Finishing off a challenge from over at terrible minds this week: a cooperative challenge writing stories 200 words at a time. This story is one I started at the beginning of the challenges, so I thought I would give it a proper ending.

There are those whose crimes against women required a new punishment to be designed: Man-E-Quinning. It was an elegantly conceived justice; it both took their power and subjected them to the worst of men’s objectification.

The fake bodies were formed on current tastes, connected by a ingenious uplink to the prisoner. Almost true to a woman’s live form, they lacked the one essential part that would mean the perpetrators fully appreciated the negative societal experience. They were given enough sensation to know when it was unpleasant. To remove any possibility of identification, each inmate was given a new name.

Antonia was working the bar at a seedy nightclub, her one night off from the pole a week. If one more jerk touched her ass again, she was going to slug him. She didn’t care about the extra month of time. Something about a short skirt and a low blouse made every git think he was entitled. She watched Sienna slap the wandering hand of another customer as she put the drinks down. Blondes had it the worst here.

All of a sudden, every MEQ in the bar froze. The big red button at the Department of Corrections had been pushed.

Continued by Hank Petterson

Sienna was halfway up the pole when she froze, still clutching the pole with one hand and her left calf. As if in some demented Fellini film she slowly slid down the pole to the dance platform.

“Ah man she’s a fucking link…I tossed like three credits to a link.” The guy tried to reach onto the stage and take his chits back but the nano barrier had been activated once the alarm was pushed.

“Hey Barkeep I want three credits worth of drinks…this is wrong…says live girls outside you got links workin here…what gives man?”

“You got three minutes before vice gets here…I didn’t know they were links…you best shut up and scram…jerk ass.” The bartender replied to the greasy guy now heading out the bars entry.

The slang links was derogatory and factual…the convicts had a link or synapse that was missing or faulty and allowed them the justification to abuse women…almost primal ignorance that was found in the shallow end of the gene pool. They were also linked to vice squad and working as plants to ensnare more of their kind.

But there were problems with these men serving two masters…they were turning…revolting against who they were before.

Continued by A. Carina Barry

Antonia snapped back into the grim, dingy grey reality of her, no HIS prison cell. His mouth tasted dry and metallic, as if he didn’t take enough care of his real body while in the body of his Quin one. In the joint they called them Quins like twin or harlequin, the latter for the insane comic book character as much as an entertainer jumping at someone else’s whims.

Antonia, or more like Antoine, got up and felt his pants sag with filth. He really wasn’t taking care of his body while he was checked out, and apparently no one else was either. Of course not, no need to care about prisoners. There were more than a few judges and attorneys that cruised the nudie bars. Antoine was saving up their names and faces for the day he could get back a little of his own by revealing their dirty little secrets to the world. Oh yes, throw him in here for being a working-stiff looking to let off a little steam, but absolve yourselves of all responsibility. Money made the difference. Well, not for much longer. Antoine savored the image of them pleading and begging as they got their turn in the clink and in the Quins.

Back to wrapping it up…

Antoine stretched and walked unsteadily to his cell door. He leaned against it and it opened with an ear-splitting squeal. With curiousity, he stuck his head out, and noticed the sounds of commotion in the prison. Silently he sidled past empty cells and saw the flap of combat, two colours blending in the flurry of limbs.

He noticed that one of the warders was down in the corridor, slumped in his way. An idea occurred to him. With difficulty he dragged the officer to the eye-scanner at the door of the lab, dropping him like rubbish when the door hissed open.

Antoine crept to the laboratory where they were first joined to the links, searching out the machine. His eye lit on the technician’s foot, peeping from below the desk.

“Get me disconnected,” he growled, at the weedy man.

In a fluster, the technician fired it up. She twiddled the knobs and dials.

She turned to Antoine. “You’ll need to be strapped in so you don’t move during the neural realignment. You could become a gibbering mess.”

He nodded, and put himself into the appropriate position. The metal bands clamped, tightening painfully across the bones of his wrists, ankles, forehead and chin.

“You don’t recognise me, do you?”

Antoine tried to turn his head, but it was locked in place.  The tech hovered over him, her face close enough for him to focus on. A vague tingling at the back of his brain made him think he should recognise her.

Her laugh was low. “This is fair play turn about. What do they say…Sexual violence is about power?”

She strolled around him, sharp flicks of the buttons as she prepared the chair. Antoine’s heart hammered. He might die.

“Lucky I never got up the courage to report it. They’d never have let me in here.”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” she breathed in his ear, “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to turn you completely into that which you hate.”

Turning her back to him, typing into the computer she brought up the Quin brain image. “I’m just going to make this permanent.”

“But-” he spluttered, “I was gonna expose those high-end creeps. There’s judges.”

She turned, a look of pity on her face. Condescendingly she patted him. “You think they allow you to keep specific memories? No, just the pain and humiliation; as if that’s what being a woman is about.”

“But I want you to experience what women have for all their lives. One sentence is not enough.”

“Don’t worry,” her smile was crooked, “you’ll feel the mismatch between your physical body and what you perceive it should be only until your lawyer can show the Man-E-Quinning did it to you.” She hit a key and the machines started whirring to life.

