Chapter two
1032 Words
Days blurred together.
Mira and Aria were moved from room to room, test to test, always under watch, always restrained, always monitored. There was no talk of escape anymore — not even whispered. The facility was too vast, too guarded, too precise. Every door required codes. Every hallway had cameras. Every guard moved like they’d rehearsed every step.
Hope wasn’t just gone.
It felt f*******n.
One morning — or maybe night, it was impossible to tell — the girls were taken to a new chamber. The walls were smooth steel, the air colder than usual. A row of chairs lined the center of the room, each one fitted with a curved metal brace.
Aria stiffened. “This is the tagging room.”
Mira’s stomach dropped. “Tagging?”
Aria didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
Technicians guided them into the chairs. Mira tried to resist, but the restraints snapped shut instantly, locking her in place. A mechanical arm lowered from the ceiling, humming softly.
A man in a white coat stepped forward, his expression unreadable.
“Subjects will receive tracking implants,” he said, as if announcing the weather. “This will ensure compliance and prevent further incidents.”
Mira’s pulse spiked. “We haven’t done anything.”
“You exist,” he replied. “That is enough.”
The mechanical arm positioned itself behind Mira’s neck. She felt a cold pressure — not painful, but invasive, final. A soft click echoed through the chamber.
A second later, a monitor lit up with her name, a serial number, and a blinking dot.
Her dot.
Her location.
Her ownership.
Aria’s turn came next. She clenched her jaw, eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to give them the satisfaction of fear. But when her monitor lit up, Mira saw the flicker of defeat in her expression.
The man in the coat stepped back, satisfied.
“You are now fully integrated into the system,” he said. “Any attempt to remove or tamper with the implant will result in immediate incapacitation.”
Mira swallowed hard. “So we’re prisoners.”
He paused, then corrected her.
“No. You are assets.”
The lights dimmed. The restraints released . Guards escorted them out, their footsteps echoing in perfect rhythm.
As they were led down the corridor, Aria whispered, voice hollow:
“There’s no getting out now. They can find us anywhere. Even if we ran… even if we made it miles away… they’d still know.”
Mira didn’t argue.
Because she felt it too — a faint, constant pulse at the base of her neck, like the implant was breathing with her.
A reminder.
A warning.
A cage she would never outrun.
And a reminder that she would never escape.
The guards marched Mira and Aria down a long concrete corridor, their footsteps echoing like a countdown. Neither girl spoke. There was no point. The implants pulsed faintly at the base of their necks, a constant reminder that resistance wasn’t just useless — it was punished.
They entered a vast chamber lined with metal partitions. The air smelled of oil and cold steel. At the far end, targets hung from rails, each marked with a number.
A row of stands waited for them, each fitted with a rigid metal brace.
Aria’s face tightened. “Training day.”
Mira swallowed. “What kind?”
Aria didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
A voice crackled over the intercom — calm, clinical, detached.
“Assets 12 and 14. Proceed to your stations.”
Guards guided them forward. The metal braces snapped around their wrists, locking them in place at chest height. Mira tried to pull back, but the restraints held firm, forcing her arms into a fixed position.
A technician approached, placing a compact training pistol into each girl’s restrained hands. The weapons were cold, heavier than Mira expected.
“You will learn to fire accurately under restriction,” the technician said. “Mobility is a privilege you have not earned.”
Aria muttered under her breath, “They want control. Always control.”
The intercom clicked again.
“Targets active.”
The rails whirred, sending the targets sliding into position. A red light blinked above each one.
“Begin.”
Mira hesitated. Her wrists couldn’t move. Her arms couldn’t lower or raise. She had only the limited angle the brace allowed. Her heart hammered.
A guard stepped behind her. “Fire.”
She squeezed the trigger. The recoil jolted through her arms, but the brace absorbed most of it. The shot hit the outer ring of the target — barely.
“Again.”
She fired. And again. And again. Each miss earned a cold note from the technician.
“Asset 12: insufficient precision.”
Aria, beside her, hit closer to the center. Not perfect — but better. She didn’t look proud. She looked resigned.
“They’ll keep us here until we get it right,” Aria whispered.
Mira’s arms ached. Her shoulders burned. The restraints didn’t loosen.
The intercom crackled once more.
“Phase two.”
The lights dimmed. The targets began to move — sliding left, right, forward, back. Mira’s limited range made it nearly impossible to track them. She fired anyway, each shot a desperate attempt to meet expectations she didn’t understand.
A sharp buzz sounded.
“Asset 12: failure to adapt.”
Mira flinched. The implant pulsed sharply at her neck — not painful, but enough to make her gasp.
Aria hissed, “They do that when you fall behind. Stay focused.”
Mira steadied her breath, forcing her hands to stop shaking. She fired again, adjusting to the movement, learning the rhythm of the targets.
A few shots landed closer.
Not good.
Not enough.
But better.
The intercom clicked.
“Training complete. Restraints releasing.”
The metal braces unlocked. Mira’s arms dropped, trembling from strain. Aria flexed her fingers, wincing.
Guards stepped forward.
“Return to holding.”
As they were escorted out, Mira glanced back at the firing hall — the cold steel, the moving targets, the braces waiting for the next round.
This wasn’t training.
It was conditioning.
And the facility wasn’t shaping them into soldiers.
It was shaping them into property
- Writer
