by Aya DeAniege
“Edwards,” my brother said. “We worked the same job. Edwards was the name the supervisor signed the reports to.”
“Ah, that'll work. The company name is Delcor. Edwards owns it."
She had been confirming my identity through my work history. I realized it as she tapped the screen again and a machine behind her sprung to life, spitting out pieces of paper. The paper was taken from the machine and slipped into a file which was immediately closed and sealed.
That file was then slid into a slot, and there was a 'whoosh' sound before the secretary turned back and smiled at us. There was something so mechanical about how she smiled like it was suddenly stuck on her face. Like a painted doll.
There was so much new to stare at in the Program building. So much technology that I didn't know the uses of.
“Each person who wants to sign a contract must be reviewed by several people depending on the contract they are signing. The first review is to see which sort of contract you'd be signing for, which includes a review of your work history and health, all of which is in the file I just sent off.
“For the contract which you suggested—and I made a note saying that would be an interest to you—a family member must sign as a witness. Is he a family member of yours?"
I frowned at the woman and made a motion between the two of us. My brothers and I all looked a great deal alike. We were often mistaken for twins. Until I began developing, few even realized I was a girl.
“I need verbal confirmation,” the woman said, motioning behind her to a black circle on the wall.
“Yes, he is my brother,” I said, frowning at the circle.
Camera, it was a camera. Rich people reviewing my contract would be watching me.
“Good,” she said as the phone began ringing. The woman plucked it up and joyfully answered it, perhaps a little too joyfully. “Program building one, front desk. How may I help you? Uh huh, yes sir, of course. Yes. Which floor? Certainly.”
The phone was hung up, and the woman smiled back at us, then motioned as an elevator nearby opened up.
“The elevator will take you to the sixteenth floor where a grief councillor will be waiting to do your interview. There will be several hours worth of interviews. If, at any time, you need a break, Isabella, you just say so, okay? It's never too late to back out until you sign a contract."
“I know,” I said.
I moved to the elevator stiffly, an ache already starting in my leg. At that age, the leg bothered me almost constantly but got worse in the winter, or when I sat or stood for long periods in the same position.
The elevator was much like the rest of the building, new, shiny, and obviously made for a richer sort of person than we were. The Program building was a reflection of what the Program was, rich folk reaching out to poor folk.
Rich folk made contracts which poor folk took. The contracts gave the rich folks control over everything about the poor folk. How they dressed, what they ate, where they lived.
A lot of the contracts were for maids or gardeners that the rich folk wanted to act a specific way around other rich folks. Some were for cooks who were renown amongst the poor folk. Still others were artists and tutors.
A select few were for death, allowing the rich folk to kill a poor folk but only if every condition of death was met. The Program accepted oldsters, terminally ill people, and suicidal folk into the death contract but rejected most of the applicants.
There were, of course, the sex toy contracts, breeding, and even Dom/sub contracts, but those weren't exactly discussed outside of the Program building.
A contract paid more than a job of the same ranking. A maid who signed a contract could earn up to twice as much as one who was simply hired by a rich person.
We stepped out of the elevator on the floor it opened up on, and found ourselves confronted by a creepily smiling woman in a business suit, holding a clipboard.
“Death contract for Isabella Martin?” she said in a sing-song voice to match the creepy smile.
As if she only knew the one tone of voice and couldn't switch to something more somber given the topic. When discussing death, one should never be upbeat about it.
“I go by Izzy,” I said.
“Come with me,” she said, still far too cheery.
We followed her into an interview room and took a seat on the side of the table nearest to the door. She sat across from us and set a folder in front of me, opening the cover.
“First off, I need to tell you about the contract. We have a gentleman looking for a young woman for a contract. He's very interested in how the body works and—”
“Rape, torture, and murder,” I muttered.
“Could we negotiate torture, murder, then rape?” my brother asked.
“What difference does it matter if I'm raped before I die or after? I'm already going to be tortured!” I shouted back at him.
“You can handle pain. I know you can," he said defensively. "And you want to die. At what point do you want some rich guy to violate you like that?"
I considered the point as I looked at the councillor, who's face was apparently stuck in that creepy smile.
“I just need to be clear,” she said, eyebrows raising slightly, but the rest of her face staying the same.
I sighed and pulled the file towards myself.
I still remember the details of that contract. It terrifies me, the things this man wanted to do to a young, viable woman because he could. Because he had the money to pay for a contract and that gave him the right to go searching. I can understand the rich folk looking just to kill someone. They're disconnected from reality, and they have no problem taking the contract for an older person or terminally ill.
Nine times out of ten, the rich person doesn't follow through on the contracts and ends up using the clause to get out of it.
Sometimes I dream about that contract. I wake screaming as my skin is flayed off.
“All right,” I said, pushing the file away from myself.
