Chapter Text
The courtroom feels like a tomb – cold and lifeless. High ceilings, marble columns. The air reeks of old leather and dust, a smell that clings to the back of my throat. Drab paintings of historical judges line the walls, their stern faces etched with permanent disapproval, judging me harder than the real judge.
I perch on the stiff-backed chair and tap my foot against the marble floor. I’m Poppy Thompson, 18, with messy red hair and a knack for getting into trouble. Right now, that trouble is a judge who is looking down at me like I'm a stain on society.
My mind reels back to the night that got me here—the protest for social justice. We stormed the mayor’s office, demanding equality and fair treatment. I somehow ended up at the front, my voice rising with the crowd. The adrenaline was intoxicating until the cops barged in.
With a quickening pulse, I remember the chaos: the shouts morphing into screams, the blinding blue lights, the raised batons and rough hands. They dragged us out one by one. I ended up face down on the concrete, tasting blood and grit, wrists cuffed behind my back.
Here in Remerica, women are expected to conform and comply, but I’ve never been great at playing by the rules. My mouth often gets me into situations my brain can’t talk me out of, and today is no different. It feels like I’m back in school, facing the principal after yet another ‘incident.’ Except this is far worse.
The judge’s fossil-like face is framed by a ridiculous white wig, giving him an almost comical appearance. His tone is anything but. “Miss Thompson, we’ve reviewed your case and believe The Reformation Program is the appropriate course of action.”
“What? No, I…” I begin, my voice trembling, but the judge holds up a hand for silence, his eyes devoid of compassion.
“As you know, The Reformation Program offers young women an opportunity to avoid incarceration and work towards personal growth." His voice echoes ominously in the large room. "It’s a structured relationship where a mentor guides the participant towards a more responsible and productive lifestyle."
I glance at my court-appointed attorney, Alice, who shakes her head, her dark eyes filled with a mix of empathy and frustration. I know she fought valiantly for a lesser sentence, but the judge's decree is final.
“Miss Thompson, you have two choices: imprisonment, or The Reformation Program. We recommend the latter. The Program is a unique arrangement where you will be married to a mentor, who will guide you towards a path of conforming to societal norms.”
Is he serious? This can’t be happening. I knew that this was one of the consequences for women who broke serious laws, but I never personally knew anyone who'd actually gone through with it.
I’d seen women who chose it, read their so-called 'success stories', and even dissected the rumours about it with friends. Reformed wives were traitors in my eyes, sellouts who had surrendered their freedom and voices. But now, with these new, harsher laws, more and more women had been forced into the program, transformed and praised for their obedience.
It always felt distant, something that happened to others—not me. I never imagined I’d end up here. How could they expect me to agree to this? How could I accept such a humiliating arrangement?
The judge continues, “Should you choose imprisonment, you'll serve 50 years in a high-security facility with mandated rehabilitation. The alternative, The Reformation Program, involves a 25-year commitment during which your husband will have the legal authority to guide and oversee your reformation, including the right to administer corporal punishment. You incited violence during your protest, Miss Thompson, and this sentence is designed to encourage you towards reformation.”
My world tilts. Arranged marriage and corporal punishment from a stranger or… Half a century in prison?
Alice leans over, whispering, “They’re being tough on you to push you into the program. They want you to choose it.”
One protest spirals out of control, and now I’m here, unable to grasp the gravity of the decision looming over me. Horror battles with a twisted sense of relief—at least it’s not prison. But why me? Do they actually believe I can be reformed?
As if reading my thoughts, Alice whispers, “Many girls have turned their lives around under this kind of guidance. You'll end up with a well-respected figure in our community, pre-chosen for his ability to help wayward young women get back on track.”
I hear a slight tinge of pity in Alice's voice.
Choosing between imprisonment and this program isn’t a choice at all. I can't imagine being locked up for decades, away from my friends, family, and everything I know and love.
A wave of defeat washes over me. “I’ll do it,” I mutter, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. “I’ll go through with the program.”
Heavy silence blankets the courtroom as I announce my decision. Ice floods my veins as the judge gives me a stern nod before continuing with his final instructions. “Very well, Miss Thompson. You will be taken to the Reformation Program facility for a thorough assessment before your placement. We have every confidence that you will soon become a reformed young woman.”
