FSE

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you didn't ask, but the title is verbally Seven must Sleep.

(A note: The tags miiiight spoil you. Especially the user-made ones. This story isn't much in the way of graphic, but there is a death at one point. With that outta the way, on with the show!) (sorry for foisting this crime against penmanship onto you people with no editing)

I wake up. The first thing I can feel is that the skin around the base of my horns is sore. Next, I start picking up the sense there's something deeply wrong; I reflexively bolted straight up into a sitting position without any prompting, and there's a half-scream being strangled and choking off into silence on my lips. All of these are things I note right away, primarily because it's extremely uncharacteristic sleeping behavior for me. But it's pushed out of mind an instant later, as I open my eyes.

The very instant I see the bed sheets, frame, and walls before me, I realize two things: first, this is most definitely *not* the room I went to sleep in. Second, everything is *gray.* The bedsheets are pure white with gray striping, The walls and roof are light gray, the floor is grooved, textured gray, the furniture is a metallic, rough-hewn gray. It's very similar in terms of color scheme, but the differing tones and textures prevent it from being utterly monotone.

My first thought is that it's some kind of elaborate prank, but that thought vanishes at once. Not only is the furniture radically different - it has a simple, beveled, almost futuristic design, unlike the more traditional, rugged, weathered look my family usually went for, the shape was wrong too. My room had something of a complex shape, being wide and thin and hugging two corners of the house, and on top of that it had an irregular pattern, with the thickness of the walls changing three or four times in total, counting the small alcove that served as a walk-in closet. And quite simply, this place has none of that.

It's perfectly rectangular, with the shorter end (axis, I think to myself,) being the one I and the inset, angular door are parallel to. There's what seems to be a nightstand within my left arm's reach, and right beside it is a wardrobe. The room's walls continue until the far side of the door is as long as the near one, creating a decent amount of empty space. Yes, there's definitely no way this could be a prank on their part. Just changing the furniture and painting would've woken me up, but the differing geometry simply seals that deal.

And beside, this doesn't resemble any hotel I know of, leaving aside that it would be too far a length to go for something that trivial to begin with. For that matter, I start pondering the question of just how I ended up here, which creates a nasty tangle as trains of thought collide together in my mind, together with a backsurge of panic. Who where why what. Breathe deeply. Focus. A useful anchor turns out to be a small, white digital clock. Its plastic, glossy case frames a simple, washout green display that reminds me of calculators. The digital characters read 11:22.

I have a sinking feeling of oversleeping, thanks to my many years at academies priding myself partly on my nearly-perfect attendance record. But such things are the least of my worries now. I set out a list of possible causes for this situation in my mind, ranking them in order of most to least comfortable to contemplate as follows: dream, prank, intensive care unit, kidnapping, coma unit, afterlife. Attempting to keep my cool, I go through each of them.

A good, firm pinch with my left hand to the corresponding flank confirms I'm awake as ever. My skin and fur aren't unusually pliable. Not that the lucidity didn't almost rule it out. I've already discarded the prank possibility, unless it's a truly ridiculously dedicated television network or something like that. If this is the intensive care unit or I ended up in a coma somehow while I was slumbering normally... this place really doesn't look like a hospital. And I'm not wearing a patient's gown - just a white button-up shirt that feels breezy and some unholy grey amalgamation between sweatpants and slacks.

To further drive it home, I look over the bedside and find a pair of grey plastic sandals, which I absentmindedly slip my feet into. They protest somewhat accomodating my cloven nails, and I finally stand up. Of course, a cursory check reveals... nothing. No medical gear, no monitoring equipment, nothing I could use to call a nurse.

That leaves the afterlife, which seems vaguely unlikely despite the bizarreness of the situation. This place doesn't resemble any myth or legend I know of. What are the odds that I simply died somehow in my sleep? And beside, shouldn't the gods be showing up about now to deliver their eternal sentences or something? If this is the afterlife, it resembles the really strange ones that fiction creators often dream up to make a point, where characters are punished or rewarded or simply made to do and see things in very bizarre ways. To make the story's point.

Kidnapping - or abduction, as I should have put it - is the one scenario remaining. Much to my displeasure, it seems by far the most likely scenario. No, it's... almost panic-inducing. I can feel the blood rushing across my heart and body as I even consider it.

*oh gods.* Mostly because it is by itself. There's a thousand and one reasons they could've done it. Few of them are good. There's a thousand and one terrorist groups out there, each every bit as, if not more barbaric than the others. *Oh Gods.* I start hyperventilating even thinking about it. It's a chore to think it through fully, maybe because it's sinking in that this is the most likely situation.

No. There's an entire litany of physical and psychological tortures and mutilations they could put me through in the name of whatever motivated them to bring me here in the first place, and those are just the ones I know of. Their true arsenal is probably far greater. I could be drowned with water or beheaded or my limbs crushed with racks, beaten to a pulp--

*Oh Gods.* I'm at the complete and total mercy - for sure - of whoever brought me here. Helpless, a total plaything, trapped and caged for them to do whatever. I slump and clutch my chest. At their mercy. Until rescue comes. Will rescue come? Do my family even know, or has it been such a short time they haven't noticed? Has it been months of a fruitless search with the entire country watching? I don't even know! I've lost track of time. All that signifies its passing is that damn alarm clock!

As though perfectly timed to prevent my mind spiraling completely into fear and despair, a tinny voice booms as I notice the clock reads 11:25.

"Attention all tenants, block C, lunch is in five minutes. The cafeteria is just outside your rooms. There will be someone to escort you."

It's a calm, feminine voice. It sounds neither particularly interested nor particularly bored, somehow, and stern yet not commanding. A relieving sense of casualness envelops it, and the accents and inflections even resemble mine, and while it raises more questions than it answers, the wordings chosen seem benign. The promise of being escorted is a little dark, but at least it brings the promise of real answers.

So in my excitement, I turn my attention toward the small door. As luck would have it, 11:30 strikes at nearly that exact moment, so it looks as though it opens on cue. And as promised, there's someone there. Presumably the escort, but.. *wow.* For a moment I almost think it's *that* kind of escort!

It's a tallish fem cheetah (I can tell by the teardrop markings and distinctive solid spots). She's got this flowing brown hair, a vaguely scowling expression (not good), scar on her collarbones. But mostly it's about her clothes. She's wearing all black with red trimming. Shortcut leather jacket, white undershirt, black denims. Knee-high combat boots. It's a very eyecatching, but impractical-looking getup. Maybe it's some sort of ceremonial or dress uniform, although I don't know any organization who have dress like thi-

"Two thirty nine, quit ogling me. Let's get moving." she says in an angry tone, cutting off my thoughts and seizing me by the left arm -it's at this point I notice my shirt has a shoulderpatch with 239 written in perfect block print- and practically drags me out of the room with how suddenly she's moving. I have an awful feeling about it for one second as she leads me through the hallway just outside. It's colored about the same, but textured and arranged differently than the room.

Looking around as I'm speedily led by, I notice the room is a T-junction connecting to the same direction on both sides. My room is labeled C-239 on block text stenciled above the door, and there seem to be similar doors - belonging to fellow inmates, I immediately assume - with similar numbers and the same look. I don't get to take in the scenery, either structural or... biological, as she quickly takes me around the bend and into another hallway. There's a long opening to the left, and I realize it's not a wall but a thin divider between these ways and the cafeteria.

Which in turn a very simple, cheap-looking schoolish affair. To my relief, I notice a few other people - inmates, probably, given they're clothed the same way I am - congregating around one of the blue-black tables, which look vaguely metallic. The femme says "Here." and practically shoves me into a seat just opposite the small group. "Don't try anything," she sternly warns me before walking off. Checking the side of this table spot, I notice there's a small indentation... in the shape of the numbers 2 3 9... and hear a plastic-metallic sliding sound. Must be that 'escort' getting someone else. No, scratch that; it is.

