Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Buffy counted her money again, not that it helped. Seven ones, a five, three quarters, a dime, and a wrinkled receipt. She arranged them in a straight line under the yellowed cone of her desk lamp, made the line into a stack, then fanned the bills out like a losing hand in poker. The wall clock over her bed hissed and clicked, the plastic gears inside it winding themselves toward 2 a.m. The dorm’s hallways were silent, no drunks returning, no shoes scuffing tiles or muffled giggles from just outside her door. Even the air vent had fallen into a hush.

Textbooks towered at the edge of her desk like a miniature city block, each binding stamped with the memory of an unpayable debt. The used copies all sported the same angry neon price stickers—Psych 101, Western Civ, Modern American Poetry. That stack of hardbacks had become a kind of shrine to anxiety; she’d catch herself staring at the titles instead of studying from them, as if by osmosis they could reveal a secret to surviving college and slaying at the same time.

She tapped the five dollar bill with her nail. The edge had gone soft from folding, and Lincoln wore a faint lipstick mustache.

She opened her wallet again, hopeful for a forgotten ten, or at least a stack of coins thick enough to pay for laundry. It was a barren, tired thing, the vinyl splitting at the corners, the pockets haunted by old receipts and the faded student ID photo she hated. She counted the cash again, slower this time. Seven ones, one five.

The stack of unopened mail on her desk caught her gaze next. White envelopes with preprinted addresses, some showing the desperate red of FINAL NOTICE through their cellophane windows. One had her mother’s careful handwriting, which she had left unopened for a week and a half. The others were all the university’s relentless reminders about fees, meal plan shortfalls, and the January payment that had been due last week. The guilt felt physical, like a pit in her stomach. Ever since Joyce’s art gallery had gone bust, there was little help from that quarter and money was desperately short.

She stared at her phone—Willow’s number glowed on the home screen, a lifeline. She could text, or call, or—she rolled the idea around in her head—just wait until tomorrow. Maybe the urge to confess her current cashless misery would fade by then. But the silence of the room had already curdled into something lonely. She pressed call.

Willow picked up on the second ring, her voice warm and caffeine-bright. “Buffy? Did you finish the poetry reading? I just got to the part where Plath does the bee thing and—”

“I’m so broke,” Buffy blurted, “I might have to start selling my organs on the black market.”

A beat. Then Willow’s laugh, small and nervous.

“I’m serious, Will. I have maybe twelve dollars to my name and half a can of Spaghettios for dinner. I don’t even have enough for the laundromat.”

“Oh, Buffy.” Willow’s voice softened, but then sharpened. “Wait, isn’t tonight campus job night? You get paid for being a phone-a-thon monkey, right?”

Buffy exhaled. “That’s what the brochure said, but no one told me there’d be a three-week delay before the first check. I’m behind on everything.” She could hear the shrill edge in her own voice; she tried to bury it.

There was a silence. She could almost see Willow’s eyebrows knitting together, the inner circuits whirring. “There’s got to be something. I could loan—”

“No. No loaning.” Buffy looked at the ceiling, biting her lip. “I don’t want to end up like those sad women on daytime talk shows. I can do this. I just… need a hack. Some scam to get through the semester.”

Another pause, this one denser, until Willow said, “What about the psych department thing?”

Buffy blinked. “Psych department thing?”

“Yeah, they’re recruiting for that behavioral experiment. Walsh’s class? Tara did it last semester, says you just sit in a room and fill out personality tests and watch videos about monkeys. It’s, like, a hundred bucks for a weekend.”

Buffy leaned back in her chair. The idea was not new; the flyer had been floating around her consciousness since she’d first seen it on a cafeteria bulletin board, all caps and angry exclamation points. It looked sketchy, but also… oddly seductive. Fast money, no labor, the kind of thing only desperate people would try. Which, apparently, was her now.

She heard herself say, “Isn’t that the thing where Professor Walsh stares at you through a two-way mirror and makes notes about your childhood traumas?”

Willow giggled, the sound nearly static through the bad cell connection. “Not quite. I think you just fill out some surveys and they hook you up to heart monitors or something. Tara said the only weird part was the after-survey interview. But she said the check cleared, and she didn’t end up in a cult.”

Buffy pictured Maggie Walsh—her white-knuckled grip on the lectern in Psych 101, the voice so precise it could slice through sheet metal. Walsh didn’t so much teach as she conducted: her eyes cold, analytical, always measuring. Buffy had gotten a C-minus on her first test, and the professor had handed it back with a comment in red: “Inadequate synthesis, try harder.” She still had the page, folded and buried at the bottom of her backpack, like a wound she didn’t want to heal.

She tried to imagine Walsh running an experiment about monkeys.

“Will,” Buffy said, “do you ever get the feeling she’s not so much interested in people as in… dissecting them?”

“Isn’t that, like, the definition of psychology?” Willow’s voice was gentle. “Seriously, I bet you could do it in your sleep. Just sign up. It’s not like they’re going to test your blood or implant a chip or anything.”

Buffy’s eyes drifted to the edge of her desk, where the flyer was trapped under her Modern American Poetry book. She’d taken one at random from the pile near the psych building elevators; it was lurid pink, the font cartoonish and desperate. PARTICIPANTS NEEDED. FEMALE UNDERGRADS PREFERRED. GENEROUS PAYMENT. She’d ignored it the first dozen times she saw it, but now it called to her, a siren song of last resorts.

She reached over and pulled it free. The paper felt thin, the kind of recycled cheapness that flaked in your hands. There was a blank line for student name. At the bottom was an email address: [email protected].

She let her finger hover above the blank line.

“Hey, Will?” she said, still staring at the flyer. “If I turn into a science experiment, you’ll visit me in the lab, right? Bring me snacks, brush my hair, that sort of thing?”

Willow made a noise halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “Only if you promise not to go full Bride of Frankenstein. I have a midterm to study for and you owe me at least three bad movies before you get institutionalized.”

Buffy managed a smile. “Deal.”

The call lingered after she hung up, the room filled with the blue glow of her phone’s screen. Outside, the wind rattled the window in its frame, and the world shrank to the width of her desk lamp’s light.

She pressed her name onto the line in all caps—sloppy, with the ovals closed in—and scrawled her email beneath it. She stared at the result for a long time. She could almost feel the invisible hand of Maggie Walsh, pulling her into a maze she couldn’t quite see the walls of yet.

With a practiced flick, she snapped her wallet shut, slid the flyer into the front pocket of her backpack, and grabbed her coat. The campus phone bank would be open for another hour. If she walked fast, she could make it before the supervisor locked up and maybe pocket a few more pennies for her ramen fund.

Before she left, she paused at the doorway. The room looked smaller now, the pile of books less a mountain than a row of gravestones. She swept her eyes over the bed, the desk, the lamp. For a second, she imagined she was already being watched from behind glass, her every move recorded, every emotion catalogued.

Buffy smiled to herself, put the thought aside, and stepped out into the shadowed hallway, her footsteps the only sound for what seemed like miles.

—-

The Outpost Motor Lodge was the kind of place where the management chain-smoked behind reinforced glass and folk rented by the hour as often as by the night. In the grainy half-dark of room seventeen, Faith sprawled across the mattress, the comforter bunched up beneath her like a nest of dirty clothes. The air smelled of mildew and pizza boxes, and the TV—a nineteen-inch Zenith propped on a milk crate—flickered with the blue of late-night infomercials.

She counted her money, the same six crumpled singles she’d been staring at for two days. The change—twenty-three cents—sat in an ashtray next to a souvenir shot glass and the stub of a hotel-branded pencil. She flicked a dime with her thumbnail, watched it land on its edge before rolling into the crack between nightstand and wall.

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered.

Faith let her head drop back against the pillow, the ceiling tiles warping and spinning as she squinted at them. Her boots—scuffed, brown, ancient—were kicked off and canted toward the door. The leather jacket was thrown over the battered plastic chair, sleeves dragging on the stained carpet, pockets still heavy with lint and old matchbooks. Under the mattress, pressed between two flat pillows, was her backup plan: a butterfly knife, the handle worn slick, and a crude stake carved from a broomstick. She didn’t expect trouble tonight, but old habits and all.

At the far edge of the room, the mini-fridge rumbled like a dying animal, punctuated every so often by the chime of a freight train rattling the rails beyond the motel. It was too cold, and she hadn’t bothered to turn the heater on, but Faith had never been much for comfort.

She stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to the next door neighbors—the bedframe thumping rhythmically against the wall, a woman’s laughter warped by cheap insulation. She flipped the channel and landed on a rerun of COPS, the sirens merging with the muted real-life shriek of police somewhere out on Route 32.

