It would’ve been a bit too obvious to place the cell door at the end of a long hallway. Blueprints had originally called for heavy doors and extra security along the hallway - tripwires, security cameras, sensors, and more. They had been all thrown out. There was no need for such excessive force. Such measures merely enticed a breakout and added mystique.
Cell Zero was hidden in plain sight. It had no label and only a simple nine-digit keypad for entry. As an alternative, an ordinary metal key would do the trick. There was no need for obscene defensive measures when the cell could’ve been mistaken for a broom closet.
Inside its padded walls, the VIP sat in darkness. Clad in canvas and cross legged, she wasn’t quite certain if the lights were on or off. A thick, padded blindfold had been locked over her eyes, and an open-face hood covered her hair and neck. She had been unconscious while she was dressed, so she hadn’t had the pleasure of being dressed. The VIP tugged slightly at her straitjacket. The canvas made a ruffling sound, the chains and buckles clinked, and the leather squealed. She was helpless. She was anonymous save the lower half of her face.
A grin began to creep across her visage. The anonymous VIP began to tug and writhe at her bonds, arching her back and occasionally groaning as she tugged at the spider’s web of restraints that kept her bound. She could have some fun - she wouldn’t be here long.
“What does she look like?”
Aria pointed to her own hair. “Just like this, except she doesn’t take care of it.”
Cinnabar looked it up and down. “So black, with shocks of red dye, a short ponytail, and bangs. Except she looks like garbage.”
Aria pointed her thumbs at herself. “How rude. Well, compared to - and let me just brag here - an oh-so-pretty little thing like me, yes.”
The casino floor was so loud that Aria and Cinnabar were practically shouting at each other. Both of them wore blazers - Cinnabar in mahogany red, like her hair, and Aria in black. They fit in as though they were regulars... even though Cinnabar had never even stepped foot in a casino.
“Sounds legit. I’ll go ask some staff if they see anyone who looks like filth.” Cinn pulled up the picture on her phone. Their target didn’t look that bad, though the reference image was a mugshot.
“She might not look like this anymore, Cinn,” Aria chuckled, “I mean, I’d do everything I could to, you know. To not.”
Cinn exhaled through her nose. “Yeah, well, we don’t need to know what she looks like. Just what she’s doing. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, and I’d bet anything she’s up to the same game.”
Aria took the phone from Cinn, flicking through a few other reference images. “Well, technically, a different game. Casino corps add new crap every month. They’ve got Indiana Jones slot machines and superhero garbage roulette.”
Cinnabar took her smartphone back from Aria, whose hands remained outstretched for a moment. “If you know the technology inside, the plastic doesn’t make a difference. The one we’re looking for - whatever she looks like - is probably going to be looking down at her smartphone and pressing buttons on the slots. She’s got some fancy tech imported from Russia. You do a little hacking to find out what software and hardware you’re using, then punch in some numbers - and boom, the program tells you all that you need to know to get the chips rolling.”
Someone rolled a ‘jackpot’ on the floor below. Aria started first, scanning over the room with her eyes. Cinn squinted as well. The sound was so melodic; it was designed, like everything else in the casino, to make you feel good - and not think about what one was doing. It was designed to make you sit and spend every dime you just won at the same machine. When a woman with dark hair and a few locks dyed blue began to walk away from the machine, they knew they had their woman.
“Shall we?”
“Let’s.”
Aria took out a badge, freshly falsified and identifying her as a member of the casino’s security. She carefully swooped in on her target, flanking her alongside Cinnabar. They took her gently, each of them putting their hand on one of her arms. The trio moved past a blind spot in the endless array of security cameras.
“Miss, we’d like to have a word with you.”
The woman didn’t like walking around the prison. It made her feel complicit in her restriction and incarceration. Walking somehow stated that she was willing to do what they said. Still, she had had quite enough of being strapped to a hand-cart and wheeled around like a box of bananas. She was willing to walk.
The prison had doors, just like any other did. Many of them were transparent ultra-tensile plastic. It gave the whole prison a somewhat medical feel, as anyone could look in and ogle the other women being held. Most of them wore jumpsuits. Some of them wore less. A few of them were strictly bound inside their cells.
Walls blurred together; every wing of the prison seemed to be the same walls. That was except, of course, the prison yard. Exercise was mandatory. The VIP gulped as the staff began looking at how to get her dressed.