She's leading a very pretty-looking snow leopard in the inmate garb toward the spot next to mine. C-240, judging by what I've seen of the classification system so far. I open my mouth to say something, but the guard almost shouts "No talking." as she points at the two of us threateningly, then turns around and leaves.

And by pretty, I mean *pretty.* She has flowing, immaculate blond hair, piercing yellow eyes, and pearly whites. As well as a blank, confused, innocent stare that almost makes me feel guilty to be staring, but she hasn't even noticed me. I quickly check the room ahead and behind me. There are nine tables for four people each. Two potted plants that almost reach up to the roof are all that adorn the opposite end. There's a simple, but more... clean and technological kitchenfront, almost what is expected of cafeterias, very close to the tables. Flanked by two tray-topped disposal bins, from top to bottom:

a simple, beveled brown sign that says 'BLOCK C' in sans-serif blue, two menu panels near it (looking at them, they must be screens as they change language and alphabet script a few times) listing solid foods on the left and liquid on the right, the ordering window about the same width as the sign and with a hemispherical opening (itself flanked by two metal-slatted windows) and a short.. one-person serving line? The window is foggy, so I can just make out what's probably a small kitchen, with food shields and wells barely resolvable behind the slats.

My guess is the guard will just keep sentry over the inmates as they order and eat. Looks like it's just her, so she probably won't go the trouble of babysitting each and every one of the thirty-six inmates here.

It takes what actually feels like very little time to keep bringing in inmates. Sometimes, she 'escorts' two or three at a time into the room, so it's definitely not long until all thirty-six are in. But not all without complaint. Over the next few minutes, I see her subdue a handful of particularly rowdy folks with her unarmed skills (which look *nasty*!) and what seems to be an electric stun gun, but I can't see it well enough. Eventually, she drags or beats what must be all of the inmates of this cellblock into their assigned seat.

Alright, my *kidnappers* are self-evidently hostile, but they don't want to cause me any immediate harm. I have some time to think. After everyone else in this block has gotten themselves situated quietly, she raises her voice for not one, not two, but three last short, angry commands: "Don't talk. Don't start things. Don't leave the room." and promptly disappears behind the divider, leaving everyone to their fate.

Namely: eating. Instinctively, I think of standing up to go order something, and as I look behind me again I see a couple folks have already caught on. The server can't be seen clearly through the foggy window, but from the grey color and rasp in his voice I can tell he's a snow leopard, just like the girl sitting next to me, who finally seems to have snapped out of that almost-trance back there and is promptly forming inside the growing orderly line. She joins it right ahead of me, and the stout-looking C-238 lines up behind me. Just coincidence, or has everyone just intuited it the same way?

But the line is actually rather small, and *whoa* this must be junk food or the server is some kind of cooking speed demon; before I know it I'm already very close to the line, and then my turn comes up. The server puts me on the spot straight away by asking me for my odrder, and before I really know it I'm saying '... pepperoni, two slices, nothing else. And some orange juice on the side, fair amount, please?' as though on autopilot. The years of school cafeterias must have really conditioned me.

The view through the window is almost totally nonsensical. probably on purpose, so I only see him nod, then walk back toward the rest of the kitchen area to become a light grey splotch moving around darker grey splotches. It seems like the meals are pre-prepared, but I see a flash of orange for a moment before he starts returning. Too ambiguous to tell there, and the pepperoni slices he slides smoothly onto the tray look fresh and feel hot. The OJ he pours doesn't seem unwholesome, either, and I go back to my spot in a hurry after he issues me a handful of silverware.

Surveying the plate, my first instinct is to use the knife and fork to start eating. I'm somewhat phobic of getting food material on my fingers, and there doesn't seem to be any good paper nearby to shield my fingers with. It's a bit of an odd phobia.

I cautiously tear a small chunk and visually inspect the roof carefully for security cameras. After a quick look-around, there... don't actually seem to be any? Odd. Maybe they're not watching or using spycams. Perhaps they're using good old manpower and Cheetah Lady is listening from nearby somehow. No way to be sure.

I'm about halfway through one of the slices - I tend to want to have pepperoni in the cutting, and it's still hot, but tastes a slight bit.. planty - before I turn my thoughts again to 240. It feels insanely risky to even look at her, and the atmosphere of the room is notably devoid of the usual loud chattering that pervades normal cafeterias on fast days. Yet again, I decide the gamble's worth it.

"Hey." I furtively gesture with my hands and eyes to probe just how willing she is to hold a conversation.

Forty long seconds pass, and a dreading fear that I've made a terrible mistake pools slowly until she breaks it by responding, shooting me a cold, unpleasant glance: "What is it?" she says. It's rather timid in comparison to the look. Mixed signals galore. I just try to keep cool and focus on keeping a flow of conversation. Replying after chewing up a particularly satisfying piece, I struggle to think. This entire situation and all the thoughts it brings up are almost too big to explore talking.

"I was just wondering about your - the - it. This place. What do you think of it, I mean?" is all I can bear to say, and it comes out awful as it usually does. Studying her expressions carefully, she doesn't seem too phased, which is quite relieving. Her own hands and arms and mouth are busy getting to work on her meal, a crisp-looking sandwich of bacon and chicken and a few other things, one of which I can't even name.

She lowers her voice slightly. "It's, well... I'm,kinda scared right now." Her face shows what I can only assume is a tiny bit of genuine fear, but repressed somehow. I realize what's happening: The familiar-seeming routines have knocked her emotional compass out of whack, and the reality of the situation hasn't really got to her. It hasn't for me, or for anyone else. Maybe that's the entire point. Get everyone up and running with a strange, alien situation but give them relieving breaks of familiarity like this so *they* don't break.

"Yeah. Me too. Have you seen any-" I stop. The thought is only half-formed, so I linger in an awkward pause for an embarrassing few seconds. Since I'm trying to act as though every word is being monitored, and it's a stretch to think of something that relates to the present situation but isn't suspicious. "-I mean - how're you feeling?" An unbearable sense of awkwardness insists on permeating my words, and it gets sharper every second that I don't get a response. Fortunately, she breaks it by pausing to finish a bite of her sandwich.

"I... well," she inhales deeply, closing her eyes. I know she probably hasn't quite sorted out her feelings. It's been such a short time. Of course, I'm the one trying to consciously prod her into doing so. Her voice lowers, furtive. Aware, just like I am. "I don't feel... like, anything. All I've seen is that horrible *lady.* I-I just don't like to think.." I see tears beginning to well up, but she represses the thoughts. She lazily rubs her eyes and shakes her head softly. So she's obviously just going along with all this because of her instincts, too? C-238 and 237 are at the same table as we are, and they haven't spoken or reacted. It hasn't sunk in, has it?

But in spite of that, I can see the dawning awareness, the slow coming to that something's *wrong*, in everyone else's eyes. As I survey the room over the next few minutes, the movements of the other captives become faster, tenser, more hurried. More alive. People start getting fierce looks in their eyes. I don't continue the conversation with the snow leopard girl for a long, long while. Everyone's meals slowly shrink, then are nearly gone... when the announcement voice from earlier rings out again: "All tenants, Block C, mealtime ends in five minutes! There will be multiple people to escort you to the gymnasium."

I had been done with the pizza, practically, for some time. My other idiosyncrasy with pizza is that I never, ever, not even when using hands, eat the crust. It's useless to my mind, just some tough bread. But others chow on it, too. It's just another one of my little incompatibilities with society.