I stagger out of the courtroom. Since my arrest, my family and friends have been restricted to brief, monitored contact. The isolation has been suffocating. They couldn't even be present during my sentencing.
Alice follows close behind me, her expression full of concern. “Don't worry, Poppy. You'll be taken care of.”
As we descend the marble staircase, stepping out into the bright sunlight, fear grips my chest. I know that I can't return to the life I had before, but the thought of starting anew, under someone else's watchful eye, is terrifying.
Then, a numb, detached feeling creeps over me as we head towards the Reformation Program facility, each step feeling like I'm sinking deeper into quicksand.
The facility is situated in a beautiful and scenic area. The grand building is a mix of modern architecture with elegant gardens. The sight of it only intensifies my dread.
Inside, I'm led into a small office, where a woman greets me with a warm smile. She has short, wavy blonde hair, an angular jaw, and a confident air about her. The room feels as cold as the courtroom, with its minimalist design and austere lighting.
“Hello, Poppy,” she begins, her voice soft but firm. “I'm Miss Hamilton, your Program administrator. It's my job to make sure that your transition into your marriage is as smooth as possible.”
She gestures to the chairs in front of her desk, motioning for me to sit down. “This assessment is a standard procedure. We need to gather some basic information about you for your profile, to help potential husbands make their selections. First up, photos. We'll need a clear headshot and a full-body picture. Next, measurements. Height, weight, body measurements – all necessary details for your profile. Then, a brief summary of your biography. And finally, the tests. Cognitive, psychological – we need to ensure compatibility with potential matches. Understand?”
I nod, trying to process everything she said, my mouth dry.
“Alright. Let's start with your photographs.”
I stand up, smoothing down my loose, navy pantsuit. Miss Hamilton picks up a small camera, and I pose for the shots—close-ups of my face, and my whole body, standing straight with my arms at my sides. The camera clicks rhythmically, capturing images of me, now a product to be marketed.
The process makes me uncomfortable, but I know better than to question the system. Miss Hamilton has her job to do, and so do I.
We move on to the measurements, where she jots down my height, weight, and body measurements on a form. My heart pounds as she measures each curve of my body. An unsettling sense of vulnerability sends a shiver down my spine.
“Next, your biography,” Miss Hamilton declares. After a pause, she hands me a clipboard with a text box for me write in. “We would like to know a little more about you. It helps potential husbands to learn about you.”
I hesitate before starting, knowing I have to be cautious about what I write. No need to reveal my past recklessness and run the risk of being judged unfairly. I compose myself, focusing on the task at hand.
I write: “My name is Poppy Thompson, I'm 18 years old and have recently graduated from high school. I like reading, hiking, playing guitar, and spending time with friends and family. I'm don't have any health conditions that I'm aware of.”
Miss Hamilton reads what I’ve written, her pen hovering over the paper as she looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “We'll need more than a few sentences, Poppy. Give me a little more detail about how you ended up here. This is a crucial step in your reformation.”
I sigh. There’s no way around this. “Okay, fine. I’ve always been a bit of a rebel, I guess. I don’t like just going along with things. When they passed those new curfew laws and started cracking down on protests, I felt like I had to do something. That got me in trouble—a lot. But I never regretted standing up for what I believe in. Now, I’m scared this program will take that away from me.”
Miss Hamilton nods, jotting down notes, her expression encouraging. “Go on, Poppy. It’s important to understand your perspective.”
I take a deep breath. “I didn’t fit in growing up, always getting in trouble for questioning things. How can people accept what’s happening, with Senator Grant pushing for even stricter laws?" Miss Hamilton's disapproving look makes me change tack. "But I want to learn, to grow. I want to make a difference, not just be a troublemaker. I still can’t really imagine being married, but I hope I can find a way to get along with whoever it is—someone who at least is kind and shares some of my views.”
Miss Hamilton continues to take notes, her eyes softening a bit. “That’s good, Poppy. Now, in your own words, what do you think is the main reason you're here in this situation, participating in a Reformation Program marriage?”
