Bihlah’s Dissent - Cranky_Tanky - The Handmaid's Tale (TV) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Pilot

Chapter Text

Charles got pushed into the room and almost fell down the few short steps, trying to contain his shakes. They were in some kind of classroom, with pale yellow-white walls and tile floors. Rows and rows of desks sat angled perfectly facing a powerpoint presentation. The woman who was giving the presentation said something to them, waving them inside. She was wearing a brown uniform with a harsh belt across the middle and a long brown jacket over top. Charles couldn't really hear what she was saying. Just that she was telling them to “sit down” and was calling them “girls”. Behind him, a huge woman bristled against the hands knotted in her hair to drag her along. Charles fumbled his way to the desk -- a schoolchild’s desk -- and sat like a dog. The big woman got thrown into the seat next to him, where she growled and snapped her teeth.

“Quiet down, young lady!” the woman in the front shouted, approaching. When the big woman did not, in fact, quiet down, the presenter backhanded her hard across the face and jammed a cattle prod into her neck. Charles flinched, eyes wide as he stared at what was happening literally at his feet. This wasn’t real. There was no way this was happening. One moment, he’d been packing his stuff up from his office and cussing Steven up and down as he was escorted out, and the next government agents were breaking down his door and tossing his place, dragging him out of it by the armpits. He was told he was getting culled because he was a “woman” professor and a psychiatrist, but then he was told that they weren’t actually going to kill him and that he had a better purpose. Charles watched the woman next to him, watched her big body crunch up. She cried out. Toppled over like alphabet blocks. Three soldiers hauled her up to her feet as another woman in brown escorted them into a back hallway. Opposite the stairs. When the door opened, Charles could see back hallway and a stairwell, as well as a door further back. The door swung shut with a crunch. Muffled voices crept under the crack.

“Don't you put your hands on me, you goddamn c*nt!” SMACK!

A second later, the doorframe shook just a tad with a THUD. Muffled chaos erupted. A body fell to the floor. Got dragged off. Neither the big woman nor the lady in brown came back inside, but one soldier did. Oh, god, did she get killed or something? They hadn’t been shy about putting down troublemakers on the way over. What the hell was even happening? Martial law and suspension of the Constitution was one thing, and jackbooted thugs up and down the street was another, but rounding up “gifted” women (“women”) and bringing them to some kind of education camp was a whole other level.

“Eyes forward!” the presenter woman barked, smacking the table in front of Charles with the baton. The loud BANG made him nearly jump out of his skin, heart pounding. His ears rang with it. “Where are your hands supposed to be?”

Like a naughty child at supper. He half expected her to pull out a ruler as well. Charles quickly put his hands on the desk in submission and looked forwards at the screen. Best not to cause trouble for the moment. The presenter went back to her slides. “You all have been given a wonderful opportunity,” she gushed. Charles risked a glance around. The ones who had been brought in with him were all in plainclothes, but everyone else sitting at their desks were in some kind of uniform. Red gowns with white caps. Hair pulled into a bun underneath. Charles still wasn't convinced this wasn't all some horrible dream. He’d hit his head somehow and this was what his brain was concocting to mess with him. He pinched the bruised spot on his forearm. Of course, he didn't wake up. Never did.

Orientation took all day. If he was entirely honest, he didn’t hear a word. They were giving him some kind of job, some kind of duty, and it had to do with something about birthrates. He got given a thin linen shift, made of white fabric. Got escorted to an iron bedframe in a room full of iron bedframes. The bed next to him stayed empty.

“Lights out,” another woman dressed in brown -- Charles learned they were called Aunts -- said, then shut them into the darkness.

Charles wasn't sure how long he laid there, trying to force sleep. But the doors opened and stumbling footsteps dragged across the floor. Two soldiers supported the woman from earlier by the shoulders as her head lolled. A huge bandage stretched across her face, splotched with red over her right eye. They laid her down in the bed and she went. She'd already been outfitted with a linen shift. It wasn’t as baggy on her as it was on him, and came down to her mid-thighs. The camisole straps dug into her big, meaty shoulders.

“Are you alright?” Charles asked, whisper harsh in his throat. “What happened?”

“If my right eye offends thee, pluck it out,” the woman whispered back. “You don't need an eye to be bred like cattle.”

“I'm so sorry,” Charles responded. Bred? He didn’t hear that right. No shot he heard that correctly. After all, they were prisoners, but they were still humans.

The woman grinned a savage, toothy smile. “But that bitch won’t ever put hands on me again.”

“What's your name?” He desperately reached out between the beds and she reached too, their hands meeting between the bed and interlocking. His arm had to stretch further than hers.

“Francine,” she answered, squeezing his hand. “Call me Frankie. You?”

“Charles,” he whispered back. “What did you do to her?”

“I slapped that heifer stupid,” Frankie gloated, crooked grin partially obscured by her bandage. Her hair was sheared short, the same clipper gauge all the way around. “She spun a hundred and eighty degrees and whacked her eyebrow off the doorframe. Blood everywhere. They beat the sh*t out of me for it and ripped out my eye, but it was totally worth it. I’m not some f*cking… broodmother and they can’t make me one.”

“Holy sh*t,” Charles whispered, mouth hanging open. He had to clamp down on a laugh before it could escape. “Holy sh*t.”

They talked into the night, until sleep pulled at both of them. What only seemed like minutes later, the lights came on with a bang like a flashbang grenade, startling both Charles and his new friend awake. The blood under Frankie's bandages had gone brown. It looked disgusting in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

“Breakfast time, girls,” the Aunt at the light switches called, having flipped them with the side of her cattle prod. “Up, up, up you get.”

Frankie got up first, and there were clothes at the end of her bed. Charles’s too. That same blood-red dress the others were wearing, with a white fitted cap on top. Red slip-on flats.

“What in the hell is this?” Frankie muttered, holding the dress up. Her hands were fumbling as she tried to adjust to half her vision being gone. It had full sleeves that came to points over the back of someone’s hands and a round neck. A middle waist sash was also in the pile. The dress had a single waist seam meant to sit at the wearer's natural waist or higher, and two side seams under the armpits on the bodice. “Oh, hell no. What in the hell is this — scarlet letter ass…”

Another Aunt was pacing the rows of beds. She had no cattle prod on her belt. An older Aunt glared at her and scolded her about something, and the first Aunt just giggled and shrugged. “Sorry, Aunt Kimberly, I forgot it in my room. I'll go get it in a minute!”

As she walked, she scanned the room. Eyes locking on to Frankie and Charles, she weaved her way over through the sea of iron beds, smiling. “Good morning, girls,” she greeted warmly. “Need a minute to get changed?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned around to call to the Aunt leading the breakfast shuffle. “I've got a couple girls who need to get changed, I'll bring them along in a moment!” Then, she turned back to Frankie and Charles. “Now then. Go ahead. Quickly now! You don't want the best food to be gone when you get there. The Marthas made blueberry pancakes to celebrate new arrivals!” She beamed. “My name is Aunt Leelah. I think we're going to be great friends, girls. Or at least, I really hope so!”

Frankie furrowed her brow, looking around. “Is there… a changing room?” she asked, looking around.

“Oh, no need.” Leelah waved a hand and made a silly scoff, looking up to her left as she laughed. “We're all girls here, right? It's nothing we all haven't seen when looking in the mirror.”

Right, Charles thought, heart pounding. All girls here. Definitely no men.

“Except that we have a human right to privacy, and I'd like to exercise it,” Frankie argued, sitting up a little straighter.

Leelah smiled, and then sat on the bed next to Frankie. “Look,” she said, as if they were just friends kiki'ing amongst themselves. “Cards on the table, we could make the trek all the way to the bathrooms and aaallll the way back to the cafeteria, but then you would miss breakfast, and I don't want that for you, no? And surely you don't want that for your friend, do you?”

Frankie glanced at Charles. Then back to Aunt Leelah. Charles had already put on his dress over his shift, and was getting the bonnet situated. He was hungry, honestly, and as long as he didn’t have to take off the shift, he didn’t care about putting the dress on in public. Frankie sighed through her nose and started putting her dress on. It stretched over her big form and the full skirt hung to her ankles, the sleeves covering all the way down to the backs of her hands.

Leelah beamed and clapped, quietly. “Good girl,” she praised, getting up. “Oh, I'm saving you an extra blueberry pancake. What's your name, sweetie?”

“Frankie,” she said slowly, and Leelah wrinkled her nose.

“Is that short for something?” she asked.

“Francine,” Frankie grunted, getting the dress over herself. Leelah stepped in to fit the cap on her head. It was roughly triangular, cinched at the nape of the neck and folded over at the front, doubling it up. Kind of like an Amish kapp. “Named for my father. Francis.”

“Oh, that's so lovely.” Aunt Leelah leaned forwards and brushed a thumb over Frankie's bandages. “We should change these after breakfast.” Then she turned around and evaluated both of them, smiling. “Well, don't you both look picture perfect! Good job, girls. Come now, off to breakfast. Follow me!” She hopped up and started walking, leaving Frankie and Charles no choice but to follow along behind.

“Hey, listen,” Frankie argued, voice breathy from her long strides. Since she was so tall (had to be 6 feet at least) and so stocky, she ate up the ground beneath her and came to walk shoulder to shoulder with Leelah. “This is illegal detainment. I can count the number of human rights violations on both my hands and feet and still need appendages to keep track. Even if the Constitution and rule of law is suspended, you’re still subject to international laws and sanctions. So what happens if I start getting chummy with international journalists? What then, Aunt Leelah?”

Aunt Leelah stopped. Charles almost bumped into her back, startling him. Aunt Leelah turned to face Frankie, still smiling. “Francine,” she said. “What did you do before?”

“I was a civil rights lawyer,” Frankie said, standing a little straighter and holding her chin a little higher. “Youngest partner in the city and a case record that won awards. And I worked my ass off for it. Gunning for the ACLU.”

“And you, darling,” Aunt Leelah asked, turning to Charles. “What did you do before?”

“Doctor Charles Rung,” Charles said slowly. “Psychiatrist.”

“Those were your old lives,” Aunt Leelah nodded, smile still on her face. “Your old identities,” she elaborated, looking at Charles. “You both have been granted a divine favor, allowing your services to be used here to atone for your sins.”

“What services?” Frankie snapped. “What sins?”

“Our wombs,” Charles said, blood going cold. He suddenly got what that presentation was about, and he definitely hadn’t heard Frankie wrong earlier. They were here to breed. At least I don’t have to worry about it, Charles thought in a daze. That’s been gone for years. “We're surrogates.” Whatever the hell kind of Godly turkey baster they were planning on using, at least it would be over quickly and produce nothing for him.

“You are Handmaids,” Leelah clarified cheerfully, beaming. “God has chosen to give you redemption for your gender treachery and allowed you a chance to serve Him in the most humble way. It is my job to shepherd you down the path and make sure you don't go astray.” She was still beaming, but no teeth showed. She nodded quickly. “And I take my job very seriously! I love you girls. You are our future. To shape the future, we must forget the past.” Her smile dropped a little. “If we can all follow the rules, we will have a lovely time together. But if we decide to start being naughty, I and the other Aunts will have to punish you.” She reached forwards to brush a thumb over Frankie's bandage, tutting when Frankie jerked her head back. “And I don't want to do that,” she finished. “I want us to be friends. I want you girls to graduate from our class as well-adjusted, model Handmaids that do us Aunts proud, and go to your families ready to do your divine duty for our nation.”

She sighed, and gestured. “Now. Breakfast? It won't last forever.”

They followed her without comment this time.

They may have been part of a theocratic coup, but damn if they didn’t know how to serve a good breakfast. All the Handmaids in training — now, all of them in red dresses and white caps — sat at long tables in a cafeteria. Food was piled down the middle of the table for them to grab, so Charles loaded his plate. He was expecting someone to chastise him for overeating, but instead they smiled and encouraged him to eat his fill. Frankie was wolfing down food next to him, inhaling it like she was a Hoover vacuum cleaner. She must have been starving, she didn’t eat lunch or dinner yesterday from what Charles saw. She had clearly big muscles under her fat, which had to have been burning energy like a furnace.

Charles dared to add more eggs to his plate, to refill it.

”Make sure you’re getting some of these, too,” Aunt Leelah chirped, coming up behind him and grabbing a serving spoon full of steamed mixed vegetables, piling them onto his plate. “Need to eat a balanced meal, remember.”

”Hey, lady?” Frankie said through a mouthful of pancake. “We’re adults, we know how to fix our own plates, thanks.” The other Handmaids at the table all stared back and forth between them, faces tight with anxiety.

Aunt Leelah giggled and then crouched so she could look Frankie in the remaining eye. “I know that, silly,” she brushed off, patting Frankie’s cheek. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just some help, right? Besides, some of your friends aren’t as enthusiastic as you are, so they might be feeling a little like they shouldn’t be eating that much. Let’s consider others’ feelings as well as our own, okay?”

”Get out of my face,” Frankie whispered to her, brown eyes stormy. “That’s not the problem here and you know it.”

”I’m really going to need you to stop causing so much trouble,” Aunt Leelah smiled, squinting her eyes shut and tilting her head. “Or the next body part we’re going to hack off of you will be your tongue.”

The table went deathly silent after that. Satisfied, Aunt Leelah stood up and walked away as Frankie stared after her, chewing slowly. Swallowing her mouthful, she turned back to the breakfast table and kept devouring her plate. Nobody was very talkative for breakfast after that.

Then, it was “class” time. Orientation yesterday had apparently not been a fluke. They all sat at desks facing a powerpoint and the same woman from yesterday — Aunt Lydia — stood at the head of the class. “Pay attention, girls,” She chided, pointing at the projector screen. It had a map of “The Family” on it, with Patriarch (Commander, Angel, Professional) at the top, then down and to the right they had Wife. Between and under the two, there was Driver, Martha, other Staff. Then at the very bottom, there was Handmaid. “This is very important. When you are assigned to a household, you will take the name of your patriarch. This is to cement your place in your new family and remind you of your place in life. You are never, ever to be alone, unless you are bathing, using the bathroom, or sleeping. And you should never be alone with your patriarch without his Wife present!”

Next to him, Frankie was zoning out at her desk, all of a sudden looking sad and wistful. Charles knew the expression. Grief.

”Although you are at the bottom of the chart, you are just as important as the Commander in your own way,” Aunt Lydia reassured, pacing around. “You are the one who will be growing and nurturing his children inside of you, to do your divine duty for Gilead and bring forth beautiful, healthy children. But although you are just as important, you must never forget that you are nowhere near his rank. You are at the bottom for a reason. A house needs a sturdy foundation or it will crumble, just as it needs a strong roof to shelter it. Between the two, the walls can hold up the house and the implements give life ease and comfort. So long as every part of a house fulfills its role, God will bless them with peace and prosperity.”

”Pay attention,” Aunt Margaret hissed, smacking Frankie’s desk in front of her face. Immediately, the butch snapped out of her daydream and half-charged at the Aunt out of her seat, remaining eye filled with fire. She’d gotten her patch replaced. Instead of wrapped bandages, it was a single bulky patch taped over her eye. Despite the reminder of what would happen if they stepped out of line, the fierceness in Frankie’s face gave Charles hope. A reason not to give in. They were under the boot, but they could push back.

His conviction solidified when Aunt Margaret flinched back from Frankie. They stared each other down like two cats on the street, and Margaret was quickly un-puffing her tail and trying to look away.

“Something the matter, Francine?” Aunt Lydia called pointedly.

“No, Aunt Lydia,” Frankie answered, staring down Aunt Margaret. “Just almost fell is all.”

Lydia looked to Margaret for confirmation. Most surprisingly of all, Margaret gave it, backing up Frankie’s lie. Probably didn't want another slap like the one Frankie had given her yesterday.

“Well, be careful, then,” Lydia said -- Charles wasn't really paying attention. He was too busy looking at the results of Frankie's handiwork on Margaret. The Aunt's face was bruised on both sides, and she had a black eye. Like she'd gotten the beating of her life, but Charles remembered the single slap from yesterday. His jaw swung on a hinge and he made eye contact with Frankie, desperately hoping she would pick up on his silent question. You did that?

In response, she gave him the most smug smirk he'd ever seen in his life and nodded.

The shocked giggle slipped out of him before he could catch it. He tried to catch it with his hand after it left his throat, but no dice. Margaret whipped around and honed in on him, raising her arm back to beat him. He cringed, putting an arm up to block the blow and turning his head, heart pounding.

There was a sound of skin hitting skin, but the blow never came down. When Charles risked a glance, Frankie had half-gotten out of her seat again to catch Margaret's wrist, squeezing it so tightly her dimpled knuckles were white. Her huge, red-clad form was hunched up like a tiger about to pounce. “You need to stop putting your hands on people, you fat cow,” she snarled under her breath. Charles felt faint from vicarious giddiness. Hell yeah, put that bitch in her place. “Or I'm going to have to tell all these other people about that… unfortunate thing I did to your face.”

Aunt Margaret decided that this was a bridge too far, because she grabbed her cattle prod with the other hand and jabbed Frankie out of her seat. As she kept jamming it into Frankie's chest and throat, Charles could see the angry red snakebite burns forming from the double prongs. He jumped up to help her, but Aunt Lydia stormed over, spearing him back into his seat with a look as she came to stand by Aunt Margaret. He had to crane to see between them as they finally slacked off. It left Frankie panting raggedly on the floor, covered in small burns.

“What's going on?” Aunt Lydia asked, steely.

“Nothing, Aunt Lydia,” Frankie rasped.

“We mustn't lie,” Aunt Lydia chided. “Lying is for naughty little girls who don't want to keep their tongues. What. Happened?”

Frankie didn't say anything that time. Just stonewalled them.

“She grabbed me,” Aunt Margaret said, showing Aunt Lydia her wrist. Yeah, because you were about to hit me. “And called me a fat cow.” Because you are one. Bitch.

“Well, now,” Aunt Lydia sighed, turning back to Frankie. “I see nobody has taught you manners. I think Aunt Margaret deserves an apology, don't you?”

Frankie said nothing again. Just stared hatefully at them. Yes. Yes. Yes. Don't give them a god damned thing, Frankie.

“Don't. You?”

“I am sorry,” Frankie ground out, making eye contact with Charles through the gap in the Aunts. The expression on her face fell into compliance, and Charles felt his own face fall a bit. He supposed it was too much to hope for. Or even expect. That she would keep fighting for his silent, vicarious enjoyment. Put herself in danger like that for his will to go on. “I am sorry…” she tried again. Something in her face changed, like the hot burning coals in her eye were glimmering again. Her eye flicked from Charles to Aunt Margaret, staring her down from under her eyebrow. She rushed out, “... that you are a vindictive big-backed heifer who thinks beating women is Godly!”

The room erupted into gasps from the other Handmaids, as whispers caught like wildfires from those hot coals. Charles watched the way Aunt Lydia surveyed the room, taking in the way Frankie's display was affecting the others. She leaned down, grabbed Frankie's untagged ear, and hauled the butch up to her feet. Then Aunt Lydia was dragging her. Pulling Frankie into stumbling steps to keep up, as Lydia called over her shoulder, “Come along, girls! We're taking a little break!”

The other Aunts rounded up the class to follow the pair. Charles was at the front, heart pounding as he watched Frankie struggle and stumble, face all twisted up in anger and pain. God, she's about to rip Frankie's ear clean off!

They marched past the sleeping quarters and all the way down to the showers. There were no stalls in the showers -- just one side of the room re-tiled in red tile with a lip separating it, to cover the bare patches in the wall from the yellow-tiled stalls that had been there. Showerheads were lined up evenly. Under the showerheads, small trays with soap had been bolted into the tile.

Aunt Lydia marched Frankie over to a showerhead and picked up a dripping bar of soap. Oh my god, no she isn't. She is not about to do that. “Girls who have foul mouths should have their mouths washed out.” With that, she fed Frankie the soap bar and started scrubbing the butch's mouth out with it. Charles gagged in sympathy as Frankie cried out and gurgled through the suds leaking out of her mouth. They frothed and frothed as she tried to twist her head away. Then she started to gag and cough, snot and tears running down her face. Jesus, Lydia's going to choke her to death with soap! “You must learn, Francine, that you are not in charge anymore,” Lydia ordered, barking voice echoing and bouncing off of the tile in the bathroom. It made her seem larger, like she was everywhere. Surrounding them from all sides, judging their every move, every thought, every breath. “You are a Handmaid now. It is your job to be pure and Godly and provide our Commanders and Wives with healthy babies! Not to mouth off to your betters!”

Another Handmaid slid their hand into Charles's and he squeezed without looking, silently thankful for their squeeze back. All the spectators were deathly silent. Frankie coughed again and sprayed out soapy spittle, but Aunt Lydia didn't seem phased. She just took the soap out and took her hand off Frankie's ear to let the butch curl over the drain and cough. Then Frankie started to gag, and then she started to retch. Her entire body heaved as she vomited soap and breakfast up. Charles closed his eyes and fought off a gag himself. Judging from the groaning and breath-holding behind him, there were a few more sympathetic pukers in the crowd. Frankie kept vomiting until her stomach was empty and she was on her hands and knees in front of the drain. Sweat, snot and spittle dripped from her disheveled face.

“What do we say, girl?” Aunt Lydia chided.

“I'm sorry,” Frankie choked out. When Aunt Lydia nudged the cattle prod towards her in a silent threat to elaborate, Frankie's remaining eye squinted as she recoiled away from it like a skittish dog.

“Sorry for what?” Lydia asked.

“I'm sorry I called you a fat cow,” Frankie coughed at Aunt Margaret. She still looked rather green in the face and the bathroom smelled like soap and vomit, which was a horrible and nauseating combination. “And a vindictive big-backed heifer.” Charles fought off a smile. Atta girl. Don't stay down for long. Always get back up. No matter how many times they knock you down.

“Will you do it again?” Lydia challenged.

“N-no,” Frankie managed, gagging. “I promise I won't call you those names again.” Charles wanted to grin so badly. More malicious compliance. If you can't beat ‘em, get ‘em to thank you for insulting them.

Aunt Lydia immediately broke into a matronly smile worthy of a painting of the Virgin Mary and helped Frankie up, petting her face. The side with the fresh eyepatch. “There we go. Isn't that better?” She turned around to the other Handmaids. “This is what happens when you mouth off,” Aunt Lydia shouted, her voice bouncing off the tiled walls again. All sweetness gone. “Pay very close attention, girls! You would do well to take this as an example!”

She checked the clock. “It's time for lunch,” she decreed. “Head to the cafeteria. We'll resume after lunch, girls.”

As Charles stood there, waiting for Frankie, Aunt Leelah came to pull him along by the wrist. “Come on, lovie. Come on.”

“N-no, no, I want to wait for her,” Charles insisted, taking a couple of steps before he planted his feet.

“She's going to be busy, come on,” Aunt Leelah insisted, pulling him along. “She needs to finish learning her lesson. Let's go be with the other good girls, alright? Get something good to eat.” She pulled him into the hallway and started to pull him along behind the sea of red in front of them. Charles thought of Frankie. That burning coal in her eye. Her standing up again and again and again to say enough. I'm not an animal and you can't treat me like one. Not without the fight of your life.

“No,” Charles said louder and stood still, surprising himself. “No, I'm going to wait for my friend.”

Leelah turned her head around. His arm was stretched out in front of him while hers stretched out behind her, locked together by her hand on his wrist. Leelah narrowed her eyes. “Oh, please don't let her get you into trouble, lovie.”

“There's nothing wrong with waiting for her,” Charles insisted, heart pounding. Frankie's been brave. It's your turn, Charles. Even if she won't see it. A step today, a leap tomorrow.

“You are supposed to be following your class to lunch,” Leelah said lightly. “Not loitering around in the hallways. You might miss it, I don't want that. I don't think your friend would either, lovie.”

“You won't let me miss lunch entirely,” Charles heard himself say, head swimming. “You want us to eat so we can stay healthy. Meals are the one thing in this place devoid of punishment.”

“Oh, you don't know how wrong you are, dear,” Leelah said. “Although we want you to eat, there are many ways getting nutrition into you can be a punishment. I don't want you to have to find out what they are.”

“You don't carry a cattle prod!” Charles rushed out, sweaty. “You can't make me do sh*t!”

Leelah slapped him. Hard, against his ear. It made his ears ring and made him dizzy. Sent him stumbling. He tried to regain his bearings and yelped as she started dragging him by the wrist, even as he dug his heels in and threatened to pop his shoulder out of its socket. She just said nothing, hauling him along with a deceptively strong grip. Her brown capelet fluttered in the hallway breeze. She dragged him, completely silently, all the way down the hall and to the cafeteria, shoving him inside. “Your friend is a troublemaker,” she insisted. “I'm not going to have you encouraging her just as Aunt Lydia's finally getting some good progress out of her. Go sit down. Now.”

Charles looked around, sighing. Then he crept over to a table that had empty seats, sitting down in one and helping himself. Before he took a bite, he paused. She said he had to sit down, not that he couldn’t wait for Frankie to get there to eat.

He put his fork down and waited.

“Aren't you gonna eat?” A girl asked. She looked heartbreakingly young to be here. “Not hungry after that? I'm feeling a little sick too…”

“No, I'm just waiting for her,” Charles said, keeping his hands on the table. “That's the last seat, so I want her to know that I tried to wait for her and I didn't just — abandon her.”

The young girl put her fork down. “Oh, wow — that's really sweet. I wish I'd thought of that.” She didn't pick her fork back up. “I'm gonna wait too.”

“What are we waiting on?” Another woman further down asked.

“Francine got left behind with Aunt Lydia,” the girl explained. “So me and Charles are waiting for her to get here and sit down before we eat so she knows we're here for her.” Suddenly flushed, she turned back to the middle of the table and spooned some more vegetables onto her plate to hide the obvious bites taken out of her sandwich and the fact that she'd clearly been eating the veggies. “Hang on, just gonna cover this up…”

The other woman put down her fork too. Seat by seat, every woman at that section of the table put their forks and sandwiches down, and waited. Charles felt his mouth open just a tad. Wonderment and warm, fuzzy surprise welled up in him. He linked hands with the woman to his left and to his right, who in turn linked their hands to their neighbors. Soon, everyone who wasn't holding a fork or a sandwich was holding someone's hands.

“Thank you,” Charles said gravely, tearing up as he smiled. “Thank you all.” He risked a glance over his shoulder. The Aunts were peering at them, but must have thought they were praying or something because they didn't investigate. “Frankie stands up for us,” he said, watching them nod along. “Now it's our turn.”

Frankie walked in just a minute or two later with wet hair. Upon seeing the only empty seat, she came over and sat down, looking around. “Nobody’s hungry?” she said quietly, looking defeated.

“We waited for you,” the younger girl said, beaming as she started to eat again. One by one, everyone around Frankie started eating once more.

She looked back and forth, expression relaxing into awe and delight and love. The fire in her eye flickered like a hearth. “You guys didn't have to do that,” she whispered, tears beading up. “Not for me.”

“Don't thank me, thank Charlotte,” the young girl said, pointing at him. “It was her idea.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” Frankie said, staring Charles down. Then she looked around, at everyone. “Thank you, all of you.” Finally, she loaded up her plate and started trying to eat. The content expression quickly faded as she tried to eat but really couldn't. She looked over her shoulder at the Aunts, still monitoring the table.

“This is bullsh*t,” she muttered back at her food. Seemed like it wasn't just about the food, though.

“Maybe this is like boot camp,” the girl that had first waited suggested weakly, nibbling on her sandwich. “Y'know, hazing. It'll get better after a week or so.”

“No way,” Frankie hissed back. “This is indoctrination. They're brainwashing us. Lovebombing, erasing our identities, torture to regulate behavior —hell no. This is brainwashing. They're making us into perfect little baby factories.”

Charles felt a cold chill down his spine because she was right. This was textbook cult indoctrination behavior.

“Well what the hell are we supposed to do?” Another girl asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Something,” Frankie snapped quietly. It seemed like the fierceness had come back to her, which made Charles sigh with relief. “Anything. Anything you can do to hold onto yourself. Every time they try to say this is normal or do something that says this is normal, we have to say to ourselves ‘this is not normal,’ twice over. I don't care if we have to stay up all night long repeating it. This. Is. Not. Normal.”

“Maybe this won't be so bad,” the first girl said. “Y'know, it's not like we're doing forced labor.”

“How the hell do you think they're getting these babies in us?” Frankie argued, looking around at the other women. Charles's stomach dropped to his feet. He'd always assumed it would all be very clinical, but nothing he'd been told by the Aunts even suggested anything so kind. How could he have been so stupid? Frankie elaborated. “You think our Commanders are just going to take a little trip to the doctor with us, and their Wives are gonna hold our hands as they get a doctor to stick a turkey baster full of baby batter up there? They are going to rape us. Again and again and again and again until we get pregnant. And then they're gonna do it again. And again. And again. It's never going to get better unless we do something.”