The prison had innumerable ways to restrain, discipline, and reward prisoners. As the VIP was escorted through the halls, she was reminded of some of the more esoteric methods used to keep control. A few were simply locked in their cells, but she saw the slots where the real troublemakers could be interred. Like an oubliette of old, the absolute worst offenders were sedated and kept in a dreamlike trance, heavily bound and tightly restrained, and finally slotted into the wall like bodies in a morgue. Sometimes, they awoke, and were forced to endure their intense encasement and helplessness. Such punishments had been enough to motivate most of the prisoners to fall in line, or risk a truly solitary experience.
As the hand-cart neared the door to the yard, she spotted some of the ‘uniforms’ that certain prisoners wore when exercising. A few of them were far more scanty than regulation would admit. That included a series of leather straps that always made her think of a tack and bridle.
“Not today,” said a guard. He pointed to the sky, which was already growing overcast. “No point in ponying up when we’ll get sent inside due to rain.”
The VIP sighed. That particular humiliation was delayed. Storm clouds continued to gather as she was wheeled to another recreation hall.
“More than four would be risky,” said Aria.
“I know that you’re used to working alongside a bigger group, you two.”
The hotel suite’s lights provided just enough light for Cinnabar, Aria, Mercury, and Alice to see each other. A half-dozen bottles of liquor- mostly empty, some half-finished - lined the kitchen counter.
Mercury shrugged. “Big or small is fine.”
Alice giggled. It wasn’t much of an innuendo. Cinnabar surmised she was trying to cover up nervousness. Cinn and Aria had worked together enough to trust each other, Aria providing the “face” and Cinn styling herself as the “brains.” Alice was younger than them - in her twenties, maybe early twenties at least. Her ebony skin and dark, short-cropped hair were well-kept; Cinn had described her as “the fingers” once or twice for her finesse and technical acuity. It was Alice that originally tipped them off to Mercury.
Mercury was a bit of a wild card. When asked point-blank if she was Russian, she denied it - but spoke with some vaguely Eastern European accent. She looked like she might be from the Caucasus, but never spoke any foreign languages when she was around them. Still, she was, true to her name, fast - the fastest draw with a gun or baton, the quickest to anger, the fastest runner, and more. She had come highly recommended from Alice, though again - Alice was the closest thing in their group to the ‘new girl.’
“Good. Listen, we don’t need thirteen people. This isn’t a movie. But we do need to work together on this, and in perfect harmony.”
“Like a beautiful aria,” joked Aria.
Merc smiled at that one. Alice giggled slightly.
“So, tell us,” said Merc in her accented English, “the plan. You said you had already a plan in mind.”
Aria and Cinn nodded to each other. “Alice, pass me your laptop, please.”
Cinnabar had come up with most of the plan, but her close working relationship with Aria meant that the thief had been able to give critique when it was deemed necessary. The Brit decided that it was often necessary, but still - good advice was good advice.
Their unnamed employer was requesting an extraction of a very important person. This “VIP” was currently being held in a high-tech prison called the “White Cliff” for its proximity to a small town named Dover. Of course, it was hardly the picturesque Dover of England, but a tiny town in Oregon. White Cliff was a private penitentiary. All signs indicated that in addition to those lawfully convicted, it was frequently used by shareholders as a storage spot for anyone deemed ‘inconvenient.’ Aria imagined the possibilities; rich kids with a drug problem, and reporters with a nose for trouble. They didn’t know who their VIP was, but they didn’t need to know.
The prison itself was highly automated. There were fewer guards, and more protocols in place. Prisoners were often moved and processed automatically; there were fewer and fewer chances for bribery, and in the event of a riot - something deemed impossible - there was nobody to take hostage.
All forecasts for the area indicated an intense spring hailstorm in two days. The whole area would be saturated in ice the size of golf balls and wind that would knock down trees. That was their point of entry.
Alice gloated over a series of printouts. If the power went out - and, judging from the area’s poor infrastructure, it would go out - a massive series of backup generators would kick on to keep the prison going. Alice would stay in the getaway van while the other three women would enter using forged credentials, all the while pretending to be engineers sent to restore power.
Mercury explained that the whole prison was a closed system; nobody was going to “hack in” to it like a movie. No, they’d need to go there in person... but with the power down and some forged credentials, the prison staff would have no way to know that they were anything but the real deal.
Once inside, they’d find the VIP, cause some chaos, and leave. Ideally, nobody would even think to look for them when they were gone. They’d be in and out in twenty minutes.
