Complex Desires

The summons didn't arrive on flimsy paper. It didn't come with a respectful knock at the door. It simply appeared, a block of cold, blue text on the datapad screen beside her narrow bunk.

SUMMONS: CHEN, MAYA. F-VIABLE. REPORT TO BREEDING COMPLEX 7. 0800 HOURS. IMMEDIATE COMPLIANCE MANDATORY.

Maya stared at the words, her breath catching in her throat. She had known this was coming. Every fertile woman knew. Since the day her adolescent blood work had flagged her as one of the precious few, her life had been a waiting game. A countdown to the moment the Colony would cash in its investment. Still, the finality of it was a physical blow, a hollow punch to the gut that left her winded. F-Viable. Not a person. A designation. A resource to be exploited.

She rose from the bunk, her movements stiff. There was no one to say goodbye to. Her designated guardians had been reassigned to labor details years ago, their duty to raise a fertile female complete. Friends were a liability the system discouraged. She was an island, and the tide was finally coming in.

Dressing was a simple, practiced motion. The standard grey colony jumpsuit, practical and sexless. She ran a hand over her short-cropped black hair, a regulation cut designed for hygiene and efficiency. Looking at her reflection in the polished metal of her locker door, she saw only what they saw: wide hips for birthing, healthy skin, clear eyes. A prime specimen. A good broodmare.

The journey to Complex 7 was a silent descent deeper into the earth. The familiar hum of the colony’s main levels—the distant clang of the forges, the chatter from the communal mess halls, the rumble of the mag-levs—faded behind her. The corridor signs changed from Sector designations to stark, clinical numbers. The air grew colder, tasting of antiseptic and chilled, recycled oxygen. The walls, once a functional grey, became a blinding, seamless white. It was a place scrubbed clean of life to make way for its creation.

Breeding Complex 7 was not marked by a grand entrance but by a reinforced steel door and a biometric scanner that glowed an unforgiving red. Maya placed her hand on the cool glass plate. A laser, thin and sharp, shot across her palm, then her retina. Her genetic signature, her identity, her entire worth to this world, was confirmed in a microsecond.

CHEN, MAYA. F-VIABLE. ACCESS GRANTED.

The door hissed open into a reception area that felt more like an airlock. A woman in a crisp white uniform, her face a mask of professional indifference, stood waiting with a datapad. She didn't offer a greeting, merely a directive.

"Chen. You're late by three minutes. Strip."

Maya’s stomach tightened. There was no privacy screen, no changing room. Just the cold, white space, the silent guard by the door, and this woman whose eyes were already cataloging her body as if it were a piece of equipment. Her fingers, clumsy and trembling slightly, went to the zipper of her jumpsuit. She pulled it down, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. The grey fabric pooled around her ankles, leaving her naked under the flat, unforgiving light.

The woman’s gaze was invasive, moving from her breasts to the curve of her stomach and the dark hair between her legs. There was nothing sexual about the look. It was the detached appraisal of a technician checking a machine for defects before plugging it in.

"Turn around," the woman commanded.

Maya obeyed, her skin prickling with a mixture of humiliation and anger. She felt the woman’s gloved fingers, cold and clinical, prod the base of her spine, then trace the curve of her ass. It wasn't a touch; it was an inspection.

"No visible scarring or lesions. Musculature is adequate. Proceed to decontamination." She gestured toward an archway that shimmered with a faint mist. "Your evaluation follows. We need to confirm your womb is still a viable environment before we proceed with partner assignment."

Maya walked through the archway, her bare feet slapping against the tiled floor. A fine, chilling mist enveloped her, smelling sharply of ozone and chemicals. It clung to her skin, beaded in her pubic hair, and made her gasp as it settled in her lungs. It was over in seconds, leaving her shivering and sterile on the other side.

The evaluation room was even worse. It was dominated by a large, articulated chair that looked like a cross between a dentist's chair and a gynecological table from some pre-Collapse horror film. Robotic arms tipped with various probes and scanners hung from the ceiling, dormant for now. Another woman, older and with a face as hard as granite, waited by a control panel. She didn't even look at Maya's face, her eyes fixed on Maya's torso.

"On the chair. Feet in the stirrups," she ordered, her voice flat and devoid of any warmth.

There was no point in arguing. Humiliation was part of the process, a tool to break you down into a compliant set of organs. Maya climbed onto the cold, unforgiving surface of the chair. It molded slightly to her back, but offered no comfort. She lifted her legs, placing her ankles into the cold metal loops of the stirrups. The position forced her legs apart, leaving her completely exposed, her cunt open to the cold air and the clinical gaze of the technician. She stared at the ceiling, focusing on a single light panel, trying to take her mind somewhere else, anywhere else. It was a useless effort.

