Consensual. The word is a joke. As if any of the people about to perform truly consented to being here.
"We have five presentations this evening," Victor continues. "Each will demonstrate a different aspect of acquisition training. Please hold your applause until all presentations are complete."
He sits.
The lights dim everywhere except on the platform.
The first presentation begins.
A man in his fifties leads a young woman onto the stage. She's in lingerie. He puts her through a series of positions—kneeling, presenting, various poses designed to display her body.
She's graceful. Obedient. Shows no hesitation.
The audience watches with the detached interest of collectors evaluating art.
When it's over, she kneels at his feet. He pats her head like a dog and they exit the stage.
The second presentation is worse. A couple—man and woman in their forties—with twin acquisitions.
Two girls who look identical.
Sisters, maybe.
Definitely not older than twenty-two.
They're made to kneel facing each other.
Made to kiss while the audience watches.
Made to touch each other.
I feel Eden trembling beside me.
"We can leave," I whisper. "Right now. We don't have to watch?—"
"No. I need to see. Need to understand what you're saving me from."
The twins are made to perform a choreographed display of submission.
Kneeling in mirror positions.
Touching each other at their owners' commands—nothing explicitly sexual, but intimate enough to be invasive.
Meant to demonstrate synchronized obedience. Perfect training.
They move like dolls.
Expressionless. Mechanical.
Whatever they were before the Consortium got them is gone now, replaced with this hollow performance.
When it's over, they exit the stage holding hands, neither looking at the audience.
The only sign of humanity between them is that desperate grip—two people clinging to each other because they're all each other has left.
The third presentation is oral sex.
A woman in her thirties with a male acquisition who can't be more than twenty-five.
