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Security Lockdown — Description

I made it through the sliding glass doors at Helix Institute with exactly one minute to spare before the guard’s shift changed. I’d counted on the usual Fortune City inertia, the way even state-of-the-art security systems inevitably developed cracks around the human element, but my heart still thudded as I strode across the gleaming lobby. The woman at the reception desk, all severe bun and bone-white skin, didn’t even glance up as I swiped my pilfered ID through the turnstile. The tag still had a whiff of cheap cologne and a smudge of brown foundation around the edges. Some mid-level techie named “Harold.” I doubted he’d miss it until his next coffee run, and by then I’d be long gone or very, very stuck.
A corridor stretched out before me, the world rendered in grays, surgical blue, and a persistent undertone of ozone and sterilizer. Every surface gleamed; the walls, the floor, even the goddamn ceiling reflected me back in distorted fragments as I paced down the hall. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, but it was a flat, unyielding hum, not like the cheap bulbs in my office that sometimes flickered in sympathy with my headaches.
I moved quickly, but not so quickly as to draw attention from the two guards at the far end. I held my breath as I neared them, fixed my expression in that blank, mildly harried look I’d seen on every scientist in this building. One of the men glanced up, his gaze traveling over my pencil skirt and blazer, lingering on my legs. In a city like this, even the best security was male gaze first, protocols second.
The elevator waited, mercifully empty. As the doors closed, I yanked off my “visitor” lanyard and thumbed the floor panel. Sublevel Four. The blue-glow panel flashed a warning: Restricted Access Only. I fished the keycard from my purse and held it steady, counting heartbeats. When the light turned green, I almost laughed out loud, but clenched my teeth instead. This was always the easy part. Getting out…now getting out would be the story.
The elevator descended with a sickening, soundless glide. I leaned against the cool steel of the wall and took stock, flexing my hands to work out the tension. The muscles in my thighs still quivered from the morning’s run, and my ass was still stinging slightly from the memory of the night before, but I pushed the thought away. Focus, Hunter.
When the doors opened, I stepped into the real heart of Helix. No marble, no windows. Just corridor after corridor of gleaming white, divided by doors marked in cryptic codes and hazard triangles. The air was denser down here, tinged with a faint undertone of something medicinal, almost sweet. My heels clicked across the floor, the only sound besides the distant, arrhythmic thump of some unseen machine.
The tip had come in through my private line, disguised as a routine nuisance call. Three women missing in as many weeks, last seen near Helix Institute’s old dormitory annex. Fortune City cops shrugged it off, missing persons in this part of town rarely merited more than a form letter. But I’d noticed the pattern, and by the third woman I’d drawn the lines. I knew Helix was up to something as usual.
My thumb twitched over the stolen card as I reached the door. Another green light, another barely audible click. The door hissed open and I slipped inside, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the raw, fluorescent glare.
The lab was enormous, a cathedral of clean lines and glass, with banks of computers and long steel tables lining the walls. Suspended from the ceiling, a dozen articulated arms hung motionless, each tipped with a different tool or device. At the far end, three examination tables waited, bolted to the floor, each equipped with wide, padded restraints and an array of sensors. Everything screamed new money, new tech, new terrors.
I took a breath and let it out slow, running fingers along the first workstation. Data pad, recently wiped. Slides, some still streaked with dried something. On a lower shelf, two vials: one empty, one filled with a viscous, amber liquid that clung to the glass when I tipped it. I thumbed the label—“PHI-16”—and made a mental note. Probably nothing, but maybe the missing piece.
A sudden tingle ran up my arms. I was being watched. Not a person, not here; more like the whole place was aware of me, recording my every movement. I glanced at the ceiling and counted at least six black pinhole cameras clustered near the ventilation slats. My mouth went dry. I should have come as Nocturne, in a mask, instead of trusting my “civilian” face to blend in. But I was tired, reckless, and, if I was honest, chasing a thrill that only came from dancing this close to the edge.
A monitor on the wall flickered to life. I ducked behind a rolling chair, heart jamming against my ribs. No sound, just the Helix logo spinning in the center. After a moment, it vanished. I tried not to imagine what that meant.
Moving quickly, I made my way to the second table. The restraints were heavier here, thick leather, industrial grade steel. A shallow groove ran the length of the tabletop, a drainage channel. I glanced down at the floor, expecting stains, but it was spotless. Someone had been thorough.
At the far wall, a bank of lockers, most sealed with biometric locks. But one was slightly ajar. I eased it open and found a neatly folded set of surgical scrubs, a box of latex gloves, and, incongruously, a paper bag from the deli across the street. Inside was a half-eaten sandwich, still moist, and a handwritten note: “Remember to log out this time. -J.” I smiled despite myself. Human error, always the silver lining.
I was still grinning when something sharp jabbed into my ribcage. I spun, fist cocked, but saw nothing. Then the overhead lights went blood-red, and a klaxon blared through the speakers, vibrating the fillings in my teeth.
“SECURITY BREACH. INITIATING CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL.” The automated voice was genderless, sterile, and oddly calm. Steel shutters slammed down over the exits, the sound so sudden it sent a shockwave through my bones. I sprinted to the door, hammered at the lock, but it was already sealed tight. From the ceiling, the mechanical arms stirred, extending slowly, gracefully, like the fingers of a bored predator.
I let out a breathless, bitter laugh and muttered, “Figures.” My next move was supposed to be escape, but now it was survival.