"Relax your muscles, Chen. Tensing will only make this more inefficient."

A robotic arm whirred to life, descending towards her. At its tip was a metal speculum. Maya flinched as the cold, duck-billed instrument pushed against her vulva. She squeezed her eyes shut, a silent curse forming in her mind. Fuck you. Fuck all of you. She forced her muscles to unclench, and the device slid inside her, cranking open with a series of metallic clicks that echoed in the silent room. The pressure was deep and uncomfortable, a brutal prying open of her most private self. She was a container being unsealed for inspection.

A second arm lowered, this one holding a long, thin probe coated in a cold, sterile gel. The technician didn't bother with a warning. Maya gasped as it was pushed deep inside her, past the speculum, ramming against her cervix with a jolt that sent a sharp, unpleasant ache through her lower abdomen.

"Transvaginal scan initiated," the technician droned, her eyes on a large screen that flickered to life beside the chair.

Maya couldn't stop herself from looking. On the screen, a grainy, black-and-white image appeared. Her insides. An intimate landscape now on public display. The technician manipulated the probe, twisting it inside her. Maya could feel every movement, a sickening internal rotation that made her want to vomit.

"Endometrial lining is 12 millimeters. Optimal for implantation," the technician noted, her voice betraying a flicker of professional satisfaction. The probe shifted again. "Right ovary, 14 developing follicles. Left ovary, 16. Excellent count. Subject is approaching peak ovulation."

They spoke about her body as if she wasn't there, as if she were just a collection of parts performing to specification. A third, smaller arm moved in, this one with a long, cotton-tipped swab. It slid in alongside the probe, scraping against the walls of her cunt, then against her cervix. The friction was raw and irritating. They were collecting her fluids, her scent, her very essence, bottling it up for their data banks.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the instruments began to retract. The probe slid out, leaving her feeling hollow and slick with cold gel. The speculum clicked shut and was withdrawn, releasing the painful pressure. A wave of relief so intense it was dizzying washed over her, but it was followed immediately by a profound sense of violation. She remained in the stirrups, legs still spread, a thin trickle of gel and her own fluids running down to stain the chair beneath her.

The technician made a final notation on her panel. "Viability confirmed. Uterine environment is prime. Subject is cleared for protocol." She finally looked at Maya, her expression unchanged. "Get dressed. The Director is waiting."

Maya slid off the chair, her legs unsteady beneath her. The cold gel felt slick and disgusting against her inner thighs. She grabbed the discarded jumpsuit from the floor, the rough fabric a welcome friction against her skin as she pulled it on, zipping it up to her throat as if the thin material could somehow shield her from what had just been done. She felt hollowed out, scoured clean, a vessel prepared for its contents.

A different door hissed open, and the first woman, the one from reception, gestured for her to follow. The corridor led to an office that was starkly different from the medical bay. It was spacious, dominated by a large desk of black, polished metal. Behind it sat Director Thorne.

Thorne was a woman carved from ice and ambition. Her silver hair was pulled back in a severe, perfect knot, and her white uniform was so crisp it looked like it could cut glass. She didn't look up immediately, her attention fixed on a large, transparent data screen that floated above her desk. On it, Maya’s own medical data scrolled past—hormone levels, follicle counts, the precise thickness of her uterine wall. Everything the technician had just plundered from her body was now laid bare for the Director.

Finally, Thorne’s cool, grey eyes lifted and settled on Maya. There was no welcome, no sympathy. There was only assessment.

"Chen," she said, her voice as sharp and sterile as the complex itself. "You understand the gravity of your assignment." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Director," Maya managed, her own voice sounding foreign and small in the oppressive silence.

"Good. Comprehension is the first step toward compliance." Thorne gestured to the chair opposite her desk. Maya sat, perching on the edge, her back ramrod straight. "The Colony's future is precarious. Our birth rate is 0.02%. We are on the verge of extinction. Your body," she said, her gaze dropping pointedly to Maya's abdomen, "is one of our last viable hopes. You are not an individual here. You are a biological asset. Your purpose is singular: conception."

Thorne tapped a command into her console. The data screen wiped clean, replaced by three files, side-by-side. Each contained a man's photograph and a column of genetic and psychological data.

"These are your partners," Thorne stated, her tone flat. "Assigned to you based on the Council's Genetic Diversity Algorithm. You will engage in conception protocols with each of them according to a schedule dictated by your ovulation cycle and their genetic compatibility."

Maya’s eyes darted from one face to the next.

The first was Liam. His photo was unremarkable. Brown hair, kind eyes, a small, almost apologetic smile. His psych profile read: ‘High compliance, low aggression, empathetic.’ His genetic markers were stable, common, a solid foundation. He looked… safe.