God, she was right. God, she was completely right. Charles wanted to throw up as a cold sweat broke out over his body. That's what the indoctrination is for. They're not just training perfect little baby factories. They're training perfect little rape victims.

“You think this is our fault?” one woman snapped, voice low.

“Hell no,” Frankie shot back. “But we need to hold on to ourselves. Each other. We're all we've got. What's your name?”

“Penny,” the other woman answered after a moment. She blinked. “M-my name is Penny.”

“Penny,” Frankie said. “My name is Frankie. What's your name?” she asked the girl directly in front of her.

“Kat,” the girl whispered. She looked barely eighteen. “Kat Witherson.”

“Kat Witherson,” Frankie nodded. “Penny. Kat. Frankie. Say it. Say your names.”

The women at the table hesitantly started repeating softly, saying their names and each others’. They looked amongst themselves. Just like when Charles had held hands with the group, he saw gentle and shy smiles spread like candle flames.

“What's happening over here?” Aunt Leelah's bubbly voice startled everyone. She flounced over, smiling and leaning in like she was going to tell a secret. Charles saw the ugliness under that smile and curled his lip. “We look like we're having fun over here, girls. What's so interesting?”

“Nothing, Aunt Leelah,” Kat demurred. “J-just talking is all. About our old names.”

Everyone at the table looked at her like she was crazy.

Leelah looked directly at Frankie and smiled. That dangerous, empty smile. “Oh yeah? What for?”

“J-just no reason,” Kat stammered, going pale. “No reason.”

Frankie just held Aunt Leelah’s eye contact, saying nothing. Back down, Frankie, Charles willed. Lunch isn't even over and you're in so much trouble already. They're watching you.

“Oh, Francine, you should eat something,” Leelah tutted all of a sudden, coming over to rest her hand on Frankie's shoulder. “After all, you threw up so much this morning when Aunt Lydia washed your mouth out. You must be so hungry.”

Everyone at the table quickly looked at their plates, picking at their food with lackluster nudges. “Not really,” Frankie answered. “My stomach is still kind of sick. But getting to know all my classmates makes me feel a lot better.” Smooth, Frankie. Demure enough not to set Leelah off, but still putting your foot down. Charles nodded just slightly and watched the other Handmaids recover too, looking back and forth between each other.

“Oh,” Aunt Leelah cooed, giving Frankie a sad look. “I'm sorry you're feeling sick to your stomach, sweetie. Here, if you're that sick, you shouldn't be in this big crowd around all this food. Come with me.” God damn, Leelah was sneaky. Probably sneakier than any of them really knew.

“Oh, thank you for worrying, Aunt Leelah, but I feel alright enough to be here,” Frankie said.

“Then you really need to eat something,” Leelah tutted. “You shouldn't have an empty stomach until dinnertime.” Charles watched Frankie deflate as her eye slid closed and she sighed, getting up from her plate and following Leelah out.

Charles watched the other Handmaids shrink in on themselves after that, and even though he tried to take up the torch after Frankie was gone, it was like the warmth had been sucked out of the room after her. Lunch was pretty quiet after that, with everyone mechanically eating their food and not saying much to each other. Then the Aunts packed them away back to class. They went to a different room this time, a larger, wider, brighter room with some of their cot beds arranged in a circle.

”Alright, girls,” Aunt Lydia called, clapping to catch their attention. “Two girls to a bed, one of you lay down with your legs hanging off the front, and the other sit behind her so her head is in your lap. Quickly, please, find your places!”

Charles ended up with his head in Kat's lap and she was holding his wrists. Frankie wasn’t there, and he wasn’t sure if she was going to be there the rest of the day. God, Frankie. Charles's stomach still did the triple axel dismount with a spinning flourish when he remembered those horrible gagging sounds she'd made on that soap bar that morning. And then she'd turned right around and rallied the other Handmaids until Leelah had removed her. It took balls. He couldn't just let her wave the flag alone. Go down with the ship like she was captaining The Demeter.

Like she was on cue, Frankie came back in, looking exhausted. Aunt Leelah escorted her to the only empty spot -- holding Penny’s wrists on the bed. She settled in, grabbing Penny’s hands before being corrected to hold her wrists instead.

“Good. Good job, girls.” Aunt Lydia nodded, pacing around the center of the ring of beds. Frankie was giving everyone weird looks. Trying to take it all in. “Now, these are the positions you’ll be taking for the Ceremony,” Aunt Lydia explained. “You will lie between the legs of the Wives while the Commanders perform the act, as Bihlah laid her head upon Rachel’s knees.” Perform the act. Oh, god. Every time Charles got reminded what was really going to happen, he felt sick with dread again.

“So, lemme get this straight,” Frankie called out, raising one hand. It garnered an irritated look from several Aunts, but Aunt Lydia just tuned in to listen to her, seeming to be happy to answer a question from her. “You want us to have sex with these men on top of their Wives?”

Aunt Lydia smiled and approached, drifting closer and closer to Frankie. To Frankie's credit, she just stared Aunt Lydia down even as her bed partner got nervous. “You and the Wife will be as one body,” Aunt Lydia explained, guiding Frankie's hands to hold Penny's wrists again. “The Wife will hold your arms like this. Your only job is to receive the Commander's seed for her. After that happens, you will lie in this position for ten minutes, to allow the baby time to root.”

Charles swallowed, hard. Oh, this was full-off-the-deep-end crazy.

”You know that’s crazy, right?” Frankie said for him. “Like, you know this is insane, correct?”

”Normal is what you’re used to,” Aunt Lydia said, smiling a gentle and amused smile as she tilted her head and pinched Frankie’s cheek, shaking her head a bit back and forth. “This may not be normal to you now, but in time, it will be. It’s our job to educate you on how to perform your duty while you get adjusted, so that you’re ready mentally and spiritually for when it’s time.”

Frankie didn’t say anything after that. She looked downright exhausted. She just looked away, ceding the ground to Aunt Lydia.

Charles couldn’t let her tap out like that. He raised his hand. “Aunt Lydia?” He asked. “Why are we being posted to houses at all? Why aren’t we just inseminated through donor sperm and kept here to have the children?”

”Because that would not be Godly,” Lydia answered him. “You have an essential role in a household as the Wife’s mirror image. The whole purpose of Handmaids is to use your gift in a Godly way, and having sex with a random man and taking his seed would be the opposite of that.” Charles didn’t have an answer for crazy. He’d have to work on his tit-for-tat if he was going to try and give Frankie a break. That class consisted of explaining the Ceremony, and having them memorize their positions and how long they had to stay laying on their backs to “soak in the seed.”

”Alright, girls,” Lydia called, looking at the clock on the wall. “Next lesson — how to bathe yourselves for the Ceremony. So everyone group up with an Aunt and we’re going to head to the showers!” Bathe ourselves? We have to bathe ourselves a certain way?

Well, he found out pretty quick. His group was with Aunt Lydia. They headed to a shower that looked exactly like the one Frankie had been punished in this morning. They lined up in the showers, one Handmaid to each shower head, all of them stripped naked. Then Aunt Lydia passed out rags and bade them to turn the showers on. Cold water blasted down on Charles when he turned the valve and he shouted, shivering. He started to scrub, picking up the soap from the dish and scrubbing his rag with it. Then he started washing himself. Kat was under the showerhead next to him. And call him crazy, but he wasn’t so sure that a relatively strange forty-five year old man should be showering next to an eighteen-year-old girl. And he wasn’t so sure that said eighteen year old girl should be watched while she’s bathing by a middle-aged woman. And she definitely shouldn’t have to worry about said middle aged woman sighing, coming forward, and grabbing the rag from her. “No, no, sweetie,” she said, pulling Kat a bit out of the water’s spray. “You’re not being thorough enough. You have to clean every part of yourself to make sure that you’re pure and clean for the Ceremony.” With that, she started scrubbing between Kat’s legs, making the girl blanch as her eyes widened at the middle distance.

”Hey,” Charlie said instantly, lowering his own rag from his armpit. “Hey, I don’t think that’s appropriate-“

”Hush,” Lydia said, scrubbing down Kat’s inner thigh and moving to the other side. “There, that’s better.” She handed the rag back to Kat and stepped back, walking up and down the line to survey how the rest of them were doing it. Everyone started getting a lot more thorough pretty quick, because nobody else wanted Aunt Lydia scrubbing between their legs. By the time everyone was deemed sufficient, Charles felt washed and bathed raw. They all put on their shifts and dressed and went to dinner. Frankie was directed to sit at a different table. At least as far as Charles knew, she was able to eat this time. Then, after dinner, it was lights out again.

Frankie’s bed was still next to his. They laid there and spoke to each other again.

“Did they molest you in the shower too?” She asked, face all twisted into disgust and humiliation. “It was absolutely awful. I had to stand there as a grown woman while another grown woman scrubbed between my asscheeks. In front of like ten other grown women. Everyone was looking at me. I know how to f*cking clean myself, dammit.”

”Not to me, but they did it to Kat,” Charles whispered back.

”That’s so disgusting,” Frankie hissed. “Kat’s like, barely eighteen, right?”

Charles nodded.

”I couldn’t even say anything,” Frankie sighed. “I was just so exhausted by that point that I just let it happen. God, it felt like dying. I know that’s a ridiculous thing to say about just — staying quiet when a woman shoves a rag up and down your cooter, but it felt like dying.”

”No, I get it,” Charles whispered, reaching out his hand. Frankie took it and squeezed. “It’s okay. I get it.”

They both kept holding each others’ hands while they drifted off to sleep. Frankie’s grip was still firm and warm as Charles felt himself slip further and further into sleep. As he faded, in the last few seconds he heard, very quietly, “This is not normal. This is not normal. This is not normal…”

The next day, it was like Frankie had a red letter on her back. Every single Aunt in that building cracked down on her for so much as breathing wrong before she even had the chance to get physical or smart-mouthed. By lunchtime, she was in a muzzle with a bit in it and had to eat her meal separately. They let her back into class after lunch in the back, and sat her at a separate desk. Charlie didn’t even get the chance to speak to her. And god forbid she do anything but sit perfectly straight and still, eyes forward or trained on whatever Aunt was teaching them. It was horrible. Like watching someone be fast-tracked to being broken like a horse. Minute by minute, hour by hour, Charles could see the firelight dying in her eye. By dinnertime, it was down to embers. By lights-out, it was wisps of smoke and a single burning spark. At least they took the muzzle off of her so she could sleep. The process repeated day after day, all day every day, for weeks. Every morning, the fire in her eye was back, but not as bright. Every day, it would dull to a single spark, getting dimmer and dimmer by the day. She was like a mountain cliffside against the ocean. As the waves beat and beat and beat at the rock, it wore away layers and layers and layers until the cliff was nothing more than a boulder under the waves. Drowning under the icy water.

”You should stop,” Charles said one night, reaching out to hold her hand as they always did and staring into her glassy eye. She stirred just a little, a glimmer coming to life in her eye for just a second. The spark got a little bit brighter. A little bit hotter. “Not for good. But long enough for them to back off of you.”

”I can’t,” she said, but her voice was quieter than last night, and the night before that. “I can’t stop. I see the way everyone looks at me. I have to keep going. For them. For you.” She focused in on him again, the glassiness gone for just a second. Then it was back as she slouched into her pillows even as she was face-down. “Even though I’m so, so tired. Aunt Lydia’s threatening me with keeping me in a private room and feeding me through a tube up my nose if I don’t shut up, but I don’t see how I can. They’re not gonna treat me like this, Charlie. I can’t let ‘em do it.”

”If the only reason the rest of us are hanging on is because of you, then that’s not fair to you,” Charles whispered, squeezing her hand. “You don’t really have to stop, Frankie. You just have to make them think you have. Let one of us take up the torch. I’ll do it. That way it takes some of the heat off of you.”

”I don’t want to do that to you, Charlie,” Frankie whispered, eyes sliding closed.

”It’s lights out,” an Aunt snapped, coming over to stand in front of Frankie. The second the Aunt had spoken, they dropped their hands and tucked them back up under themselves like they’d never been holding hands. “Why are you talking?”

The glassiness was back full-force. “I’m sorry, Aunt Kimberly,” she said softly.

Aunt Kimberly suspiciously eyed Frankie for a long few moments, then seemed satisfied with her compliance and left.

”Let me,” Charles begged, mouthing the words. Frankie just closed her eye and looked pained, reaching out for his hand between the beds. Immediately, Charles slid his hand into hers, squeezing hard and silently begging her not to let go. Hang on a little longer. Please. Not for me. For you. Whatever you need, I’m here.

The next day, Charles focused on making life hell for those Aunts. He couldn’t be as physical as Frankie, but he could pick at and poke holes in their logic until they had to tell him to shut up and stop asking questions. Then he could demure innocently about how he was just trying to understand, see, and wasn’t it good for a learning environment for students to ask questions?

It didn’t make them ease up on Frankie. But it did give her some of the fire back, and that was what Charles needed in the short-term. Weeks passed and eventually they were satisfied with Frankie’s compliance, so they eased up and even started rewarding her. Took the muzzle off, relaxed some of their crackdown. So of course, immediately, Frankie started acting out. Rallying the other Handmaids, even coming up with a rudimentary pictograph system they could all share. They wrote with their fingers on the tables and used the light and angles to see the markings. Or they drew the pictographs in their spaghetti sauce and casually spun their tray around to eat at the other side, ignoring the way their tablemates craned forward to read it. So when the Aunts came around to see what they were doing, there was nothing to see. The pictographs spread like wildfire and started becoming more like characters rather than pictures.

”Come on,” she hissed at Charles one night, getting herself out of bed and shaking him awake. “C’mon. Come with me. Let’s go.”

”Huh? What’s going on?” Charles asked blearily, getting up. “S’it lights on?”

”No, we’re escaping,” Frankie said. “We’re getting out of here.” She was getting dressed in her red dress, pulling it over her head and getting it situated. “C’mon!”

Charles started to put his own dress on, but Frankie just shook her head and grabbed his wrist, pulling him along. “Don’t bother, just c’mon,” she said.

”Frankie, I’m not running out into the city in my nightslip,” Charles argued softly, as they left the dormitory room and went into the hallway. Frankie glanced back and forth, keeping Charles behind herself.

”You’re not going to,” Frankie said, brandishing a long screw like a knife. “I got this from the underside of my bedframe. Aunt Elizabeth is your size, I think, or close enough. You’re gonna walk me out of here all the way to the train.”

“Frankie, that’s crazy!” Charles hissed, but followed her.

”We have to try,” she answered. “You’ve been fighting hard these past few weeks. Reminded me what’s important.” She turned back to him. Her hair was kind of long in the front, hanging in her eyes. “Thanks.”

He softened. “What are friends for?”

Aunt Elizabeth was coming down the hallway. Frankie pulled Charles into a supply closet for her to pass, keeping the door cracked so they could see her pass by. Frankie put a finger to her lips and gestured for Charlie to wait, silently opening the door and coming up behind Elizabeth. She wrapped a hand over her mouth and jabbed the screw into her neck, murmuring something. Aunt Elizabeth nodded frantically and let herself be piloted back down the hallway to the back stairwells, with Charles following behind them, glancing back and forth. Frankie shoved her through the door and took her cattle prod off of her belt, hefting it. “Strip,” she commanded, pointing it at Elizabeth.

When Elizabeth didn’t do it fast enough, Frankie shocked her with the prod. Aunt Elizabeth hurriedly started stripping, after which Frankie tied her to a pipe. Gagged her with her own socks. Then she picked up the Aunt’s uniform and tossed it at Charles. “Here, hurry up, get dressed.” She put her wings on and shuffled around impatiently.

Charles put the uniform on, making sure the coat was situated and the hat was settled, and nodded. Frankie led them out the back door and they walked down the hallways with Frankie a step behind him. He’d almost forgotten where the way out was, he’d been here so long. But they made it, and Charles ushered them through the guarded front door with no issue. Then it was out the chain-link fenced-in front gate. They were free. Charles almost stopped to breathe in the fresh air, eyes closing. But he had Frankie to worry about. They both hurried off down the sidewalk. It was barely dawn, the sky just starting to gray at the horizon. They were in an unfamiliar forest of buildings, desperately glancing around to try and see any street sign they could.

“Where the f*ck is the subway?” Frankie hissed, searching around as much as she could while keeping her head down.

”I don’t know, I don’t know,” Charles whimpered back, and they both decided to keep walking.

”I kind of remember, I think,” Frankie said, “go left up here.”

She directed him from behind, and they did eventually find their way to the train station and go down the subway stairs. Guardians were all over the place like wasps in a hive. Heart pounding in his throat, Charles looked around for the train. Nothing.

“Do you both need help?” One of the Guardians asked, approaching. He smiled in a friendly way, but the sight of him struck a bolt of fear through Charles a mile wide. “Waiting for the train?”

”Y-yes,” Charles managed. “Which train to Boston, sir?”

”Oh, that one’s on the way,” he said, gesturing to the tracks on the right. “Just wait right over here, and we’ll help you get on.” He herded them over to the train line. “So what are you ladies doing out so early?”

”Just traveling,” Charles managed. The heavy brown wool felt like it was weighing his body down. Like manacles or a straitjacket. Next to him, Frankie stood silent as a stone, head down and shoulders straight. The perfect Handmaid. “This one’s needed in Boston. She’s gotten her posting.”

”Oh, really? Who with?”

”Uh —“ Charles felt himself blanch and hoped it wasn’t too obvious. “Second C-Commander Smith, sir.”

”Hm.” The Guardian made a thoughtful face. “Haven’t heard of him.” His chest walkie chirped and he held up a finger. “Excuse me ladies. Sorry to be rude.” He walked a couple steps away and spoke into it, checking in. Whoever was on the other line said something, and the Guardian furrowed his brow. “Say again?”

More crackly, staticky response from the other line.

”Uh-huh. Got it. Yeah. Lemme get back to you. Over and out.” He hung up the walkie and walked back over, face a little more neutral. “Can I see your permission documents, ladies?”

Permission documents? Charles felt his heart leap into his throat. He started patting down his pockets, making a show of searching. “Oh, dear,” he said, hoping this would work. Hoping beyond hope. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I left them. I can’t believe I did that.”

”Let’s walk you back to find them.” The Guardian was holding his gun over his chest, fingers on his trigger guard. Charles did not want them to move to the trigger. So he just nodded jerkily, and followed the Guardian back out of the subway station, and waved Frankie along to follow as well. No use arguing with a submachine gun. This worked until they hit the street level. At this point, Frankie bolted, taking off running in the opposite direction down the street. She threw off her wings so she could see better, head swiveling back and forth as she tried to find a street to turn down.

”Frankie!” Charles gasped, stopping and turning to try and chase after her. The Guardian flashed a hand out to place an arm over his chest, holding him in place. “We’ve got this, ma’am. Don’t worry, the policy is subdue only with Handmaids these days. We’re not gonna hurt her.”

Frankie had attracted the attention of more Guardians. They chased her down the street. Damn, she’s fast! Charles watched in horror as one of them brought out a stun-gun and fired the plugs. The wires glinted in the early morning sun and the plugs hit her square in the back, making her stiffen up and crumple to the ground, twitching.

”Phew,” the Guardian breathed a sigh of relief. “Got her.”

Thus began their nightmare procession back to the Red Center. Frankie was frogmarched between two Guardians in the back, and Charles was escorted along by a hand on his back with the Guardian that had waited with him. The chain-link gate got closer and closer and closer. What would happen? Would they get executed for this? Sent away to some kind of work camp? This was such a stupid idea!

Charles walked through the front doors like a zombie, with Frankie tossed onto the floor behind them. Aunt Lydia was waiting for them with her arms crossed. “This is not a good start to your day, girls,” she chastised, then gestured for an Aunt to take Charles by the arm and then two more to get Frankie up from the floor. “Take Charlotte and Francine to see what happens for naughty girls who try to leave.”

They were dragged down the hallway, where they were shoved into a room and Charles was wrestled over to a padded bed with restraints. He started to struggle, but they threw him down prone and strapped him in, yanking off his boots and socks.

”This is your fault,” another Aunt snapped at Frankie. “Your friend is about to get hurt because of you. Now stand here and watch and learn your lesson.”

Someone was standing behind him. He could feel the disturbance in the air.

“No, don’t-!” Frankie cried, before something came down on the sole of his foot that made him shriek in pain. It burned and stung, like a firecracker had just been set off and launched off his foot. “No, stop it!” Frankie shouted, and it sounded like she was struggling. Whatever they were whipping him with, it had multiple strands and each one burned like hellfire. He couldn’t help it he started to cry and scream, especially with each blow.

Frankie got dragged around front and her head got shoved down to lock eyes with Charles. She was crying too.

”Apologize to your friend for doing this to her,” Aunt Leelah snapped, pressing Frankie’s head into the cot and not letting her up. “This is your fault, Francine. You’re the reason Charlotte is getting hurt right now. Is that what you wanted? You wanted her to get hurt? Not to be able to walk? Because you want to be selfish? Say you’re sorry!”

Charles was definitely bleeding. He could feel it. He just cried, trying not to because it was making Frankie cry and he didn’t want her to feel that guilt. It’s not your fault, he wanted to say. He wanted to reach out and put a hand over hers and squeeze. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. I could have said no.

”I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Frankie wept, face crumpled in guilt and shame. “I didn’t mean to have this happen, I promise, I just wanted us to get out…”

”It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” Charles managed, and screamed as the flail came down on his feet again.

“Yes, it is!” Leelah snapped, grinding Frankie’s head in further. “Your best friend is getting hurt. She’s bleeding. And it’s all your fault. Because you had to think about yourself and only yourself!”

“I’m sorry,” Frankie sobbed. Then she called out. “Please stop, please stop! I’ll take her place, just please, please stop — it was my idea!”

”Don’t you dare!” Charles pleaded, and got slapped in the face for his trouble.

Aunt Leelah pulled Frankie up and nodded to whoever was whipping Charles. They bandaged his feet up and pulled him up, hauling him off by the armpits as Frankie got strapped down where he had just been. The last thing he heard as he got dragged off was the CRACKs of the flail and Frankie’s yelps and then screams of pain. He just got put to bed that day, and the other Handmaids thankfully smuggled him bits of food from the dining hall so he could eat.

Frankie didn’t come back that night. Or the next. Or the next. When he asked about her at the breakfast table, fearing the worst, the other Handmaids nervously looked between each other. “I heard the Aunts talking about it,” Kat whispered. “She’s in some kind of lockdown. They have her strapped to a bed eating through a tube up her nose. Private lessons. They were debating lobotomy!”

Lobotomy? Charles wanted to be sick. “Do you know where she is?”

”No, I don’t,” Kat whispered. “But I can try and find out.”

Kat didn’t get the chance to find out. A week later, at lunch. Charles was picking at his food, worrying about Frankie, as per usual. God, why didn’t he stop her? Why didn’t he have a better answer to the permission papers issue? What if he’d said something different, or didn’t look so confused when he got to the subway? Would they have gotten away? This was all his fault. Now Frankie was at risk for a literal lobotomy and it was all because of him.

Chaos down the hallway, outside of the cafeteria. Getting closer, though. Frankie burst through the door, her scruffy hair wild and crazy to match her remaining eye. The doors banged against the walls and bounced back to rest against her hands. “Get up!” She shrieked, voice raspy. Her nose had a red patch over one nostril like she’d ripped tape off of it. “All of you, get up, get up right now! They can’t do this to us and we can’t f*cking let them! They can’t get all of us!!”

Charles jumped up first. Took his tray and threw it directly at an Aunt who was trying to run towards Frankie. Kat stood up next and threw her silverware at another Aunt and then threw a sloppy handful of her beef stew because it was the only thing she had left besides the tray. Soon, all the Handmaids were shouting all over top of each other and rioting. A sea of boiling red overwhelmed the brown spots in between. Charles tried to fight his way through to get to Frankie, but he couldn’t do it. Gunshots rang out and he started panicking, throwing elbows at anyone he could to try and get to her. But all the Handmaids screamed and ducked, and he was left standing there. Frankie was still at the door, forced into a prone position with her hands behind her back, with a Guardian laying on her to hold her down. Apparently she’d tried to run mid-riot.

“That’s enough!” Aunt Lydia barked, voice booming off of every wall and the high ceiling of the cafeteria and bringing down a harsh blanket of silence. “Everyone back to your beds now! No class today, and if I see you out of your bed from now until tomorrow morning you’re going to the Colonies!”

Frankie got dragged off still fighting, one of the Guardians dragging her by the hair out of sight and down the hallway. Aunt Lydia followed behind.

A week later, with all the Handmaids being on heavy lockdown, Charlie got summoned to see Aunt Lydia in the hallway. He was about to graduate anyway in three weeks. But he hadn’t seen or heard of Frankie since. All he could do was pray she was alright. Time was meaningless here, but based on the green-but-splotched-orange leaves on the decorative trees down the sidewalks to the subway, Charles had to guess it was the beginning of autumn.

”Good afternoon, Charlotte,” Lydia greeted. Another Aunt brought a shackled Frankie from the other end of the hallway. She was in full body irons and being escorted by the arm. Despite seeing her like that, the overwhelming relief at seeing her at all almost overwhelmed Charles. “Congratulations,” Aunt Lydia said. “You’re both graduating early. Getting your postings, too.” She nodded her head at Charles. “Second Commander Max Putnam,” she listed, and then turned to Frankie. “And Second Commander John Godwin. So congratulations, Ofmax and Ofjohn.”

”You’re graduating us early?” Frankie asked, brows knitting down.

“Correct.”

”Why?”

”Because they can’t handle us,” Charles said, awareness dawning on him. “They can’t handle us and they can’t afford to kill us or ship us off, so they’re continuing the time-honored tradition of middle management — making it someone else’s problem.”

Lydia slapped him.

”You’re proving my point,” Charles managed.

”Hopefully some field experience will manage those temperaments of yours,” Lydia said. “Commander Godwin will be particularly good for you, Ofjohn. Strict and virtuous. No nonsense.”

”When are we graduating?” Frankie asked.

”Today,” Lydia said. “Now. You’re going to your houses as soon as we finish this conversation.”

Chapter 2: A Study in Crimson

Chapter Text

Victor groaned as his cell phone buzzed on the bedside table next to him, lighting up the dark master suite. Next to him, Calliope was asleep, rolled over onto her side. Her shoulder was illuminated by a single beam of moonlight through the curtains, making her skin look like pearl in the stark lighting. Her locs were bundled up high on her head. Her blue camisole slip had lace edging.

Victor carded fingers through his own long hair and grumbled, fumbling to check his phone and squinting against the light. A phone call. Remind me to kill you, he thought at whoever was calling him, and answered. “Hello?” he grumbled. “What?”

“Commander Virtue,” the voice on the other end said. “Under His eye, sir.”

“I know who I am, what do you want,” Victor snapped, mindful not to wake his Wife up.

“There's been a robbery-homicide. We really need you at the crime scene. It’s… well, it's pretty brutal.”

Victor was quiet for a moment. “Vinny, if you and Scotland Yard woke me up at three in the morning for a damn robbery gone wrong, I'll string you up on the Wall by your toes.”

“We need your expertise,” Vinny answered. “CSI wants a higher-level Eye experienced in homicide. And you have a gift for understanding the criminal mind, Vic.”

Victor sighed through his nose, pinching the bridge of it. “Let me get ready,” he muttered. “I'll be right there. Send me the address, how far away is it?”

“About thirty minutes away from you, sir. I'll send you all the information on the family members for you to review on your way over.”

Victor hung up, putting his phone down and going to his closet. One of his dogs, a borzoi named Biscuit, whined and licked her lips, feather duster tail wagging back and forth as she got off of her bed and approached. He put a hand down to scratch her head as he quickly browsed through shirts.

He put on a cream turtleneck sweater and fitted a cream jacket over it, brushing off the lapel. The single large star on his shoulder was silver. Then he shimmied into some off-white slacks and toed some tan shoes on, stomping to the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror. Finally, he swept his silk-pressed hair back from his face by raking fingers through it.

Good enough. Victor left, grabbing his coat on the way out and putting it over his arm. He stepped out onto his side patio, glancing at the small guest house in front of him, a ways off from the main house. The lights were on -- either Yohanan was up late painting again, or he'd fallen asleep with the brushes in his hand. Again.

He turned around. To his other side, the garage stood, with an apartment over it. He marched down towards the wooden steps to take him up to the garage. Then he ascended them, knocked on Sebastian's door, and entered.

Sebastian sat up in bed, clutching the blankets to his chest. He blinked drowsiness away from his sleepy, puppy dog eyes. He had bedhead. “Whuh?” he mumbled, then his eyes widened when he saw Victor standing by the door. “C-commander, sir,” he said, flashing an appeasing smile. “What can I do for you?”

“Get up and get dressed,” Victor said, looking around at Sebastian's kitchenette. “I'm needed at a crime scene because we only hire incompetents for some reason, and there's case files I'd like to review on the way over.”

