Day 6?Another day, another water bottle.

  Amy is happy that the bottles seem to keep coming. Every day, when she wakes up, there’ll be a new bottle for her to empty. She assumes that they’ll show up for as long as she keeps drinking them, which she will, because she’s going to need fluids if she wants to outst her captors, however long it will take.

  And that very much is a question. They said they wouldn’t let her die; good. That means there’s an upper limit to the amount of torture they are willing to inflict upon her for the mere purpose of making her wear a stupid dress. But whether that upper limit means a few more days of resistance or weeks of continuous hunger strike, she does not know.

  She hates it when she doesn’t know things in the most ordinary of situations, but it’s much more concerning now that she finds herself a prisoner. Information is the one tool that she can exploit to get out of this situation — she certainly doesn’t have strength — and Amy knows nothing other than that she is in a cell and that her captors want her in a maid dress.

  Not all’s lost, though. Amy still has the benefit of being clever.

  She takes yesterday’s crumpled-up water bottle and punts it to the other side of the cell, knocking the new bottle over and allowing gravity to deliver it into her p.

  Amy is not going to be crawling on the floor again.

  ***

  The woman came by again, asking if she’d wear the clothes. Amy told her to fuck off.

  Day 7?Maybe she slightly overestimated her ability to consistently throw a bottle. It flew between the iron bars and onto the floor of the hallway with a pathetic crackling sound.

  Some of it was inevitable, probably; her dominant right arm has gone numb from ck of use over the st week. She had to wiggle it back into action, slowly, and even then it felt like it took forever. Perhaps her left arm could serve as an alternative, but she’s never used it for throwing; in fact, the only thing she’s consistently used her left hand for is masturbation. It expins why her right arm would have gone numb whilst her left is still very much capable of performing the important acts she uses it for, even if the list remains limited to a single point.

  That’s a distraction though, at least right now — she’ll get back to it ter — as she needs to pick the stupid bottle up herself now.

  Amy hopes they’re happy watching her on the floor, likely recording her crawl and sending it to whoever would be interested in that — disgusting old men, probably — or enjoying the show themselves. Because she’s not going to be able to st long if she doesn’t eat or drink, and she needs to st as long as possible.

  ***

  Her captor came by again. Amy called her a hon.

  Day 8?Amy missed again, but in her defence, she is currently dealing with an absolutely titanic headache. She doesn’t know if it’s from the ck of food, ck of social interaction, or the ck of anything to do, but it’s both been overwhelming and consistent since she woke up.

  She really wants her water, though. Amy tries to crawl over — the concrete is more cold than usual, which either means that it’s earlier in the morning than she thinks it is, or that it’s night time currently. It’s probably the tter: her sleep cycle has never been particurly great. Long nights chatting with friends she’ll never see again. Hopefully Dar and Ray will be okay without her.

  At first her hand grazes the bottle, which is good, and when she realises there’s still more sck in her ankle chain to get closer and make it easier to tip it over, she celebrates a little. Prematurely, it turns out. She didn’t just tip it over; she sent it flying to the side, behind the pile of clothes that had been left in her cell, and now the bottle is both out of reach and unable to roll her way.

  Amy looks at the damnable rags. For her weakest half a second yet, she considers putting the clothes on — which would probably be to the great enjoyment of the freaks on the other side of the camera — but she abstains. She’s eight days in. She can’t be weak and give in now.

  ***

  The stupid bitch came by again — Amy wishes she knew her name, so she could curse her properly — and Amy gave the same answer. Her captor then pushed Amy on the question, and all she could do to resist, to show her just how much she hated the idea of wearing that rubbish, was kick the stupid bucket of urine over the clothes and ruin them for what would hopefully be a long time.

  Day 9?The clothes are gone — and have probably been put into the undry — but at least there’s more to drink today. She’s hungry though. For a moment, Amy considers whether she’s forced herself into a situation in which she’d never be able to call for food, as that would require her putting on the maid dress, but she dismisses it; she was never going to wear those clothes anyways. It’s beneath her.

  Day 10?“Wake up.” Her tormentor orders. “I’ve some questions for you.”

  Amy tells her to fuck off, like usual, not even trying to put any weight into her voice anymore.

  “You’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

  Amy really isn’t: her captor sits on a pstic chair and watches Amy with her legs crossed. Like a woman; probably showing off the fact that yes, she has had SRS. She has a real fake vagina. It doesn’t work on Amy though, as Amy doesn’t have that much bottom dysphoria.

  “Is this going to take a while?” Amy asks whilst she tries to stand up despite the multiple impairments preventing her from doing so. Her headache and numb right leg conspire to make her fall, and she almost does, but her arm manages to bance herself against a wall. If there’s one thing Amy will not do, it’s sit down and allow the woman outside her cell to be able to look down on her.

  “Depends on whether you answer the questions truthfully or not.” She responds, watching Amy’s struggles with obvious delight.