The other option was to go home and try to take another job. I saw no other way for my life to go. There was a figure on the very last page which was very, very tempting. It would pay off the debt I had incurred due to my injury.
Even if I had gone home, no job I could take would result in paying off even half of what had gone to pay for my leg.
The things people do for the love of a child.
“Next are the interviews,” the woman said, withdrawing a pad of paper from under the table. “I will begin. Why do you want to die?”
The next six hours were filled with uncomfortable questions. Four different people asked me questions, then asked my brother questions. They all asked the same questions as if expecting a different answer each time.
Each time I gave the same damned answer, until I finally got fed up and snapped at the grief councillor who asked if I was really certain that I wanted to sign a contract.
It wasn't that I was tired of answering the question, it was that she seemed genuinely happy to have found someone to fulfill the contract.
As the woman gaped at me, there was a knock behind her. I peered around her, to the black wall. The woman turned to look at the wall, and there was another knock. The councillor sighed loudly and stood.
“I'll be right back,” she said, all enthusiasm suddenly gone from her voice.
My brother sighed loudly as the door closed. “I don't understand why this isn't open and closed.”
“Maybe they have to save me. Maybe that's a requirement," I countered. "Some people want to, but it's not really what they want."
“If there was another way—”
The door opened again and the councillor walked back in, sulking as she motioned behind her. A man walked in as if he owned the place.
“This is Mr. Wrightworth. He's the head of the Program. He wants to talk to you."
Okay, maybe he does own the place.
Mr. Wrightworth was a lean man, but tall. He was dressed in a suit that was richer
than I had ever seen in person, even on the councillors who had come in to question us. The suit was dark grey with pinstripes. His tie was purple silk, but it wasn't just tied as most men did, it was done up in a way I had never seen before. Months later I would learn how to tie knots for formal wear and would learn it was a trinity knot.
The man's dark brown hair was slightly disheveled, his hazel eyes narrowed as he looked me over and then my brother. There were lines at the corners of his eyes and little ones around his mouth, though he couldn't have been older than thirty.
He looked like a poor person who had been elevated with a contract. I had never seen a rich person who had wrinkles at his age.
“This is the death contract?” he asked the councillor with a small motion to me.
Mr. Wrightworth's voice was quiet, steady, and there was little to no question in the statement. While he had motioned to me, his right hand remained in his pocket. There seemed almost a boredom to his voice as he turned to me once more and sighed.
“We have to be certain. Are you certain?"
“Yes,” the councillor responded in an acidic tone. “Mr. Wrightworth, we are certain.”
She sounded as if she wanted to throw something at the man. Her jaw and hands clenched as one when Mr. Wrightworth turned his full attention to her.
One hand still in his pocket, the other moving just slightly as his thumb ran over the pads of his index and middle finger. The two were quiet as they watched one another as if waiting for the other one to speak up first.
Mr. Wrightworth turned and closed the door. It was so strange, watching someone who wasn't a poor person do something for themselves. He was obviously above the councillors, whose faces were bereft of lines of any sort, yet he still closed the door for himself. The man walked around the table and sat across from me, clasping his hands and setting them on the table as he studied me for a moment.
The silence made me uncomfortable.
“Why death?” he asked.
“Mr. Wrightworth, I've done my job—” the councillor began but stopped speaking when the man held up a hand to silence her.
“Your services are no longer required,” he said. “You may leave.”
The councillor, behind Mr. Wrightworth, went bright red. Her eyebrows raised as she seemed to tremble but gave no response. She left the room and slammed the door behind her.
“Why death?” Mr. Wrightworth asked me again.
“I'm use—" my voice broke, and tears sprung up in my eyes. I had to stop to take a breath before I tried again. "I'm useless. I only bring more debt to my family."
“She had an accident when she was younger,” my brother tried to explain.
“I can read,” Mr. Wrightworth said dismissively, his hazel eyes focused on me. “This contract will end in your death, which would give you what you want, as well as what your brother wants from you, a repayment of the debt you've incurred. But as far as he cares, in reality, you need to be removed from his responsibility of keeping you alive long enough to get as much debt back out of you as possible.”
I burst into tears. After hours of answering awkward questions, hearing those words from someone else was just too much. It took far too long for me to get myself back under control. During which time Mr. Wrightworth watched quietly. As my tears stopped, he reached into a pocket and withdrew a disposable tissue, which he pushed across to me. I used it to wipe my eyes and face, then sniffed.
“You want to die because you are useless,” Mr. Wrightworth said.
Which made me start crying again.
“That's not true!” my brother protested. “If there was another way, I'd do that instead!”
“She has no use to you, she can't hold down a slum job," Mr. Wrightworth said. "You only need her removed from sight so that you are no longer responsible for her. So that you won't be the one in trouble if she does succeed next time."
“Screw you, I love my sister!”
“If you loved her, there are programs at the hospitals, free programs, for people like her!” Mr. Wrightworth shouted back.