After a while she got bored, peeled herself off the bed, and dug around for the last cigarette. It was bent, half-squashed, but she smoothed it out, rolled it between her fingers, and went to sit by the window. She lit up and watched the motel parking lot: a scattered collection of tired sedans and a lone minivan with a cracked windshield. The darkness beyond was pure and bottomless, a black so thick even the moon couldn’t manage more than a wan halo.

She finished the smoke and stubbed it in a shot glass. The clock glared 3:15. She should try to sleep. Instead, she lay back on the bed and waited for the morning to claw its way in.

When it did, the motel room looked no less pathetic, but Faith did. Her hair was a mess, eyes ringed in bruised blue, and her stomach made angry noises as she yanked on her jeans. She checked the mirror, practiced a lopsided smile, and shrugged into the jacket. She hid the butterfly knife in her back pocket and slipped the stake up her sleeve.

Out in the sunlight, the world smelled like exhaust and convenience-store coffee. She walked, cutting through alleys and parking lots, heading toward campus. The place was just starting to wake—freshmen in sweats jogging, the quad already scattered with students, most of them hung over or hurrying or both. Faith moved through them, invisible unless she wanted otherwise.

She didn’t bother with class. Instead, she cruised the Student Union, scoping out the bulletin boards, looking for easy money. Lost cat, blood drives, psychology experiments. The pink flyer was everywhere, tucked between ads for math tutors and escort services. She snorted at the contrast.

She kept moving, watching the crowds, picking out faces she recognized—some she’d fought with, some she’d fucked, some both. She caught sight of Buffy near the science building, the little blonde with her determined stride and her too-clean ponytail. Faith paused, the old itch rising in her veins.

She waited, then walked right into Buffy’s path. “Hey, B,” she said, voice low and easy, like nothing had ever gone wrong between them.

Buffy tensed, didn’t miss a step, but her eyes narrowed. “Faith.”

They stood a moment in the sunlight, the crowd flowing around them. Buffy’s posture said closed for business, but Faith stepped in anyway, close enough that their shadows merged.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Buffy said. “Aren’t you supposed to be laying low?”

Faith flashed her teeth. “News to me. Figured you’d be too busy with your shiny new friends to notice.”

“Some people have to attend class to stay enrolled.” Buffy’s voice was sharp, but there was a current of concern, just under the surface. Faith had always been able to hear it.

Faith grinned. “Is that what passes for fun these days? Man, college sucks.”

Buffy folded her arms, defensive. “Not everyone can coast through life on charm.”

Faith shrugged, made a show of checking her nails. “Some of us have to get creative. Word is, there’s a big payday in that psych department. You in on that?”

Buffy looked away, then back. “Why do you care?”

Faith leaned closer, letting the silence stretch. “Heard they want girls who can handle a little weird. Figured you’d already signed up.”

“Willow told you?” Buffy asked, suspicious.

“Nope. Saw the flyers. Got one in my jacket, actually.” Faith tapped her chest. “If you’re doing it, I’ll do it. Could be fun.”

Buffy hesitated. “You’re not exactly the team-player type.”

Faith gave a slow, sly smile. “Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.” She leaned in, voice dropping. “Or maybe I just want to see how far they can push you before you break.”

Buffy’s cheeks flushed, but she held her ground. “They’re just filling out personality surveys and getting paid for it. No biggie.”

“That’s what you think.” Faith’s gaze lingered, wolfish and hungry. “Bet I finish first.”

Buffy looked away, clearly uncomfortable. “I have to get to class.”

“Sure thing, B.” Faith stepped aside, let Buffy brush past. She watched the blonde walk away, the set of her shoulders, the small, almost imperceptible tremor in her hand as she adjusted her backpack.

Faith grinned to herself. Underneath it all, Buffy was always a little afraid of her.

She waited a beat, then pulled the pink flyer from her pocket. She didn’t bother reading it. She just memorized the office number, turned on her heel, and started for the Psychology building. She knew she’d have to talk to Walsh herself, but Faith was nothing if not persistent.

On the walk, she caught her reflection in the glass of the library window. She straightened her jacket, tried out a few new smiles, the kind that said I’m not dangerous unless you want me to be.

When she reached Professor Walsh’s office, she wiped her boots on the floor mat, slicked her hair back, and knocked. Her heart was pounding, but she didn’t let it show.

“Come in,” a voice called—crisp, no-nonsense, exactly as Faith remembered from orientation day.

She opened the door and grinned her biggest, baddest, most charming grin. “Heard you were looking for volunteers.”

Inside, the walls were lined with books about the mind: Behaviorism, Social Dynamics, Neuroscience. Walsh herself sat behind the desk, hands folded, eyes sharp as flint.

Faith stepped forward, not bothering to ask permission. She placed the flyer on the desk and slid it across, keeping her gaze level.

Walsh picked up the paper, then looked at Faith as if she was already conducting the first test.

“Name?” Walsh said.

“Faith,” she replied, and then, because it never hurt to throw them off-balance, “Just Faith.”

The professor smiled, barely. “Interesting.”

“Not half as interesting as you, lady,” Faith said. “So, where do I sign?”

Walsh gestured to the clipboard on the counter. “Fill that out. You’ll be contacted with further instructions. Bring your best self. We’re interested in… extremes.”

Faith signed the sheet, pressing hard enough to nearly tear the paper. “I’ve got extremes coming outta my ass,” she said, turning the clipboard around and winking.

Walsh didn’t smile, but she did make a note.

Faith walked out of the office with her head high, her pockets still empty, but the promise of quick cash and some new kind of trouble lighting a fire in her chest.

She didn’t look back until she was halfway down the hallway. Then she did, just once, and caught Walsh watching her through the sliver of an open door.

Faith winked again, then disappeared down the stairs.

The day already tasted better.

——

Professor Maggie Walsh’s office smelled faintly of glass cleaner and dry-erase markers, the air sharp and antiseptic even on a sunny afternoon. The walls were eggshell white, completely bare save for the two diplomas (Harvard, then Stanford, both framed identically) and a triptych of monochrome prints showing neurons firing inside a rat’s brain. The carpet, the exact color of unbruised peaches, had been replaced at her insistence just before the start of the semester. Walsh disliked clutter and emotion in equal measure; her desk, a slab of lacquered birch, reflected this with its absence of anything but a computer, a gel pen, and a single manila folder labeled “STUDY 513—PHASE I.”

She was reading a case study on twins when Buffy Summers entered the office with the wary energy of a stray dog—alert, but ready to run at the first sign of trouble. She wore a plain hoodie, jeans, and the expression of someone who’d spent her morning losing arguments with bureaucrats. She hesitated at the threshold, then perched on the edge of the visitor’s chair, her hands clasped tightly around a battered nylon backpack.

“Miss Summers,” Walsh said. Her voice was even, unaffected. She slid the folder across the desk, opened to the topmost page—a printout of Buffy’s campus photo and academic transcript. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Buffy shrugged. “You said it paid cash. I’m here.”

Walsh nodded. “Let’s get started, then. This is a consent-based study. You’re free to leave at any time, but you won’t be compensated unless you complete the full seventy-two-hour cycle. Do you understand?”

Buffy looked her straight in the eye, unblinking. “Yeah. Is this one of those, like, hypnosis things? Or is it just personality quizzes?”

Walsh folded her hands. “Neither. It’s a structured behavioral simulation, modeled after the Stanford Prison Experiment, but with certain… amendments. All participants are female. All participants are volunteers. Each volunteer will be assigned a role - prisoner, guard, observer.” She recited the summary as though reading it from a checklist.

Buffy frowned. “You said there’d be no blood tests. No needles.”

“There will be routine medical assessments. Vitals, sleep, that sort of thing.” Walsh smiled without using any part of her face below the nose. “The emphasis here is on psychological response. We’re interested in how women adapt to institutional environments. The usual compensation is three hundred dollars for a weekend. Yours will be six, if you agree to additional debriefings. ”

Buffy’s eyes widened, just a fraction. “Six hundred for three days?”

“Correct.” Walsh slid a consent form across the desk, uncapped her pen, and offered it to Buffy. “Any other questions?”

Buffy looked at the form, then at Walsh, then signed without bothering to read the small print. Her hands shook just enough to smudge the ink. She set the pen down with a click and exhaled, her whole body relaxing. “Guess that makes me a guinea pig,” she said, trying for humor.

Walsh gave her a thin-lipped smile. “That’s the spirit. You’ll be contacted in forty-eight hours with your assignment.”

Buffy nodded, slung her backpack, and walked out with the same measured uncertainty as when she’d entered.

Walsh watched her go, made a few notes on the intake sheet (“moderate baseline anxiety, compliant, motivated by money”) and then filed the form into the growing stack at her right elbow. She liked the way the folder grew heavier with every participant. There was something inherently beautiful about incremental progress.

The next interview wasn’t scheduled until three o’clock, so she used the time to reread her own notes on the experimental design. There was always room for refinement, a tweak to protocol or a sharper line of questioning. Walsh preferred her experiments like her office: pristine, predictable, under perfect control.