  “How about this, for each question I answer, I get to ask you something too. It’s only fair.” Amy offers. She has no leverage to get this, but she really would like to get a little more information than she has right now.

  “That is not how we are going to do it.” Her captor insists.

  “At least give me a name. If I’m going to be spending plenty of time here, I’d like to at least know which bitch is keeping me imprisoned.” Amy sneers.

  “Only if you tell me your name first.” The woman looks at her with a predatory smile. “It’s only fair, as you said earlier.”

  “You know my full legal name already.” Amy rolls her eyes. She’s still holding on to the wall for dear life and slowly trying to yank some life back into her leg, just so she can stand a little more properly.

  “I’m not interested in knowing what the government calls you, as that person is now dead. She will not be returning to the outside world unchanged. Instead, I want your real name. Your cimed name. If you tell me what it is, I will reciprocate with the name I cimed for myself.”

  “You know that name already. You’ve used it repeatedly.” If there’s one thing Amy doesn’t want to do, it’s give them her name to leverage against her. She knows the power of a name, and so does the person across from her — naturally, as they both suffer from gender dysphoria. Saying hers would be ciming it, in a sense. It gives them consent to call her by the name of her degenerate fantasies.

  “Well, you wouldn’t be giving up any new information then, would you? You’d just give me truthful information and confirm my preconceptions.” The woman smiles at her. It’s hard to see whether it’s the predatory smile of a woman in an HR department whose pitiful power got to her head, or the smile of a real psychopath.

  A distinction without a difference, really.

  Amy wants to know her name though. Or at least have something more than the extremely little she already knows. Because they’ve been breaking her down for another five days, and she’s not learned a single new piece of information during that time. And that means she’s not doing anything to narrow the gap in leverage between the two of them nor making any progress towards escape.

  So it is through gritted teeth that she finally gives that psychopath one of the answers she was looking for. “Amy.”

  “Amy!” The woman excims. “It’s so lovely to meet you. My name is Eira. I work for this establishment, as you may know.”

  “Hello, Eira.” Amy feels she can stand on her right leg again. It allows her to feel a little less helpless. “You’re a repulsive fucking troon, you know that?”

  “That is not a very kind way to start a new collegial retionship, is it?”

  “Neither is kidnapping and torture.”

  “I suppose not.” Eira smiles. “It is a bit of an awkward way to start out, but I’m sure you’ll get over it in due time.”

  “No matter how hard you try,” Amy waves a dismissive hand. “I won’t fall for your ‘I’m actually quite nice now’ shtick.”

  “Would you rather that I wouldn’t try to be cordial with you?” Eira frowns at her, though her enjoyment is hard to miss. She can see it in her eyes.

  “Yeah. I would much prefer at least avoiding the pretensions.”

  “Hm.” Eira ughs a little. “I suppose that is as good a reason as any for me to continue along these lines.”

  Yeah. Of course. She’s trying to get under her skin, and Amy hates that she’s actually managing to. It’s yet another way they are torturing her. The worst part is that Eira clearly revels in the fact that Amy is both aware of the ways she is maniputing her and that they both know she is unable to stop it from happening.

  “Now, Amy, darling. I had a few questions for you. If you’d be willing to answer them promptly and truthfully, we can move you on to the next stage of your rehabilitation. Preferably in a pce less…” Eira searches for a word. “Soul-crushing. And less smelly.”

  “I would call it quaint. It’s become a home away from home, really.” Amy isn’t sure why she contradicts her, but she does. Probably just so she can contradict her at all. It’s not like she likes the smell of piss, cum and her own manly stink.

  Eira ughs. “I’m sure it has.”

  The woman takes out a little note block. Whether this is because she genuinely has a lot of questions, or because she wants to make Amy think that she does, is hard to tell at this point.

  “My first question to you is a simple one: are you hungry yet?”

  “What do you think?” Amy snaps, realising just what kind of interrogation this will be. Reminding her of all the tortures she’s been going through, and then offering her a way out at the end, when she’s too broken down to fight back.

  “I asked you for prompt and truthful answers. A question is not an answer.”

  “A question can be an answer.” Amy points out. “It’s entirely possible within both linguistics and rhetoric.”

  “You would call it a rhetorical question, wouldn’t you? I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, then.” Eira scribbles something in her notes.

  Amy’s stomach does not appreciate the reminder that food exists.

  “If you’re hungry, and I must conclude that you are very hungry indeed, given how long it’s been since—”

  “You don’t have to stretch it out, you know.” Amy gres at Eira. Hates her with every part of her body. The gall of this bitch! “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do with your time. Like cooking for some inbred pervert.”

  “I’m not sure I do.” Eira inspects her body again. “It doesn’t look like your body has been taking it well.”

  “Just ask the next question, please.” Amy leans into her nastiest, most male tone of voice.

  “I want to know why you will not accept the terms—” Eira gently nods at the clothes on the floor. “—which we have offered for the nutrition you need?”