“Yes, s-sir.” Sebastian got up, his pudgy belly hanging over his boxers’ waistline. Victor nodded.

“I'll wait downstairs,” he acquiesced.

“Under His eye,” Sebastian said.

“Under His eye.” Victor took his leave, closing the door behind himself. He went to the bottom of the steps and waited, hearing a few crickets peep in the nighttime. For the most part, though, it was quiet. Peaceful. Victor watched his breath fog as it left him and shivered, putting his coat on. All things considered, it was a nice night to stand around in the cold waiting for his driver. The sky was clear, and since Gilead had very little light pollution, the stars were bold and vibrant. He thought he even saw a bit of the Milky Way stretch above him.

Sebastian hurriedly thumped down the stairs, putting his jacket on inside out. “Blessed be the fruit,” he stumbled out, flashing another appeasing smile.

Victor sighed and rolled his eyes, snagging Sebastian by the back of the collar as he tried to pass. “Yes, yes, may the Lord open, et cetera. Come here, your jacket's on inside out. You look sloppy.”

Sebastian yelped as he got pulled back and divested off his jacket. Victor turned it right side out and handed it back, letting Sebastian put it on. “There. Try that.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sebastian said, and opened the door to the garage, letting Victor pass him. “Where are we going, sir?”

“Here's the address. Plug it in,” Victor said, giving it to him. Those case files had also come in. Victor leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs, browsing as he waited for them to pull out. The garage bay door opened and the car lurched, pulling out of his driveway on the road.

Let's see, Victor mused. Godwin family. No driver, one Martha, one Handmaid. Handmaid had been there for four months. Martha for longer. Double homicide, John Godwin and his Wife, Daphne Godwin. No signs of forced entry, but the family had been conducting Ceremony night and the Martha had gone to bed downstairs. John Godwin was a Second Commander who frequently made an ass of himself in Committee meetings. Victor rolled his eyes at the memory. Mrs. Godwin was a few years younger than him and had a clean record. Well, except for a citation by the Aunts a month ago, it seemed. Not allowing the family's Handmaid to attend her daily walks.

Martha Sally was next. Clean record, an unmarried woman of good standing before Gilead. Made a Martha and went directly to the Godwin home, has never worked anywhere else.

Finally, the Handmaid. Victor's eyes widened with a soft “oh” as he read her file, which read more like a how-to manual on civil disobedience. Physical assault against an Aunt. Foul and unbecoming language. Physical assault against an Aunt. Sowing malcontent. Inciting a riot. Escape attempt. Escape attempt. Sowing malcontent. Being a corrupting influence. Escape attempt. There was a note at the end of the hefty tome. “Graduated early from the Rachel and Leah Center along with a companion due to their disquieting effects on the other Handmaids-in-training -- Aunt Lydia, Aunt Margaret, Aunt Kimberly.”

“Graduated early, hm…” Victor muttered.

He put the files away, leaning his head back and trying to form a picture of the family in his mind. The only profile with any detail was the Handmaid's, which he didn't want to risk clouding his judgment.

Twenty minutes later, Sebastian pulled into a driveway filled with black vans and blue flashing lights. “We’re here, sir. I'll wait with the car.”

Victor nodded and got out. It was a mid-sized house up on a hill, with small slit windows just above the dirt. When he walked up the steps, he couldn't see into them because it was dark, but he assumed they likely showed some kind of basem*nt. He met Vinny at the door, staring down at him. “Well?” he asked. “What do we have?”

“Blessed be the fruit, sir,” Vinny responded, nodding. They began to walk into the house, where the various techs and Eyes scurrying around gave Victor a wide and nervous berth. “Double homicide. Looks like a robbery gone wrong. Only issue is, the family's Handmaid is missing. It was their first Ceremony night this month, so we think the thief may have taken her. May try to rape her.”

“What else was stolen?” Victor asked, looking around at the undisturbed foyer. He branched off from Vinny to run his finger along tables and rub them together, then looking underneath. No dust on the tables, but plenty underneath. Somebody wasn't very thorough. “Do we know?”

“Uh, yeah,” Vinny sighed, flipping through his notepad. “Some gold and diamond jewelry, cash from the nightstand, and Commander Godwin's wallet, it seems. They found his credit card outside, but no ID.”

Victor frowned, thinking. “No ID?”

“Could've been discarded somewhere else, but my gut says no. Why bother? Why not just pitch it with the credit card?”

“Indeed.” Victor hummed, nodding along as he looked at the ceiling. The chandeliers and crown molding were dusted, but not the underside of the tables. So clearly their Martha was thorough, and just didn't enjoy bending down.

Victor hummed again, turning to face Vinny. “I’d like to see the crime scene. Is any other area of the house disturbed?”

“No, sir. The thief appears to have only gotten to the master bedroom,” Vinny said, waving Victor to follow him. The techs and Eyes were thicker here, like ants in a hill. Regardless, they all parted for Victor as if they were the Red Sea.

“Oh, my,” he murmured, eyes widening. The Godwins had tall ceilings. This had not stopped arcs of blood splatters from marking up the snow-white drywall like it had been sprayed. “Gruesome.”

“Quite,” Vinny said, shaking his head. “We're thinking white male, six foot. Can't tell his weight, but he's clearly strong as an ox.”

Victor held up a hand, nodding to show Vinny respect but that he needed some space to think. He stepped further into the room, careful to avoid the evidence on the ground. There was blood spatter all over the walls, and two bodies lay underneath bloody sheets by the bed. The man at the footboard, the woman by the side. “You said it was Ceremony night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how many people would have known that?”

“The Aunts, sir. Whoever the Commander or his Wife decided to tell. Maybe another Handmaid if the Handmaid mentioned it to her. Her walking partner was a Handmaid named Oftim, it seems.”

“Hm. Let the family know l'd like to speak to her tomorrow.” Victor looked back up at the ceiling again, frowning thoughtfully. “And there's no sign of forced entry… what was the murder weapon?”

“No sign of forced entry, and right here,” he said, grabbing a bagged-and-tagged bloody bedpost off of the bed. “Looks like it was used and tossed aside over there. This sicko ripped out the Handmaid's ear tag too, and burned her with the Wife's curling iron. That poor girl. I just hope we find her before he does anything else to her.”

Victor approached the foot of the bed, reaching out to rub his thumb over the splintered pedestal. “This feels personal,” he murmured, brow furrowing. “You don't get splatter marks like that on the ceiling without practically standing over someone and caving their head in. So either we have an incredibly disorganized and violent thief who is somehow controlled and organized enough to kidnap a Handmaid and not get caught five minutes down the street, or Commander John had some enemies.” Victor came around to the first body. Crouched to lift the sheet. “This is rage,” he noted, looking at the coagulating slurry of blood, skull, and brain in the bowl of John's head. A pool of drying blood had a boot print next to it. Victor put the sheet down and went over to the other sheet, lifting that up too. The Wife had gotten the same treatment. There was a small corner of red fabric sticking out from under the mattress -- Victor filed it away to come back to. “Somebody hated these people so much they wanted to… they wanted to Unperson them, in their own way.”

Victor frowned. Stared at the middle distance, thoughtfully. Looked back at the bedpost, then at the two bodies. “So I'm a robber,” he said, getting up and moving to the master suite entryway. “My primary motive is stealing valuables and money. I don't know that it’s a Ceremony night, because I'm either a stranger or somebody who wasn't told.” He entered the room, looking around. “I come in. The Ceremony is underway.” Victor frowned again. “Wait -- nobody heard screams?”

“No, nothing. The neighbors didn't even know why we were here.”

“And the bodies are in the wrong place,” Victor said, going back over to the sheets again. “Even if John didn't see me because he was too busy, the Wife at least would have seen me because she's sitting up facing John. The Handmaid was probably looking up at the ceiling, so she may not have. But the Wife didn't scream?” He took up a position facing the bed at the footboard. “Even if I did somehow manage to blitz-attack John from behind and then his Wife, John's body would have fallen here,” he said, pointing to the area he was standing in. “Instead, John's body is over there, quite a few steps away. Something pulled him away from the bed.” Victor shook his head, fingering the splintered bedpost again and feeling the rough wood snag his finger pads. “And we're all ignoring the answer of, if I'm a thief and I walk in on a family performing Ceremony night, why not just leave while they haven't seen me? I can always case the house and try again when they're out or asleep.”

Victor shook his head again. “This wasn't a robbery. This was an extremely rage-filled murder made to look like a robbery.” He pulled up his phone. “You have information on the Handmaid?”

“Yeah, I sent you her file --”

“Before that. Before Gilead. I want to know everything,” Victor ordered, sending him scurrying off. Minutes later he was back. An impressive turnaround. He handed Victor a tablet with a file on it. He nodded and folded it under his arm. “I'll take a look at this in a moment, thank you. In the meantime, I'd like to speak to the Martha as well. I want the full picture of how this household functioned.”

“Certainly. I'll go bring her to the foyer for you to speak with her.” Vinny rushed off and Victor followed him, waiting in the foyer.

“There we go, ma’am, it's alright,” Vinny soothed, bringing the Martha along via a hand to the back. She was dabbing at her eyes with his handkerchief as Vinny spoke. “He'd just like to speak to you for a moment to understand what happened, can you do that?”

The Martha nodded, as Victor came away from his leaning spot on the wall and bowed his head, clasping his hands in front of himself. “Blessed be the fruit, ma'am.”

“May the Lord open,” she said thickly, as Vinny ran off to go process more crime scene. “I… I can't even believe this has happened. We were a normal family. You never think something like this will happen to you.”

“Indeed, and I'm very sorry for your loss, Martha,” Victor consoled, nodding along. “You were close with the Godwins?”

“His Wife and I, we talked,” Sally sniffled, wringing the handkerchief in her hands as she looked down at it. “Most Marthas don't like when Wives help out in the kitchen, but I liked it. She was a kind woman. And a lovely conversationalist. We would talk for hours sometimes. Girl talk, you know.”

“Mhm. About what?”

“Hm?”

“Girl talk about what?”

“Oh, I…” she seemed uncomfortable, flashing an appeasing smile as she shifted from foot to foot. “You know… husbands, cooking, shopping…”

“Husbands. About John?”

“Y-yes, Commander Virtue.” She looked at her feet.

“What about John?”

“Oh, well…” she laughed nervously. “She would tell me things sometimes… I don't want to besmirch the dead, as if she was some kind of troublemaker. She was a good Wife. An excellent one.”

“And you're worried about getting in trouble yourself,” Victor guessed accurately. He looked at the tech and the Eye discussing something. “You, you. Out. Let everyone else know the foyer is private currently.” As they nodded, and started to move, Victor snapped his fingers. “Today, please! While we're still young!” They got a move-on after that. He turned back to the Martha. “Speak freely.”

“She… resented him,” the Martha quailed. “After the Handmaid got here. I… think… it may have been jealousy. The Handmaid was a big girl, a lot of meat on her bones, and had hair that was growing out but too short to pull up. Mrs. Godwin actually cut it once a month, far too short for a Godly woman in my opinion. But it's not my place to say. Half an inch, if you can believe it. But… regardless, I think Mrs. Godwin was jealous of that sl -- er, the Handmaid. She usually preferred for the girl to be out of her sight. She would make the girl stay in her room, so I would bring her meals and leave them just inside the door. I don't think anybody really spoke to her in that time, I know I didn't. I noticed that by the sixth day, the Handmaid was crawling around on her hands and knees.” She trailed off, frowning. “I just thought she was being dramatic,” she said finally. Then, she trailed off again. The Martha started fiddling with her bandana-style headcover over her brownish-copper curls, lips pursed. “John loved long brown hair,” she stated suddenly, then seemed to think she said some kind of mistake if the way her face tightened was any indication. “His Wife’s long brown hair, I mean.”

“And everyone else's,” Victor guessed, correctly again.

The Martha nodded, very minutely.

“Mhm.” He waited for more, but more was slow to come. He tried a different tack. He went over to one of the credenzas, swiping a finger across it. “You keep a tidy house, ma'am.”

“Oh, th-thank you, sir,” she smiled nervously, curtsying. “Means a lot coming from you, sir. I-I-I mean,” she stammered, blinking and shaking her head, “Not that you clean houses, sir, just that, I've heard what a tight ship you run in your own house, so you must have very high standards.”

“I do,” Victor said, beckoning her over. “I expect nothing less than someone's best at all times. You rival my own Martha. And don't worry -- I didn't take offense.”

“Martha Yazmeen, right?” she nodded, coming over to stand next to him. “I've seen her, once or twice. Lovely woman. Does you proud in public. Praise be.”

“I know,” Victor said. “So -- humor me. Not a trick question. Do you have any back problems?”

“Back… problems?” Her face fell from a smile to a confused half-smile.

“Yes, back problems. It's not a trick question. Some kind of issue that would prevent you from bending down…” he squatted to point to the crevices under the credenza closest to the wall, “And getting under here. I checked. They're all like this. Once could be oversight. Twice could be laziness. All of them? That's a pattern.”

She paled, shaking a little. “I'm t-t-terribly s-sorry, Commander,” she started, and shut her mouth like a trap when Victor held his hand up.

“This is not about you,” he said, “I'm not looking to punish you. I'm simply curious. Like I said -- humor me.”

“I get under them with the feather duster,” she admitted. “Crouching in all these skirts makes it hard to do the job, and getting up and down from my knees to do every space underneath something would kill them in a week. I had a replacement a couple years ago.”

“So why not just bend down?” Victor pressed, already knowing the answer.

“I… there are things that make it difficult,” she hedged.

“Speak freely,” Victor reminded her. “You're queen for a day, Martha. One-time offer.”

“John would touch me,” she blurted out, going red in the face. “He would grab my -- my bottom and try to put his hand up my skirts. Bending down would just… set him off, whenever he passed by.”

“So I'm seeing a household full of women who need to change their work patterns, chop body parts off, and all manner of things, just to avoid this beast’s lustful behavior,” Victor sneered, standing back up. Then he stopped. “You did say Mrs. Godwin cut the Handmaid's hair, correct?”

“Yes. Once a month, before the first Ceremony night, Ofjohn would get a haircut. Mrs. Godwin would take the clippers while John went to work.”

“How short, did you say?”

“Half an inch, all the way around,” the Martha said, gesturing. “Almost shorter than John's, really. Why?”

“Nothing,” Victor said, but the gears were turning. Missing cash or pawnables, missing ID and wallet, and hair that looked an awful lot like John's. And a woman who was about his size. He patted her forearm. “Thank you for speaking to me, Martha. I might have some more questions for you in a moment, but for now, please excuse me.”

“Under His eye,” she called after him. He made his way to the master suite again and opened the door, approaching the bed again and inspecting the blood spatter. He brushed a hand over the soaked-in droplets, spread in wide splatters and droplet arcs that covered the bedspread from two directions. Pretty even spray, some bigger droplets. The two spray directions even overlapped. Victor frowned, staring at the fractured pedestal again. Then to the other bedpost, coming closer. There was a worn spot in the lacquer, wrapping around the post at maybe head height.

Victor hummed. Frowned. “There's something wrong here.”

“What clued you in,” Vinny joked, “the bedsheets being rumpled?”

Victor scowled at the bed, shaking his head. “You're assuming that someone came in and attacked these three people, but the evidence doesn't line up. Blood spatter, placement of the bodies, overkill and rage, none of it. Did John have an injury to the back of his head?”

“No… no, I don't think he does.”

“I thought so. What are John and Daphne both facing, Vinny?”

“Uh…” Vinny came over next to Victor, putting his hands on his hips and scratching his head. “Each other? Kinda?”

Victor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, counting to ten. “The bed, Vincent. They're both facing the bed. And if John had been attacked from the back, he would've slumped forwards onto the bed. But there's only one way he could have been attacked from the front without anyone hearing screams.”

The Commander went to the center of the footboard and half-leaned, half-sat on it. “Vinny,” he called, “come stand in front of me for a second, would you?”

“Sure.” Vinny came and stood a perfectly respectable distance away from Victor for two Gileadean men, which was about six feet when facing each other like this.

Victor sighed. “No, closer. Closer. Like I'm the Handmaid and you're the Commander.”

“Uhh, okay,” Vinny half laughed nervously, shuffling into position like he was afraid Victor would burn him. “You'd make a crappy Handmaid, Victor.”

“Yes, I know,” Victor muttered, thinking. “So I'm the Handmaid, and you're the Commander, “ he thought out loud. “Ceremony night is proceeding as planned, but there's an issue. You're a pig who touches every woman in this house and I hate you. I suddenly want to get you off of me, but your Wife is holding my wrists. So how do I get you off of me?”

“Tell him to stop?” Vinny suggested. “I know Ceremony night is important and all, but if something needs to get readjusted, y'know…”

“You're too much of a pervert for that,” Victor brushed aside. “Besides, calling for a stop would only grant me a couple minutes’ reprieve while you and your Wife check for an issue, and I want it to stop for good. I hate you and your wife. I'm sick of what's happening. I couldn't sit up and push you off, because you and your Wife would figure it out and stop me.” He glanced down at his feet and then sat fully on the bed, leaning back with one leg propped up in proper position. He felt his core muscles flex to hold him up on the soft surface. “But my leg is right here. I could kick you and you should stumble back to… excuse me, Vinny.” Victor propped a foot on his shoulder and pushed, gently. Vinny let himself stumble back, ending a couple of feet away from John's covered body.

“Hey, Vic,” Vinny said, gesturing behind himself. “If I'd walked any further, guess who I woulda tripped over.”

“So I kick you,” Victor confirmed. “This gets you off and out of me. Your Wife probably lets go at this point and may not even be sure what happened. I sit up,” Victor said, doing it, “and -- bring me the bedpost, Vinny?”

Vinny did.

“Thank you. I stand up, and tear off the bedpost because I know it's loose.” Victor stared down at the bedpost through the gore and plastic bag. Bingo. Another worn spot, more pronounced than the other one. So he favored this bedpost.

“Wait -- how the hell do you know it's loose?”

Victor moved to the Commander’s position, and spread his arms to touch a hand to the worn spot in the bedpost lacquer. The other hand hovered the bagged post where it would have gone. “Because you like to grab the bedposts. I've seen this one wobble, so I know it's loose. Or, you or your Wife has told me it's loose and not to put my weight on it. Either way, it's the perfect weapon of opportunity. So I take it --” he turned around, swinging it gently towards Vinny, “and I hit you with it to knock you out because you're more dangerous to me. Then I knock the Wife out before she can scream.” Victor got up and went over to John's body. “And because I hate you and your Wife so much, I want to obliterate you. I feel stripped of an identity, so I want to strip you of yours. I have no power, so I want it back.”

Vinny whistled. “But why the Wife?”

“Because I hate her too,” Victor explained, going over to Daphne's body. “You are attracted to me and not her, and she hates me for it. So she torments me in any way she can think of, including keeping me locked in the basem*nt for weeks at a time, to the point where she received a citation from the Aunts. By day six, locked in that basem*nt with nobody to talk to and nothing to do, I'm crawling around on all fours on the floor because I don't have the will to get up and walk and I'm made to feel like an animal. You take out your rage on the women in your house, and the other women in your house take it out on me.” Victor nodded.

“Okay, but what about the tag?”

“Pfft. If I just did this, ripping off a tag would be nothing.” Victor snorted. Then he looked around. “Like an animal in a trap, chewing its own leg off so that it can survive. Desperation.”

“The curling iron?”

“I cauterized my wound,” Victor mused, leading Vinny and a couple other interested folks to the bathroom sink. “I know roughly where everyone keeps their curling irons if they have them, and I know they get hot enough to do serious damage if I've ever seen someone use them. I'm creative enough to put two and two together in a crisis situation and make four.”

“Holy moly,” Vinny sighed. “What are we dealing with, Victor?”

“It was the Handmaid,” Victor said, nodding. “We are dealing with an incredibly smart, incredibly strong woman who knows how to use those two things in very effective concert.”

“What about the Martha?” Vinny asked. “The only reason she woke up is ‘cause the Handmaid left the curling iron on and she smelled something burning. You hate her too, right? Why not kill her?”

“She wasn't in my way,” Victor murmured, pinching his chin. “The moment I destroy the true source of my torment, my focus immediately becomes escape. Speaking of escape, I'm a Handmaid, I have no valuables. So in the midst of covering up my true crime, I actually steal cash and tradeables that are light and easy to carry. Like jewelry.”

“But…” another person raised their hand. “She can't get very far dressed as a Handmaid, so why haven't we found her yet?”

“God, you're all so stupid,” Victor moaned, scrubbing hands over his tired eyes. Then he stormed over to the mattress, picking his way around the blood and bodies. He grabbed the corner of fabric and yanked, pulling out a red dress tangled in a white slip. A white cap fell to the ground as well. “If I ripped my tag out, why would I stay dressed as a Handmaid? I wouldn't. I would dress as John. He's close to my size and I have a similar haircut and skintone.”

“But what about her ear?” Vinny asked.

“It's cold outside,” Victor shrugged. “My driver wore a hat over here. So I -- the Handmaid -- grab a hat and a coat and dress up as John. Keep his ID to pass checkpoints, and steal his money to pay for…” he trailed off, thinking. “A way out,” he said, nodding. “If I don't want to get shot, hanged on the Wall, or sent to the Colonies, I need a way out. Put out a BOLO for Commander John Godwin. Mention the injury to the ear.” Victor turned and waved a hand, snorting as he walked out. “I'm done here.” He stopped in the doorway, turning back. “And I want that woman taken alive, do you understand? If anyone kills her, I'll have worms making a career out of devouring your corpse!”

With that, he stormed out, stomping to his car and stopping when he saw the driver's seat empty. Creeping closer, he saw Sebastian asleep in the backseat, black jacket over his eyes as his chest gently rose and fell.

Victor sighed.

He opened the door and got in the driver's side, leaning back to rifle around in Sebastian's pockets for the keys. He got them, and put them into the ignition. He tossed the tablet Vinny had given him into the passenger's seat. Finally, he turned the car over and backed out, looking over his shoulder to see the road.

“I feel like a damn maid,” he muttered, pulling forwards to start driving home as he turned around. “Cleaning up everybody's mess.” He eyed Sebastian in the rearview. “And you. Oughta roll you out into a ditch and leave you.” He kept staring, watching Sebastian sleep peacefully. Felt his face soften and his irritation get less prominent. “But I won't.”

He woke Sebastian up and sent him back to bed when they got home, taking the tablet out to the car and taking it into the kitchen/sunroom with him. Might as well get up for the day, it was five in the morning and he was very much awake. So he started making himself some coffee and turned on the tablet.

“Francine Holmes,” Victor muttered, scrolling. “Tell me your secrets, mm?” Only child of Francis and Elsie Holmes. Twenty-five, twenty-six this November, and a civil rights lawyer. Graduated suma cum laude from Harvard, where she worked two jobs to make financial aid stretch. He half-chuckled as he swiped through a couple of the attached pictures. One was her at a baseball game with her arm around another woman, and another was her as a younger girl with her father, also at a baseball game. And a baseball fan. He kept scrolling. Let's see… became a prominent anti-Gileadean activist during the rise of Gilead, arrested for inciting a riot, unlawful assembly, and gender treachery. Tagged and sent to the Rachel and Leah Center for Handmaid training upon finding Plan B in the getaway car and later fertility testing. Oh, she could be useful. Caught trying to escape to Canada. Father shot on sight, mother sent to the Colonies. He turned the tablet off and looked out the dark window. Then he sighed, swore softly, and put his face in his hands, inhaling through his nose. Why the hell didn't I read this before sending them after her?

f*ck. He made himself a cup of coffee and waited for it to cool, trying to think of a game plan. He'd stressed to keep her alive, which was a good start. But she'd be of no use to him strung up on the Wall or sent to the Colonies. Best thing to do was try to get her transferred to a new house, and he had just the house in mind.

He found things to do around the house until the sun came up, at which point he stopped pruning his roses and put his shears in the bucket, taking off his heavy-duty gardening gloves and dropping them in too. He leaned down, inspecting the nearly two-inch-long thorns on the stems. Now, if he could just figure out how to cross-breed these correctly with his white roses with red spotlets, he'd have the perfect flower. Grumbling, he shook his head and checked his watch. Seven-thirty am. He headed back inside for breakfast, which Yazmeen had already made.

“Good morning, Victor,” she said, kneading a loaf of bread. “You're up late.”

“Early, actually,” he said, taking the plate off the counter and sitting at the kitchen table. He sipped at the accompanying coffee and picked up his fork, spearing some egg. “Vinny woke me up at three in the damn morning today, for what he thought was a robbery gone wrong. Turns out the Commander had been molesting anyone in that house he could get his grimy hands on and his Handmaid beat him to death.” Victor slurped the coffee. “And his Wife,” he added, then ate the egg. “Thank you, Yazmeen, delicious as usual.”

“Mhm!”

His phone buzzed again. Just a text this time, or he may have actually put a hit out on Vinny.

Vinny: they found the girl. She's in holding now

Me: when?

Vinny: about fifteen minutes after you left

Me: thank you so much for your unwavering punctuality.

Vinny: thought you didn't wanna be disturbed

Me: fine. Where is she now?

Vinny: they're holding her at the r&l center until we can decide what to do about her. found her dressed like john, trying to get on a train. just like you said

Victor sighed through his nose and pinched the bridge of it, groaning. Me: I'll be there by noon. I need to talk with the other Commanders first. do NOT make a decision without me.

Vinny: ten-four. i'll tell the aunts

Victor just focused on finishing his breakfast, multi-tasking by calling a quick Committee meeting over webcam. First Commanders calling meetings always made it a drop-everything priority, so when the answer came back that they'd all be ready within the hour, Victor nodded to himself and brought his clean plate up to the counter. “I have a meeting in an hour,” he said to Yazmeen, who turned her head to listen where she was washing her hands at the sink. “No disturbances, please.”

She nodded.

Victor retreated to his office to get ready. When he launched the meeting, he watched First, Second, and Third Commanders all show up in clusters or one-by-one. The individual tiles were a smattering of First Commander white, Second Commander gray, and Third Commander black. Five minutes later, he started the meeting.

“I'm going to get right down to business,” he said, leaning forwards. “I'm sure we are all aware why Second Commander John isn't here today.”

Various assent greeted him. “I heard about that from my Wife this morning,” one said, nodding along. “Nasty business. She's got our Handmaid locked in her room after that.”

“They found Ofjohn,” Victor informed them, listening to the shocked murmurs. “Trying to get away by train dressed in his clothes. Which leads me to my next question. What is your plan in this matter?”

“What else?” another Commander snorted. “The Wall if we're feeling generous, the Colonies if not.”

“Yes, because Handmaids are so disposable we can afford to just throw them away,” Victor said, tilting his head and squinting his eyes. “No. I have a better idea. Besides, there are mitigating circ*mstances.”

“What kind of circ*mstances?”

“The mitigating kind,” Victor insisted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “I was called out to investigate the scene early this morning. What I found out was that John conducted himself in a way entirely unbecoming of a Commander. A way that could have very well gotten him sent to the Colonies. Lustful behavior. Devious, perverted behavior. Routinely touching his Martha against her will, attempting to conduct an affair with his Handmaid against her will.” Victor sighed. “Are those the kind of genes we want passed on? As Commanders, we're supposed to shepherd our families, are we not?”

The other Commanders all nodded at their screens. Victor could see them mulling it over, their looks of shock and disgust fading into thoughtfulness.

Victor went in for the kill. “If we can't even shepherd ourselves, how are our families supposed to remain on the path? When the head of a family is weak, the whole system falls apart. I can't find it in myself to fault this girl, could you? She was without proper guidance. The head of her family was abusing his position. His Wife was no better. Rather than reporting this issue to the Aunts, she became jealous and began torturing this poor girl. Is it any wonder Ofjohn felt that she had to take matters into her own hands? We set up Gilead so women wouldn't have to worry about these things. We failed her, not the other way around. Let's not fail her again, and ourselves by extension.” He breathed out, seeing how they would react.

More nodding, slow at first but gaining speed and conviction. Perfect. “What do you propose?”

“Keep her as a Handmaid,” Victor argued. “Don't let a perfectly good womb go to waste. We should defer to the Aunts on how to best handle her, but I believe the circ*mstances of this murder permit Ofjohn a second chance.”

“So it is,” the other Commanders agreed.

“Pragmatic as ever, Virtue,” another First Commander praised. “We'll stay the judgment, then. Leave it up to the Aunts to decide a fitting punishment, short of something that would remove her from her duty. Is that all, Victor?”

“Yes.”

“Under His eye.” Everyone started dropping the call and Victor returned the phrase, also dropping out. He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his palms over his face, the exhaustion catching up with him. He was going to kill Vinny for waking him up so early. He closed his laptop and got up, pacing around his office. Finally, he left, and Yazmeen stopped him at the kitchen doorway to press a travel mug of coffee into his hand.