I glance to both partition openings, and predictably enough Cheetah Lady is back. Except this time, she's got backup. After she struts in, she's flanked by multiple fairly tough-looking folks like herself. They're dressed in black leather similar to herself, but their outfit ornamentation is noticeably more elaborate than hers. Shoulder patches. They're all equipped with batons, much like herself, but except this time they're also packing heat. Real heat. Yikes. (I can tell those rifles aren't airsoft guns by the way the receiver fits together.)

That indirect display of force is enough to defuse the tension and quiet down even the larger-seeming folks in the room. And good enough, because she's speaking again: "You're going to be led right to the exercise areas, single-file. *No disturbances*." Her voice places extra stress on those last two words, and I know instantly I'm not going to resist, even in a subtle manner. And everyone else seems to take the hint. Folks get up, picking up their trays - "Just leave 'em, the cook will clean up the mess." - and leaving them. They all don't take more than a moment - maybe to clean their mouths or wipe dirt off - to fall into line. She motions smoothly for the group to split into two, and 240 goes to the other one.

It's a line of inmates capped by a guard at each end, making four, plus the Cheetah Lady herself. We're quickly led Northward - opposite my room - and into the other corner, which connects to a corridor instead of looping around. It's almost pure white, and a slight chill hits my senses. This must be how that cafeteria is restocked, I realize as the line enters it and starts walking down. The lights seem brighter here, and there's no door in sight. We're joined by the other line - actually making this a double file, right? - and led down it for a few moments.

The guard nearest me, a kind of young and sharp-looking grey wolf, must have left his walkie-talkie on by accident, because I hear it faint but clear even ten paces and three people away from him. A characteristic squawk and a stern male voice. "... uh, Command, our trajectory is..." - the channel changes, to an accented female - "Stirnes, the exercise plans for each ...fffssshhh... are on the training machinery. Just point them to it, you're not a fitness instruct... the clients want..." -and just like that, he shuts it off.

His face looks kind of embarrassed when I glance. Probably ass-dialed it.

Nevermind that. The line curves right into a set of horizontal deep gray doors, which slide apart to reveal a massive... well, gymnasium-like area. There's nothing much of note except some maintenance stuff, a magazine on a small nightstand close by, and the exercise equipment. Or what I presume must be it.

The room is wide, but short. Most of the space is taken up by three rows of gear: about thirty-six mats, thirty-six sets of leg machines, and a long pull-up bar with, yes, thirty-six sets of handles. The guards almost don't need to prod anyone - the throng get right to lining up on the bars and identifying their number. It happens that they're written in front of individual columns in convenient black numbering. The floor is hardwood, not the white (actually, light grey since it's not blinding) metallic-sheen material the other edges are made of. Obediently, I rapidly run to the column marked 239 and raise a hand to the wolf again as he gestures toward a small laminated chart that's been left where my feet are now. Reading it, it seems to be a short list rather than a chart. Ten pushups, five pullups, six squats. A small challenge.

I knew, though, that even a handful of reps could be very painful. I was always really out of shape when trying workouts, so it made some sense. Gulp. This would not be pleasant.

Placing my hands on the mat, I immediately tried to focus on maintaining form. But, as I expected, 'the burn' quickly began to set in by the third repetition. By the fifth, it was painful. By the seventh, it was almost inconceivable to me to keep going, but somehow I wrung three more repetitions, which felt a little odd, but the guard - Stirnes, I remember he'd been called - suddenly spoke up to reveal a vital piece of information. Not only to myself, but apparently the entire population of Block C 'tenants':

"By the way, don't overthink when choosing your food because of this. A lot of it's usually junk, but we took the liberty of, well... adding to it. Minerals and vitamins and some other stuff. It's been filtered of some... inconvenient substances, too." The same casual, yet stern voice. There's a noticeable undercurrent of gruffness.

Immediately, my mind goes to Performance Enhancement Town, flooring it down main street and dramatically drifting down onto They're-Shooting-Us-Up-With-Steroids Street. It's compounded by my buddy, the evidence of my senses, flooring the pedal by lending decent credence to that theory. I'm on the fourth pullup and I still don't feel like giving in as much as I did previously.

The squats don't go much differently. By the sixth, I actually feel... invigorated, although all of my limbs and abdomen have released their fair share of lactic acid at this point.

Just as I start turning toward this Stirnes to see what he'll say next, he opens up again: "This is gonna be most of your day, so get used to it. You'll have to start this over again in fifteen minutes, and we'll do this quite a few more times before you eat up again and we tuck you away. So don't get excited about leaving either."

Odd. This wolf is definitely the most slack-jawed of my... jailors? Captors? He's like a veritable fount of information compared to the others Not only do I know know that I'll have to go through this yet again, I know there'll be another eating period. Presumably to consolidate whatever gains we make here. The leg machine offers me a decent position in which to rest, so I take it for a few minutes and just try to relax and prepare my mind. Fear and thoughts of escape flicker back and forth, but they never go anywhere. Foremost, though, is something much darker. A bit random, but darker.

'this regimen is... just how the clients want. to help shape us just how *their* clients want.'

Strong feelings of dread keep me from approaching it any further, and by the time I can start thinking of something else Stirnes hollers for the next set of reps. I dismount the machine and start the routine again. It helps to confirm my 'performance enhancement' hypothesis that it feels that little bit easier and less painful. My thoughts have been just about exhausted, and when I stop for another break I sit on the leg paddles and don't think of anything in particular. For a long, long time. Stirnes shows up to break my reverie again, and back to the reps.

Ultimately, I go through something like eight or nine of these cycles, and so does everyone else. Each time, it gets slightly easier, slightly faster to go through the motions, and so it seems for everyone else - including, I notice, the girl from before. Each time I can't bring myself to think of anything new, and each time Stirnes brings me back from the land of the drooling.

When we reach the end, there are no words necessary. He had already made the point, and he works together with the other guard to lead us out of the room and back toward the cafeteria. Same as before, but in reverse.

The lights are dimmer, more yellowish. Probably so we can get even more cozy than we already are. I order pepperoni pizza slices plus, this time, a lemon-lime beverage. The server obliges, and I *really* pay attention to how some of the texture, flavor, and afterflavor are different from the kinds of pizzas and lemon-limes I had consumed in earlier life. Part of it could be attributed to differing suppliers and brands and methods, but those words about 'reinforcement' from earlier stick with me. Every bite and swallow seems to lift off some of the fatigue I had built up from the gym session.

At least it still tastes mostly the same, and it's better for me, I suppose. It occurs to me to talk to the girl again, and I do. I make sure Cheetah Lady and her other cronies aren't around by looking furtively, and lean closer to her.

In an attempt to lift some of the mental fatigue I'm suffering (to be honest, if it weren't for the regimentation and the fact no one's screamed or cried or been harmed yet I would have lost it at this point..) I ask her one simple question, barely above a quiet whisper:

"What do you think we're here for?"

She's chewing on her sandwich, and I notice it seems the same as before too, except differently-tinged in the colored, less powerful light. She pauses for a few moments to consider the question, and thinking about it obviously makes her uncomfortable. Her muzzle and facial expressions contort in what I interpret as fear and disgust.

"I... I just don't want to think about it." Evidently, though, she's thought of the implications. And none of the ones her mind's come up with are good, either.

The rest of the meal passes uneventfully. A part of my mind rebels, panicking at the thought of what may have or will happen if the captors catch wind of the little conversation.

But the cage of fear these people have managed to build around my heart wins out. Even so much as trying to engage with it would give it more shape, more power, I realized. So everyone - myself included - simply tried to obey, fearful of thinking, fearful of what might happen eventually or if they end up making the wrong move. Their psychological tactics are working, somewhat to my dismay. But that's a side thought, and itself proves that the cage works because I shunt it away a moment after coming up with it.