I pause, thinking hard. “I guess... I ended up here because I stood up for what I thought was right, even if it got me into trouble. Maybe I can learn to be... different, but still me.”
Miss Hamilton notes it all down, her pen scratching across the paper. “Now, let's move on to the tests,” she says, her voice still soft but firm. “You will undergo cognitive and psychological evaluations to determine your compatibility with potential husbands. These tests will give us a better understanding of your personality, strengths, and areas for improvement.”
I'm escorted to a stark, sterile room. There's a chair and a bulky machine beside a screen on the table. The attendant, a stone-faced woman, gestures for me to sit. As I lower myself into the chair, she begins attaching sensors to my fingertips, wrists, and temples.
The machine hums softly, the screen flickering to life. As I'm connected to the machine, I feel like an experiment rather than a person. However, I steel myself, reminding myself that this is my only choice for avoiding incarceration. I'm determined to make the best of it.
The first part of the test focuses on cognitive abilities: memory, logical thinking, and problem-solving. Images flash on the screen—a series of shapes and patterns that I need to identify and predict. My thoughts whirl, trying to keep up, but the questions feel like a blur.
Then the questions shift, becoming more personal, more probing. I'm guessing that these are the ones that matter, the ones that will determine my future. The first question blinks onto the screen.
"How do you respond to authority figures?"
I pause, my mind scrambling. "I respect authority, but I don't just follow orders without thinking," I say, hoping to strike the right balance. I question myself as soon as I've said the words. What type of husband would that answer attract? Someone who values respect, but understands my need for independence?
The next question pops up.
"Describe a time when you helped someone in need."
"Uh, well, there was this time I helped organize a community fundraiser for a family who lost their home in a fire. We raised a lot of money and it felt really good to help them." I was going to mention my activism, but that's probably not what they want to hear.
"Describe a situation where you felt completely humiliated."
"When I was arrested at the protest," I say. The memory stings.
"How do you feel about routine and structure in your daily life?"
I hesitate, then say, "I find it boring and stifling." Again, I question myself the moment the words leave my lips. Will that make me seem too rebellious? Maybe I should've said I crave structure. But no, it's better to be honest about my dislike for routine. It shows I enjoy spontaneity and freedom.
The screen shows another question.
"How do you deal with failure?"
This one feels easier. "I think about what went wrong and try to learn from it," I answer confidently.
"Describe your ideal relationship."
The sudden change in topic throws me. "I think, a relationship where we're equals, and we respect and support each other." It's what I truly believe, but will this attract an understanding husband? Maybe I should've hinted at being a bit more submissive?
The machine hums softly, making me wonder if it’s a lie detector.
"How do you handle conflicts with others?"
"I guess I try to talk things out and find a middle ground," I mumble. It's not totally true—I usually face conflicts head-on, but they don't need to know that.
"What are your views on traditional gender roles?"
"I believe everyone should be free to choose their own path, regardless of gender," I say firmly. I can't lie about this one.
"How do you feel about following rules and regulations?"
I pause, trying to gauge the best answer. "I follow them when they make sense, but I question those that seem unfair," I say cautiously. I wonder if they'll see this as a sign of critical thinking or just more trouble.
The questions shift, and I feel a knot tighten in my stomach.
"How do you view your role in a marriage?"
I consider my words. My mind races, trying to combine truth with strategy. “I believe in partnership and mutual respect.” I’m hoping this sounds reasonable.
"Do you think a husband should have the final say in decisions?"
This one makes me stop and think. I want to say no, but I know that's not the answer they're looking for. "I think it depends on the situation," I hedge. "Both partners should have a say, but sometimes compromises have to be made."
"What are your thoughts on obedience?"
I hesitate. "I think it depends on the situation. Obedience for the sake of it doesn't make sense to me."
The questions take an even darker turn.
"Do you feel grateful when punished to correct your behavior?"
My pulse speeds up. "I guess... if it was necessary," I say, unsure.
"How would you respond to corporal punishment from your husband?"
I stare at the screen, horrified. I know it's part of the agreement, but seeing it on the screen still leaves me speechless. "Um, I don't think that's something I'd be comfortable with," I finally say, trying to keep my voice steady. In my head, I scream, 'Why is this even allowed?'