“Don't yell at him,” I said to the table, my eyes drying even as I had to sniff to keep snot from running out my nose. “I wouldn't go to the hospital anyhow. What are they going to do? Pat me on the head and tell me everything will be all right, then send me back out jobless?”
Mr. Wrightworth sat back in his seat, smiling ever so slightly.
There was something so trustworthy about his face.
“I have another contract to offer you, I believe you are a good fit,” Mr. Wrightworth said, reaching into his suit to withdraw a folded paper, which he slid across the table to me.
I unfolded the paper and read the writing on it, then set it on the table and stared back at him.
“All it has is a number and a clause,” I said.
“That number is what your family will be paid if you are found unsuited and you are killed, fulfilling a death contract in a way. The death would be simple, a bullet to the head. But, I know the one who offered up this contract, I think you'll suit very well."
“And the contract?” I asked with a head shake and a frown.
“That is the contract.”
I stared at the paper sitting before me. Ever so slowly I licked my lips, my mouth was suddenly dry, and there was a trembling in my stomach as I looked up at Mr. Wrightworth.
“I can't give you exact details, but there would be no torture, no rape, no murder,” Mr. Wrightworth said quietly. “Well, no murder if you meet the requirements. Again, I'm certain you will.”
“Why do you think I will?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Pretty, intelligent,” Mr. Wrightworth's head turned slightly to the side when I looked away. “Broken, but not too broken and not about to break at a sigh. Young and female, of course.”
“I'm not broken.”
“You're useless,” he responded blandly.
“Why would you say that?” I asked, tears springing up in my eyes once more.
“Mm, shame that you've been conditioned to respond like that,” Mr. Wrightworth sighed. “But it also proves that you can accept conditioning, which was another requirement.
“On the one hand, you have rape, torture, and murder, a contract you absolutely would be accepted for. Which is why that old biddy acted the way she did. We've wanted to close his contract for a very long time. We should never have accepted it.
“On the other hand, you have the silent contract before you. No rules, no bounds, but I've told you that it will not involve rape or torture. If it does involve murder, it will be quick, and you probably won't even see it coming."
“But it only has a number on the clause,” I said.
Mr. Wrightworth smiled. “The due on this contract hasn't been written because there is no end to the contract. When the one who wrote it either accepts or declines you, he will then make the payment to your family of what he believes you are worth.”
“What do you think he'd pay?” I asked.
“More than the other,” Mr. Wrightworth said after a moment. “Could you stand for me, please?”
Frowning again, I stood slowly and set a hand on the back of the chair to take weight off of my leg. Mr. Wrightworth's eyes roved down my form and then back up, hesitating not once. There was no hunger or heat there, but he made a sound.
“You'd be worth a great deal to him,” the man said, motioning to the chair.
I sat, wincing as I did so. After sitting for so long, my leg hurt at the slightest movement.
“What's the catch?” my brother asked. “There's always a catch with a contract.”
“Isabella can have no contact with her family while under this contract. They will be told, upon payment, that she has taken part in a death contract. They will also be told, because of the laws involved, that you signed as a witness."
“I don't care.”
“Of course, you don't," Mr. Wrightworth said, leaning forward to rap his knuckles on the table. I looked up at him. The m
an smiled kindly back at me. "I'm not allowed to tell you what to do, but I need you to make a choice here."
“The one that pays more,” I said louder than I meant to say.
“Fantastic," Mr. Wrightworth said, reaching forward to take the paper off the table. "I do need one more interview with a councillor to make certain I haven't forced you into accepting this contract, then we will do a video document stating that you are agreeing, while you know there are no terms. In the agreement, you need to state that you were told that there would be no torture and no rape because that is what I told you."
My heart fluttered in my chest.
“And then?” I asked.
“And then I take you for medical tests,” he said quietly.
Chapter Two
It wasn't just medical tests. Those were first, however. Blood was taken, I peed in probably three cups, had to—well they were thorough. A dentist cleaned my teeth and sprayed something over them that tasted godawful but he said would keep me from getting cavities from rich folk food.
I had more people between my legs in those two days than I had had as sexual partners.
All were normal tests, but I didn't understand why one person couldn't do all those jobs instead of having that many people each doing one little part of it. At the time, I supposed that was how rich people worked.
An IUD was installed, to keep unwanted pregnancy away while not having to rely on my remembering to take a pill. Apparently, some folk who entered contracts went and 'forgot' to take the drug based contraceptives, then got themselves pregnant in the hopes of controlling a rich person.
In my case, though, my forgetting would have been completely by accident. There was nothing in the slum that I had to do one a day, every day, at the same time. If I had been on a drug based contraceptive, I would have been pregnant so fast.
After the tests—I had no idea what most of them were for—I was scrubbed four times over the course of a day. My skin practically glowed, everything was so smooth despite the fact that all my body hair remained.