After eating, the chef shouts "closing up shop!" faintly from behind the almost one-way window and begins to close a shutter on the speaking window.

I don't say a word when Cheetah Lady comes back in, noticeably tired and with bags under her yellow eyes. There's a very slight tinge of grogginess to the casual-commanding voice now. She raspily hollers "Showering time."

The prospect of actual hygiene is pretty enticing. It may be almost oppressively chilly in here, but I still worked up a film of perspiration and some of it's showing through my clothes. I'm a little desperate to get into fresh clothes and hit the sack at this late stage. (But it can't have been more than eight hours since I awoke. Does that 'other stuff' include sedatives, perhaps? Or am I just losing my track of time? Those breaks *did* get pretty long...)

She leads us all through the upper T-junction again, leading the line and capping the opposite end with Stirnes and a female I don't recognize. The corridor, as it turns out, leads to another corridor ring. But this time, there's another set of doors (same as the ones on the gymnasium, I notice) right in front.

The huge communal bathroom (that's what it must undoubtedly be, although there're tasteful enclosing partitions on all of the stalls to maintain some privacy and dignity, it seems) that occupies the center space of this particular zero-shape is vaguely pink. There's small tiling everywhere, and even a few white rubber balls lying around randomly. (In place of duckies. More mental deprivation without sensory deprivation...) I make a mental note not to slip on any of those.

Something that catches my eye when I look back, though, is a... poster? sign? postersign? that's extremely eroded and nearly illegible. All I can make out are the words 'mask', and 'avoid drowning'.

That's strange. This used to be a pool or something? Before I can keep thinking, though, I'm distracted again by Cheetah Lady. "I won't make you strip to your fur in front of me. You're free to do it in the stalls, but we still have folks looking at the public areas by those cameras, so don't start *shit,* you understand me?" She and her guards manage to appear menacing, even with their increasingly groggy looks.

I readily oblige them by trying to hunt for my number, just like everyone else -- only to realize there isn't one. Not one of the stalls of anything here, toilets, sinks, showers, are marked. No territory. All free. I instantly realize it's another psych warfare tactic. Give us a sense of delineation where we don't expect it, then change the formula arbitrarily on a few occasions. It might even serve to turn us against one another, although I can't imagine anyone else really cares that much.

It doesn't take me long to find a spot and start taking off the dirty clothes in the large antechamber. It's not just a hamper or linen bin, there's also what I assume are places to affix the sandals. Interesting touch. The new stuff is sealed, so my bathing won't ruin it prematurely.

The running water provides a very satisfying source of warmth. Fixating on these little pleasures and luxuries helps take the edge off the situation. Perhaps another psych-warfare tactic... get us comfortable. I don't think long of it before I'm finished washing and soaping everything. And I do mean everything; usually, I wasn't that thorough, but right now I'm feeling a special impulse to be meticulous.

There's a full-body dryer adjacent to each stall, too, and I make good use of it. Apparently, though, I was unusually speedy; by the time I can put on all my new clothes (even new sandals were issued) most people still seem to be busy in the showers.

I take the opportunity to snoop around a little bit, but I don't find any other signage or information. I've already seen everything of note here, it would seem. I just stand around waiting next to the alcove between stalls that the door opens into, and folks slowly start trickling back out.

Our captors must have an impeccably accurate sense of timing, because Cheetah Lady and a guard arrive just as the last person is exiting. I do hear mumbling sometimes, which at least means that other people are discussing things.

Their tired eyes betray anger. Lady crooks a thumb up backwards and says, 'Sleepytime, princesses.' And it's all the prodding we need.

A row is formed once again, and we're led back to the cafeteria ring and sent back into our rooms, which I do notice all seem to be very dark. It's done two-at-a-time, by both guards and into separate rooms, so it doesn't take long for it to be my turn. I'm placed back into my... cell, I suppose. I'm not really comfortable calling it my room at this stage, but...

The place is quite dark. The light has been turned out, and only the dimmed greenish outlines f the furniture are visible courtesy of the darkened alarm clock display, which I inspect.

Current hour is sometime around 8:10. The gym was apparently even more timeconsuming than I had thought. It crosses my mind that perhaps that's because I was actually enjoying the workout. Fatigue's returned with a vengeance, too.

I just hit the sack and lie there thinking, for a long while. Eventually I give in and shut my eyelids.

Ultimately, it doesn't take very long to drift off.

***

I open my eyes once again. The events of yesterday are hazy, dreamlike. For a moment I can think that's all it was: a dream, but the sight before me quickly dispels that idea. The same room as before. Gray and grey. Everything feels fresher, like it did... how much time ago? I don't entirely trust my captors to tell the time honestly.

Especially since the clock doesn't say 6 or what I would expect if I had slept the normal six-to-eight hours: it says 10:59. I overslept, or they're using some kind of bizarre shortened day.

A queer thought occurs to me, however: assuming they're going to force everyone to go under the same schedule as yesterday, I have about half an hour in which to act. For what? That's obvious. Finding vulnerabilities in the security. I quickly place myself against the walls and try to feel along their length and breadth for any gaps, cracks or damage I could make worse. After a few minutes of this searching, I don't find much of anything. There's what looks like a loose, square section of the wall that broke off on one end from the rest of it, but it's stuck in the small space behind the wardrobe... which I can't move, and might not want to anyhow.

I pick at it from afar with my hands, but it doesn't reveal much. The area behind the gap is pure darkness, and there's definitely some space there. I can't figure out more than that, though, because the voice speaks sooner than I had believed.

"All tenants, Block C, mealtime five minutes. You won't be escorted today, but there will be measures taken against people who disobey the schedule."

Upon a quick inspection, I don't notice any security cameras or even holes for spycams for that matter. They're either reckless or confident in other measures.

I just watch the clock, and the minutes seem to drag on forever, until finally it's 11:29. I decide it's as good as thirty and... go to the door, which doesn't seem to have a knob? There's an inset metal portion on the right-hand side. I prod it to see if it's a button or something, but no such luck. After a few tense moments of fiddling with various things on and around the frame with no payback, it simply opens by itself. Time-controlled automatic, huh?

From what I see around me leaving, everyone else took the same hint, and everyone's heading toward the central cafeteria again. The doors to the other corridors are shut, too. Those must be the other measures they're so confident will stymie any escape attempts. But I make a mental note to keep probing anyway.

The line goes about as fast as it had earlier. Faster, maybe, because everyone's come in at about the same time. I order the same meal as yesterday's 'dinner' - pizza with lemon-lime beverage - and settle down at the same spot.

I'm toward the end of the line, and the classification system is so well-ordered it doesn't take me long to notice that there are two... no, three people missing. The snow leopard girl from before is not among them, however. She's eating a slightly different-looking sandwich (how different exactly I can't remember,) and she's going through it at a slower rate. As a matter of fact, I'm eating my pizza at a slower rate. The person opposite me - some sort of antelope - is eating his rice at a slower rate. Everyone seems to be moving and acting more slowly. No, more *deliberately.* They're all putting more serious thought into the situation.

It gives me a bit more courage to notice, too, that the mumbling and furtive noises are louder than yesterday. I just try to start a conversation again, but unlike last time I'm a bit more prodding.

"You know, it's kind of weird how we just took what we were given yesterday, even though I'm... certain we've been abducted." Awkward words, but they'll serve me well, or so I hope. She doesn't move away or show any outward sign of distancing or rejection. So far so good.