“No,” he murmured. “You can’t.” He watched as she picked up her bag, her coat, heading to the safety of her office.

“No!” He was shrieking now. He struggled, but he was locked in. The last thing running through his mind as he went under with the anaesthetic injected into his arm was the girl’s face from a night in the clubs. Drunk as shit. Her face, white, trembling, and a pain in his jaw. His paw swinging and her, sliding to the floor. Stumbling out. He’d received better treatment as a stripper.

As he blacked out, he knew he’d brought it on himself.

This week, encouraged by Chuck Wendig, we’re continuing yet another story, a fourth part of an ever continuing story. Three other writers have created the story up to here, and I am putting the fourth of five parts on it. Enjoy! Addendum: Seeing as this didn’t get finished, I am going to add the last 200 words and finish it off! In italics

(First segment written by Jeremiah Boydstun [boydstun215].)

The soldiers carried the man across the narthex and through the nave. They lumbered along like some giant, wounded insect, three pairs of cold, stiff legs shuffling clumsily beneath a motley carapace of steel and leather. Close upon their heels, the master-of-arms was careful to avoid the hissing droplets of blood that the insect left in its wake. His sword was drawn.

At the end of the nave and standing at the foot of the chancel, the bishop held a gilded crosier at arm’s length as if to thwart the advance of the shambling mass making its way toward the altar. In his other hand he grasped a large silver crucifix. Despite his advanced age and diminutive stature, the crimson-robed bishop made for an imposing figure. “No further,” he whispered. The soldiers stopped, unsure of themselves. One of the men looked down nervously into the pale face of the man he carried while the other two turned their heads in askance to the master-at-arms. For several moments the only sound was the steady hiss of the blood as fell from the lifeless man and met the cold marble floor.

“It must be done here,” said the master-at-arms. “Take him to the altar.”

(Second segment written by Adrienne.)

The bishop moved aside, letting the soldiers scramble up the few steps to the altar. His crimson robes did nothing to shield him from the cold radiating from their frozen armor. The slick marble stairs proved difficult for the exhausted soldiers as they stumbled and fell under their heavy load. Grim-faced, the master–at-arms followed their procession, only sheathing his sword to offer aid in heaving the unconscious man atop the bare altar.

The soldiers scurried away, stealing a glance at the stone table before fixing their gaze on their snow-crusted boots. The master-at-arms moved to the side of the altar where the man’s head rested. His shallow breaths produced a faint mist in the cold air. Steady drops of blood from his mouth had already created a small pool that hissed quietly on the stone. The master-at-arms looked down at the man’s face, searching for any hint of the soldier he once knew, but finding only the thing he had become. A sharp intake of air through the pale, bloodied lips tore the master-at-arms away from his thoughts.

The bishop joined the master-at-arms. Two terrified altar boys carrying trays covered with vials, books, crucifixes, and various cutting tools followed closely behind.

“It is time.”

(Third segment written by Paul Willett [momdude])

The master-at-arms glanced at his men. “Stand ready,” he said, “if we fail, the abomination must not be allowed to leave this place.”

He took a heavy knife from an altar boy’s tray and began to cautiously cut through the frozen leather straps holding the man’s armor together. He was careful to jostle the breastplate as little as possible, each touch of it bringing a soft moan of pain from the dying victim. He studiously avoided looking at the gaping hole in the center of it, or the throbbing, writhing creature inside.

As the master-at-arms worked, the bishop began sprinkling holy water across the shuddering figure on the altar, murmuring prayers. He took a thurible from an altar boy, sprinkled incense over the coals, and circled the altar slowly. A thin, warbling chant escaped his lips.

When all of the armor save for the breastplate had been cut away and removed, the bishop retrieved the heavy silver crucifix and stood on one side of the altar, while the master-at-arms stood on the other and prepared to tear away the sundered steel. Their eyes met and the bishop gave a small nod.

A powerful woman’s voice echoed through the cathedral. “Stop!”

Part Four by yours truly

Her shiny boots clattered across the stone floor as her angry strides took her to the altar. “Master-at-arms! What were my orders?”

“To bring any compromised to the control centre, General.”

“Then why,” she asked through gritted teeth, “is this man in a church?”

“I wanted to save the soldier’s immortal soul, ma’am.” The softly flickering candles lit up the fervour in his eyes.

The muscles of her jaw tightened. She had been fighting her soldier’s ignorance since this war began, when the only way to fight it was with science. But she needed the compliance of her men to get the specimen.

Extending her arm around the shoulder of the master-at-arms, she kept her tone respectful. “I understand master-at-arms. Allow me to collect the creature and you sanctify our brother.”

From her pack, she withdrew the housing the scientists assured her would hold the parasite. She unscrewed the lid to the one way entry into the small tank. Tentatively, the master-at-arms pried back the breastplate, slick with blood. As the pressure lifted, the creature shifted, and pitiful screams tore from the semi-conscious soldier.

“Now!” The General commanded.

With a sucking sound, the master-at-arms plate lifted and the creature tried to escape. With a slurp, the tank’s suction pulled in the parasite.