The second was Kael. He was the opposite. His head was shaved, and a jagged scar cut through one dark eyebrow. His eyes were hard, his jaw set. The photo was a regulation shot, devoid of any emotion. His profile was a list of strengths: ‘Peak physical condition, disciplined, high pain tolerance, superior genetic resilience.’ He looked like a soldier, a man who followed orders without question. A tool, just like her.

The third man’s photo made her pause. Javier. He was smiling, a genuine, lopsided grin that seemed utterly out of place. Dark curls fell across his forehead, and his eyes held a spark of something Thorne would undoubtedly label ‘problematic.’ His psych profile confirmed it, flagged with notations: ‘Tendency toward non-standard social interaction. Mild authority defiance.’ But his genetic data was highlighted in green. ‘Extremely rare allele combination. High-priority procreation target.’ He was a necessary risk.

"You will have three partners to maximize the probability of a successful implantation," Thorne continued, interrupting Maya’s assessment. "Favoritism is forbidden. Emotional attachments are a biological inefficiency we cannot afford. Your interactions will be monitored. Your biometric data—heart rate, pheromone output, hormonal fluctuations—will be analyzed to ensure you are maintaining equanimity."

The Director’s words were a cold shower, washing away any nascent flicker of humanity Maya might have seen in the photos. This wasn't about people. It was about mixing genetic ingredients in a human petri dish.

"Your schedule will be demanding. It will be delivered to your personal terminal each morning. It will dictate when you eat, when you exercise, and when you will present yourself for bonding sessions and conception protocols. Non-compliance is not an option. It would be a waste of a valuable asset, and we do not tolerate waste."

Thorne made a flicking motion with her fingers. The data from the large screen transferred to a small, sleek datapad on the edge of the desk.

"This contains their full profiles and your initial schedule. Study it. Your first bonding session is at 1900 hours." She looked past Maya, her focus already moving on to the next item on her agenda. "You are dismissed. The guard will show you to your quarters."

Maya stood, her legs feeling even weaker than before. She picked up the datapad. It was cool and heavy in her hands, a tangible weight that represented the future of her body. Three men. Three sets of genetic code. Three strangers who were about to become more intimate with her than anyone had ever been, all without her choice or consent. The stark reality of it was a physical force, pressing down on her chest and making it hard to breathe.

The guard who had been waiting outside Thorne’s office was a hulking shape of a man, his face obscured by a reflective visor. He didn't speak, simply gestured with a gloved hand for her to follow. The silence was more unnerving than an order would have been. He was just another piece of the complex’s machinery, guiding a new component to its designated slot.

They walked through a series of identical, bone-white corridors. The only sound was the soft hum of the air recyclers and the whisper of their boots on the polished floor. The lights overhead were flat and shadowless, bathing everything in a sterile, clinical glow that bleached the color from her skin. There were no windows, no art, nothing to suggest that humans lived here. It was a place designed to erase personality, to scrub away anything that wasn't part of the function.

After a walk that felt both endless and too short, the guard stopped before a door marked with her designation: F-7-MAYA-CHEN. He placed his palm on a scanner next to the door, which glowed green before sliding open with a quiet hiss. He stepped aside, a silent command for her to enter.

The room was an exercise in brutal minimalism. It was a cube, painted the same sterile white as the hallway. A slab of a bed was built into one wall, its mattress thin and covered with a coarse grey sheet. Opposite it was a small metal desk with an integrated terminal screen, currently dark. A single, hard-backed chair was tucked beneath it. In one corner stood a small, closet-like unit that she recognized as a sonic sterilizer for her uniform. There were no personal effects, no pictures, no sign that anyone was meant to live here. It was a holding cell. A place to store her body between uses.

The guard hadn't left. He was waiting. Maya took a hesitant step inside, the datapad clutched in her hand like a useless shield. As her eyes adjusted, she saw it: another door, set into the far wall of her room. This one had no markings.

The guard pointed to it. "Common area," he grunted, the first and only words he spoke. "Access to partner quarters. Your access is restricted to this unit. Do not attempt to leave."

He didn't wait for a reply. He stepped back, and the door to the corridor slid shut, the locking mechanism engaging with a solid, final thud.

She was alone. But not really.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Slowly, as if drawn by a force she couldn't resist, she walked to the second door. It wasn't locked. It opened at her touch, revealing the space the guard had mentioned.

The common area was larger than her room but just as soulless. Four uncomfortable-looking chairs were arranged around a low metal table in the center. A nutrient paste dispenser and a water reclamation tap were built into one wall. It was a waiting room. A sterile staging ground. And leading off it were three other doors, identical to the one she had just come through. They were marked only with alphanumeric codes. P-7-LIAM. P-7-KAEL. P-7-JAVIER.