She replies, quietly, "Yeah. I guess." Her voice is light, too. After a brief pause, probably to consider the situation, her response continues: "We're all scared. Too scared to think." Woman of few words, huh? But I catch the sentiment and I agree with it, and that's all that matters.

The rest of the meal continues in silence, except that when everyone's obediently placed their tray on the bins, nothing seems to happen for a moment. One long moment. Everything lingers, and just as everyone seems about to move on their own, Cheetah Lady shows up, unescorted. "Gym time," she says. Her face and body seem refreshed compared to yesterday. Although she doesn't make any threatening overtures this time, the captives - including myself - all follow her out of sheer force of habit. And perhaps a little fear, too.

I happen to be right behind her as she leads this impromptu procession. The walk down to the corridor is nondescript, but her mouth mumbles pillow talk-style, letting slip vital information.

"every damn rotation... always get here exhausted... when will they just build a... for the employees? it's not like..."

It fades away, though, and as soon as we get to the double doors she speaks out loud again: "Just enter the side you went in last time, or just check the numbers. Don't damage anything, and don't start anything," she breathes tiredly.

Looking backward, I notice Stirnes at the opposite end of the corridor. She's not so unescorted after all.

I enter the right-hand side gymnasium as before, and go to the row I had previously. There's another armed guard posted at the very end, but he doesn't seem too engaged. The first thing I do is check the laminated chart at the bottom. Well, there is one, but it's a little different than last time. Eleven push-ups, seven pull-ups, eight squats. It's a bit more exerting than yesterday, to be sure, but now everyone's slightly fitter. And not to mention the captors are probably doping this stuff.

Sure enough, I get through the routine easier than last time. The guard only hollers out the lengths of the breaks, and otherwise doesn't interfere at all. Everyone probably saw the rifle slung over his shoulder and fell in line without protest.

Time passes, and the intermissions get longer, the lights get dimmer. Cheetah Lady shows up with only the guard from the right gymnasium and - what I presume is - the one from the left. They take us over to eat again, and I order again. This time, however, I order a bacon and chicken sandwich and orange juice. The server obliges with his usual speed, and I sit down at the spot again.

As I eat, I talk to the girl once again. I get straight to the point, but perhaps come on too bluntly. "So, what can we do? Wait - before you talk, I have something to let you in on. I checked the walls this 'morning'. There's a loose part right behind the wardrobe. I don't know where it leads, but it could be an escape route." I talk quickly and excitedly, the natural urge to share and a lack of surveillance overcoming trepidation.

Her eyes widen in surprise, and she stops eating her own sandwich. "You did? Holy shit, that's big!"

Chew.

"I know we can't exactly sneak over to each other's rooms here, but... I'll try to meet up with you again after the shower. Maybe we can do something!" The satisfaction in her voice slowly rises. It's only natural, of course. I guess if it really _is_ an escape route, it would kind of beehoove me to talk about it, though. But on the other hand, I could escape and tell the outside world about this place. My mind brims over with thoughts again, although they roll out too, set to dry and evaporate under the light of inaction. A thin scum remains.

Cheetah Lady alone shows up to escort us, and everyone who was present for the first meal follows. The shower goes as it had yesterday, although the noise is detectably quieter because of the three absentees. I don't remember which one of them was on the right gymnasium, but I can't help but think - what, exactly, are they doing? Surely, they can't have all decided to just sulk in their rooms all day and see what would happen, although it's a likely scenario given that I remembered the face and body of one of them - and *he* didn't show up anyhwere today.

As I walk back to my room, escorted only by Cheetah Lady again, the snow leopard girl stealthily sneaks up behind without her noticing. Our rooms are actually next to each other, so it's almost trivial, really, to avoid her notice when the doors open. She doesn't even seem to have acknowledged the three no-shows, and her vantage point doesn't let her notice when we both slink into the same room quietly. The girl assures me she wasn't watching from either of the corners when the doors shut.

The room is pretty dark and quiet again. I can see the outlines of everything's form thanks to the digital clock again. I feel out the position of the wardrobe, and with her help it scrapes along with very little noise. The crack is sure to be exposed now, but we can't check it out without lighting.

It looks like we have to stay the night here both. She quietly moves to lie on the floor alone.

"Wait. I'll do it. Ladies first and all that, right?" I suppress a chuckle, helped along by the rush of 'I've found an out to escape!' "Whatever suits you. But, you know.." -her voice turns softer and gains a distinct lilt I wish it didn't have -"This looks like it could fit the both of us."

I have to suppress the urge to gulp, yell at her, or shout about improprieties. Still prudish at heart, it would seem. But it's not like we intend to do anything like *that* together, it's out of necessity! Teenage hormones might take the wheel, though. Is it so wise?

Ultimately, convenience, comfort, and the desire for novelty win. I reluctantly slip under the covers next to her body.

She hasn't taken anything off, much to my mind's relief. My *thing*, on the other hand, cries foul for some time, and it's a bit painful. We lie with our backs to each other, which helps to de-emphasize its importance in our minds.

Eventually, at some point, I just run out of thought and begin to drift. So must've she, because--

***

--we wake up at nearly the exact same moment the next day. Immediately, I want to pull the covers right off, roll up my sleeves, and start getting to work on my ingenious escape plan by heading into the hatch. But first, I had to test the space. It could prove to be dangerous - flooded with some unpleasant substance, booby-trapped, infested with hostile creatures - but it would be worth it exploring at some point. And beside, the fact that it's been directly open to the air in this room for Gods knows how long now is a point against the idea that it is. Some sort of maintenance thing that the captors overlooked in all likelihood.

The time is 11:12. Oddly close, but then again the breaks did get longer and the shower was longer. By a little bit.

I quickly and furtively open the wardrobe and lo and behold -- there happens to be a few sets of spare clothing in it. I take a pair of shoes and go again to the gap in the wall. The snow leopard has woken up, too, and she says, giggling, "Already working, huh?" She's openly cracking smiles and grins now. Relieving, relieving. But focus.

I contnue by cautiously reaching my hand in to try and break the wall open further. The material is sturdy, but I've gotten stronger. It gives in eventually, and with minimal protest. I manage to form a hole large enough to crawl through. The room's light extends somewhat into the space behind, and lo and behold -- the maintenance theory has weight. It's some metallic stuff, looks like a movie air vent almost. There's wirings and cables of various kinds running through, and not a single nasty in sight. So far so good. I weigh a shoe in a hand and carefully throw it to the rear, causing a noticeable CLANG that's scarily loud...

but nothing else. Thank goodness. I peek my head into the space to take a better look, and I'm faced with near-total darkness. Except for a few lights off in the distance which remind me distinctly of this room's.

I've struck gold. That's a strong indication that must be similar openings like this in many other rooms. I can peek almost as far as I want along them, and the captors will probably barely even notice. Barring them having sentries, traps, surveillance hardware inside. Although it's been two minutes or so and it doesn't seem like they've dispatched anyone to deal with this escape threat.

They really are confident, huh? With a great amount of effort, I close up the partition and glance at the girl, still sitting on the bed. It's a strange sight. Cracking a smile, I say "I think we have a route." Her own mouth widens across her muzzle in response. Not entirely accurate, though: at best, it's a start. I'll have to spend some more time inside that crawlspace to tell if it actually leads anywhere that we could break out.

It's all I can do to avoid pouncing on her into a hug, though. As much of a relief as it is to have found a potential way out of this ascetic nightmare.

As if perfectly timed to break us out of the reverie, however, the announcement voice rings once again. "All tenants Block C. Mealtime five minutes! There will be an armed escort."

Terror runs up my spine. Would they see it as wrong for both of us to have stayed inside this room at once? What will they do? Ohcrapohcrapohcrap. I quickly see the clock: two minutes have passed.

