A routine checkpoint ends in disaster

The few minutes to the ground felt like they took forever. You'd already waited two years for your reward but those last three minutes felt like ****. You had to forcibly quiet your mind and focus on taking deep, even breaths just to stop your imagination from driving you crazy.

Finally, the lift stopped and the doors opened. Part of you expected to be immediately grabbed and hauled out of the lift, but none of that happened. The guards on the ground acknowledged you with their usual disapproval or disinterest. It was just another day for them. Normal Tuesday. How disappointing!

You exited the lift and looked around not sure what to expect. Nothing unusual anywhere. You turn to one of the guards, "Excuse me, sir. President Arturo just came through here a half hour ago. Did he... say anything to you?"

The guard looked at her flatly. His eyes dropped to the UEC tattoo on your arm and he groaned. He clearly didn't want to talk to you. "No. He arrived, then he left."

You frowned. Had he not lifted the order to cooperate with you? The bastard lied to you? No, that couldn't be. There was no way. You knew the man, intimately. He wouldn't bother lying to you. He would tell you to your face what he intended to do to you, or what he expected you to do for him, and that would be the end of it. More likely, he'd made it some of game.

But it left you a little unsure what to do next. You didn't have anything on your agenda for the day. Nowhere to be, no meetings or appointments. Surely the President knew this, and wanted you to find yourself in exactly this situation. 'Okay, Arturo, I'll play your game.'

Turning, you left the lift terminal. Being connected to the orbital station for interplanetary VIPs, it was naturally located in a secure government building. Everyone here knew you on sight and had spent years learning to keep out of your way, to let you go wherever you wished and to assist you with anything you needed. There was nothing for you here.

As you made your way out of the building, you placed your hand on a scanner beside the exit door to register yourself as having left. Standard sign-in, sign-out system. It beeped angrily and the console turned red. Access denied.

You frowned. That had never happened before. No door on the planet was coded to deny you access to it. Unless...

A screen on the wall above the hand-scanner lit up with your ID photo. Printed across your face, in bold letters, were the words "FUGITIVE ****. CLASS 1."

There was a guard at the door. Watkins. You'd seem him most days and he'd cooperated with you many times. When the lights started blinking in alarm, he looked slightly conflicted.

You must have looked guilty, staring at him wide-eyed as the screen added the words, "DETAIN IMMEDIATELY."

There was a brief moment where the man looked from your face, to your tattooed forearm, to the screen, and then back to your face. Then he drew a weapon from his belt and pointed it at you. "Get on your knees."

A Class 1 fugitive? That was a rare designation. It was reserved for the most rebellious and uncooperative of women, the kind who kill men, or perhaps represent a threat to Laconian society.

"GET ON YOUR KNEES, NOW! Hands on your head!"

You drop immediately to your knees, lifting your hands to your head as instructed.

A second guard entered the area to support the first. Within seconds, you were face down on the floor, arms pinned behind your back. The one time you tried to speak in your defense, or to explain that you would cooperate fully, one of the men jabbed you in the side with some kind of shock wand that turned your words into a strangled groan. You were fitted with a gag and then a heavy leather armbinder before you were hauled to your feet, which were then hobbled via a heavy chain.

Things happened quickly after that. Men spoke to each other, either directly over your head or via radio. No one knew what was going on except that you were definitely to be considered a criminal and yes, the order was legitimate. The President was unavailable for comment, conveniently, leaving everyone to just use their best judgement.

Someone clamped a pole-collar around your neck and ****-marched you across a small courtyard to a transport vehicle. You were roughly shoved inside and **** to your knees, then your collar was affixed to rigid restraint arms, leaving you stuck in the center of the space, alone, with your back to the van doors, which were immediately closed. The van started to move.