XXXVI - Toxic

Maya stood frozen behind the café counter, her dark brown eyes wide with terror as the scene unfolded before her. At twenty-one years old, she was a study in contradictions—beautiful yet broken, resilient yet terrified. Her skin was a warm bronze tone that spoke of generations of sun-bronzed ancestors. High cheekbones and full lips gave her face a striking quality that had earned her particular attention from buyers and inspectors alike. But it was her body that told the true story of her captivity.

Standing not tall, her legs were cute and fit from a few years of **** labor in the biolabs. Her hands bore the calluses of endless cleaning and sorting tasks. Across her lower abdomen was the serial number tattoo—7B-9412—branded into her flesh when she'd arrived in New York close to three years prior at 18 years old. It was known to all who saw her that her ears bore the three steel piercings, each one a mark of shame. But there were other markings too—small scars on her body from restraints used during “correction sessions,” and a larger one on her left thigh from a machine punishment cane. He'd procured expensive astronomy texts and star charts for her sometimes, and when she calculated orbital mechanics correctly, a rare smile would cross her features, and even her Master's cold eyes would soften. The stars became both her escape and her bondage. Maya learned the constellations. Her master's voice, usually sharp with authority, softened as he guided her through Orion's belt and Cassiopeia's chair. She memorized planetary orbits with the same precision she applied to her cleaning tasks, finding strange comfort in knowing that worlds beyond Earth turned without masters or collars. Each correct recitation earned her a light touch on the head—a rare reward from the man who owned her completely. Yet as she gazed through the space based telescope screen at distant galaxies, those same hands that held the gear trembled slightly with mixed emotions, remembering how the stars' beauty contrasted with the cage that held her....

As she watched the officers drag the screaming woman toward the door with no mask by her hair, Maya felt a familiar sensation crawling up her spine. It wasn't fear alone—though fear was certainly present. It was recognition. This could be her. She'd thought about running dozens of times, but the punishments for escape were legendary. She didn't hate herself to that extent yet. For sure.

The woman's cries grew fainter as they disappeared into the toxic wind outside. The café returned to its uneasy silence, broken only by the howl of the sandstorm and the hiss of the atmospheric filters.