“Inmate Zero, step forward.”
The VIP sighed and strutted two steps ahead.
The oncoming storm had helped her avoid some of the most strenuous activities associated with ‘recreation’ and exercise, but had also guaranteed that she could be subjected to more intimate torments. She had been shuffled off to a room she’d never seen, one that looked at least somewhat like an indoor gym; padded floors and mirrors adorned the walls. That was good and bad, because if she fell, she’d be fine - and if she looked up, she was forced to see herself, packed in a scandalous outfit.
A set of vicious boots that sleeved up to her knees kept her very nearly off-balance. They had more in common with a ballet dancer’s shoes than anything useful for walking. The stiletto pumps forced her to walk on the balls of her feet and her toes. Each step was unsteady. The sharp heel didn’t give her a lot of room for error; one wrong move and she’d find herself tumbling to the ground.
She didn’t have the luxury of using her arms for balance, either. The VIP’s limbs were tucked behind her head in a box-tie armbinder. Her hands, balled up and tucked behind her elbows, were carefully laced up and sealed into a leather sheath that matched her boots. She could occasionally turn enough to see that it was a maze of laces and leather straps. Only her handlers would be able to get her out of it. With her arms behind her back, the VIP’s breasts also jutted out pleasantly. They wiggled and jiggled with some steps, mimicking the unsure and unsteady footfalls she took. Packed in a leather skeleton bra, the inmate couldn’t help but stare at her own body. It looked like a bad porno, or a scene in a comedy movie. This was not the sort of clothing she’d pick out for herself, and she suspected that this wasn’t quite public knowledge at the Board of Prisons.
The stinging blow of a paddle hit her rear. Pain bit through her for a half-second, but it quickly evolved into a warmth that penetrated her entire form. The VIP took another step forward, half-hoping that the crop was close behind.
=====
All three of the women wore unflattering jumpsuits. Aria had half-jokingly suggested that they’d need skintight outfits if they wanted to really look like engineers. “If Star Trek is any indication, we should be totally clad in skintight spandex. It’s the only way to convince them.”
It had elicited a few chuckles from the rest of the team, though no serious consideration. The pale blue coveralls weren’t terribly fashionable, but they were certainly comfortable. The Link Engineering logo on the back made the three of them seem at least somewhat professional. Aria did the rest.
The trio passed through the lobby with only cursory glances and made their way to the larger security gates. The sound of thunder and hard rain created an ever-present white noise in the prison. A woman at the tail end of middle age sat behind a bulletproof glass window.
“Howdy. You need in?”
Aria nodded, pretending she didn’t know how to use the speaker system.
“P-push the button. Push that button and you talk into the mic.”
“Like this?” Aria cradled the microphone like a DJ.
“Too - too loud. Yeah. Kinda like that,” said the guard. “Are you the repair team?”
“That’s us.” Aria motioned towards Merc and Cinnabar with a smile. “We’re here to restore your precious umbilical to the outside world.”
The guard raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”
Aria tapped on the glass. “Right now, all your computers are local. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and you know it. You’re probably annoyed that you can’t check Facebook, but the warden is probably pretty concerned that he can’t talk to his boss. See, there was a big, big issue at a relay - won’t bother you with the details - and we’re here to fix it.”
The guard’s eyebrow relaxed.
“So, be a dear, buzz us on through.”
“Can I see your badge, then?”
Aria shrugged and pressed her forged credentials against the glass.
“There you go. But since, like I said, the ‘net is down, cell phones are down, and you’re on generator power, it’s not gonna do you much good. Unless you want a look at my face, and I’m right here if you want a better glimpse.” Aria motioned for her two compatriots to get going.
The guard buzzed them in.
“Hello, Link Engineering. Yes, Aria is an employee. Yes, that’s correct. Of course. Uh huh. My manager? Hmm, call back in a few minutes, okay?” Alicia slammed the phone and cracked open a sugary-sweet energy drink.
The van was cramped, but Alicia made it work. It was parked next to a junction box, and she had hooked her gear into it like some sort of bizarre parasite. The van gave her all the access she needed.
Another hijacked phone rang. Alicia leaned down to grab it.
“This is White Cliff Penitentiary, how can I help you? No, there’s no problem at all. Nope, no need to send a repair team. No, I don’t know why the reports are saying we’ve got problems. Oh, could you hold on for a second? I’m getting a call on the other line.