“Oh, thank you, Yazmeen,” he sighed in relief, taking a test sip. Hot but not scalding. Perfect.

“Thought you were gonna need it,” Yazmeen smirked wryly, wisps of wavy graying hair coming undone from under her Martha's headcover. “Where are you headed?”

“A follow-up to a case,” Victor grumbled. “I'll be out for today, as will Sebastian. Is Calliope up?”

“Mm, I think she's sleeping in today,” Yazmeen said, making like she was checking a watch and aborting the movement, huffing. “Always forgetting I don't have my watch anymore.”

“Mm,” Victor hummed, sipping the coffee again. “Well, tell her I said good morning, alright? I'm gone.”

“Have a good day,” Yazmeen called after him.

He got Sebastian up again, and had him ready the car. He had his jacket on right side out this time at least. “You're not gonna believe this, sir,” Sebastian laughed, pulling out into the road. “I put my jacket on upside down before I came downstairs. Had to fix it.”

“Of course you did,” Victor chuckled. “So it seems like we'll get to the Center about thirty minutes early. Vinny's going to meet me there, so I'm going to go ahead in and see if I can't speak to this girl.”

“About what?”

“Giving her a second chance.”

The ride took them across the city, into downtown areas with subway platforms and office buildings. Guardians patrolled the street. Handmaids walked in twos around them, and the occasional bundle of Marthas passed. Every so often, they'd see a flash of brown or blue.

“We're here,” Sebastian informed him, pulling up to a squatty compound surrounded by chain-link fencing, barbed wire on top. Victor nodded and got out, leaving his coffee in the car. He approached the gate, flashing his ID. “First Commander Victor Virtue,” he said, watching the Guardians at the door gawk at him. “I'm expected.”

“S-sure, Sir,” one stammered, and they let him pass.

“Under His eye,” the other one said as he passed.

He walked to the actual doors of the building and pushed one open, walking inside. An Aunt was walking with a Handmaid next to her. The wings of the Handmaid's bonnet obscured her face.

“Commander Virtue,” the Aunt gasped, eyes wide. “I…”

“I’m expected,” Victor told her. “Where's Aunt Lydia?”

“She and a couple of others are disciplining one of the girls. Down that hallway. Are you here to finally pick a Handmaid?” The Aunt brightened. “You've been on the waitlist a while, but you really shouldn't have any problem with your status, sir. Pick of the litter. For instance, this lovely girl here.” She brought up the Handmaid next to her. “She's graduating from us in a couple of weeks. Such a lovely temperament and Godly appearance.”

“No, I'm here on other business,” Victor brushed aside. “This isn't a pet store. Have some respect. If not for me, then for her.” He then started walking down the hallway, looking around. Along the way, he found and stopped Aunts to direct him closer and closer.

“Victor! Victor!” Vinny was rushing down the hall, holding his hat. He caught up, wheezing. “Knew you'd be early,” he panted, bending double. “So I was too.” He seemed to recover, sighing. “I've never been here before,” he said.

A faint scream carried down the hallway. Sobbing.

“That sounded like a woman screaming,” Vinny observed, as astute as ever. They both took off walking quickly.

“One of the other Aunts explained that Aunt Lydia was helping to discipline a Handmaid,” Victor said, scanning each room as Vinny huffed and puffed to keep up. “I need to speak to Aunt Lydia so we can find our perpetrator.” The screaming was louder now, as was the sobbing. Harsh cracks rang out. Victor could just barely make out words now.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” the voice sobbed. “Please I'm sorry I won't do it again please-!” CRACK. More scream-crying.

“Phew. That sounds brutal,” Vinny sweated, pulling at his collar. “Tough regimen for these girls, eh?”

Victor had to agree. Finally, they reached the room where the noise was coming from. There was a Handmaid strapped to a table facing down. Aunt Lydia was standing in front of her, while another Aunt was raising a multi-stranded flail that flicked blood off of it. There was a small puddle dripping off of the Handmaid’s bloody red feet. The flail came down in an explosion of blood spatter and prompted more screaming, then more gut-wrenching sobbing. Victor ground his teeth.

“Jeeesus,” Vinny breathed, pulling at his collar again. “Brutal. All for the good of the state, I guess…”

Victor shoved the door open and stormed forwards when he saw the flail go up again, catching the Aunt's wrist when she was about to bring it back down. Her sleeve was soaked red at the cuff as blood ran in trickles and splatters. She startled, shooting him a scandalized look as she tried to wrench her hand away. He just squeezed the spot in her wrist that made her lose control of her hand and drop the flail. It smeared a trail of rust red on the floor as it settled.

“Commander Virtue!” Aunt Lydia said, where she was petting the sobbing woman's face soothingly. Victor spotted the notch missing from the Handmaid's ear, all blistered and burnt. “You're early. We were going to bring her to a room you could speak to her in. All due respect, this really isn't an activity a man should be seeing…”

“This is a gracious plenty,” Victor seethed. “I think you've made your point. I clearly heard her repent.”

“She's not sorry she did it, she's sorry she got caught,” Aunt Lydia chided, hand still stroking the Handmaid's cheek. “This one requires a firm hand, unfortunately. This is standard punishment for escape attempts.”

“This is her fourth, correct? After the second one, you didn't think to try something else? Whatever. You -- get out.” He shooed the other Aunt off and she left, picking up the flail. Victor approached as Vinny tried to go around the front and speak soothingly to the crying Handmaid.

“Hey, miss, it's alright,” he murmured, crouching. “I --”

“Get away from me!” she shrieked, thrashing herself and the bed around in her restraints. Then she broke down crying again as Vinny backed off, putting his hands up. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please I'm sorry -- Aunt Lydia, I'm sorry, please please please I promise I won't do it again, I won't --”

“Shh, shh,” Aunt Lydia hushed, face going sad and sympathetic. “I know you're sorry, sweet girl. Because you're a good girl, right?”

The Handmaid nodded frantically, face wet and shiny. Victor approached slowly, avoiding the puddle of blood beneath her feet. “Ofjohn,” he called, as if he was talking to a skittish feral dog. “My name is Commander Virtue. I was here to talk to you with my colleague Vinny about John and Daphne Godwin. I have first aid experience. Can I take a look at your feet?”

She shook her head, hiccuping and sobbing. Aunt Lydia clucked her tongue, giving her cheek a sharp pat. “Let him take a look,” she said. “You don't say no to a Commander.”

As soon as Victor got close, Francine started struggling again, whimpers increasing in volume. “No, stop!” she yelped out, and then screamed as he laid one palm down on her achilles tendon, trying to warn her before he touched her wounds proper. He reached into his pocket and produced gloves, putting one on after the other.

“I'm sorry, dear, I have to take a look.” He inspected the cuts. Deep, nasty lacerations cut through sole and skin to the flesh below. Blood dripped off her toes in a steady plip-plip-plip. When he touched fingers to the area around a wound to see inside, she flinched and screamed. A flash of white deep in the gash made Victor grimace in sympathy.

“Is that bone?” Vinny gasped, green in the face.

“No, tendon,” Victor mused.

Up front, Aunt Lydia was letting Francine cry into her stomach, petting her hair and avoiding her injured ear. “Shh, it's alright, sweet girl,” the Aunt murmured, looking pained. “Be brave, be brave. It's alright.”

“These are going to need some serious stitching,” Victor called, still inspecting. “Is there a doctor who can do that here? Competently?”

“Yes, I'll send for him,” Aunt Lydia said. She took a radio off of her hip and called for a doctor into it, then put it away. She knelt down to grasp Francine by the face and put their foreheads together. “You sweet, stupid girl,” she murmured as Francine wept. “It's alright. It's over now. You've done so well.”

“Please stop touching me, Commander,” Frankie sobbed. Aunt Lydia’s eyes closed in disappointment as her face fell.

Victor took his hand away, taking off his gloves and going over to a trash can to dispose of them. “She's going to need a wheelchair, too,” he stated.

Francine’s crying was petering off into soft weeping and hiccuping. Victor gave her a few more minutes for the doctor to get there with the suture kit. The doctor put his gloves on and started inspecting, prompting a fresh wave of screaming and crying.

“Got a set of pipes on her, eh?” Vinny said grimly. “Can't believe it, but I almost feel bad for her.”

“This Handmaid was failed by every step in the process,” Victor muttered. “You should.”

“What can I give her?” the doctor asked, readying his materials.

“Acetaminophen,” Aunt Lydia called. “We don't know if she's with child or not.”

“Got it.” The doctor readied some tylenol and brought it over, sticking it Frankie's mouth like she was a dog taking her heartworm pills. “There ya go, get that down ya.” He gave her some water. “Gotta stitch you up so you can be back in fighting form for your family, eh?” He went back and started stitching. It prompted more agonized screaming, her voice giving out into broken rasps.

Aunt Lydia kept soothing her, looking deathly pained herself. Victor wasn't shy about supervising the doctor, leaning over his shoulder. Fortunately, the doctor seemed to give her a break after sewing up the first cut, patting her calf. Then rubbing it. “It's a shame Professionals don't get priority on Handmaids,” he called up to Lydia. “I would take this cutie in a second. And the Wife would love her.” His hand started to creep further up. Just a bit. Then a little more on the next pass. Then a little more. Right inside the crease of her knee.

Victor leaned down into his ear. “Keep your hands to the stitches or I'll cut your balls off myself,” he murmured straight into the guy's ear, feeling him suddenly stiffen up. “You're a doctor and this is your patient, for christ’s sake.”

The doctor quickly got back to it, far less chatty for the rest of the surgery. Victor made sure to watch him like a hawk. Finally, when he was done, Francine seemed to be spent, eyes barely open as she breathed raggedly on the table. The soles of her feet were a patchwork quilt of jagged stitches, the ties on the sutures sticking up like black grass.

“He's done, Ofjohn,” Victor told Francine, coming around to stand beside Aunt Lydia and crouch to meet the Handmaid’s eyes. They were just slits, with heavy gray circles underneath as sweat collected in the low points on her face. She was deathly pale, too. “No more. I know you're tired, but I need to ask you some questions about John and Daphne.”

Francine nodded, just barely. Her chin scrubbed against the bed.

“What happened?”

“The first Ceremony night I was there,” she croaked, “He was getting ready to start and I realized that I wasn't ready and that I -- I didn't want to. So I started crying, and begging, and asking him to wait, and he just pushed in,” she wept, eyes squeezing shut. She was missing one, with a scar over the eyelid. One of her hands was also down a pinky finger. Fresh and bandaged. “And it hurt, I needed to stop,” she managed through tears. Next to Victor, Aunt Lydia’s fist clenched. Then she unclenched it and started petting Francine's hair again. “I even begged for my mom and he wouldn't stop,” she recalled. “I was crying so hard I thought I'd choke. His Wife just covered my mouth.”

Victor's lip curled as he stood up, revulsion welling in him. “It's over now,” he said, patting Francine's shoulder once. “That's disgusting behavior.”

“He was always like that, and he touched me,” Francine slurred out, eyes fighting to stay open. She was losing the battle. “Said he loved a heavier woman ‘cause there's more to squeeze,” she managed. Her eyes slid closed as Lydia made a heartbroken noise, softly.

“I had no idea her Commander was being so repulsive,” she told Victor. “If I'd known that he had been acting so vile…”

Vinny sidled over to Victor. “I know you're not supposed to stop completely,” he led, voice low, “but aren't you at least supposed to pause?”

“Yes,” Victor growled, turning to walk away just a few steps. Francine seemed to be getting some sleep, best not to disturb her. Aunt Lydia just stayed with Francine. “Vinny, you're an Economan, so I'll explain this to you. How much do you know about Ceremony nights?”

“Eh, just the basics,” Vinny shrugged. “Theoretically. Wife and Handmaid are one body, Commander impregnates the Handmaid, et cetera.”

“It's all very controlled,” Victor explained. “No touching behind what's required to…” he fished for the words, “Line yourself up,” he settled on. “And if your Handmaid says stop, especially if they seem distressed or in pain, you're supposed to pause and reassure her or check that there isn't a physical problem. You reassure her to avoid resentment and fear, which would be bad for any pregnancy, and you check her physically to make sure she can actually perform her duty that night.” Victor shrugged. “A Handmaid also isn't supposed to call for a stop unless it's absolutely necessary, but if she was crying that hard and begging for her mother, John should have stopped.” Victor curled his lip again. “To say nothing of the inappropriate touching and come-ons. That whole family was dysfunctional to the core.”

“Jeez,” Vinny muttered, looking back at Francine. She seemed to be awake again, but just barely. An Aunt was delivering Aunt Lydia some kind of salve, and she was circling around to apply it. Francine hissed through her teeth, grimacing and whimpering.

Victor hated to see the strong brought low. It turned his stomach. The natural order wasn't meant to be disturbed like that. He approached her again, crouching. “Ofjohn,” he prompted, trying to distract her.

“How am I of him?” She asked deliriously, one eye rolling around in its socket like a trackball controller as her lids fluttered. “I thought I made myself pretty clear when I reduced him to his dental records,” she slurred.

Victor huffed a laugh through his nose. “Suppose so,” he allowed, half-laughing. “But fingerprints, actually. You smashed his teeth up pretty good, too.”

“Oh,” Francine said, as Aunt Lydia circled back around to stand by her head. The Aunt wiped her fingers onto a handkerchief. “Good.”

“Why did you ask him to stop, Ofjohn?” Victor asked, patting her cheek. “Hey. stay with me. Just a moment longer. Why did you ask him to stop?”

“Because… because…” Francine huffed, clearly trying her hardest to stay awake. Suddenly, fire came back into her eye, for just a second. Just a spark. “Because I didn't want to be some kind of brood bitch and I didn't want that motherf*cker and his disgusting co*ck anywhere near me!”

Lydia smacked her face, leaving a bit of a red mark and making her yelp. “I'm so sorry, Commander,” Lydia said. “The Lord teaches us patience in many ways, but it's one step forwards, two steps backwards with this one. Every time I think we're making progress…”

“The house was dysfunctional, it's fine,” Victor said. Francine was already passing back out. “I'm going to come back tomorrow to speak more to her. The other Commanders have agreed to spare her and give her a second chance. I want to inform her of the situation myself. I feel responsible -- I should have seen the kind of man John was.”

Aunt Lydia melted, face relaxing into pure relief. “Praise be,” she whispered fervently. “I only punished her so hard in the hopes that it would stay further judgment…”

“Judgment is stayed. However, I doubt that any other Commander would be interested in her.” Victor looked at the woman on the bed. “So I’ll pick up the slack.”

He could feel Vinny giving him the same shocked look that Aunt Lydia was. “You're taking a Handmaid?” she stammered. “Every time we've tried to post one with you you've refused her…”

“I'm picky, I'll admit,” Victor said, then looked over at Francine again. “But there's something about a fighting spirit that I just can't ignore. Now, I know that Aunts control postings. However…”

“Y-yes, when she is ready to be assigned again, we'll prioritize the Virtue household,” Aunt Lydia agreed, dazed.

“Good. In the meantime, I expect her to be cared for properly. Physical therapy so she can walk again, lots of fresh air and sunlight, and proper nutrition.” Victor scowled. “The Wife was depriving her as well. Like I said. Dysfunctional.” He paused. “I'm going to visit her regularly to monitor her progress,” he said. “I'll send ahead so as not to disturb the Center's activities.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Aunt Lydia said.

Chapter 3: Make Me Happy and I Shall Again Be Virtuous

Chapter Text

“Hey.” Frankie came up behind her friend, putting a hand on Carsonne's shoulder as the other baby butch skipped rocks on the lake. Her grease-stained jeans were rolled up to the knees, showing her lower legs. They were covered in a thick forest of black hair. “What's up? I missed you waiting for the bus today. Had to go without you.”

“Kinda cut class,” Carsonne admitted. Shrugged with one shoulder and skipped a rock. “Anyways, I can't hang out long. I'm helping my old man out in the auto shop today.”

“Oh, fun,” Frankie said. She sat down next to Carsonne and scratched her head through her short hair before pulling out her homework. “Why'd you cut class? You know your grades are dropping.”

“Yeah, I know,” Carsonne snapped, then sighed. She looked tired. She put her hands behind herself and leaned back, muscles flexing in her arms. “Sorry. It's just -- Mr. Santiago runs the afterschool classroom and I didn't wanna hang around him while waiting on the bus.”

“Oh. Why?”

“I dunno. Just don't I guess.” Carsonne looked away and hugged herself. Her face was downcast, eyes staring into the water. “Anyways, I'm probably gonna go right into working at the shop after high school anyways. Help my old man in the shop. I like it, and it's good money.”

“Here's to that,” Frankie said, scrawling down homework answers.

“Jesus, don't you do anything else?” Carsonne asked, and then cringed, holding her crucifix necklace. “Sorry Jesus.”

“I'm in all honors classes this semester, I wanna do AP classes next year,” Frankie answered, frowning at her worksheet. “If I wanna be a lawyer, I've really gotta buckle down. And I already have a job lined up for this summer, so I really have to make sure I'm studying for my SATs too.”

“All you do is study,” Carsonne complained. “Live a little, Frankie. At least your parents will be proud of you no matter what.” After no response, just more pencil scratching, Carsonne rolled her eyes and tossed her last rock into the lake with a PLUNK-SPLOOSH. Then she leaned over and plucked the pencil out of Frankie's hand.

“Hey!”

“C’mon, five minutes?” Carsonne grinned slyly. “Wanna show you something.” She leaned in close, putting Frankie's binder aside and crawling over her lap facing her. She had a crooked grin with slightly crooked teeth. And a dusting of freckles over her nose and down her arms. Her skin was more olive-toned to Frankie's paler skin and the hairs on her were black to match her buzzed head. Shorter than Frankie’s. Just prickly fuzz.

Frankie leaned her head back, half-smiling. “Something? What something?”

“Just something,” Carsonne said, kinda soft. Cast her big brown eyes up to meet Frankie's own. She had cupid's bow lips, Frankie realized. And her eyelashes weren't as black as the rest of her hair, catching gold in the evening light. “I dunno.”

Frankie's own lips parted slightly as her heartbeat picked up, pounding in her chest. Carsonne's tank-top was sagging down from gravity and she wasn't wearing a bra because she never did. Carsonne always wore tank-tops because she didn't have the tit* to fill a paper bag, let alone a tank-top, and Frankie was jealous. Sure, you could see them (not that Frankie had spent a ton of time looking or anything) but they weren't huge. Maybe B cups or C cups. Her crucifix hung low, swinging from its chain like a pendulum.

Carsonne leaned forwards into Frankie and their lips touched, pressing into each other. Carsonne's lips were warm but rough because of all the time she spent chewing on them, and she tasted like cigarette smoke because sometimes she'd smoke a cig with the senior guys and girls out back behind the cafeteria. And most of all she was warm and soft, her tongue gently exploring as their lips meshed.

Frankie sighed, one shaky hand coming to rest on Carsonne’s back. Carsonne separated, a string of spit connecting their lips. Then she pushed Frankie back, hands lighting down on Frankie's chest and trailing down her stomach to the button on her jeans. Wordlessly, Frankie helped her unbutton it, glancing back the way she'd came to make sure nobody was approaching on the path. She got distracted by Carsonne's rough fingers sliding between her legs to touch her, smearing around wetness and playing with her in a way that made her arch her back and gasp. Heat flooded her.

“Didn't know you were fa*ggy like this,” Carsonne half-laughed but it didn't sound mean, just distracted and far-off.

“Carsonne, I've been gay since sixth grade, you know this. You’re gay too!” Frankie admonished, then whimpered as Carsonne slid fingers into her. “Mm-!”

“Well, yeah, but like, fa*ggy like this,” she said. “Into girls that look like boys. When you're a girl who looks like a boy.”

“Carsonne, I just like girls,” Frankie whimpered as Carsonne started hitting a spot inside of her that made her moan. “God, how are you so good at this…”

“Gigi shows me,” Carsonne admitted proudly, and Frankie could hear the smirk in her voice. As well as the wet sounds between her own legs. “I hang out at her house sometimes.”

“Gigi? Mrs. Saunders? Our math teacher?” Frankie asked, gasping as her eyes closed and she ground the back of her head into the dirt. “Oh, g-god, stop talking about Mrs. Saunders right now if you wanna keep showing me because we have got to talk about that.”

“Nah it's fine,” Carsonne laughed. “S'cool. You like that, baby?”

“We're sixteen, stop trying to do p*rno talk,” Frankie laughed, then moaned and lifted her hips. Her fingers dragged through the gravel beneath her, clawing at it. “f*ck, Carsonne! Yes, right there!”

“Now who's doing p*rno talk?” Carsonne snickered and her forearm flexed as she fingered Frankie, going faster and faster. “Feels good, right? Gigi had me do it on her.”

“If you talk about Mrs. Saunders one more time you're gonna get out of me and I'm gonna tell your parents you smoke,” Frankie panted, eyes squeezing closed against the evening sunlight as the fiery pressure in her core built and built and built. Soon she was trying to bounce her hips in rhythm. Moaning and begging breathlessly. Shouting as she came on Carsonne's fingers.

After she wound down, she wasn't sure what she expected Carsonne to do. She lay there panting, feeling tingly all over and blushy. Silly. Kinda goofy. Loose and relaxed. It was nice.

It was less nice when she remembered a detail or two. “Carsonne,” she asked, “Why is a twenty-eight year old math teacher showing a sixteen year old how to finger her?”

“It's like, totally legal,” Carsonne brushed off, laughing. “I'm sixteen, that's legal. I just bagged a cougar is all. She invites me over and we hang out sometimes. My folks don't care since she's a woman, so it's not like it's weird. She's cool outside of the classroom. Besides, that's not all she showed me.” She started shimmying Frankie's shorts and underwear down, exposing her bare ass to the gravel.

“Carsonne, we're gonna get caught!” Frankie laughed, looking back towards the path. She shrieked as Carsonne yanked her pants off entirely and laughed again, grabbing for them. “Gimme my pants back, Carsonne! What if somebody sees?”

“Trust me,” Carsonne said, “If this is your first time feeling this, you won't last super long.” Then she pried Frankie's legs apart and bowed her head. She buried her nose and mouth in between Frankie's lower lips, prompting a gasp from the baby butch as the other baby butch's nose bumped her (still sensitive) cl*t. Then a hot, wet tongue slipped out to start licking at her and she moaned, hands instinctively slithering to grip Carsonne's head. In response, Carsonne groaned, and slid arms up under Frankie's thighs.

“Oh god,” she groaned, head falling back. “Oh, god, oh, my god--”

***

Frankie’s eyes slid open, as she whined from the pain radiating from the ankles down. Driving her out-of-her-head crazy, she just tried to fall back into the dream. After she'd finished, she pushed Carsonne off of her and chased her around the lakeside buck-ass nude and laughing while Carsonne waved her damn clothes in the air, playing Keep-Away. The kind of activities her grandma would call “nekkid” and not “naked.” They'd played in the lake after that and Carsonne had been late to go help her dad in the auto shop. Frankie was pretty sure her parents were actually relieved she'd skimped on homework to “hang out” with a friend. She was the only kid she knew whose parents got on her for working too hard. “Don't be like me, kiddo,” her dad had said, ruffling her hair. “Letting all those good things pass you by while you're young. You're only here once. Take what life has to offer you. For me and your mom.”

The pain in her feet was not going to be ignored. Light was streaming through her window the same as it was when she'd finally fallen asleep, and the analog clock read an hour later. Did that count as reading? Frankie half-laughed to herself. Come back and take my hand, you guys, I'm reading the clock. Better get me.

The door opened. It was Aunt Lydia, back with more ointment. She reached out and patted Frankie's calf before uncapping the ointment and getting some on her fingers. “Hold still, dear,” she coached. Frankie couldn't see here from her prone position on the bed, but she could feel it.

Every touch of Aunt Lydia’s fingers burned like hellfire on her feet and she cried, whimpering and squirming away. Or she tried to. Thirty-six hours on one hour of sleep after several adrenaline highs had her body feeling like molasses.

“Shh, shh, don't squirm,” Aunt Lydia chided, pulling one of her feet back down by the calf and shin. “You need this cream, It'll help you heal. I know it hurts. But this was for your own good, Ofjohn. Think of this the next time you want to escape.” She sighed heavily, sounding just plain disappointed. “Commander Virtue's offer was very generous, and you would do well to remember that.”

What offer? Commander? The only men who are allowed in the Red Center are Guardians. Or tradesmen or Professionals like doctors on special dispensation. Never a Commander. Frankie strained to remember yesterday -- or last night -- or whenever the hell it was. All she could really remember was a haze of agony and suffering, but she did remember that someone had interrupted the flogging yesterday. Damned if she could remember what they talked about. She cringed as Aunt Lydia had to work around her stitches but since there were so many of them, it wasn't working.

“It's alright, dear,” Aunt Lydia soothed. “I'm almost done with this one. I'm not trying to hurt you, sweet girl. You're being a very good girl for me.”

Good girl. Frankie's lip curled. She f*cking hated that phrase these days.

“Why do you fight it so hard?” Aunt Lydia tutted, half to herself. “You only make things so much worse for yourself.”

“Because this is not normal,” Frankie ground out, as Lydia moved onto the other foot. “This is not normal and I'm not going to accept it.”

“Normal is what you're used to,” Aunt Lydia soothed, applying ointment to the other foot. “In time, this will become normal to you. The faster that you accept it, the easier it will be and the longer you'll live.” She stood up, capping the ointment and coming to check on Frankie's ear, wiping her hands off. “Let's put some on this too,” she murmured, uncapping it again. “You don't have to get out of bed while you're healing,” she told Frankie, (gently) applying ointment to her ear so as not to pop the blisters. She hadn't gotten a tag back in her ear yet, which would make this the perfect time to escape, except that she couldn't f*cking move her feet, dammit. God above, it blew so hard. She could've been in Canada by now. Free and clear. “As long as you need to, dear, try to focus on recovery. We'll take good care of you.”

Frankie didn't say anything, too exhausted to argue. Instead, she thought about Carsonne. Rounded up in one of the Dyke Purges because she was a gender traitor and adulteress without functioning equipment. Oh, and Catholic. The last time Frankie had heard of her, she was getting sent off to an exclusion zone to work to death. Frankie thought about her brown eyes, and freckled face always a little bit set in its mischievous smirk. She wasn't in love with Carsonne -- they'd have been awful for each other -- but she did love her. And knowing she was never gonna see the Italian mechanic again killed her a little.

As if reading her mind, Aunt Lydia asked, “Who's Carsonne? You were mumbling about a Carsonne when I came to check on you while you were sleeping.”

“Old friend of mine,” Frankie sighed, grimacing at the pain in her ear. And her feet. “Carsonne Pedano.” She eagerly accepted the Tylenol she got offered and gulped it down. “She's — she's gone now.”

“What happened?” Aunt Lydia asked, petting Frankie's hair.

“You all did,” Frankie answered bitterly. “Called her an adulteress, sent her off to the Colonies. She wasn't an adulteress.”

“If she was sleeping with a married man…”

“It was one of our teachers, she was sixteen!” Frankie snapped. “Another teacher opened that door and he took advantage! How is a sixteen year old ‘sleeping with’ a thirty year old man and a twenty-eight year old woman and not being raped? God, she thought it was normal ‘cause of one teacher and then he came behind her and made it so much worse. The only reason you all knew about it was because there was a police report!”

“Sixteen is a woman,” Lydia said sadly, patting. “I might have been lenient, considering, but I'm not in charge, dear. I'm sorry your friend isn't here anymore.”

“Are you done?” Frankie sniffed, putting her head back down. “I want to try and get some more sleep.”

“You're going to have a visitor in a few minutes,” Aunt Lydia told her. “See if you can wait till afterwards, dear, alright? He won't be long.”

He? Frankie wracked her brain to think about who it might be. Maybe whoever interrupted her beating yesterday, who was apparently a Commander. She was grateful the sheets covered her prone form up to the shoulders all of a sudden and her feet were just sticking out from under them.

“Ah, he's early again,” Aunt Lydia said in pleased surprise, going to open the door. “Commander Virtue, sir! Thank you for coming back today. And…”

“Vincent Bradshaw, GPD,” another voice, kinda gravelly but still middle-pitched, answered. “Thanks for allowing us in here, ma’am. Police business and all.”

“Could you give us a moment, Aunt Lydia?” the other man spoke. His voice was far smoother and around the same middling pitch, but it had a deeper timbre in the background, like he was speaking from a different part of his throat. Didn't sound forced though.

“Oh, er…” Aunt Lydia hedged, trailing off. “You're really not supposed to be alone with her, Commander. Perhaps you're not familiar —”

“I'm perfectly familiar. Give us the room, please. I'm sure you'll be right outside should anything be the matter.” His voice brooked no room for argument, so Aunt Lydia didn't argue. Just left, the door closing behind her. Frankie heard the Commander's footsteps approaching and tensed up.

“That's close enough,” she growled.

