Content note: This story includes graphic non-sexual body horror and depictions of bodily harm under coercive conditions.
Chloe always learned their names.
Not because she cared. But it made her voice sound warmer when it mattered. The bracelet said they volunteered, the implant was there for tracking. But names still had weight. They made her instructions feel more personal. Useful when she needed to coach them through.
“Vince,” she said, close enough that he could hear her without her raising her voice.
He nodded. Too quickly. He was a nervous starter. Third time, maybe fourth. She checked the marker on his wrist. Repeat performance, anyway. Positive audience feedback. Noted reluctance.
He looked fragile. More fragile than she remembered. A little thinner. A little…looser? Joints no longer trusting one another. His skin had some faint, overlapping lines from the restraints of previous sessions. Pale almost scars crossing at odd angles. Accumulation from old sessions. Bodies remembered.
“Don’t tense,” she said. “You know how this begins.”
The bass was rolling through the room in slow, deliberate, waves. Low, the kind you could feel in your bones, in your lungs. Light spilled across the club, fractured sweeps. Reflecting off glass, catching in smoke, shining back off the polished rail that marked this corner. People were leaning with drinks in their hands, attention drifting back and forth - never settling. Someone laughed nearby, and someone else shifted position to see what was happening, turning back to their conversation when they saw nothing dramatic.
Vince’s breathing was unsteady.
Chloe guided him forward, hands firm on his shoulders. Decisive without pushing. Aligning his weight with the hanging frame fixed into the ceiling above this section. Ropes descended from it, thick, dark, and softened from use. She looped them around his wrists and torso, her hands quick with long practice. Secure, not tight. Enough to keep him upright when his muscles gave out. He tried to help her. Fumbling, but compliant.
“Keep your eyes up,” she said.
The first implant was already seated halfway down his spine. A slim, metallic strip embedded between vertebrae, the surface catching the light whenever he moved. It had gone in clean enough, but the skin around it was still an angry, flushed, deep purple. Chloe tapped her tablet, bringing up her own feed. Readings jittering and then stabilizing.
She nodded over to the tech, barely looking. A blade slid from its housing nearby, thin and curved. Not designed for deep cuts, but precise. Vince flinched as it touched him, sucked in his breath as it traced a thin line down his side, opening the skin just enough. Secondary filaments reached out to thread through his muscle.
“Breathe,” Chloe said. “Long out.”
Vince tried. His breath hitched, spasming as the filaments tightened, and pulled his body subtly out of a natural alignment. His shoulders twisted, and one hip jerked higher as the ropes had to take more of his weight. The pain wouldn’t be too sharp yet. More like a deep, pulling, sensation. Uncomfortable, pulling his body into a shape it didn’t want to take.
Chloe reached out to slightly adjust the tension. She watched how his spine curved, his trembling knees.
“You’re doing well. That’s it,” she said. “Let it settle.”
Blood was running in thin lines now. Catching the strobes and looking glossy rather than red. Decorative. A few people glanced over. One leaned towards them for a moment, but lost interest when nothing immediately escalated.
Vince made a small sound, low in his throat. His hands flexed uselessly.
“I don’t-” He stopped as the implant kicked in more fully.
Chloe could see the sensations changing in his body even before her feed caught up. His back arched way too far, his neck straining. Tendons standing out sharp from his skin. The filaments were tightening, too. Not uniformly. Misfiring deliberately.
“You’re okay,” Chloe said immediately. “This part passes.”
His head shook. Uncontrolled. “I can’t- I need-”
“Vince,” she said gently. “Listen to me.”
The blade returned, cutting lower this time. It scored across his thigh and exposed another opening for the filament tendrils to find. He cried out, louder. Raw and sharp enough to cut through the music, drawing a few irritated looks. Chloe shifted closer, a hand calmly on his chest. The other tightening a rope to keep him upright.
“You’ve done this before. Breathe through it,” she said. “Fighting it is what makes it hurt more.”
“I think I need to stop,” he said. The words were ragged and punctuated by gasps.
Chloe heard him. Always did.
“Not yet,” she said. “It’s close.”
She spoke calmly, as she’d trained. Her voice pitched low enough to cut through the noise without shouting. She reminded him again that he’d done this before. That he’d finished. That completing the cycle made sure his compensation was confirmed. People would remember him - the way he held himself, and endured.
She didn’t need to mention the silence clause.
The implant surged again. Vince’s body reacted more violently this time. A full-body spasm pushing him hard against his restraints. Something inside him shifted as he twisted, an audible click, wet and sounding wrong. One of the lines on her screen flattened in a way she didn’t like.
She saw the pain stimulations change. Not sharper, but stranger. More inconsistent. His limbs jerked independently, his muscles locking and releasing in wild patterns, not always matching his stimulation. His mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out for a few seconds.
“Stop!” The word was torn out of him. “Please. Stop.”
Chloe’s hand tightened on one of the ropes at his shoulder, grounding him.
“Stopping doesn’t undo this,” she said. Her tone was slower, firmer, without even thinking about it. “You’re through the worst part.”
Maybe not entirely true, but close enough.
“Don’t panic, we don’t want to tear something,” she continued. “Let it finish.”
The crowd leaned in a little more as his body contorted further. His spine bowed into an angle that made some of the people wince, then straightened again. Someone took a sip of their drink. The lights in the club had shifted cooler, smoothing the scene back into abstraction. Blood reflecting back as black now, not gloss.
Eventually, it ended. Not entirely cleanly, but acceptably.
Chloe stepped back as others moved in, cutting the body down with practiced efficiency. Weight supported as his legs failed him. She logged variances with a flick of her thumb. Some parameters exceeded. She took a note.
Outside, the air along the canal was cold and fresh. Chloe hadn’t realized how warm it was inside, but now her skin prickled. She leaned against the brick wall, lighting a cigarette.
A sharp yelp cut through the night. A dog had caught its leg in a loop of discarded wire, metal biting deep.
Chloe dropped her cigarette and crouched over immediately. Poor thing. She kept her voice soft as she unwound the wire. The dog trembled, then slowly stilled as she stroked it, eyes fixed on her face.
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “I’ve got you.”
She stayed until the dog was calmer, able to put weight on its leg.
Back inside the music was a little faster. Another body was being positioned in the corner, fresh skin marked with the faint red of a preliminary cut or two. Chloe sanitized her hands, and checked the assignment on her screen.
Violet. New name. New contract. Clean slate.
She stepped forward, ready to begin.
A story from the Static Drift universe.
Article photo by Cassi Josh on Unsplash.