The General closed the eyes of the fallen soldier, his body slack on the altar. Her voice soft, she turned to the master-at-arms, “He is in your care now.” 

From cowering in the corner, the priest returned to the side of the soldier, his eyes judgemental and hard. “This man dies for your war and you leave now, General?”

She whirled on her heel. “If we can devise a way to fight these…” she brandished the container with the worm, “…parasites, then there are many more lives I can save. This man’s death will not have been in vain.”

Checking the seal, she turned away from priest, “Besides, you are most qualified to deal with this soldier’s soul.”

The General left the church, the silence falling like a cloak behind her. She darted between the lines, briefly giving her troops encouragement. Every so often, she checked that the writhing of the worm continued. She was sure it could scent her close by.

She could see the entrance to the underground laboratory where the scientists toiled, just steps away. She couldn’t have seen the bullet that shattered the case holding the parasite. It was only when she felt the sluice down her side that she realised what had happened. 

“Shit.” The General stumbled toward the bunker, steps faltering. Soon the bug would take over her nervous system. She needed to get to them. 

Her toe caught on a crooked step and she stumbled, down the stairs, slamming into the door. 

The scientists opened the door to see her squirming in the dirt, blood leaking from her wound. 

She would never see the change in the tide of the war. But mankind would never have been saved without her.

Still following on with the challenges from Chuck Wendig. Our third week now, and here’s my third part to a great eerie thriller, which is as yet untitled, and I don’t know that it’s ready for it yet.

1/5 by Adrienne:

The trio looked at the fence in front of them. It was a simple chain link, but it had to be about ten feet high, and the razor wire on top added another two feet. He was expecting this, but he was not expecting to have two girls on his coat tails. He could take care of himself, now he was pretty sure they would all die.

Except for his heavy breathing and the muffled sobs from the girls, it was silent. The setting sun was hidden by an ominous sky, promising rain at any moment. He knew what happened when the rain came, so he needed to move fast. He surveyed the barrier one more time, but froze as the wind brought an all too familiar smell. He turned to face the direction they were running from. The trees edging the clearing began to sway as the wind picked up. He could hear the soft pattering of rain on the leaves. The air rushed out of his lungs as the storm descended upon them, bringing with it more than just wind and rain. The three had to move now or accept certain death.

They were coming.

2/5 by j:

He picked up one of the girls and hung her on the fence as high as he could reach. Then he did the same with the other. Knowing what was coming, he had to take a steadying breath before he started up. A lost moment was better than panic.

At the top, he threw his coat over the razor wire. It would help, a little.

He flipped himself over the fence. He’d taken some damage but it wouldn’t kill him. For a moment, he thought about leaving the girls. The things coming out of the woods would find the girls first, give him a bigger head start.

Shit. When had he gone soft?

He hung himself back over the fence. The wire tore into him but it was that or what was left of his soul.

He stayed as still as possible while the girls climbed over him. They were slow. The sun was probably already down but it was hard to tell with the storm moving in.

Where were they? Shouldn’t the damn things be on top of them already?

Finally, the girls were over the top.

He pulled himself off, ignoring what he left behind. Then he dropped down and pulled the girls off the fence.

My part 3:

What they had to do was find shelter, and fast. He didn’t fancy being out in inclement weather with these young girls and they were better off hidden from their pursuers. He could see a barn, edges blurred in the falling dark. Shelter and a hayloft to hide in were too appealing to pass up.

He set off at a slow jog, the girls struggling to keep pace, their tired feet dragging in the dirt. He made them go around the barn, through a stand of trees behind, and in through a smaller back entrance with a door that squeaked traitorously.

They waited until it was dark before slowly edging the huge barn doors closed. With a penlight that grew ever weaker, he showed them the way up to the hayloft, tucked them into some canvas and took watch. He would wake one to take his place so he could catch a few hours later. As a precaution, he pulled up the ladder.

An urgent tug on his arm and he was sitting bolt upright, straight from sleep. Wide blue eyes looked to him out of a terrified face. Beyond her, there was the squeal of a door on its hinges. Their hiding place had been discovered.

A new challenge over at terrible minds this week: a cooperative challenge writing stories 200 words at a time.

There are those whose crimes against women required a new punishment to be designed: Man-E-Quinning. It was an elegantly conceived justice; it both took their power and subjected them to the worst of men’s objectification.

The fake bodies were formed on current tastes, connected by a ingenious uplink to the prisoner. Almost true to a woman’s live form, they lacked the one essential part that would mean the perpetrators fully appreciated the negative societal experience. They were given enough sensation to know when it was unpleasant. To remove any possibility of identification, each inmate was given a new name.

Antonia was working the bar at a seedy nightclub, her one night off from the pole a week. If one more jerk touched her ass again, she was going to slug him. She didn’t care about the extra month of time. Something about a short skirt and a low blouse made every git think he was entitled. She watched Sienna slap the wandering hand of another customer as she put the drinks down. Blondes had it the worst here.

All of a sudden, every MEQ in the bar froze. The big red button at the Department of Corrections had been pushed.

To be continued…