  “I think you know the answer to that.” Amy rolls her eyes. She recognises that she’s the one dragging out the conversation now, but she really would prefer discussing anything other than her own retionship to femininity.

  “I don’t, that’s why I’m asking. It seems awfully self-destructive for a woman like yourself.” If Eira wanted to sound innocent, she failed. Because on the one hand, she would already know the answer. On the other hand, her captor is clearly completely aware of the fact that she is making Amy uncomfortable, and inflicting that discomfort is the whole point of this discussion. If she can get Amy to admit more things she’d rather have left unstated, Eira would be able to break her down more. Sometimes knowing is just as much of a curse as not knowing; it leaves one terribly aware of their situation.

  “Perhaps the offer made isn’t one that is especially appealing.” Amy leaves as much implied as she can.

  “We’ve offered you both clothes and food. The only condition of receiving that food has been you wearing the clothes we have offered, clothes that befit a woman, which you are. But you wouldn’t take care of yourself in one minor way—”

  “Because they’re fucking women’s clothes!” Amy shouts. “Borderline fetishwear! I’m not going to wear any of that.” It’s not really fetishwear, Amy realises. The dress actually leaves the vast majority of her body covered, and the skirt isn’t very tempting either, but the implication is very much fetishistic.

  “I thought you supported traditional women’s roles, and the behaviour that comes with that. In that worldview a woman wearing a man’s clothes would be at the very least suspect.”

  “I’m not that kind of conservative.” Amy tries to dismiss her.

  Eira takes out her phone and seems to be busy searching for something. Amy takes a second of relief from being questioned to readjust her bance and lean with her back against the wall, arms crossed. Intense exhaustion has been hammering her body just from standing up, and she needs as much relief for her legs as she can get. Starving herself is, it turns out, quite hard.

  Her captor continues with a quote. “A certain girl called Amy — you might know her — said: ‘I can at least somewhat understand the HSTS tradwife kind of tranny. They’ve always been submissive at heart and aren’t strong enough to withstand the degeneracy their mental illnesses force them to consider each and every day. I pity them, but I don’t hate them. It’s the genderqueer AGPs that I can’t stand: they love to hon it out in public, wearing men’s clothes, using abnormal pronouns and they make a target out of the entire community in doing so. If you’re going to be a woman, be a woman. And being a woman comes with certain expectations of gendered presentation: wear a fucking dress, troon’.”

  Amy doesn’t dignify that with a response. There’s a difference between repression and expression. Amy is proud to do the first — whilst waiting for a proper cure to her delusions — and the tter is something she will never stoop so low as to even consider doing.

  They continue in circles for a while. Eira tries to get Amy to admit views on transfemininity that she thinks are deplorable; Amy avoids the question. Nobody ends up any wiser from the conversation. All it does is make Amy realise that they definitely have trudged through her chat logs going back at least half a decade.

  It proved quite the disadvantage in the battle of exhaustion that their discussion had become.

  Eventually, slowly, pathetically, Amy does end up sitting on the floor again, slowly drifting away into uncomfortable dreams.

  Day 11?She’s fucking hungry. Eira returned once again, offering her the chance to just wear the clothes, and Amy didn’t bother to respond other than a weak ‘no’.

  She left after a while.

  Amy is pretty sure Eira pities her: she can do so all she likes.

  Day 13?Amy tried to walk over to the bucket today, but couldn’t. Her legs hurt too much, she’s too dizzy, the migraine is only getting worse. She feels so dirty, disgusting, her stink has become unbearable.

  There’s also a smell of flowers, though; maybe they got sick of smelling Amy and put up some air freshener.

  It smells like the Cotswolds. Quite nice, actually.

  Day 16?Grandma visited today. Which is odd, because grandma died four years ago, but she came by and told Amy to keep it up. Told her that she’s extremely proud of the tough young woman she’s become and that she definitely can’t let the situation get to her. She’s on the verge of victory, after all! It’s been more than two weeks, yet Amy is still surviving, still repressing, and they will have to admit the fact that she’s won any day now.

  Eira visited too. Amy told her to forty-one percent.

  Day 18?Eira came by again. Again, she offered the clothes, again, Amy rejected them. She was too slow, though. She was too tempted. She mustn’t submit. No matter the hunger, no matter the pain, no matter the desperation or the crushing loneliness, she can’t give them what they want.

  Day 21?everything hurts everything is blurry everything is shaking she can’t keep her eyes open because it makes everything worse her head fucking hurts

  just one more day.

  Day 22?eira was here.

  amy said no.

  just one more day, after all.

  Day 23?just one more day?

  Day 24?please just one more day

  Day 25?please

  Day 26?Amy said yes. Eira and another woman put her into the clothes. They took her upstairs. She was too weak to do it herself. They got her some fluids. The package says ‘resource plus’ and it seems like it belongs in a hospital.