They were in there. Right now. Just meters away, separated from her by a thin sheet of metal. Three men waiting for their turn. The thought sent a jolt of something hot and sick through her gut. This shared space was the nexus of her new life, the point where their separate, clinical existences would be forced to intersect. This was where she would meet them before being led into one of their rooms, or leading one of them into hers, to perform a scheduled act of procreation. The air felt thick with a tension that was almost sexual in its oppressive weight—a clinical, mandated lust, stripped of all heat and desire.

Maya backed away, retreating into her own small cube and letting the door to the common area close. She leaned against it, her breath coming in ragged bursts. This was real. This was her cage. A four-room cage she was expected to share with three strangers. She looked at her stark, empty room. It offered no comfort. The bed wasn't for sleeping; it was for fucking. The desk wasn't for work; it was for receiving orders. Her entire existence had been condensed into this small, functional box, a human kennel designed for a single purpose. She sank onto the edge of the hard mattress, the rough fabric scratching at the back of her thighs. The datapad lay heavy in her lap, its dark screen reflecting her own pale, terrified face.

Her thumb trembled as she pressed it against the activation sensor. The screen flickered to life, bathing her face in a cold, blue light. It wasn't a personal interface. There were no icons, no customization options. It was a sterile grid, a calendar that had already colonized her future. Every block of time was filled, color-coded for efficiency.

Grey for sleep cycle. Blue for nutrient intake. Green for physical conditioning. The schedule was absolute, mapping out every minute of her existence from 0600 to 2200. There were no empty spaces. No time designated for 'self'. Even her bowel movements were likely tracked by the toilet's sensors and logged in some unseen sub-file.

Then she saw the blocks marked in yellow. ‘Bonding Session.’ The first one was tonight. 1900 hours. ‘Location: Common Area. Assigned Partner: P-7-LIAM.’ Clicking on the entry brought up a sub-menu. ‘Objective: Facilitate psychological acclimation. Monitored conversation on non-procreation topics is permitted. Physical contact is forbidden.’ It was a scheduled, supervised attempt at creating a rapport, like taming an animal before breeding it. Another session was scheduled with Kael tomorrow, and Javier the day after. A rotation. A checklist.

Her eyes scanned down the grid, following the days. And then she found it. A week from now. A block of time marked in a stark, clinical red that made her stomach clench.

CONCEPTION PROTOCOL: CYCLE 1

The entry was chillingly detailed.
21:45: F-7-MAYA-CHEN to report to personal quarters for pre-protocol sterilization.
21:55: P-7-KAEL to report to F-7-MAYA-CHEN’s quarters.
22:00: Conception Protocol Alpha to commence. Duration: 60 minutes.
23:00: Protocol concludes. P-7-KAEL to return to quarters.
23:00-23:30: F-7-MAYA-CHEN to remain in supine position with elevated hips to maximize insemination retention. Pelvic cradle will auto-deploy from bed unit.
23:30: Post-protocol sterilization.

It was a fucking instruction manual for her own violation. ‘Pelvic cradle will auto-deploy.’ The bed wasn't just a bed; it was a piece of medical equipment designed to hold her open, to tilt her womb just so. The words swam before her eyes. She imagined the scene: Kael, the hard-faced soldier, entering her room on a timer. The sixty minutes they were allotted. The silence. The purely functional fucking. His penis inside her, not for pleasure, not for intimacy, but to deposit a pre-approved genetic sample. The system would probably measure the volume of his ejaculate, the motility of his sperm. It would measure her cervical mucus, her uterine contractions. They weren't making a baby; they were performing a biological transaction under laboratory conditions.

She scrolled further. Two days after the protocol with Kael, another was scheduled. This time with Javier. Conception Protocol Beta. Same sterile language, same dehumanizing steps. And two days after that, Liam. Conception Protocol Gamma. The system was hedging its bets, flooding her system with different genetic material during her peak fertile window, hoping one would stick. She was a vessel to be filled, emptied, and filled again until the desired result was achieved.

A wave of nausea washed over her. She dropped the datapad onto the mattress as if it had burned her. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, a primitive, protective gesture that was utterly futile. They had access to everything. They had mapped her ovaries, timed her hormones. They knew more about the inner workings of her cunt than she did. This schedule wasn't a plan; it was a verdict. It was the blueprint for the complete and total appropriation of her body.

The terminal on the desk beeped softly, a single, polite chime. A line of text appeared on the dark screen, glowing in the same sterile white as the walls.

REMINDER: BONDING SESSION WITH P-7-LIAM IN 60 MINUTES. PLEASE PREPARE.

One hour. One hour until the first step of her meticulously planned defilement began. There was no escape. The door was locked. The men were waiting. And her body, her own treacherous, fertile body, was already counting down to the first red block on the screen.