Alicia just hoped she could keep this charade up for... seventeen more minutes. Hail began to pelt the roof of her van.
“Which way do we go, oh dear leader?”
Cinnabar stared at the folded-up map. It didn’t look quite as readable now that she was inside.
The pair had wasted five minutes walking around, hoping to find this hidden cell and the VIP. Five minutes of Aria buying them time at the front. Five minutes of Alicia keeping all the systems in disarray - including the humans on both ends of their little con.
“Mercury, I’m starting to think we should split up.”
“Fat chance.”
“I’m serious, Merc. Two people could explore faster than one.”
“We shouldn’t need to explore,” said Mercury in her slightly accented English. “You said you had a map.”
“A map’s not everything.”
“But you said you knew exactly where she’d be.”
The two were standing at the end of a long hallway. It ended in a blank wall.
“Well, this is where she’s supposed to be, okay?”
Mercury looked visibly rattled that their plan wasn’t going well. She tapped her earpiece. “Alicia, do you listen? We cannot find the VIP’s cell. Tell us please if there are other places that she might be.”
Cinnabar bit her lip. She could hear Alicia furiously typing and flipping through papers.
She brushed back her red hair and typed out a message to a friend. Then, she walked forward towards a camera.
Aria couldn’t keep this up. She was trying every approach possible with this desk guard. The whole time, she had been polite and earnest, but the veneer was running thin; the guard obviously was tired of having her time monopolized by Aria, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Aria was stalling - or at the very least searching for attention. Tales and personal anecdotes had run dry, and now the guard clearly wanted to get back to work. She merely lacked the vocabulary to ask Aria to leave in a polite manner.
Of course, Aria knew that the moment she left, the guard would be on the phone - either to call her superior or to call Aria’s “superior.”
Eventually, she put her foot down - literally - with the guard slamming her foot on the concrete floor. Aria’s lip twitched slightly.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have to make a phone call. You’ll just have to finish asking me about my career after this. All right?”
Aria stumbled. “Well, I did have one important - “
The guard was already grabbing the phone, dialing a number, and placing a finger to her lip, as though signaling to Aria to hush.
Alicia’s voice needled her companion. “Aria, there’s someone at the prison calling. Someone else. I - I - stall her! I’m getting overwhelmed here, there are a dozen different people trying to get in touch with me or the - just talk to her!”
Aria panicked. She pressed her body slightly against the plastic window. It was somewhat inappropriate, not to mention strange. “She’s busy!”
The guard behind the desk put the phone to her chest. She raised one eyebrow. “Who’s busy?”
“The - the Engineering team. My manager. Uh, our company. They’re busy.”
The guard let her eyebrows relax, then furrowed her forehead. “I thought you said that you were out of contact.”
Aria stuttered slightly.
The windshield of the van cracked. Alicia stopped mid-sentence. She was about to suggest some other way that Aria could delay the guards on-site when a single loud knock hit startled her.
She removed her headset and leaned forward. There was a visible hairline crack that ran from the center of the safety glass to the bottom edge.
There was no way that a single piece of hail could have created such a dent. Alicia could practically feel the gears turning in her mind. The woman turned her head to the back door just in time to hear movement. Someone’s fingers were grasping the unlocked handle.
Time moved in slow motion. Alicia had the mental capacity to wish for a sci-fi spy van, one with electrical nodes to shock unwanted guests. She had time to reach for the stun gun beneath the seat, rasping and sifting through electronics, empty water bottles, and finally realizing that it was underneath a different seat.
As the door flew open, Alicia had the time to realize her mistakes. She had time to see the guard’s wide form, the baton in his hand - one which had presumably been used to distract her with a smack to the windshield. She even had time to gulp, and had time to realize that she’d become a walking, talking trope. Alicia screamed and threw a cup of coffee at the assailant as he entered the van with a set of zip-ties and his baton swinging.
Mercury swore. She took the earpiece from her ear. Cinnabar did the same.
“Listen. Mercury. Let’s get out of here. We’ll take it slow. If we just leave in time, in tandem, we can say that we forgot something in the van. We can-”
Mercury put on a face of serenity for a moment, as though she were listening very intently before dropping all pretense and sprinting away.
“Merc! Hey! Come back! You - you - you don’t know where you’re going!”