When the next subject arrived, Walsh recognized the name immediately. Willow Rosenberg, top student, twice published already in undergraduate journals, a “noted overachiever” according to the recommendation letters in her file. This one entered the office as if it were a library, careful not to scuff the threshold or disturb the air.

“Miss Rosenberg,” Walsh said, not looking up from the application page. “Take a seat.”

Willow sat, hands folded in her lap, and smiled nervously. “Thanks for seeing me. I’ve never done a study like this before.”

Walsh clicked her pen, the sound a tiny gunshot in the silence. “I hope you’ve read the flyer. This is a group simulation, lasting seventy-two hours. You will be sequestered with eleven other women, under continuous observation, in a controlled environment. There will be no contact with the outside world until debrief. If that is a problem, now is the time to say so.”

Willow shook her head, hair frizzing out from the motion. “No problem. I’m—uh, actually really interested in social psych. Is this a Zimbardo replication, or are you trying for a new result?”

Walsh tilted her head, appraising. “We’re pursuing deviations from the classic model. Women process authority and power structures differently than men. The literature is, frankly, underwhelming.”

Willow nodded eagerly. “That’s what I thought! There’s a 1995 study from Quebec that shows—sorry, I’m babbling. You want me to sign something?”

Walsh slid the consent form across, already impressed. “You’ll be compensated six hundred, same as the others. All you need to do is stay the weekend, participate in activities, and answer truthfully. No deception, no electroshock, no brainwashing.”

Willow laughed, a short nervous peal. “Good to know. I watched too many movies growing up.” She signed the form, her penmanship flawless, then asked: “Where is the simulation being held?”

Walsh gestured to the corkboard on the wall, where a series of grainy color photos had been pinned in a neat line. “An abandoned county jail, ten miles off campus.”

Willow got up and inspected the pictures. Most showed blank cinderblock walls, steel toilets, rows of empty bunk beds. A few showed the old guard station, its glass partition spiderwebbed with cracks. In every photo, the light was gray, indirect, and cold.

“It looks…” Willow searched for a word.

“Empty,” Walsh supplied. “The better to remove all context. We want to see what you do when the world stops offering answers.”

Willow shivered, but smiled. “That’s intense.”

“Real science often is.” Walsh watched her carefully, noting every microexpression.

Willow sat again, her curiosity fighting with a faint, reasonable dread. “So, what happens if people get weird? Like, fights, breakdowns, that sort of thing?”

Walsh opened a drawer, pulled out a blue spiral-bound folder. “You’ll be monitored at all times. Any serious incidents will result in immediate removal and forfeiture of payment. For lesser issues, you’ll be offered support and a chance to continue. The point is to observe, not to traumatize.”

Willow nodded, but her eyes drifted back to the photos. “Do you pick roles, or are they assigned?”

“Random assignment. We want to keep the results as uncontaminated as possible.”

Willow signed a final waiver, then sat in silence until the clock chimed the half-hour.

“Thank you, Miss Rosenberg,” Walsh said. “You’re free to go. You’ll receive a packet in your campus mailbox by tomorrow. Instructions will be inside.”

Willow shook her hand—warm, a little clammy—and left without further comment.

When the office was empty, Walsh went to the window and watched the quad. She saw Buffy, already meeting up with a redhead who must have been Willow. They talked, heads bent together, the easy rhythm of friendship in the way they moved. Walsh watched, unblinking, as the two walked away, neither looking back.

She considered the notes she’d made. Summers: anxious, stubborn, unlikely to crack under ordinary pressure. Financially motivated, hence the pretext of offering her more money for “extra debriefs”. Rosenberg: intelligent, adaptive, possibly susceptible to groupthink. There were others, of course. The list of participants for this phase included the usual blend of optimists, rebels, victims, and predators.

Walsh smiled, a private expression, and returned to her desk. She opened her computer and started a new file: CASE HISTORIES—STUDY 513. She typed for a long time, entering observations and predictions, a careful architecture of what was to come.

At dusk, when the janitor came to vacuum the hallway, Walsh was still there, her lamp the only light in the building. She watched the shadows in the room lengthen, then vanish, then begin again, as the timer reset the lamps on the quad. In the end, there was only the glow of her monitor and the comforting weight of the folders on her desk, each one a story waiting to be written.

Walsh reached for the next application in the pile, smiled, and made a note in her meticulous hand:

“Phase I: Begins Friday.”

Chapter Text

Buffy arrived ten minutes early to the orientation, out of caution more than enthusiasm. The doors to the briefing room had been propped open by a rubber wedge, letting in a draft that stank faintly of fertilizer and old beer. The place was basically just a grid of fluorescent tubes flickering overhead and a series of bench seats bolted to the floor in long, stadium-style rows. The blackboard had been wiped, but a ghost of “WELCOME PHASE I” remained in streaky chalk script at the top.

At the front of the room, Professor Walsh arranged folders on a metal cart with the deliberateness of someone assembling a weapon. Every motion was squared off, decisive: the snap of a folder, the clack of a pen, the way she repositioned the metal bowl at the end of the table, as if the room might tip over without perfect balance.

Buffy scanned for familiar faces as she slipped down the aisle. Willow was easy to spot: she sat in the second row, legs crossed tightly at the ankle, clutching a three-ring binder that had already sprouted sticky notes from its seams. She wore a navy skirt, white blouse, and a cardigan that looked cozy. She caught sight of Buffy and did a small, frantic wave—then immediately checked to see if Walsh had noticed.

Faith was harder to find, but only because she didn’t bother to sit. She was perched on the back row’s desk, boots planted on the seat below, chin tilted at an angle that said “I dare you.” Her jacket was off, draped over one shoulder like a cape. She watched Walsh with a lazy, hunting-animal stare, then flicked her gaze to Buffy and flashed a pointed smile.

Buffy hesitated, hovered in the aisle, and then sat beside Willow. “Hey,” she whispered, just loud enough for her friend to hear.

Willow’s eyes were wide, already rimmed with stress. “Hey Buffy. Did you see her?” She flicked her eyes toward the front, where Walsh was checking something off a clipboard.

Buffy nodded. “Yeah. She looks like she’s about to perform a dissection.”

Willow gave a tremulous smile, then leaned in. “Have you noticed…? I mean, is it just us, or is this all, uh…” She searched for a word, settled on: “Intense?”

Buffy followed her gaze. There were about a dozen girls scattered through the hall, none of them talking, each of them spread out as if in fear of each other. Some were reading, others texting. One was asleep, cheek pressed against a backpack. The air buzzed with the nervous, clamped-down energy of strangers about to be judged.

Then Buffy saw her. At the far edge of the front row, nearly behind the chalkboard podium, Tara Maclay sat curled around a notebook, arms wrapped tight as if she could anchor herself to the desk. Her hair was longer than Buffy remembered, almost hiding her face, and her sweater looked three sizes too big. She kept her head down, apparently doodling on a notepad. There was a battered messenger bag at her feet, patched with the logo of some indie bookstore. She looked as out of place here as a housecat in a wolf pack.

Buffy elbowed Willow. “Hey, is that…?”

Willow followed the direction of her nod, then lit up. “Oh! Tara!” The name came out louder than she’d intended, echoing in the sterile, high-ceilinged room. A couple of the girls looked up. Tara did too, startled, and then gave a tiny, guilty smile before ducking her head again.

“She’s doing this?” Buffy said, low, more curious than anything.

Willow shrugged, a little self-conscious. “She said she needed the money. And, um, something about ‘exploring liminality in controlled environments.’” She made air quotes with her fingers, then grinned. “I think she just wants to see what happens.”

Buffy snorted. “Don’t we all.”

Suddenly, Walsh clapped her hands. The sound cracked like a pistol shot. “Good morning, everyone. Find your seats.” She waited a beat for Faith to drop off her perch, which Faith did with a slow, deliberate thump, then continued. “Welcome to the Phase I simulation. For the next seventy-two hours, you will operate under the conditions outlined in your contract. No contact with the outside world. No personal electronics. Meals will be provided. Surveillance is continuous. Noncompliance will result in immediate expulsion and forfeiture of stipend.”

A hand shot up—a skinny girl with a blond pixie cut in the middle row. “Is this going to be, like, dangerous?”

Walsh gave her a look so flat it could have smoothed concrete. “All safety protocols are in place. There is zero risk of physical harm, assuming you follow instructions. If you cannot, you are free to leave now.”

Pixie-Cut slunk into her seat. The tension in the room dialed up a notch.

Walsh continued. “Role assignment will be random. Each participant draws from the bowl. There are four guards, eight prisoners, and the rest are observers. You will all report at 08:00 tomorrow for briefing.

