to the front lines.

It was, of course, fairly trivial in the grand scheme of things and had no chance of seriously disrupting the ongoing war. But it was enough for Tahlia to feel that she had a reason to live. For the first time in her life, she had actual friends, not just acquaintances or coworkers. People she wanted to be around, not people she happened to share the same space with. Joining the sect was how she met Moya, and they had fallen for each other within just a few weeks. The two had spent countless hours lazily cuddling on the sofa in Moya’s apartment, where Moya would recount stories of older political regimes that she had heard about from her grandfather, once a wellrespected historian. Eventually, their conversations would trail off, and they would inevitably begin to explore each other’s bodies. Each time it felt like something new would be discovered, some new way of producing exciting reactions from the other, some new hidden part of the body that felt amazing to touch.

That had all lasted for about five months before Tahlia was dragged out of her bed one morning and shoved in the back of a transport van with a bag over her head. Even while panicking and halfasleep, the look of disappointment on her parents’ faces as she was shoved against a wall and locked into handcuffs was burned into her memory. At best, she had imagined, she would be put into a work camp. At worst, dead in an unmarked grave somewhere on the edge of town. The reality was much stranger. When the bag finally came off her head, she was here – well, wherever “here” even was. Surrounded by wire mesh, in what she imagined was some kind of military facility, alongside the other members of her revolutionary sect and several sleeping bags. Constantly observed by security cameras and unresponsive armed guards.

Then the waiting began. For the torture to start. For someone to get dragged away. For anything to happen. Hours passed. Days passed. Without any clocks nearby or any view of the outside, time began a blur. Everything was now measured in sleep cycles. That was why it was so hard to know how long they had all been in here. Maybe it had been a week. Maybe two weeks. Somehow, Tahlia seemed to be the only one bothered by this. Whenever she would ask anyone (usually Moya) how long they’d been here, she would only receive a dismissive shrug or be told not to worry about it. There was an unspoken commitment to keeping the group’s spirits high, to apparently just ignoring how weird this entire situation was. It was hard to come by reliable information on how rebels were usually treated, but there was no way this was the norm. And yet…

Deep in her thoughts, she doesn’t hear the footsteps walking up behind her.

“Not a fan of the music?” another voice asks. This one is different from Moya’s – colder, yet distinctly feminine.

Tahlia freezes up and slowly turns her head. As soon as she catches sight of the attire, she recognises it. The woman who keeps watching them from a distance. She quickly averts her gaze.

“Tahlia Lopatin, correct?” the woman continues.

“Go away,” she mutters. “I don’t have to answer any of your questions.”

A deep chuckle breaks out “Of course not. I’m not going to make you answer anything.”

“Good. Because I’m not going to.”

“Because you don’t want to or you’re not supposed to?”

Tahlia remains silent.

“Very well. I won’t bother with the courtesy of answering some of your questions then.”

The sound of footsteps walking away.

“Wait,” Tahlia hisses, trying to keep her voice down.

The footsteps stop.

“I need to know,” Tahlia slowly says, “if this is normal.”

“Could you be more specific, dear?”

Tahlia almost flinches at the word dear. “I mean, all this… this is not how the New Coalition usually treats its rebel prisoners, right?”

“Is that the question you’re asking? Think carefully. I’m only giving you three.”

“Only three? Fuck…” She takes a deep breath and thinks. “Yes. That’s my first one.”

“Then let me be the first to congratulate you on your apparently astute powers of observation and confirm that this is indeed not the standard protocol for treating our prisoners. In fact, I’ll be generous enough to answer the presumably unspoken follow-up question and let you know that this is an experiment of sorts. I’m strictly prohibited from sharing any details about the nature or content of the experiment itself.”

“I see…” Tahlia pauses to think. “I suppose my second question would be what’s going to happen to us after the experiment ends?”

“Well, that entirely depends on the outcomes we get. If the experiment is productive enough, we can give most of you a reduced sentence – which is to say, anything more forgiving than death. But that’s not my decision to make.”

“Most of us?” Tahlia repeats. “Wait. Fuck, no. That’s not my last question. This isn’t fair. Let me think for a second.”

“Take as much time as you need, dear.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“As you wish.”

Tahlia thinks hard about what else to ask. Everything she’s asked so far has just left her with further questions. She already feels like she’s getting lost in some kind of maze. She tries to grasp at some kind of question that won’t drag her further in, something with a neat definitive answer. Eventually, she comes up with one.

“Am I allowed to tell my friends about what you’ve told me?”

“I would prefer that you didn’t, but I can’t stop you from doing so if you choose to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The voice behind her chuckles. “Yes, you are allowed.”