My smile and casual tone are wiped out, replaced by a frown and a hurried whisper. "Quick! Quick! Get behind something!" I immediately start pulling the wardrobe back into its usual position, aided by what seem to be small, unnoticeable, but strategically-placed handles on its otherwise-featureless sides. Each groan and creak it gives in protest nearly stops my heart. Armed escort, armed escort, that means they'll shoot. Could I run through that hatch? If I were quick enough opening it, maybe...

The door slides open, and my heart doesn't stop. It freezes for an instant. I turn around to behold--

Cheetah Lady. Alone. This time, she's got a... bored expression. Hint of a smirk? There's a very obvious large pistol holstered right next to her usual stun gun. "Hoof it, rare boy. You and your girlfriend." She casually nods her head toward my right, and I see that the snow leopardess poked out to look.

The larger, more adult feline simply sighs. "I'm not going to execute you on the spot for this. It'd ruin your... well, and it's not like..." she trails off without explaining, looking even more bored than previously. Not like *what?* I can't help myself asking mentally.

She sniffs twice. "And from the looks of it, you two didn't even shag. What happened?" I feel insulted, embarrassed, and terrified in that order.

Well, at least she lead us out of the room and into the cafeteria, as usual, without insulting my... *conjugal performance* as I was so expecting.

But this time - somewhat to my horror - I noticed signs of struggle on one of the doors. Dents, scorches. The normally-lit number sign above them is dark.

A bullet hole. How in the world we missed a gun going off so close to ourselves while asleep is a mystery.

There's a trail of blood leading from room 21... something, I guess.

I now suppose I know what happened to those disobedients. The terror washes once more against its confines, corroding the walls of the place where it's bottled up. It doesn't help sitting down at the usual cafeteria spot and noticing the trail leads directly to where the showers were.

But it gives me a useful hint of where to start looking for guard posts and maps and vital information. The blood trail automatically implies someone was dragged in that direction, and why else would unfortunate Number 21X be taken?

It's unusually quiet in the cafeteria today. All of the lively talk from yesterday has died down completely. Every single tenant-inmate-captive is wearing an unbelievably stark expression. Some are shivering in fear. They've put two and two together as well, it looks like. Nobody ends up snapping, but the tension in everyone's smell and face and gait and posture is immediately oppressive and palpable.

Our orders are given snappy and clipped, almost barks. Still, nobody rebels. Perhaps it's just the stress hormones getting to me, but somehow I don't even make it a quarter of the way through the pizza before noticing the snow leopardess is munching on her sandwich in a very half-hearted way. In fact, everyone seems to be going through their meals far more sluggishly than usual.

I make a fast decision to turn around and speak to her in a low whisper that even our table neighbors won't find intelligible,

"Hey." She tilts her head at me in curiosity. "Mmm?" I notice she's chewing and continue.

"I'm going to scope out that vent tonight. You with me?"

She nods vigorously and finishes the bite.

"Yeah. It's about time we get to the bottom of this."

Only quiet resolve inhabited her eyes now. The rest of the meal was carried out in utter silence, with only the faint noises of others' chewing and slurping on the edge of my hearing. At least there were enough stimuli that I wouldn't start losing my marbles to sensory deprivation, that was for sure. Somewhere in the middle, the announcement voice showed up once more to warn us about how little time we had left to continue eating. No one really picked up the pace.

The rest of it felt somewhat routine and blurry. Cheetah Lady showed up, with backup, one more time to order everyone to move their ass, and we did. Except that this time, the guards picked one person - a short, stout-looking rodent, couldn't catch their species - out of the line we were already forming and led them toward the bathroom loop, out of our sight.

Once again, we headed down to the exercise area. This time, the assigned regimen was even rougher than before. Twelve push-ups, eleven pull-ups, ten squats. I do take note of the additional symmetry, but at the rate we were going the previous two days, I can't help but wonder if the buildup still won't end lopsided. Regardless, everyone presses on with it. There's a notable absence - the person picked out earlier. Another chill runs down my spine, but it's soon burned off (along with a lot of extra calories) by today's workout. It's even less challenging than before, although there remains a palpable burn.

My extremities and abdomen have begun to develop noticeable muscle definition. There's marked cep and ab lines. In addition, the guard is looser with break times than before. Painwise, I don't even notice the reduced time. My body is adapting to this, and those 'additives' in our food have probably done something to contribute to it. I'm certain this rate of gain isn't normal, although I never really looked into the subject previously.

Given the vibrant white of the hallway lights hasn't changed at all, I realize less time has passed as well. It's a little odd, but odder is how when ordering my second meal, the cook obliges my request for fewer portions. I would have expected them to require some minimum intake so we didn't suffer malnutrition or starve, but I guess they're more accommodating than that.

Biting into one of the three slices of pepperoni pizza, however, a dark thought strikes me... only for my mind to push it out of the way to focus on the fact that the flavor is... different, somehow. More powerful. So it would seem our captors compensate for people eating less by pumping more nutrients and steroids or whatever into the portions. I have to admit it does feel pretty good to eat this; it definitely ranks among the best meals I've ever had, and it doesn't feel strange or dull in any way. Scientifically fine-tuned comes to mind. That would certainly hint at the captors having a deep intelligence network...

And the feeling after eating them is a vaguely pleasant satiation in one's abdomen. Welcome compared to the sense of your meal weighing down like a rock in there, in any case.

Suddenly, I realize there's something off with my vision. Colors look off, and the walls look like they're... breathing. The faces of everyone else wear very blank, spaced-out expressions. For a moment, I have enough lucidity to realize they must've slipped a sedative into the food to make the time... pass faster. Before long, I'm completely spaced out. My own body feels cool and distant, consciousness becoming unmoored from feeling. It's as though my soul is leaving...

***

By the time I come to, the lights have dimmed again and all the other folks seem to have been sitting there. Quite a few empty stares and drools. But then one person snaps out of it, then another. Slowly, everyone regains their wits, including Snow Leopardess (whose name I really should ask about soon...). I look to my right and see the corridor leading directly toward the shower loop just in time to witness Cheetah Lady and the guards show up and hurry down toward us.

Another chill of fear. They've demonstrated they can effortlessly and efficiently, without apparent short-term side effects, control basic bodily changes and mental states simply by using... something. I presume it must be in our food or delivered through cleverly-hidden air vents --

"Get up, you sleepy asses. Routine showering." She's not as tired or angry as before. It's weirdly unnatural to hear that woman talk in such a casual, non-aggressive way, I find.

Everyone obediently follows. They may have been drugged, but they've still got enough of their wits about them to know they're going up against what look very, very much like battle rifles at least. The shower block is still an uncomfortable place, and I'm slow to get to washing, as I usually am anywhere that's not home. (For some odd reason, I've always had a certain aversion to washrooms when not at home. What's left of my old germophobia, perhaps?)

The cool water on my skin serves as an anchor to this reality as the effects of... whatever that mental time dilator was start wearing off. I've just about grabbed the soap bar and started going through the motions of lathering the stuff on before--

--wait, is the shower area expanding? And the droplets are getting slower! As they land, they're bouncing off the floor! All of a sudden, I feel unattached to the floor for a moment and realize I'm suspended a handful of inches in the air above the tiling. The toiletry and other miscellaneous items start apparently levitating. For a fleeting moment, I'm in total relaxation as I don't need to strain myself in any way for support. In reaction, I'm just about to let out a cry of alarm (as some are audibly doing)--

--only for my feet to abruptly crash back on the ground. I stagger to regain my balance. What in the actual hell was that?! Nerves frayed, I try to rush through what's left and do a slightly sloppier job of cleaning up. I'm more economical with the soap, in particular, and I still leave some cool dampness on my fur and the skin beneath after drying off because of how short I set the time to. I try to storm out, as do a few others, who definitely look shaken themselves. Somewhere on the right-hand side of the room is Snow Leopard Girl, who I quietly call over and try to stay close to, as Cheetah Lady promptly shows up to tuck us into bed again.