Buffy felt her stomach coil. She hadn’t thought about what role she wanted—only that three hundred dollars (six, if she played along with the ‘extra debriefs’) could buy her another month of tuition and maybe some decent food. She’d pictured herself filling out forms, maybe running some weird trust exercises. But the idea of being a “prisoner” in a simulation run by Maggie Walsh landed differently now, more real than she’d expected.

Walsh gestured at the bowl. “We’ll go alphabetically. Summers?”

Buffy stood, all eyes on her. She walked to the front, aware of the sound her shoes made on the linoleum, the echo of her own pulse in her ears. She reached into the bowl, fished a card, and turned it over.

The word “PRISONER” was printed in bold, blocky letters. There was a number below it: 07.

Walsh took the card from her, made a mark on her sheet, and nodded toward a row of empty seats. “You’ll be grouped at the front.”

Buffy sat, feeling the stares of every other girl as she passed.

Next was Tara. She moved with a kind of shivering grace, barely making noise as she glided to the bowl. She hesitated, eyes flicking up to Walsh’s face, then reached in and pulled a card.

Her lips barely parted as she read it. She didn’t show the paper, but her fingers clenched around it like she could will it to change. She took the seat next to Buffy, not quite looking at her, and set her bag down with infinite care.

Willow was next. She moved quickly, probably to get it over with, and drew a “GUARD” card. She blinked at it as if it had insulted her, then shuffled back to her seat, face flushed red. She kept smoothing her skirt, over and over, like she was trying to erase the label from herself.

Faith sauntered up last. She didn’t just draw a card—she made a show of it, swirling her hand through the bowl, eyes up and locked on Walsh’s. When she pulled the slip, she grinned even before looking. She turned, showed the card to the whole room: “GUARD.” She held it between two fingers and winked at Buffy, like she’d just pulled the ace of spades.

The rest of the process blurred. Buffy only half-listened as more names were called, more girls slotted into categories—prisoners, guards, non-actives. Each time a new “PRISONER” joined the front row, the energy in the room shifted, as if the seats themselves were getting heavier.

When it was over, Walsh rapped her knuckles on the lectern. “You may all go for now. Remember, the briefing starts tomorrow at 08:00 sharp.”

Faith lingered, tossing her card in the air, catching it on the back of her hand. She sidled past Buffy, close enough that the scent of her hair—synthetic cherry, mixed with cigarettes—spiked in Buffy’s nose. “See you on the inside, B,” she murmured, just for her, and then she was gone, boots squeaking down the tile corridor.

Willow caught Buffy’s eye, her expression almost apologetic. “I’ll, uh, see you at the briefing?” she said, voice pitched low.

Buffy nodded. “Yeah. Try not to go full authoritarian.”

Willow gave a lopsided smile. “No promises.”

Buffy turned to Tara, who had gathered her things but hadn’t stood. Up close, Buffy could see the tremor in her hands. “Hey,” Buffy said, softening her voice. “Guess we’re cellmates.”

Tara smiled, a brief flicker of warmth. “Guess so.”

They followed the others out, the echo of Walsh’s heels leading them away from familiar territory and into the heart of the experiment, wherever that would take them. As they walked, Buffy tried not to look back, but she caught Faith’s reflection in a glass door, staring after them with a look that was part hunger, part challenge.

The room emptied, shadows lengthening as the lights above ticked and buzzed, the air thick with the scent of anticipation and the electric promise of things about to go wrong.

——

The meeting room emptied with the shuffling, uneven momentum of a bus depot at closing time. Some girls slung their bags on with a practiced, athletic flick; others wandered the aisles, dazed, clutching their assignment slips like subpoenas.

Buffy lingered, letting the tide pull the others ahead of her. She watched as Faith swaggered through the exit, boots thudding a private drumbeat down the corridor. Willow lingered a moment longer, gathering her notes with a precision that looked almost apologetic, then vanished in a nervous flutter of arms and cardigan. That left Tara, still at the front, bent low over her notebook, making tiny, elaborate notations in pencil. There was a tenderness to her posture, something almost apologetic, as if by making herself small she could delay the moment of being noticed.

Buffy considered bolting—just heading out, skipping any awkwardness, but the impulse died as quickly as it surfaced. Instead, she wandered toward the front, close enough to catch the scent of Tara’s shampoo (rose water, or something like it) and the faint dry tang of mechanical pencil shavings.

Tara zipped her notebook closed and glanced up, startled. Her eyes were soft gray, rimmed with the faintest trace of kohl. She looked down again, flustered, and began stacking her papers with more care than necessary.

Buffy cleared her throat. “Hey. I’m—uh—Buffy.”

A shy half-smile creased Tara’s face. “I know. I mean, I know who you are. Willow talks about you a lot.” She bit her lip, then extended a hand, which trembled as it reached. “Tara. But you probably knew that.”

Buffy shook her hand. It was warm, dry, smaller than she expected. “Not officially. But it’s nice to, you know… Actually talk.”

Tara gathered her messenger bag, tucking the strap under her elbow. “This is, um, a little surreal.”

“Yeah,” Buffy said. “I keep waiting for the hidden camera. Or the part where someone tells us we’re on an MTV prank show.”

Tara smiled, warmer this time. “No such luck.” Her voice was soft, but carried. She took a tentative step toward the door, and Buffy fell in beside her, matching the pace.

The hallway outside the meeting room was an architectural afterthought—low ceilings, buzzing fluorescent tubes, cinderblock walls painted a shade of green that designers had long ago declared “soothing.” The air was chill, even for early spring, and smelled faintly of spilled coffee and floor wax. There was nobody else in sight.

Tara’s steps were nearly silent; she glided over the institutional tile while Buffy’s boots made small, guilty noises. They walked in silence for a while, letting the footsteps fill the space.

“So,” Buffy said, finally. “Was this your first time being drafted for science?”

Tara shook her head. “Last year, there was a study on, um… EEG mapping for anxiety disorders. I lasted two days before I pulled out.” Her cheeks flushed. “Not really built for cages, I guess.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Buffy said. “You look way less panicked than I feel.”

Tara’s eyes glinted with humor. “I’m good at the outside part. Not so much the inside.”

Buffy laughed, the sound echoing up the corridor. “That’s relatable.”

They rounded a corner, the hallway narrowing as it neared the exit. Light pooled at the far end, stained yellow from a greasy window. Tara paused beside a battered water fountain and took a long sip, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She hesitated, then turned to Buffy, as if weighing something.

“Sorry if I seem…” She trailed off, then tried again. “I don’t do great with, um, big groups. Or people in general.”

Buffy leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. “No apology necessary. This whole thing’s got ‘social nightmare’ written all over it.”

Tara looked down, twisting the strap of her bag. “You’re not here for the psych credit, are you?”

Buffy snorted. “No. Walsh is scary enough when she’s not running a prison camp. I’m just broke.”

Tara nodded, the motion small but full of recognition. “Me too. I’m working two jobs, and the bursar’s office keeps sending these little red envelopes. Thought this would be fast money.”

Buffy exhaled. “I thought it would be, you know, weird quizzes. Not full immersion therapy.”

Tara’s smile was slow, secretive. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t think they can actually make us go mad.”

Buffy grinned. “We’ll see. Give Faith two days with a badge, and she might make me eat my own shoelaces.”

Tara laughed—a musical, sudden sound, as if she hadn’t expected to find anything funny. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The moment was quiet, comfortable. They started walking again, Buffy letting Tara set the tempo.

Outside the building, the afternoon light was starting to fail, casting the quad in blue-gray relief. The world felt oddly distant, like a movie set just after the crew had left.

Faith stood just beyond the main doors, leaning against a concrete pillar, throwing a baseball against the wall and catching it over and over, aimlessly amusing herself. When she saw the pair emerge, she smirked, her eyes narrowing into slits.

“Thought you two got lost,” Faith said, voice low and a little dangerous. “Or maybe you were planning your escape.”

Buffy shrugged. “We figured you’d be waiting out here, ready to frisk us for contraband.”

Faith pushed off the pillar, stepping close. “Nah. Walsh said day one’s a freebie. I’m just getting in the mood.” Her gaze flicked to Tara, a slow, hungry up-and-down. “Didn’t know you were part of the party, T-bear.”

Tara shrank a little, but her chin came up. “I got the flyer same as everyone else.”

Faith’s lip curled. “Hope you’re ready to play rough.” She held Tara’s gaze for a beat, then looked back to Buffy. “See you inside, B.” Then she stalked off, hands shoved in her pockets, humming tunelessly under her breath.

Buffy turned to Tara. “She’s not actually as terrifying as she acts. She just, you know. Overcompensates.”

Tara smiled, but there was a flicker of something else—worry, or maybe a premonition. “I know the type,” she said.

As they started down the stairs, Buffy noticed Willow standing alone by a bulletin board, pretending to read the notices but really watching them, her face soft with worry. She gave Tara a little wave, and Tara returned it, her hand shy at her side.