Cinnabar swore under her breath. Her heart was racing, and she tried to contrast against the now-fleeing Mercury by walking as slowly and as casually as possible toward the exit.
Mercury found herself lost in the endless corridors. Right or left? There were no bright red signs that proclaimed ‘exit.’ She could hardly remember the way in, much less an alternate way out. She took a gamble and knocked open a door on her left - one that was, hopefully, a way out.
The woman was surrounded on all sides by other prisoners. Most of them wore orange jumpsuits, and a few of them wore less - undershirts and the like. Merc sighed. She moved slowly, throwing her hat to the ground and doing all she could to blend in. She panted heavily, trying to regain her breath and look like she belonged there. A few prisoners stared at her as she unzipped her jumpsuit and threw it to the ground, along with her hat.
Prisoners moved through the room, marching towards the exit. She’d filter back into the cell blocks, and from there...
“Next.”
Mercury was forced forward, with a few of the prisoners shoving her. “Put the new gal up first!” She found herself getting shoved along, pushed, and occasionally hearing sneers. She went with it, pretending to be another of the prisoners- albeit one that had lost her jumpsuit. A shove on her curvy rear, and Merc stumbled into the next room.
Alicia was bright red. Never before had she felt hands across her body. Not in this way. Not in these circumstances. She was being manhandled, in the truest sense. The guards had thrown open the doors and dragged her out, kicking in screaming. The coordinated effort to distract her had been completely successful, and she was now on her way to an uncertain fate.
They had been quick, rather than thorough. Her arms were behind her back, restrained with a basic pair of zip-tie cuffs. It was humiliating. She felt more like a teenager at a party gone wrong than some troubleshooter. They had repeated the process with a pair of cuffs around her ankles, though they were thicker and of a different, more sturdy design. There was something very medieval about it all. Alicia was being carried over the shoulder of one of the burly guards to a nearby car before being thrown in. With the way that she wriggled and the posing, it seemed like she was a maiden being grabbed by some barbarian.
Her wrists were snug against the zip-ties. Tossed into the backseat of a prison van, she tried to gain purchase or find something sharp enough to cut the ties. None of that was happening. Alicia sighed, staring through the metal grate separating the van's rear from the driver seat.
Through the grate, she could see the grounds of the prison. Alicia gulped, suspecting that she'd be seeing a lot more of it.
Aria didn't have the luxury of seeing her attackers. She was able to hear them, and unfortunately, feel them.
The guard inside the checkpoint must have pressed an alarm. It wasn't a silent alarm. It wasn't anything stealthy. It had shut the glass booth, sealing it with a metal shutter. The doors as well were now sealed shut with segmented metal. Aria hadn't had time to find them, much less investigate them. She simply felt around for a moment in darkness.
It was well and truly dark. Not in an emotional or metaphorical sense - not that she had the mind to contemplate the nature of 'darkness.' It was dark because there was a complete absence of light in the room. It felt darker than if she had her eyes closed. Instead, her eyes wide, she pawed around the room, hoping and searching that there might be some emergency release. The way that her eyes strained, desperate, eager to find some purchase or escape, made the room seem blacker than pitch. Loud, mechanical sounds blotted out her pleas and insistence that this was all a big mistake.
After thirty seconds of fruitless searching, she stood up to her full height. Her head bounced off something above her. Aria groped in the darkness, eventually standing up again and feeling something slightly sticky. There seemed to be a wide membrane descending from the ceiling. She scratched at it with her fingers. The whole substance felt thin, but as far as she pushed, she couldn't tear it.
A few seconds more passed. It continued to descend. If she knelt but sat up, her head would still poke at it. Aria started to sweat. The room wasn't that large. But surely this was an inefficient way to restrain visitors. She shouted and crawled to the walls, picking at the sides. She couldn't even find tracks or rails on which this was descending.
The sweat increased. She felt a lump growing in her throat. She was going to get packed up and sealed like a toy in a store. The membrane was lower now. She could barely crouch. Pawing at her toolbelt, she found a phone, but that did her no good - the reception seemed to have died, and Alice's van wasn't responding.
She couldn't even see the membrane, much less imagine it. It felt thin, rubbery, and stretchy. Obviously, she could rip it. She just had to try harder. Jumping to her feet, she pushed her black and red-dyed hair and head up against it. Her nails dug against the surface, but there was no give. She strained, trying to exert the most force possible... but the whole sheet just stretched around her.
