“Slaves and Pets still have voices, let them make their own damn choices!”

The words rang out across the plaza in front of the imposing flat concrete cube that served as the local branch of the Federal Office of Soulbonds. Rebekah would have called the building brutalist if Chet hadn’t been an architecture student with strong opinions on design styles, and more than willing to correct an incorrect assessment loudly and publicly. The people who had made it probably didn’t think it was brutalist either, if only because it had been made in an era when that kind of thing was all sort of hand waved away as “too communist.”

“Slaves and Pets still have voices, let them make their own damn choices!”

It wasn’t Bekah’s best slogan, but dammit leading protests was harder than it looked. You had to keep things on message, keep enough of the peace that the police didn’t go from simply threatening physical violence to actually offering it, and keep the energy up the entire time. That meant that two hours into the latest collective action organized by Bekah and her chapter of Students Against Soulmark Slavery, she was running out of material.

Still, it had been a good event so far. They’d gotten solid turnout even on such a dour day, and the rain that thick grey clouds had portended all morning never bothered to actually show up. They’d even gotten a bit of media attention, and Chet and Rebekah had cornered the reporter from the Easton Chronicle to make sure he heard the full story, not just whatever propaganda the cops and the FOS were spewing in their so-called press releases.

“Slaves and Pets still have voices, let them make their own damn choices!”

God, she was exhausted. Bekah hadn’t taken a break from marching and chanting the whole two hour protest, and while she knew she should, it was her protest. She’d set it up, she should see it through to the end. 

Stop. You’re doing it again. 

Right. She took a deep breath, held it for a count of four and let it whoosh out. She let herself feel the ache in her feet and knees, the soreness of her throat that she’d unconsciously pushed out of conscious awareness. It was worse than she’d thought.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Bekah waved over Aliyah from the rest tent, set up just outside the square and therefore not legally a part of the protest in case things went south. The other woman hurried over, concern clear in her eyes.

“You okay Bekah?”

Bekah tried to offer her friend and co-chair a smile, but judging by Aliyah’s expression it had probably come out closer to a grimace. “Yeah, just needing a break. I’ve been out here for a while.”

“Oh,” Aliyah said, expression brightening. “Wow you weren’t kidding about that new therapist. Rebekah Mourning voluntarily taking a break from her work? Give that woman a Nobel prize.”

“They don’t give out Nobels in psychology, doofus.”

“Who said anything about psychology? I think convincing you to get off the warpath for a minute did more for the cause of world peace than Obama ever did.”

Bekah rolled her eyes. “Yeah yeah, I get it. I’m a workaholic, I’m terrible, I can’t shut up, we get it. Will you take the damn megaphone?”

The other woman snatched the offered object from Bekah’s hand and shooed her away. “Don’t have to ask me twice. Get your ass to a chair and drink some water. The fight continues.”

Bekah pumped her fist wearily, back already turned to Aliyah. “The fight continues.”

The familiar slogan didn’t heat her blood like it used to. When had she gotten so burned out? They were fighting against modern slavery, legalized and enforced by every major government. Where was her drive, her fight? She’d barely been chairing SOSS for the last year, and it was only the second year of her PhD, grad school had barely gotten started and it wasn’t like she was even at the hard part yet. Really she should be pushing through it and—

I fucking hate it when my therapist is right, she thought.

Maybe she did need a break.

“No Slaves, no Masters, just people!”

Aliyah’s voice rang clarion at her back, and the rest of the crowd took up the call with eager fervor. Bekah smiled, tired as she was, and slumped down into one of the comfy cushioned chairs that littered the rest tent. 

“How you doing, kiddo?”

She raised her hand in a lazy slap that barely grazed one cheek on the smiling face of Chet Raymond, peering over the back of her chair to leer down at her from above. Not like he wouldn’t look down at her even if she were standing up. At barely five feet, most people did, and Chet was hardly most people.

“The fight continues,” said Bekah, morphing her abortive effort at casual violence towards her best friend into a first pump that just so happened to chuck him under the chin. His teeth snapped shut with a satisfying click and Bekah smiled around the water bottle she raised to her lips.

“Didn’t ask about the fight, did I?” Chet slid away from Bekah’s dangerous expressions of solidarity and into the chair across from her. Where she was engulfed in the cushy backing, Chet made the furniture look small. He smiled at her and lifted his feet onto the third chair in the little circle.

Bekah swatted at him, and the bastard had the indecency to look hurt. “No bare feet on the furniture.”

