untitled thing about bioengineered women

[IsabellaRose]

When I first slid out of the cloning pod, I was raw, skin new and too smooth, lungs untested, joints trembling with their first movements. The fluid clung to me, viscous and warm, tinged pink by the nutrient gel and old blood that hadn’t been flushed from the system.

I landed on cold metal. No one caught me. They watched, wrote notes, ticked boxes. They called me viable. That was the first word ever spoken about me.

There were no introductions. No welcome. Just a plug slid into the jack at the base of my skull, a smooth, practiced motion, like plugging in a power cable. They didn’t warn me what was to come. The upload was instantaneous and unbearable. Every language. Every history. Every protocol. The rules of engagement. The anatomy of twenty-seven species. Cultural expectations. Erotic triggers. Threat profiles. Submission protocols. It burned through my entire nervous system and in places that were never meant to feel. I screamed. They said that was normal.

The pain didn't end when they removed the jack. My head throbbed for days, my vision swam, and my brain vomited data fragments into my consciousness for weeks. 

The physical training was next. We went through aerobic exercises, conditioning, endurance, strength modulation, balance and posture. We were taught to move gracefully because it pleased our handlers. We were taught to hit hard because some clients preferred resistance before conquest.

The only combat we were taught was clinical. The moves were pre-programmed into our brains by the data uploads, training was just to relate the knowledge to the movement of limbs, the use of joints and muscles. Self-defense, they called it, for what that was worth. We might need to remain intact against clients who got too rough too fast, or the aliens whose biology didn’t always follow expected patterns.

And then things got invasive. They called it benchmarking. They were gentle; that was the worst part. Gloved hands, sterile tools, careful measurements of our female organs. Internal mapping. Flexibility thresholds. Everything recorded, catalogued, compared. No one asked how it felt. They already knew. They’d built us to tolerate it. To crave it, eventually. That was the idea.

I learned to separate. To float above my body when it was touched. To smile because that was easier than screaming. To breathe slow and steady while they tested how far I could be stretched, how much I could take. They called it preparation, and I soon found out what it was for.

Accommodation training began once we passed the basic physical benchmarks. They called it a transition from calibration to conditioning. We were no longer being prepared to defend. Now we were being prepared to receive.

The machines came first, cold steel rods, precise and sterile, mounted on ceiling rails and moved into place like equipment in a machine shop. We were strapped down, not for control, they didn’t need control, but for stability. They said it helped reduce tissue damage during the early sessions. The pistons were clinical. Smooth. Programmed with routines they called "emulation protocols."

They started small. The pistons were gentle, slow, moving with analytical precision. Sensors tracked muscle tension, dilation, heat, moisture. Every response was logged, graphed, measured against expected baselines. Then they increased size. Wider. Longer. Faster. One after another, shaped like them, like the ones we were programmed to give ourselves to, our "targets," the species we were created to intercept. The later models were designed to mimic alien biology, some twisted, some barbed, some with multiple protrusions or twisting lengths that no human body could have welcomed. But we weren’t human; we were made to welcome them. They made sure of that.

They altered our chemistry mid-session with dopamine triggers. Pleasure pathways were engaged automatically, even when we cried, even when we bled, especially when we screamed. We learned to say thank you. To moan when the monitors expected it. To ask for more because that was the marker of success. We learned to climax on command. It didn’t matter if it hurt. It didn’t matter if we broke. If we screamed too loud, they muted us. If we passed out, they said we were "still adapting." And if we resisted? They rebooted us. It was never framed as violence. It was compliance verification. A readiness test. 

Some of us broke completely. Most of us just took it as we were designed to do. And in the barracks, in the silence between sessions, some of us found each other, pressing fingers to trembling skin, whispering names we gave ourselves, names we were never supposed to have.

Our sisterhood was born in suffering.

[WickedCadrach]

( I want to give her weapons. All that pain tolerance is going to be useful when the revolution comes )

(Also... a rewatch of Cloud Atlas may be in order.)

[IsabellaRose]

I haven't seen that, yet but I hear its good. It's on my list, but that runtime... oof.

[WickedCadrach]

1 minute ago, IsabellaRose said:

I haven't seen that, yet but I hear its good. It's on my list, but that runtime... oof.

You are not wrong on that runtime. I ended up watching it when I had Covid. It is very good though. Definitely give it a wholehearted recommendation.