He was circling around to look at her ear, head tilted in her periphery. He got closer. Closer. Opened his mouth to say something.

Finally, he got too close, and Frankie's body moved for her. She planted her palms underneath herself and pushed, flipping herself over and coming back down on her back with a THUMP that made the iron bedframe groan and wobble. As soon as ass hit sheets, she was sitting up and spreading her legs so her feet weren't grinding into the bed and rather hanging off. And her fist was already balled up and midway through a wild haymaker that would definitely make contact with the Commander's jaw.

To his credit, the man had lightning fast reflexes. Before Vincent had seemed to process what was going on, the Commander had caught her fist in his palm and held it, brown eyes widening just a little as his head jerked back. The dark skin of his fingers stood out against Frankie's pasty pale fist. Not to be deterred, she sent her other hand in for a slap on the other side of his face. He caught that wrist too with a huff, squeezing hard.

“Are you done?” was all the Commander said, while Vincent looked jittery. When Frankie struggled, trying to pull her hands away, her stupid, exhausted body wouldn't give her the strength. “Aht. Stop it. Relax.”

“Let go of me,” Frankie snarled, jerking her hands. He still didn't let go.

“No,” Commander Virtue responded, voice steely. “Not until you calm down. I don't particularly want to explain to my Wife how I got a black eye, thank you.” He had a broad nose and almond-shaped eyes, and long hair. That was weird. Any other Commander wouldn't be caught dead with long hair.

Commander Virtue. Where had Frankie heard that name before? John had mentioned something about a First Commander Virtue. Ridiculously, astronomically high up. One of the men involved in the original junta. Survived all the political purges in the early days. The snow-white of his clothes, trimmed with silver, showed his status.

“Now,” the Commander said slowly, seeming all the world as if he was just about to have a nice conversation, “Why don't we all calm down, use our heads, and talk like civilized people.”

Use my head? Alright, I will.

Frankie used his grip on her hand and wrist to pull him forward into range, and headbutted the ever-loving sh*t out of him, hearing and feeling her forehead make direct head-to-nose contact. He aborted a cry of shock and pain, letting go of her hands to stagger backwards and curl in on his hurt. Vincent whipped out his gun and pointed it at Frankie as the Commander panted raggedly into his hands, covering his nose as he was turned away to the side.

“f*ck,” Frankie heard the lithe man hiss, his eyes squeezed shut as his perfect hair got mussed. “sh*t!”

“You alright, Vic?” Vincent asked, shuffling on his feet back and forth. He was nervous, skittish.

“Do it,” Frankie challenged the cop, leaning forwards. His finger twitched on the trigger guard. “Do it! Shoot me! Go ahead, why not?”

“Vincent don't you dare,” the Commander snarled, sounding nasally into his hands as he wiped blood from under his nose. “Put the gun down.”

“No, do it,” Frankie challenged. “Who the hell is he to tell you what to do? What are you, his Wife? His Handmaid?”

“Vincent, leave,” the Commander barked. Checked the blood smear on the back of his thumb and grimaced. “Wait outside with the Aunt.”

Vincent looked back and forth between the two of them, then back at the Commander. Finally, he put the gun away and nodded, retreating.

“Now it's just me,” the Commander said, sniffing as he went for a tissue on the bedside table. “He’s more afraid of me than he is of you. You broke my nose, Francine.” At this, he looked truly irritated for the first time Frankie had seen him (and remembered it).

“Good. Told you that was close enough.” She tried not to show how the adrenaline wearing off was letting the pain and tiredness worm their way back in. Like roots under a sidewalk, cracking it.

He didn't say anything to that, but he didn't get closer again. “I came to talk to you,” he said, sitting down in the chair at that table and wiping his hands off. Then he looked down at the tissue and sighed before holding it to his nose. “After John, the other Commanders agreed to give you a second chance, but I doubt any of them would want to take you,” he sniffed. Tucked some hair behind his ear. It was black and straightened. Came to his shoulders.

“A second chance,” Frankie said slowly. “As a Handmaid?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Unfortunately, you're really not in a position to refuse,” the Commander grumbled, checking his tissue. “As hardheaded as you are, your consent in this process is not required.”

“Yeah, you don't really need to tell me that. What, are you expecting that they'll just give me to you? The Aunts control postings.”

“They already have,” the Commander said, sniffing and looking pained again. “I discussed it with Aunt Lydia yesterday.”

“So you bartered over my unconscious body,” Frankie sighed, trying to fight her eye closing. “Why are you gunning for me so hard? Why interrupt the flogging yesterday? At least with John I knew where I stood.”

“I would have you stand quite a bit higher than that,” Victor said with disdain, and pressed the tissue to his nose again to check for blood. “Are you recovering well?”

“Fine, I guess,” Frankie said, eye closing on its own. She couldn't sleep though. Too on edge, and the pain in her feet got ten times worse when she shut her eyes and didn't have anything else to focus on. “Guess I can't ask for a copy of Frankenstein, huh.”

“The Modern Prometheus,” the Commander mused, amusem*nt evident in his voice. “Interesting choice. No, sorry. Would music suffice?”

“Nothing they would let me listen to.” She cracked her eye open when she heard him get up, coming closer. “Hey, back off. I'll start breaking more than just your nose.” Truth was, she didn't think her body could move if she had a gun to her head. She felt delirious.

“Hush, I'm taking a look at you,” he said, frowning as he really saw her face. “You look tired. Have they been letting you sleep?”

“They've been letting me, it just hasn't been happening, not really,” Frankie explained, eye weighing itself closed again. She wrenched it back open. “Haven't slept in like, thirty six hours. In too much pain.”

“What are they giving you for it?” He leaned forwards as if he was actually interested.

“Two Tylenol. God forbid I be growing a healthy little parasite inside of me and it dies if I take three.”

“Oh for God's --” He huffed, sighing hard. He sat back in his chair, idly chewing on his thumbnail in thought. “They haven't tested you?”

“Nah. Assume pregnant until menstruated otherwise.”

“Christ's sake,” he muttered. “This is ridiculous, there's no way Tylenol is working for that.” He walked over to the door and opened it, closing it back. She could see his silhouette arguing with Aunt Lydia's, both of them gesturing. He raised his voice enough that Frankie could make out what he was saying through the door. “...and test her. If she's negative, give her real painkillers, and if she's positive, find something stronger than Tylenol, or at least let her have more than two!” Finally, he seemed to cow Lydia into submission and sent her packing. She came back with Aunt Leelah, who gave Frankie a bubbly smile. Considering that Frankie could still see the residual staining from blood soaking into the cuff of her brown jacket, she wasn't overjoyed to see the Aunt.

“C'mon, you have to use the bathroom?” Aunt Leelah prodded, as they both helped her out of the bed and into a wheelchair. They wheeled her into the attached bathroom and helped her onto the toilet, handing her a pregnancy test. “Here you go, lovie. Go ahead and try okay?”

Frankie didn't have it in her to argue. She just nodded and the Aunts let her have a little bit of privacy (by turning around, but still). Frankie focused on trying to piss, heart pounding as she hoped and prayed and pleaded to God to make it negative. Please, God, if you love me at all, don't let me grow John's spawn.

She risked a peek down, sick to her stomach. It wasn't ready yet. She closed her eye and prayed, fervently and silently. Please, please. I'll do anything. Please. Don't do this to me. Not after everything else.

She risked another glance a moment later. Negative result.

Frankie almost dropped it into the toilet in relief. “N-negative,” she called back, and held it up for the Aunts to see. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Aunt Lydia looked equal parts relieved and disappointed, nodding. “Throw it away, then,” she said, nodding towards the trash can.

“I'm sure you're heartbroken,” Frankie groaned, throwing the test in the trash and cleaning herself up. They helped her back into the chair and wheeled her to the sink to wash her hands before wheeling her back to bed.

“I know you don't think so, Ofjohn, but I don't enjoy hurting you,” Lydia sighed resignedly. As if she was Frankie's mother and Frankie had been lying to her about something for months and she was just sad about it.

“Oh, you messed your sheets all up, hang on,” Aunt Leelah chirped. Like Carsonne, her face was always quirked in a particular smile, but it always read as far more sinister. Leelah pulled the sheets back enough so that they could roll her prone into bed again. Then she gingerly pulled the sheets back over her, leaving Frankie's feet out. “Alright, we're gonna bring you some medicine, ‘kay?”

“Mhm,” Frankie agreed, eyelids feeling like they weighed fifty pounds. As they left, she didn't think she fell asleep, but she definitely wasn't completely awake, either. Instead, her mind drifted. First day she got here, she made a name for herself and lost an eye by cussing out one of the Aunts and slapping her so stupid she spun a hundred and eighty degrees and bounced her face off the doorframe. Second day, however…

Frankie Holmes was twenty-five years old, the youngest partner at The Law Offices of Whitlock, Beckett, and Holmes, and absolutely fed up to her neck with this bullsh*t. She hadn't studied her ass off, graduated summa cum laude and worked two jobs in college just to get shunted off to some kind of breeding program. A womb on two legs. A concubine for powerful men.

“Pay attention, girls,” Aunt Lydia chided at the front of the class, pointing her teacher's stick at the projector screen. “This is very important. When you are assigned to a household, you will take the name of your patriarch. This is to cement your place in your new family and remind you of your place in life. You are never, ever to be alone, unless you are bathing, using the bathroom, or sleeping. And you should never be alone with your patriarch without his Wife present!”

Frankie just looked at her friend Charlie, who was sitting at the desk next to her. Got here the same day as her, actually the spot in front of her in line. He was forty-five, a psychiatrist, and transgender. Apparently they'd mixed up his paperwork and incorrectly marked him fertile despite his hysterectomy. And nobody would believe his attempts to tell them. He was slight and willowy, with shocking red hair and bluegreen eyes. Pale skin -- what her father would've jokingly called “Irish blue”.

Dad… Frankie's heart panged. When they'd been separated and she heard the gunshots, she knew she'd never see him again. But day by day, getting shipped off here, this new normal — she just really, really missed her dad. And her mom. She just wanted her mom and dad. For them to hold her again, and her mom to squeeze her and make one of those really annoying comments about how Frankie was putting on weight, and for her dad to joke that her mom wasn't exactly Twiggy herself. Just so that Mom would fake smack him and he could pretend he was hurt worse than he was to make Frankie laugh.

He had laugh lines. It was a silly thing to miss -- Frankie had them too, a lot of people did -- but she looked like her dad when she smiled. The way their eyes would crinkle up and the lines around their mouth would crease. She'd inherited his dimples, too. Her mom would joke that they'd somehow managed to make a female clone of Francis. Half the time, they both called her Francis Jr. She’d looked in the mirror and smiled at herself just to see her dad's face again, but it never looked right when the smile didn't reach her eyes.

“Eyes forward,” Aunt Margaret hissed, (quietly) smacking the desk in front of Frankie. It was probably supposed to scare her, but instead it pissed her off. She half-surged out of her seat, bucking at Margaret and watching her flinch back. The Aunt’s face was covered in bruises -- the hand-pattern bruising on one side, and the big bruised cut over her opposite eye. The blood had welled underneath the socket, giving her a gnarly black eye.

“Something the matter, Francine?” Aunt Lydia called, voice steely.

“No, Aunt Lydia,” Frankie called back, settling into her seat. “I just almost fell is all.”

Suspicious, Lydia glanced at Margaret, but Aunt Margaret just nodded, risking a nervous glance at Frankie.

“Be careful, then,” Aunt Lydia said suspiciously, and went back to her presentation. Charlie glanced up at Aunt Margaret, and Frankie saw his jaw drop with delighted shock. He looked back to Frankie. You did that? His face seemed to say.

Hell yeah I did, Frankie's expression answered. She could feel the smug grin on her face.

Charlie giggled into his sleeve, and Aunt Margaret raised her hand to slap him. Frankie's hand flashed out and caught her wrist as it descended, and she white-knuckled it, feeling the bones in Margaret’s wrist shift just a bit.

“You need to stop putting your hands on people, you fat cow,” Frankie hissed under her breath, glowering up from under her brows. “Before I start telling all these other people about that unfortunate thing I did to your face.”

Aunt Margaret snatched the cattle prod off of her belt and jabbed Frankie in the throat, continuing to jab her in the chest even as she seized up and fell out of her chair. Frankie screamed, writhing away from the white-hot bolts of sizzling lightning. The scent of charred flesh rose into the air. Finally, when Aunt Margaret laid the f*ck off, she and Aunt Lydia were standing over her between the desks. Charlie and the other Handmaids in training all stared at Frankie in the gap between the Aunts with horrified looks.

Frankie panted, feeling blisters bubbling on her chest and throat already.

“Francine,” Aunt Lydia warned. “What's going on?”

“Nothing, Aunt Lydia,” Frankie growled, ragged. She howled again as Margaret cattle prodded her in the sternum.

“We mustn't lie,” Aunt Lydia chided. “Lying is for naughty little girls who don't want to keep their tongues. What. Happened?”

Frankie didn't lie. She just chose not to say anything, staring up at both of them with hatred boiling inside of her.

“She grabbed me,” Aunt Margaret sniffed, showing her red wrist. “And then called me a fat cow.”

“Well, now,” Aunt Lydia sighed, turning back to Frankie. “I see nobody has taught you manners. I think Aunt Margaret deserves an apology, don't you?”

Frankie said nothing.

“Don't. You?”

“I am sorry,” Frankie ground out, making eye contact with Charlie through the gap in the Aunts. Watched his awestruck face fall a bit. Like the fight was going out of him. She gritted her teeth. “I am sorry…” she tried again. f*ck it. This is bullsh*t. She rushed out, “... that you are a vindictive big-backed heifer who thinks beating women is Godly!”

Frankie screamed as the cattle prod jammed into her cheek. Aunt Lydia reached downwards and dragged her up by her untagged ear. More burning pain shot through the roots of her ear and her scalp as Lydia dragged her along.

“Come along, girls!” she shouted behind herself. “We're taking a little break!”

Aunt Lydia dragged her all the way to the showers, with the other Handmaids in training herded along by the other Aunts. Aunt Lydia pulled Frankie into one of the open showers and grabbed soap off of the dish. It was still wet on the bottom.

“Girls who have foul mouths should have their mouths washed out,” she chided, and shoved the bar of soap into Frankie's mouth, pulling it out and pushing it in to work up a sudsy froth. Frankie gagged on the bitter, poisonous taste, her sense of smell overwhelmed with the cloying scent of roses, strawberries, and hibiscus. She tried to twist her head to get away, but it threatened to tear her ear off. When she squeezed her eyelids shut, it made her fresh enucleation burn and ache. Soapy water went down her throat and she coughed, spraying suds around the bar. Any attempt to push Lydia off just tightened her grip on Frankie's ear, and pulled on it harder.

“You must learn, Francine, that you are not in charge any more,” Aunt Lydia barked, still scrubbing. Floral snot was dripping from Frankie's nose now, her stomach roiling from all that f*cking soap water. “You are a Handmaid now. Your job is to be pure and Godly, and to provide our Commanders and Wives with healthy babies! Not to mouth off to your betters!”

She yanked the soap out and Frankie coughed and coughed, leaning over the drain. Her stomach rolled and she retched, a torrent of soapy water and buttermilk blueberry pancakes flew out of her throat, gagging her. Aunt Lydia let go of her ear. She heaved again and more splattered down the drain. Involuntary tears and snot joined the vomit on the floor, dripping off of Frankie's face as she knelt to keep vomiting like a dog.

Finally, she was left coughing and hacking, drool and spittle trailing in strings from her aggravated red lips. Then the coughing subsided too, and she was left panting raggedly, raising her eyes to stare up at Aunt Lydia's disappointed face and pursed lips. Behind her, Aunt Margaret was nodding sagely and Aunt Leelah looked downright dismayed, brows pulled up and lips in a little downturned “o”.

“What do we say, girl?” Aunt Lydia chided.

“I'm sorry,” Frankie choked out, cringing away when Aunt Lydia nudged her cattle prod towards Frankie's kneeling form.

“Sorry for what?”

“I'm sorry I called you a fat cow,” Frankie coughed at Aunt Margaret, throat feeling raw. Her stomach was still doing flips. “And a vindictive big-backed heifer.” She resisted the urge to smirk, because judging by how Margaret pursed her nonexistent lips, she knew exactly what Frankie was doing by repeating herself so thoroughly.

“Will you do it again?” Lydia challenged.

“N-no,” Frankie managed, gagging. “I promise I won't call you those names again.”

Aunt Lydia immediately broke into a sickeningly sweet smile and helped her up, petting her cheek. The side with the fresh eyepatch. “There we go. Isn't that better?” She turned around to the other Handmaids. “This is what happens when you mouth off,” Aunt Lydia shouted, her voice bouncing off the tiled walls. “Pay very close attention, girls! You would do well to take this as an example!”

She checked the clock, frowning. “It’s time for lunch,” she decreed. “Go to the cafeteria, girls. We'll resume after lunchtime.” When Frankie got to her feet to follow them, stumbling, Aunt Lydia stopped her.

“Not you,” she said. “You'll get your lunch, but a Handmaid always cleans up her messes.” She pointed down to the slurry of soapy blueberry pancake clogging up the drain. “Especially if they're her fault.” She went to the sinks and retrieved a toilet brush from underneath, handing it to Frankie. “Take your clothes off so they don't get wet and start scrubbing.”

“I am not cleaning an open bathroom naked,” Frankie insisted, despite her exhaustion. She resisted the urge to throw up again.

“You will, because if you don't, you're going to get your own private room, and the only way you'll be eating breakfast, lunch, or dinner is through a tube up your nose. No friends. No chatting. Classes held privately. For as long as I see fit.”

Frankie was too tired to fight anymore. And there was nobody left to see it anyhow. Maybe that made her performative or hypocritical, but she just couldn't do it anymore right then. So she nodded, closing her eyes, and started stripping.

“Excellent choice,” Aunt Lydia cooed, helping her. Then she took Frankie's clothes and shoes and bundled them up on the bathroom counter. Frankie curled in on herself, shivering, and upon the look Aunt Lydia gave her, knelt on the freezing cold tile. She flinched when Aunt Lydia reached over her and started the shower to give her water flow. It helped wash most of the pancake down the drain, but Frankie still had to scrub to get the rest of it to wash away. She shivered openly now, because the water was f*cking freezing and so was the tile. The smell of what was in the drain made her retch again. A paltry bit of liquid splattered onto the drain again and smelled even worse. Frankie just put an arm over her nose and scrubbed faster, stomach rolling and flip-flopping.

“That's enough,” Aunt Lydia declared after a while of this and turned off the water. “Let's get you all dried off, dear.” She helped Frankie up and took the brush away, going to put it back where it had been. Then she came back with a red towel and started toweling Frankie off. “Don't want you to catch cold,” she said, in a sick parody of motherhood as she scrubbed Frankie's hair.

“I can dry myself,” Frankie tried to argue, groping for the towel.

“Hush, girl,” Lydia chided. “I've got you, dear. You must be tired from all that stomach upset.” She moved the towel down and started scrubbing Frankie's body, even getting between her legs and her feet. “There you go, all dry,” she said, and gestured back to the sinks where Frankie's clothes were. “Go ahead and put your clothes back on, then you can join the other girls for lunch.”

----------------------------

Frankie picked at her food, still feeling sick from all that soap she'd swallowed. Everyone at the table had waited for her to eat, which had overwhelmed her with support and love. After graciously thanking them, she'd tried to start eating, but it was hard when the smell of food made her sick.

The Aunts prowled up and down the tables, eyeing each Handmaid to make sure they were focused on eating.

“This is bullsh*t,” Frankie muttered at her plate. Charlie was a seat over. “This is such bullsh*t.” The fight had gone out of her earlier, but not now. Not after seeing them show up for her like that. She had to keep going. For them.

“Maybe this is like boot camp,” one girl suggested weakly, taking a bite out of her sandwich. “Y'know, hazing. It'll get better after a week or so.”

“No way,” Frankie hissed back. “This is indoctrination. They're brainwashing us. Lovebombing, erasing our identities, torture to regulate behavior — hell no. This is brainwashing. They're making us into perfect little baby factories.”

“Well what the hell are we supposed to do?” Another girl asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Something,” Frankie snapped quietly. “Anything. Anything you can do to hold onto yourself. Every time they try to say this is normal or do something that says this is normal, we have to say to ourselves ‘this is not normal,’ twice over. I don't care if we have to stay up all night long repeating it. This. Is. Not. Normal.”

“Maybe this won't be so bad,” the first girl said. “Y'know, it's not like we're doing forced labor.”

“How the hell do you think they're getting these babies in us?” Frankie hissed, looking around at the other women. Some looked resigned, others horrified, others angry just like her. “You think our Commanders are just going to take a little trip to the doctor with us, and their Wives are gonna hold our hands as they get a doctor to stick a turkey baster full of baby batter up there? They are going to rape us. Again and again and again and again until we get pregnant. And then they're gonna do it again. And again. And again. It's never going to get better unless we do something.”

“You think this is our fault?” one woman snapped, voice low.

“Hell no,” Frankie shot back. “But we need to hold on to ourselves. Each other. We're all we've got. What's your name?”

“Penny,” the other woman answered after a moment. She blinked. “M-my name is Penny.”

“Penny,” Frankie said. “My name is Frankie. What's your name?” she asked the girl directly in front of her.

“Kat,” the girl whispered. She looked barely eighteen. “Kat Witherson.”

“Kat Witherson,” Frankie nodded. “Penny. Kat. Frankie. Say it. Say your names.”

The women at the table hesitantly started repeating softly, saying their names and each others’. They looked amongst themselves, and Frankie even saw smiles break out amongst them.

“What's happening over here?” Aunt Leelah's bubbly voice startled Frankie. She flounced over, smiling and leaning in like she was going to tell a secret. “We look like we're having fun over here, girls. What's so interesting?”

“Nothing, Aunt Leelah,” Kat demurred. “J-just talking is all. About our old names.”

Everyone at the table looked at her like she was crazy.

Leelah looked directly at Frankie and smiled. “Oh yeah? What for?”

“J-just no reason,” Kat stammered, going pale. “No reason.”

Frankie just held Aunt Leelah’s eye contact, saying nothing. She could feel the young woman evaluating her. Scanning her.

“Oh, Francine, you should eat something,” Leelah tutted all of a sudden, coming over to rest her hand on Frankie's shoulder. “After all, you threw up so much this morning when Aunt Lydia washed your mouth out. You must be so hungry.”

Frankie watched the other Handmaids withdraw back to their plates at the reminder. “Not really,” she answered, eyeing them. I'm not done. I'm not done yet. “My stomach is still kind of sick. But getting to know all my classmates makes me feel a lot better.” Like playing f*cking chess, she thought as she watched most of them perk back up. She'd just moved her knight to take Leelah’s pawn.

“Oh,” Aunt Leelah cooed, giving Frankie a sad look. “I'm sorry you're feeling sick to your stomach, sweetie. Here, if you're that sick, you shouldn't be in this big crowd around all this food. Come with me.” Okay, she'd sent in a bishop. But even a pawn could take a bishop.

“Oh, thank you for worrying, Aunt Leelah, but I feel alright enough to be here,” Frankie said.

“Then you really need to eat something,” Leelah tutted. “You shouldn't have an empty stomach until dinnertime.” God dammit. Checkmate. If I eat anything right now it's coming right back up. Frankie grudgingly got up and followed Aunt Leelah.

Frankie watched her peppy walk, her arms swishing in her brown capelet at her sides. She escorted Frankie back to bed and had her undress to her slip, tucking her back into bed like a child. If Frankie closed her eyes, she could pretend it was her mom.

“This is what I was talking about, Francine,” Aunt Leelah scolded gently. “You can't be involving those other girls in your rebellious phase. You don't want to get your friends in trouble. We need to be a leader, not a follower. Alright?”

Aunt Leelah didn't need a cattle prod to keep people in line. It would have been impressive if it wasn't so disgusting.

Frankie didn't say anything. She could do that, at least. Aunt Leelah waited, fingers stroking on her forehead, brushing her short hair aside. “Well, alright,” she sighed. “Try to get some rest. I'll come get you for afternoon class.”

Frankie didn't say anything again. Just listened to Aunt Leelah leave. Frankie sucked in a breath and exhaled. Did it again. One more time.

“This is not normal,” she whispered to herself. “This is not normal, this is not normal, this is not normal, this is not normal…”

The door opening startled Frankie awake. A doctor wheeled an IV pole in, coming over by her right side. She lifted her head up and craned over her shoulder. The Aunts were by the door and Commander Victor was in the doorframe, carefully scrutinizing as the doctor picked a vein in her hand and slipped the IV in.

“There we go,” the doctor said, starting a drip. “Should feel better pretty soon.” He patted Frankie's shoulder, giving her a lingering smile. His hand trailed on her shoulder. The Commander loudly cleared his throat from the doorway and Frankie watched the color drain from the doctor's face. He quickly packed his equipment away and fled the room.

“Is this sufficient?” Aunt Lydia demurred to the Commander.

“Yes,” he said, after a moment. Frankie's head was swimming, and she didn't recall putting her cheek down on the pillow. The last thing she heard was the Commander say, “Sleep well, Ofjohn.”

Chapter 4: That's Some Catch, That Catch-22

Chapter Text

A week later, Frankie was bundled up in a wheelchair in a courtyard, staring up at a bristly maple tree that had long since dropped all its leaves and seeds for winter. It was almost springtime -- Frankie searched the greenwood twigs for buds, but didn't find any. She was in a red skirt with warm woolen petticoats beneath, a red crew-neck sweatshirt, and they'd even covered her lap in a red blanket. She had on a warm white beanie, folded at the bottom. Her feet were bandaged up and padded so excessively they looked like pillows covered by socks. They were propped up on the wheelchair stirrups. She breathed out a cloud of fog and looked around herself. She could actually be alone here, which kind of shocked her. And it was a welcome respite from the constant supervision of postings and the Red Center. It was probably because she wasn't actually alone -- Aunts bustled about like worker ants in brown all along the myriad pathways between the scraggly foliage. This was some kind of inner sanctum. Frankie and the other Handmaids in her class had never even heard about it. But very, very occasionally, another Handmaid who was staying here between postings was allowed into this place if she was with an Aunt. Always trailing behind her, head down, like a red shadow.

All the Aunts were being pretty nice to Frankie while she was so injured. That probably had something to do with being let in here relatively alone. Aunt Leelah smuggled her so much candy, Frankie had started stowing it away in the desk drawer because it was making her sick. Turns out, after months and months of not being allowed sugar to curb “unruly” behavior and prevent “lustful” tendencies, sugar made Frankie kinda sick to her stomach. She’d often wake up to Aunt Lydia sitting by her bedside, either knitting something or casually working on posting reports or Ceremony charts for the other girls in the current class. “Special dispensation,” she had explained at Frankie's questioning look. Even Aunt Margaret would smile at her when they passed each other.

Frankie looked up and around at the walls surrounding her like prison walls. Five sides, reaching to scrape the snow from the bottom of the clouds, it felt like.

Frankie wheeled her chair around, pulling up her red scarf to cover her nose and mouth because they were going numb. The back of her chair dug into her arms as she wheeled. She passed a koi pond, kept artificially warm in the freezing temperatures. The fish skittered away from her under the water as she passed.

An Aunt held the door for her to go back inside when she got close, so she took advantage and split off down a hallway she'd never been down. Even if she couldn't walk right now, they still hadn't put her tag back in because they were trying to wait for her ear to heal up. Didn't want it to get infected, after all. So while she was crippled, best to learn the layout of the facility. As soon as she could bear weight on her feet again, she was out of here. She just had to hope that would happen before her ear healed up. How she'd stay out, she'd plan later. But she had to do something. Because sitting there waiting to get posted again, like a doll put away on a shelf? That was death. That was destruction. That was oblivion. The Wall, the Colonies? That was nothing.

She wheeled down unfamiliar hallways, wary of the Guardians dotting the halls. She occasionally passed hallways she knew that fed out into this one. To her left, there was a wing she wasn't familiar with but it led deeper into the building. All sterile white and gray. Some kind of prison hospital wing, but she hadn’t been there before. They probably need more than one, she scoffed. She turned right and kept going. Oh. Now she was getting back into familiar territory. She passed her own hospital wing, and then the detainment rooms for troublemakers. Another area she was deeply familiar with. Passing one room, the tiny peek through the bottom of the rectangular door window showed that it was occupied. A girl was strapped to the bed in her red dress and white cap, fed through a tube in her nose hooked up to a machine administering the slurry. Frankie's own nose and throat burned at the memory. Tube feeding was something a lot of people actually needed for a disability, but that was never how it got used here. Just to force you lower.

Frankie tried the door, but it was locked. She craned to press her hands to the window. “Hey,” she mouthed. Thankfully the girl looked at her. “Hey. Be strong. I'm with you.”

The girl just closed her eyes, looking pained. Frankie slumped back into her seat. After a moment, she turned away and kept going down the hall, acutely remembering her own time in one of those rooms.