Chet was that most annoying breed of man, who wore shorts, flip-flops, and at most t-shirts in whatever kind of weather. Today, when it was chilly and precipitation threatened to fall at any moment, he wasn’t even wearing that, bare-chested except for his favorite binder, black with a diagonal stripe of purple across the front.

“Fine,” he said, lifting his feet off the chair and placing them firmly back on the ground where they belonged. “Although for the record there is no way my feet are anywhere near as gross as your sweaty ass.”

She threw the empty water bottle at him, and he laughed again as he batted it away. Wait, had she drunk the whole thing? 

“Seriously though, how are you doing? I’m worried about you, kid.”

Bekah thought about reminding him that they were almost the same age, and attended the exact same grad school albeit for different programs. But the familiar argument didn’t hold it’s usual appeal. She was too tired.

“I dunno, dude. I just… the work we do matters, right?”

He stood straight up, all traces of the lounging posture he’d assumed just a moment before gone. 

“Bek, what are you saying? Of course it matters. Those people,” he said, gesturing at the Soulbond office across the square, “send cops to kidnap people for rape and torture against their will. And no one fucking cares! Of course what we do matters, someone has to speak up!”

“I-I know, that isn’t what I meant,” she sighed. “It’s that… yes of course, someone has to speak up. But is anyone listening? When was the last time SOSS changed anything? Or hell, when was the last time anything happened at all to help protect the rights of Marked people?”

“It’s-”

“It’s not that simple, I know, “ she cut him off. “I know. We do this because we have to, because people need to realize how seriously fucked up all this shit is. But…” She paused, taking a moment to collect herself. “It’s fucking hard, Chet. It’s hard to be the only people who care about this. It’s hard when nothing ever changes. It’s hard to see this as my life going forward, fighting an unwinnable fight. I’m already burning out, I don’t know how the hell I’m gonna keep doing this for my career. I know I have to, I know no one else will, I just— Are you humming showtunes?”

“Hmm? Sorry, you were giving me big Man of La Mancha vibes there. Y’know, to dream the impossible dream and all that.”

“If I weren’t so sore I would go over there and beat the shit out of you.”

“You could try. Seriously though Bek,” he said, leaning in to meet my eyes with his own intense gaze. “You don’t have to do this. You know that, right?”

She stared at him. “What the fuck?”

“It’s important, someone has to do it, absolutely. Absolutely. But it doesn’t have to be you.”

“Who else is going to do it?”

“I dunno! Aliyah, me, someone else, someone random. Maybe we’ll finally get a Slave to actually speak up about the abuse they suffer. But…” He sighed. “Who’s gonna do it if you burn yourself out in two years and can’t help anyone?”

Bekah paused, struck by that. She… hadn’t thought of it before.

“Is two years of work, or five, or one, worth killing yourself for this cause? I dunno, maybe. Maybe it is. God knows it’s important. But if you can’t do this sustainably, if you can’t keep going, maybe you should stop. You should at least take a break.”

“I can’t just take a break,” Bekah replied, responding to the only part of Chet’s argument that she knew what to do with. “We have three more protests planned this month, and then there’s the town hall in May, and the election is coming up in the fall and—”

“And do you think Aliyah can’t handle that?”

She stopped, tirade cut short by the implication. “Of course not, she’s extremely capable but…”

“But she isn’t you.” Chet sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s supposed to mean I love you, you dumbass.” He leaned forward enough to put one hand on her shoulder, and drew her body forward to meet in a warm embrace. “And I’m glad you’re in therapy.”

“Fuck you,” Bekah mumbled, unshed tears stinging in her eyes. “I’m perfect already.”

“Yeah you are,” Chet laughed, drawing back into his own chair. She loved that about her friend. He always knew when she needed closeness, and when it was too much. “You’re my best friend, you know that ri—” 

He stopped mid sentence, jaw hanging open.

“What? What’s wrong?” Bekah asked, looking around the square and back behind her shoulder towards the Soulbond Office and the body of the protest. “Are the cops pulling something? Do we need to evacuate?”

“No, it’s. Bek. It’s—”

She’d never seen Chet like this. He was always self-possessed, always in control, never at a loss for words. She’d seen him confront professors, abusers, police, without breaking a sweat. But now… Her stomach sank. Whatever this was, it was bad. 

“Your face.”

“My WHAT?” Rebekah was incensed. If he was getting her worried as a setup for some stupid ugly joke, she was going to kill him. 

“You’ve got a Soulmark, Bekah.”

