She carried you effortlessly through a long, sterile corridor and into a massive white room. Blinding lights. Stainless steel tables. Rows upon rows of them.
And women. All women.
Scientists. Observers. Cold faces. Focused eyes.
Above the workstations hung printed signs:
Weighing and Measurement
Biological Sampling
Physical Health
Cognitive Response
Psychological/Behavioral Study
Placement Evaluation
You didn’t have time to understand.
She dropped you on a steel table, behind a long line of tiny men — all shrunken like you, all naked, shivering. The air smelled of metal and antiseptic.
A woman in a lab coat stepped forward and spoke with calm authority:
— “Step forward and remove all clothing. Place garments in the container. You will not need them anymore.”
You hesitated. Everyone did. But slowly, obediently, one by one, you all complied.
You stripped — shirt, pants, underwear — until you stood naked, holding your arms to your chest. You tossed your clothing into the bin. A part of your identity gone with them.
The line moved again.
You could see the next station clearly now.
A large woman — dark hair tied back, expression unreadable — sat with a metal device in her hands. You quickly realized what it was.
A branding tattoo gun.
One by one, the tiny men ahead of you were picked up like dolls, pressed flat against her palm, and marked — right on the chest. A sizzling noise. Screams. Twisting bodies.
You watched one try to escape her grip, kicking and thrashing. Useless. She didn't even react. Just held him tighter and pressed the needle into his skin.
Your heart raced. Your knees shook. And then—
It was your turn.
You tried to back away, but her hand was already on you. Her fingers closed around your ribs, firm and unshakable. You felt your breath leave your lungs.
— “Subject 113,” she said.
She pinned you effortlessly against her palm. You screamed — in fear, in pain — as the gun touched your chest.
The burning was instant. Agonizing.
You could smell your own flesh as the number was etched into your skin.
Then, just like that, she dropped you on the cold steel table.
You curled up, clutching your chest, where the sharp sting of 113 burned like a brand.
— “Next!” she called.
But you couldn’t move. Not yet.
You had no idea how much worse things were about to get.
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