Frankie got wrestled down onto the bed, her feet leaking blood through the bandages. They hurt, but thank God Charlie hadn't had to take that whipping anymore. The Aunts strapped her down by the wrists and one held her head down as another forced a tube up to her nose and yet another flipped her skirts up, put gloves on, and hooked her up to a catheter. Then she pulled Frankie's skirts down and stepped back, taking her gloves off. The tube in her nose forced its slimy way down her throat and she felt it all the way into her guts as she coughed, trying to shake her head.

“Breakfast time,” One of the Aunts grumbled as Frankie's head swam. They turned some kind of machine on and some kind of nutritional puree wormed up the tube and through her nose. The Aunt clicked a few buttons on the machine and muttered something about the timer being set.

“Now see how much you want to fight,” Aunt Margaret said, shaking her head. “See how you feel after a few days in here. One of us will be back every two hours for a bathroom trip.” Then everyone left.

Days. That was how long Frankie was locked in that room, strapped to that bed. Pissing into a catheter, being fed through a tube on a timer, and only being interacted with to be brought to the attached bathroom in case she had to sh*t. They didn't even talk to her. Just got her on her feet so she could shuffle, dragging the catheter bag by the pole it was hanging on and using the pole for support. Then it was back to being strapped in bed.

On the seventh or eigth or ninth or whenever day, she felt just crazy enough -- and just recovered enough -- to try something. Bathroom break, right on schedule. She waited for them to unstrap her and she sat up, knocking one Aunt out with a wild haymaker that put her down like a sack of potatoes. Then she grabbed the slack on her feeding tube and wrapped it around the other Aunt's throat, leaning back and drawing her fists up close to start choking. The Aunt clawed at her own throat, gagging, and Frankie waited until she slumped over unconscious to get up and start unplugging herself. Then she just started running. Maybe she'd get shot, but who cared. It was mid-September, she was due to graduate in a month, and like hell she was going to be a baby farm.

Chaos erupted down the end of the hallway she'd come from and she heard people chasing her. She just ran faster, feet slapping painfully against the tile. She had to create some kind of distraction or they'd run her down like a dog in seconds.

The cafeteria. It was lunchtime. Frankie could hear the loud chatter. She leaned into her run and threw the doors open, heart pounding. “Get up!” she roared, voice clawing its way out from the depths of her belly. The other Handmaids all turned to her with wide eyes. “All of you, get up, get up right now! They can't do this to us and we can't f*cking let them! They can't get all of us!”

Silence for half a second. Then an Aunt started booking it towards her from the tables.

Charlie -- amazing, fantastic, courageous, wonderful Charlie -- immediately jumped to his feet and threw his tray like a discus. The corner caught the Aunt directly in the back of the skull and she slumped down to the floor and slid face-down. Pandemonium broke out. Kat stood up and started throwing her utensils. Penny bear-hug tackled an Aunt to the floor and started wrestling her. Frankie tried to keep running, but a Guardian tackled her, getting her arms behind her back and pinning her to the floor with an elbow. Another Guardian fired gunshots into the air to scare everyone. Charlie was left standing in the puddle of red on the ground, quaking with wide eyes.

Aunt Lydia harshly dismissed everyone as a Guardian’s hand knotted in her hair and dragged her off down the hall as she snarled and thrashed.

“You really shouldn't be here, you know,” a familiar voice purred. Frankie whipped her chair around to see she was in the front lobby by the entrance, having wheeled the whole way around. Commander Virtue was leaned against the wall by the door, face arranged into a mildly smug smirk. The tape over his nose and black bruises under his eyes marred the look.

“Neither should you,” Frankie said, tilting her head. The Guardians at the door looked like they had sticks up their asses. The black of their uniforms and gear was the stark contrast to the lily-white suit, turtleneck, and pants Victor was wearing. Like undisturbed, fresh-fallen snow. “Commanders aren't allowed in here. Police business, okay, they have to let you in. But I'm guessing this isn't police business.”

“Come,” Victor said, getting up off the wall and uncrossing his arms. “I've heard they have a koi pond here. Nice place to talk.”

He walked past her and Frankie followed, deathly curious. “You're definitely not allowed back there,” she said, as the hallway became more and less private. More because there were less people, less because there were cameras. “That's basically just for Aunts. And people like me.”

“I highly doubt there's anyone else like you,” Victor complimented, looking down at her.

“There's lots of people like me,” she insisted, narrowing her eyes as she wheeled along next to him. “It's in all of us. All it takes is one person to stand up to you. All it takes for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing.”

“John Stuart Mill,” Commander Virtue nodded, shrugging with his mouth and looking away. “An apt comparison, from some perspectives I suppose.” He paused, glancing at his nails. “But John Stuart Mill was a utilitarian. Actions are right and moral if they are beneficial for the collective.”

“Well, that depends on how you're defining the collective,” Frankie argued immediately, as they drew closer and closer to the inner sanctum. “If you cut out a whole class of folks from that category of course the meaning of right and moral changes.”

“Now you're getting it,” Victor said, and held a door open for her. She glowered at his smug mug as she went through the door. They were almost at the courtyard.

“You got a lot of nerve looking so smug with your nose all taped up like that,” Frankie challenged immediately. “Also, utilitarianism is predicated on avoiding suffering.”

“No, it's not. If something that causes suffering is beneficial to the majority, then ulilitarianism taken to its conclusion deems it moral,” Victor said, dropping the door to return to her side. He looked downright delighted at this back-and-forth. Ah, I get it. He wants to feel smart. Like he has a verbal opponent. Like I'm his ‘equal’ -- ha ha. Frankie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “It just so happens that often does mean avoiding suffering. Then again, how do you define suffering?”

“I dunno, Commander,” Frankie said, grimacing as she shifted in her chair, “I feel like I've gotten a pretty good look at it the past few days.”

“Avoiding suffering for the many, not for the one, unfortunately. Better for some never means better for everybody,” he countered, opening the door to the courtyard and letting her out before following her. At least he had the decency to pretend to be chagrined about it. He closed his eyes and breathed in the crisp air. “It's lovely here. Peaceful.”

“Yeah, I've been coming here a lot these past few days,” Frankie said, looking around. “Thinking. Y'know.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you here? It's not police business anymore, my verdict's been passed. Official clemency. My next Ceremony dates aren't for another month. If I'm already yours, you'd still have to wait.”

“I'm not conducting a Ceremony here,” the Commander said, wrinkling his nose and then cutting off the gesture, looking pained. He looked around. “The thing you're going to learn about me, Francine,” he got quiet when he said her name, “is that I'm a very patient man. Good things come to those who wait. I'm perfectly happy to wait for official business after you're under my roof. Besides, since you're aren't officially mine, it would be seen as an affair, not a Ceremony.”

“Like a spider in his web,” Frankie muttered disdainfully. “So you're not here on ‘official’ business. What are you here for, then? An emotional affair? I hate to disappoint you.”

“Hardly.” The Commander rolled his eyes. “I'm here to check on you. I expect you to be well-recovered.” An Aunt was walking by them, sneaking glances. Victor kept speaking. “After all, how are you able to produce healthy children if you're not healthy?”

“I'm going to poison myself, just for you,” Frankie declared.

Commander Victor snorted a laugh and then winced, just barely. “I'll be sure to lock away the cleaning supplies, then,” he grumbled, hands fidgeting like he wanted to rub his nose. “Are they treating you well?”

“They're all doting on me. Aunt Lydia was knitting by my bedside yesterday. Something red. I'd bet anything that it's another scarf. Aunt Leelah's trying to give me sugar poisoning. Even Aunt Margaret is being nice!” Frankie grouched. “It's driving me crazy.”

“Because they're being nice to you,” Victor said leadingly, half-smirking.

Frankie just gave him a poisonously disdainful look and rolled her eyes. “I'm not explaining it,” she said after a second. “You smirk too much.”

“I've certainly been told that before.”

“You're such a prick.”

“Also familiar to me.” He leaned over to the bush next to them. It flowered during the winter -- delicate, huge blooms to attract mice and birds to snuggle inside. He smelled one, eyes closing for just a second. The white of the flower matched the white of his clothing, trimmed in silver. Pure. Godly. Powerful.

“I'm going to kill you,” Frankie said decisively.

“Yes, yes, I've heard it all before,” the Commander brushed off, standing back up straight. “I'm not a popular man for many reasons, Francine. Even among my colleagues.” He put his hands behind his back and walked around her, leading her along if she wanted to keep hearing what he was saying. She really didn't, but she had to admit that the human companionship was scratching the itch pretty good. So she followed him, wheeling to keep up. He put his hands behind his back by holding his wrist rather than clasping his hands, Frankie noticed. Like he was holding himself back from something. “They find me ambitious. A cold pragmatist. Someone willing to cut throats to get what I want. This makes them distrust me.”

“And is that true?” Frankie prodded. Why am I even interested?

“Yes,” Victor said without hesitation. They arrived at the koi pond and he smiled. “Ah, how lovely. But yes. It's true.” He turned to her. “I think you and I could certainly arrive upon some kind of mutually beneficial arrangement. My… scrupulosity, we'll call it, in my taste in Handmaids has drawn me scrutiny. You need a household that will take you. We could solve both of our problems quite neatly.”

“You already said it yourself,” Frankie growled suspiciously, wheeling next to him. “My consent isn't needed in this process.”

“True enough,” Victor said, looking back to the koi with a quirked eyebrow and a tilted head. “But I see no reason for us to be on different pages of the same book. I loathe inefficiency.”

What an ironic metaphor. “What makes you think I'm going to help you?”

“Because you'll be helping yourself,” the Commander said, hair fluttering in the sudden breeze. Then he checked his watch, sighing. “I'm sorry, if you'll excuse me,” he said, bowing his head to her. “Only time for a short visit today, unfortunately. Until next time.” With that, he took his leave. She watched him go until he was through one of the doors, leaving her (mostly) alone once again. As she looked back to the koi pond, she realized that she'd ended up almost exactly where she started. All that ground covered, just to end back up in the same exact place. She sighed in defeat, giving up and wheeling herself back to the maple tree. Started looking for spring buds again. None yet.

“Hey, sweetie,” Aunt Leelah said softly, coming up behind her. “It's time for some lunch, lovie. Let's check on those feet of yours, too. How's your ear?” She lifted Frankie's beanie to check. “Oh, that's healing really nicely. Soon we'll be able to put your tag back in, hm? I'll see if I can't sneak some ice from the kitchen to numb it beforehand. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?” She grabbed the handles on Frankie's chair and started wheeling her away, as Frankie craned her head to stare back at the maple tree. No spring buds. But there, at the very tip of one branch, a single helicopter seed fluttered in the cold breeze.

Aunt Leelah wheeled her back inside to her room and helped her onto the bed, cooing sadly at Frankie’s winces of pain. Then she stripped the layers and layers of socks and bandages off of Frankie’s feet, exposing her itchy (and still painful) stitches to the cool air. The air just made them itch more and she curled her fingers, resisting the urge to dig in with her nails.

”These are healing well too,” Leelah said appreciatively, nodding. She went to the bedside table and got some gauze and some ointment. Then she pushed her sleeves up and started applying the ointment. Frankie winced and cringed.

”What do you know about Commander Virtue?” she asked, trying to distract herself. Pretty sure there’s something he’s not telling me. I am just a dumb woman after all. Idiot. Underestimate me, see what happens.

”He’s a First Commander,” Leelah gushed, beaming as she trained her gaze on what she was doing. “An excellent household, Ofjohn. We’re all very proud of you.”

”Right, but what about him? I’ve heard he can be…” Frankie made a face. “I’ve heard some things.”

”He’s certainly very focused,” Leelah hedged. “But you really needn’t worry, lovie. He’s nothing like John. He has a reputation for being incredibly, well, virtuous. I’m certain he’ll be nothing but respectful and Commanderly.” Yeah, Commanderly. That’s what I’m worried about. “He’s taken a very keen interest in your recovery. That’s part of the reason we’re letting you out in the courtyard. Lots of sunlight. So don’t be shy about going out there when you feel like it. In a couple of weeks, you’ll be starting physical therapy, too. To make sure your muscles stay in tip-top shape and you can get right back to walking.”

”Thought the point of the flogging was to keep me from walking,” Frankie said suspiciously.

”Not forever, silly,” Aunt Leelah brushed aside. “I think we’ve all learned our lesson, don’t you agree?” She finished applying the ointment and wrapped her feet in layers of gauze. Then the first layer of socks. The second, the third. It was supposed to keep her wounds moist so they would heal faster. They were certainly itching like hell, which was a good sign Frankie supposed. Frankie just ignored Leelah’s statement and sighed.

”You whipped me so hard I felt like I was bleeding out through my feet,” she said quietly. “I thought I’d never walk again.”

”I’m sorry that we’re hard on you,” Leelah admitted. “But it’s only because we think that you can do it. It’s only because we want to see you succeed. John’s house was… not the best environment, we know that now. But now that you’re out of it, hopefully your next posting won’t make you feel like you have to rebel.”

”He was raping me,” Frankie whispered. “Abusing me.”

”He was certainly being inappropriate,” Leelah agreed, while rephrasing it in a way that made Frankie die inside a little. Being inappropriate. Like he was teasing her too much or being an annoying bully. Or like they were having some kind of affair. But right, the Ceremony “wasn’t rape.” It was her “Godly duty.” I’m going to be sick.

”Let’s check that ear,” Aunt Leelah said, standing up to take a look. She pulled Frankie’s hat aside and applied more ointment, frowning. “Oh, I think we’re gonna have to tag your other ear,” she said. “This is pretty burned up. Wouldn’t want it to snag on something and rip out again because there’s less ear. I’ll let them know. In that case, we can go ahead and tag it later today and get that out of the way.”

f*ck, no! That sends my escape plan sailing right out the window! Frankie shook her head.

”Oh, I know,” Leelah cooed sympathetically, petting Frankie’s face. “It’s scary. But it’ll only hurt a second, okay? I’ll even bring some ice from the kitchen to numb it.” She helped Frankie back into bed and covered her up. “I’ll be right back.”

Frankie just had to wait for her to come back. She was gone for a few minutes, as Frankie read the clock and watched the seconds hand tick, tick, tick, the whole way round. Around and around it went. Around and around it goes, where it stops, nobody knows, Frankie thought grimly to herself. She shifted, and rubbed a hand up and down the soles of one of her feet. It hurt like a bitch, but it also soothed some of the itching.

Leelah came back with medicine and water, as well as some food on a tray. No tag gun, though. Frankie was grateful. “There we are,” Leelah said. “Get those in you and you'll feel better.”

Frankie took her medicine and immediately snarfed down the food. She was pretty hungry. And glad it wasn't coming through a tube up her nose.

She handed the tray back and Leelah put the water by her bedside, stroking her forehead. “I'm sorry about John,” she said, seeming sincere. “I'm sorry you felt like you couldn't tell us. But we'll take care of you. Your next posting will be far more appropriate.” With that, she took the tray and left.

The meds made Frankie irresistibly sleepy. As the pain in her feet faded, she unsuccessfully fought her eyelids from closing.

Frankie grimaced as Daphne tightened her grip on her wrists. Her feet were propped on a ledge on the footboard, making her knees a right angle. She glanced up at Daphne, who glowered down at her. Frankie opened her mouth. To plead, to say that neither one of them wanted to do this, that this was crazy. They were stronger together than apart.

“Shut up, you fat whor*,” Daphne hissed at her. “I may need you, but don't think for a second it means I have to like you.”

Frankie shut her mouth so hard her teeth clicked together. The master suite bathroom door opened and John came out, rolling up the sleeves on his white collared shirt. Already unbuttoning his pants, he moved to stand in front of Frankie's legs. Sudden panic welled up in Frankie, dread for the inevitable. Frankie started shaking her head, tears welling. He parted her legs and shuffled closer. “Please don't, please don't, I don't want to, ple -- ow!” She yelped as he pushed inside. Didn't even look at her, just stared at his Wife as if he was bored. Started pounding away. Frankie sobbed, head shaking back and forth as she started to move her arms between Daphne's legs.

“Be still,” Daphne snapped, squeezing down on Frankie's wrists so hard that it dimpled skin and would definitely leave bruises. John was hard inside of Frankie, pushing in and out. She swore he got harder as she started weeping, pleading over and over again, “I don't want to, I don't want to, please, please…” Frankie sobbed, eyes squeezing shut. “I want my mom,” she whimpered, more of a whisper.

Daphne huffed and took one hand off of her wrists and covered Frankie's mouth, muffling her words. John grunted, hips moving faster, and Frankie sobbed so hard it felt like her chest would cave in. A single burning supernova collapsed into a black hole behind her ribcage, threatening to suck her in and never let go. Her tears were steaming hot against her face as they ran down her temples and cooled in her hair, cold by the time they soaked into the bedspread beneath her. All that fighting at the Red Center, and for what? To be a warm hole for a Commander to f*ck? For him to get off on her pain and fear? Her chest jumped with shuddering sobs. John was going fast now, grunting as his brow furrowed. His hand flashed out to grab one of the bedposts. Frankie was wet from the friction, which made it go easier, but only served to help kill her inside. Daphne wasn't paying attention to her any more. Just trying to smile at John as if they were the ones having sex.

John groaned and shoved his hips forwards, coming inside Frankie as she wept. He pulled out and tucked himself away, leaning forwards to give his Wife a peck on the lips. “I'm going to get some more work done before bed,” he told her, and left the room.

Daphne pulled her hand away and curled her lip at Frankie's crying. She raised her hand and brought it down to slap Frankie on the cheek with a stinging SMACK. “Don't you ever embarrass me like that again,” Daphne hissed. “Get up. Get out.”

Frankie was crying too hard to move. Her diaphragm hurt from the spasms and she was hiccuping, but she couldn't stop. Daphne scowled and pushed Frankie off of her dress. “Get out!” she snapped, chasing a stumbling Frankie off the bed. “Get out, go to your room, and stay there!”

Frankie fled, running out and down the stairs to her basem*nt room. She made it about halfway to her rickety bed before crumpling to the floor to sob and wail, curling in on herself like a wounded animal. Finally, after the moon was high in the sky outside her window, she crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling.

“This is not normal,” she whimpered, voice barely audible. She could feel the Commander's come leaking out of her. “This is not normal, this is not normal, this is not normal, this is not normal, this is…”

The next morning, Frankie crawled out of bed and staggered her way up to the kitchen, taking a plate and a cup from the Martha. The Martha eyed her disapprovingly, but she was too numb to care. She was sore down there and sticky.

The Martha left to go do something else, which was exactly when Daphne walked into the room. “Who told you you could leave your room?” She snapped, startling Frankie.

“N-nobody, I just thought…”

“What? You thought what? You run this household?”

“N-no, no, Mrs. Godwin,” Frankie stammered, “I don't think that.”

“Go back to your room.” When Frankie picked up her breakfast to take it with her, Daphne snapped. “Leave it! I didn't say you could have breakfast.”

“I'm s-sorry, Mrs. Godwin, I have to eat,” Frankie stuttered. “The Aunts don't let us skip meals. For our health. And our ability to get pregnant.”

Daphne relented. “Fine. Take it with you. But if I see you out of that room before I let you out or before the Ceremony tonight, you'll regret it.”

“Understood, Mrs. Godwin,” Frankie murmured, and scurried off with her food. It wasn't much -- a bowl of cold oatmeal and some orange juice -- but she snarfed it down, leaving her tray outside her door. She supposed she wasn't going on her daily walk today. She watched Oftim drift up to the gate from the high-up basem*nt window. She could only see the hem of Oftim's red skirts. Waiting for her. Only for blue skirts to meet her at the gate and send her off.

Frankie cried again that Ceremony night. She didn't bother pleading or saying stop, but she did cry softly. Apparently, it was quiet enough that it didn't bother Daphne. But it did arouse John further, who grunted and his hand flew out to grab the bedpost again. He threw his head back, panting.

The bedpost was wobbling when he grabbed it. That was interesting. Frankie's sobs had trailed off but she was still weeping quiet tears. She felt like she was out of her body, like the rape was happening to someone else.

John finished and slid a palm up the inside of Frankie’s thigh, squeezing. Daphne huffed and got up to go smoke a cigarette by the nightstand.

“I love a heavier woman,” John murmured to Frankie, leaning in. “So much more to squeeze.” He pulled out and tucked himself away with one hand. The other was still molesting her inner thigh. With the hand that he put himself away with, he grabbed a lock of her brown hair and rubbed it, leaning in to sniff it.

“And you like it when women cry, too?” Frankie whispered, frozen in place. His fingers trailed upwards further, sliding around in between her lower lips and fingering her.

John smiled. “Daphne is more businesslike,” he admitted, whispering so his wife wouldn't hear, “but your femininity last night was very attractive. I don't mind if you act out a little.”

Femininity. Begging and crying not to be raped and pleading for her mom was feminine to him. Arousing. Acting out. Frankie wanted to throw up as he played with her, still smiling.

“John, the Ceremony is over,” Daphne snapped, and he straightened up immediately.

“Yes, Mrs. Godwin,” he said, subtly wiping his hand off on the duvet next to Frankie. He left her skirts pushed up as he went over to hug his wife from behind and kiss the back of her neck. Lift a few locks of her hair to his mouth and nose and breathe in. Frankie just blinked rapidly at the ceiling, vision blurring. John was still speaking. “You are such a beautiful woman,” he purred, kissing her bony neck. “You'll make a wonderful mother. After I take a shower, let me read to you. Your favorite.”

Apparently that was sufficient, because he went to go shower as Frankie tried not to hiccup. It wasn't working very well. Her legs and vulva were cold, being exposed like that.

“Get out,” Daphne snapped. “I don't want to see you until tomorrow night, you obese slu*t.”

In a daze, Frankie got up, stumbling out of the room and back to her own basem*nt room. Her meals were brought to her the next day, and she ate them in her room like a caged animal. Last Ceremony night this month. She walked to the master suite like she was headed to a firing squad. Went through the motions of John reading the scripture. Daphne glowered at Frankie the whole time and the household staff standing behind her felt like bars on a cage.

Frankie got led to the room and moved into position, with Daphne gripping her wrists hard. She always grabbed too hard. John took his place just like he had the last few nights and they all started this sick imitation of sex. Tears welled up yet again, but this time Frankie didn't sob. Or struggle. Just tried to close her eyes and retreat to a better place.

“Woah there, Nellie!” her dad laughed, rushing to catch Frankie with those patented Dad reflexes as she tilted sideways off the bike. “Careful, sweetie.”

“I'm fine, Daddy!” Frankie argued, laughing as he leaned down to curl around her and tickle her. He smelled like his aftershave and new car smell. “Daddy, stop it!”

“Okay, okay. Wanna try again?” He let her go and stood up, locking his car where he'd just pulled in and gotten out when he saw Frankie riding her bike up and down the driveway. It was a hand-me-down bike from an older cousin. At one point, it had been covered in pink streamers and princesses, but the day that Frankie got it, her dad had helped her take all that stuff off and paint over what couldn't be removed. Now it was covered in green streamers and sparkles, and lots of dinosaur stickers.

“Duh,” Frankie laughed, and got back on. “I'm six, I'm not a baby!”

“Hi, honey,” Her mom greeted from the run- down screen porch, the busted-out screen on the door letting in gnats. “How was work?”

“Oh, it was great,” he enthused. “I sold a car today to a great family with a sixteen year old girl. Her first car. She was so excited. I gave ‘em a discount.”

Frankie wasn't really old enough to understand what that meant at the time, but she knew it didn't really make her mom happy. But her mom just tried to smile past it since Frankie was there. “What about our screen door, darling?”

“Oh!” Dad leaned into the car and pulled out a roll of fresh screen from the car. “Robbie's son snagged this from his construction site. Enough to redo the whole porch, can you believe it? I'll do it this weekend.”

The tight look faded from her mom's face into a more relieved one. “That is nice.”

“Hey, munchkin, did you get your hair cut?” Dad asked Frankie, ruffling her buzzed head. She had nearly been completely bald. “A little short, huh?”

“I like it this way!” Frankie asserted proudly, putting her hands on her hips as she balanced her foot on the ground. “I look like a tomboy.”

“Your daughter got into the pet clippers after school and before I could get home from work,” her mom scolded, also putting her hands on her hips. “She says she won't grow it back out. It was all I could do to make it the same length all the way around. It was a miracle she didn't hurt herself.”

“Wow,” Dad had said. Maybe it was because he wasn't as worried about Frankie fitting in as her mom was, but he never shamed her for being so masculine as a girl. “You know,” he whispered, crouching down in his off-the-rack suit and slacks. “I bet if you grow it out just a teeny little bit, you would look just like Dr. Grant.”

Frankie remembered the way her face had lit up that day. A smile so wide it hurt. “Really? You really think so?”

“Totally, munchkin. Here, c'mon inside. Let me show you how to use those clippers so you don't hurt yourself. And next time, maaaybe leave cutting your hair to the grown-ups until you're old enough, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy!”

Frankie’s mom had mouthed “thank you” to her dad as he gave Frankie a piggyback ride past her into the house. “Good to see you, Elsie,” he grinned at her, and kissed her cheek. “Never a dull moment in this family!”

“Did I bore you?” John asked, snapping her back to reality. Her scruffy hair -- longer than it had been for nineteen years -- was all ruffled in the back on the duvet. John was playing with her again, sliding his fingers all around and up and down. Daphne was looking around for her lighter, stomping off towards the bathroom to see if she'd left it there.

Yeah, sure. You raping me was so boring that I chose to be quiet specifically to co*ckblock you. Well, that was what Frankie wanted to say. Instead, she just let out a shaky breath and shook her head. “No, Commander.”

He made an almost-imperceptible face and stood up, grumbling about how he was going to go shower.

Frankie knew the drill. She got up and staggered, grabbing the bedpost to stay on her feet. It creaked and leaned.

“Watch it, you dumb slu*t,” Daphne snapped, flicking her lighter frantically until it burst into flame and she lit her cigarette. “The bedpost is missing a peg. With your weight, you'll snap it clean off.”

“Yes, Mrs. Godwin,” Frankie demurred, and fled the room. Passed the Martha on the way there, who just eyed her with a nasty stink eye. She was alone in this house. Just her and everyone else who thought she was cattle.

She climbed into bed. Laid down in the fetal position. “This is not normal. This is not normal. This is not normal. This is not --”

It was two weeks later of Frankie being locked in her room like a dog before anyone actually spoke to her. She had resorted to crawling along the floor to get where she wanted to go, and felt like the animal she was. A bred bitch shut away in a cage waiting for the litter to root.

She laid by her bed, looking at the cobwebs beneath it. Someone’s been slacking, she thought drily. Martha Sally's going to be in trouble.

Her door cracked open and Daphne poked her head in, holding a bowl of fruit. She startled but didn't drop the bowl as she saw Frankie laying on the ground in her white shift. Her hair was longer than it had been in a long time, and it was wild, sticking up in odd places. Daphne rushed forwards and set the fruit aside, pressing the back of her hand to Frankie's forehead. “Are you alright? Did you faint? Are you feeling nauseous, or sick to your stomach at all?”

“No, Mrs. Godwin,” Frankie groaned, sitting up. “I just didn't want to rot in my bed for two weeks is all.”

She looked disappointed, but helped Frankie sit back on her bed and handed her the bowl of fruit. “Well, the Lord willing, that will change soon enough. For now, I had Sally cut you some peaches.”

“And why isn't Sally bringing them to me?” Frankie asked, taking a slice into her hand and stuffing it into her mouth with her palm. She could feel Daphne’s disdain but didn't care. They tasted too damn good. “She's been bringing me breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“I…” Daphne trailed off. “This has been a very big adjustment,” she finally said, “For everyone. Myself included. I'm sorry that we haven't made you feel welcome, Ofjohn. But you are a part of our family now, and we…” she trailed off, grimacing. “I… want to rectify that. I want to do something to make you feel welcome.”

“I want my hair cut,” Frankie said. “The way it used to be. Short like that.”

Daphne's lips twisted but she nodded. “I'll take John's clippers while he's at work,” she said. Her own brown hair was swirled into a tight bun. “He prefers long hair anyways, so perhaps that's for the best.”

“You know I don't want him, right?” Frankie asked softly, feeling the heavy gray circles under her eyes. “Your husband. I don't -- when he touches me, I feel sick.”

“That makes two of us,” Daphne said tightly, and tucked a wisp of Frankie's hair back behind one ear, evaluating her. “But God asks that we make sacrifices so that we may share in the glory of Heaven with Him. And so that we may create Heaven on Earth.”

“This isn't Heaven,” Frankie managed, voice and lip wobbling. “This is Hell. This is Tartarus.”

“Heaven for one person isn’t Heaven for everyone,” Daphne whispered, as if it was something she'd been told again and again. “It's our responsibility as women to understand our place in this.”