Buffy saw the way Willow’s gaze lingered on Tara, the tension in her posture. It wasn’t hard to interpret, though she wondered if Tara saw it too.

“Do you want to get coffee?” Buffy asked, surprising herself with the impulse. “Before we’re, you know, locked in the dungeon?”

Tara’s expression brightened, as if someone had clicked on a light behind her eyes. “That would be nice.”

They walked together toward a nearby cafe, footsteps echoing in the emptying quad. Behind them, the building loomed: all glass and concrete, shadows crawling up its sides. In one of the windows, Buffy saw a pale rectangle of light—the corner of Walsh’s office, she guessed. It looked as cold and distant as the moon.

She wondered, not for the first time, if this was what experiments were for: not to break people down, but to see who found each other in the darkness.

As they disappeared into the late afternoon, the world seemed to shrink around them, the campus going still except for the rustle of early spring leaves and the distant, rhythmic squeak of Faith’s boots, somewhere out of sight.

Chapter Text

The abandoned Sunnydale Correctional Facility rose from the dead ground on the town’s north edge, boxy and unadorned, ringed by a double layer of chain link that sagged in the middles like an old man’s smile. Nothing grew up close to it—just the dust, the tire ruts, a spill of yellow grass tufting along the west yard. Its windows, those few that survived the last winter’s hail, were filmed in grime. At four in the afternoon, the place looked both abandoned and expectant, as if it had been waiting for this exact hour to be useful again.

Faith arrived first, hands jammed in her jacket pockets, squinting up at the slab-faced facade. The air reeked of ozone, broken glass, and the chemical tang of whatever the maintenance crew had sprayed to keep the vermin down. She grinned. There were no real guards, no spotlights, no sirens. Just silence and the knowledge that whatever happened here would be by design.

Willow showed up five minutes later, late in the exact way that meant she’d tried desperately to be early. Her backpack bulged with folders and snacks and a nervously peeking inhaler. She wore a skirt, tights, and a red cardigan, and she held a printed packet of rules in one hand like a shield.

Faith let her lean on the buzzing call box for a solid minute before she rapped the main door with her knuckles. Willow jumped like she'd been shocked, her shoulders hunched up to her ears, eyes darting nervously around the empty courtyard as if expecting something to materialize from the shadows. A strand of red hair fell across her face, and she blew it away with a quick, anxious puff of breath. “Oh. Hi. I thought maybe they’d— I mean, I wasn’t sure if we just, uh, went in? Or waited?”

Faith grinned. “Walsh said to use the staff entrance. Round back. C’mon.”

They circled the perimeter, their footfalls making uneven percussion on the cracked pavement. Every twenty feet, a rusted camera tracked their movement, the lens caked with cobwebs and a fly or two. At the staff entrance, a warped metal sign proclaimed “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.” Faith kicked at the door, and it rattled, the noise echoing up the block. It took a second before a deadbolt snapped and the door swung inward.

A grad student Walsh had mentioned at the briefing waited inside. She wore cargo pants and a campus fleece, hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail. She looked at them with the distant interest of someone paid by the hour. “Sign in. Phones in the basket. You get them back when you leave.”

Faith tossed her phone in with a flip, spun the clipboard around, and scrawled her name in all caps. Willow hesitated, biting her lip, then tucked her phone gently in the basket and signed below.

“Uniforms are in the staff lounge.”

The grad student vanished, leaving the door to swing on its hinges.

Faith led the way down a corridor lined with cracked tile, boots echoing in the bare hallway. The lounge was a coffin-shaped rectangle with vending machines at one end and a sagging couch at the other. Two neat piles of khaki awaited them, topped with canvas belts, plastic flashlights, and imitation correctional officer badges stamped out of tin. There were also two black batons, rubber and hollow but weighted at the tip, resting in parallel on the table.

“Nice,” Faith said, picking up a baton and giving it a few practice swings. “Always wanted to try one of these.”

Willow eyed the uniforms. “Are we, uh, supposed to—? I mean, should we get changed here?”

Faith shrugged out of her jacket, kicked her boots off, and started stripping with zero hesitation. She peeled off her tank top, tossing it on the couch, then unbuttoned her jeans and stepped out of them. She stood in threadbare black underwear, entirely unselfconscious, and rolled her shoulders. “Don’t be shy Red.”

Willow’s eyes snapped to the wall, the vending machine, the ceiling. “I’ll, uh, use the bathroom. Just for—um. Privacy.”

“Don’t take all day,” Faith said, grinning as she pulled the guard shirt over her head. The fabric was starchy, cut for someone a size larger, and the badge looked like a cereal box toy, but it transformed her instantly. She cinched the belt tight, tucked in the shirt, and admired her reflection in the dingy microwave door. She looked, if not official, then at least dangerous.

Willow emerged five minutes later, her uniform creased and her shirt buttoned all the way to the throat. She’d tried to tame her hair into a bun but only half succeeded; a frizzled halo persisted no matter how much she patted it. She eyed Faith’s baton with wary resignation.

Faith twirled the baton, then handed Willow her own. “You’re gonna need this. I heard the prisoners are real trouble.”

Willow accepted it as if it might bite. “It’s, um, kind of heavy.”

“That’s the idea,” Faith said, moving in closer, circling Willow with deliberate appraisal. She straightened Willow’s collar, then smoothed the shoulder seams with a practiced slap. “You gotta look the part. Guards can’t look like they’re about to faint at the sight of blood.”

Willow blushed, which only made Faith’s grin widen. “Relax, Red. It’s all just theater.”

“Right,” Willow said, clutching her clipboard and rulebook. “I memorized the regulations. They’re… surprisingly strict. No personal conversations. Maintain order at all times. Use of force is allowed in simulation, but not actual—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do the heavy lifting.” Faith reached for the mirrored sunglasses on the table, tried them on, and gave Willow a smirk. “You ever wanna scare them, you just stand behind me and look mean.”

Willow attempted a glare, failed, and gave up. “Are you actually taking this seriously?”

Faith checked herself in the grimy microwave again, ran a hand through her hair, and set her jaw in a way that made her look a good ten years older. “I’m always serious,” she said, voice low and teasing. “That’s the trick.”

A bell somewhere in the facility buzzed, followed by the distant clank of a steel door. The grad student poked her head into the lounge, eyes bored. “Guards, front and center. Intake starts in ten. You’ll meet Professor Walsh by the visitor’s check-in.”

Willow’s hands fluttered as she gathered her materials, trying to balance the baton, the clipboard, the rulebook, and the nervous quiver in her fingers. Faith slung an arm around her shoulders, steering her into the hall.

“You’ll do fine, Red,” she said. “Worst case, there’ a prison riot, we bust some heads and get expelled. I’ve had jobs with worse perks.”

They moved as a unit down the corridor, their uniforms a matching set—at least at a distance. Faith’s swagger gave her the appearance of a real guard, while Willow looked like a lost high schooler on job-shadow day. Still, there was a kind of symmetry to it: Faith the muscle, Willow the mind, both walking into a simulation that felt, in the dead hush of the old jail, a little too real for comfort.

They reached the front intake and found Professor Walsh waiting, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable. She wore a lab coat over a turtleneck, and her hair was tied back with surgical precision. She didn’t bother to greet them, only handed Faith a lanyard with “Captain” embossed on the tag, and Willow one marked “Sergeant.” Willow stared at the letters as if expecting them to rearrange themselves.

“You’ll process the incoming prisoners, then escort them to holding,” Walsh said. “You are in charge. This is a closed environment. Maintain order. Record all incidents on the provided sheets. If you need anything, use the radio. Otherwise, do not disturb the experiment.”

Willow looked a little but Faith’s eyes lit with anticipation. “Can’t wait.”

Walsh gave a curt nod, then vanished through the main doors, her heels clicking on the tile like a countdown.

For a moment, Faith and Willow stood alone in the entrance, the afternoon sun filtering through the dirty glass. Faith glanced sideways at her co-guard, and for the briefest second, let the bravado slip. “You ready?”

Willow’s voice was soft, but certain. “Not even a little.”

Faith laughed. “Let’s do it anyway.”

They took their posts on either side of the intake desk, uniforms stiff and new, batons at the ready. Outside, the first shouts echoed up the corridor—a grad student barking instructions, a scuffle of feet, the sound of someone, Buffy probably, humming tunelessly. They watched the door, braced for the influx.

Faith rolled her baton in her palm, already scripting the performance in her head. She was going to own this place, at least for the next three days. Willow, for all her nerves, looked solid behind the desk, already scribbling in her clipboard margins, eyes scanning the door like a hawk.

The air in the room tightened, every molecule waiting for the collision. Faith tasted the anticipation, sharp and electric on her tongue.