She froze. “No. No I don’t. I’m 28. We don’t get them this late, unless they’re acknowledgement marks, and I don’t have that kind of relationship with anyone. I can’t.” Her stomach spun, and her fingers started to tingle. She could feel the panic attack coming on, but couldn’t make herself slow her breathing. She was going to kill Chet for this prank, as soon as she calmed down. “I don’t have one. You’re fucking with me.”

“I wish I was.” Chet held up his phone with shaking hands, camera open and showing Bekah’s face. It was her face, she couldn’t deny that, as much as she wanted to. That was her  small puff of curls framing her heart shaped face with that strong nose that made her look so much like her mother. Those were her freckles standing out against a face gone pale. And on her right cheek was a geometric pattern in dark ink, twisting towards the corner of her mouth, underlining the words

“Hypnotist of Melody Freeman”

***

“No Slaves, no Masters, just people!”

The words carried through the quiet of Frog’s Bottom, the little coffee shop that Mel had called home for nearly six years now. She’d started there as a shy sixteen year old, in need of a job for some pocket money and more importantly, in need of an outlet for the service she’d always known she was destined to give. It felt surreal to be sitting on one of the familiar red velvet stools that had been crushed and smooshed over the years but were still as comfortable as over, and be watching as people decried her and everything she knew about herself.

“Those guys are assholes.”

“Andy!” Mel exclaimed, tearing her gaze away from the tiny television set up in the corner, lifted off the floor by an antique hutch she’d found at a thrift store a few years back, and begged and bullied her coworkers into helping carry into the shop. It fit into the homey atmosphere at Frog’s perfectly, just like she’d known it would. Everytime people stopped to appreciate the way its dark oak framing complemented the maroon carpeting perfectly, while the paler backing wood stopped it from sucking all the light out of the room, she felt a warm glow of pride in her chest. She’d done that.

“What? They are. We all know it, Mel.” Andy, her boss, reached over and ruffled her hair gently. “That’s my best employee they’re up there saying doesn’t know what’s good for herself. That new slogan makes it sound like you’re not even a person.”

“Oh and Melody would hate to have someone treat her like less than a person,” drawled Viv from her lounging position on the loveseat. Like every piece of furnishing in the place, it was another thrifted find, although before Mel’s time. She loved it even still, loved the way its threadbare cushions felt homey and well-loved instead of old and worn. 

Mel blushed. “I’m not a slave, guys. And it’s not nice to be rude to people, even if they’re being rude to us. I think they think they’re doing the right thing.”

“Yeah but—” Andy began, but a voice from the kitchen interrupted him before he could go much further.

“Not yet!”

“What?”

“Mel said she’s not a slave. Not yet.” Jed stuck his head around the corner, forehead beading with sweat that already soaked through the headband holding back his long dark locs. “Sorry, I know my timing was off but I was in the middle of frosting those stupid fucking cupcakes and I didn’t want to lose my focus.”

Andy sighed. “You know nobody but you cares if the peaks aren’t stiff enough or whatever it is. They taste delicious either way.”

Jed snorted, and pulled his head back into his domain. “But I care.” His voice grew distant and echoey in a way that meant he must have been sticking his head into one of the vast ovens that occupied the back half of Frog’s Bottom. “Anyway, my point is we all know Mel’s getting a slave mark, or something like it. Only a matter of time.”

She could feel the flush creeping its way back up her neck. This wasn’t the first time her coworkers had teased her about her obvious submissive tendencies, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. This wasn’t nearly as bad as when Viv had caught her sighing wistfully over the newest Bride to Bridle book. They hadn’t stopped neighing at her for weeks after. 

Besides, it wasn’t like it was a secret that she’d been wishing for an ownership mark since the day they’d learned about them in Soulmarks Ed in middle school. Everything had just… made sense. She’d known from the first Soulmarks Ed class everyone got in elementary school that something was missing, but until she’d gotten older and the more outré marks had been introduced into the curriculum that she’d realized exactly what. Mel was destined to be owned, and she couldn’t wait for the day it would finally happen. 

That, of course, had nothing to do with the matter at hand. She snapped a towel menacingly at Andy. Judging by his reaction, she may have missed menacingly and landed somewhere closer to cute. That was unfortunately not uncommon.

“Regardless of whether or not the people of Students against Soulmark Slavery are indeed denigrating me, or people like me,” she said primly, “that is no reason to fall to their level.”