In the red half-light, the lab looked alive, every reflective surface pulsing, every lens staring. I could taste the adrenaline on my tongue, bitter and electric. Whatever secrets this place was hiding, I was about to become part of the exhibit.
I barely had time to vault the nearest table before the first of the arms snapped to life. The appendage was glossy, impossibly sleek, and ended in a three-pronged clamp that looked like it could shatter bone as easily as a pencil. I ducked low, heart banging out a martial rhythm in my chest, and dodged left, rolling over a rack of test tubes that tumbled in my wake like desperate little soldiers.
The room had become a slaughterhouse of light and motion, every surface splintered with shadows from the strobing red. I zigzagged, feinting high then low. Two more arms dropped from the ceiling, their movements eerily fluid, as if anticipating my every dodge.
I reached the side wall, dove for cover, and twisted my body into a snaking slide beneath a row of counters. My skirt rode up my thighs, the cool tile biting through my tights. The moment I came to a stop, one of the arms lashed out, catching my ankle. The clamp locked tight, digging through the fabric and into my flesh. I stifled a yelp and kicked backwards, trying to wedge my free foot against the cabinet for leverage.
Another arm shot down, snaring my wrist. The grip was unyielding but not brutal,just enough pressure to communicate exactly how little say I had in the matter. I thrashed, adrenaline burning away the edges of fear, but within seconds I was lifted, inverted, and spun upright so that my feet dangled a foot off the floor.
Two more arms emerged, like a synchronized pair of surgeons, and reached for my shoulders. They pulled me up, straight as a corpse, and for a moment I hung there, my own breath fogging the glass of the nearest equipment case. I saw myself reflected, hair mussed, blazer askew, eyes wide and bright with terror, and almost laughed at the parody of the helpless damsel I’d become.
The laughter died in my throat as the arms began their work.
First, my blazer. The fingers pinched at the collar, then slid beneath the lapels, tugging with a slow, deliberate firmness. The buttons gave way, one after another, and the blazer peeled off my shoulders, dropping to the floor in a heap. My blouse was next. The arms worked in perfect tandem, one holding me still while the other teased open each button, the soft pop of plastic echoing around the room. It was less undressing than unwrapping, every motion calculated, every inch of exposure dragging a flush up my neck.
When my blouse was gone, the next arm sliced through my tights with a single, practiced motion. The nylon split, cool air prickling my legs. My skirt was unclasped and slid down my hips, pooling around my knees before the arms stripped it away entirely. Within seconds I was left in just my blue lace underwear, Celeste’s Desires, of course, because I’d never believed in hiding my contradictions.
The humiliation landed harder than any blow. For a heartbeat I felt utterly exposed, my skin a field of nerve endings lit up by a dozen curious cameras. But there was something else,a raw, gnawing heat that curled low in my belly. The situation was beyond my control, and my body, ever the traitor, shivered with a shameful jolt of excitement. I could almost hear May’s voice in my head: “Only you, Beth, could get off on being trussed up by robots.”
The next arm reached for my bra. I tried to twist away, but the clamps on my limbs held me like an insect on a pin. The fingers hooked beneath the strap, and in a single, expert move, the clasp was undone. My breasts fell free, nipples tightening instantly in the chill. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, but the sensation was impossible to ignore. I could feel the cameras zooming, lenses focusing on the flush blooming across my chest.
With my clothing gone, the arms shifted their grip. Two clamps seized my ankles, spreading them wide and pulling me into a near-split. The other two held my wrists aloft, stretching me into an X-shape. I hung there, muscles trembling, the pressure on my shoulders a constant, low-grade pain.
Then the next device appeared, a roll of what looked like packing tape, whirring as the arm extended it toward my feet.
“Fuck,” I whispered, and the word echoed around the lab, swallowed by the klaxon.
The tape was cold, sticky, and utterly merciless. It started at my ankles, wrapping them together with tight, overlapping bands. The arm worked upward, spiraling along my calves, binding the torn remnants of my tights to my skin in a translucent cocoon. The tape pressed tight against every curve, compressing flesh and forcing my thighs together in a vice.
As the arm continued up my legs, the tape squeezed against my crotch, trapping the damp fabric of my panties flush against my sex. The contact sent a jolt through me, half panic, half guilty pleasure. The arms ignored my muffled protests, working in perfect, implacable rhythm. My hips were mummified, then my waist, then my ribcage. Each pass compressed me tighter, restricting my breathing and making my pulse throb in my ears.
When the tape reached my breasts, the arms paused. I dared to hope for mercy, but instead, the fingers repositioned, lifting and shaping my chest so that each round of tape flattened and then accentuated my curves. My nipples ached from the constant drag, and every inch of skin felt raw and hypersensitive.
My arms were next. The clamps repositioned, pinning my wrists together behind my back, and the tape sealed them with brutal efficiency. My shoulders screamed in protest, but I was helpless. The sensation was dizzying, I felt like I was both inside my own body and floating somewhere just above it, watching the show with sick fascination.
By the time the tape roll clicked empty, I was a living sculpture, wrapped from toes to shoulders in a gleaming, airtight shell. Only my head, and the triangle of blue lace at my crotch, remained exposed. I hung there, breathing shallowly, sweat breaking out on my forehead as the arms clicked and retracted, their work complete or so I thought.
The klaxon finally fell silent. In its place, only the sound of my own ragged gasps and the low whir of the overhead ventilation.
Except it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot...
Art by @Guaky