When the door finally creaked open and the first prisoner shuffled through, Faith straightened her spine, slapped the baton against her hand, and gave Willow the kind of smile that meant trouble.

“Showtime,” she said, and the simulation began in earnest.

——

Buffy had always pictured jail as loud—clanging bars, catcalls, the endless shouts of guards and prisoners bouncing off stone walls. She was not prepared for the cathedral hush of the Sunnydale Correctional Facility’s main corridor. It was as if all the air had been wrung of sound, leaving behind only the faint, hissing presence of the overhead lights. Each footstep landed with the weight of an accusation.

She and Tara walked in single file, led by a grad student who offered neither explanation nor conversation. They wore university hoodies and sweatpants, bags left behind at the sign-in desk. The inmates would be processed in twos. That was one of the few details Walsh had shared with them. Their hands were empty and a little useless. Tara’s eyes darted at every new doorway, every dead-end alcove, as if expecting something to emerge. Buffy kept her eyes straight ahead, chin up, reading every camera, every rusted sign, every scuff mark on the walls.

The processing room was a freezer, square and colorless. Two metal tables bisected the floor, each bolted into the tile with fat-headed screws. There were two buckets by the wall labeled “Contraband.” The only decorations were a corkboard and a grease-streaked American flag. It was a room that had seen everything and cared about none of it.

Faith waited inside, dressed head-to-toe in her guard costume. The shirt was two shades too light for her, the sleeves rolled tight to her elbows. The baton had hung from her belt, but now she drummed it against her palm, already at home with its weight. Willow stood beside her, official in her own uniform, clipboard and pen ready. She had attached her badge with painstaking care, but the top button of her shirt refused to stay closed. She fiddled with it until Faith flicked the baton her way.

“Knock it off. You look like a nerd.”

Willow stopped, swallowed, and tried to stand straighter.

The grad student nodded at the guards, then slipped out, shutting the door with a sigh and a thunk.

Buffy took in the layout, weighing her options. There were no windows. No cover. Just her, Tara, Willow, and the last person on earth she wanted to see on a power trip.

Faith smirked, then thumped her baton against the table. “Ladies. Welcome to your new home. Strip and step up for intake.”

Tara blanched. Her fingers went immediately to the hem of her sweatshirt, but stopped halfway, as if the idea of undressing in front of anyone—let alone Faith, Willow and Buffy—was a calculus she’d never thought to solve. Buffy didn’t move.

“Now, please,” Willow read from the clipboard, her voice paper-thin. “All clothing, shoes, socks, and accessories in the bucket. No exceptions. This is part of the simulation protocol.”

Faith leaned back on her heels. “You heard the lady. Let’s go, strip show’s on.”

Buffy felt the twist of adrenaline, a fight-or-flight response that threatened to set her teeth chattering. Instead, she squared her shoulders and pulled her sweatshirt off in one smooth motion, eyes locked on Faith the entire time. She went slow—not a show, exactly, but not giving them the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. The shirt came off, then the tank top, then the sports bra. Goosebumps raced over her skin as the chill hit, but she didn’t let it show. She folded each item and placed them neatly in the bucket.

Tara tried to follow her lead but moved in jerks, hands trembling as she untied her shoes and peeled off her layers. Her skin was pale, dotted with old bruises and a faint crescent-shaped scar on her shoulder. By the time she got to her bra, her breathing was shallow and her cheeks flushed bright red.

Buffy took off her pants then crammed her underwear into the bucket last, leaving herself naked but for staccato goosebumps up her thighs and arms. She braced for Faith’s stare, and got it—the cloying heat of it, running blatant and slow up her torso and pausing, deliberately, at her chest and then between her legs. Faith wasn’t even pretending not to enjoy the show.

Willow’s clipboard tremored as she buried herself in the checklist. “Um, please line up behind the tape,” she said, voice shrinking to the floor. Near the table’s edge, neon-green duct tape marked a stripe on the tile. Buffy stepped behind it, folded her arms across her chest.

Tara, still shaking, reached the end of her undoing. She’d removed her skirt by now but hesitated at her underwear, hands hooked into the waistband, then let it fall with one panicked breath. She stood next to Buffy, arms hanging loose, as if she’d used up every calculation and was now operating on borrowed energy. She wouldn’t look at Buffy, or at Faith, or even at Willow. Her gaze fixed somewhere vague in the distance.

Faith circled them with deliberate slowness, the baton tapping a silent beat against her thigh. She stopped beside Buffy, just outside arm’s reach. Her eyes roved over Buffy’s body, the inspection unmistakable. “Nice prison build,” she said, not even bothering to keep her voice low. “You’ll go far.”

Buffy’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t break eye contact. If Faith wanted a reaction, she could work for it.

Willow stood back, pen hovering. She made a show of looking at her clipboard, but her eyes flickered to Tara’s exposed skin, then away, as if she’d glimpsed something private by accident. Her face pinked up, and she wrote a note without looking at the paper.

“Turn around,” Faith ordered. “Hands on the table, feet apart.”

Buffy stepped forward first, planting her hands on the metal surface. It was so cold it felt wet. Tara hesitated, but Buffy reached back and caught her wrist, guiding her to the table with a steady grip. They stood side by side, naked, backs to their captors.

Faith ran the baton through the air above Buffy’s shoulders, not touching, just close enough for the displacement to raise a line of goosebumps. “Spread your fingers,” she said. “No hiding contraband.”

Buffy did. Tara’s hands shook, but she managed it.

The next part was routine: Faith recited instructions, Willow ticked boxes. A quick scan of their hair and mouths (“Open up. Wider.”), then a down-the-body sweep that stopped just shy of invasive. Faith’s hands were businesslike, but the way she narrated the procedure—every command, every correction—was loaded.

When it was over, Willow handed them each a set of scratchy prison-issue jumpsuits. They dressed quickly, grateful for the barrier.

Faith leaned in, close enough that Buffy could smell her shampoo. “Next time, follow orders quicker, B. Otherwise I'll have to punish you.” Faith lightly tapped her baton on Buffy’s arm, not to hurt her, just a warning.

Buffy smiled, all teeth. “Looking forward to it.”

Tara said nothing, head down, her hair falling like a curtain. Faith’s eyes lingered on her, then flicked back to Willow. “Get their mugshots. We’ve got three minutes before the next group.”

Willow fumbled with the camera—an old Polaroid, the kind you had to wind by hand. She took Tara’s photo first, the flash bouncing off the girl’s pale skin and making her blink hard. Then Buffy’s. Willow’s hands shook so much she nearly dropped the camera, but she caught it, and mumbled, “Sorry. Slippery.”

Faith rolled her eyes, then spun the baton, catching it behind her back. “All right, inmates. You’re officially property of Sunnydale Correctional for the next seventy-two hours. You don’t do what you’re told, you’ll wish you did. Got it?”

Buffy nodded. Tara echoed her, barely audible.

Willow clipped their mugshots onto manila folders. As she reached for Tara’s, her fingers brushed against the blonde woman’s, just for a second. Both jerked away as if stung.

Faith noticed, lips curling in a knowing way. “Sensitive bunch,” she said. “Don’t worry. After the first night, you get over it.”

Faith led them out of the processing room and down the hall, boots thudding in rhythm. Willow trailed behind, keeping her eyes on the clipboard, not the girls.

Buffy just focused on putting one foot in front of another.

——

The corridor to the cellblock was a brutalist gauntlet: cinderblock walls, painted the color of infection, and strip lights that flickered with the rhythm of a dying heart. Faith led, swinging her baton in a lazy figure-eight as if daring someone to step out of line. The cellblock itself was a hollow rectangle, echoing with the memory of old alarms and ancient despair. Most of the cells stood open, their bars yawning wide, but Faith steered Buffy and Tara straight to the farthest one, at the end of the row.

“VIP suite,” Faith said, spinning on her heel. “You two lovebirds get it all to yourselves.”

Buffy caught the sarcasm, but it was laced with something more personal—a needling just for her, the way Faith had always done. She braced herself for the inevitable show of force. Faith didn’t disappoint: she gripped Buffy’s upper arm and guided her through the threshold with unnecessary muscle, shoving just enough that their bodies collided in the doorway. For an instant, Faith’s breath was hot against Buffy’s ear.

“Home sweet home, princess,” she whispered, low enough to vanish in the hum of the fluorescents.

Buffy didn’t answer. Instead, she twisted away and let the shove carry her to the bunk, refusing to cede an inch of ground. The mattress was a pad of gray foam, still wrapped in its original plastic covering, the surface slick and pocked with old cigarette burns. She sat, legs wide, elbows on knees, head up.

Tara entered with less ceremony. She hovered by the door, waiting for Faith to finish whatever dominance display was required by the script. Her eyes never quite met anyone else’s, but she kept her spine straight, her hands clasped in front of her like a prayer.