She could practically hear the eyeroll echoing around the space, bouncing off Old Betsy, the shining steel espresso machine that Andy’d stolen from a Starbucks after being fired from there years ago, to the windows artfully glazed to let in the light while maintaining the cozy atmosphere, all the way back into Jed’s kitchen. 

“It does not give us the right to be mean to them in return,” she continued. “All it means is that we’re better than them.” 

Mel sniffed and turned back to the TV, which meant she didn’t see the hard slap on the back coming. 

“That’s my girl!” Andy said. “Gotta keep that snark when you get owned okay? Don’t wanna see you lose your spunk.”

Viv snorted. Mel glared at her, and she held up her hands defensively. “I wasn’t saying anything about your spunk, Mel.” At the look in the other girl’s eyes, she hastily added “Are we done with the staff meeting boss?”

“What? Oh yeah, of course. Go home, don’t get too drunk, and I’ll see y’all here bright and early tomorrow morning.”

At that pronouncement, Andy flicked the TV off and turned to throw his bag over his shoulder, and the two girls swiftly followed suit. Mel’s bag was nothing fancy, but it was well made and sturdy leather, and could hold as many books as the girl wanted. She was already mentally going over the chores she’d have to do that evening when her thoughts were interrupted.

“I’m not leaving till these rolls come out of the oven!” came Jed’s echoing voice from the back.

“Fuuuuuck,” swore Andy. “Jed, you know I can’t leave you here alone. How long is this gonna take?” he called out.

“Fifteen minutes, tops.”

The older man groaned, checking his phone. “Ladies, I don’t suppose one of you could—”

“I’ll do it!” chirped Mel.

“Of course you will,” muttered Viv under her breath, just loud enough that Melody could hear and subtly turn her body enough to swing her heavy bag gently into the other girl’s side. It was a subtle reprimand as they went, but the other girl mumbled an quick apology just the same before heading out.

“You’re an angel Mel. An angel.” Andy made his way towards the door. “Don’t forget to lock up. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” he called over his shoulder.

“Ew, with Jed? He’s like my brother.” Mel wrinkled her nose at the thought.

“Some people are into that!” came Andy’s last words as the door tinkled shut behind him and Viv.

Mel let out a deep breath. She loved Andy, she really did, but the man could be infuriating. How did a forty-five year old man in 2024 know about incest kinks but not know he shouldn’t mention a girl’s “spunk” in public?

Might as well make myself useful, Mel thought. It was a familiar sort of thought, a soothing one. She wanted, more than anything else, to be useful, to be valued, to be praised. It’s why she knew she was destined for a Soulmate who would own her and make of her something beautiful. Any day now…

Her thoughts lost in a familiar pattern, she turned to cleaning Old Betsy. She was a beautiful machine, and Mel could understand why Andy had carted her around with him from apartment to apartment until he’d scraped together enough funds to start his own place. But she was old and cranky, and needed a thorough cleaning at least twice a day, more if they were busy. 

Her face reflected back at her, distorted in the curved steel surface, but still clear enough that she could make out her features if she squinted. Frankly, Mel was plain. She’d come to terms with that long ago, and it didn’t bother her. She was friendly, and people liked her. She made them feel good about themselves. What did it matter if her face wasn’t symmetrical, or if her cheeks were too fat, or what have you. She loved herself, and one day someone would love her back even more. Mel knew that, deep at her core, and it comforted her even on the hardest days.

She was vainly proud of her long hair, grown all the way down past her tailbone and just slightly over her butt. It was thick and glossy, a testament to the time and products that she had poured into it over the years, and it swayed delightfully when she walked. She liked to feel the weight of it.

Other than that, there wasn’t much to say. Her face was friendly and round, with a smile big enough to show off a few crooked front teeth. Her eyes were a pale brown, although she’d been told they got a little hazel on a sunny day. 

Mel frowned. There was a dark line on the machine, right next to her left eye, drawing a thick curving swirl across the side of her head. She scrubbed at it, and frowned again. No difference.

“I’m going to have to break out the baking soda for this, aren’t I?” But when she turned her head towards the cleaning cabinet, the line turned with her.

Wait. Is this it?

Her heart beat sped up, the force of it nearly beating out of her chest. Without a second thought, she turned and ran back through the kitchen, nearly upending Jed with his baking sheet full of rolls, as she sprinted towards the bathroom.

“Call corner you asshole!” he shouted at her back, but she had no time. She ripped the bathroom door open, and stared at the perfect filigree twig that wove its way across her left temple. She read the words scribed there, and began to cry.

“Subject of Rebekah Mourning”