Falling back, she landed on her rear. She couldn't even sit up without the stretchy stuff teasing at her hair and face! Breathing quickly now, Aria reached into her pocket, hands quivering, searching for something that might help her. Her hands searched her body and jumpsuit up and down, hoping that maybe there was a knife or flare or weapon or tool that she had carried in with her. Still lying on her back, she groped up and down the pockets and pouches all along her stomach and waist.
Her hands were still there when the membrane finally sealed shut.
She could breathe by expending some effort. But it was tight. It seemed to outline her perfectly. It reached the floor level, and it stuck to her. She wiggled left and right, but its sticky properties meant she was merely squirming on the floor. She gasped in air, making the membrane enter her mouth as she inhaled. Still breathable, but now it coated her teeth and gums. Aria lay on the floor, groaning and feeling warmth and pressure across her form. Be it claustrophilia or some wires in her brain gone wrong, she started to blush at the intense tightness. She wondered just how tight it was. Maybe it showed off her figure through the membrane. Maybe it just showed off her unflattering jumpsuit. It did adhere to her face like a second skin. Sat there in the tiny security booth for a few seconds more until the shutters opened and guards entered.
The membrane was pressed tight against her face. She wasn't quite sure what it looked like, but it must have been goofy. Her mouth was agape and her eyes closed. She imagined many of her features visible. This stuff was seriously tight! One of the guards pressed something to her face. Things were already dark. She quickly fell asleep.
Merc shuffled forward. Her feet were going to ache by the end of the night.
The dressing room operated like an assembly plant. Every step forward was another 'station,' and each station had another item assembled onto her form. First, she was stripped to the nude. At that point, she thought she was in the clear - the entire hallway seemed to be a shower or something, some kind of station for prisoners getting ready to go out to the yard. She hadn't really thought about the fact that there was a massive storm, or questioned why there was a yard at all. She was just glad to be anonymous. Sure, she'd be a prisoner, but it was better to be a temporary prisoner than to be hunted down by guards.
Then she had reached the second station, where a guard showed off the black leather. It was downhill from there.
She shuffled forward again. The buzzing sound indicated when to take a step forward. The process had taken something like fifteen minutes and ten stations. She knew exactly what the procedure was by the time she hit the third.
Red stockings went from her toes to her thighs, swallowing them like a snake. She looked down a few times, but was instructed to face forward. Zipped up and locked in place by a few straps, the stockings joined to a pair of boots. They went nearly as high, ending just below the knee. The heel forced her to prance around on the balls of her feet and her toes - there wasn't any point to rest on! And, when she did try to rest or crouch, she found herself swiftly punished.
A leather corset around her waist coupled very nicely with the padded belt around her groin. This much, she could see without craning her neck and risking a punishment. In fact, they had shown the device to her in detail before letting her wear it. She had pretended not to notice that the silver chastity belt contained a gently sloping pair of dots around where her bud would be. She also pretended that the curved probe would be sliding into her rear. She definitely tried to stay nonchalant when she saw the wide dildo, lubricated and with a few very visible electric nodes. She definitely tried to stay stoic when they slid it in, but let out a mewl as it penetrated her. She let out a second as her rear was suddenly filled. And, the first time she looked down - trying to see what was happening as they were locking the belt and corset was cinching tighter - let out a third moan when the dildo sent a tiny spark of stimulus up her body. It traveled from her core to her spine, making her twitch slightly and stand up ever-straighter.
It was important to stand up straight, as well, since the pony-paws and mittens didn't give her a lot of balance. By the time they were slipping the padded bit-gag between her lips, she just wanted to stay on the 'straight and narrow' as it were. No longer hoping to slip away in a few minutes, now she just hoped not to get another shock. A series of guards attached a feathered headdress to her forehead , and delivered a few firm smacks to her rear with a wooden paddle. She marched forward.
“One week as a pony, and it's back to your cell,” said a voice. This would explain why the cells seemed so empty... and why the structure had so many 'indoor recreation' facilities. Mercury was shuffled off to a wide interior space filled with fake grass and ponygirls milling about. It was practically a zoo. She was trying to avoid the attention of one particularly inquisitive guard when she first started to fall. An intense vibration erupted in her slit, and she knew she was going to get a lot of attention - fast.
I have information.