Willow followed, her arms laden with prison-issued hygiene kits: a toothbrush, a comb, packets of pink soap. She handed one to Buffy, fingers barely grazing her knuckles, then held the other out to Tara. The contact was quick—just a brush of fingertips—but both women jumped like the touch was electric. Willow blushed, then retreated to the far side of the bars, nose buried in her clipboard.

Faith watched the exchange with an animal interest, eyes narrowing. She leaned against the bars, arms crossed.

Buffy shot her a glare, but Faith just smiled. She lingered, gaze sweeping over the cell and its occupants, before finally turning away, boots echoing down the corridor. Willow hesitated, then followed, pausing once to glance back at Tara, who stood frozen in the center of the cell.

For a moment, everything was still.

Buffy broke the silence first. “You want top bunk?” she asked, voice casual.

Tara shrugged, then nodded. She climbed up, moving with surprising fluidity, settling in and immediately pulling her knees to her chest. The bunk creaked, but held.

Buffy lay back on her own mattress, staring up at the steel slats above her. The plastic crackled beneath her, radiating cold through her borrowed t-shirt. She listened to the hush of the building, the faint trace of Willow’s voice somewhere down the hall, the fading stomp of Faith’s boots. She waited for Tara to say something—anything—but the only sound was the quiet rasp of her breath, uneven and quick.

Buffy closed her eyes. For a moment, she tried to imagine this was a bad dream—a class gone sideways, a prank that had taken a step too far. But the ache in her shoulders and the raw cold on her skin said otherwise. This was her reality now, for seventy-two hours.

She cracked one eye and glanced at Tara’s form above her. The girl was rigid, arms folded tight, but her breathing had slowed. Buffy remembered the intake room, the way Tara had nearly panicked at the strip search, the way she’d flinched from every touch, every voice raised above a whisper. Buffy felt a flare of anger at Faith—at the whole set-up, really—but there was nothing to do with it but let it simmer.

She reached for her toothbrush, rolling it between her fingers. The motion was soothing, grounding. She counted the seconds, trying to match her breath to Tara’s.

From the hallway came a sudden, piercing whistle—Faith, probably, announcing the final shift. The lights overhead dimmed, plunging the cell into a greenish twilight.

Tara stirred. “Buffy?”

“Yeah?”

Tara hesitated. “Are you okay?”

Buffy forced a laugh. “Define ‘okay.’”

Tara’s silhouette relaxed, just a little. “Just… checking.”

Buffy felt the corners of her mouth twitch. “We’ll get through it,” she said, quieter now. “Promise.”

She stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows move, and wondered how many promises she’d made that week, how many she could keep. The power games, the humiliation, the choreography of weakness and strength—she’d seen all of it before, but it felt different in here, stripped of context, surrounded by people who were supposed to be friends.

Outside, Faith’s footsteps receded. The building seemed to contract, the cold pressing in from the walls.

Buffy curled up on her side, eyes level with the concrete, and listened to Tara’s breathing. It slowed, softened, became the only rhythm in the world.

She reached up and tapped the frame of the top bunk, once, twice, three times. It was a private code, a comfort she hadn’t meant to offer but did anyway.

Above her, Tara tapped back.

Buffy smiled, despite everything. The night pressed in, silent and dense, but for now, they were not alone.

Chapter Text

Lights flickered on at 06:00 sharp, strip-lit rectangles igniting in sequence down the length of the cellblock. The effect was surgical, exposing everything—grime, goosebumps, the tang of spent adrenaline—as the cells snapped from black to clinical gray. The guards made their rounds, boots biting into concrete, voices pitched just under a shout. Willow’s was the first face Buffy saw, hovering at the bars with a clipboard, eyes determined but rimmed with unease. She read names with bureaucratic intensity, checking boxes as each inmate grunted an answer.

Buffy stood at attention as instructed, arms folded across her chest. She’d slept maybe an hour, her mind chasing circles all night—past-due notices, her mother’s handwriting, and a strange dream in which Tara sung to her in a sweet, gentle voice. The only good part about the night. She felt the exhaustion as a weight in her jaw, a pressure behind her eyes. Above her, Tara remained a quiet, curled shape on the top bunk, head pillowed in the crook of her arm.

Willow completed her roll call and scuttled down the row. Faith appeared next, baton swinging in a loose orbit from her fingers, her guard shirt already untucked and the top two buttons open. She looked made for the uniform, or maybe the uniform had been waiting for someone like her. She lingered in the corridor, reading the new rules she’d scrawled in black marker on the whiteboard outside the cell. Walsh’s original protocol was there in neat, impersonal bullet points—Meal times. Exercise period. Group therapy. Lights out. Faith had filled the empty space beneath with her own additions:

1. No talking after lights out. 2. No sarcasm. 3. Guards are never wrong.

She made a show of patrolling, every motion calibrated for effect: slow walk, head on a swivel, pausing just long enough at each cell to make everyone inside flinch. Inmate 02, a tall brunette with a pixie cut, stared straight ahead and didn’t respond to Faith’s verbal poke. Faith moved on. Inmate 03, an upperclassman from Buffy’s Chem lab, had already started picking at the stitching of her jumpsuit, anxiety making her twitch with every pass. Faith grinned, amused, then shifted her focus to Buffy’s cell.

She stopped directly in front of them, bracing one hand on the bars. “Prisoner 07. Rise and shine.”

Buffy straightened. “Present.”

Faith arched an eyebrow, eyes flicking to Tara above. “Is your bunkmate dead, or just a heavy sleeper?”

“She’s alive. I checked.”

Faith smirked. “Next time, I’ll check for you.” Her gaze lingered on Buffy, taking inventory. “You call that ‘standing at attention’? Maybe you’re used to getting by on your pretty face, B, but here, it’s all about discipline.”

Buffy’s shoulders tensed, a wave of embarrassment flooding her cheeks. “You want me to salute or something?”

Faith ignored her. “Drop and give me twenty.”

Buffy looked at her as if she’d misheard. “You’re kidding.”

Faith twirled her baton, smacking it lightly against her thigh, not to hurt her, just to make clear who was in charge. “No talking back. Let’s go.”

Buffy exhaled hard and dropped to the floor, hands flat on the cold, damp concrete. The chill bit through her palms, shooting up her arms. She started the push-ups, counting off in a tight monotone. The first ten were easy; her body was built for this, trained for sudden stress. By twelve, the rhythm stuttered, her hands sweating against the slick gray surface. At fifteen, her arms began to shake. The physical effort was nothing, it was Faith’s penetrating gaze that was hard to work through.

Faith crouched beside her, clipboard tucked under one arm. “I want to hear you count, Summers.”

Buffy glared up through the curtain of her hair. “Sixteen.”

“Louder.”

She pushed through, voice rising. “Seventeen.” Another push. “Eighteen—”

The guards and prisoners watched in near silence. Willow hovered near the end of the corridor, half-turning away, her face flushed. Inmate 03 peeked out from between her fingers, fascinated.

Buffy’s chest brushed the ground at nineteen. She sucked in a breath, then powered through for twenty, collapsing on the upstroke and rolling to her side, humiliated, physically fine, mentally drained. She lay there for a second, the concrete leeching heat from her skin, before scrambling to her knees.

Faith stood over her, baton pointed at the floor. “Not bad, B. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Buffy got to her feet, sweat painting her forehead. She wiped it away with the back of her sleeve and faced Faith, refusing to let the moment slide. “What’s next, Coach? Lap around the block?”

“Keep sassing me, and I’ll make it fifty,” Faith said, but her voice had lost some edge. The corners of her mouth curled in reluctant admiration.

Buffy held Faith’s gaze for a long second. She waited for the snark, the dig, the old rivalry to reassert itself, but what she got instead was an electric, unblinking pause. A current passed between them: challenge, recognition, something they both remembered and neither wanted to name.

Faith broke it first, turning her attention to the next cell. “Rest of you, line up for breakfast. Don’t make me repeat myself.” She walked away, shoulders squared, leaving the scent of her shampoo and the afterimage of her smile hanging in the air.

Buffy stared at the damp floor, counting the tremors in her arms. She realized her hands were shaking not just from exertion, but from something more volatile—a rush of anger, humiliation, and a traitorous, unexpected thrill.

She looked up to see Tara watching her from the top bunk, concern plain in her eyes.

“You okay?” Tara asked, voice soft.

Buffy nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She climbed onto her mattress, heart hammering, and pressed her face into the thin pillow.

From the corridor, Faith’s voice carried back. “Roll call, five minutes. Don’t be late.”

Buffy squeezed her eyes shut, willing her pulse to settle. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to punch Faith, or kiss her, or both. The lines between humiliation and attraction were never so clear as they were in this place, under these lights, with Faith’s gaze burning into her from behind a wall of institutional glass.

