They need to be decontaminated.

The private terminal was a monument to excess: white marble floors veined with gold, soaring ceilings, and a glass dome that filtered the scorching light from outside. At the exact center, a monumental three-tiered fountain spilled crystal-clear water—an insulting luxury in the middle of the desert.

"Halt!" ordered the officer in command, tugging the chain that bound the seven women together.

A group of men in white military uniforms and latex gloves approached. One of them held a tablet and spoke into a radio, using a clinical tone that made their blood run cold.

"Proceed with decontamination," he ordered. "The air of the outside world is polluted. They shall not enter the display cells with the filth of their former lives."

Under the pretext of hygiene, the women were shoved toward the circular basin of the fountain. Mackenzie felt a thermal shock as her bare feet touched the ice-cold water. Beside her, Vanessa—once so imposing with her firm rear and large breasts—was trembling so violently that her teeth chattered.

"You," a guard said, pointing at Mackenzie with the nozzle of a high-pressure hose. "Kneel behind your superior. Wash her."

Mackenzie, her red hair plastered to her face by the ambient humidity, obeyed. The bracelet on her wrist emitted a preemptive beep, forcing her to keep her back straight and her freckled backside in full view of the guards who had gathered to watch. They handed her a coarse sponge with a texture similar to sandpaper.

"Scrub hard!" a guard shouted as he opened the hose valve.

A jet of pressurized water struck Mackenzie’s back, making her scream. The water was near freezing, a brutal contrast to the heat of the hangar. **** by the chain, Mackenzie began to scrub Vanessa’s back.

"I’m sorry, Vanessa... I’m sorry," Mackenzie whispered through gritted teeth, watching the cabin chief’s skin turn red from the friction of the sponge.

"Shut up and do it," Vanessa groaned, though her voice lacked its former strength. Her arrogance had drowned in the cold water. Her heavy breasts hung low as she cowered, trying to shield herself from the water jet now hitting her buttocks.

Around them, the scene was Dantesque. Elena and Chloe washed each other under the lecherous gazes of the soldiers. Isabella, the woman with waist-length black hair, remained impassive as the water glided over her perfect breasts, though her white knuckles betrayed her fury.

"Look at that one," one of the guards said, pointing the barrel of his rifle at Mackenzie’s back. "She looks like a star map with all those freckles. Do you think her skin is just as soft everywhere else?"

"She’s a true redhead," another replied, stepping so close that Mackenzie could smell the tobacco on his breath. "Look at how her skin is crawling. That pink hue she’s taking on... it looks like she’s burning with shame."

The guard with the hose directed the stream directly at Mackenzie’s perky rear, making her stumble and fall against Vanessa. The beeping of the bracelet became frantic.

"No unauthorized contact!" the officer barked. "Wash! Faster!"

Mackenzie, her fingers numb from the cold, continued scrubbing Vanessa. The freezing water and the public humiliation were achieving their goal: breaking their will. The men’s comments about their bodies, the size of their breasts, and the shape of their hips floated in the air like a sentence.

By the time the officer turned off the water, Mackenzie was a mass of tremors. Her red-toned skin was bruised by the cold and friction, and her dignity had been dissolved in the fountain water. They were "clean" according to local law, but inside, Mackenzie had never felt filthier.

"Get them out," the officer ordered. "Take them to the showcases."