She and the other guards' expressions haven't changed, and they don't say a single word. It's as though nothing is out of the ordinary here for them, although it makes sense they'd be inured to the regular operations of this... facility, whatever it really is. We're marched swiftly back down the corridor to the Block C loop and everyone begins to enter their rooms, the doors automatically closing. Snow Leopard and I manage to avoid the guards' sight (they're still acting inattentive! Why?!) long enough to get into 238 together.

It's a relief to simply get back together and sit on the bedside for a moment to catch a breather. We haven't been exposed to anything particularly dangerous, but the atmosphere during that day- no, routine -was palpably tense: I could *feel* the terror and dread reach a critical level in my flesh and bone.

The first thing I ask her, though, isn't related to anything about *here*.

"It's weird," my words begin. "We barely even know each other." Breath. "We don't even know each other's *names.* It's weird to think we just fell in and didn't even have the time to.. introduce ourselves." Somehow, I prevent myself from stumbling over my words like I have a habit of doing. I'm more focused. Maybe it's the situation, or the chemicals... no, not worth thinking about. She and I did hit things off on a weird note. All curiosity, not a hint of romance to be felt. "I want to fix that before we move any further." That's all I say, and it takes another few moments for me to compose the next sentence.

By which time she replies. Her voice is a half-whisper. Almost silent, but clear enough. She casts a low, thoughtful glance visible even in this light. "Alena Davasque." she says. I see her arm moving for a handshake, but she thinks twice of it. "Like... I do- think it's weird, too." she says, rather ineloquently. Vaguely humorous notions fly through my head in the pregnant pause that follows. I let her continue. "It's just... I don't want to think about it. What my family are thinking, my friends at school. Is there a big missing person manhunt out there? Do they think we're gone? *Dead?* What about them? I went to sleep at home before I woke up here, and--" She sounds on the edge of tears choking the last half of that sentence out. The thoughts she wants to express feel obvious somehow.

And I realize the grim statistics everyone we left behind must be facing. For a moment, it's all I can do to hold back the tears. The more time transpires between someone's kidnapping and the suspects being identified, the less likely the victim will be found alive. I'd only heard the correlation for child disappearances, but our families were probably hearing and thinking like that. As aloof and distant as I was from the rest of the family sometimes... it was heartwrenching to face what their emotions must've been. My mother felt especially attached to me, though it was kind of unilateral; I had always been her golden child growing up.

It's almost enough to drive me to tears all over again to think what she must be going through, but I've already shed the tears for myself. All it makes me do is feel very depressed for a few moments.

I know Alena is giving her all not to cry, just by the look on her face. Must be the first time she's thought about the situation deeply. It looks like she's about to collapse bawling into my arms, but a quick sniffle and her pained expression starts to soften. Guess I could say something, but she starts instead.

"Just... there's been so much going through my mind. I need you to know something. I think they-" she gestured to the closed door "-might be... trying to make us forget. I'm a third-year at Therianas Boarding Academy, I have three sisters, two parents, a boyfriend. I was on the honor roll for two years straight before now. And I'm just so, so scared..." her cadence drops in mood again, but after a few moments of silence I cut her off.

"Look," the words begin, "I know it's hard for you, but... we've got what just might be a way out of this mess right in front of us, right now."

I inhale before continuing, "You can stay strong, Alena. We can get rescued. We can escape." My voice has a similar despairing cadence to hers, I notice. "Just hang in there awhile longer. This might be the way out. We can get rescued, go back home, see our families again. You want that. I know you do." I'm half-lying, but a lot of it is that I truthfully can see (or hear) how much Alena cares. Obviously, she's very close to a lot of people.

"Right here, right in front of us, is a chance. We've got to take it, you understand?" Inhale sharply. "I don't want to stick around to find out what they'll do to us. I'd rather stumble around in the dark there than do their routine for another day, not knowing what they have in mind, and having to fear that God-awful lady they've put in charge of us." The seemingly-free food was very nice, though. Only plus of this place. Maybe the only thing that kept me from going nuts. "Whatever they're planning, it can't be good. Not if they're willing to kidnap us from our *homes* for it and herd us around like cattle." I extend a hand, and she weakly grasps it.

"You can stay if you want. I'm just going to check out that shaft for a little bit, then I'll be back before you know it. Got it?" I paste a half-false smile onto my face and shake my arm, trying to exude confidence. It seems to work. Alena takes deep breaths as I grab the clock - taking it must be useful and it's not triggering any alarms to do so - and use it as my only lightsource as I move into the crawlspace.

My very first step onto the unbelievably flimsy-sounding metal resonates loudly, and I hesitate, but only for a moment. Carefully, I bring my other foot onto it more slowly, which creates less sound. There seems to be a rigid framework here, and I can hear a low-pitched buzzing +noise that must be a distant fan. Rather large for a ventilation shaft. Methodically, I use my unmoving foot and a hand firmly on the frame as my anchors to move stealthily, but ponderously, through the space.

In the near-total absence of light, my mind generates dozens of imagined terrors from sci-fi horror films, games, just about any kind of media, really. Having a vivid imagination isn't helping at all. Least of all when I think about how I've left Alena behind. That makes me rush, and with rushing comes a mistake. One step too fast and another noise resonates. My own fear and self-doubt summons notions of some formless threat attacking me, and for a moment I feel paralyzed in sheer terror. But somehow, the tenseness of the situation causes my adrenaline to bleed past that emotion. I have my clock hand feeling the wall for openings like the one I had discovered, steadily trying to sense if there's a weak spot with my knuckles.

Every few feet or so, I rap the wall gently, ears primed for any sound at all. Any sound that's out of the ordinary for metal. Still down on my hands and knees, I struggle to maintain a steady pace as I try to weave my limbs between the bared girders. It'd be stupid to cut myself and get tetanus now, and my attentions are torn between avoiding just that and banging my knuckles along the shaft in desperate search of another room.

Clanging thump after clanging thump rings out quietly and without response. The maintenance shaft feels eternal even though it can't have been more than a few minutes. I've only covered a dozen meters and that's unacceptable. It feels like I've got to pick up the pace more than anything, and as I think that one of my limbs becomes stuck firmly against a girder. Dammit. I shake the thought out of my mind and continue. Somehow, after that, it doesn't take long to find similar access panels to what must be other rooms.

It immediately occurs to me: these must be the 'suites' of the other captives in my cellblock. There's nothing new to see here. I struggle further against my terror, which throws all sorts of bad memories and turns my imagination against me in its quest to make me lock up. My emotions scream at my mind and body with seemingly every pore to stop moving, but somehow I don't, even in the absolute lack of light. I soldier on, until an eternity later, at long last, I come to a corner in the construction.

My muscles tense as I turn ninety degrees, struggling to push down the urge to turn around and flail and scream at the phantasms of my mind. Somehow I still win out, and I continue in this bone-chilling path. Rap. Rap. Rap.

Idly, I realize I must be setting some kind of world record for ventilation shaft crawling as I continue along the tangent. I keep rapping steadily, discovering nothing. Soon I reach another bend. Nothing. Turn, fight fears, go. Collect two hundred. I move faster and more forcefully as I try to harness my own fear to propel my body to go faster, and beside that I'm getting the technique for moving quietly down pat now. Rap. Rap. Rap.

