The air in the training bay hits me first—dry, metallic, faintly antiseptic, but mixed with something sharper, coppery, like the lingering taste of panic.
I stand barefoot on the cold floor, gray jumpsuit clinging to my skin, ears ringing from the echo of last week's announcements in the holding bay.
The officer—a stocky man with a square jaw and hands that tremble slightly when he thinks no one's watching—steps forward with a collar in one hand, a short rod in the other. His eyes are calm but brittle, like glass about to crack.
This is my first conditioning session, and I already understand the language of this place: pain paired with obedience, hesitation punished, compliance rewarded—but not with comfort. With structure. With control.
"Stand still." He says. Not a request. Not a command, but the thin line between the two. A whisper of authority that carries shock in its weight.
I do not flinch.
I do not blink too quickly.
Every nerve is alert, every sense cataloging: the hum of the ceiling lights, the slight vibration beneath my feet, the faint scent of disinfectant mingled with ozone. It's intentional—the room is designed to keep you raw, aware, and predictable.
A spark arcs across the rod. My skin prickles without touching me. The officer is testing me already. Observing micro-reactions, subtle twitches, and adrenal responses.
The system doesn't punish mistakes; it predicts them.
They want control. Not correction. Pain isn't the lesson—they are.
I shift my weight slightly, testing the friction between the floor and my soles. Quiet. Smooth. Nothing visible. Invisible calculations. That's the only kind of defiance that survives here.
From the corner, I notice movement. Rowan. Calm, measured, almost too relaxed to be here. Hands folded behind her back, gaze soft but sharp. She doesn't step forward yet; she waits, watches. Observes the dance of authority before stepping into it.
The officer presses a button.
A hum rises from the floor. Pain blooms—sharp, a spike through my legs and spine—but it's brief. Controlled. Like electricity measured for tolerance. Most of the other youths scream, some stumble.
A few curl into themselves, teeth clenched, trying to survive. I grit my teeth, letting it pass. Observing. Remembering. Nothing is wasted here. Everything is leverage.
Pain isn't punishment. It's a signal. And signals are predictable if you know the code.
Rowan steps forward then, voice quiet but firm, threading through the metallic hum.
"Enough."
The officer's hand hesitates mid-air. His jaw ticks. A flicker of irritation passes across his face. He doesn't like being interrupted. Authority is fragile here, even when it looks unshakable.
"You're harming the subject beyond initial thresholds." Rowan continues, calm. Not arguing. Not pleading. Observing. Controlling. A single sentence, a single tone, and the officer backs down, muttering under his breath.
I notice it instantly.
Not just the effect Rowan has on the officer, but how the others in the room—my peers—shift slightly.
Relief ripples in small, unconscious gestures. Eyes flick toward her. Some straight to me. I catch the tension in their shoulders. They are hungry for someone steady. Someone unshakable. Rowan is that anchor.
I don't need an anchor. I need leverage. But she…she holds it effortlessly.
The next round begins. Pain, then the officer's rod tapping on my shoulder when I hesitate to respond. Quick, sharp. Not meant to injure, only to enforce rhythm, to train instinct.
I test it. Subtle twitch in my shoulder, almost imperceptible. The rod clicks against my arm. I flinch. He notes it. I note him noting it. Every micro-expression, every flick of muscle, every hesitation is data.
Resistance without leverage is wasted energy.
A boy across the bay yelps, collapses to his knees, begging. I watch him, calculating: his instincts are raw, unrefined. His fear makes him predictable, fragile.
Rowan intervenes again. A sentence, barely above a murmur, and the boy straightens, fear still present but focused. Rowan doesn't remove the pain; she redirects it. She guides instinct without forcing it.
I could learn from that. Or I could surpass it.
The officer grows impatient. He sharpens the voltage, the rod humming, threatening. Pain blooms along my spine, sharp, immediate, but I don't cry out. I can't. Not here. Not yet.
Control is not screaming. Control is silence with teeth clenched.
I feel it then—the shift in the room. The other youths mimic reactions instinctively. They learn from what they see, not from what they're told. Fear is contagious. Strength is contagious, too. Rowan radiates both. I measure it. I weigh it.
The session stretches.
Minutes bleed into each other, a rhythm of spark, hum, correction, guidance. Every sensory detail is heightened: the acrid scent of the room, the sting on my forearms, the hum of the ceiling, the metallic taste at the back of my throat.
I let the pain wash over, cataloging it, parsing it into patterns.
Pain is predictable. Fear is predictable. Only instinct can be refined into unpredictability.
Rowan leans closer mid-session, almost imperceptibly. "Watch, learn, but don't waste energy resisting."
I nod slightly, though the officer doesn't see. Only I feel the weight of her guidance. Calm. Calculated. Protective in a way that makes me trust her more than any words could justify.
By the end, my arms burn from repeated prompts, my legs hum from the controlled shocks, and yet my posture remains steady. My breaths are measured. Heart pounding, yes, but mind sharp.
Every twitch of muscle cataloged. Every expression of authority dissected. Every flicker of Rowan's calm control mesmerized.
This is structure.
This is control.
And this is the lesson: resistance without leverage is wasted energy.
The officer finally backs off, irritated and muttering. Rowan straightens, eyes sweeping the room. Not a word. Only observation. Only assessment. Her calm is more lethal than the shocks, more precise than the rods.
I feel it in my gut: a lesson deeper than pain.
Authority is not broken by defiance, nor compliance earned by suffering alone. It is manipulated, bent, and read. Survival comes to those who see the patterns, who recognize leverage when it steps into the room quietly, confidently, as Rowan does.
We are dismissed.
Feet heavy, muscles humming, I return to my bay.
The other youths trickle in behind me, silent, subdued. Some avoid my eyes. I don't look back at them. I cataloged their reactions already. I know their fear. I know their weaknesses.
I sit on the cot, hands pressed against my knees. The gray light above stabs at my vision, sterile and unrelenting. My arm itches where the spark brushed, the number 7-113 a quiet reminder of ownership.
Rowan follows moments later. She sits across from me, not too close, not too far. Silent. Calculating. Her presence fills the room without taking up space. I notice it—the way others unconsciously orient toward her, the quiet authority he wields.
"I don't need you to save me." I murmur, more to myself than to her.
"You'll never need saving if you control the leverage first." She replies softly. Calm, patient, almost teasing. Her eyes catch mine, and I feel something I can't name, but I note it anyway: trust. Calculated trust. Dangerous.
I nod. Internally. Externally, I maintain posture. Muscle memory, mental ledger, instinct primed.
Pain is temporary. Fear is temporary. Control—the kind that is earned, observed, and manipulated—is permanent.
And I intend to make it mine.
A light blinks on the panel in my bay. Footsteps approach the corridor. Someone new. Officer? Guard? Other asset? Doesn't matter. I already feel the rhythm of the building, the cadence of its steps.
Every pulse of the floor, every flicker of the fluorescent light, every echo is a note. I will write in them.
Resistance without leverage is wasted.
But leverage…leverage is power.
I lean back on the cot. Eyes open. Mind racing. Muscles tensed. Calm. Observing. Waiting. And somewhere, Rowan's quiet presence is a warning: structure can break you—or guide you. The choice is mine.