“Is that what he tells you?” Frankie asked, staring at Daphne through the curtain of her long bangs. The back of her hair was still scruffy, clipper-length. She wasn't sure what possessed her, but she practically lunged out to grasp Daphne's hands in her own. The sensation of another human being's skin against her own -- the soft skin of a woman's palms -- almost drove her crazy right then and there. “Is that what John tells you? What is our place? Is it your place to watch your husband rape another woman three times a month in front of you? To watch him tell me that he enjoys my curves as he touches me? Is it my place to be nothing but a breeding sow? To pop out piglet after piglet for him? Is that what you want?” The words tumbled out of her like water over stones.

Frankie desperately searched Daphne’s face. Hoping for any sign of recognition. Please, she wanted to beg. I'm a person, just like you. This could happen to you. The only thing separating us is wealth and a working womb.

Daphne snatched her hands away, looking rattled. She was shaking, eyes wide and face ashen.

“We are stronger together,” Frankie argued, leaning in. Desperation growing. “You and I, if we come together, we're stronger than him. Than all of them.”

“John has gone to work by now,” Daphne said, rushed and shaky. “I'll go get the clippers.”

She rushed out, leaving Frankie with her half-eaten bowl of peaches. Frankie just stared at nothing, numbness spreading through her. She really was alone. I'm going to die here. She's going to shut me away forever until whatever's left of me withers away in the dark and never comes back out.

She took bite after bite of peach, mechanical and slow. She didn't change when Daphne came back, heels clicking on the basem*nt steps.

“Give me those,” Daphne snapped, throwing the clippers onto the bed and snatching the bowl out of Frankie's hands. “I don't want to ever hear blasphemous talk like that in my house ever again, do you understand me? The next time it happens, I'll have you strung up on the Wall myself.”

“Yes, Mrs. Godwin,” Frankie said quietly. “I promise it won't happen again.”

“Good.” Daphne sniffed, setting the bowl down on the nightstand. “Go sit on the stool in the bathroom, then.”

Frankie's head snapped up, hope flaring again. “I can cut my hair?”

“I will cut your hair,” Daphne corrected, seeming to relax a little. “Just because I have to discipline you doesn't mean I need to torment you. And if neither of us like John paying so much attention to you, it only makes sense to remove his source of temptation.”

“I thought just because you needed me didn't mean you had to like me,” Frankie said suspiciously.

“A hasty judgment,” Daphne said. “I would have us get along if I could, provided we both understand our places.”

It was as good as Frankie was gonna get. She nodded and rose, going over to the footstool in the bathroom and sitting down. Daphne came over and plugged the clippers in, picking through the guards. “No shorter than a half inch,” she decreed, fitting on the guard. She turned the clippers on and started cutting. “You mentioned your mother,” the woman mentioned, buzzing from the nape of Frankie's neck to her forehead. Dark brown hair fell like cool rain on her shoulders. Hey Dad, am I old enough now? The grown-ups are still cutting my hair. “Were you close?”

“We were,” Frankie said, hurting in her chest.

“A mother's love is so healing. What's her name?” Daphne asked.

“Elsie,” Frankie answered, tears welling. “Her name was Elsie. My father’s name was Francis. I was named for him. I look just like him.”

“Was?”

“They're dead,” Frankie said. “We got caught trying to sneak across the border to Canada. My mom was too old to have kids, and my dad was the man smuggling us out. I heard the gunshots… I never saw or heard from them again.”

Daphne was quiet for a long moment. “I am humbled by your family's sacrifice,” she said. Like she was trying to be kind in her own way. “I hope you can make your mother proud here.”

“Me too,” Frankie agreed, knowing they were talking about two different things entirely.

Chapter 5: When All Other Lights Go Out

Chapter Text

Charles stood wrapped up in his red scarf, red dress and white petticoats. He had brown boots with thick socks protecting his feet from the cold, and his periphery was cut off by the wide, white wings on his head. Up the front walkway and steps, a middle-aged woman in blue came out onto the front stoop and waved. She was in a calf-length dress with house shoes. And she was wrapped up in a blue cardigan with a blue woolen shawl on top of that. A blue slouchy beanie covered her hair.

“Go on, Ofmax,” the Aunt next to him encouraged. “Go say hello.”

Like I'm a puppy, Charles wanted to snap. But he felt himself put one foot forwards. Then another. And another, and another, until he was bending his knee to go up the first set of steps on the walkway. Then he ascended and got to the second set that led to the stoop. His breath was clouding up in front of him, almost obscuring his view. The trees were losing the first leaves now, the rest of the leaves orange-turning-red-turning-brown. One flurried by in front of his face as Mrs. Putnam smiled down at him. Right now, Frankie was having this same thing happen. Aunt Lydia was with her to make sure it went well. Somewhere across town, Frankie was also getting shunted into a not-forever home. More than anything in that moment, Charles wanted to feel the firm squeeze of her thick hands.

Instead, Mrs. Putnam's chilly hands slid into and around his, squeezing. “It's so lovely to meet you, Ofmax,” she said. Her voice was soft, like wooden windchimes in a gentle breeze or far-away birdsong in a glen. Meant to fade into the background of someone else's soundtrack by design.

He just felt himself smile at her like he was on autopilot. “You as well, Mrs. Putnam.”

“Come in, you'll catch cold,” Mrs. Putnam urged, shooing him inside and shutting the door. “Whew! And call me Leah,” she said conspiratorially, leaning in with a wink. “I had Rita make us some hot chocolate to welcome you. Let's go see if it's done!” She bundled herself off towards what Charles assumed was the kitchen.

“I'm just so excited and grateful to have you here,” she gushed over her shoulder, as Charles followed. Where's the Commander? “And I'm so sorry that Max isn't here to greet you as well. I told him to be home for this to make a good impression, but --” she seemed to cut herself off, holding up a hand and closing her eyes as she paused at the kitchen doorway. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to complain. Mr. Putnam is socializing with other Commanders currently, he'll be home tonight.” She pushed open the kitchen swinging door and beamed, extending her arms to hug the Martha in the kitchen. The Martha had a similar expression on her face as they both hugged and pecked each other on both cheeks, then separated.

“You must be Ofmax,” the Martha said warmly, turning around to the counter and producing a tray of hot chocolates from the counter. On the kitchen island, there was a vase of flowers, freshly and gorgeously arranged. A work of art. Charlie half expected to have seen it in the Met in the Before times. “Here, let's take these into the den. Max isn't here, so we're free to gab as much as we want.”

“Girls’ day!” Leah tee-hee'd, and followed Rita as the two of them did what could most accurately be described as “tittering” amongst themselves. Charlie just followed along, occupying himself with taking in the house. It was a modest house, for a Second Commander. That was pretty much all Charles knew about the Commander. Usually they got pretty big houses because they were typically involved in the military or policing. Not as nice as First Commanders, but still. But this seemed like a lovely little average-to-upper-scale New England home, with shutters on the windows and two stories, no basem*nt.

He followed them into a cozy little den and waited to be told to sit, hands fiddling with his cloak.

“Sit down, sit down!” Leah said, fluttering a hand at him as she threw her shawl off. Then she came forwards and cleared the coffee table so that the Martha could set down her tray. Then, using her cardigan sweaterpaws to insulate her hands, she passed out hot chocolate to everyone.

“Oh, dear, take all that off, you'll get so hot so quickly,” Leah fussed, gesturing to Charles’ cloak and wings. “Max insists on keeping it nine hundred degrees in this house at all times of the year.”

“Ugh,” Rita grumbled, sipping her hot chocolate. She'd pushed up her sleeves. To the elbows. It had been so long since Charles had seen a forearm that wasn't because people were in their nightclothes that he actually felt shocked by it. Then he felt shocked by his shock.

“Oh, goodness,” Leah said, jumping up. “I completely forgot. I can't believe it.” She rushed off to the kitchen and came back with the vase of flowers, setting it down on the table next to the empty hot chocolate tray. “There. Just for you, dear. To help you feel welcome. For as long as you're here, you're part of our family.” Leah smiled at Charles as she picked up her hot chocolate and brought it to her lips. She looked younger then. The way her sleeves were bunched up over her hands and the way she smiled at him from under her brows and lashes. Despite the faint wrinkles on her face, it was almost childlike.

He couldn't decide what to think. On the one hand, such a warm welcome was honestly… nice. It made him feel good, and it felt good to be seen and welcomed and “thanked” (even if it was for a forced service). On the other, dehumanization didn't have to be outwardly cruel to be violent and, well, dehumanizing.

Charles decided to take it for what it was for now. He just hoped Frankie was getting the same welcome, with a Wife who actually seemed happy to have her. She needed that connection. She'd be reaching out for it. Charles knew her. By this point, it felt like he knew her almost as well as he knew himself. He half-wished he and Frankie had swapped places. She might do really well with Leah.

He sipped his hot chocolate and melted.

“It's good, right?” Rita appeared to be the youngest out of all of them, with a crooked smirk. Goofy. Fringy bangs hung down her forehead straight across under her cap. Thirty-five to his forty-five, if he had to guess.

Charles nodded and took another sip. Perfectly warm, delightfully sweet, and very rich.

“You're so quiet, dear,” Leah half-said, half asked, putting her cup down to her lap. “Feeling shy? I'm sorry if it's too much. I know this is a big change.”

“I'm sorry,” Charles answered immediately. “I don't mean to be aloof.” He set his mug down to strip his outer layers because damn, it was hot in here.

“You're alright, dear!” Leah beamed at him. Then she cooed as more of him became visible. “Oh, aren't you just so lovely. Absolutely angelic. The kind of looks that are just timeless, right Rita?” She glanced over at Rita and they both nodded before looking back at Charlie. “Timeless,” Leah insisted. “I'm so jealous. And that red hair of yours is gorgeous! So vibrant. Do you color it at all?”

“N-no,” Charles said, blinking. Be mindful of lovebombing, Charles. You know it well. “No, it's naturally like this.”

“Oh,” Leah sighed, face melting into longing. Her own hair was a graying blonde beneath her beanie. “Oh, you’re so lucky. Max won't even let me get my hair toned so it's not so gray.”

“But you look lovely,” Charles said, surprising himself. “Lots of women would love to go gray so gracefully.”

“Oh, everybody thinks that's a compliment,” Leah grumbled, waving a hand. “Sure, it's nice, but I want to be blonde again! Have a little fun, get a little toner!”

Charles couldn't help it -- he laughed into his sleeve. He got the feeling that Leah was one of those women who got called a “character”.

“What's your name, sweetie?” Leah asked, leaning in conspiratorially. “For when it's just us girls here.”

Charles blinked in shock. Should he answer? Not with his real name, obviously. The Aunts had tried to get him to tell them his deadname, but the most they got was that Frankie always called him “Charlie”. So in their attempt to deperson him, they named him Charlotte.

“Charlotte,” he answered, a bit stunned.

Of course, what amused him the most was that in their attempt to feminize him, they accidentally turned right around and validated his real name. “Charlotte” wasn't anywhere close to his deadname. They’d had to extrapolate it from Charles and Charlie.

Not that he'd tell them that.

“Charlotte is such a beautiful name,” Leah praised. “Or, er -- would you prefer us to use Ofmax even when you're not working? Or when the Commander isn't here?”

Ugh. Please no. “Charlotte is fine,” Charles said, nodding. He tried for a smile. “For when it's just us girls,” he echoed, leaning in. His smile turned decidedly wryer. Two can play this game, Mrs. Putnam. Sorry, but I still don't trust you. Keep your friends close, and all that.

“Charlotte it is, then,” Leah gushed, sipping her hot chocolate. “Oh, let me show you around! As soon as we finish this up, let Rita and I give you the tour.”

Charles did get the tour as soon as they all finished. Halfway through, he was giggling along with them at their jokes and smiling. Three quarters of the way through, he meant it when he did it. Their attitudes were so infectious, he almost forgot why he was really there.

Until Max got there. They saw his car pull in from the master bedroom window and Charles's stomach dropped to his toes.

“Oh, he's here,” Leah said. “Here, let's meet him downstairs.” As she passed, Charles swore he heard her say, “hopefully he behaves himself.”

They all congregated in the living room, which also served as the entryway. The house was clad all over in cool jewel tones just straddling the jewel over the pastel side, but in this room it was particularly obvious. Peaco*ck feathers seemed to serve as the defining accent feature, which only served to highlight the greens and blues and teals throughout the house. The only spaces that weren't like that were the kitchen (a medley of light and sage greens) the office (browns, grays, dark wood and leather) and the master bedroom (same, but the accent colors were dark, dark blue. A single peaco*ck feather stood sadly in jewel-toned vase in one corner of the room). Charles sweated in his red dress from the oppressive heat in the house.

The doorknob jiggled and then turned, the door swinging open to reveal (Second) Commander Max Putnam.

Underwhelming, if Charles was being honest. Lanky and skeletal, his age-spotted skin hung off his frame like it didn't fit him, to mirror the way his suit hung onto him for dear life to avoid falling off. His tie, though, was cinched tightly enough to choke him. “What's all this fuss about?” he griped, before his eyes lighted on Charles. “You're the Handmaid?” he asked, kicking the door shut behind himself.

“Yes, Commander,” Charles demurred, dipping his head. “Mrs. Putnam has already been showing me around.”

“Eh,” Max grumbled, coming closer. He picked up Charles's hand and evaluated it, then his arm. Then his other hand and arm. Then he grabbed Charles's jaw, ignoring his Wife’s quiet, scandalized admonishment. He turned Charles's face back and forth and then shoved a thumb into his mouth to look at his teeth. Charles was too stunned to do anything, blinking. Max let his lip drop, then stared at Charles's glasses and hair (what he could see under the cap). “She's ugly,” he declared, shuffling past Charles towards his office. “And old. Why couldn't they give me a pretty one, one of those cute little girls? Where's my damn coffee?”

“R-right here, Commander Putnam!” Rita shouted after him, and scurried off to go get it.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Leah crumpled, looking heartbroken. “He has no right to be that rude when you're the one he picked.” She leaned forwards to wrap Charles into a warm hug. “I'm so sorry,” she repeated, squeezing him tighter. Dazed at being evaluated like a racehorse, Charles lifted his arms to hug back, blinking at nothing. “You're beautiful. You’re a beautiful woman. You look positively radiant. Max doesn't know what he's talking about. I'm sorry. He's a bit of a complainer. He's very -- challenging.” She leaned back to look Charles in the eye, her own silver eyes watery. “Thank you for coming to our home,” she said firmly, nodding. “You have no idea how much it means to me.” Oh, I'm sure. Charles sighed. He had a feeling Leah was going to be one of the things making this house bearable, so he tried not to be uncharitable.

“It's fine,” he assured, taking her hands in his own. “I'm not offended.”

“I don't know how,” she sniffled, but nodded. “I'm sorry, he can be such a --” she cut herself off and got really quiet. “Pig,” she finished conspiratorially. Then she shook her head and closed her eyes. “I try to be a good Wife, I really do,” she rushed to reassure him. “I know I'm supposed to support him in all words, actions, and endeavors. But there was really no call for that and I told him he needs to make a good impression.”

“Leah,” Charles said, patting her hand. “You've made more than enough of a good impression in spite of him. Thank you for your kindness.” How is this going to change our first Ceremony night? It's in two weeks, Charles thought but didn't voice.

That meeting set the tone for the next two weeks. Max was out of the house a lot, either working or “socializing with other Commanders”. He complained constantly. About anything. Everything. Other Commanders, the weather, Leah, Rita, the food he ate, the temperature (both directions), whatever prostitute he saw at Jezebel's when he forgot the “socializing” lie… there was nothing he couldn't bitch, moan, or bellyache about. It even led right up to the Ceremony night. He complained about always having to come in last, the fact that everyone was standing around when they could be working (it was literally just Rita, they didn't have a Driver), the fact that Leah looked like a nun (her dress had long sleeves and a gathered crew neck, an empire waistline, and a gossamer satin overdress that had a ruffled neckline just under her chin) and the fact that he had to unlock the box to get to the pocket Bible. Then he complained about having to find the passage even though it was bookmarked and about how he had to read at all when they could just have it be over and done with. My knees will give out before you finish, you old gasbag, Charles thought crossly as Max rambled his way through the scripture. Despite his irritation, dread built in Charles like tumbling stones on a cairn. He stayed knelt on his pillow and nearly jumped when a hand slid over his back and tried to pat comfortingly despite an awkward angle. Rita. Charles didn't particularly want to be touched at the moment, but he was still grateful for the attempt at reassurance.

“Done, finally,” Max griped, snapping the book closed. “Dunno why they have us do that garbage,” he grumbled, shooing Rita out. She closed the door behind herself. “It's not like any of that is really the point. It's getting you slu*ts pregnant anyways.”

Leah's eyes slid closed and her head bowed just slightly. Her lip wobbled.

“Well, go on,” Max chided. “Wife, get her settled on the bed. I'll be in shortly.”

Leah got up and took Charles's hand, helping him up. They retreated to the bedroom and Leah got on first, spreading her legs and patting the space in between them. Charles climbed up next, but they were situated too far back.

“Oh dear, scoot down,” Leah laughed, swiping away tears and pretending like she wasn't.

Charles graciously ignored her tears and scooted, not bothering to fix his dress as it rode up his thighs. Leah tried to scoot down with him and then shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, Charlotte,” she fussed. Dithered was more like it. “Help, I gave myself a wedgie.” She shifted back and forth and desperately tried to fix it. They both broke into a fit of quiet giggles as Leah made faces, but apparently fixed the issue. “Oh, much better. That would've been so uncomfortable.”

Charles smoothed his skirts down, putting his hands over his stomach to wait.

“I'm sorry he's been a pig,” Leah whispered. “It’ll be over fast, at least.”

Charles couldn't stop the snort-laugh that clawed its way out of him and Leah fought off giggles as well, reaching for his wrists. He gave them, feeling her cold hands wrap around his skinny wrists. Her gossamer overgown was see-through but her dress had long sleeves to match, both sleeves ending at her wrists. The overgown had ruffles at the cuffs to match the thick one at her neck. The amount of ruffles turned the translucent blue shimmer clouding her opaque. “Stop it, stop laughing,” she giggled, fake-admonishing. “This is supposed to be serious. Stop that. You're making me laugh!”

Charles couldn't contain the giggles. He shouldn't be laughing. He was about to get raped. He should be crying. Screaming. Fighting. Instead, he was tee-heeing with the woman who was going to hold him down. But her lap was comfortable, her aura soothing, and most of all… he needed to laugh. He was sure that tears were going to come. There had certainly been enough already. So he needed to laugh while he could. While they could.

Max opened the door they came through, pausing to squint suspiciously. “What are you two laughing at?”

“I'm sorry, dear,” Leah half-chuckled. “Sorry, we just had a wardrobe malfunction.”

“Well you better stop all that giggling, it's putting me off,” Max complained, coming forwards and undoing his belt. The dread turned to fear. Charles felt himself freeze up, a cold sweat seizing him. Max pulled himself out of his pants and lined himself up. Then he grumbled and pulled his pants down to his knees, saying something about “uncomfortable.”

Charles grimaced as his Commander pushed inside of him. He was at least seventy years old and his balls hung like marbles in a fishnet bag, which really was the least of Charles's problems but certainly didn't make anything more comfortable. Above him, Leah risked a glance down at him. She started stroking her thumbs on his wrists, giving him a sympathetic look. He couldn't even be that upset with her, really. She'd been nothing but kind to him. And now more than ever he realized she'd be what would be keeping him sane over the next few months.

“I don't like your red hair,” Commander Max grunted at Charles, creaky old hips moving in and out. “You look Irish.”

“Well, that would be because I’m Scottish, sir,” Charles deadpanned, letting his accent bleed through a bit. The deadpan was admittedly not entirely intentional -- he felt lost and dead inside. Going numb. Emotional shock, he thought idly. I'm dissociating. Common trauma response, especially in a situation like this. It's my brain’s way of protecting itself.

“Shut your mouth,” Max responded. “I didn't ask you.”

“Shh,” Leah mouthed at Charles. “It's alright, darling. I've got you.”

The concern she had for him, when everything about this system said she didn't have to give a rat's ass about him, was what really made him tear up. That and the rape happening just in front of them. But Leah's clear sadness and pity for Charles, in the face of a system that pitted them as enemies, made him cry.

“It's okay, dearest,” Leah whispered. She took one of her hands off his wrists and tried to wipe his tears without cluing Max in. It wasn't hard, he was too busy chasing his pleasure. “You're alright.”

“Leah,” the Commander panted, starting to sweat. “Pull your tit* out. I want to see them.”

God, he's this much of a pig with everyone he thinks is a woman, Charlie thought. More tears welled like blood from a vein. They left cold tracks down the side of his head. Leah was supposed to be relatively safe from that. That's what I'm for, he thought mockingly.

Leah sighed and reached into her dress through the overgown, pulling her breasts out of the neckline and letting them hang. They were covered by the sheer blue satin, giving them a hazy blue sheen. The Commander huffed, hips speeding up as he stared at them. It was the closest he'd gotten to looking at her face since they'd started. All night, actually. “Yeah, that's right,” he grunted, grabbing Charlie's legs and forcing them apart wider. Charlie's hips ached. This is happening, he realized. This is really, actually happening.

He bit down on his lower lip to keep it from wobbling, but couldn't stop the sob that escaped him. Leah just moved her hands to hold his rather than grasping his wrists. She squeezed down hard and he squeezed back, grateful for the connection. He held onto her hands like he was adrift at sea and she was reaching over the side of the boat to pull him up. Like the sweat clamming his palms up was slippery, icy seawater and he was scared she would slip away.

The Commander grunted as he finished and then pulled out, staring at Charlie's c*nt for way too long afterwards. Then he just grumbled something about the Irish and shuffled off to the shower.

Leah had already put her breasts back into her dress and helped Charlie sit up, pulling his skirts back down and smoothing them out. “Are you alright?” she whispered, tucking wisps of his hair away behind his ears. Her fingers were gentle, like a mother's.

“No,” Charlie managed, lip wobbling. “No, I'm not alright, Leah.”

“Come here,” she said, and brought him into a long, long hug. And if he cried a few silent tears into her dress, she said nothing about it. Just held him and rocked him back and forth. He grasped onto her, sobs wracking his body.

“I'm sorry that he's so unpleasant,” she murmured. “I'm sorry you have to deal with him. Thank you for doing this. It's a noble sacrifice.”

Charles didn't have the energy or clarity of mind to ask her why she sounded like he signed up to be here in the first place. Why she sounded like he wanted to be doing this and it was just Max that was the problem. He was too busy crying.

“I'm going to walk you to bed,” she whispered, and he nodded, still crying. She helped him up and kept one arm over his shoulders as she steered them both down the hall. One hand was still grasped in his. She opened his door for him and packed him off to bed. “I'm sorry,” she apologized again, smoothing a palm over his forehead. “Would you like me to stay?”

Charles shook his head, body jumping with hiccups.

“Okay. I'm just down the hall if you need something,” she said, and quietly left, shutting the door behind herself.

Charles sobbed himself to sleep that night, and fell into an uneasy rest. He felt come dribble out of him, making his inner thighs sticky and disgusting.

He woke up the next morning feeling filthy. After scrubbing himself raw in the shower while staring at the wall until the water had long since run cold because he turned it on the hottest setting to scald himself clean, he gingerly put his underclothes on. Then his dress (absolutely only one cotton petticoat, waking up in a pool of his own sweat didn't help him feel cleaner) and cap. Then his red flat slippers.

He delicately made his way down the stairs. His skin was burned too, all pink and sensitive against the fabric of his clothes.

He made his way to the kitchen like a zombie and sat at the kitchen table. He felt like he was in a dream. I'm still dissociating, a part of him reminded himself. What happened last night was traumatizing, so my brain is trying to protect me from the full force of those intense and traumatic emotions. By disconnecting me from my surroundings and numbing my feelings, it's pasting over the holes in my mental defenses with spackle until I can get a better fix.

He had a feeling that a better fix wasn't coming. And there were about to be a lot more holes. Just because he knew the mechanics of what was happening didn't make it any less debilitating.

“Hey,” Rita said, startling him nearly out of his skin by putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Oh, sorry.” The look she gave him was pitying, sympathetic. Like he was a wet newborn kitten abandoned on the side of the road in a ditch. “Here, I made you some breakfast.” She put a plate with eggs, sausage, veggies, and toast down in front of him.

“I did too,” Leah said, coming in from the den. She flushed sheepishly. “I'm not… a great cook, but I can do arrangements really nicely! So I figured, if I actually cooked you something it wouldn't be much of a gift, but…” she went to the fridge and produced a platter of fruit, cut and arranged absolutely beautifully. Charles felt himself tear up.

“Oh,” he said softly, vision blurring. “Oh, you didn't have to do this…”

“No, no, I…” Leah sniffled, sitting down and taking Charlie's hands in hers. “I'm so terribly sorry. You came here to do a job for us, and it's our obligation to welcome you into our family. I tried so hard, I just…” she sighed in defeat. “I'm so sorry that you're giving your body up to do us a great, kind, Christian service, and it's being repaid by Max Putnam's….” Leah gestured frustratedly and wiped at her own eyes, sniffing. “Beastliness,” she said, voice thick. “Just know that Rita and I are overjoyed to have you here.”

Service? Giving up my body? What do you think is happening here, Leah? All questions Charles wasn't ready to ask at the moment. He wiped at his own tears, ignoring the prickly burning on the skin of his arms under his dress. Then he leaned forwards and wrapped Leah in a hug. “You don't have to be sorry,” he whispered, squeezing her. She was warm and soft. “You don't. You and Rita have done such a wonderful job making me feel so welcome and -- and loved.” He decided to shelve his questions for Leah until he was alone with her. “So I want to thank you. I was really quite nervous about this because it's my first posting. You are the thing making this house bearable, Leah. You and Rita.”

“I'm going to go move the laundry over,” Rita said softly, coming over and putting a hand on Charles and Leah's shoulders and squeezing. Then she slid them off and quietly walked out of the room.

Guess that meant it was time for Charles's questions then.

“Leah,” he led hesitantly. This is stupid. As nice as she is, she can get you killed just as nicely. “Leah… how much do you know about my situation?”

She gave him a funny look. “Well, I know that you committed some kind of crime, but because you're fertile, it's kind of like probation,” Leah explained. “That's what Max and the Aunts told me, anyhow. Like a… work-release parole program. And I want to say, I don't care what you did before, all that matters is now. You're making a very noble sacrifice and doing a service that I don't know that I would have the strength or courage to do.”

His heart hurt. Gilead was so cruel even to the people in charge. To be made complicit in state-sanctioned rape without even realizing -- because people you trusted lied to you, and you think the rape victim has willingly signed up to perform a job for you -- that was a special kind of cruel.

“So, you think I signed up for this, “ Charles said.

She nodded.

“Leah…” Charles grimaced. “Leah, before I say anything, I just want you to know that I don't blame you. For any of it. You are a bright point in this place and the kindness you've shown me helps me keep hold of myself. But… I didn't choose this, Leah.”

Her face started to drop. But mostly she was still confused. “You mean you didn't want to go back to prison,” she tried to clarify. “So you felt forced into a choice.”

“No, I mean they broke into my home, dragged me out by the armpits, and put me in a reeducation camp,” Charles said. Too much too fast?

Leah went white. “So you -- Max --”

“Raped me last night? Yes. It's what we're trained for,” Charles explained, feeling sick. “All for the good of the state, of course. I didn't choose this. I didn't commit a crime, I didn't go to prison, this isn't parole. The only requirement is that they believe my uterus works, and I'm not a woman of ‘good standing’.” Charles parroted, with air quotes.

“But if Max -- did that -- does he know? And I held your wrists, I --” she covered her mouth with one hand and bent over, closing her eyes as if she was about to be sick.

“And I appreciated it,” Charles clarified, squeezing her other hand. “We can't stop Max from performing the Ceremony, but having someone else there… comforting me… made it bearable. I know it's -- it feels sick. Maybe it is. But I would rather have my head in your lap while that's happening ten times over than being alone. And yes, I'm certain Max knows exactly what he's doing. I'm sorry if that's a shock to you, I know he's your husband.”

“It's not,” she said softly, tears dripping down her face. “I'm so sorry… Max and I have been married for thirty years, since I was about twenty years old. We met at church. He was a church elder, my parents arranged the marriage… he's always been… well, he knows what he wants.” She pursed her lips and looked away. “I'm not surprised,” she said. “I'm just sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Charles said, just as softly, and was surprised that he meant it. “I'm sorry that you were lied to.”

“I just thought you were crying because he was so rude and hurtful,” she wept, breaking down to cry into her hands. “I didn't know it was because you felt -- felt violated.”

“I know, Leah. I know you didn't know. The way you spoke, it was pretty obvious.”

“I just feel so helpless,” Leah whispered. “I can't help you. I don't know how to help you.”

