NO SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE: A "FALL OF WOMEN" STORY
Chapter 3 - Accelerant
J.C.
The familiar is the foreign.
That's the basics of the uncanny valley: if something looks similar, but slightly off, it gives a strong, eerie sense of wrongness. A sense that things are out of place.
I'm doing something perfectly ordinary: sitting on a bench, watching my wife walk through a crowded public square. And yet, nothing is ordinary about what's going on. In fact, I muse to myself that, bizarrely, I can no longer even tell which is the familiar... and which the foreign.
In the early weeks after the spread of the payload, it was common to see women convoying in public. Looking for safety in numbers, trying to limit any one-on-one interactions with men that could just corner them and collar them. Then, as the payload kept eroding the very capacity for independence of the female gender, convoying disappeared.
Nowadays, if you see women outside, they're typically being led by a leash, sometimes on all fours. The others, those that are still resisting or have by some miracle avoided contagion, have fewer and fewer reasons to venture outside on their own. Female employment has collapsed almost as fast as female will. And the dangers of braving the outside world on your own are usually not worth it.
And that's why seeing Sarah just... walk through the square is such a remarkable sight.
In chaos theory, one well-known metaphor is that of the butterfly whose flapping wings could eventually, through cascading events, cause a massive change in the world.
In this case, I think of a woman. One woman, in a world of billions. At this moment, in this place, she is truly unique, or appears to be, anyway.
Sarah's acting is impeccable: Her posture is erect, radiating determination and conviction. She moves... well, like a woman who isn't affected by the payload would, I suppose, with a sense of purpose, and precision.
She has a slowly but unmistakably growing number of onlookers trailing in her wake. I try to put myself in their shoes, to imagine what they must be thinking... What is that woman doing? Isn't she scared? Who's keeping her safe? Doesn't she have a master?
A feminist unbowed. Brave, proud and defiant, just like the old Sarah. Exactly as I wanted her to appear. I feel a thrill surge through me seeing my creation come to life
To the untrained eye, she appears unaffected by the payload's insidious influence. A feminist, unbowed. A woman, unbroken. Uncollared, and to top it all -- unafraid.
Exactly as I want her to appear.
It's all I can do not to chew my nails. In a sense, it's like I've just pushed my latest effort from a testing environment into production... except she's not software, aside from the payload in her brain, that is. She's my wife. My owned wife. My research testbed.
My handiwork.
I want to recreate Sarah as she was... at least, on the outside. But this time, when she submits to me, when I assert my sexual authority over her -- it will be about my pleasure. Not hers. Not anymore.
I sit up, eyes narrowing. A man's just approached Sarah. His eyes are roving over her body with undisguised hunger. One look at this guy and I can read him like an open book: he's performing all the tricks he must have read about on catcher spaces, and is trying to execute them so he can bag himself an uncollared girl.
He's puffing up his shoulders, to look more intimidating, physically larger. He's pressing her into her personal space, to make sure the payload has an easier time making her feel sensorially overloaded. He's talking to her, but he's making sure his hands are visible at all times, so the virus can bombard Sarah's mind with images of what those hands would look like, wrapped around her throat...
Except the payload will be doing no such thing, not this time. Sarah is not resisting it any longer, after all. She's already surrendered, been claimed by it, reshaped by it. In the measure that she's behaving like an independent woman at all, it's just to carry out the will of her master. My will.
I tense, my fingers gripping the edge of the bench, straining to hear how their conversation is going.
"... and like, I can't believe you're out on your own. I mean, it's crazy times we live in," the man is saying, a smirk curving his lips. "You could really use a man to keep you safe..."
He leans in closer, looming over her, and scans Sarah up and down with a glimmer in his eyes. His body language is aggressive, shoulders squared, as if challenging her to step back. And Sarah... is standing tall, arms crossed, glaring at him.
She isn't backing down.
"I'm not interested, thank you," Sarah says. "And I would appreciate it if you kept your distance."
He stares at her as if she's just grown a second head, and that's hardly surprising. I'm sure he can't believe what he's seeing, what he's hearing. He approached Sarah expecting her to completely crumble, falling to her knees, or on her back. Either way, she'd be his.
But that's not what she's doing is doing: she's rejecting him. And it's pissing him off.
His face turns red, eyes narrowing into slits. His fists clench, and he steps forward, getting right up in Sarah's face. She doesn't flinch, her glare unwavering.
Alright, that's enough for this one experiment, I think. Time to step in. I rise from the bench, heart suddenly pumping -- I'm nervous. Maybe even a little bit anxious. I make my way to them as quickly as I can.
"Back off, buddy," I tell him. He turns to face me, anger and confusion on his face, fists clenched. He probably thinks I'm some kind of competitor seeking to collar the same girl. But when Sarah begins to creep closer and closer to me, understanding begins to dawn on his face.
It rapidly becomes clear that all eyes are on us. Every bystander in the square is watching on as the man looks at me, then at Sarah, then finally back at me.
"...I was just talking to her," the man mutters, grudgingly stepping back. "Didn't know she was, uh, already taken."
I give him a look that clearly conveys my lack of amusement. He hesitates for a moment, looking like he wants to say something else, but then he turns and walks away.
I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding, my body relaxing slightly. That was close.
I can see Sarah's relief as well, her shoulders slumping slightly.
I look around, at the people staring at us. There's a mix of emotions in their eyes -- curiosity, surprise, and most of all, disbelief. They're not used to seeing a woman stand up for herself. To see her fight back.
A knot tightens in my stomach. I'm getting the dawning impression that, in my eagerness to push through with this very public experiment, I may have... acted unwisely. I put my hand against the small of Sarah's back, and lean to whisper into her ear.