She lay there until the next bell rang, stomach tight, ready for whatever game came next.

——

The library was a shoebox of stale air and fluorescent half-light, hidden in a corner of the jail nobody cared about. Most of the shelves were empty, save for rows of Reader’s Digest condensations and a seam of romance novels so battered the covers looked like scabs. Dust motes hung in the sunlight that made it through the two skinny, barred windows. It was the one place in the building where the institutional gray softened, dulled by paper and the slow accumulation of entropy. Giles would have hated its inadequacy.

Tara was on her knees, reshelving a cart’s worth of books. She moved with quiet purpose, one hand steadying the stack, the other sliding each volume into its slot. Her face was all concentration and peace, like this was a sacred rite instead of compelled busywork.

Willow hovered nearby, wearing her uniform like a hair shirt, every inch of her body telegraphing discomfort. She’d spent the first five minutes pacing the stacks, clipboard clutched to her chest, occasionally barking a command that never rose above a librarian’s whisper. Now, with the library empty but for them, she mostly watched Tara, biting her lip and twisting the end of her red ponytail until it nearly frayed.

At last, Willow couldn’t stand the silence. She knelt beside Tara, careful to leave a small space between their knees. “Hey,” she said, voice pitched low. “You doing okay?”

Tara looked up, gray eyes gentle. “I’m fine. It’s…quiet in here.”

Willow tried for a smile, but it wilted on her lips. “It’s weird, right? The whole thing. Like we’re in a movie and nobody told us our lines.”

Tara tilted her head, brushing hair from her eyes with a quick, practiced flick. “Maybe that’s the point. To see how we, um. Fill in the blanks.”

Willow drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry, by the way. For the, um. This.” She gestured to her uniform, to the walls, to everything. “I didn’t think it would be like this. The experiment, I mean. I thought we’d fill out surveys and watch movies about rats. I didn’t think we’d—” She broke off, cheeks flushed. “Never mind.”

Tara smiled, small but real. “You’re not the one making it bad.”

Willow risked a glance at Tara’s hands, graceful and precise as she shelved a battered Jane Eyre. “You seem calm. I’d be freaking out.”

“I am. Just on the inside.” Tara finished the shelf and straightened, careful not to brush against Willow’s arm. “I’m not very good at pretending. I think that’s why they gave me this job. Less chance to mess up in front of everyone.”

Willow looked around the empty room. “They should have made you a guard. You’re way better at this than I am.”

Tara shrugged, but her crooked smile lingered. “You’re not a bad guard. You’re just… not very guardy.”

“I know.” Willow tugged at her collar, the fabric stiff and scratchy. “The only time I ever got in trouble in high school was for running in the library. And now I’m supposed to tell people what to do?”

Tara’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You could just tell me to read.”

Willow laughed, the tension draining from her shoulders. “Okay, Prisoner 05. Read.” She picked up a book at random from the cart and handed it to Tara, fingers brushing for a second, then darting away.

Tara opened the book to a random page and began to read aloud. Her voice was soft, almost musical, the words tumbling out with slow deliberation. Willow listened, half-hypnotized, as Tara read a passage about storms and lighthouses and the longing to see the ocean. The space between them shrank until it felt like there was only the book, their knees nearly touching, the rest of the world faded to static.

They didn’t hear Faith enter the library until her boots hit the tile, a sharp staccato that broke the spell.

“Well, isn’t this cute,” Faith said, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. Her eyes swept over Willow and Tara, taking in the proximity, the flush on Willow’s cheeks, the book cradled between their hands. “Thought I’d find you two getting cozy.”

Willow jumped up, nearly dropping the clipboard. “Library duty, just—uh, checking the stacks. For…contraband.”

Faith raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Looks like you’re slacking, Red. Or maybe fraternizing.” She fixed Tara with a slow, predatory smile. “You enjoying story time, Blondie?”

Tara lowered her gaze, tucking the book against her chest. “Just following orders.”

Faith stepped closer, boots squeaking on the tile. She looked to Willow, then to Tara, then back to Willow. “Guards don’t get to play favorites,” she said, her tone low and dangerous. “If you’re too soft, they walk all over you.”

Willow’s jaw tightened. “I was supervising. That’s all.”

Faith grinned, sharp and wolfish. “Uh huh. Well, time for a reassignment.” She plucked the book from Tara’s hands, flicking through the pages with zero interest, then dropped it on the floor.

She turned to Tara. “You’re on bathrooms now. Hallway B. Get a mop from the closet, and don’t come back until it’s shining. I wanna be able to see my face in the toilet bowls.”

Tara’s face went blank. She nodded, then slipped past Faith, eyes to the floor.

Faith watched her leave, then rounded on Willow. “You want to survive this simulation, you gotta act like you mean it.”

Willow bristled, hugging the clipboard tighter. “I…just want to get through it without losing my friends.”

Faith’s expression softened, just a little. “Then stop making it so easy for them. Or you’ll wreck the experiment for all of us.”

Willow swallowed hard. “Noted.”

Faith lingered another second, then turned and left, boots echoing back down the hall.

For a while, Willow stood in the silence, feeling the weight of the library settle on her shoulders. She picked up the book from the floor, brushing off the dust, then ran her thumb along the page Tara had been reading.

There was a line underlined in pencil, maybe by some long-ago inmate, maybe by Tara herself: “The sea was a thing vast and endless, and it had no memory of the tiny lights on its shore.”

Willow closed the book and hugged it to her chest, wishing she could bring Tara back, wishing she could say the things she meant.

She stared out the barred window, watching the gray sky crawl past, and wondered when, if ever, she’d get to see her again.

——

The research suite was a warren of one-way glass and empty chairs, designed for maximum observation and minimum comfort. At night, with the rest of the psych building empty and locked, it was even more of a tomb. The only light came from the monitors, green and twitching, casting shadows of graph paper across the walls. Maggie Walsh perched at her desk, feet up, hands steepled over her chin as she cycled through the day’s footage.

She started with cellblock cam 2, frame-frozen on Faith’s morning patrol. Faith’s posture was textbook—alpha, predatory, the baton an extension of her arm. Walsh watched the moment she confronted Buffy, the muscle memory in Buffy’s push-ups, the battle in her eyes. She ran the tape twice, then a third time, focusing in on the moment the challenge shifted from antagonism to something else. Fascinating. She wrote in the margin of her notepad: submission triggers, competitive displacement. Underneath, she scribbled: sexual tension? (underline, underline).

She clicked to the next feed—library cam 1, the dust motes and the slow, focused dance of Tara and Willow in the stacks. She zoomed in on Willow’s hands, the tentative pass-off of a book, the brief contact of skin. Willow’s body language was all nerves, but she kept orienting herself toward Tara, as if drawing gravity from her. Tara, in contrast, radiated a low, steady calm, absorbing Willow’s anxiety and dissolving it. Walsh jotted: emergent attachment, possible pair-bonding, mutual vulnerability. Noted the way neither of them checked the door, neither worried about being caught, as if the simulation had already become their world.

The next clip: Faith entering the library, disrupting the orbit. She watched the mask of authority Faith put on, the calculated cruelty, the moment she yanked Tara away and left Willow blinking, book clutched to her chest like a wound. Walsh replayed the scene, slowing it for micro-expressions—Willow’s lips parted in protest, Tara’s flash of fear, Faith’s momentary flicker of doubt, quickly drowned in bravado.

She made more notes. Group 2 dynamics, sexualized power. Willow cannot perform aggression; relieves discomfort with empathy. Tara’s passivity is defense mechanism, but functions as social glue. Faith’s performance of authority is her actual comfort zone, but cracks when confronted with real emotion. She circled the word “performance” three times.

On the last page of her notebook, Walsh started a chart. Two columns: guards / prisoners. Under each, names, arrows, and squiggly lines, the whole thing a tangle of anticipation and risk. She added a new row: predicted coupling / rupture, and listed possible combinations, odds, and likely flash points. If she’d had a betting pool, she’d have put Faith and Buffy at 3:1 to explode before the end of phase one. Willow and Tara: even odds to go codependent, unless outside pressure forced a break.

The clock on the wall clicked over to 3:07 a.m. Walsh didn’t notice. She scrolled to the next day’s schedule, highlighted the blocks she wanted to manipulate. More shared work details. More forced proximity. Maybe even a sleep deprivation variable. She wondered what would happen if she put Faith and Buffy on kitchen duty together, or if she locked Willow and Tara in the same cell overnight. She toyed with the idea of escalating the punishment protocols, see who broke and who adapted.

Walsh was already lost in the architecture of the simulation, thinking of the experiment as a living thing—self-sustaining, growing, hungry.

She shut off the monitor, leaving the faces frozen in her mental afterglow, and locked the office door behind her. In the morning, she’d let the animals loose again, wind up the world, see who survived and who devoured.

She could hardly wait.