“By doing exactly what you're doing,” Charles whispered. “You treating me so normally -- like I'm just another one of the girls -- genuinely, it's helped me hold onto myself. Even last night.” I'm not going to tell you that I'm not one of the girls, per se…

“Okay.” Leah sniffed, nodding. “Okay.” She glanced over at the fruit plate. “C’mon, try some fruit,” she said, picking up a grape and eating it. “You gotta eat something.”

“Okay.” Charles picked at his plate and at the fruit. “Oh, Leah, it's really good,” he sighed, melting.

She smiled through her tears. “Thanks,” she managed. “Can't cook, but I sure can make things look pretty.”

They sat there like that for a long time, holding each other and comforting each other. Maybe Charles should have blamed her, but he didn't have it in himself to do it. Not when she was what was making this situation survivable for him. After that, they agreed they both needed a minute alone, but that Leah would come and check on Charles in a little while. So Charles finished his breakfast and washed his dishes, then headed outside.

He sat on the back steps of his new family's house, watching birds bathe in the stone birdbath standing in the backyard garden. A male cardinal was hogging it, splashing water everywhere. Chilly water splashed off of his red feathers.

How long would it take them to figure out that they'd messed up Charles's paperwork? That he didn't even have a uterus? He'd tried explaining it to the Aunts, but they just thought he was trying to shirk his duty. After they all found out, they'd send him to the Colonies for sure. Or hang him up on the Wall. He'd heard about how they hanged people. Not a short drop and a sudden stop, no.

That would be too kind.

Instead, they cinched that noose tight around your neck with that marked bag over your head. Hands tied behind your back. And then slowly, painfully, they lifted that rope higher and higher, tauter and tauter, until it pulled on your throat hard enough for your feet to leave the ground.

And then they let your own body weight suffocate you to death. Alone. Feet dangling on nothing. Your vision blacked out from the bag long before your eyes gave out, choking to death weighed down by your own future corpse.

“Hello, dear.” He startled and turned to see Leah. She wiped her eyes and sat down next to him, sniffing. Her blue shawl was wrapped around her freckled shoulders and she came to sit next to him. “It's chilly out here, you'll catch cold.” She took her blue shawl and wrapped it around Charlie's shoulders, snuggling it in. “There you go. I'm sorry that you didn't choose to be here. I'll do what I can for you, dear.”

“I'm sorry,” Charlie whispered. “I can't -- I can't give you what you want, Leah.” Why was he telling her this? This was so dangerous. “I don't -- I don't have -- I had a hysterectomy years ago. I tried to tell them. I tried to tell them. I really did. I didn’t choose this and I can't even give you what you want.”

She was quiet for a moment, rubbing his back. Her shawl was wool, and very warm. Soft, too. “I think I'm getting a flu,” she said idly, looking up and around the overcast sky. “I don't think I'll be feeling well for the rest of this month's Ceremony nights, dear. I'll tell Max it's not happening tonight or tomorrow. He'll whine and complain, but I'm putting my foot down.”

“You can't be sick every month,” Charlie whispered faintly.

“No,” she conceded. “But I think I'm sick this month. He's out of town next month.”

Charlie felt grateful tears well up, a lump getting stuck in his throat. “Thank you,” he managed, barely audible. “Thank you.”

She leaned over and hugged him. Fiercely. Tightly. She wasn't a rescuer pulling him from the sea, Charles realized. They were both hanging onto the same life ring. Together.

Chapter 6: Yellow Wallpaper

Chapter Text

Charles hadn’t seen or heard from Frankie in two months.

He was a little paranoid that she was dead, but his walking partner or any other Handmaid never mentioned any gossip of the sort. So he was left to chew his fingernails off in relative solitude about it. Their class had been graduated now for at least a few weeks, and first Ceremonies were happening all over the board. Mixed results. The conditioning had really worked on a few of the women, apparently, and they were just happy to be with “nice” families and to have a safe place to eat and sleep. And they were happy that the Ceremony hadn’t been “bad”. Maybe it was hypocritical of Charles to judge them considering him and Leah, but he did it anyway in the privacy of his own head. It felt nice to indulge in spitefulness and judgment, just for a minute or two. Just to have some inkling of impurity and non-goodness. To make himself three-dimensional again.

His walking partner, Ofnate, was usually a quiet sort. They hadn’t really interacted during their time at the Red Center, but he’d seen her face now and again. When they’d met up for their first walk, he’d seen that she was down a pinky finger. Nowadays, she was a lot more chatty, even if it was about Approved Topics.

“So… you never mentioned,” Charles queried. He tried to avoid using her patronym as much as possible, and he didn’t know her real name. Didn’t know how to ask. In training at the Red Center, it wasn’t as big of a deal because you hadn’t gotten a patronym yet. But now that people had gotten their postings, the Aunts cracked down on real names like whips. “You never mentioned how you lost that finger. What’d you read?”

“I accidentally peeked over my Commander’s shoulder while he was reading the newspaper,” she confessed sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to, it was just muscle memory. I was one of those kids that read cereal boxes just for my eyes to have something to do. But he wasn’t willing to overlook it. I think he’s insecure — he’s a Third Commander, so it’s easier for him to get demoted than promoted. Needs to look like he’s got everything under control. He’s nice, at least.”

”But he cut your finger off,” Charles answered, quirking an eyebrow.

”Yeah,” Ofnate trailed off, and they both looked at the ground as they walked to the market. “Or, well, had it cut off.”

”Same difference if you ask me,” Charles mumbled, and then they both looked around anywhere but each other.

”We’ve been sent good weather today,” Ofnate said, with forced cheer. “Cold, but nice. Refreshing.”

”It’s just dreary to me,” Charles sighed, looking up at the sky. “All those gray clouds.”

”Well, we should be grateful it’s not raining,” Ofnate chided. “Praise be.”

They were passing a couple of Guardians. “Praise be,” Charles echoed, looking away from the jackbooted thugs as they passed. The tokens he had in his market bag clicked together to chorus with Ofnate’s. He could see the suburb they were in fading into downtown, where the stores and markets were. “Are we headed to the grocery store or an open-air market, Ofnate?”

”I think we’ll try the grocery store today,” Ofnate said, “I heard they have oranges.”

”Ofnate,” Charles questioned, hesitantly. The name left a bad taste in his mouth. “Have you… heard anything about other Handmaids? From our class?”

”Mmm… I think Ofharold is pregnant.”

”What, already?” Charles half-yelped, eyebrows flying up.

”Well, her family tested her literally every day after the first Ceremony night, even on the other two days,” Ofnate explained. “Must spend a fortune on pregnancy tests. Wife must be really desperate. Ofharold got a positive result on her like, tenth or eleventh day afterwards. So they’re gonna wait until she misses her period to test her again, but… yeah, I think it’s gonna take. Praise be.”

Charles felt himself echo “praise be.” Then he swallowed, feeling like he was swallowing glue. It can’t happen to you. It can’t happen to you. It can’t happen to you. “Heard about anyone else?”

”Hmm… no, not really. Not beyond the usual. Oh, my gosh, did you hear about Ofichabod actually?”

”Her Commander’s name is Ichabod?” Charles deadpanned and Ofnate giggled, nodding.

”Yes, yes! Anyways, that’s not the point. She told me that her Commander is in love with her.” Ofnate giggled again. “And she’s with a First Commander!”

”Oh, wow,” Charles nodded along, feeling dread tickle him. That is not love, he wanted to say, but refrained. The grocery store loomed ahead of them and they approached the sliding doors. They were manned by Guardians. All the signage had been taken down and replaced with simple picture signs. Can’t have these silly women reading after all, Charles scoffed internally. They quickly hurried through the doors and joined the flow of red throughout the aisles. It was like the aisles were blood vessels filled with cells, each one clumped together with others in a loose trail. Occasionally, a white (or light sage green, really) blood cell (Marthas) would float through.

They did have oranges today. Charles almost blinked at the sight. Ofnate rushed over and started picking some. He followed her over, looking but not touching. He didn’t have orange tokens, after all. Not all Second Commanders were equal, he was finding. Max complained about it often enough, that was for sure. Complained that he didn’t have a Driver, complained that his car wasn’t nice enough. That the First Commanders were snapping it all up and weren’t leaving any for the rest of them. Charles wasn’t so sure — literally across the street, another Second Commander lived with his Wife and a Driver and a Martha. He had nicer clothes and a better job. What Charles was pretty sure was going on was that Max was a Second Commander in name only. He had once been someone important and relevant, but he had stagnated in his old age and been left behind. Not willing to make the effort to keep up, he instead resorted to blaming everyone else.

He did, however, express gratitude for some things. Usually only as a stepping stone to start complaining about something related. Charles wandered around the fruit stands, picking lemons and a lime or two. Max would often say something along the lines of “at least I’m not Henpecked Havish” and start complaining about weak men who were puss*whipped by their Wives and didn’t know how to Command a household. That they were an embarrassment to the Commandership and how this was really just evidence that Third Commanders should have been reclassified as Professionals a long time ago, but “nobody has the balls to do that because it wouldn’t be politically correct ‘cause all these puss*es want to feel like men without earning it”. Charles and Leah would usually just make eye contact and roll eyes at each other, trying not to laugh. Max never even noticed. Charles was a hundred percent sure if he and Leah had been replaced by pillows, Max wouldn’t have batted an eye. Charles just tuned him out at this point.

A flash of red caught his attention amongst all the other flashes. He lifted his head from the apple he was feeling up to check for bruises, and looked around. Someone had just passed him and their cloak had waved in his vision, but when he turned his head to check the other way, a familiar form was standing over the leafy green vegetables under the mister. A very big form. Shoulders were more hunched and it was thinner, but he knew exactly who it was. He nearly dropped his bag and rushed over, coming around to desperately search for Frankie’s face under those wings. She was staring blankly at the kale, eyes glassy as if she was lost in her own head. Her face was thinner than he remembered, and she looked ghostly pale like she hadn’t been outside in months. Dark circles shaded under her eyes and her mouth was set in a hard frown. But her hair was short, so short you could barely see a little ducktail of brown peeking out from under her cap and wings. And you couldn’t see it except for a couple wisps on her forehead under the cap and wings, either. “Ofjohn,” he prompted, shaking her slightly. He hated to use the patronym, but there were others nearby. “Ofjohn,” he tried again. No response. God, she looks awful, he thought. No, no, maybe she was just sick. That’s it. She’s recovering from some kind of illness. A flu, maybe. That’s why she looks like she hasn’t been outside since she got posted. Please don’t let it be because they’re tormenting her. She should have a Wife like Leah. She deserves that, at least.

”Frankie,” he hissed finally. He saw her dim eyes focus back in as she blinked in confusion, looking around before finally settling on Charles’s face.

He saw her go through a whirlwind of emotions. Confusion, shock, relief, delight, fierce desperation. She crushed him into a hug and buried her face into his neck, breathing in. “Charlie,” she breathed out, and he felt tears on his clothes. His ribs and spine and shoulders groaned under the strain, but he just relished in the burn of the air being crushed out of his lungs because it was Frankie, finally. “Oh god, Charlie…”

”Are you alright? You look terrible,” Charles whispered, separating and going back to staring at the vegetables with her.

”Fine,” she murmured back. “Just… just happy to be outside today. Good weather.”

”It’s terrible weather,” Charles hissed, wanting to reach out and touch her hand. “Are you happy to be outside today or happy to be outside? You look like you haven’t been out in months!”

”Happy to be outside,” Frankie repeated lowly, scanning the kale from under her thick brows. She reached out and grabbed a bundle, putting it into her market bag on top of the tokens rattling in the bottom. Same as everyone else. “It’s fine, Charlie. Don’t worry about me.”

”Too late,” Charles said. “You look awful. You look sick. You’ve lost weight!”

”I’m a fat slu*t, I don’t need to eat all that,” she parroted in a mocking whisper. “And yeah, I just got let outside six days ago. After my second set of Ceremony nights. When’s yours?”

”I’m not having them this month,” Charles cringed sympathetically. “Max is out of town and doesn’t want to spend the money to fly me up there to do it. Or come back and then make a return trip.”

”Lucky bastard,” Frankie grumbled, picking up some heads of broccoli.

”They don’t even let you out of the house?” Charles whispered. “They know they can get in trouble with the Aunts, right? And especially for you not eating enough…”

”They weren’t even letting me out of the basem*nt,” Frankie corrected, moving on to a display of bell peppers. Charles just moved with her. “And yeah, why do you think I’m in the grocery store instead of talking to the single lightbulb in that room like a crazy person? I named him Willie.”

”Jesus, Frankie!” Charles almost shouted, but remembered to keep it down.

”They actually moved me to a different room,” Frankie sighed in relief. “I’m in the attic now, but at least the attic has windows. And someone usually talks to me when I go on my daily walk. At the very least, I get to see another person.”

”What does your mistress think about all this?” Charles asked, hoping against hope.

Frankie’s lip curled as she threatened to crush a red bell pepper into an explosion of juice and seeds. Instead, she put it in her market bag. “Who do you think is doing it? Daphne hates me,” she whispered. “I’m just some obese whor* her husband wants to sleep with rather than her. The one good thing about her is that she cuts my hair before Ceremony nights because John is obsessed with long brown hair. She actually puts her hair down before Ceremonies so John will look at her, Charlie.”

”No,” Charles gasped, as they headed to the checkout with their fruits and veggies. Charles tugged her along to check out some of the herbs as well. “No she doesn't.”

“She absolutely does. Shakes her head back and forth and everything.”

“And I feel like -- not to say a woman should change for her man -- but if she's that bent out of shape about your weight, I feel like there's a solution to that.”

“Unless you have hyperthyroidism and couldn't keep weight on if it was taped to you,” Frankie intoned lightly, smug as hell. She fingered through the herbs sticking up in their pots, investigating. She looked the picture of schadenfreude. “Look, her husband is a disgusting pig and she can have him, but I do find it very funny that despite how genuinely awful she's made her diet in her efforts, all she's doing is making her cholesterol and sugar worse. She's gained maybe five pounds since we've met. Maybe.”

“You're so bad,” Charles giggled.

Unsatisfied with the herb collection, they went to checkout and got their items, leaving together. Charles lived in an adjacent neighborhood to hers, he found. He walked her home first.

“So…” Frankie trailed off. “How's your family? You seem tired.”

“It's…” Charles sighed. “The first Ceremony was tough,” he said finally, and watched understanding pain spread across Frankie's face. “But Leah -- er, Mrs. Putnam, and Martha Rita have been a godsend. They've kept me sane. Honestly.”

“Good,” Frankie sighed in relief. “I was worried your mistress was as jealous as mine.”

“No, no, not at all,” Charles shook his head.

“And your Commander? What's he like?”

“Oh, he's horrible,” Charles groaned, putting his face in his hands. “If he's breathing, he's complaining. Even during the Ceremony.”

“Stop. It. He is not doing that during the Ceremony. While he's --?” Frankie made a rude gesture, jaw dropping with an incredulous grin.

“Francine! And -- yes!” Charles sighed, shaking his head. “He's convinced that the only reason a ‘Godly’ man such as him is so unappreciated in his time is that the Irish and the, er… a word I'm not repeating, and the ‘woke left’ have taken over the Committee.” He rolled his eyes. “To oppress older white men like him.”

“Ah, the inevitable endpoint of fascism -- self-cannibalism.” Frankie smugly shook her head. Then she frowned. “Max Putnam, right?” She made a face. “John complains about him. None of the other Commanders can stand him. They think he's a whiny has-been.” Ha! Knew it!

“God, do they just gossip like hens?” Charles gasped.

“I'm not saying that, but I am saying I'm pretty sure if I stay at this house for three more months I'm gonna start hearing state secrets,” Frankie groaned. “He’s gunning so hard for First Commander and they won't let him into the circle. He wants that white suit, Charlie. They won't let him in though. Apparently the First Commanders are pretty protective of their…” she gestured around. “Echelon,” she finished.

They talked and talked and talked until Frankie's voice was raspy from overuse and they were standing at her front walkway. The color drained slowly out of her face as her lips got hard and set again. Her eyes went downcast to the ground and she white-knuckled her bag. At the door, a thin and bony woman in blue was tapping her foot, arms crossed. “It was good to see you, Charlie,” Frankie whispered, voice flat. Then she went up the walkway and seemed to bend towards the ear-chewing she was getting as the Wife followed her inside and shut the door. Charles looked down at his bag to sort it a little, and when he looked back up, he nearly startled at the ghostly face pressed up against the tiny round attic window overlooking the street. Frankie rested her forehead against the window. One hand pressed to the glass, she gave him a sad, desperate little wave with the other before snapping her head around and scurrying away from the window like she'd been caught.

Charles started moving. There was a group of two Handmaids that passed by his neighborhood passing on the other side of the street. He quickly joined up with them and exchanged pleasantries. They talked about absolutely nothing for fifteen minutes, and then he was home.

“Under His eye,” they called to him as they kept walking. He just nodded and waved, pretending like the distance was too far to shout politely. Then he turned back and went up his front walkway. Leah met him at the door, beaming.

“Did you get the limes?” she whispered, giddy.

Charles held up his bag.

“Ooh, yay! C'mon, it's cold out. I'll get the wine, let's have girl time.”

Well, that night was a blur of rosé wine and laughter. Charles couldn't stop thinking about Frankie in the back of his mind. That sad, gaunt face, desperately peering at him from the attic. That sad little wave before she'd had to come away from the window. He'd seen her look defeated, but he'd never seen her look so small before. Small was not an adjective he ever thought he would use to describe her. But she looked small and heeled. Like she was just happy down to her bones to be able to breathe in fresh air that day. Or see sunlight. It broke his heart and for once, girls’ night wasn't able to completely lift his spirits.

He woke up the next morning and puttered around the house lost in thought again until it was time for his walk. He gathered his things and said goodbye to Rita and Leah, who were cross-stitching in the living room to take advantage of the late morning light.

He made his way down the front walkway to meet Ofnate, who was miffed at him. “You left me yesterday to talk to Ofjohn,” she snipped, robes swishing around her as she walked quickly. “What's that all about? I had to walk home with Oftim and then finish the trip with a Guardian.”

“Sorry,” Charles said, not feeling very sorry. “It had just been a while, that's all.”

“What's the thing between you two? Is it some kinda gender treachery or something?” Ofnate eyed him suspiciously.

“What? No, no!” Charles sputtered. “She's just my friend,” he said. “I was worried about her. Her family is… cruel to her, I hadn't heard from her until yesterday. Turns out the Wife was keeping her locked in the basem*nt. The Aunts had to step in.”

“Oh, wow…” She shook her head. “Sorry I asked.”

“In fact -- if you could swap with Oftim again, I'd really love to check in on her again if she's there…”

“How's this. Let's all walk together!”

“Yeah, that's great!” Charles enthused, groaning on the inside. She's trying to compromise with you, Charles reminded himself. What would Frankie say? Don't let them pit you against each other. They went to the grocery store as Charles kept a vigilant eye out for Frankie. There, at the bakery counter! He nudged Ofnate and they hurried over.

“Ofjohn,” Charles asked, touching her arm. “Ofjohn.” She turned around and stared at him, big eyebrows drawn low. Then she saw Ofnate and her face relaxed.

“Ofmax, Ofnate,” she greeted. “Blessed be the fruit.”

“May the Lord open,” Charles and Ofnate chorused in unison.

“We’ve been sent good weather today,” Ofnate chirped. “Praise be.”

“Praise be,” Charles and Frankie parroted back.

Oftim made her way over as well and joined the conversation. They talked about the weather, the fighting on the front lines, the groceries, shopping… Charles felt himself going insane and he could tell Frankie was too. They met eyes over their partners’ heads. It wasn't that these weren't valid conversation topics, it was just that when it was all he was allowed to talk about without the State cracking down on him, it was crazymaking.

This was their walking time for the next two weeks. All four of them met every day and walked for an hour, or longer if they went to the grocery store. And they talked about almost nothing.

“Did you hear Ofharold is pregnant?” Ofnate squealed, beaming.

“Praise be!” Oftim exclaimed, at the same time that Frankie yelped “already?” and looked green in the face. They were taking the long way by the river, cutting through an Econoneighborhood. Further down the river on the bank, a series of waterfront First Commander homes sat shining in the early afternoon light. Some Marthas and Econowives mingled in the herbs and bushes clumped along the river and the retaining wall on the other side. The herbs were looking pretty scraggly in the winter air, but there were a few hangers-on. They made their way down the path until they reached a portion that would have been shaded in the summertime and stopped for a chat. A Guardian paced the wall above them, looking out over the river.

“How are you doing, Ofjohn?” Charles prodded. “You look a little peaked...”

“Oh, I'm doing okay,” Frankie responded lightly, leaning down to pick up a long stick as if she was idly playing with it. Then she started drawing in the dirt. Pictographs. Characters. The writing! Awful, she drew. I'm in the basem*nt again. What she really wrote directly translated to “I'm below dark again” but they hadn't come up with “basem*nt” yet at the Red Center. That bitch Wife locked me in and only lets me out to keep the Aunts away. It’s just me and the lightbulb. And she's starving me again. She found out that John kept making me suck his co*ck and kept bending me over furniture while she was out and it's my fault, apparently.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Charles whispered sadly.

It's the same cycle. Ceremony nights are the worst.

“What are you doing?” Ofnate asked, as she and Oftim clued in and their faces got stormy. “Are you seriously writing in public? You wanna get us all in trouble? I --” she glanced down and they both must have read the pictographs, because their faces went white. “Is she really?” Ofnate asked softly.

“I'm just drawing,” Frankie said cheerfully, and scuffed it out. She dropped the stick and then leaned in. “If either one of you report that I'm reporting you both for knowing how to read it,” she hissed under her breath. “Got it?”

Both Ofnate and Oftim nodded frantically. They all decided to hurry home after that.

The thing that Charlie always forgot about the river is it took them right past the Wall. It was where the retainer wall got huge and had a sewer grate in the side, but it wasn't functional these days. Instead, it was used as a gory display to hang apostates, gender traitors, and lawbreakers from. So that carrion creatures could pick apart their fetid corpses.

Charles covered his nose at the putrid smell, eyes watering as they all stopped to “pray”. A bolt of ice-cold fear struck straight through his heart at the Magen David branded onto one of the bags on their heads. Frantically, he tried to subtly investigate the body. Oh god, Yohanan. He was about to start hyperventilating. There were so many reasons they could put that man up on that Wall and they would. They would in a second. Oh god, didn't he have kids before all this? They were all going to meet up to cross the border and Charles definitely remembered him mentioning he had kids. Charles’s existence and the other Handmaids’ existences were hell, but at least what was between their legs gave them some sort of meager safety. Yohanan was a Jewish gender traitor. If they caught him, he was dead.

Charles looked at the legs and feet. One of the shoes had fallen off, revealing six toes on that foot. Charles sighed in relief. Possibly the weirdest way he'd had to identify someone, but at least it wasn't Yohanan.

“You okay, Ofmax?” Frankie asked, looking up at the wall next to him. What did she see? Did she see anyone she knew? Was that something she was worried about? Or did she know the fates of her loved ones?

“Yes, yes, I…” Charles trailed off. “I'm just… overcome, I suppose. Praise be to the Lord and Gilead for keeping us safe.”

“Praise be,” the rest echoed behind him. They all stared up at the bodies for the prescribed two or three minutes and then silently went home. Charles and Ofnate didn't talk the rest of the way home.

Over the next few days, Charles watched Frankie get smaller and smaller on their walks. Shoulders more slumped, head more down. At one point, when she was readjusting her cloak, Charles saw a hickey on her skin just above her dress's neckline. It was quickly covered up by the cloak. She got quieter, more depressed. The circles under her eyes got darker and she got paler. She eyed the food in her bag with misty-eyed longing. It got so bad that Charles slipped her an apple he'd gotten at the store and bade her to eat it on the way home. She nodded, dull eyes tearing up in gratitude. She just seemed exhausted. Like the waves were beating her down.

“Ceremony nights?” Charles guessed on a particularly bad-looking day.

Frankie nodded. “Last one tonight,” she whispered. “I dunno how I'm gonna keep doing this, Charlie. It's three months in and I'm already halfway out of my mind.”

“Stay with me,” Charles whispered, daring to slip a hand into her and squeeze. Then he immediately let go. “My third one is coming up this coming week. Just… try to go somewhere else, in your mind.”

“I do,” she said, nodding. “Maybe it's weird and gross, but I think about my dad a lot. I dunno, it just distracts me really well. And I really miss my dad,” she managed, voice wobbling. “And my mom,” she whimpered, sniffing. Charles desperately wished that he could reach out for her hand again, but they were passing Guardians. So they both made sure their heads were down and they were quiet as they passed. “So I think about ‘em and I just pretend it's not happening,” Frankie whispered after a few minutes, voice thick and wet.

“You'll be okay,” Charles said, a part of him not believing it. Would any of them be okay? “You'll be okay.”

She didn't look like she believed him either as she and Oftim split off to go home, leaving him and Ofnate alone together again.

As his own Ceremony nights drew nearer, he felt the cold lump of dread get heavier and heavier in his gut, same as usual. The only things that kept him from falling into a puddle was Leah’s support and the fact that Mrs. Godwin seemed to have lightened up on Frankie and she was looking well fed and rested again. Still haggard and worn, but not hanging on by her fingernails.

Charles sighed, fiddling with his dress as he sat out in the backyard again. It was almost time. He only had a week left until his third set of Ceremony nights. Leah had bought him time, but there was never enough of it in Gilead.

That wasn't the only clock he was on. He wouldn't get pregnant. He couldn’t. When he failed to produce a child here, they'd move him to another house. Then he had one last chance to pop out a baby for them before it was off to the Colonies for him.

-------------------------------

“You're too tight,” Max complained as he pushed inside Charles, moving his hips back and forth. “It doesn't feel good.”

Above him, Leah sighed. She gripped Charles's hands and rubbed her thumb back and forth. Charles didn't say anything as Max kept going. Today, he seemed to want to complain about other Commanders and gender treachery. Complaining about other men while you're balls-deep in a man seemed pretty gay to Charles, but what did he know. He just made eye contact with Leah and rolled his eyes as Max yapped his head off. Leah fought off a snort-chuckle by pursing her lips and mouthed “stop it!”

“And that damn Victor Virtue,” Max bitched, hips still moving. “Thinks he knows everything. Just today he's talking about infrastructure plans and bills and proposing this whole new scheme. It's so stupid. The roads and bridges are just fine like they are! There's nothing that needs changing, we need to focus on children! Thank God someone finally put their foot down with him and told him that wasn't a priority. I swear, he gets everything he wants!”

Charles grimaced as Max started pistoning harder. He was uncomfortable inside Charles and it was making him sore. Leah just squeezed his hands. Charles closed his eyes and tried to tune out Max barking about Commander Virtue some more, including several extremely nasty, heartily rude, and very racist adjectives. Apparently, the fact that Commander Virtue was both Black and assertive (or even confident) was something Max just couldn't abide.

Girls’ night tonight, Charles reminded himself, grimacing as he tried to shift to get comfortable. Just hold out for girls’ night.

“Stop that,” Max admonished, hands grabbing Charles by the hips and slamming him down into each thrust. The sudden change made Charles sputter out loud and Leah gasp. “Lay still.”

“Max!” Leah chided, leaning forwards to try and get his hands away. “Max, you aren't supposed to touch!”

“Get off, woman,” Max snapped, slapping her hands away. He was panting and grunting. “Can't even focus around here. How am I supposed to do the Ceremony if the bitch is too tight?” Charles's “tightness” didn't seem to be bothering him in that moment. “She's my woman, I can f*ck her how I want. I only get three nights a month anyways! I bet those other Commanders…”

Leah gave up, leaning back and looking down at Charles all guilty as Max yapped his head off in the background.

“It's okay,” he mouthed. “Thanks for trying.” He tried not to grimace in pain and discomfort as he was looking at her but his face wasn't completely on board for that.

Finally, mercifully, Max finished. He pulled out, pulled his pants up, and waddled off to go shower “‘cause she stinks and now I stink.”

Charles just scrubbed at his eyes, tearing up. He was sore, and his hips hurt. Leah gathered him up again and they hugged as she helped Charles get presentable. She snagged the extra pair of his underwear she’d started keeping in her nightstand drawer and let him put them on before they walked out, shoulder to shoulder and quiet.

Rita met them downstairs in the den with coffees. “I stole some whiskey from his office,” she hissed, lifting one of the cups to show what she meant. “He won't even miss it.”

Charles gratefully accepted his own coffee and chugged it, relishing in the burn from the whiskey. He didn't get the chance to imbibe often, but he did it when he could.

Leah didn't have a mug of coffee, because Rita knew she hated whiskey. Instead, Leah snuck off to the pantry and came back with a bottle of red and three wineglasses. “For when the coffee's gone,” she said, waggling the glasses. She looked gaunt, like she was trying to put on a brave and cheerful face for Charles. “Now, whose turn for charades is it?”