As the invasive questions continue, my discomfort grows. Each question feels like a piece of my personality is being tested in some way I don’t understand. I'm painfully aware of the sensors on my body, tracking every reaction, every flicker of emotion. Each answer I give could be the difference between a tolerable future and ceaseless misery.
I try to game the system, thinking about what responses might result in a bearable match. But since I don’t know what type of man each answer will attract, I feel completely lost. Should I come off as compliant and eager to please, or should I show some backbone?
The tests last a couple of hours, and I complete them with a mix of calculated responses and honest answers, hoping to strike the right balance. They cover everything from seemingly random topics to my likes and dislikes, from my deepest fears to my hopes for my future as a wife.
Finally, the screen goes dark, and the attendant begins removing the sensors. I feel drained and exposed. After the tests, I am summoned to Miss Hamilton's office again. She looks at me with a mix of determination and something close to sympathy. “Poppy, it's time for the husbands' selections. This might take up to a week. We have some very impressive candidates interested in helping girls like you on your journeys.”
“What happens if nobody selects me?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
She sighs. “Well, then you'd be returned to court for sentencing. However, based on your biography and test results, I doubt that will be the case. I'm confident you'll catch the eye of one of our esteemed mentors.”
Miss Hamilton's words, meant to reassure me, only make me feel more anxious. I'm about to be handed over to someone who will have total control over my life, and my only choice is to hope for the best. I feign a smile, nodding at Miss Hamilton as our meeting comes to a close.
Days turn into a blur as I wait at the facility. The routine is mind-numbing, each day bleeding into the next with a monotony that's almost unbearable.
To try to distract myself, I spend hours in a room with couches and a tiny library, skimming through the terrible selection of books. Titles like The Obedient Wife's Guide, Submissive Grace in Marriage, and The Dutiful Woman fill the shelves. It's all about pleasing men, subservience, and traditional roles. I would laugh at some of the lines in them if it weren't all so horrifying. There's one book on gardening, though, with some interesting chapters about plants. It's the only thing remotely interesting, and I cling to it like a lifeline. Normally, I love adventure stories and fantasy novels, but there's nothing like that here.
I talk to some of the other girls in the facility, comparing our experiences and swapping stories. Many of them already have their marriages arranged and are excited about starting anew. Hearing about their anticipation makes me all the more nervous. I envy the others for their sense of certainty, but I can't shake off my doubts and fears. The thought of corporal punishments and the rigid traditional values I've heard about keeps me up at night.
One afternoon, I hear soft sobs coming from a corner in the room with the library. A girl about my age, with tear-streaked cheeks, is waving a book frantically. I catch a glimpse of the title: A Reformed Wife's Journey.
“They expect us to 'react calmly,' to thank them for disciplining us,” she quotes, her voice trembling. “They actually wrote, 'A good wife must always accept her husband's guidance with gratitude and grace.' How am I supposed to do that?”
I sit next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “I know it feels like the end of the world,” I say softly, even though my heart is pounding. “I get how shit this feels. Here, I saved this from lunch.” I hand her a cookie I stashed in my pocket. The meals aren’t as bad as prison food, but treats are rare. She takes it with trembling fingers, managing a weak smile through her tears.
“But... he’s behind bars, and I’m here,” she gushes incoherently. “My boyfriend was arrested too, and I can’t stand the thought of him suffering in prison while I’m stuck here. What if I never see him again? What if they keep us apart forever? Oh god... You know, the husbands have the right to do whatever they want, they can even spank us! I’m so scared, I don’t want to be spanked by some stranger! How do they expect us to live like that?”
I gently take the book from her hand and replace it with the gardening book. “Here, this one has a great chapter on plants. It might take your mind off things. Did you know that some plants can actually 'talk' to each other through their roots? They send signals to warn about pests.”
She glances at the book, calming down a bit as she reads the back cover. Seeing her momentarily distracted, I feel a small flicker of relief. But it’s fleeting. As she immerses herself in the book, my own thoughts drift back to the harsh truth surrounding us.
The reality of my situation is hitting hard. This isn't just a bad dream. This is my life now. The knot in my stomach tightens as I realize how deeply I’m trapped in this nightmare, with no way out but through.