Cinnabar repeated those words to herself over and over and over. That was what she had said to the camera. She spilled her guts to that camera, telling it everything it wanted to hear and yet nothing at all. She was vague and honest, talking of a secret employer while also ignoring any hard facts. She pretended to be a mole, while also saying she was from another party. Whoever had the job of watching those cameras would, hopefully, be interested and confused enough to make her talk.
She didn't plan on rolling over on her friends, but she did want to stall for time. When the guards came and escorted her away, she thought she'd be going to an interrogation room. Maybe somewhere that she could spend a few hours putzing around, waiting for her own contact to get back to her.
Cinnabar was wrong.
She was bound, blind, deaf, and in deep, deep trouble.
The redhead had been surprised when they changed her into a bright orange neoprene catsuit. It was a far cry from the black-and-white prison uniforms of old, and it was also quite a bit different from the outfits she'd seen prisoners wearing. Certainly, their simple prison garb wasn't skin-tight. It didn't have nodules that monitored her vitals. Normal garb definitely didn't have strategically-placed slots to gain access to her breasts, her rear, or her womanhood. And she most definitely didn't remember seeing any prison jumpsuits with contact points for more gear.
The neoprene uniform seemed quite comfortable. That was important, since her arms were crossed in front her, around her stomach. Cinnabar's hands pawed uselessly at her sides. The straitjacket was, intriguingly, sleeveless; it was a mix between a traditional heavy-duty prison jacket, and a curiously fetishistic wrap. It had been zipped up, with every buckle and loop carefully tended to. There was no need for sleeves - it kept her in an extra-tight self-hug without all the extraneous moving parts. Besides, this helped remind her that there was no 'middle ground' of wearing the jacket but moving free. There were only two states - in her undersuit, and totally, heavily, completely bound.
'Completely' wouldn't be 'complete' without binding her head as well. They showed her exactly what they were going to do beforehand, never using words but displaying in exacting detail how each item would work. The internal gag that would swell up and inflate, with a few tubes for air and water. The pads that would cover her eyes, keeping her in perpetual darkness. The buds in her ears that would play white noise, or speech, or bizarre ASMR sounds. She wasn't quite sure why they showed that feature off. Then there was the thick leather hood, with two padded, solid panels on the outside. Maybe it was leather or iron, but it gave a lot of extra heft and a modicum more pressure against her eyes, and a lot more against her lips. She was already practically gagging on the inflated bladder. The padding against her lips made her feel very claustrophobic indeed.
A plastic posture collar kept her head mostly straight. It wasn't quite as brutal as she expected - it was padded, probably to meet some safety regulation. It also made certain that her thick hood wouldn't be coming off - not on its own.
They hadn't even asked her questions.
They said a few words over the speakers in her ear, but Cinnabar wasn't really paying attention. She felt herself being lifted onto a medical-style gurney. A sudden heat and increasing pressure as they slid her into a sleepsack. Unexpected warmth and a pungent odor as they heat-sealed it shut. They may have had questions for her, but she wasn't going to have answers. She tried a bit to sit up, but someone's gloved hand shoved her back onto the gurney.
The VIP had watched Cinnabar from the cameras in her office. She looked at her phone, noticing a few messages, then back at Cinnabar.
On the cameras, she was being wheeled down to the isolation wing. The prison did have a morgue, but it wasn't much in use. It had been repurposed now. Rather than a corpse, the two dozen slots on the wall were custom-built for intense isolation. Prisoners within them would be packed up, sealed, and kept very neat. A photograph of the prisoner interred within each sconce and strapped down to each slab was placed on the outside of the drawer, along with some information. Those that attempted break-ins were special cases. The VIP made sure each of them was very carefully labeled. She didn't want to get any of her collection mixed up.
A few staff gave the VIP some basic gym clothes - something comfy to wear after an intense session of play.
“They didn't even get to me,” said the VIP. “Nowhere near as competent as they advertised.”
Leaning back, she zipped up the sweatshirt. It was stretchy and simple, nothing like the ponygirl outfit she'd enjoyed earlier. The VIP silently wondered where the last member of their team was, musing that she might be hiding in a closet somewhere.
The VIP stared at the camera shot of the 'morgue.' Vital signs on all fifteen members of her collection were stable, except for Aria, who seemed to be enjoying it quite a bit, and Alicia, who was a bit fearful.
She looked down at her phone. There was a message from Cinnabar.
Anon client:
mission failure
couldnt find vip
being captured, will negot' for release
send another team for exfil
A smile crossed the left side of her face. There was room for a few more.