Her mind wandered as she stood waiting in the yoke. She had sat with her uncle during his last days in the hospital, hours on end next to a man who had already ceased to be conscious, and this was a similar type of boring horror. There was little she could revisit because it had only just happened, and her fear of the hours and days and months and years ahead was too enormous to confront. If they were trying to build up anticipation, 4053 thought, they were failing -- but her feelings were, she was sure, their last concern.
Occasionally, she heard heavy footsteps in the hall. Everyone wore boots here, probably. It was not a sexy kind of facility, despite some of the products it turned out. She wondered if the employees were military, and then thought of Abu Ghraib. How far they had come as a country, from being horrified at the abuses inflicted on alleged terrorists, to watching their own citizens punished like this and responding with indifference. Not that slavery was new -- it had been going on in prisons since the thirteenth amendment. She had had license plates made by slave labor. She had watched on the news as inmate firefighters saved the west. She had gone to Texas and eaten meat there that had almost certainly been handled by an inmate at some point during its journey from farm to table. Expanding the varieties of penal labor available, and in turn expanding the population of inmates to accommodate it, had not been an unreasonable step. Nor had increasing the security of prison systems like this one; it prevented riots, when the inmates were isolated and couldn't speak to each other. And the public had largely accepted this. It was easy to say that people like 4053 deserved it.
She had been a sociologist, in her interrupted life. This hadn't been her professional area, but she had had an interest in it, and further, she knew that rates of recidivism were high. They would be higher for people like her, who would have the additional specter of trauma hanging over them, making it so much more difficult to avoid re-offending.
The idea of regular prison, though, sounded like a relief. Maybe it would be regular prison if she failed, after her release.
Footsteps were nearing. As much as 4053 wanted to be out of the restraints she wore, she held her breath, hoping that these handlers were not coming for her. She flinched as they approached, and panicked, trying to kick away, but of course she couldn't go anywhere. She couldn't even turn around.
A hand took her upper arm and steadied her.
"You're having kind of a hard day, huh?"
It was one of the first handlers she had encountered upon intake, and the kindness in his voice was enough to make her cry. She had been so stoic today. Now even more humiliated, she struggled to get her tears under control as he and his partner removed the yoke restraint. Neither comforted her further, and 4053 was glad, because she didn't want to accept it. One of them had fondled her. They worked here, and that was bad enough. Her vulva ached and throbbed with anticipation, though she had orgasmed not an hour before.
They walked her to another room. It echoed like a parking garage, and smelled like an indoor pool. She took deep breaths as she walked, trying to get herself under control, but she couldn't stop crying. She felt snot run out her nose and tried to sniffle it away, but there was too much of it.
"Just let it drip," the first handler said. "You're in a shower." He talked to her as he chained her to the hardware, her arms above her head, her feet spread wide and attached to the floor. "Here's the thing, honey. The rules are different from now on. You have zero control over what happens to you, but you also have a minimum amount of responsibility. This place is built for body fluids." He removed her goggles.
The handler stood behind 4053, and she couldn't see him or turn to see him, though his partner was in front of her. The partner was not unattractive, though he was frightening: he was big, and bearded, and she could imagine him getting explosively angry. He wore work pants tucked into his boots, and among other tools, he carried a crop on his belt. He was readying soap and towels. The faucet or showerhead was nowhere in 4053's sight, though she could see a hanging metal hose to the right. She was facing a wall with blue-green tile, and on either side of her was another wall, and in the floor there was only a drain. The second handler moved out of her sight, and she stood silently while the first handler started the water, which, to her surprise, was warm.
He lathered her hair. He wasn't gentle, but he wasn't rough, either, just efficient. Four-oh-five-three wondered why she wasn't doing this herself, but wouldn't have asked even if she still had use of her voice. She just wanted to disappear.
"She's your type, Nate," said the partner.
"Yeah I was thinking that. I'm kind of hoping she comes up for general selection. Look at these freckles."
"Would you bid on her if she goes to auction?"
There was a pause. "Not much, I'd rather just wait until the next one comes along. She's a little old to bring in much, though."
"I found my last one at auction."
"Here?"
"Yeah. She was a little more experienced, too. Good price."
"I don't know why people don't like the inexperienced ones."