I scramble an unbelievable length without making sound or giving into my mind. Aside from my instincts, reduced by force of sheer will to merely rap and move and fight fear, there is nothing to mark the passage of time. I simply close my eyes and navigate by intuition. Rap. Rap. Rap.

If sheer, unbridled, raw terror had a depth meter, I must be kilometers below the surface. If doubt had a physical existence somehow, I would be neck-deep in it. Rap. Rap. Rap.

I must have been mere moments from giving in and screaming and scrambling when I came upon the loose panel. Without thinking of what and who might lie beyond, driven merely by the desire to see light and breathe easily again, I peeled it back with all my might and scrambled into the whiteness before I could gauge the situation.

For a moment, tossing myself into the room is equal parts utter relief and the seeds of new terror as my recklessness vanishes from my head. Half-consciously, I kick the panel back into place with my legs, and carefully inspect my surroundings once again.

***

And so the first thing I notice is the odd cold in the new room. It invades my flesh. No. It burrows in almost instantly like hundreds of invisible icepicks of pure frost. Before I'm fully aware, my body is shivering profoundly and it tosses and turns involuntarily. I control myself, take a deep breath, and push myself off of the frost-chilled floor with both hands. The light blue, caulked tiling, the ice condensation, the metal object just ahead of me. There's only one thing this place could be.

A walk-in freezer.

Like the kind butchers use.

Cold seeps into my fingers and reaches the bone. Literal cold. True cold. Not like the cold of a harsh realization, like becoming aware that something terrible has happened. Not like the cold that grasps my mind and doesn't let go, as I kneel and look up to admire

what can be none other than the strung-up corpse of a disappeared inmate I recognized, hung oh-so-casually onto the rack before me by the mangled nape of his neck.

No. It couldn't be. I knew all along. I should've known. How didn't I KNOW? It was so *OBVIOUS!* The strange talk from the guards, the performance enhancement, the gymnasium, *EVERYTHING!* These people have kidnapped us for meat their clients are no must be the well-to-do with eccentric tastes in meat they've been keeping us here and fine-tuning our bodies to their last specification and when we have reached it we're taken and killed then eaten-

I scream without thinking, retreating reflexively from the poor, dead man who's slated to end up on some rich motherfucker's plates. I notice his nudity, his neutral expression, the pretty little captive bolt gun wound in the middle of his forehead it's simply too much, I writhe as if the body itself is carrying the plague, which it likely would be by now were it not in this icebox, and my muzzle bunches up.

Imajei Saraneski then finds himself rolling on the floor sobbing hysterically, sad for the man and angry at his captors and terrified for himself all at once and it's just too much. Just too much. It's a small miracle, really, that his breakdown goes completely unnoticed by any of the sentries or guards on watch that shift. Next he pounds on the walls while sobbing, runs around the room flailing and sobbing, and spins in place in confused terror, sobbing. He can't control himself anymore, any way one wants to see it he can't handle the situation anymore and his mind has simply shut down or been overwhelmed by emotion.

He falls on his side, out of energy after a time, exhausted after a long while of wringing his feelings out the hard way. Alena Davasque is long forgotten, of course. His promises. His confident statements. Shattered. His noble ideas gone, like so much rain in a storm, lost among the turbulent sea of his feelings.

***

It's another small miracle that I get up less than an hour later, everything below my nose a painful broken wasteland of frozen mucus. I feel frigid, like shit. I can't go back to her like this. I need to show her the way out. Somehow. I can't just run back to her with my tail between my legs. I know that much.

So I scramble for the door, any door. I find it in the space of a few seconds and the handle is moving in the space of less than half of one. I'm not thinking, not logical anymore. Remembering the layout, I bolt to my right, running like a madman and likely setting more world records along the way. Eventually, somehow, I see the baths and know I'm going along the right path. I dash like a madman around the last corner, knowing that Cheetah Lady will be there like she always is.

And of course, I see the yellow woman standing there. I don't even notice the guards running behind me, alarmed. I rush her, she notices but it's far too late to stop the speeding freight train of impala moving at her, and it's a textbook tackle. On the ground, just like that. And I'm in the cafeteria, with everyone staring at me wide-eyed in utter, total shock.

I know there's only a moment before all this goes to hell, so I scream with every cell in my lungs and every fiber in my voicebox.

"THEY'RE GONNA KILL AND EAT US! FUCKING RUN! FUCKING *RUN!*" I grasp Alena's arm harshly. I don't see her face clearly but she's staring at me like a wild animal. Everyone is. It's good. They'll run too. With utter serenity, I say to her: "We've gotta move, now." Somehow, she obliges. Everything behind me vanishes into a cacophony of individuals panicking and bolting and fighting. I have no thought or care for them, however.

My mind's on bolting with Alena, and that thought alone drives my decisionmaking. She complies, knowing full well I'm speaking the truth. We take a detour through the gymnasium hallways as the shit hits the fan in the Cafeteria, with the noise of a full-blown riot fading fast behind me. Screams. Anger. Fighting. I hear at least two gunshots, perhaps more. I don't know or care. I don't want anything in the world anymore but to escape from here, alive, together with her. Even after this, I'm not romantic.

I just feel indebted to her as I practically drag her along the corridors to wherever they'll take me. In unfamiliar territory once again. This building can't be very large, however, and soon we'll come to whatever passes for an exit. Guards yelling. Footsteps. Guns being cocked. I pass one zero ring and then another, not a single thought lent to anything but running and carrying the girl. We run for what feels like less than a minute before a hallway appears.

At the end of our vision is a large, heavily-armored door with a frosted window, blackness beyond. Freedom. Escape. Home. We barely brake in time and nearly crash against it together, and I fumble for anything that could open it as whole squads of red-clad guards are stomping down the same hallway to catch me. The moments stretch into hours. The blast door. It opens. We shut it back and Alena fumbles for some way to lock it somehow before we leave. She does, but a hissing noise rings out as the guards pound worthlessly on the inner door.

It's just then that we notice the bright bee-yellow warning label, at the exact same moment.

"EXTREME CAUTION! OPENS TO VACUUM DO NOT OPEN WITHOUT EVA GEAR 10 SECOND DEPRESSURIZATION"

Our eyes widen. My intuition back there, in the shower, was truth. We both press our faces against the glass to admire--

--first the limb of the Earth's surface curving lazily around the right half of our vision. In the other, the ghostly-white superstructure of what was in truth this space station, with a huge diversity of small spacecraft docking along the structure and the blue of solar panels glittering. In my heart of hearts, I knew this was the reality ever since the moment when the bathroom lost gravity, but I didn't acknowledge it. Denial? Delusion? It didn't matter. Regrets, I-knew-its, grief, anger... all of them boil through me. I hyperventilate. So does she. She cries. I cry. We both mutually agree to open the outer door by hand, and do it. Lack of oxygen will be a more merciful end than whatever the guards would've done to us.

Then we're sucked out into the scene of the window, and it's as though I've gone deaf.

I instinctively exhale. It's a bad idea to hold your breath here. Funny, I always yearned to visit a place like this someday. It's just too awful that it had to be under the auspices of this organization, but one thing I thought I'd never do, and a hell of a way to die. In my final moments of consciousness, I watch Alena pirouette silently and helplessly like a ragdoll. We lock eyes knowingly, one last time, and I look Earthward to see a landmass-

-our home country. Huh. It's just too bad. Hey, if they had scopes, they could see us in orbit. I spend a moment fantasizing about how the world might react to the grotesque spectacle of our tumbling corpses, as the oxygen supply in my circulatory system runs out and my consciousness fades.

Many private thoughts regarding the course of my life and regrets come back, many perfect 'if onlies' recalled in the dying state, as my eyes shut. One last time...